A/N: The story gets a little rough for some of the characters from here out, so this is just a heads up. Expect graphic violence and all that.
..-..
Adrias Duskflame sat glaring at the back of the one person he could honestly say he might actually consider dying for: his best friend, Gryst'lyn Emberdawn. The two had been practically joined at the hip since that day, almost nine years ago, when they'd gone after the same elven lass in a tavern. While the woman had turned out to be the bartender's wife and, more importantly, not interested in a sordid affair, the two had been more aghast to find someone who shared their agenda in seeking to bed as many women as possible before they died.
They had considered a rivalry, though it had been dismissed almost as soon as it had entered both their minds. No, their individual goals would have been dashed should they work against one another. Thus, in almost the same breath, they'd formed an odd bond and turned to winning over the ladies together.
This is not to say that they advertised themselves as interested in three ways—not that it never happened—but rather that they acted as each others' wingmen. For years their arrangement had worked ever so nicely, though they had somewhat developed reputations as the two biggest sluts in Silvermoon.
So it was quite easy to see why Adrias had been in a sour mood of late. A little over three months ago he'd been combing his gorgeous black locks and readying to meet Gryst'lyn at their usual bar, when Gryst'lyn had paid him a surprise visit. Even as Adrias had tried to offer him a friendly greeting, Gryst'lyn had informed him that he had found his soulmate.
The thought had been horrifying to the both of them, and Adrias had been sure it was a spell of some kind, especially when he'd learned that it was some ridiculously innocent priestess who had captured his best friend's heart so.
And it had been true. Some vindictive elven noble, bent on making Gryst'lyn suffer for all the homes he'd wrecked with his philandering ways, had cast a complicated spell on him and the poor priestess, making the two quite smitten with one another.
Adrias had sent a heads up to the high priest, and had assumed the matter dealt with.
Instead, the two had spent some time together free of the spell, and actually, honestly fallen in love.
It was one of the most miserable things to ever happen to Adrias in his life.
To lose his friend to true love—like that was even really a thing.
He'd tried scaring the wench off by siccing a bunch of angry and scorned elves on the path to make her life miserable in order to make Gryst'lyn's life miserable—a rather large portion of the community wished for both Adrias and Gryst'lyn to suffer horribly, though their apathy toward just about everything made it very hard to do so to them while keeping the backlashes legal.
Still, love had won out.
How was a warlock to keep his best friend sinning with him into the next life when he was so…
Since that day, it was almost painful to be around Gryst'lyn. He was so...adorably in love.
Needless to say, Adrias despised the name Amaeria, though he still somehow managed to plaster a smile on his face as Gryst'lyn talked about how cute it was that she still clung to her innocence or how she tugged on the hem of her sleeve when she was nervous or one of the million other little idiosyncrasies that she did that he was absolutely enthralled by. By the nether, sometimes Adrias felt like he was the one bedding the damned priestess.
Well, not really. That was the one area that Gryst'lyn—surprisingly—wouldn't share with him. There was little doubt in Adrias' mind, this Amaeria woman was Gryst'lyn's. Now and forever.
He'd been so hopeful that it would end and yet it seemed that there was no power in the world that could come between them. Or so Gryst'lyn kept saying. When he wasn't happily recounting the story of how they'd met or how they'd fallen for one another or…. Adrias knew the stories so well he could recite them whenever Gryst'lyn started.
It made him want to hurl.
Gryst'lyn had been getting one of his shirts repaired by the one of the lovely seamstresses at the store after having to throw himself out a second story window the night before in order to avoid being caught by his latest mistress's husband. As he was bartering with the seamstress to persuade her to fix his shirt before a few other orders, he'd happened to glance across to the other side of the store and had seen a young lady priest picking up a few robes for the newest batch of trainees. Gryst'lyn was so used to getting women out of their clothes that he easily recognized most any dress, robe, or gown upon sight.
The priestess had felt his eyes upon her and had looked over and the second their gazes had met, Gryst'lyn had known that she was the woman he would spend the rest of his life with.
That part had been the spell.
And then, blah, blah, love, blah, wedding, blah, forever, blah.
Adrias paused, drawing out of his brooding when he realized that Gryst'lyn had just asked him a question. It was probably about that stupid wedding. Why was he the one helping pick out flowers and main courses? It should have been that little wench, but she'd had to go off to patch up things with some friend of hers.
Fucking priests and their ridiculous need to make things better.
Gryst'lyn was giving him a questioning look, one hand holding his hair up in a ponytail, the other with a hair tie that wasn't quite high enough to indicate he'd decided on the hairstyle. Adrias hesitated and then shrugged, mumbling, "Yes."
It was apparently the right answer, because Gryst'lyn's grin broadened, and he tied his crimson hair up quickly, only to hesitate and take it back down regardless of Adrias' apparent advice. He combed his fingers through his hair a couple of times, as though attempting to make it look like he hadn't spent the whole morning harassing his warlock companion about what he thought he should wear.
The little wench was coming home from a patrol, not a war. And even then, did she really require this much effort? She'd already agreed to marry him...
Gryst'lyn gave up on his appearance and turned to Adrias, grin still firmly in place. "I never thought two and a half weeks could take so long. I've probably driven you half mad, dealing with all this while she's away."
Adrias didn't bother to respond. No sense in ruining Gryst'lyn's good mood until he'd properly evaluated whether he was going to make Miss Amaeria disappear or not. He'd met her once and couldn't say that he cared for her. She was too sweet. He frowned as he heard one of his demons whisper in the back his mind that it wouldn't bring Gryst'lyn back to him if he did do something to her. Damned pets...eavesdropping on his plots.
Just as Gryst'lyn trotted up to Adrias, fiddling with one of his cuffs as he motioned with his head to leave, the door swung open, and both men turned to see Prynn Morningwhisper stalk into the room, lower lip quivering.
She was Amaeria's best friend and an old lay, who wasn't particularly fond of either Adrias or Gryst'lyn, but managed to muster enthusiasm whenever she was with Amaeria, if only to keep her happy.
Basically, she was a better version of Adrias.
Not that that was much of a feat.
Even as Adrias started to ask if they were all going to greet the returning priestess as a welcoming party for her valiant efforts in overcoming leaves and bark, Prynn stopped in her tracks, shoulders quivering as a gasp wracked her body. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and a note was crumpled and sticking out of one.
She opened her mouth to speak, and Adrias noticed her eyes were red and puffy, like she'd been crying.
Or trying not to.
Gryst'lyn hopped over to her, that damnable spring in his step that he'd had since his fall into monogamy. "Prynn? What's wrong?"
The little priestess set her jaw for a moment, brow lowering as she finally managed to unclench one of her hands and brush back her light orange hair. She tried to talk again, but when that didn't work, she shoved the paper she was holding toward Gryst'lyn.
The tears stinging her eyes began to fall as his eyes scanned the paper.
Silence filled the room.
Seconds ticked by.
Neither of them said a thing.
Finally, Adrias couldn't take it. He got up from where he'd been reclining, and walked over to where Gryst'lyn stood. As he swung up next to him, he saw the stricken look on Gryst'lyn's face, a grimace half frozen on his unusually pale features.
His gaze dropped to the note, reading the words with mild curiosity.
I'm sorry to inform you that Amaeria Lightswill has fallen in battle. Her actions were…
He didn't read past the first line.
Even as Prynne broke down into tears, collapsing to the floor, Adrias felt a strange twinge in the back of his mind, like his months of wishing for the little wench to disappear had somehow made it so. He looked back at Gryst'lyn in time to see him stagger a few steps and then reach out and grip the nearest piece of furniture.
Adrias reached out and helped him into a chair before going back to Prynn and scooping her up, taking her to a seat as well, though she simply clung to him, not caring who he was as she sobbed.
As Gryst'lyn let out a ragged, wretched gasp, tears falling freely from his eyes as well, Adrias felt lost.
For the first time in his life, he honestly wished that he could help.
~"~
In the midst of a small clearing, near the northwestern border of the Amani territories, one of their prouder warriors stood with a spear in hand as the light made the light dusting of green fur on his body shimmer. His war paint marked him as proficient with his spear, a true fighter, and the feathers tied to his arm and dangling from his ear were pristine. His small tusks pointed straight up, practically following his cheek bones, and somehow making his frown look considerably more pronounced.
He ran his fingers over his chin and paced the space between the trees twice more, peering around cautiously, clearly looking for something.
Someone.
Haa'aji Bonespear sat just up in the trees, waiting until his brother, Gen'taji, had turned away and then dropping down as carefully as he could behind him. Even as he attempted to sneak up a step closer, Gen'taji whirled on him, thwacking him hard in the side with the shaft of his spear.
It dropped Haa'aji like a sack of rocks off a bridge, and he clung to his side, gasping in pain.
Eye twitching, Gen'taji pulled his spear back and rested it against his shoulder as he gave a reprimanding look toward the troll now cringing at his feet.
"Dammit, Haa'aji," Gen'taji hissed, kicking at his younger brother.
Despite the pain in his side, Haa'aji rolled out of his reach. A broad grin swept across his features, stretching his war paint and distorting it. His brother always teased him that his markings looked more like he was a lowly jungle troll when he smiled like that, but Haa'aji didn't mind the jibe.
He was smaller than his brother—than most Amani warriors, really. He used this as his main reason for why he ought to be a rogue rather than a warrior, though all such conversations were shot down. Gen'taji was always quick to point out that 'stealthy' as Haa'aji might be, almost everyone could still always tell when he was around.
This moment a case in point.
Worse, his family was starting to receive complaints from the tribe's rogue order, saying that he was trying to spy on their training. Haa'aji figured the rogues were probably more annoyed by his failure to do so successfully than his persistence. After all, if he could train himself, that would more than prove himself and gain himself entry into the order.
He just had to keep at it. After all, it was taking them longer and longer to find him when he was spying.
Haa'aji hopped to his feet as his brother kept an angry gaze on him, sidling up beside him and slinging an arm around Gen'taji's shoulders, though he cursed and drew it back as his brother slapped his spear down on his muscles. Haa'aji rubbed his arm, his smile gone. "Watcha problem be, yeh?"
"Ah came ta tell ya ya shift be extended," Gen'taji paused and looked around again. "Da hell be ya spea?"
"It be around, mon," Haa'aji shrugged.
Gen'taji looked like he wanted to strangle him.
"Ya betta come back wit' it," his snapped before straightening up and looking around. "Dea been a skirmish nea de borda, south a hea, yeh? It gon ta be a while befoa sumbodeh come ta relieve ya."
"Ya nah able ta?" Haa'aji raised his hairless eyebrows and ducked out of reach as his brother tried to hit him again.
"Ah be goin' ta de guards 'n tellin' dem ta stay vigilant, yeh? Dey nah sure if de elves be doin' multiple attacks. So ya see sumtin, ya sound de alarm, yeh?" Gen'taji's frown deepened as he looked around the clearing again. "Ya have ya horn, mon?"
"It be wit' meh spea," Haa'aji shrugged.
"Ah gon ta spit on ya grave when dem elves kill ya," his brother muttered before shaking his head and stalking off to finish his duties.
Haa'aji stared after him for almost a minute, until he could no longer hear the soft crunch of his brother's footsteps against the forest floor. He straightened out of his hunch to inspect the area for any signs that others might be near as well and then slouched back down, his longer, heavier tusks all but demanding it.
In a breath, he was out of the clearing, almost silently gliding through the wood. Not ten yards away he slowed his pace to a saunter. "Hey, wooman. I be back, yeh? So don' be doin' nuttin stupid."
He came to a stop in front of a mildly terrified looking elven woman. His horn dangled against her neck, with the strap used as a gag and his spear wedged just perfectly against a few closely growing trees to keep her pressed against the trunks in a most uncomfortable position. He guessed that the wrinkles around her eyes and lips, along with the silver wisps streaking her fine hair meant that she was an older elf. She attempted to cry out when she saw he was back, but Haa'aji merely frowned, putting a finger to his lips as he reached over and picked up a small scroll that he'd dropped near her feet when he'd gone to see who was checking in on him.
He unfurled the parchment to show the crudely drawn trollish symbols and then pointed at it. "Look hea. Ah got sum questions 'bout dis, yeh? Dere be nah point screamin' a nuttin, 'cause de onleh people's attention ya be catchin' be meh tribe's."
While the woman seemed too panicked to follow his words completely, she managed a meek nod and Haa'aji reached out and jerked free her gag. The woman's arms were pinned by her side, though she tried to reach up and push the horn away from her. When she couldn't reach and seemed upset by it, Haa'aji placed the scroll in her hands before removing it himself.
"Ya be writin' dis?" As he spoke, he made what he thought looked like a writing gesture—he couldn't read or write and had only seen a few elders bother with such things; namely to put up wards or curses against the elves—and then pointed at the woman.
She gave him a disdainful look before whispering, "I speak troll."
"Dat be a terrible accent, mon," Haa'aji couldn't help but grin as she scowled. He pointed at the scroll again. "Ya been de one leavin' dese all ova de place, yeh?" When she nodded, he crossed his arms and quirked an eyebrow. "Ya should know, de voodoo onleh be workin' fa de trolls, yeh? Ya elves don' be able ta use it—"
"I'm not trying to use voodoo," the woman snapped, though she jumped as she heard a twig snap a few yards away. Their ears perked up for a moment as they listened for anything coming their way. Haa'aji relaxed before she did.
"Den why ya be leavin' ya spells everehwhea?"
"I'm not—" The elf's curiosity almost made her forget that she was a hostage, and she perked up slightly, though she frowned as she hit against the spear holding her in place and came back to reality. "They're not spells; they're informative documents."
Haa'aji stared at her blankly.
The woman shifted her weight uncomfortably before looking the troll over. "I'll tell you what they say, but I should like to have a proper seat while I do so."
Haa'aji eyed her for a moment, stopping to hold her pale, glowing blue gaze. It was hard, looking at her as she was, to imagine that the elves had really caused the Amani as much grief as they had. The troll tapped a finger against one of his tusks, considering the drawbacks to releasing her. She might try to run, though he could easily overpower her. Unless there were others nearby.
Or if she could use magic.
The little creatures were damned good with the arcane, something Haa'aji had never been able to grasp, and he didn't want her running to any others nearby to get reinforcements.
But if she could use magic…
"Come now," the woman said as though she could read minds—could they read mind? She leaned forward as best she could. "I am a magister. If I wanted to fight you, I would have already set this wood ablaze. That you haven't killed me yet means you're at least curious. Let us talk, one curious mind to another."
"A'ight," Haa'aji shrugged abruptly. He reached out and jerked his spear away from her.
The woman took in a few deep breaths and then spastically batted the wrinkles out of her clothes and frowned helplessly when she saw that the wooden shaft had left smudges of dirt along her shirt. Haa'aji plopped down onto the ground, his legs crossed at the ankles, and stared up at her expectantly.
She looked around for a moment before sighing and resigning herself to sit upon the ground as well, though she tried her best to make sure to avoid any particularly dirty spots, instead opting to perch upon some fallen leaves. Haa'aji tried not to laugh. She looked like she was building herself a nest.
When she was as comfortable as she could be, she tapped the scroll in her hands and looked at him sternly. "I have been trying to reach out to you creatures. To make your lives better."
Haa'aji couldn't say that he thought his life was particularly lacking—aside from rogue training—and told her as much, leaving out his wish to be a creature of stealth, of course. She shook her head. "You don't understand. I want to talk to you about cannibalism."
Haa'aji's eyes glazed over, but the woman waved her hands, almost frantic to keep his attention. "No, please. Hear me out. You've given yourself this long of a pause, yes?"
Cupping his chin with his hands, he leaned forward, clearly bored. "Speak quickleh, den."
"I... well..." The woman didn't seem to know where to begin.
With a sigh, Haa'aji lightly caught hold of his spear and horn and began to rise to his feet. However, the elven woman reached out and grabbed his arm, her nails just barely pinching into one of his biceps. "It can cause diseases."
...-...
A/N: Cannibalism actually doesn't cause that many diseases, unless you eat a diseased person, and the elven woman was well aware of this. She was counting on the trolls being less educated, however.
