“You stay back.” Spat the woman, holding her stance and keeping her weapon at the ready. Even with the hood she wore concealing part of her face the woman was obviously quite young, given by the sound of her voice particularly.

“Calm yourself, girl,” Ibdur grumbled, “we did not follow you down this alley just to kill you two.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the woman retorted forcefully, “you follow us here, start raining questions upon me - a complete stranger - and insinuate in the same breaths you can help… him. You are either fools or this is a ruse, an illusion.”

“Leon-er… Leo…” Ibdur hastily corrected himself, “we are wasting time here. All I see is two common hooligans that were on the bad side of a deal. A purse cutting gone wrong or a gang fight I would wager.”

“‘Common hooligans’,” the woman repeated with an indignant mocking tone, “the gal, I say!”

“Elthel…” came a weak groan.

The hooded woman looked down at the wounded half-elf, his pale, dainty face twisted into an expression of equal pain and weariness.

“If… they can help…” the half-elf strained, “we… [i]I[/i]… am in no place to turn them away.”

“But… we don’t even know who they are! What about all your words and ways of caution? They could be with Gunalar!” Lethal replied.

“If they are… perhaps they will make it quick for me…” the half-elf forced a pained grin, “but… I do not… think they are that half-orc’s thugs. They do not… [i]look to be[/i]. And… at this point… I have not the privilege… of caution.”

Elthel turned back to face Leon, eyes narrowing beneath her hood. Her lips parted as she was about to speak when a deep voice boomed out from behind Leon and Ibdur, “Did I hear ‘mine name?!” A short chorus of harsh laughter followed in tow. Ibdur’s axes came free from his belt as the dwarf sharply whirled around to face the newest arrivals in the alley. Lumbering around the corner came a towering, ugly, swarthy-skinned half-orc with thinning hair and a scruffy, greasy black beard. The half-orc was adorned in a rickety set of chainmail with a scarred breastplate that barely fit over his wide midsection, over his right shoulder he carried a large, gleaming war hammer. His beady black eyes were pressed into a scowl and his wide mouth was spread in a vindictive grin that revealed two yellowed tusks jutting up from his jaw. At his back were three human men baring shortswords and round shields, their only protection cheap iron helmets and breastplates like their apparent leader wore.

“So… Gunalar…” the half-elf forced himself up into a sitting position, arms quivering at his sides, “you… found me. Very clever… for an orc.”

“Ha!” snorted the brute, “I needed only follow the fresh trail of blood, frail half-elf. Even a touched bloodhound could have found you in this hole you backed yourself into.”

“Or even… a poorly bred orc-blood.” came the weak but sneering reply.

“We will see who laughs when I kill you and your little friends here and carry your head to Shagarm, thief.”

“So… you’ve sold yourself out too…” 

“Not sold out. Made a smart move.”