Gameplay - The Dragon That Opposed an Empress

There is no prohibition of magic, nor would it be considered suspicious.

"Oh. Uh, whoops." Ruby hadn't meant to kill him. Then again he came at her with a sword, so she'll chock this one up to being a "neutral" point in her career. Choosing not to dwell on the ethics of the fight at this time she scurries back to her food.

If Ruby wants to have left him alive, that's fine with me. He would be beaten unconscious.

That is why you don't take a sword to a kobold fight.

He looks at the bartender.

Beer!

Mavis laughs like a callous drain at Garth’s remark.

The orcs respect might and daring. They are not necessarily cruel so much as callous. The one drops his quarrel with Garth and they drink mightily with you, buying you tankards of a lumpy beer, raw with nutrition. Indeed, after even one, you feel measly too full for proper food.

They are mercenaries, calling themselves the Demon's Glaive. They finished up a job recently, crushing a few lazy workers to motivate a crew for a foreman. Now they are drinking their pay waiting for another job that keeps them out of the hob army for a few more weeks.

Garth will try to be intimidating to pick up general rumours, but he has one direct question.

Any word on anyone hiring for a big job? We are running low on money.

Interested is Ashenfall, Mavis tries to get the orcs to tell her what they know about the citadel.
Eh up lad. Tha’s quaffin’ like a good ‘un. ‘as tha had owt to do wi’ Ashenfall yet? Good graft to be found there? Eee mind tha doesn’t spill owt!

"And whyssss are avoiding work with the hobgoblinssss?"

Ruby acquires another drink and sits down with their new pals, curious what they will say.

The orcs tell Garth that there is a hill giant in a mine lower on the mountain. His presence has shut down the mines operation. Killing the beast would bring good coin and add to their reputation.

---

Mavis finds out that the Ashenfall is an old citadel survived by effectively a tent city. Tens of thousands of hobgoblins bivouac there accompanied by legions of mercenaries, vassal races, including the might of the orcish horde.

The citadel proper is the base of the empress, her generals, and their prizes. Few enter, besides slaves, and many that enter are never seen again. It is speculated that the empress feasts on the life force of her captives.

Lastly, the press gangs are always looking for cannon fodder. The only defense is a reputation, as it isn't worth the effort trying to keep the mighty against their will.

Hehsh tongue flicks thoughtfully. Being a lizardman is oddly satisfying. Not as good as being a dragon, but still, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay better than being human. "Perhapssss, we shhhould be killing this hill giant and be takingssss it loot. It will give us reputation." And hopefuly treasure for his hoard. Hehsh is still part dragon.

"Ooo, that would be good! We've -well most of us-" Ruby gives a quick look at Mavis, and Hehsh. Was Hehsh there? Ruby can't quite remember, but maybe if she kept drinking it would improve her memory. "-have fought big monsters before. We're quite experienced."

Mavis looks to her colleagues, nodding and cracking her knuckles
A hill giant? Aye. She's up for that.

You get rooms at the inn and sleep fine that night.

The next night, the orcs find you at breakfast. They're not super awake during the day, but will accompany you to the mine with the giant problem.

You have a thoroughly disheartening breakfast, then make your way farther down the mountain.

The day is overcast, the sun peering through thin ash colored clouds. After two hours, you find yourself at a small mining community. Asking around for Foreman Grekk, you get to a warehouse with a table inside. A gnollish looking feller is minding the books, chewing on a splintered bone. A femur, perhaps.

He looks up and snarls, "I paid my taxes, worm scum, get bent!"

Shut your gob. If I was here to take money from you, you would already be dead. What can you tell me about the giant, other than that you haven't killed it.

The gnoll gets up, lumbers around the table. He looks you up and down dubiously. Drool runs from his snout. "You're no Vermilion Reaver. You a merc?"