---

Once upon a time a time Gentle would have met such a casual, contemptuous dismissal like the one the half-elf just directed at him with full, insane, glorious, horrifying, beautiful violence. Wouldn’t even have thought about it, either. Instinct trumped thought everytime, and his was an instinct bone-deep, crawling back along the centuries to when his kind where birthed by a queen who lay with a God. He would have just dipped his horns and charged, like his fore-fathers of old, gored whichever idiot frail got in his way and to hells with the consequences, he would have bourne them all, just to display the simple fact that no one. disrespects. THE BULL.

…

He grunted deep in the back of his throat, trying to clear the bitter, half-remembered salt-tang from his mouth. Felt a small wave of nausea when he realized he was salivating. There was a bloodless tremble in his hands that had nothing to do with age and everything to do with hot, desperate anticipation. Hands clenched white-hard around his quarter-staff, but that just seemed to make the shake worse. Was that the wood of his staff he could hear splintering, or his clamped teeth, tight as a sprung bear-trap? He backed off from the warrior woman, and got as far from her as he could in this suddenly all too small room.

He was old now, he reminded himself, and with age come wisdom, the wisdom to feel out which battles were worth fighting, and which were better left unfought. At least that was the lie he'd tell anyone in the unlikely event they asked why he slunk away from the half-elf like a beat dog. The real truth of the matter was that he was scared. Scared? Terrified, more like. Deep-recessed fear of repeating fool-damned mistakes that he’d made a hundred times, a thousand times, in the past. Mistakes that it would be best for everyone, especially himself, if he left there in the past, where the only people they could hurt were his ghosts. He took some deep breaths, calming breaths, aiming to keep his blood down. He failed. In the deep distance he could swear he heard maddened braying, ancestors long dust demanding he stop disrespecting their legacy and do what he was born to do. What the Minotaur's where made to do. And just below the bestial demands of his father's fathers, almost at the soft edge of what he couldn’t heard, at the meeting place where memory and imagination exist, the insistent, sonorous, all-powerful voice of an absent deity, the primarch who left but has since returned, urging him onwards, to give in to his base appetites, to give glory to Dread Minoas.

He was only paying partial attention to the rest of the group. He needed to keep his efforts focused on keeping his monstrous blood in check. Desperately murmered prayers to Apollokeos, She Who Promises Clean Waters, for the strength seemed destined to go unheard, when salvation came from an unlooked quarter. Aoné referred to herself as a barbarian. Funny. He hadn’t expected the Elf to have a sense of humour. He’d always figured the Elves to be dry and brittle, like desert glass. He snorted a laugh. Not long and not loud, but it was enough to break the spell that the blood-madness of his people was weaving on him. He took another deep breath, the mingled scents of this group of strangers and castle life tainting the freshness, the stink of lavender heaviest of all, but it still revived him. He looked to Aoné. "Thank you." He murmured. He doubted she heard him. The thanks wasn't really for her anyway.

He directed his attention back to the group as the dwarf and the huntress re-introduced themselves, wondering at the pointlessness of it. Hadn’t they just done this for the king’s benefit? Shouldn't they be doing this on the road to ‘Mudshit’, or wherever it was they were destined for. The ‘taur rubbed a big hand across his broad temple, trying, and mostly failing, to massage away the splitting headache that had been coming on him. Was this really what the God’s wanted him for?

The bit about the trees did catch his attention though. Stranger hating trees? He didn’t like the sound of that, not one little bit. He wasn’t a big fan of roofs of a kind, be it stone grey or leafy green, much preferring the trackless expanse of blue sky or crystal clear night. But combine a roof with an inhospitable tree? That, well that just sounded like a recipe for a failed quest to his mind. Sure, maybe they were just regular trees, and the half-elf had gone a little feral, but it sounded like portent to him, and if there was one thing they taught you in Achea, it was you should never ignore portent.

“These trees, they dangerous?” He directed his question at the huntress half-elf, “I could make a sacrifice to appease them? The God’s ain’t always in a listening mood, but if they are maybe they’ll have a word with the trees on our behalf, put a good word in for us. Reckon that will do us any good sister?”

__________

Stur scratched a bit at his beard. He knew that by turning her back on him so pointedly, the half-elf was trying to wound his pride. Despite that particular bit of knowledge, he still felt himself rising to the bait, the words of an equally biting reply forming somewhere inside. Reluctantly, he clamped down on his tongue. The only thing that mattered right now was the mission, the the coin that came after. He needed that reward, needed it more than he needed life itself, and so couldn't afford to drag things out any more than they already were.

He let out a long breath, still watching the half-elf as she leaned threateningly toward their masked guide-to-be, dispelling both the eager banter on his lips and the last remaining bit of mirth he had in his system over the situation in the first place. The elf - Aoné - introducing herself as a barbarian nearly started him up again, but Stur held firm, his face once again carefully composed.

He listened to the introductions once more, names starting to become more familiar to him this time around. Solveig, Imalessa... the one that perpetually looked like she had swallowed a lemon was called Brynan. So she was in the king's employ, after all.

And there it is: the shame, the frustration... the helpless, hopeless anger. The aging mercenary was all too well acquainted with feelings like those. He nodded just slightly to himself - he couldn't bring himself to care much, but he felt like he understood a bit better now.

Gentle had moved off to talk directly to the huntress, Imalessa. Stur felt it was time to say his piece, again. He moved a bit to the front of the group, back in the vicinity of Nathaniel and Brynan.

"Stur Stonetalon. My business of late is mainly breaking stubborn heads. Though," a quick glance towards the bull and the dragonborn, "looks like I've got some decent competition there. Fortunately for us, I'm a bodyguard of sorts, just like our Royal Protector here. I can keep the less... sturdy among us out of harm's way, if need be."

That's not all he could do, of course. But that's all these few needed to know, for now.

---

---

Imalessa inclined her head to the minotaur. Gentle, he had said his name was. "I suppose you could try," she said, though she didn't particularly believe it would work. Imalessa simply wasn't the type to believe in gods. If there was a higher power out there, she couldn't believe they would just let innocent people suffer. Or they were nothing but a bunch of bastards high on power. Either way, she didn't put her faith in them.

She looked Gentle over. Her father had once told her about the minotaurs. He'd told her a great deal about the outside world, but Imalessa never believed she would get to see it. "My father told me he had a run-in with a minotaur once," she said, changing the subject. She preferred not to talk too much about the forest. As much as she loved it, it had taken so much from her. The memories it held were a tangled mess of good and bad. "If what he said is true, he almost didn't survive it." She cocked her head, honey-gold hair spilling over her shoulder. "Is it true that your kind runs more . . . hot-blooded than most?"

---

Gentle’s shovel sized hand scratched behind his ear as he considered the huntress’ question. Hot-blooded? That was putting things mild. Hotter-than-a-dragon-with-heartburn would have been closer to the truth, and didn’t he know it better than most.

“Some of us hotter than others, but yeah, that’s about the twist of it.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders, equal parts contrite and embarrassed. This wasn't a subject he enjoyed discussing. Too many painful memories tied up with it. But, as Apollokeos taught, there can be no forigivness without acceptance, no redemption from cowardice. Better to face your fears than to live in their shadow. “Minoas’ Gift, I’ve heard some ‘taurs call it, though if it is a gift it’s the kind he should have kept the receipt for. Course the humans refer to it as ‘Baphomet’s Hunger’, which, while being more insulting by design, does cleave a touch closer to the truth of the affliction.”

He stopped himself from going more in depth, explaining the theological differences between the ancient God Minoas, and the horned demon Baphomet, and their respective roles in the Minotaur's creationist myth. That was a subject he enjoyed discussing, had in fact spent many an enjoyable evening debating the intricacies of the tale with Pytheas, the elderly Abbot at the Temple of Clean Waters, but he’d gotten the impression from her slightly-sour response to his offer to pray to appease the trees that the small huntress was a sceptic when it came to the Gods. He might have been living in a temple the last five years, but he still didn’t like to think of himself as ‘preachy’. He chose to change the subject.

“Your father took on a raging bull ‘taur and lived to speak about it? That’s an impressive feat that few can boast of. Must be skilled. He teach you the bow? To survive in the wilds?”

---

---

Zosimos stood off to the side of the group, carefully surveying her new travelling companions as they each in turn sized each other up. Nathanial, the court magician, irked her some with his flowery words and gestures, but she put it down to not having been around so many people and for so long for over two decades. She listened to the conversations around her, offering nothing to them. After so many years in the isolation of Torvelt’s mountains, socialising did not come easy to the scarred Tiefling.

Zosimos wondered at the mask and robes Nathaniel wore. She, better than most, understood wanting to hide one’s appearance away from prying eyes. Still, why someone who was constantly surrounded by crowds – a royal court magician, no less – would also seek to conceal themselves so thoroughly intrigued her. Like the brusque half-elven warrior, Zosimos found herself wondering why Nathanial had been assigned to lead them on their perilous quest. She didn’t necessarily agree that the royal bodyguard should have the role instead, but she did find herself pondering on why a mere court magician had been appointed to them. 'Looks can be very deceiving…'

The Tiefling let her astute gaze flicker over her companions. There were those, like herself, who only observed those foolish enough to take up the King’s decree, but there were also those who Zosimos thought might one day cause the band problems. She saw how the minotaur’s lip twitched at the half-eleven warrior's words and the slight tremor in his hands as he distanced himself from her presence. It seemed like her fellow horned beast had a temper lying not so far below the surface and Zosimos wondered what it would take for it to erupt.

There were those among her companions who made Zosimos uneasy too. She had great distrust for fellow magic users; the elven sorceress and Nathanial caused her to tighten her grip on her Warlock’s staff as they spoke. 'Just how powerful are they?' Likewise, though he was gently spoken and took care with his words, the flames the Dragonborn could create set her heart racing. For a split second she could swear she could feel the burning, agonising heat of Hellfire against her scarred cheek before in the next breath it was gone.

The only member of the group who did not give Zosimos pause – or too much, anyway – was the half-elven huntress. Someone who lived in and respected the forests of Torvelt was someone Zosimos could potentially see herself not minding the company of.

Zosimos cleared her throat and turned her gaze back to the lavender-scented court magician. No one had inquired yet as to why they were to start their quest in this Mudshit or about the magician's suspicions. “Why do you think this town you are taking us to is linked to the source of the Fog?”

While a steady rain drummed on the stone walls of the castle, peals of lightning could be heard much further off. The dark skies over Koprust strangled out the day and made the chamber they all shared that much darker. Fire from the braziers reflected off of Nathaniel's bronze face even more clearly, as he turned his head slightly to follow Brynan, and then to examine the entire party while they spoke. Hands clasped behind him, he rocked on his feet gently, pleased by the flow of conversation now.

Then he turned towards the woman that spoke to him. The court magician took a long time in answering. Even without eyes, he clearly was observing her burnt face and Tiefling features.

"It isn't." He said finally, quite simply. "The town has nothing to do with the Fog. Mudshit, or whatever it's name is, just happens to be the last vestiges of humanity before you all venture forth in your quest. Let's call it a base of operations."

Feeling like he had very expertly answered that question, he began to rock on his heels once more and look up to the rest of the assembled.

"Once we get there, I'll show you my first trick." The mage said playfully, as if the eyes of his mask were suddenly smiling. Then, he clapped his gloved hands. "Now, any more questions before we make ready to leave?"

---

---

Imalessa inclined her head to the minotaur. "He did," she said. "My mother and half-sisters would never fare too well out in the forest, so he taught me. 'If anything should ever happen to me, I need you to take care of the family,' he always said." She shrugged. "And then something did happen."

The hurt she'd been pushing down for years welled up again. It always did when she thought of her father. Her eyes turned hard, and she moved away from the rest of the group.

Nathaniel spoke again of the town of Mudshit. Or, more precisely, why they were going there. It made sense, Imalessa supposed to stop somewhere and . . . collect themselves.

Imalessa stepped forward. "I don't mean to sound unprepared, but I left my bow behind in my cottage." She winced. Cottage made it sound much better than it was. Hovel was closer to the truth. "Either I need a new one - preferably one I can shoot and shoot well - or I need to retrieve my own." Because she would not spend a second more than she had to without a bow on her back.

---

He might not have been much good at reading faces - with how heavy the years sat on them, his eyes couldn't do much reading of anything now - but his ears where as about as good at their job since the day they first started working, and if he wasn't mistaken he thought he could hear a welling of grief from the huntress when she spoke of her father. Either the wound was fresh, or the hurt ran bone deep. He could relate. The bond between father and child was a strong one, sacrosanct in his opinion, if that counted for anything. He resisted the urge to ask more about the subject. He wouldn't want someone sticking their nose into his past for no other reason than to satisfy idle curiosity, wasn't right he did it to anyone else.

He fell silent while listening to the others, nodding appreciatively at the horned-lady's questions. Smart enough to ask what the rest of them ignored. Good. Needed someone with brains on an operation like this, and God's knew he wasn't supplying them. The masked-wizards response didn't fill him with as much confidence, especially talk of his 'first trick'. Wizards tricks were rarely matters a-body could take lightly. And the way he said 'humanity' sparked Gentle's interest. Something about the way the mage said it put his hackles up, like he didn't count himself among their number. The wizard was a mystery, and one that had more layers to it than a simple mask. He needed watching.

His attention was snatched by the swords-woman snapping at the hunter. Gentle shook his head slightly at the scene, thick hand scratching at his ear again. Couldn't say part of him didn't agree with the haughty half-elf, what use was an archer without a bow after all, but her attitude left something to be desired. Strutting around like a lion on parade, bellowing abuse at volunteers who had come to fix what sounded like her mistake, angry at the world and everyone in it, looking like she lived off a strict diet of fire and whetstones. He didn't know whether to grin or grimace, settled for snorting a bemused breath through his nose. She would have made a half decent 'taur. Hell, he'd been no different at her age, cept he'd been a touch uglier and a bite less controlled. For her sake he hoped she didn't make the same mistakes he had.

He cocked his head towards the huntress. Took a toll on a person, being dressed down like that. Soldiers took it, because that was what they were getting paid for, one way or another. But when it came to volunteers the same rules didn't necessarily apply. Nobody want's good intentions repaid with bad attitudes. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, the old saying went. Thought he'd lighten the mood, if he could. He'd already bought the King's bodyguard's displeasure once already today, figured he might as well keep paying the toll if it kept her focus on him and off the others. Maybe keep some spirits up instead of dampening them. "On the sunny side if you run out of arrows you can always ask to borrow the stick she keeps slotted up her arse. Need a balistae to fire it, mind." He muttered it softly, a joke for the huntress and him, though not so quiet the others wouldn't hear it if they listening.

ROAD TO 'MUDSHIT'

---

The group of heroes had time to get their last necessities before hitting the muddy road. It had never stopped raining. Sometimes a little harder, sometimes merely a drizzle, the clouds seemed to follow them as they went. The town now renamed Mudshit was a full day and night's journey away, which meant that it soon grew dark while they trudged along on the road. Their caravan consisted of only a single cart pulled by a draft horse, laden with whatever couldn't be carried on their backs. It was in the back, near this cart, that Nathaniel 'lead' the group.

Now it should be said, a quick lesson on the geography of Torvelt. The land of Torvelt is actually a peninsula jutting out into the ocean, vaguely round in shape. The Crescent Mountains are, predictably, arranged in a crescent shape along the coastline. On the outside of the crescent is nothing but swamps and marsh all the way to the sea. In the center of the Crescent Mountains is the Old Forest, a flourishing tangled jungle of ancient trees and nightmarish dangers. None alive have seen the heart of the Old Forest. Koprust, for reference, laid on the hilly but manageable grasslands far from the coast. The party now traveled towards the Crescent, towards the forest, and towards danger.

The party had walked for some hours on the muddy roads as the sun just disappeared behind the looming line of mountains in the distance ahead of them. The sky was left a fleeting array of purple and orange between the dark rainclouds above, as the very last light was strangled out. It rained lightly now, what a true Torvellian might call Pretty Nice Weather. But, just as the party was given their last glimpses of sunlight, the cart horse slid to an abrupt halt. It's eyes flashed white as it snorted, jerking it's head to one side.

To Gentle the Minotaur's sensitive nose, a very distinctive smell suddenly washed over the road. Rotting, putrid meat, a stinking festering smell of decay, mixed with the smell of a watery bog. It would give him a moment's headstart, but the danger was quickly apparent to even the rest of the party. A great warbling wet throat-yell came from over the hill to the left of the road, joined by several other horrible yells. Soon the smell was strong enough for even human noses. To those well-learned in the foes of Torvelt, they knew that this could be nothing else: Trolls.

Nathaniel was quick to react. He thrust a hand into the pouch of components at his hip and threw a glittering dust over his head, while muttering arcane words of power. Then he vanished.

---

((Combat Time! Try to give everyone a chance to act between GM posts. I will be keeping a fast pace.))

Naldir had mostly remained quiet since the formation of the party. For one, he wasn’t sure of this mixed bunch of adventurers. Also, he was unsure of himself. It had been several years since he had gone on this kind of excursion. He had almost abandoned the party as they were leaving town, as when he went to the tavern to talk to his boss, he almost remained. But he had given his word and Naldir did value that kind of contract, and was not ready to break it. So he gave the tavern keeper his notice, quitting his bar keeping job. As Naldir gathered his few belongings into his pack, the tavern keeper was already posting a help wanted sign. Naldir sighed, realizing that there was no turning back, before rejoining the adventuring party.

The group then began their journey, marching down muck covered paths for several hours. Naldir was surprised by how light his large shield was in his hand. He would of thought that without using it for several years that it would be unfamiliar and heavy, but it felt like an old friend kept close. Naldir’s years of training had left him strong and full of energy. Even as the sun set Naldir was not tiring and felt like he could go for several days more. Even as he sludged through the mud and rain, Naldir was surprised with how well this journey had gone so far. That sense that everything was good was interrupted when a foul smell rolled in over the hills.

At first Naldir thought that they were passing a particularly vile bog. But then it dawned on Naldir what the odour was, as several yells off in the distance confirmed it. Trolls. Naldir had only seen trolls in the northern wild lands of his homeland. They were always an awful and deadly encounter. Many men had fallen beside Naldir to the clubs and spears of a troll. Naldir unintentionally gritted his teeth, his left hand quickly unsheathing his sword.

“Trolls! Ready yourselves!” Naldir shouted as he raised his shield in front of himself.

As Naldir shouted he saw that Nathaniel had cast some kind of spell to turn invisible. At first Naldir thought it was an act of cowardice, but he decided to trust the masked man, hoping that he had some kind of plan. Naldir wished he had a plan. He was out of practise in the art of combat, a fact that could get him killed. As his anxieties washed over his body, Naldir noticed that his shield felt just a little bit heavier in his hand. He once again gritted his teeth as he tried to steel up his body.

“Come on. Focus.” Naldir muttered as he tried to steady his hands and the weapons held within.

__________

Stur murmured a low oath as the first bone-chilling yell drifted over their surroundings. He knew that sound instinctively; he'd had to deal with many a troll, back in the day. It was never pretty. He cast a quick look back over his shoulder, trying to make eye contact with any of the more long-range inclined types that happened to be paying attention.

"They're faster than they look, and an arrow or two will probably only make 'em madder. Might want to stay behind us." He called tersely, us obviously indicating the sturdier members of the band.

As it happens, the mercenary managed to glance back at just the right time to see their fearless leader Nathaniel completely vanish while standing in plain sight.

"Fuckin' figures." He ground his teeth in frustration and swung back to keep his focus trained on the hill where the troll-cries were coming from, hefting his longaxe as he did so. Its worn haft thudded softly into the cold, yielding mud of the road. Couldn't rely on those gods-damned frilly casters to do anything useful when it came down to cold iron.

---

---

The rain and mud made traveling difficult, and Imalessa wished she had brought something other than her heavy cloak. It soaked up the water and weighed her down, and the mud sucked at her boots, threatening to pull them off her small feet. Of all the days for it to rain so much and so violently, or maybe she was just more unused to being under the open sky than she'd thought. The only thing that kept her from being in a positively vile mood was that every step brought her closer and closer to home.

As the hours wore on and the sun sank lower and lower, exhaustion started to wear at Imalessa. The chill and damp made her bones ache. Her legs burned and feet hurt something fierce. She wondered when they would make camp . . . if they would make camp, but refused to ask. Forgetting her bow had already cost her; she didn't want to be seen as weak as well as unprepared.

That bow lay across her back now. It was bigger than her own but of much better quality. She had yet to try it out and hoped that wouldn't prove too much trouble down the road.

Soon the smell of rain and mud turned sour. Imalessa wrinkled her nose, cursing her luck that now she had to put up with such a fetid stench on top of everything else. It wasn't until the call cut through the patter of rain and creaking of the cart that she realized the danger.

"Trolls! Ready yourselves!" someone shouted. Imalessa wasn't sure who. It didn't matter, not when she could barely hear over the pounding of her heart in her ears.

She scrambled for her bow and struggled to nock an arrow. The rain and darkness wasn't nearly as debilitating as the trembling of her fingers. She'd thought her experience with hunting, with killing predators had prepared her for this, made her capable of this. But that wasn't the call of a wolf or bear, and Imalessa suddenly realized just how inexperienced she truly was.

Her eyes strained to catch a glimpse. She struggled to bring her breathing under control and still her trembling fingers.

---

---

It wasn't long before the small party began their travels, Aoné much more at ease now that they had begun. She wasn't particularly in a hurry, not that what they were doing wasn't important and time was certainly of the essence, but she hadn't been blessed with the greatest patience nor the ability to stand by and do nothing whilst pursuing a goal. Both of which had estranged her from her family many years ago, and now she could sense those unwanted feelings creeping up on her again as she stood among this group of strangers. She hadn't said much in their short time together as they introduced themselves, save for the moments she had to, but she honestly preferred it that way. Knowing herself, the elf knew with the way the conversation had been going, she would've just caused trouble; however, it would've been funny had she.

Now that the other half-elf, Imalessa, had received a new bow, an honest mistake of coming here without it, they had no more reasons holding them back. Aoné wasn't certain about how she felt toward the huntress, she respected her loyalty to the forest however vocal she was about it, and she didn't seem like someone who'd get in her way lest their tempers clash, other than that, she seemed like someone she could hang around given the time. The term "friends" would be taking it a step too far though.

When it came to the other members of the party, Aoné could say she felt indifferent toward them. Not in any negative way, she just needed more time, although she did especially enjoy Gentle who managed to intrigue her the most, purely by the irony of his name. As far as she knew, minotaurs were an angry race; temperamental and ferocious. But judging by the one beside her, she'd have to look into it more. Perhaps she was wrong.

As for Brynan...she was something else. Probably would've been fine taking on the task herself if a group wasn't required. Not that Aoné disagreed, just that she would have to keep an eye on her. To make sure she didn't do anything reckless to get the rest of them hurt.

---

Luckily for her, horseback riding had been something she was taught from a young age, along with traveling for long periods of time, Aoné's trip to "Mudshit" or wherever was made a lot easier. Along with the essentials, she had managed to grab some medicines and herbs, as well as her journaling book, that was stashed away in a small satchel she carried on her horse. The rain had never ceased as they journeyed, only making her more irritable as her attempts to keep herself dry proved futile. And though light was fading pretty quickly, her darkvision proved useful as she was still able to see.

Not too soon after, just as the rain had come to a light drizzle, the caravan in front of her slid to a stop in the mud. Both horses had sensed something and were now freaking out, Aoné struggled to take back control. At first the noise came. And then the putrid smell. Looking to the source, still steadily to maintain her grip on the reins she already knew what enemy lay ahead.

"Trolls! Ready yourselves!"

Damned fucking trolls.

Hopping down and grabbing her satchel, she quickly moved to the rear of the group. Knowing she wouldn't be of any use up front, she prepared for any possible injuries they would suffer.

---

---

Rather enjoying the new company, Solveig probably seemed the most nonchalant about marching to his doom. In fact, after they had left Koprust Solveig was obnoxiously whistling as they began to travel to this 'Mudshit'. Apart from the butting of heads between Gentle and Brynan, the rest of the group seemed to be rather introverted or at least withdrawn. Everybody had their secrets for sure, but the Dwarf would've preferred if everyone else weren't quite as reserved. Especially the Dragonborn. Ah well, beggars can't be choosers. Regardless of whether the rest appreciated his loud whistling, nothing brought Dwarves together like a bit of light-hearted rhythm. Perhaps it wasn't time to bust out a mining or drinking song but perhaps the theory could work here too.

As rain began to pour, Solveig popped the collar up of his jacket more. He didn't have a hood so his hair and beard were starting to get drenched. However, Solveig kind of liked it. There wasn't any rain to speak of back at Tharum Kholdur, at least if you wasn't a Mountain Guard who watched the borders. Sometimes water would drip down but nothing like this. It was kind of relaxing. The tiny pitter patter of droplets reminded him of pickaxes striking the rocky earth of the Mountain. It was comfort.

That was when a potent stench wafted over the party. Solveig held his nose as his face scrunched up. "Gentle! Please tell me that's not what Minotaur shite smells like!" He exclaimed as he tried to wave the smell away. However, the playful jab at Gentle was overshadowed by the call from Naldir.

"Trolls! Ready yourselves!"

Solveig turned on his heels to the direction of the hollering creatures. He watched as Stur was one of the first to step forward, beginning to draw a battle line. With a grin and a hearty laugh, Solveig joined as he pulled out his prized knuckledusters from his pockets. Punching his own fists together making clanging sounds that rang out, Solveig joined the large human's side with glee. Finally it was time for a punch-up!

"RIGHT THEN YA BASTARDS! COME GET A TASTE OF DWARVEN STRENGTH!!!"

---

The day was going bad enough without throwing the stink of rotting meat into the mix. Gentle thumb a soaking forelock out of his eyes, wondering if he could get away with plugging his nostrils with grass when he noticed the pony's terrified looking stance. Rotting meat doesn't scare horses. He took several more deep sniffs, but couldn't work out what the stink belonged to.

"Gentle! Please tell me that's not what Minotaur shite smells like!" The dwarf distracted him. He was still trying to lock onto the queer scent when he responded absentmindedly "Only after we eat dwarves. The rest of the time the scent is quite pleasant", shortly after that someone yelled troll, and Gentle's humour soured even more.

He'd never met a troll before. Had never wanted to. By all reports they had a worse reputation than Minotaur's, which was akin to winning an award for sheer bastardy. He'd heard they were hard to kill. He guessed he was about to find out just how true that was.

Kill. By the God's, he'd really hoped he was finished with killing, but it looked like this old bull still had to put down a few more matadors. Wasn't like he could still get this quest finished and do the God's proud while being digested in a trolls gullet, and if he'd heard right diplomacy rarely worked with these monsters.

He gripped his staff tight - not quite willing to draw the sword on his back yet, still scared of the 'taur he became when that hilt was in his hand - and stepped forward to stand alongside the human, on the opposite side of the dwarf. The little bastard was screaming out taunts, and Gentle couldn't help but respect him for it. His hoof stamped in the dirt a couple of times while he tried to quell what he told himself was fear, but he actually knew was excitement.

"You fight these things before?" He asked the axe-wielding human. Frail he might be, but he at least looked experienced, and handled that axe like a veteran. Gentle wouldn't like to sip from the same cup as him, but he trusted the man could fight. "They like to set traps?" He gestured off to their right. There was a riot's worth of noise coming from the left, but while Gentle knew next to fuck all about trolls, he had some experience with ambushes. If he was in the attackers position he'd make a lot of noise from one side, while assaulting silently from the other. Nothing wins a battle quite as fast as making the other guy look in the wrong direction while you stabbed him in the back.

---

She has no stranger to rain - it fell in Swaotan every year - the big difference here was the amount of rain that fell all the damn time. Back home there had been, at best, a months worth of downpour that had to be carefully channeled into the massive underground cisterns and then doled out over the summer months. Here, it never stopped. Ever.

There was a time I thought I would give anything to have more than a months rain and now I am starting to feel as though I will be glad to never see water again... She frowned as she pulled her foot from yet another muddy puddle, the ever present suction trying to rip her boot off. Still, mildly better than the insect swarms on the coast.

She had been put ashore the better part of a month ago with a band of adventurers on the coastline of Torvelt by arguably the least trustworthy ships captain she had ever met. The little band she had set off with was a motley collection of Knights Errant who had heard there was a dragon in the mountains of Torvelt and each one had been chomping at the bit to slay the poor creature and so make their name in the world.

Turned out there was no dragon, but the mountains of Torvelt were no stranger to other creatures equally savage and foul. Four of the would be heroes had been eaten by a pair of giants, two more had drowned in the swamps when their armour dragged them under, the last, a handsome lad, realized far to late that he was fatally allergic to Elder Wort, a plant so common in Torvelt it was a wonder he had made it as far as he did.

Ola could have potentially saved the last one but she had been busy trying to fend off a Bog Troll at about the same time. The creature only gave up after she hacked off all its limbs and left it writhing on the ground. No doubt it had recovered and consumed the corpse of the fallen knight.

"Speaking of Trolls..." She muttered, halting and sniffing the air. Yep, either trolls or a lot of corpses. Either way, not a good time to wandering about with my head in the clouds.

She slipped quickly into the woods on the verge of the road. She had just come down from the mountains after taking the last two weeks to cross them. I didn't even know there could be mud in the mountains! It's supposed to be stone, nice and hard, easy to walk on, but nooooooo! I hate this place.

No sooner had she reached the cover of the trees than she heard a commotion ahead. Her ears perked up at the very human shouts and with subtle grace she began to slip through the trees until she could see a small cluster of folk on the roadway. And what a group!

Her eyes were drawn at once to the hulking mass of a Minotaur, before moving on to take in the more extreme humanoids among the group. What an odd bunch. She stayed in the trees, scanning the ground around them. She couldn't see the trolls, but she could sure hear them now, and the stench was growing stronger.

To help, or not to help... That is the question. Then she gave her head a shake and a small smile split her features. To hell with it, no good story comes from standing around!

She burst from the trees and cursed as her boots sank at once into the mud up to her calves. "Ahoy! Friend coming in!" She shouted loudly, making sure that none of the group could mistake her for troll.

By the time she managed to reach them, the first of the trolls were already appearing at the edge of the tree-line.