Dorrin was glad to get away from the army for a bit. He loved being a warrior, but it was good to take a break from the life of a soldier and take pleasure in other aspects of life. While he was on his way to the Tavern, he decided to stop at the market and see what was being sold by the merchants there. The market was a bustle with crowds of people, and he had to almost push his way through the crowd in order to have a look at the items that were for sale. There was a good amount of trinkets and jewelry being sold by the traders. Dorrin had a look at them, and the sight of the jewels made Dorrin think of his earlier years as a skillful thief. He didn't really like to think about that time in his life very much, and so he decided to move on to the Pilgrim.

As he walked towards the tavern, some shadowy men dressed in black tried to ask him if he was interested in buying some of the merchandise. Dorrin knew that whatever it was, it was most definitely was stolen, and he told them he was not interested. He kept on walking, and wondered what type of crowd would be at the Pilgrim. In his experiences with other bars, there are ether a crowd of rowdy drunks or a bunch of merrymakers singing songs in a drunken state. He soon came to the tavern and entered the establishment. He looked around for a moment, looking at the occupants. The first person he noticed was Elias Nihmgor, and he wondered what the prince was doing in the tavern. It probably was for some lustful reason. Ether way, Dorrin was here for a drink and he was going to have one regardless of who was in the Pilgrim.

Bumble tried to regain composure, she'd clearly hurt the pride of the poor man. It wasn't his fault though, he was barking up the wrong tree.

A study of Hobgoblin Biology, translated by Bumble Billowgrub

Hobgoblin females typically only go into heat once a year in fall, thought to originally ensure the survival of offspring through harsh winters on the mountains and foothills, it now serves as a means to ensure Hobgoblin population can be maintained despite its war oriented culture. In a society where both men and women are consided equal on the battlefield, it is a hard loss to the chieftain/warlord when 50% of your army becomes unable to fight for several months. As tough as this is for him he takes it on the chin knowing that despite having suffered, all hobgoblin tribes have suffered equally and more importantly, for the rest of the year he can depend on both men and women to fight where as the under-races could not.

Unfortuntely for the soldier, it was just the wrong time of year. That said Bumble spends the right time of year avoiding men in the library basement doing her best to avoid rearing the children of a travelling Hobgoblin or crushing the pelvices of non-goblinoids.

Bumble wanted him to continue though, besides breakfast, he was providing some pretty solid entertainment. She was about to open her mouth until the door swung open and a wounded dwarf was carried over by more soldiers. Despite being in quite a state he seemed in a stable enough condition to prop himself up by the bar. Bumble's suitor seemed slightly spooked by the apparence of his "peers".

“Let me pay for your meal, despite not getting what I wished for, my Lady, I am so terribly sorry but I am afraid that duty calls"

Time to vanish like the rogue you are to escape the law I presume? And I suspect paying for breakfast counts as hush money? Good bye, humourous mayfly of the morning, I shall sit at my window wishing to the stars for the day we might meet again.

A gold coin sat on the wood.

It was stolen, cut from the purse of a real nobleman obviously, nobody that walked round here would dare carry that much round with them. Not unless they were part of the royal guard or -

“I am Elias Nihmgor, Knight of Earroldir,”

Still pretending I see? Surely the squires would see such a pathetic disguise, I mean the real Elias would never... He would visit a place like this, in fact if you were ever looking for Sir Nihmgor this exactly the sort of place anyone in Earroldir would go looking for him, from what she'd heard. What the fuck was going on. Bumble didn't know what to make of all this. As she stared at the gold coin sat on the gnarled wooden table she tried to process the situation in her head. It would be impolite to accept the gold coin, it was way too much.

"Sir Nihmgor, this is too much, I can't possibly take it"

They came in the dark of night to Gralhold.

This was not a new thing. Every summer, there was always a raid. A dozen or so unblooded Nords coming down from the hills to steal a flock of sheep, torch a homestead and take their share of thralls and slaves. It was why the good king had ordered this holdfast to be built. On paper the sum of money must have looked to buy an impressive castle, furnished with a true armory and a mighty commander. But Gralhold was on the fringes of the king's domain, and so much of the money dried up before it reached its destination. Where there should have been a castle with tall walls and a sturdy keep, there was a wooden palisade, a single archer's tower, and a longhouse and stables.

A hundred men at arms called this place their home, led by the good Sir Robbit Grey, a bastard Knight who had fallen in disfavor with the king. A man who loved wine and ale far more than drills and duty. Whose answer to THEIR coming was to let the mongrels take a few sheep and leave.

So when THEY came this night, the townspeople shrieked and rang their bells, lit their watchfires and ran for the safety of the fort.

A hundred of them, they screamed. On the east road, looting and burning! They took old woman Margaery as a thrall, stole all the sheep and cattle! Something must be done!

Sir Robbit did not know whether to dismiss the townsfolk as raving mad over a handful of bandits or to lock the gates and let them be. The smallfolk had been late on their taxes, and a man of his age required extra funds aside from what his Lord dispensed. He was on the verge of going back to bed when the watchmen spotted the fires in the fields.

Bandits did not burn crops. It drew too much attention to them. Better to steal whatever you wanted in the dark of night, then leave. No, the townsfolk were right. It was THEM this time. And in sufficient numbers to be this bold...

An hour later as the whole of the East fields was on fire, Sir Robbit rode out of the fortress with the hole garrison behind him. A hundred men at arms and a dozen freeriders at his back. If he could put the mongrels down decisively, he would be invited back to the capital, his lands restored, and all that business with the filthy merchant forgiven.

The townsfolk he left inside with the squires to lock the gates. A dozen lads to protect several hundred. He was expected to return within the hour, he said. Don't let them get too comfortable.

At dawn, his head came sailing over the gate. From the tower the squires could see their doom writ plain. A hundred of THEM? No. Many, many more than that.

They stood in clumps a hundred strong all around the fort, banging iron against steel. Their weapons were crude and aged. Some held the arms and armor of the garrison as trophies. But what they lacked in steel the horde made up for in size. They were giants, each of them. Bestial and hulking. Some were tall and lean, graceful in every movement they made with their pointed cats ears. Others were huge, hulking things- the men covered in thick hair which hid rippling muscle to match any troll's. More still had great tusks jutting from their mouths. The worst of them, however, were the ones at the gate. Tall, muscled, their hands contorted into long claws while their teeth were jagged, almost saw like. A hundred of them carried the largest axes they'd ever seen.

One among them stood at the gate, a mighty two-handed sword clutched in his hands, point driven into the ground. Buried in the fur of a great white bear, his head covered by an ancient and battered horned helm, he made no move or sound.

The squires called to the town's mayor, thinking the lone man demanded a parley in THEIR old traditions. But as they dismounted the tower the walls began to shake with loud, deep THUNKing noises, all the while the cries outside growing louder and louder.

Within the hour, the wooden gates were chopped to pieces.

By day's end, the holdfast was a bonfire.

By nightfall, the Nord were moving west...

Swear words really were few, in his native tongue. He had often wondered why. Did Elves not feel the need to express their dislike of a situation, like humans did? If not, was it the muddy human blood in him that made him feel compelled to such outbursts? Was there really a pshycological or mental difference decided by blood only? He did not know and he never would. He was half human, after all.

As fate would have it, he really needed a swear at the moment. The stranger had agreed to his healing and dismissed his offer to take him to the temple. Who would prefer the hand of a sweaty soldier on their chest over the soft palms of a dozen innocent Temple Maidens? Did this stranger not know that the Princess herself, a woman with beuty just as striking as that of any Elf, was a Maiden at the temple? Had his Lady General not healed his every wound with a declaration of just how much of a, well, wimp he was, he would have asked to go to the temple each and every time.

But alas, the stranger did choose his hand over the Temple Maidens' and it was his duty to heal if asked to. Had he not been a soldier, but just any other regular High Elf who had chosen the lighter magic over the arcane arts, he would have been able to sit by, sipping his wine and letting the man bleed out on the floor.

As if the misfortune of the situation was not quite bad enough, his little Lady Hobgoblin even spoke to him again, “Sir Nihmgor, this is too much, I can't possibly take it,” she said. She had heard who he was. She had not believed him when he had told her of his heritage. He was a bit disappointed at that. Did he not look the role of the son of a duke? Was it the hair? Everyone in the Earroldian empire knew that the Nihmgor duchy had always been run by High Elves. Never before had a human entered the noble family. So, was it because he was not some beautiful blonde? Nobody ever doubted his sister, with her golden curls, even if she was just as much a half-blood as he. Once he took his father's place at his hundreth birthday, he would make sure that people knew him on the streets; the crimson-haired half-Elf would not exactly be someone you would forget. The Crimson Duke, though... it had an evil sort of ring to it. Like some villan from one of the fairy tales the Maidens told the orphans.

“I insist, my Lady,” he pushed on as he moved the the wounded man's side “Consider it your prize for entertaining an old man at a bar. Even if I am young for an Elf, I certainly am old for a human,” he finished talking to his Lady and to prove this to her, he placed his hands gently on his bleeding chest and focusing the best he could on mending the torn flesh. Blood was a beautiful thing, though. So … red.

The focusing part, though, was most of the reason why his magic was so … unpredicatble, though. His mind tended to wander when he was not doing something enjoyable. The wound ever so slowly, and probably quite unpleasantly for the man being healed, began mending itself. Because his magical nature was so slow to react to him, due to his muddy blood, it actually happened so slowly and so crudely that one could see the tissue connecting again.

---

Meanwhile, in Grapholo

“Get outta ma way!” the small, yet strong, woman yelled out, making several of the other Grapholan engineers leap out of her way; a wrench was clutched so tightly in her little fist that the knuckles had long since gone white with the lack of blood. A mechanical dog about the size of a pony came jogging after her, its metal tongue hanging out the open mouth, leaking what appeared to be oil all over the place.

Ninni Gobbletaker was the name of that small woman and she was not a force to be reconed with when she was in one of her moods. The King himself had just turned down her sixth attempt at the mountable weapons and she was on the verge of exploding.

Her mechanical dog, Project One, was proof of her impressive skills when it came to machinery and if that was not enough, she had even developed the very first of their mechanical weapons; a thing she called a “gun”. She was quite the impressive woman, but she was a woman, nonetheless. Countless times had her co-workers, or employees as they were, heard her scream and shout about how she would build herself a mechanical penis and maybe then the King would listen to her ideas. They all doubted it.

“YA!!” the small woman called out, stopping before the Necromancer, thrusting her wrench up into the dangerous woman's face, causing her to draw back a bit, “Ya and ya f*ckin' magics's why that God damned King won't listen to a word I say!” she strongly accused, using as much spit as she did words.

The Necromancer, Azura Rabonne, was not a force to be reckoned with, either. Her magical mutation allowed her to raise the dead and she was far from shy at using this ability. She held no fear for anyone, but everyone feared her. Everyone but Ninni Gobbletaker, that is.

It was magic against mechanics; a war that had been fought in Grapholo for about as long as the war against Earroldir.

Azura scoffed and peted her skeleton dog that stood by her side, “My magic is a blessing of Humossia. Dare you say your ideas are better than hers, little woman?” was the icy reply.

“Danm straight I do!” Ninni snapped back, “A human with magics; it's unnatural!” she added in a a sort of growling hiss that it was only Ninni who could possibly make, “We've got our brains! That's why we didn't need magics, like dem mythicals!”

Their argument, even if it was only Ninni arguing and Azuyra simply speaking, was interrupted by a young messenger who came sprinting; wheezing and hacking for breath, “Lady -” he began, but had to pause for breath, “Lady Rabonne -” he paused for breath again, “- the Nords -” he paused for breath again and the annoyance in both Ninni's and Azura's faces would have been enough to stop an entire army, make them put down their weapons and apologize for their inconvenience, “- burned the Gralhold.”

As soon as she was certain he had actually finished speaking and was not just holding another pause for breath, Azura was off. It was surprising, really, how fast she could run in heels. Ninni was foaming by now, that they once again chose the magic users over her inventions, but it mattered not. Azura was already outside. The lines on her face glowed, as did her eyes and only a moment passed before the pile of bones by the stables formed themselves into a real, living horse … minus the flesh, of course. Using her dog, Skelly, as a step, she jumped onto the back of the bone-horse and without having to command it, as it took the orders straight from her brain, the horse had run off. The dog, however, fell to a pile of bones where it was left.

Blue? What the hell kind of a name is blue? Razz pondered at the girl, wondering what type of creature she could possibly be. Water sprite would more plausible with a name like that, but that'd be too cliche. Unless the others were all named aquamarine, or some other synonyms for blue. A whole race can't be that uncreative, right? Probably a forest dweller then, based on how there was a forest so close nearby.. Didn't I wake up in a forest this morning? He would have to keep a close eye on this one. After all, who's to say she didn't follow him from the forest? He was feeling unusually light-headed, considering the amount of blood he'd lost. It didn't actually seem like that much.... Maybe he's some kind of crazy blood-sucking vampire pixie or something? Razz didn't like this. This girl could be dangerous. Regardless, it would be wise for him not to disclose too much about why he was here. Not as if he was going to be chatting freely about his night-time occupation, anyway.

All this pondering would have to wait, however, as the knight feller decided to plant his grubby hands squarely on Razz's chest. He was about to raise a cry in opposition, until he felt... something. I can't seriously be attracted to THIS guy, right? Wait, no. That wasn't it. It was more of a relief than anything else. This was far, far beyond anything razz had ever felt before. Was this... healing magic? This is some good damn stuff. I should send one of my useless nephews off to learn some of this stuff. Bloody hell...

As his body started knitting itself back together, it was all Razz could do to stop himself gaping in shock. There was no sign of him managing to acknowledge the new guy coming into the bar, He quickly picked up his chin, and as the knight-wizard-whatever finished healing him, he did his best to stutter out some kind of a suitable reaction. "M-My... My lord.... I thank you. If I had anything to offer in return... Well, thank you anyway.I owe you a favour, for sure." He almost considered attempting a bow, or something, before he came to his senses. He still had the tree pixie to deal with, or whatever she was.

"As for you, Miss fai- Blue, I suppose I do owe you a tale, then. My name, is Razzalorn Timmindale. At your service, so to speak. As for my story, well, it's quite a tale. It all began in my hometown, a small little place from close by..." He went on to weave a fantastical, not altogether untrue story of his misadventures that lead him from the humble shop from which he originated to this peculiar old bar. He did, however, choose to leave out the bits where he was a highwayman, where he attacked/was attacked by an enemy army. So not an altogether true story, either. Regardless, with any luck, it would be enough to satisfy and distract this creature while it fed him and bought him drinks. A pretty fair trade, if you ask me.

Blue tried to keep a straight-not-disgusted-by-muscles-knitting-together face as the lord or Duke or whatever he was healed her storyteller. She winced at the imagined chip on her shoulder that went with the shame of not being able to disguise herself properly. The crimson haired Elias was useful, at least, without much physical effort on his behalf. Fae magic was for mischief and hiding, it hurt that her abilities were all at the mischief end instead of balanced like the rest of her clan. She watched as her storyteller got himself comfortable after the majority of his healing, growing in anticipation. Story time perhaps?

"As for you, Miss fai- Blue, I suppose I do owe you a tale, then. My name, is Razzalorn Timmindale. At your service, so to speak. As for my story, well, it's quite a tale. It all began in my hometown, a small little place from close by..." Yes! It was story time at last, though his vocal slip made her slightly anxious, she saw no human in Razzalorn Timmindale so perhaps it was no harm done. He in no way looked human and was prepared to sit in her company. She couldn’t help but laugh out loud as he fed her with anecdotes and tales of his adventures. It was lovely to listen to him tell this grand story, despite the fact she couldn’t feel or feed off him in any other way. Blue relaxed as more wine kept coming and let herself enjoy this brief encounter. The universe had not given her what she ordered, but this was just as good, if not better.

She was aware of the horned girl and Elias still and Blue found herself reluctant to return to the forest. The Pilgrim had provided her with such interesting fare and plenty of laughter, it seemed a shame to let it all go. There was an itching in her feet that made her feel restless, she wanted to see where these people got to experience these things. Blue hadn’t had an adventure of her own in 70 years, and never had one that didn’t end in heartbreak. Was it time again to break free of her clan? Her face took on a thoughtful expression as she considered this, with a cheeky grin now and then to spare for her story teller, “I am sorry you were hurt, Mr Timmindale, but I am glad it was here you stumbled into. Thank you for sharing your tales with me.”

While his people were not accustomed to mass migration or forced marches, Aldred knew they could move faster than they currently were. Not through any fault of their own, of course. The crack of the whips told him that, clear as the daylight above them.

"Faster, slave!" *CRACK* "Faster! The war-leader has no patience!"

The task of hauling their supply sleds had originally been determined by lots, but such menial work was a sure way to brew strife among the clans. Those who pulled the food and water would be exempt from battle and it's glories. The Draumdra clan, bearlings, had been the unlucky ones and still resented missing the attack on Gralhold. With the burning of the hold, the Nords had hundreds of slaves at their disposal- trophies of war they would be able to bring back to the Mountain as was their right of conquest. The slaves were closely watched for escape attempts, but the few who tried were quickly shot down.

"Half a thousand slaves," Aldred murmured to his war council, "And they cannot pull the loads between the,. If we do not leave the forests before tomorrow, the plan will need to change."

The plan would fail if they did not make the borders of the forest before tomorrow, undoubtedly. Even if that foppish oaf the king delivered reinforcements as promised. The fact of the matter was the war had been at a stalemate for decades, and the kings of Grapholo had likely fallen behind on their military prowess. The Kingsguard was probably at full strength, as they only ever received the cushy assignments. And the Nords COULD accomplish their next objective on their own- if the timing was right. But to finish the war would require an army from the King at their side.

"It's the trees," one of the chieftains, a great bearish man with an iron axe, intoned. "The war sleds cannot be turned by humans except on a road. The thralls will be slowed without smooth ground. If we left the forest for the road-"

"We stay here," Aldred said, cutting off that line of thought. "If we went to the road we would be spotted within hours. Finrick's gates would be closed, barred and barricaded. And the enemy would begin assembling conscriptions to meet us in the field. We must take Finrick. Our enemy has lost forts and towns before, but a city has never been lost by either side in this war. If we take Finrick, we control the momentum of the conflict. And while the nobility of our foe's court dither and hoard their knights for their own protection, the road to the Capitol will be open to us. If our dearest allies will deliver what was promised..."

Bumble sat quietly as the generous knight magic'd the poor dwarf's body back together. A Hobgoblin's relationship with magic was distant at best, possibly non-existant. Goblinoids as a family were never good at it, they lacked the raw talent to pick it up and the patience to practice such an inefficient killing method in preference to more tied and tested methods, like shiv in neck. Generations of war later, magic is almost unheard of and anyone wanting to waste tribe time and resources fostering this skill has to go. As a result, and despite living around humans whom use magic for pretty much anything, Bumble was still weary of the Arcane arts and simply waited for Elias to finish, instead of distracting him and causing some terrible fate to befall the dwarf.

There was still no way he could pay for all her meals for the week. While one gold coin might not have been much to him, it was to her and it was impolite to just take it, even as a reward for having a relatively short conversation in a bar. If he wouldn't take the money, he'd have to take the food and he'd certainly take the oppotunity to chat her up again, he seemed like the sort of chap who wouldn't go down without a fight. He hadn't actually lied to her, his intentions were pretty clear and giving in like this was essentially protitution, but he seemed like a nice enough guy. Maybe he was only looking for some friends and this was his testosterone filled, backwards way of asking. Maybe he deserved another chance.

"If you refuse to take it back then you'll have ta join me for dinner this week, considering you're paying for it and all"