Wonderful 83.

The Principality Of Maladimbáh...

After yawning, Mira Reinholt the mage asks "Which one are they up?" lord Farque points and says "That one" the once powerful mage squints as he looks at the mountain in the distance to the south that the undead warlord has pointed to.
Hell, we're not to going to catch up to them anytime soon, the Vexilian mage in exile thinks to himself, who then stretches his arms above his head, and leans back against a tree trunk, taking a deep breath as he does so. While nearby, Dorc da Orc stands panting beneath the branches of another tree, glaring up at the late afternoon sky. The large ork is feeling the heat, as they've walked much of the day since the battle in the air this morning. And when they haven't walked, the mage Reinholt has teleported them, though only short distances, he can only go about a half a mile by himself at most, with all three it's barely quarter of a mile.
His lack of power is telling when it comes to spells that deal with weight, which teleportation is one.
After glancing at the ork warleader, the spellcaster who is also a highly skilled swordmaster, switches to the elven language and says to the heavily armoured deathlord "Why don't you just go ahead and catch up to them" Mira Reinholt who knows the lord and ruler of the lands Farque could easily catch up to Helbe the elven thief and the others, adds "Me and Dorc will catch up later on".
The lord of the death realm who has contemplated that very thing often throughout the day. First looks at the once powerful mage, who needs to rest and recuperate to gain back some of his limited power he's used during the day. Unless he wants to drain the remaining spell gem he's got, which he tends to only use during a battle or fight, like he did this morning.
Then looks at the ork he named warleader five years ago in the city of Vexil. Who is struggling in the late afternoon heat, especially since he hasn't had much to drink today. The only thing he has, was when the undead warlord forced him to drink some water, when he dunked the large ork's head in a stream, and held him under until Dorc finally opened his mouth and drank.
"No" says lord Farque in the elven language, who spent too much time finding the two of them when they were prisoners of Kaldeàlil Haldéilv. He doesn't want all that time to be wasted again, as the two of them are bound to get into trouble if he's not around. Well, really that's Dorkindle. But the swordmaster Reinholt can easily get into trouble at times too.
"We stick together" adds Draugadrottin as he's also known by, to the people of his lands "Just like old times" dryly says the exiled Vexilian mage, who then softly chuckles when the heavily armoured deathlord glances at him, and in the eye slots of his full helm, the once powerful mage sees the deathlord of Farque roll his eyes.
"Dorc we're going" says lord Farque in the common language "Nah we waits until nights" says Dorc da Orc who then adds "Nots so fucken hots then" the ork weaponsmith then mutters "Fucken cunty hot at the mo".
"There's a town not far, we'll stop there for a drink" says the lord of the death realm who knows exactly what to say to get the large ork moving "Booze?" says the ork warleader whose mouth starts to water, the heavily armoured deathlord nods, then Dorkindle says "Why didn't you fucken say so" then he hurries up to the road to their right, stumbling the first few steps as he does so.
The mage Reinholt shakes his hooded head, then he along with the undead warlord walk up the short incline to the road, which once they're on, they continue on their way south.
For the most part they've kept off the road, because there's been quite a bit of traffic on it, riders going both south and north, many of them guards in the noble house of Haldéilv. While others have clearly, for those who know what to look for, been mercenaries. Even though they've taken measures to hide the fact they're hired mercenaries.
Now in the late afternoon sunshine, the only others on the stretch of road they're on, is a wagon to the south, heading north. And it's not long before the horse drawn wagon goes by them on the otherside of the road.
The human farmer at the reins, and by the looks of it, his son on the wagon bench beside him, just stare at the large ork as he walks by, who eyes their horse up, before looking at the baskets in the back of their wagon, until he snorts when he finds them empty.
"How far to this fucken town?" asks Dorc da Orc when the wagon is about a hundred yards behind them "About two and half miles or so" replies lord Farque "You said it was fucken close" growls the weaponsmith from the wolf tribe of orks, who then shuts up when he sees the lord and ruler of the lands Farque just looking at him.
Krom! Me fucken thirsty now! Dorkindle thinks to himself, who grunts, then lets out a long, whistling sigh when lord Farque points to the mountains and says "It's closer to them, it's not that far".
The road, which is paved, eventually turns to the west, where at the turn, is a blind of trees, which leads to the forest at the foothills of the close by mountains. They turn west, and head to the town a few hundred yards away. On the road they see just a pair of riders, who gallop by them, heading northwards. The two mounted men openly stare at Dorc da Orc as they ride by. "Fucken mercs" mutters the large ork who could easily identify who they were, even though they've got no weapons that are that visible, and by outward appearances, they aren't wearing any armour.
"Well?" asks lord Farque who sensed Mira Reinholt expend a little bit of power to read the mind of one of the riders who went by "She hired them" says the Vexilian mage in exile, who continues with "Messengers to find out anything about the others". "They know anything about us?" asks Des'tier as he's known to an older generation of elven kind in the Southlands who might know who he is.
"No, nothing" replies the swordmaster Reinholt who continues with "She doesn't seem to of told any of them about us" then he nods towards the town ahead, and he adds "Though there's a good chance a lot of the town folk, and any house guards there will know about the two of us" Mira nods at the mountains close by and says "Her father's tower is just on the otherside of those, i bet most people in the area will of known what happened two weeks ago when you broke me free".
"I know that" dryly says lord Farque, who then tells the mage Reinholt "Take your cloak off, you'll be less recognisable without it on". "What about you?" asks the highly skilled swordmaster as he starts taking off his black hooded summer cloak, he then adds in a slightly dry tone "You're pretty hard to forget".
Draugadrottin shrugs his broad, heavily armoured shoulders then says in the elven language "Hopefully everyone is distracted by the fat fucking idiot here" as he nods his full helmed head slightly in the direction of Dorc da Orc "He garners attention like flies to shit". "That's for sure" murmurs the spellcaster who was once the most powerful mage of his generation to be found anywhere in the Southlands, who then silently adds, and the fact he also smells like shit.
The three of them from south of the equator enter the town, with Dorkindle making a beeline straight to the nearest inn or tavern that he's caught wind of. The deathlord of Farque and the Vexilian mage in exile follow him.
Finding what he wants, the ork warleader stomps up the steps to a tavern, he pushes open the door, ducks down and enters. Inside he looks to the long bar, when people turn and stare at him "Booze!" calls out Dorc da Orc to the tavern keeper.
"Ah what would you like?" asks the proprietor of the tavern who is a human, who caught the gist of what the large ork asked for in his deep, growling voice "Fucken all of it!" replies the ork weaponsmith, who makes his way to a table against the back wall.
Those patrons who are up and in his path, scatter quickly out of the way unless they want to get bowled over. Dorkindle glances at one of the benches around the table, then he grunts and sits on the floor next to the table, leaning up against the wall behind him, and he calls out to the tavern keeper "Hurry up with that booze cunt!".
Lord Farque and Mira Reinholt enter the tavern, they don't garner nearly as much attention as Dorc da Orc as they cross to where the warleader of the ork race is sitting. Though both of them do notice a few people frowning as they look at the two of them.
After sitting down at the table which the weaponsmith from the wolf tribe of orks is sitting next to, the mage Reinholt looks around and sees that the patrons in the tavern are predominantly human, with just four elves, and even a couple of goblins here as late afternoon edges towards sunset.
After seeing a couple of townsmen quickly get up from a table and exit the tavern, the once powerful mage whispers to lord Farque "We might of been recognised" knowing that the undead warlord will be able to hear him.
"It can't be helped" quietly says the lord of the death realm, while the tavern keeper rolls over a barrel of ale, and one of the serving women hurries over with an arm full of ceramic wine bottles for the large ork.
"Here, fucken keep 'em coming" says Dorkindle who gives the serving woman a handful of coins, golds, silvers and coppers, after she gives him the half dozen bottles of wine.
"And you sirs?" asks the serving woman who looks at the two from south of the equator sitting at the table "A dark, dry red wine" replies Mira Reinholt, who glances at the heavily armoured deathlord, who slightly nods "Any distilled spirits?" the Vexilian mage in exile asks the serving woman, who replies with "We do, the juniper berry, or the greenberry one".
"Juniper" says the once powerful mage, who then adds "And something to eat for me as well" he then nods to where Dorkindle is downing the last of the six bottles of wine he's got, and he points at him and says "And all the meat you've got, cooked or otherwise, for him".
After the serving woman hurries off, and the tavern keep taps the barrel for Dorc da Orc, which the large ork prefers instead of the lid being taken off, as he tends to spill a lot of booze if he drinks from a barrel without a lid.
The mage Reinholt who is holding his power within himself, murmurs to the lord of the death realm "Any elven nobles in town?". "None" is the quietly reply of lord Farque, who then adds "One on a griffon to the north, and another further away to the west in a village".
After glancing at Dorc da Orc who has lifted up the barrel of ale, and has turned the tap open so that it's contents streams out and into his open mouth, the deathlord of Farque who senses the rest of the group going over the saddle of a mountain nearby, quietly tells the exiled Vexilian mage "Though there's a bunch of them on the otherside of the mountains".
And as the serving woman makes her way back to the table with their drinks, the undead warlord quietly says to the spellcaster who is also a highly skilled swordmaster "Including her" he continues with "Feels like she's in that town across the river at the other end of the valley from her father's tower".
"The bitch" sourly mutters Mira Reinholt who despises the elven magic user Kaldeàlil Haldéilv because she kept him prisoner for nearly two months, cutting him off from his magic at that time, something he finds unforgivable, and which he intends to make her pay dearly for.
"Thank you" says the mage Reinholt after the serving woman puts their drinks on the table, he pays her, then pushes the small glass cup of distilled spirits to lord Farque, while he takes a sip from his goblet of dry red wine . . . . . .