Greg reached out to grab the sword and caught it, giving it a spin with his injured arm.
"You know, technically, you should let me heal up befo-" he started as she jammed the end of the sword in his leg.
"And you should pay attention and fight, instead of trying to stall." she grinned.
"Stalling is one of my best moves." he said swinging just over her head as she ducked. "Damn you are fast." he sighed.
The Ash battlefield clashed with armor and sword and axes glancing off one another. Sprays of fresh blood misted red into the foggy air as blade met meat in every direction. Elora rushed into the fight, clicking the final piece of armor into place. Her armor suddenly faded in color and everything covered in the strange metal became invisible, as well as the armor itself, leaving just the confusing strips and bits of cloth and flesh that were not completely covered. It would have been perfectly hidden if it had been designed for someone of her thickness.
Moose swung his axe and knocked over a few men in black armor. Elora hunkered down, sliding her sword in the dirt as low as possible to surprise one of the black knights with a suddenly elevating sword, connected to seemingly nothing and finding the gap in his breastplate. The sluggish and unwieldy sword danced between the fighting men, delivering heavy blows to their knees and abdomen as it glided between confused men of both sides. A rather impressively adorned man in silver and black armor, wearing the crest of the dragon, lowered his visor, and drew a claymore from his horse as he dismounted. He smiled, safely lingering behind his men. William spotted the godlike armor and rode through the crowd, mowing down anything in his path to get to him. Lord Theyren spotted the gilded knight approaching and recognized the metal that was trailing behind him, impressed at the craftsmanship. He made a pass at Theyren and was dodged with little effort. William jumped from the horse and shouldered the blade.
"Impressive toy you have, did you make it yourself?" he asked, drawing his own blade in the air.
"It was a gift." William grinned with confidence.
"I see, and then what do I have to fear from you?" Theyren asked, swinging his claymore and meeting the strange metal on guard. The rush of air moved them both as the dragon swooped in and made a fire-breathing pass just behind them, lighting the landscape behind the two duelists and creating a wall of screams as the men of ash reduced to the very ash they proudly called.
"Dragon!" warned the religious knight, taking cover as it dove low and landed, grabbing a horseman and throwing him into the air. It bit the soldier nearly in half as it took flight again.
"Forget the dragon, kill the dragon's master and you tame the beast!" hollered another armed soldier. Elora heard the idea and realized she could get in close without detection. She made a dash for the gaps and headed at the dueling king's location.
Greg made a power-strike, missing his mark and severing a small tree where Athena was when he aimed. She slid in the grass and raked her blade across his ribs. Greg ignored the scratch and reared back for another power-strike. She took the bait and ducked, running right into his iron boot, sending her into the foliage. She was fast, faster than Greg was, but she seemed to be lacking a touch in sheer power, so he needed to get his aim under control. He could take more abuse, and all he needed was one good strike to end the fight, which made him a bit hesitant to do so. He was having a good bit of fun.
She leapt from the woods and her sword clanked off his, giving him a chance to trip her and failing. She went in for a neck-shot and he decided to play dirty. He reached out and lined his palm up, grabbing the blade and clamping it between the bones of his hands where she couldn't cut through.
"Oopse." he chuckled, taking a heavy downward swing to her left arm. She let out a howl, recoiling her arm, now missing a hand.
"Now we are more even." he said shaking off the blood from his palm casually. His smile faded as her severed stub glowed slightly and a series of what resembled tree roots began to extend out of the wrist. They quickly formed a fist-shaped knot and hardened with a crunch. She opened her hand and broke the bark covering the regenerated limb, shaking it off and switching the sword to her fresh new hand.
"Oh come on!" he protested, looking at his chest wound that had barely begun to knit.
"Looks like that training and experience has left you at a bit uncomfortable." she chuckled.
The dragon cut across the Ash defensive formation, roasting them like livestock and picking off the ones the beast deemed medium-rare. William felt the gravity of his men being slaughtered, pulling part of his attention. He took a slight glance across the side, barely feeling the graze and elbowing Theyren in return. The blade was unwieldy, slow and heavy. It took far too much time to build a swing and even more to slow it down for a return strike. He could feel his energy being sapped with every impact as Theyren seemed to be merely toying with him.
"What is wrong little man? Does combat tire you so quickly?" he chuckled as William considered ditching the hulking weapon in favor of his old sword. He knew it was unlikely to hit its mark with such bulk, but would his own sword even harm the devil before him, even if it struck cleanly?" His hesitation earned him another jab to the side. Elora's floating sword made a swift diversion to avoid the wall of fire that was slicing the battlefield in pieces, making a straight shot nearly impossible for more than a few meters. Her frustration grew as she realized it was boxing them in and creating a 4 sided death-trap. The rear section now cut off from the majority, retreated back towards the hilltop. She darted towards the nearest flame-wall and let out a fierce little cry as she threw her shoulder into one of the wounded black-knights, flattening him just enough to bridge the gap and let her dive through. She rolled to a sloppy landing, patting out her smoldering edges and grabbing her sword off the ground. She flattened, trying to remain unseen by the dragon, which didn't appear to have any difficulty finding her. Something about her or the sword was giving her away. Moose frantically looked for his little friend, retreating with the rest and stopping every few steps to find Elora. She rolled, dropping her sword and narrowly avoiding a clawed wing that slashed 4 grooves into the dirt beside her. She rolled the other way, re-gaining her sword and landing a savage blow to the beast's hand, doing absolutely nothing as the sharp steel clanked off as if covered in armor.
"Screw this." she said darting for the front line and hoping to find the Dragon's master wounded or obliviously distracted. She was in luck. William deflected another swift blow, huffing and staggering from the workout of wielding the nearly 7 foot long beast of a blade. He gave one last mighty swing, pinning the puny Theyren's sword to the ground and rolling him back.
"I have Destiny on my side, arrogant god-king, I cannot lose." he boasted, welling up with pure determination as he drug the monstrosity behind him. He stood over the unarmed king, as he scurried to get up, trapping him on his knees as if to poetically execute him like a prisoner of dishonor.
"You cannot keep up this strength." Theyren smirked.
"My faith keeps me." he wheezed, suddenly feeling the sharpness of a discarded arrow being thrusted between his armor and into his left lung. Theyren twisted it and broke off the shaft as he stood up, feeling victorious.
"No, my sad prince of Ash...your faith lies to you." he said drawing William's sword from his side and without the strength to lift the oversized blade of destiny, Theyren gave a casual swipe to free his head from his shoulders. Elora slid to a stop, shocked by the sight of her newly found hero falling to his back, as his head rolled the other direction. Theyren admired the fine sword, deciding it would make a nice collector. Elora let out a shriek of rage and disbelief, swinging the sword and throwing it. The Elvin sword sailed end over end and stopped as the tip lodged into Theyren' back, sending him staggering forward and letting out a grunt of disbelief. He turned and tried to spot his attacker, seeing nothing of notable significance. The dragon slammed to the ground between them as Elora retreated, looking for a weapon nearby and finding nothing. The dragon seemed more interested in protecting his master than snacking on her flesh, so she ran back into the mayhem, hoping to find a suitable weapon. Theyren coughed, spitting copious amounts of blood and sitting down on a nearby rock, as if to rest. The dragon let out a sustained roar and swung its head, laying down a protective arc of flaming death to cover its master's recovery. Elora stumbled and fell, realizing she had no energy left to run. The battle field was now a graveyard and she disconnected one of the straps, becoming fully visible again, and hoping for a quick death. She laid there for a moment as the dragon took flight, pausing just long enough to let out a victorious roar and fling a few maimed bodies as it headed back to its castle.
The army of South Elm began marching back where they came from, possibly to meet reinforcements. Elora closed her eyes and was just glad to be alive, waiting in the cold silence as some of the Ash soldiers and medics skimmed the bloodbath for survivors of either army to respectively retrieve or finish. The battle was over, and lost. The sword gone, The god still breathing, William's headless corpse in the dirt and most of the men in the same condition or wounded. The prophesy was over.
Greg huffed and tried to focus his vision as Athena circled him, looking significantly less exhausted, but tired nonetheless.
"More than respectable for an untrained deity, but far from godly." she complimented.
"Yea, well...your hair looks like crap." he coughed, slowly pulling her sword from his chest, feeling the blade rake through muscle and scrape across bone as he completed the bodily unsheathing. He tossed the blade her direction, letting her re-arm herself but in a manner that was a tad bit sarcastic. She had regenerated her arm twice and healed a rather deep slash in her back, and Greg was just standing there slowly leaking, his original chest crater still only slightly healed. He looked a bit defeated.
"So Greggory, the mighty Hammer of Fate...how do you feel your odds are about slaying your way to the top, if you cant even defeat one goddess?" she taunted.
"Honestly, right now I just want a single malt whiskey and a bed. I'm done." he said flinging his sword away in frustration.
"So much potential, no will to use it. You are a tragic and stubborn creature." she said walking up to finish him off. He sat on the ground, almost relaxed, accepting his fate.
"Any last words or a change of heart?" she asked.
"A respectfully clean death would be good, leaving an opponent bleeding and wounded is not only insulting, but you make enemies that way and apparently we are good at recovering." he snickered. She respected his honesty and flipped her sword around to the sharper side, the one with less damage, placing the edge on the back of his neck to steady her execution aim.
"I have enjoyed this, it's almost sad to end it." she smiled.
"Blow me." he shrugged.
The Battlefield of Ash was now fitting its name as the rising sun illuminated the smoke in a yellow haze of defeat.
"Moose came barreling in haphazardly and scooped up Elora like a child. She punched him in the neck and he let her down.
"Don't grab me up like I cant stand on my own feet, I'm not a corpse or a puppy." she scolded playfully, wobbling a little and stretching her back.
"I'm just glad you're alive. I lost you early in the fight and assumed the worst.
"The worst is what happened before I fell. William is dead, Theyren cut him down like a dog. I lost my temper, and my sword." she whispered.
"We can find it." Moose encouraged.
"Its currently either still in Theyren' spine or in his possession, either way it's gone and I don't see that being fatal to a god. A god doesn't die from that kind of wound. Apparently the only way to kill a god is to take off the head where the neck meets the skull, that's why they wear such heavy scales behind their helmets. Anything shy of that and they just grow back...according to legend. Obviously William wasn't anything more than a man with a dream. The Prophesy is dead. William is gone, the sword is gone, we couldn't even kill one dragon, let alone his master, even with the chosen one and his mythical gear. We are all damned, it's just a matter of how long and if we go down swinging." she said limping and shaking her head.
"It will be quick." Athena promised, aiming for his neck.
Greg smiled with a look of complete peace as she reared back for her kill. The blade swiped in, and Greg grabbed it before it landed, standing up and refusing to let go.
"I didn't know how to kill a god, you know." he said as she struggled to free the weapon. "Good thing you just showed me how it's done." he grinned, yanking her in close and sinking his teeth into her neck. Her eyes glowed brightly and His eyes went white as he pulled every drop of energy he could from her, twisting the sword from her weakened grip and flipping it in the air. He stepped back, catching the sword and bringing it down through her neck. She fell to the ground, her head landing beside it.
"Best fight of my life." he said as his wounds began to regenerate slowly. His teeth dripped with blue blood. He ran out of juice before it was completely finished and shrugged as if to say "better than nothing" as he collected the swords and his pipe. He stuck his tongue into the bowl to ignite the tobacco, taking a deep drag and placing her tinted glasses on his nose as he rested. He looked back at her body, pondering to himself a bit as to why he was healing so quickly. For a moment, she looked more like food than foe. His mind drifted. He crouched down a bit and contemplated the morality of his temptation, extending his canines for another bite to heal his wounds.
He shuffled off to the opening of the mine, no longer hungry and feeling a bit more powerful. The necessity made cannibalism seem a bit less horrid. He left the carcass and headed inside the mine.
Her severed head sat silently, her dim eyes slowly tracking him as they started to brighten. The spinal ridges on the back of her neck began glowing orange. A few small roots extended from the wound and dug into the ground. She closed her eyes and rested.
Greg casually stepped off the stone fence and fell into the funnel, skipping the stairs entirely and reaching the bottom faster then most ever would. The dull shutter of his landing was accented by the muttered profanity that followed. He strolled into the main entrance of Ferria, whistling and limping slightly as he adjusted his new swords.
"Greggory!" hollered Muradin. "Where have you been? You missed the festivities."
"Oh don't worry; I had plenty of fun my own way." he smirked. Adding his new toys to the pile of his belongings.
"You look terrible, what is this stuff?" he said poking the icy blue gel that was Greg's blood still on everything.
"Don't worry about it?" he yawned.
"Are you bleeding?" Muradin asked.
"Little bit...fetch me a drink and make it potent." he smiled. Muradin squinted and noticed the look on his face.
"You are battered and bloody, yet smiling with satisfaction. You met a woman, didn't you?" he grinned through his bushy, blonde, braided beard.
"Oh I did, and she was feisty. I'm shocked you haven't had someone pick that braid out yet." he noted, giving him a look of subtle jab.
"Actually, I kind of like it." he admitted, almost blushing.
"Looks like we both have that similar problem. Funny the thing you are looking for always find you when you least expect it." he said glancing over at Miranda, who was teetering in her seat as she toasted another frothy mug to whatever they were cheering about. Greg raised an eyebrow to hint to him about the opportunity.
"That damn tree keeps giving me a look." muttered Muradin. Greg glanced at Bacon, who was looking in Miranda's direction; standing perfectly still like only a tree does best.
"Oh good grief. You are not holding back on account of that thing." Greg scoffed.
"It is not fear that deters me, only the respect I have for what was there before me." he bluffed.
"He's a tree. He is a walking tree with people-armor. He follows her around like a puppy, I doubt he even has the intelligence of a puppy. There is nothing there but a brainless, pet bodyguard. The only reason you are concerned is because he is 2 meters tall and probably weights as much as I do. You are intimidated as hell and that is why you are going to end up bitter and married to an old ugly half-troll instead of a 19 year old elf bride. You have to speak your mind if she can't already read it with her glasses. I'll distract the tree and you go have your fun for the evening."
"You think that is wise?" he asked. "I'm a bit old for her."
"She's an adult, you're an adult. Beyond that numbers are just a suggestion."
"Maybe. I cannot deny that logic." Muradin shrugged.
"Worst that can happen is she turns you down. If she does, look confused, huff confidently and explain that there was a misunderstanding and you mean it as a friend. She's distracted so she will believe that nonsense and then you don't look vulnerable. Confidence and a plan-b story." Greg smirked.
"Add how did you woo your lady?" he asked.
"Animal magnetism, not a good suggestion." Greg groaned, slightly hunching.
"Shouldn't I let her sober up?" he asked.
"She hasn't sipped that mug as long as I have been standing here. She is just trying to fit in with the crowd...maybe hoping to get your attention." he said raising an eyebrow. Muradin gathered his wits and pounded down his ale before giving it a try. Greg strolled over to Bacon and stood beside him. There was an awkward silence and neither moved for a good 30 seconds.
"So... fun crowd?" he asked. No response. "Not a talker are you, I get it. Women like the mysterious type, especially the Dwarf women. Not my type really but they love a man in armor. You might check out the Rusty Door Pub, right down the path." he said trying to get a response. Nothing. "Do you have the slightest clue what I am talking about, do you even understand words?" he asked, now slightly curious. No response. "If you understand me at all, nod your head." he said. Bacon stood motionless for a good ten seconds before slightly turning his head towards Greg by such a small degree that it was difficult to tell if he actually moved. "Be right back, guard this dirt patch for me...they are stealing every scoop that isn't claimed tonight." he said patting him on the head and limping off. Bacon watched the crowd. A few minutes later He returned with a rather large cave cricket. Bacon turned slightly.
"Look! Crawly thing." he said as if enticing a child or small dog. Bacon turned and slowly reached out as Greg handed him the cricket.
"Keep him safe, water him twice a day and make sure he doesn't get too rowdy." he smiled, leaving the distracted tree now diverted from the crowd.
The next morning was met with sadness. What was left of the Army of ash limped to the mouth of Ferria as Dwarves waited for the news of victory. Barely a few dozen out of hundreds remained, none of them looking very optimistic. Greg opened his eyes to the light of torches and movement, as the refugees funneled into the mines for protection.
"Greggory, The Army of as has returned." said Muradin, with a very solemn look and a respectful nod to the solders shuffling past the corner table where Greg was recently passed out.
"Oh good, I will speak with William and find out what he knows of the-"
"William is dead. Your sword is gone." reported Muradin. "The Prophesy is broken. There is little hope left." he added.
"Defeated by prophesy...Dwarves are never ones to back down from a fight." Greg said stumbling to his feet and holding his head.
"This is not the message party, this is what is left of the Army of Ash." said the man assuming the lead position, however many ranks he was promoted through executions. He looked rather defeated as well.
"So your Prophesy has a change in plans and you just give up?" asked Miranda.
"The Prophesy was a lie." argued the lead survivor.
"The prophesy was a belief. You are only defeated when you are dead or have given up. Which do you prefer?" she asked, trying to rally motivations.
"They have dragons, weapons that we cannot defend, armor we cannot pierce!" argued the leader.
"Okay, everyone shut up and listen." Greg said, climbing a table and drunkenly sliding a foot off before ascending. "So the Prophesy was crap, I did kind of tell you all that numerous times but nobody listened to me. They have their own prophesy, one where they grind you into submission and make you their slaves." he started.
"You're not helping." muttered Muradin.
"It's a speech; it doesn't have to start positive. I'm getting to a point here." he defended. "Anyway, they ruined your prophesy...go ruin theirs. They killed your William, elect a new one. If the prophesy is garbage than you lost one battle, not everything. You didn't lose your savior because there never was one, he was just a man with a dream, and that dream can be brought back to life. You lost a weapon, a meaningless piece of metal that, I admit was some of my best work and I plan to get that back. That sucks, and I'm a little irritated by it, but it was a gift and he is dead so it's mine now and I'm gonna claim it. Therefore, what did you really lose today besides motivation? You lost a prince, you lost a battle and nations have risen from those losses before. This city is a fortress and your women and children will be safe behind her gates and her buried location. Who will take this fight to the enemy and do what they would never expect? Who will take back that victory?" he barked into the silence.
Greg sat on his horse, lethargically moving towards the Castle of Ash.
"It was a noble gesture." said Muradin.
"Twelve...twelve people were willing to fight. Everyone else wanted to hide underground. Twelve people." he sighed.
"We are not all fighters, some of us are just not intended to be warriors. Children and softer individuals know they cannot do anything in combat but die and leave their loved ones in mourning." he assured.
"And some are just too chicken-shit to risk it for the bigger picture. Selfish preservation and wasting of manpower." Greg scoffed.
"Yes, that is also reason, but who can say the reason, but the one staying behind. You cannot expect the meek to die simply to prove themselves, and those too selfish to try despite their ability would certainly not admit their motivations. Better a coward live than a young mother die for the same cause." he sighed.
"I'm not angry that some stayed behind and hid, I am angry that out of thousands of dwarves, so many able men, most refused to stand up. I cannot believe that there were only 12 able fighters out of thousands, so clearly there are more cowards than otherwise." he said circling around and waiting for the volunteers to catch up.
"When you ask mortals to fight dragons and gods...even the brave tend to become cowards." Muradin shrugged, watching the recruits as they approached. They formed a sort of line, as if each ready to prove their courage to the Hammer of Fate. The first gave his typical story, strongest child of 3, trained to fight, top of his class and fearless as a hungry wolf. Generic soldier 1 muttered a name Greg forgot immediately, while thinking about what sort of food would be good to take on a long trip without perishing. As the third horse rode to his line of sight, he felt a tiny bit of encouragement. A young and rather exhausted Dwarf woman in ill fitting armor stopped proudly.
"Elora Emberheart." she said dryly.
"Experience?" he asked.
"Fresh from the battle of ElmValley, hunter and scavenger my whole life." she said. Greg's group arrived behind him to check the new recruits. he smirked.
"Professional thief or retired?" he asked. She looked shocked and a little insulted, also a bit hesitant to defend it.
"That's presumptuous." she huffed.
"And accurate. Ill fitting gear, paranoid attention span. You have a few expensive items that don't match, but you also seem to have some rather cheap things as well. A rich girl who could afford that armor would have it fit better; a poor girl who holds onto extra buttons couldn't afford those nice boots. So either you did a fortunate and efficient job of looting your dead friends after the battle, somewhere between fighting for your life and retreating...or you hoard things. So either you are an established thief, or you used to be one and still have the habits. The other option would be that you are a very lucky scavenger who has no place in combat and you risked your life for a good looting. So are you a thief, a retired thief, or someone I don't want following me into battle?" he asked.
"Fair enough. Retired thief, practicing opportunistic scavenger. I don't loot the dead in a battlefield, but there are a lot of rich people with items they don't use, and would better suit someone who would. I wasn't lucky enough to be born surrounded by gold, and one has to survive. So yes, I found the armor and took it, I stole the boots and my peasant supplies were traded for things I either found or borrowed with no intention of returning. If you don't want a thief on your team I understand but I'm riding with you until we get to Elm, and I'll do what I have to do on my own...either way you are stuck with me for a few days." she said crossing her arms.
"Good. We need a thief, someone who knows how to get into doors without breaking them down. I can get into anything with enough brute force, but my skills end with doing it quietly. I don't exactly blend in. This mission requires a little of both." he nodded.
"Then I guess you have my services." she smirked as she fell into place with the others. Her friend followed in line, the wealthy fat man still covered in battle blood.
"I am Moose." he started, pausing for the next thought. Greg blinked.
"I'm Panda. This is my assistant Badger and these are my friends Trout and Squirrel." he said with a completely serious face, trying to let the joke soak in.
"He is with me." said Elora.
"Good choice in friends, and you survived one battle unscathed. Good enough." he motioned. A human woman approached next.
"My name-" she started.
"Nope." he said waving her back.
"You didn't even hear me out."
"I don't lead children into battle." he said firmly "Next."
"I'm not a child, I may be small but I'm a grown-"
"Pregnant." he yawned. She paused for a moment.
"I don't understand." she said looking alarmed.
"Yea, you do. You haven't been feeling well lately but you have convinced yourself it's not what it is. You are either unmarried or recently widowed, and you are pregnant. Go home." he shooed
"You can't possibly know that by looking at me." she said angrily and stifling her urge to cry. He explained in his usual delicate manner.
"You're fatter than your frame suggests, and I have a very good nose. You smell of Dwarven Root Brew, a lot of it. Dwarven Root Brew tastes terrible and isn't cheap. Only reason to drunk enough to smell like it...morning sickness." he said coldly.
Another 2 typical men with typical stories took their turns, followed by another who just wanted to be respected, who had no business fighting. He sent him back as well. He marked his list down and rolled his eyes again as yet another woman approached him. He readied his excuses and she stopped in front of him, posing with a stance of respect and obviously no military training.
"Any combat experience?" he asked.
"A great deal." she nodded.
"What battles?" he asked, finally looking at her directly.
"None of any names, but all that still mattered." she said confidently.
"That figures." he sighed, looking her up and down. She was sturdy built and the tallest volunteer, almost reaching his own size class. Her dark olive green skin and tribal markings stood out pretty clear, along with her lack of armor or shield...or horse. Her hair was unkempt and her attire was, at best, working class. Her short tusks and axe were not as Trollish as expected, but still Trollish.
"Mixed blood?" he asked.
"Are you asking me or informing me?" she asked.
"Bit of both." he admitted. "You are a worker, not a soldier. That Axe is rather well-made, perfect for timber but not designed for flesh. Carpenter's daughter, or carpenters wife?" he asked.
"Carpenter, among other things. Daughter of a stonesmith, no one's wife, mother to none, strong and able."
"Honest answer...have you ever been in actual combat in your life?" he asked.
"Maybe not what you would call combat, but I am no stranger to pain or aggression. I was born of mixed blood in the North Tribe, so I know my share of conflicts and harsh treatment. I was exiled for my mother's bloodline, and instead of crying over it, I moved on. I have fought men in bars, I have fought off animals in my territory and I wear the marks proudly. If you do not consider that combat, maybe you need to try it." she said firmly, making the others take a step back.
"Can you see anything with that eye?" he asked bluntly, referring to her faded eye and the scar around it from some kind of blade.
"I only need one, and it works good enough for anything. You aren't known for manners are you?" she asked.
"Not when killing gods is on the horizon, no. Those tattoos are marks of passage, not very typical of a woman to have, so clearly you have something to prove and you want people to know it. A sign of overcompensation, not necessarily meaning you can't back it up but, enough to question goals." he said.
"You summarize others quickly because you are used to uneducated men, and women who fear you too much to argue. You have as much experience with books, as as a sword, but you don't wear that proudly. No loyalty marks. You prefer to be seen as a dumb brute, despite being well learned. Perhaps you prefer fear to respect because it takes time to earn respect and fear is easier. You don't let anyone close enough to learn that because you think friendship is a weakness and the only pain you cannot conquer with sheer force is in your heart and your mind." she said abruptly. "So you drink away your demons instead of facing them. That's why you smell of fortified ale. Tell me I am wrong." she said firmly.
"Interesting. A Troll half-blood with an education and an attitude. You seem to have a lot to prove. You don't want to be seen as weak either, and you figure if you can prove you are strong and smart as well, that people will ignore your skin and tusks and treat you like a person. Does it work?" he asked, as the others backed away from the grammar-dueling titans.
"Not usually. It's hard to wear enough markings or carry enough books to cover this much green. A troll is automatically feared, and an educated one only seems more intimidating to outsiders, yet no amount of markings is enough to make another clan respect you if you are woman, let alone a half-blood." she admitted.
"Not bad. Not perfect, but far more accurate than most. I'd correct the flaws but for an introductory summary, that was pretty good. You proved you can think, any way you wanna prove you can fight?" he asked, readying his sheath. She smiled, grabbing the sheath in her left hand and planting the right hand across his face, knocking him over. The crowd gasped in unison, muttering and pretending not to watch.
"Are we done dancing now, or do you want another demonstration?" she asked bluntly.
"Do you have a horse?" he asked.
"No." she said.
"Take mine. It's a long ride, you'll need to pace your energy." he assured, shuffling to the front. Muradin stared in confusion as Greg began the first part of the journey on foot.
"She struck you...and you gave her your horse." he said aloud to make sure it sounded right.
"She's a keeper. I want her well rested when we reach Ash in case there is trouble."
"Ash? I thought we were riding to South Elm?" Muradin said, now more confused than ever.
"If they have dragons, they won't be heading to Ferria where the tight caves prevent an assault, or retreating back to Elm. The army of ash is decimated and leaderless. They will be heading to Ash, and tall walls mean nothing to something that flies. It's likely when we arrive, they will already have taken the city." Greg explained.
"What do we do?" asked Muradin.
"We take it back." he shrugged.
"You are a madman, and I will follow you to the gates of hell." Muradin smiled.
"We already did that, didn't we?" he asked coyly. "And maybe it's the adrenaline or the skull impact, but is the troll chick really hot?" he asked discreetly. Muradin blinked awkwardly.
"I am far too wise to answer that question, for fear of either answer's repercussions." he nodded.
"Well played." he nodded.