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Dearest Readers, may your petitions, be it to a higher power or to your own soul, be always heard and be answered in the best form.

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A bit of fore-scribbling: I followed the FR lore of Berrun Ghastkill being human instead of an elf in the game. Makes more sense to me that a human would hold this office given the makeup of Amnian population. Also, changed the layout of Mulahey's lair. Well, because. XD

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﴾ THE HIDDEN SWORD ﴿

Book Three: Meeting of Fires | Chapter 63: Prayers in the Dark

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How utterly hopeless, this pit of width without limit and depth immeasurable that he had fallen therein!

Deeper and deeper into the bowels of the earth did these dragonkin lead him. Further and farther from all hope of aid, closer to torments unspeakable and inevitable.

Doom no longer hindered by delays so cruelly teased by a merciless fate and the uncaring whims of the Powers-that-Be.

"All right, stop here," the lead kobold chirped, raising a fist, and pointing its spear at an abandoned cart of ore.

Everyone froze in mid-step, so abruptly that every snout bumped into the kobold before them. Xan stumbled with equal lack of grace- fortunately unwitnessed by any sun elf of his home. His knee knocked against some kobold's back, and Xan hastily whispered an awkward apology as the offended creature grunted a complaint and grumpily looked up at him.

At their leader's command, one of them scrambled over the wagon to upend a small bottle over the pile of ore. But the flask emptied too soon when not even half of the rocks had been doused. Despite shaking and tapping and tilting the vial, no more than one final drop slid out. The kobold glared at the bottle and squeaked in panic.

"Kurtulmak, save me," it exclaimed, trembling. "I swear this is the last wagon for today's quota, but I'm out of Iron Plague Potion too soon."

By the Seldarine, the kobolds and this Mulahey are behind the corruption of ore! He schooled his face into a mask of disinterest to keep from betraying any hint of excitement at this discovery.

But truly now, calling it Iron Plague Potion? Having newly mastered the art of mentally rolling his eyes despite being surrounded by enemies, Xan only scrunched his lips, unimpressed. Apparently, not even a language as ancient and venerable as draconic could supplement a glaring deficiency in semantic creativity.

But having never mastered how to overcome a compulsion to criticize another's carelessness and lack of planning, he addressed the kobold chief, "I presume you were specifically instructed by your Master to fully cover each cartload with the potion. But then he inconsiderately made no design to account for the appropriate number of targeted wagons per dosage, nor room for similar contingencies?"

Only one had been allotted to the task, yet all the kobolds bobbed their heads in unison followed by a chorus of whining. Like fearful puppies in the dark.

Not a few yowled about the punishment they were sure to receive for failure to adhere to the orders. Others yapped their frustration of having complained to Mulahey, to no avail. Already overworked from fending off miners and mercenaries with their limited numbers, they still had to manage the dispersal of the substance of which they were always given too little to cover too much area at a time.

"Wait, Master Elf! You must have brought more Iron Plague Potions with you like the other messengers from Tazok," insisted the lead kobold. "Give them to us, please? Please?"

Everyone swiveled to face Xan, beady red eyes wide with expectation, scaly tails swinging with anticipation. Swallowing hard, he fidgeted while the mind raced for a viable excuse wherewith to squirm out of this predicament.

Even so, how interesting. Unwittingly confirmed by his very captors - apparently, envoys to Mulahey have been transporting this substance because the solvent itself is prepared elsewhere. And that elsewhere would most likely be the base of operations for whoever is behind the iron sabotage.

But for now, he must continue to play his part. Like a tone-deaf blindfolded lutenist performing out of some heavily-smudge score clipped to a burning podium.

"Why yes, I brought a batch with me. But now all those potions with my other personal effects lay buried beneath the rubble caused by your trap," he said with contrived irritation.

At the accusation, the kobolds wailed. "Oh no! What have we done? Master Mulahey will flay our hides thrice and use them for rugs in the latrine! Kurtulmak, mercy! Doomed, doomed we are!"

Xan sighed in genuine sympathy. Now they're speaking his language.

At least they understood the pressures arising from failure to complete an assignment, to him a familiar stomach-roiling emotion. He clicked his tongue and stole a glance at the wagon. Notwithstanding the villainous nature of their errand, the creatures' honesty and attitude towards their responsibilities was strangely commendable. A handful of names from home and duty came to mind, lackadaisical sluggards who would do well to learn from these kobolds' work ethic.

An idea came to him. Xan shivered, realizing what he was about to do.

"Ssej, ssej," he commanded them to be silent, shushing them even with his hands still bound.

Unfortunately, draconic never sounded right for the allayment of anyone's anxieties. Much less a kobold's. It didn't, and they continued to keen like a brood of inconsolable cubs.

Xan inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering with impatience. "I said, hush before someone or something worse hears us," he hissed.

"Something worse?" one of the kobolds paused long enough from its sobbing to yip a question.

"Like the Arklajan living down here in the deepest darkest pits?" another yapped immediately.

Giant spiders? Xan's eyes widened with terror. By Sehanine, Lolth's pets are likewise crawling around in this miserable hole as well? He nodded frantically, and they finally hushed.

"Good, good. Now listen to me, this is what you must do instead - the coated ores, tumble them about with the untouched ones until you've spread the mixture as evenly as possible. That should suffice for now, enough for you to truthfully claim the accomplishment of your task," he said while awkwardly demonstrating how to perform the suggestion.

Though not as highly proficient in the alchemical arts himself, one comes to learn a few tricks when dealing with substances whenever relevant to his clan's winemaking or woodcraft enterprise. Though such solutions weren't always perfect or effective, hopefully this one might prove passable for this instance. But of course, shortcuts never worked with Mother as one also comes to learn with extremely painful consequences.

As for his proposal, the kobolds immediately understood, for right away they eagerly scampered all over the wagon to do as he had bidden. Having completed the mixing of the corrupted aggregates with the clean ores, they resumed their trek with the kobolds happily yapping with renewed relief.

Xan glanced over his shoulder, wincing from guilt. May the Seldarine forgive him for rendering aid to these pestilent forces. Besides, what else could have been done to ensure survival other than gain the favor of one's captors?

That, and the fact that the inefficiency of the whole operation itched at his consciousness. Hopefully, whoever should eventually receive any faulty iron implement from this batch would suffer no great harm given the dilution of the poison.

If only the same dilutive principle could be applied to whatever doom awaited him.

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Down to the nethermost level they arrived still alive and in one piece, thanks to his diminutive escorts' innate familiarity with the tunnels. For as the lead kobold told him along the way - giant spiders, older denizens of the caverns, often troubled them in their patrols, kept in bay only by the most carefully laid traps.

What an oddly reassuring irony, to be safer in the company of kobolds; indeed how dizzyingly the realms have toppled upside down.

However, one more obstacle stood in their path. After marching through endlessly winding passages, they came upon a low entryway naturally bored through a wall. One by one they filed in, but Xan hesitated until the rear guard yipped a warning.

"Please go in now. Master Mulahey won't like it if we're all late to gather and report to him."

No other choice then but to go straight into the dragon's mouth. Xan stiffened his jaw, swallowing dryly, then bent low to pass through the door.

Dragon's mouth, more like a goblin's throat. Through several more paces did this low and narrow tunnel continued until Xan cleared through and straightened himself to gaze around. And found himself staring astonished at this unexpected realm suddenly surrounding him.

For they ended up in massive cavern so vast as to house a small commune. Everywhere, huge stalactites reached down like colossal lithic fingers straining to touch the flinted ground from which massive petrous columns rose, equally striving to touch the very ceiling. Numerous torches lit the entire grotto, flickering flames casting their dim light against the rocky pilasters, some formed so close together they seemed like natural walls and partitions within this vast room.

To his surprise, the chief kobold gestured to another who reached up and sliced at his bonds. The rope fell from his wrists and Xan gingerly rubbed them, speechless at the sudden lenience. But the kobold leader gazed up at him, its reptilian eyes strangely grave with weighted expectation.

"You'll see Master Mulahey now," the little chief said. "Maybe you bring news or anything to make him less angry all the time too."

Xan nodded grimly and followed them through the broken maze of stone columns until they arrived at the very edge of the cavern - a wide space bordered by the back wall and outfitted like the gaudiest hunting lodge. Frayed carpets draped everywhere upon the floor and couches, haphazardly placed chests and crates of weapons and supplies. Papers scattered like dead leaves and some even bearing marks of boot prints. Everywhere, strewn and rotting, the remains of food and drink whereupon roaches and grubs feasted with neither fear nor care.

Xan resisted the impulse to bolt from the group – not to escape. Rather, to commence tidying up this appalling mess.

But the urge was quickly dispelled not by the fear of his captors, but by a memory of the first and last time he attempted to organize Cathfaenlian's study. That gesture didn't go too well, Xan recalled with resigned disappointment. Certainly he'd rather not echo in his mind the uncharacteristic screams of panic by the usually calm and placid Cathfaen upon finding his systematized chaos suddenly ordered and organized. Well, everything certainly didn't take too long to return to their natural entropic state, Xan huffed.

While they stood waiting as the kobold chief went to fetch their master, Xan quietly surveyed more of the area and what he saw in a corner filled him with dread and dismay. An altar cluttered with half-melted candles and bowls brimming with indescribable filth, bannered by a tapestry. Tattered and faded yet still it vividly depicted a jawless skull set upon a purple sunburst, the rays twisted and sharp like the daggers and lies wielded by the wretched worshippers of this wicked god - Cyric, The Fateless and Prince of Madness.

Piles of bones surrounded the altar, some from horned animals and others still recognizably humanoid with ragged bits of cloth and flesh still clinging to the frames from which wafted the unmistakable stench of days-old death. Were he alone, Xan would've undoubtedly bent over and retched. What manner of a malefactor awaited him in this godsforsaken pit? He closed his eyes and breathed in as deeply as he could of the fetid air.

Piggish grunts and the heavy thud of steel boots heralded the arrival of the master of this lair. From another makeshift partition doored with a heavy curtain stepped in Mulahey, a half-orc. Behind him, the kobold leader cowered, seemingly regretful at having to bring again his tribe into the presence of their tormentor. Yet here stood no ordinary taskmaster – bulky frame swathed in chain mail, at his holster a morning star crusted with dried blood, the symbol of the Black Sun dangling from his porcine neck. A cleric.

Priests might know to shield themselves against magic beforehand, but this was no hostile encounter. Yet.

Xan wasted no time. One spell remained uncast in his arsenal, necessitating no other component. He chanted as rapidly as possible under his breath and swiftly articulated the somatic requirement. Charm Person.

"Mulahey, is it not?" Xan greeted, voice taking on an echoing wraithlike tone. "You will tell me now who is behind this sabotage of the iron, and what is their purpose. And then you and your lackeys will immediately release me and guide me back to the surface."

The half-orc stared at him, blank and dumbfounded. Xan held his breath. The spell, it must be holding.

Mulahey slowly marched towards him and raised both arms. Suddenly the half-orc grabbed him, heavy hands crushing Xan's shoulder, and thrust his face forward.

"You dare try and play with my mind, elf!"

Of course, the spell didn't work for some reason. How utterly foolish to even hope it would, Xan inwardly berated himself.

Mulahey raised one meaty fist. Xan's eyes broadened with terrified expectation, waiting for the coming blow. But it never arrived, for the half-orc merely waved his sausage fingers, one of them bearing a large ring from which the elf felt an unmistakably protective enchantment. Set with a cheap stone in a gaudy design, but apparently effective, nonetheless.

"I was given this ring to make sure not even a nymph can sway me to reveal our true work," the half-orc said, balling a fist to display the band, then shook Xan hard. "So who are you? Did my useless traitorous minions let you pass?" he snarled, jaundiced eyes darting between the elf and the kobolds. "Why shouldn't I bash in your brains this instant?"

Though disappointed and alarmed, Xan kept his chin up, having quickly mastered the art of breathing with relief at not encountering a drow but suppressing the urge to gag at the sight of an orcish creature and the scent of its foul breath. Another tactic, then. As the rangers of his home vale often said – a dog deep in an undesirable action, like biting or chewing, cannot be stopped by mere commands.

Rather, by distracting them with something else. Like a toy or a bone.

"Well done, Mulahey. You passed the test," Xan suddenly hailed the other with as much feigned authority and calm as he could muster. "You prepared yourself well against enemy intrusions, both physical and of the mind. Well done. Highly commendable."

"Huh?" the half-orc mumbled, surprised. Even shocked.

It worked! So far. Xan cleared his throat. "Certainly, Tazok will be most pleased with your loyalty."

Mulahey stared, thunderstruck at the unexpected praise, grip loosening. Awkwardly, Xan wriggled out of the half-orc's grasp. He crossed his arms as he edged back, wincing at the discomfort in the shoulder and hoping it would somehow tamp down on the pounding in his own chest.

"More than that, I see you've made significant progress despite the difficult environment and circumstances. Another point to your merit."

Hopefully, his voice betrayed no tremor of uncertainty. But Mulahey still needed more convincing, for he licked his tusks and glanced nervously to the side.

"I was expecting Tranzig again. Who are you and why did Tazok send you instead?"

Tranzig? Another name to keep in mind for further investigation later. Should he ever leave this place with everything intact, including his shoulders and sanity.

"Yes, perceptibly I'm not Tranzig," Xan replied with the obvious, to stall. "My true name, I prefer to keep to myself for such is required from one who must work in secrets." A truth, at least.

"But if you must, you may refer to me as-," he added, hemming and hawing inaudibly, eyes darting up. " as – Blacksheaf." There, an approximation of his clan name in Common.

Mulahey's face contorted with puzzlement while stuffing and twisting a finger in his ear, perhaps clogged with all the dust and grime of this pitiful hole. "You're a what—a Black Sheep?"

What did this half-orc just call him?

"I– am- absolutely- not!" Xan sputtered, blinking furiously. Well, that certainly dredged up an unpleasant memory from a time when his decision to enter into service to the People was met with some disbelief, misplaced sympathy, and a cutting accusation of abandoning the all too important family enterprise. He cleared his throat to regain composure.

"And it's Blacksheaf," Xan continued, huffing. "But whether you remember or not matters less than my mission."

"Your mission?" Mulahey remained tense, a meaty hand hovering over his morning star. "And is that to kill me? To finally do what Tazok has been threatening since I started in this awful pit?"

"No, that is not my intention, not at all," Xan countered hastily, hands up in a pacifying gesture, eyes darting down at the other's weapon. "My directive is to monitor your operations for the time being and report back to Tazok. You doubt my motives? Ask yourself then why I have not harmed your minions and even willingly accompanied them as well."

"Is that so? If you'll ask me, you should've sliced up their useless hides with that sword of yours instead," Mulahey snarled, pointing at the moonblade then at the kobolds who whimpered at the suggestion.

Xan lowered his hands but scowled darkly at the other. Were this half-orc and the elf in another place and their stations exchanged, he would have severely berated this miscreant for even suggesting employing the noble teu'kerym to hurt lesser creatures without provocation.

However, Mulahey seemed to have interpreted the frown as impatience, for the insolence in his face immediately vanished, replaced with trepidation. "If indeed you are from Tazok, then you bring word from him as he always sends them by the hands of his other messengers. Show me the letter and give me more of the potions."

Having learned from an elder sister the art of filibustering when caught red-handed in an act of mischief, Xan cleared his throat first. A little longer than usual. By the Seldarine, how does one respond without blowing cover? Perhaps reason out how the letter was among his things lost in the cave-in from the kobolds' trap just as he did earlier? But he was no coward to shift blame to another, not to mention the foolishness of antagonizing his diminutive captors. Best to implement instead another tactic, and one not requiring an outright falsehood. Rather, a combination of truth and misdirection.

"Regrettably, I lost the potions in a cave-in. As for a letter of instructions, I prefer to bring none for I'd rather not risk discovery if searched by paranoid militiamen of this town," Xan said in a tone of feigned irritation at the demand. "Besides, what were you expecting Tazok to say to you anyway?"

There, toss the question back to the other. Let them give you the information instead. Mulahey blinked at him as if uncertain how to proceed but the half-orc gave in and what followed then was a winding rant of Tazok's toilsome treatment of him. Prior messengers brought nothing but rebukes and reprimands, threats, mounting demands, and conflicting assessments.

On and on, Mulahey rambled of the injustice. Make sure the mine owners don't find out about the sabotaging of the ores, Tazok always ordered him. Yet it was his fault that the mayor's attention was caught because he let the kobolds kill too many miners, Tazok always scolded him. And no, he cannot leave the mines until every single ore had been ruined, until the whole place had been mined empty, Tazok always reminded him.

"It is as I surmised," Xan said. "Your labors have gone unacknowledged." As villainous this half-orc's goals were, certainly one could not help but relate to the utter lack of appreciation for one's dedicated efforts.

"Yes, yes," Mulahey said, relieved at this rare absence of disagreement. "You see for yourself, don't you? Every ore leaves this pit duly touched by the plague. And yet Tazok cares not and requires even more of me. Wait-," the half-orc said then halted, eyeing the elf with abrupt suspicion. "How is it you came by way of the mine entrance and not by the hidden passage? You would know the way if you had truly been ordered by him or any of his captains."

Of course, this ruse would be found out so quickly, doomed to failure as always. Xan could feel his heart sinking, but a spark of an idea flickered and suddenly emboldened him. When cornered, revert to the truth, or at least to the usable part of it.

"Yes, the hidden entrance," Xan said. "But you have mentioned yourself how knowledge of the killings already reached Berrun Ghastkill. Expectedly he would send out a call for mercenaries to come down here and investigate the deaths and the source of corruption. To make it appear that help is forthcoming, I hired myself some unscrupulous adventurers. It was unfortunate how they perished too soon from unavoidable accidents." Xan paused in a respectful breath for the departed, though knowing they would've done far less and none for him in return.

He continued, "But once I've reached you, it is my intent to instruct you to lay low with your kobolds at least for a tenday or more until I leave this place to make it appear that the crisis has been solved."

"But the tainted ore-"

"Will be explained by myself to the mayor as having been caused by natural phenomena which can be waited out over the next few months."

"He will not believe the word of an elf. I heard your kind holds little clout in these lands. You think your scheme brilliant, but it will only bring more trouble and Tazok's wrath upon my head."

What is it with incompetents always stubbornly refusing any offered help? Xan fought the urge to scoff and deliberately gentled his voice. "There is the likelihood that the explanation won't be accepted. Still, I might be able to convince the mayor, hopefully, with what base knowledge I have of general alchemy."

Mulahey blinked, doubt replaced by excitement. "You know alchemy? So you have some use to me after all! You shall stay down here and help me with my plans."

This half-orc has plans? Sehanine, what new grave had he dug for himself now, Xan thought with a silent groan.

"I said my aptitude for alchemy is only passable." But the manic eagerness in the half-orc's hoggish eyes and the threatening growl issuing between his tusks warned of the dangers of being too truthful. "But I suppose I could review whatever it is you are brewing down here. See how I might be of assistance," he hurriedly added.

"Wonderful!" Mulahey squealed as he lunged forward and seized the elf, once more nearly crushing his shoulders but this time with giddy enthusiasm. "I've been trying to puzzle out the formulation of the Iron Plague Potion to see if I can replicate the creation process. If I can make the substance myself, I can finish this operation at the soonest and finally leave this miserable hole! Oh praises to the Dark Sun! Cyric has heard my prayers!"

Xan grimaced in the facsimile of a celebratory smile. "Yes, indeed. Your prayers have been heard."

Aillesel Seldarie.

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Whenever a Tel'Quessir visited the dwelling of another, they were not made to surrender their weapons. Rather, said weapons were presented to the host with utmost respect and reverence, their virtues and craftsmanship admired and esteemed. Though if your host was an Ar'Quess, the sun elf would've slipped in a praise cleverly disguised as an insult for the owner's less-than-eminent taste.

Unfortunately, part of Mulahey's brand of hospitality is to relieve a staying guest of their means of defense. With much worry, he had relinquished his spell book. Not for fear of anyone's misuse of the magic therein, more so because of the painstaking effort expended at scribing the spells with his exquisite penmanship and the care he took in preserving the cover and pages. Who would say waterproofing enchantment wasn't worth every coin?

But the moonblade! Striving to conceal his panic and desperation, Xan had tried to negotiate, and would've even sworn an oath not to unsheathe the blade within the cavern. Mulahey stoutly refused and asked in a threatening tone if the elf did not trust him enough to be part of his oh-so-grand plan.

And so with sinking resignation, Xan had unclasped the teu'kerym from his belt and swaddled it in his own cloak. To the kobolds, he carefully handed over the moonblade and warned them to never touch the bare hilt, lest they get hurt. Ever the inconsiderate, Mulahey had laughed and said caution was unnecessary for it would have been amusing to watch the kobolds burn their little claws by accident.

With surprising gentleness, the kobolds had received the moonblade, nodding their understanding of the warning. Even as they bore it away, Xan had sadly looked at the teu'kerym, as it were an unwilling hound, muzzled and bound for a dreary cage.

Hence, without the moonblade and spell book, Xan knew he could do naught but play the part of the helpless visitant, purely at the mercy of his hosts.

And now he was at the mercy of this mug of tea prepared by the kobolds for his intended refreshment while waiting for Mulahey to prepare the laboratory.

Xan peeked into the murky liquid, caught a whiff of an odoriferous vapor, fought the urge to sneeze and shut his eyes. But despite the despair, no inch of fear nor disgust must he show. With courage borne from acceptance, he lifted the cup to his lips and swallowed a draught and suppressed the reflex to cough and spew.

As expected – musty with hints of mushroom gone stale. Or a grimy sock soaked too long in mop water. He glanced down at the kobold who brought him the tea. It looked up at him with eager hopefulness. By the Seldarine, how could one disappoint this poor creature so eager to please?

"Invigorating," Xan pronounced, fighting to keep an eye from twitching. Speaking in draconic certainly helped disguise the budding cough from his throat.

Giddy with the praise, the kobold yipped, tail swishing. Not to be outdone, another approached and shyly offered a stack of parchments haphazardly folded lengthwise. Random pamphlets likely filched from slain laborers and adventurers, or from mining supplies lying about.

"Papers for your reading, Master Blacksheaf?"

He took them and sat on the couch, shifting to avoid several hard knobs in the seat, suspiciously solid – like protruding bones. "Yes. These might be useful. Well done for gathering them of your own initiative."

The kobold yapped with joy, its happy squeals catching the notice of other kobolds who approached. Then without bidding, a few of them proceeded to fluff the pillows in the couch as if this hopeless endeavor could make the tortuously lumpy sofa a bastion of comfort. A pair swished feather dusters at Xan's shoes, sending puffs of dust straight to his face but at least a hint of breeze in this stifling hole.

Xan observed and waited for them to finish with their tasks. Done, the kobolds stood before him expectantly. Sehanine, how does one thank these poor creatures for their pitiful attempts?

Then as if by instinct, one of them leaned forward and canted its head at the elf. And then as if by instinct, Xan reached out and commenced scratching the kobold's head, paying extra attention to the horny ridges. It began to wiggle its bottom like a happy pup. Another shuffled forward and Xan proceeded to give it scritches with his other hand. Objective observation informed him how scratches beneath the chin and around their ear holes were also well received.

A few more moved forward and deposited themselves by his feet. And Xan remembered what some rangers in his home vale did for their wolf companions. He raised a foot and a kobold understood. It sprawled on the ground and exposed its stomach. With said foot, Xan proceeded to give its abdomen a good rubbing and the kobold responded with a content look, forked tongue lolling out. More and more kobolds gathered around and amazingly knew to wait their turn.

But Xan knew to multitask. For though busy with distributing scritches and scratches and belly rubs, he skimmed over the papers on his lap if perhaps any workable information could be gleaned from them.

Some were quite mundane. Butcher shop lists. Advertisements for horse rentals. Broadcasts for traveling bards. Calls for worship at the local temple with not-so-subtle digs at the parishioners' preoccupation with worldly goods. Flyers for the annual Nashkel carnival, surprisingly still in business despite the dismal economy in this place.

Prices for mercenary escorts. Xan turned up a nose at the latter figures. Perhaps they should charge more given the increasingly dangerous roads. Or less – since they seem unsuccessful with warding off the bandits anyway.

And some not so mundane. Curfew announcements from the Nashkel militia. Warnings from the mayor about the rampant lawlessness in the Coast Way. Advisories about monster sightings and animal attacks near the town borders.

And bounty notices.

So unlike the Greycloaks' punctiliously articulated admonitories about less-than-exemplary individuals.

Rather, curtly worded ones by the Nashkel militia and even from the Flaming Fist across the border – all seeking common criminals and bandits in general. Others more specific. There's one for a runaway servant who absconded with a family heirloom, another for a gnomish merchant who left town without honoring an agreement for the delivery of rare-breed turnips.

And one for stolen emeralds. Oddly, the thief's name rang familiar – similar to a human sculptor's who journeyed to Evereska a decade ago in the hopes of learning about elven techniques. He had heard from others of how this poor soul attempted passage via the Shaeradim by himself but had miserably failed. Then found half-starving and half-frozen in the field by the retinue of the visiting Cor'Etriel Ellesime who had been departing for Suldanessellar that day. That her personal guards didn't slay him for daring to lay eyes upon their Queen was a great mercy.

It was said that the vale patrol interrogated this human as to his purpose for coming and had expectedly refused his desperate pleas to see Ellesime once more. They brought the man to the Halfway Inn and gave him provisions for the journey home, with a stern warning to never return to elven lands.

Poor fellow. At least that sculptor should be in a better position now, unlike the hunted thief who shared his name. Perhaps housed in some cozy studio, whiling away the hours with his art, forever inspired by the uncapturable beauty of the elven queen.

How enviably ordinary. Xan shrugged and resumed his perusal of the notices.

But the last one brought a chill to his spirit. A bounty for the head of an elf.

No official seals from any authority, nor a petitioner named. Not even a mention of any crime to justify the high price. He skimmed over the description, an Or'Tel'Quessir coming to mind, for the wood elves' affinity with forest living lent to a similarly described physical build.

Or perhaps, even a Sy'Tel'Quess. For the hardier but feral wild elves were more prone to violence when provoked. This one might have been involved in some misunderstanding - like an intrusion into their territory by a human party which resulted to grave loss or deaths, hence, the bounty put out by the N'Tel'Quess.

Missing one ear. Instinctively, Xan reached up to cover his own. What manner of brutality and depravity caused this mutilation of an elf? He shivered and pushed out of his mind the morbid theories.

Aillesel Seldarie, he whispered.

Perhaps the prayer might bring help to this unfortunate Tel'Quess, more than it will for Xan. For what else could be done other than endure this hopeless venture?

And so the Greycloak resigned himself to his current duty of distributing scratches, scritches, and belly rubs to the kobolds, making sure that none were deprived nor excessively served.

Even then, the mob of petitioners steadily grew around him, each now bringing their own gifts – whether a rough uncut gem, coins, bits of dyed glass, a shiny pebble, a colored string, several roasted moles dangling on a stick, berries still in their stems. Xan trained an eye on the fruit – quite freshly plucked and obviously not from the quarry area. Perhaps gathered by means of this secret passageway leading to the surface, to the forests beyond the mines. Graciously he received the offerings. Except for the roasted moles – these he accepted with much feigned praise before redistributing back to the kobolds who were more than eager to feast on these themselves.

"By Cyric, what is going on here!"

Like startled pups, the kobolds panicked and scattered at the half-orc's voice, though not before cramming all remaining mole bits into their snouts. Mulahey marched in, greenish face now reddening in anger. He had been calling for his underlings for a while until he decided to search for them. Found them with Xan, he finally did.

"They were attending to me," Xan said. "And have been quite accommodating indeed. A merit to your headship if I must say so myself."

"Really?" Mulahey stammered. "You find my brand of leadership to be excellent and worthy of praise?"

No.

"Yes," Xan said and grinned stiffly.

"But I am not only here to evaluate your methods of minion management," he added. "Do we not have more important matters to attend to? Such as replicating the-," he said, flinching at the next phrase. "- Iron Plague Potion?"

Well, perhaps his most helpful contribution to Mulahey's plan will be to come up with a substantially better name for the substance.

May the Seldarine give him the wisdom for the task ahead.

Aillesel Seldarie.

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And some more Scribblings:

What? Xan not chained and tortured in the Nashkel Mines? Why, what SACRILEGE is this?! XD