The Find 6.

Autumn.

Peacesmith at the southern edge of The City of Ruins. Evening in an inn. A confrontation.
"Oh so what is it then?" asks Helbe the elven thief.
"More like an ultimatum" replies the younger of the two mercenaries, the one wearing a mix of armour.
"Is that so?" says the young elven noble who is from the island principality of Laerel.
"Exactly" says the talkative of the two mercenaries, who follows that with "You lot can either join us".
The mercenary pauses for a moment, before he adds "Or else".
The elven master assassin nods his hooded head, then turns his back on the mercenaries, and looks across the table at lord Farque, and lifts a questioning eyebrow.
The elven masterthief faintly smiles as he sees through the eyeslot in lord Farque's full helm. The undead warlord roll his eyes.
"Well?" asks the younger of the two mercenaries, as the common room has fallen pretty silent, as most of the customers watch the confrontation in the quiet corner of the room.
The fact that nearly half of the customers in here, are part to the mercenary troupe the two mercs confronting those at the two corner tables, belong to. Also has a lot to do with how quiet things have become.
"Well, what?" asks the elf who is a member of the royal family that rules the island principality of Laerel.
"Well, have you decided?" asks the mercenary doing all the talking.
"Oh yeah" says the elven masterthief who is a member of the personal council to the lord and ruler of the lands Farque.
Who still with his back to the mercenaries, and after a few moments of silence, continues with "Like i said earlier, we're not interested".
The two mercenaries standing near the corner table share a look. Then the older of the two, the grizzled looking fellow, wearing a steel breastplate.
Turns then nods his head, and makes a beckoning motion with his right hand to those at the table he and his fellow mercenary were sitting at.
He didn't actually make a beckoning motion to any of the other mercenaries sitting at that particular table.
He was making a beckoning motion to the mercenary sitting on the floor next to that table, the troll.
As the troll gets up off the floor, the highly talented elven magic user who has his back to the rest of the common room.
Quietly says in the elven language to the other three at the table with him "Would of been good if Shur Kee was here, no one would expect that little guy to beat the shit out of a troll".
"It would certainly make an impression" quietly says Dalinvardèl Tanith the elven spy from the otherside of the table where he sits next to the undead warlord.
"Don't look at me" mutters Jarjin Littlefoot the hobbit when the elven master archer glances at him.
"Fine, i guess I'll do it" dryly murmurs the grandson of the ruling prince of Laerel.
"Better hurry" murmurs the spy Tanith, who quickly adds "Looks like Percy will if he gets the chance".
As at the other table, Tovis the war engineer has clamped a hand on the left arm of sir Percavelle Lé Dic.
As the large, heavily armoured knight is about to get up and confront the troll who is making it's way over to this corner of the inn's common room.
"I'll do it" says lord Farque, who gets up from the corner he's been sitting in.
The large, heavily armoured deathlord, walks around the corner table as the two mercenaries back away as their comrade the troll approaches.
The undead warlord is the largest, not to mention tallest human here in the inn by some margin.
With only the elven spy, Dalinvardèl Tanith anywhere as tall as him.
But even so, the lord and ruler of the lands Farque, who stands closer to seven foot tall, than six and a half foot tall.
Is dwarfed by the near ten foot tall troll, whose head almost brushes the ceiling, here in the common room of the inn, one of the largest inns in the town of Peacesmith.
The troll, who is wearing mismatched leather armour, that barely covers him in places.
And has a giant club strapped to his back, a club that resembles a small tree, without any branches more than anything else.
And has a human sized two handed broadsword on his belt, that looks like a shortsword on him.
Growls as he walks straight at lord Farque. The large troll, who must weigh in excess of a thousand pounds.
Doesn't try to hit the undead warlord, as now everyone in the common room, including the innkeeper behind the bar, as well as the serving maids watch the confrontation in what was the quiet corner of the room.
The troll mercenary, goes to grab the large, heavily armoured deathlord to fling him out of the way.
As it does, the lord and ruler of the lands Farque moves, and throws a punch.
The undead being, who is also known by the name of Draugadrottin to the people of his lands.
Doesn't move as fast as he can, nor does he throw the punch as hard as he can.
Infact, to those at the two tables, who know him, and travel with him. Would say, he's hardly trying at all, and they would be right.
Nevertheless, the deathlord of Farque's punch hits the large troll square in the chest.
The sound of the hit can be heard by everyone in the common room of the inn.
So can the breath of the troll exploding from it's mouth, as well as the strangled grunt of pain, as it's lifted off the floor, and thrown backwards to where it came from.
The two mercenaries who first confronted the group at the two tables in the corner of the room.
Are to one side, and avoid getting hit by the troll that goes flying backwards through the air.
Not so, the other mercenaries at the table twenty five feet away, that the troll was sitting next to.
The troll with it's arms and legs flailing about, smashes into that table, and most of the mercenaries sitting there.
Bodies, bits of broken benches, and the shattered table go flying as the troll comes to a sudden stop.
There's groaning from the mercenaries who aren't killed by the impact.
While the rest of the common room is silent, as they look at the troll, lying on the debris of that table and benches.
With his leather armour vest ripped to shreds, and his chest torn open, with shattered ribs sticking out of it in all directions.
From where he was punched by the large, heavily armoured deathlord. Who walks back around the table, and takes his seat on the bench. And pours himself another skop from the bottle of mead that he brought earlier.
In the silence, it's Helbe the elven thief who speaks up, as he turns on the bench he's sitting on with Jarjin Littlefoot the hobbit.
And says to the pair of stunned looking mercenaries who confronted the group "Like i said, we're not interested".
As most everyone is looking at the dead troll, looking at it shock at the state it's in.
Then the older of the two mercenaries screws up his face in anger.
"Oh here we go" mutters Jarjin Littlefoot the hobbit, followed by "That fucking did it".
Then just as the elven princeling from Laerel dryly murmurs "Well, guess we've got ourselves a fight".
The grizzled veteran of a mercenary, who along with the younger one who did all the talking, is the co-leader of the mercenary troop.
Shouts out to his fellow mercenaries "Get them!".
"Fight!" yells Tovis the war engineer, who let's go off sir Percavelle Lé Dic's arm.
The large, heavily armoured knight doesn't need an invitation, he's up and moving.
Just as Dalinvardèl Tanith the elven spy leaps over the other table.
Which the halfling former air sailor from the far east coast of the continent, Jarjin Littlefoot. Quickly scrambles under.
As Tamric Drubine the field commander gets to his feet, after muttering "Fucking hell".
Followed by the war engineer, from the kingdom of Druvic, Tovis. And Lisell Maera the scout.
As there's a momentary pause, just before the mercenary troupe, almost as one, rush the two tables in the corner of the common room.
As they do, Saanea the witch prepares to cast.
While the grandson of Prince Raendril of Laerel, has already cast, as he's disappeared from where he was sitting.
As the fight breaks out in the common room of the large inn. With sir Percavelle Lé Dic shouting "Saint Mar-che!". As he runs head first into a number of the oncoming mercenaries.
Lord Farque moves his head to one side, and a bottle of wine thrown his way, smashes into the wall next to him.
The undead warlord picks up the skop of mead he's poured, turns his head and looks into the corner, as he lifts up the faceplate of his full helm, then drinks the mead.
As all around him, the group are fighting about thirty or so mercenaries, from a single troupe, who are here, in the common room of the inn.
"Not much in the way of fucken food" grumbles Dorc da Orc as another platter is put down before him.
It consists of mostly cheese and cold sliced meat. As the tavern they're in, only has a small selection of food in the evenings.
"The beer is fine, and it's cold too" says Mira Reinholt the mage, who then adds "So, at least that's something".
The large ork grunts in agreement, then with two hands, shovels everything on the wooden platter, into his mouth.
While the once powerful mage grimaces in disgust as he watches the ork warleader stuff his face.
The big, burly ork from the southern polar region of the world, puts the platter to one side. It's the fifth one he's had.
Then with a mouthful of food, Dorc da Orc or Dorkindle which is his given name.
Picks up the barrel of beer on the floor beside him, and starts gulping it down.
As he sits there, the ork weaponsmith downs at least half of the medium sized barrel.
All the while, every customer in the tavern watches him in silence. As none of them have ever seen an ork before.
The large ork loudly burps, which breaks the silence. And the other customers slowly go back to their meals, drinks and conversations.
"Anything else to eat?" asks the serving maid when she walks over.
"Nah" replies Dorc da Orc who then adds "Just another one of these cunts" as he gestures at the half empty barrel of beer.
The serving maid nod as she scoops up the gold coins the warleader of the ork race puts on the table.
Then she heads back to the bar to get another barrel, and someone else to help her roll it over to the table the ork weaponsmith, and the once powerful mage are sitting at.
"We'll go that way in the morning, and check the towns out there" says the mage Reinholt a little bit later, as he points away to the east after they exit the tavern.
The large ork who is a general in the armies of Farque, who has the unopened barrel tucked under his right arm, grunts.
And does so again, when the mage who is in exile from his homeland, the city-state of Vexil, adds "That bakery you bought all those years ago is obviously in a town that way".
Then the spellcaster, who is also a highly skilled swordmaster, leads the ork weaponsmith away from the tavern, which Shur Kee the monk exits behind them.
The practitioner of magic, who was once the most powerful mage of his generation to be found anywhere in the Southlands.
Until he was stripped of most of his powers, when he went offworld through a rift/void spell he accidentally cast a number of years ago.
Leads the way, westwards through the town of Peacesmith, to the inn a few streets away that lord Farque was going into, when the exiled  Vexilian mage, and the ork weaponsmith left him earlier in the evening.
As they get closer to the where the large inn is, the mage who is a member of the personal council to the lord and ruler of the lands Farque. Sees the ork general tilt his head to one side, no doubt listening to something.
"What is it Dorc?" asks the highly skilled swordmaster.
"Fight" is the one word reply of the big, burly ork from the frozen bottom of the world.
"Oh hell" mutters the Vexilian mage in exile, who picks up the pace, and walks faster.
A short time later, and the two of them, followed by Shur Kee the monk round a corner as a couple of people go running by them.
They're greeted by the sight of a number of bodies lying on the street infront of the large inn, that lord Farque entered earlier.
With sir Percavelle Lé Dic astride a man on the ground, a mercenary by the looks of it.
Who the former paladin, is punching the shit out of. With his gauntleted fists pummeling the mercenary into unconsciousness.
And as other people run down the street that leads to the nearest ramp, that goes down into The City of Ruins.
Dalinvardèl Tanith the elven spy is on the front porch of the inn. Where he spins around, and kicks another mercenary in the side of the head, sending the merc tumbling off the front of the porch.
To hit the dirt packed street, unconscious and unmoving, like the other bodies lying about are.
Then Tovis the war engineer comes hustling out the front door of the inn. The doorway really, as the door has busted off it's hinges.
The young engineer from the kingdom of Druvic has another mercenary in a bear hug, and he runs with him off the front porch of the inn, and dive tackles him into the ground.
Just then, a body goes flying out through a window devoid of it's shutters.
It's another mercenary by the looks of it. And by the speed, and force he's moving at. And the fact he ends up landing on the otherside of the street, infront of another building, where a couple of other mercenaries lie, either unconscious or dead.
It's obvious he was hit by a spell of some kind.
There's a moment of silence after Tovis slams a forearm into the face of the mercenary he slam tackled into the ground.
Then the voice of Helbe the elven thief can be heard from inside the inn, calling out "That's all of them!".
"Fuck!" shouts Dorc da Orc, who after a slight pause, adds in tone of disappointment "Me miss out on all the fun" . . . . . .