Sunlight streamed through the small window, warm and bright on Delores's face, pulling her from a surprisingly deep sleep. The bed had been far more comfortable than she'd expected, and the quiet security of Oleg's farmhouse had allowed her a restfulness that had eluded her on the road. She sat up, stretching, feeling refreshed and ready, the anxieties of the previous night momentarily held at bay by the promise of a new day and a clear objective. After quickly tidying herself, a process made much easier with a basin of clean water and a small mirror Oleg had thoughtfully provided, supplemented by just a touch of arcane neatening for her braids, she headed downstairs. The enticing aroma of frying bacon and strong chicory coffee guided her to the main room. Barin and Rael were already seated at the large wooden table, plates piled high, while Oleg bustled near the hearth, flipping sizzling strips of bacon in a cast iron skillet. He looked up as Delores entered, his blue eyes twinkling.
"Ah, Baroness! Good morning!" Oleg greeted cheerfully. "Sleep well, I hope? Come, sit, sit! Plenty to go around."
"Very well, thank you, Master Oleg," Delores replied, taking her seat. Barin offered a grunt that might have been a 'good morning,' while Rael gave a quick, shy nod before returning his intense focus to his plate.
As Oleg served up generous portions of bacon, eggs scrambled with herbs, and thick slices of toasted bread, the conversation naturally turned back to the task at hand.
"So, this Grok fellow," Delores began, sipping the hot, bitter chicory coffee. "You said his camp is upstream. Do you know anything more about his numbers, or how they fight?"
Oleg brought the skillet to the table, adding the last of the bacon to a platter. "Watched 'em from a distance, I have," he said, taking his seat. "Tried not to get too close, mind you. Nasty tempers on the lot of 'em. From what I could tell, never saw more than seven or eight at any one time, Grok included. Seem to rely on brute force and ambush mostly. Not much in the way of tactics, but they make up for it in sheer viciousness."
Eight bandits, including the leader. Delores felt a flicker of nervousness. While Barin was clearly formidable and Rael possessed clerical magic, she herself was largely untested in direct combat against multiple, determined opponents. Eight-to-three odds weren't exactly comforting.
Barin, overhearing her slight intake of breath, scoffed loudly around a mouthful of bacon. "Eight? Bah! Barely a warm-up!" He slammed his fist lightly on the table for emphasis. "Taken down more goblins than that single-handed durin' a bad Tuesday patrol! Don't ye worry yer pointy ears, lass. We'll handle 'em."
Delores appreciated his confidence, misplaced though it might seem, but glanced at Rael. The tiefling looked up briefly, catching her eye. "Their numbers are manageable," Rael stated quietly, his golden eyes serious. "With Master Strongsunder engaging them directly, I can provide support and disable any who attempt flanking maneuvers. Akrion favors balance, not brute odds."
Reassured by their combined confidence, Delores focused. "Alright. Diplomacy first, as we agreed. I'll approach and attempt to parley. Barin, Rael, you stay back slightly, visible enough to show force, but not overtly threatening unless things go sour. If Grok refuses to listen or attacks, then we act decisively."
Barin grunted his assent. "Talk till yer blue in the face, musician. Just give me the signal when it's time for bashin'."
Rael simply nodded, adjusting the leather-bound tome that now rested beside his plate.
They finished their breakfast, the initial nervousness giving way to focused preparation. Delores double-checked the tuning on her hurdy-gurdy because music could be a weapon too, in its own way. Barin meticulously checked the straps and buckles of his heavy armor, ensuring nothing was loose. Rael murmured quiet prayers over his holy symbol, his eyes closed in concentration.
Once they were ready, Oleg met them at the door. He pressed a rolled-up piece of parchment into Delores's hand. "Crude map I sketched," he explained. "Shows the river path upstream, and where I last saw their main campfires near the bend by the old willow grove. Should get you there easily enough."
He looked at each of them in turn, his expression earnest. "Be careful, all of you. Grok's a nasty piece of work. Get my river back, but come back safe yourselves."
Delores nodded firmly, tucking the map away securely. "We will, Master Oleg. Thank you for everything."
With final nods, the newly formed adventuring party stepped out into the bright morning sun, leaving the comforting warmth of the homestead behind. They followed the faint track leading away from the farm and towards the Green River, its banks shrouded by trees just visible in the distance. The path towards Grok the River-Poisoner, and Delores's first true test as a leader and adventurer, lay ahead.
The trio set off from Oleg's homestead, following the rough dirt path that skirted the edge of his neatly kept farmland. The scent of turned earth and growing things was pleasant, a stark contrast to the grim task ahead. The Green River flowed lazily in the distance, its waters catching the mid-morning sun, though even from here, Delores thought she could detect a faint, unnatural sluggishness compared to the bubbling stream near Cerindor.
She consulted the crude but clear map Oleg had provided. "According to this, the camp should be near a distinctive bend in the river, past that stand of old willows," she explained, pointing ahead. "If we keep a steady pace, we should reach the vicinity well before dusk. Gives us time to observe, perhaps, before approaching."
Rael, walking silently beside her, peered at the map over her shoulder. His golden eyes scanned the markings briefly. "The distance seems accurate," he confirmed quietly. "Sufficient daylight remains for travel and assessment."
Barin just grunted, his focus already on scanning the surrounding terrain, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his falchion.
As they walked, the fence line marking the edge of Oleg's property eventually gave way to wilder terrain. The dirt path became less defined, weaving through taller grasses and stands of sparse woodland that gradually thickened the further they moved from the cultivated land. Delores fell silent, her mind preoccupied. How exactly did one convince a ruthless bandit leader to simply pack up and leave? Oleg was right; they likely wouldn't be impressed by appeals to ecology or neighborly consideration. Threats might work, especially with Barin looming nearby, but that could easily escalate to violence, the very thing she wanted to avoid initially. Bribery was out because they had little coin to offer, and bandits who poisoned rivers likely weren't driven by simple need.
Persuasion, she mused. Her Guild training focused on influencing emotions through music, subtle suggestion woven into melody. Could she combine that with her nascent sorcery? A touch of enchantment, perhaps, to amplify her words, to make Grok want to leave? It felt manipulative, ethically grey, and dangerously close to mind-control, something Akrion, Rael's god of balance, would likely frown upon. Plus, her control over her sorcery was still shaky; a misstep could backfire spectacularly, turning a parley into an immediate, bloody confrontation. No, she decided reluctantly. Too risky. Straightforward talk first. Bluff, maybe? Hope Barin looks scary enough.
The silence stretched on, broken only by the crunch of their boots and the distant murmur of the river. Barin, clearly bored by the lack of immediate threats or conversation, eventually turned his attention to their awkward tiefling companion.
"So, Cleric," Barin began, his voice startlingly loud in the quiet woods. Rael flinched slightly. "Oleg said ye came all the way from... Valcrath, was it? Long trip just to answer some old farmer's call for help. What's yer story?"
Rael looked momentarily panicked at being the center of attention. He clutched his tome tighter, his golden eyes darting towards Barin, then away again. "I... travel," he stammered. "Seeking knowledge. Understanding."
"Knowledge?" Barin grunted skeptically. "Plenty o' books back west, I reckon. What kinda knowledge ye find followin' odd jobs out in the sticks?"
Rael took a deep breath, seeming to gather himself. "The practical kind," he said, his voice gaining a little more firmness. "My deity, Akrion, values the pursuit of power through understanding, the balance achieved when knowledge is mastered. I follow Akrion's path... loosely. By seeking out experiences, challenges... opportunities to learn and acquire new forms of power." He hesitated, then added, almost shyly, "Magic, primarily."
"Magic, eh?" Barin looked him up and down. "Yer a cleric. Thought ye lot dealt in prayers and healin'."
"Akrion encourages mastery of all forms of balance, including the arcane," Rael explained, seeming more comfortable now that he was discussing his faith and passion. "I am already… reasonably skilled in the divine arts granted by my faith," he patted his holy symbol, "and I have studied the disciplines of the Magus, blending steel and spell." He gestured vaguely towards where a sheathed short sword hung at his belt, previously unnoticed by Delores. "But true understanding requires breadth. The next step on my path… it involves mastering true sorcery. Innate, untamed magic."
Delores's head snapped up at that, her own thoughts momentarily forgotten. Innate magic? Like hers? She opened her mouth to ask Rael more, intrigued, but just then the path took a sharp turn, leading them directly towards the riverbank. The trees grew much thicker here, ancient willows drooping their branches low over the water, their roots twisting along the muddy bank. The air grew heavier, carrying a faint, unpleasant metallic tang. They were getting close. The time for conversation was over; the time for caution had begun.
They turned, following the curve of the riverbank upstream. The path here was less defined, forcing them to pick their way over gnarled roots and slick, moss-covered stones. The water beside them flowed sluggishly, its surface filmed with an unnatural sheen, and the metallic tang Delores had noticed earlier grew stronger, mixing with the faint but unpleasant odor of decay. The majestic willows lining the bank seemed weary, their leaves tinged with yellow despite the season.
Rael's mention of studying innate sorcery had snagged Delores's attention, pulling her away from her strategic worries. As they moved carefully through the increasingly dense woods paralleling the river, she fell into step beside the quiet tiefling.
"Rael," she began, keeping her voice low, "you mentioned seeking knowledge of different kinds of magic, including sorcery. Just how… expansive is your understanding? You seem to know quite a bit."
Rael stopped walking, turning to face her. He hesitated for a long moment, his golden eyes studying her with an unreadable intensity, as if weighing her sincerity or perhaps just wrestling with his own social awkwardness. Then, wordlessly, he held out the heavy, dark leather-bound tome he carried everywhere.
"Perhaps," he said softly, "this explains better than words."
Delores blinked, surprised by the gesture. She carefully took the book, its weight substantial in her hands. The cover was smooth, worn from handling, bearing only the subtle symbol of Akrion, the balanced scale and the spark. She opened it carefully. The pages were filled with neat, precise script, interspersed with intricate diagrams and arcane symbols drawn with remarkable skill. As she skimmed through the early sections, she realized this wasn't a published grimoire or a holy text. It was Rael's personal spellbook, a research journal, a repository of magical knowledge he had encountered or sought out. Her eyes widened slightly. There were sections clearly marked: 'Divinity - Granted Boons' listed clerical spells for healing, protection, and smiting, annotated with notes on their effectiveness and situational use. 'Magus Arts - Sword & Spell' detailed techniques for channeling magic through a blade, enhancing strikes, and parrying magical effects that explained the short sword she hadn't paid much attention to earlier. These sections, while detailed, weren't enormous.
What was massive, filling page after page, was a section titled 'Arcane Potentials & Theoretical Constructs'. Here, Rael hadn't just recorded learned spells, but detailed theories, descriptions of magic he'd witnessed or read about, and speculative designs for spells that, as far as Delores knew, didn't actually exist or perhaps existed only in obscure lore she'd never encountered at the Guild. There were diagrams for manipulating time locally, theoretical wards against psionic intrusion, complex elemental bindings, and pages dedicated to pure force manipulation. It was a dizzying collection of ambition and arcane curiosity.
Rael, noticing her lingering on a page depicting a figure drastically increasing in size, cleared his throat awkwardly. He reached out a finger, tapping the diagram gently.
"That… is a recent fascination," he admitted, his usual hesitation returning. "A theoretical application of transmutation and amplification magic. Based on certain clerical principles of divine growth and arcane expansion..." He trailed off, then seemed to force himself to continue. "In theory… purely theoretical, mind you… with intense concentration, one might be able to temporarily triple a subject's physical size and mass. Perhaps only for a few moments. The energy required would be… substantial. Maintaining it, even more so."
Delores stared at the diagram, then looked up at Rael, then glanced over at Barin, who was currently occupied trying to dislodge a stubborn burr from his worn cloak, completely oblivious. A slow, wicked grin spread across Delores's face. Triple Barin's size? Even for a few moments? The image of the already formidable half-orc dwarf suddenly becoming a twelve-foot-tall engine of destruction was both terrifying and undeniably appealing.
"That," she said, her voice filled with newfound enthusiasm, "sounds like an excellent last resort." She tapped the page thoughtfully. "If diplomacy fails and things go truly sideways… having a giant, angry Barin on our side might just be the edge we need."
Rael blinked, seemingly surprised she'd taken his theoretical musing so seriously, but then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Theoretically… possible. But draining. And untested."
"Understood," Delores said, carefully closing the tome and handing it back to Rael. "Last resort only." She felt a surge of confidence. Rael wasn't just an awkward cleric; he was a dedicated, perhaps slightly obsessive, magical scholar with a potentially devastating ace up his sleeve.
Feeling considerably more prepared for various outcomes, Delores turned her attention back to the path ahead. The woods were growing darker now, the river beside them murkier. The bandit camp couldn't be far.
They pressed onward, the silence returning as Delores mulled over Rael's surprising magical potential. The woods grew denser, the path less certain, forcing them closer to the sluggish, tainted river. Sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick canopy overhead, casting the forest floor in a perpetual twilight. The metallic tang in the air was stronger now, sharp and unpleasant. After nearly two more hours of careful progress, Barin abruptly raised a gauntleted hand, halting the group. He stood motionless, head cocked slightly, his visible ear angled towards the path ahead. He held the silence for a long moment, then slowly motioned for Delores and Rael to stay quiet, tapping his own ear pointedly. Delores strained her hearing. At first, she caught nothing but the rustle of leaves and the unsettlingly quiet flow of the river. Then, faintly, she heard muffled voices, gruff and indistinct, carrying on the still air. They were close. Beneath the voices, another sound emerged: a heavy, rhythmic dragging, like something cumbersome being hauled across the leaf litter and damp earth.
Barin leaned closer, his voice barely a whisper, his breath warm against Delores's ear. "Camp's near. Sounds like they're movin' supplies… or bodies." He straightened up, his expression grim. "Stay put. I'm gonna sneak ahead, get the lay of the land. See what we're walkin' into."
He began to move forward, his heavy armor surprisingly quiet as he prepared to melt into the shadows between the trees. But before he could take more than a step, Rael reached out, placing a hesitant hand on Barin's armored shoulder.
"Wait," the tiefling murmured.
Barin stopped, turning back with a questioning grunt. Rael knelt slightly, bringing his face closer to Barin's height. It was an awkward maneuver given their respective sizes. He placed his other palm flat against the center of Barin's dented breastplate. Closing his golden eyes, Rael began to mumble, his voice a low, resonant chant weaving syllables Delores didn't recognize, clearly divine yet tinged with that arcane undercurrent she'd sensed in his tome. His palm began to glow with a soft, pearlescent light against the dull metal of Barin's armor. Delores watched, confused and intensely curious. What was he doing? Barin looked equally bewildered, shifting uncomfortably under the tiefling's touch but holding still. The chanting continued for several more seconds, the glow intensifying slightly. Then, starting from where Rael's hand rested, Barin's entire form began to shimmer. The edges of his armor blurred, the solid metal and leather fading, becoming translucent, like smoke or heat haze. Within moments, Barin Strongsunder, half-orc dwarf in full plate, vanished from sight, leaving only a faint distortion in the air where he stood.
Delores heard Barin gasp, the sound seeming to come from empty space. "By the forge fires… Am I… invisible?"
Rael opened his eyes, a rare, small smile touching his lips as he removed his hand. He nodded. "A cloaking blessing from Akrion. Concealment through balance that removes you from visual perception. But," his smile faded, replaced by urgency, "it is taxing to maintain over distance and drains quickly. You have two minutes, perhaps slightly more. Go now. Be swift."
The faint shimmer in the air moved instantly, melting into the deeper shadows ahead without a sound. Delores stared after the spot where Barin had been, amazed. Rael swayed slightly, taking a deep breath, the pearlescent glow fading from his hand.
"Impressive, Rael," Delores whispered, genuinely awed. "Very impressive."
Rael flushed slightly, looking down at his tome. "A minor invocation."
They waited in tense silence, hidden just off the path, listening intently. The dragging sounds had stopped, but the muffled voices continued intermittently. Delores counted the seconds, her nerves fraying. Two minutes felt like an eternity when waiting for an invisible dwarf-orc to return from scouting a bandit camp.
Just as she was starting to worry the spell had worn off prematurely, the air before them shimmered again, and Barin solidified back into existence with startling abruptness, making both Delores and Rael jump. He was breathing a little harder but looked unharmed.
"Right," Barin whispered, keeping his voice low. "Camp's just over that rise." He pointed ahead. "Crude setup. Ring o' sharpened logs for a wall, maybe ten foot high. Gate looks flimsy. Few ragged animal-skin tents pitched inside."
He scanned the woods around them before continuing. "Counted two guards leanin' by the gate, lookin' bored. Saw four more outside the walls, choppin' wood near the riverbank, the clumsy fools, makin' enough noise to wake the dead." He paused, frowning. "That leaves Grok and one other unaccounted for. Likely inside one o' the tents."
He looked at Delores. "Eight total, just like the old man said. Two at the gate, four outside, two inside. Doesn't look like they suspect a thing."
Delores processed the information quickly. The layout, the numbers, the disposition of the guards. Her mind raced, considering their options now that they had solid intelligence. Diplomacy first, but with a clear picture of the opposition if words failed.
Barin finished his report, the details painting a clear picture: a crude but manned encampment, with most of the bandits currently occupied outside the walls. Delores weighed their options. A direct assault might overwhelm the two gate guards quickly, but the noise would alert the others instantly. Stealth was preferable, but getting all three of them past the lumber crew and the gate guards without detection seemed unlikely.
"Alright," Delores decided, keeping her voice low but firm. "Diplomacy first. It's still the best chance to avoid unnecessary bloodshed." She looked at Barin, then Rael. "I'll approach the gate alone. Less threatening that way. You two stay back here, hidden but close enough to intervene if needed."
Barin frowned, shaking his head. "Alone, lass? Against two guards, maybe more inside? They'll gut ye before ye get two words out."
"They might," Delores conceded, "but they might also be curious. A lone gnome musician appearing at their gate? It's unexpected. They might hesitate just long enough for me to speak. If they attack immediately..." She trailed off, then looked pointedly at Rael. "Rael, that spell you mentioned? The... size enhancement?"
Rael blinked, his golden eyes widening slightly. "The theoretical amplification? Baroness, I haven't tested—"
"If those guards, or Grok himself, get froggy," Delores interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument, "and I give a signal I want you to try it. On Barin. Consider it... Plan B."
Barin stared at her, then at Rael, then back at her, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his scarred face. "Giant, angry Barin, eh? Heh. Alright, musician. I like yer style. But be careful."
Rael swallowed hard but nodded hesitantly. "I will… attempt it, Baroness. If the need arises."
"Good," Delores said, relieved they'd agreed, however reluctantly. "Barin, can you lead us closer without alerting the woodcutters?"
Barin nodded curtly. "Aye. Keep low and quiet."
He guided them expertly through the undergrowth, paralleling the river but staying deep within the cover of the trees and bushes. They moved silently, avoiding the area where the rhythmic thud of axes against wood indicated the lumber crew was still hard at work. Eventually, Barin signaled a halt behind a thick patch of ferns and tangled vines, offering a partially obscured view of the bandit camp's entrance just fifty yards ahead. The crude log palisade rose before them, and two rough-looking human bandits lounged near the flimsy-looking gate, armed with spears and mismatched leather armor. They looked bored, swatting occasionally at insects.
"Best spot we'll get," Barin whispered. "Plenty o' cover here for me and the cleric. Can see the gate clear."
Delores nodded, thankful for the dense undergrowth. She took a steadying breath, adjusting her hurdy-gurdy strap. "Alright. Wish me luck."
She gave her companions a final nod, then slowly, deliberately, stepped out from the cover of the foliage and began walking calmly towards the gate.
The guards straightened up almost immediately, surprise evident on their faces as they spotted the small figure approaching. One nudged the other, pointing. They watched her come, spears held loosely, their initial alertness visibly relaxing as they registered her size and lack of obvious weaponry beyond the bulky instrument on her back.
Good, Delores thought, forcing a pleasant, non-threatening smile. Underestimate me.
"Oi! Hold it right there!" one of the guards called out as she got closer, his voice rough. "What's a little thing like you doin' out here all alone?"
The other guard chuckled crudely. "Lost yer mum, have ye? Or maybe yer the camp entertainment?"
Delores stopped about fifteen feet from the gate, keeping her hands visible and away from her pouch. "Good day to you," she said, her voice clear and carrying easily, projecting the practiced resonance of a Guild performer. "My name is Delores Von Pixieheart. I'm seeking your leader, Grok. I wish to speak with him on an important matter." She kept her tone polite but firm, resisting the urge to react to their condescending remarks. Being called fragile always annoyed her.
The first guard snorted. "Speak with the boss? He ain't got time for stray gnomes sellin' flowers. Piss off back the way ye came before ye get hurt."
"I assure you, I'm not selling flowers," Delores replied evenly. "My business concerns this camp and the river. It's urgent."
The second guard stepped forward menacingly, resting the butt of his spear on the ground. "Urgent for us is findin' travelers with coin, not listenin' to squeaky little runts. Last warnin'. Leave. Now." He took another step closer, his expression turning ugly.
Delores felt her patience fraying. Diplomacy wasn't working; their assumptions about her size and perceived fragility were making them dismissive and aggressive. Fine. Time for a different approach. Keeping her eyes locked on the guards, she slowly slid one hand towards the pouch at her hip, her fingers closing around the smooth, familiar shape of her focusing stone. She didn't draw it out, just held it, letting its presence ground her as she gathered her innate magical energy. She focused her will, not on complex illusions or overt force, but on her voice, on the intent behind her words.
"That is quite enough," Delores said, and this time, her voice was different. It held an unnatural resonance, a subtle weight that seemed to press against the air. It wasn't loud, but it commanded attention in a way her polite requests hadn't. The guards visibly flinched, their aggressive postures faltering slightly.
She felt a strange warmth spread from the stone, flowing up her arm and into her throat, mingling with her sorcery. It wasn't persuasion; it felt more like... authority. A compulsion woven into sound.
"You will fetch Grok," Delores demanded, the words imbued with that unexpected, compelling magic. "Tell him Delores Von Pixieheart requires his presence immediately."
She watched, fascinated and slightly alarmed herself, as the change washed over the bandits. Their eyes glazed over for a split second, their jaws going slack. The aggression drained from their faces, replaced by a look of dull confusion and reluctant obedience. The first guard blinked slowly, then nudged his companion.
"Uh... right. Fetch the boss," he mumbled, sounding bewildered, as if the thought wasn't entirely his own.
The second guard nodded dumbly, turning without another word and shuffling through the flimsy gate into the camp behind the log walls. The first guard remained standing there, spear held loosely, staring at Delores with a perplexed frown, seemingly unsure why he was suddenly complying.
Delores let out a shaky breath as the magic receded, the feeling of command fading, leaving her slightly lightheaded. What in the Nine Hells was that?
Delores watched the remaining guard standing dumbly by the gate, his eyes unfocused, still grappling with the command he couldn't quite comprehend disobeying. She mentally shrugged off the strangeness of her own magic working so effectively and so differently than usual. It had worked, that was what mattered for now. She straightened her posture, composing herself, readying for the arrival of the bandit leader. A few tense moments passed. She could hear muffled shouting from within the camp, followed by heavy footsteps. The guard who had gone inside reappeared, quickly stepping aside and standing stiffly at attention, his eyes still holding that dazed, confused look. He, along with the other guard, flanked the entrance to a larger tent set slightly back from the gate that was made of thicker, darker hides and looking marginally less dilapidated than the others Barin had described.
The tent flap was roughly thrown aside, and a figure emerged, ducking slightly to clear the opening before straightening to his full, staggering height. Delores felt her breath catch. This, undoubtedly, was Grok. He was massive. Easily clearing seven feet tall, perhaps closer to eight, with shoulders as broad as a draft horse and arms thick with corded muscle. His skin was weathered and tanned like old leather, stretched over a heavy-boned frame. He wore surprisingly little armor, it was just one oversized, scarred shoulder plate made of hardened leather studded with iron rivets, strapped over his left shoulder. A thick, matted fur cloak, likely bearskin, covered his back and broad shoulders, clasped at the front with a crude bone toggle. Below the waist, he wore only sturdy leather boots, thick gloves, and what looked like a rough fur skirt or kilt, split at the sides to allow for movement. Strapped to his hip, practically dwarfing Delores herself, was a brutal-looking mace, its head a huge knob of iron bristling with thick, wicked studs.
Delores found herself having to physically take a step back and crane her neck just to look up at his face. His features were coarse, heavy-browed, with a flattened nose that had clearly been broken more than once and a thick, tangled brown beard stained with grime and perhaps old blood. He had to be some kind of half-giant, or at least possess giant blood. No normal human grew to such proportions. Grok strode forward with heavy, deliberate steps, stopping a few yards in front of Delores. He stared down at her, his small, deep-set eyes narrowed beneath his heavy brow. Then, he threw his head back and laughed a deep, booming, contemptuous sound that echoed off the log palisade.
"This?" he bellowed, gesturing down at Delores with a massive, gloved hand. "This is the urgent matter? This... worm... dares to demand my presence?" He laughed again, shaking his head. "What are you doing crawling around in my territory, little morsel? Did you lose your way to the fairy ring?"
Delores felt a familiar prickle of annoyance at being dismissed solely due to her size. She drew herself up to her full, albeit limited, height. "I am Delores Von Pixieheart," she stated clearly, forcing her voice to remain steady despite the intimidating presence looming over her. "And I am here to discuss your occupation of this riverbank."
Before she could continue, Grok cut her off, his laughter abruptly ceasing. His eyes narrowed further, a flicker of shrewdness entering them. "Pixieheart... Never heard of ya. But you talk fancy." He leaned forward slightly, the movement surprisingly quick for his size. "Let me guess. You're sent from Elarvain, aren't ya? Some puffed-up lord or baron dispatching a puffball like you to 'politely request' we move along before they send the real soldiers?" He smirked. "Am I close?"
His guess, though based on flawed assumptions about her origin, gave Delores an instant idea. A bluff. A risky one, but perhaps more effective than trying to reason with brute force. She met his gaze directly, allowing a touch of haughty confidence that was borrowed from countless Guild masters she'd observed to enter her voice.
"You are partially correct," she lied smoothly. "I am here on behalf of Elarvain's interests in this region. Baroness Von Pixieheart," she emphasized her newfound, if accidental, title, hoping it sounded imposing enough. "I have been sent by the regional authority to deliver a simple message."
Grok's smirk didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened. "Oh? And what message would that be, Baroness?"
"Depart these lands," Delores stated flatly, injecting as much authority into her tone as she could muster. "Your activities are disrupting the natural balance and infringing upon protected territory. If you and your... associates... do not vacate the Green River Valley within three days, Elarvain's First General, Lord Commander Vorlag himself, will be dispatched personally to remove you. Forcibly." She hoped the name sounded suitably intimidating; she'd plucked it from a heroic ballad she vaguely remembered.
Grok stopped smiling. The amusement vanished from his eyes, replaced by a cold, hard assessment. He stared down at her for a long moment, the silence stretching, broken only by the distant sounds of the river and the nervous shifting of the guards behind him. Then, he took a slow, deliberate step closer, leaning down until his coarse, intimidating face was mere inches from hers. The smell of stale sweat, woodsmoke, and something vaguely unpleasant washed over her. His hand slowly drifted towards the massive studded mace at his hip, fingers gripping the handle.
"And tell me, little Baroness," he growled, his voice low and menacing, dropping all pretense of amusement. "Why shouldn't I just crush your tiny skull right here and now, and save Lord Commander Vorlag the trip?"
Delores instinctively took a step back, her heart pounding against her ribs. The bluff had gotten his attention, but it had also cornered him, and cornered beasts were notoriously dangerous.