Part 8: New Company

Feeling battered and broken, Mal breathes a heavy sigh as she answers the stable hand.

"We will indeed, thank you. Please see that they are fed and brushed."

Mal flips the lad a gold coin as a tip and climbs down out of the saddle. She pulls her belongings off of the horse and helps to lift Bors down as well. While she labors a short, wide, armor-clad figure clanks it's way over to her from where it was standing near the entrance to the inn. Mal turns to see who approaches and is surprised to see a familiar face.

A dwarf who looks very much as scarred and craggy as the mountains he came from stands before Mal and nods slightly. His greeting is brief and his expression is grim.

"Mal. Been a while."

He moves to help the cleric with the handling of her comatose companion without changing his expression at all.

"Finished the work on Hillholm Chapel two weeks ago. Heard you were here and came to find you."

Mal accepts the dwarf's help with Bors gratefully and seems pleased to see him, if not a bit somber.

"Hello Thurig, you seem well enough. Good to hear about Hillholm, there is plenty to be done in Hommlet as well. I hope you brought your sword.

"Aye, always" replies Thurig and without another word between them the two begin the work of carrying Bors into the inn to find him a bed.

The wizard had been silent along the journey back. He could feel the disappointment from the Halfling he had considered a friend weighing on his shoulders, and burning into his back. Still, he rode upright and took the lead. As they departed the moathouse, he kept an eye out for any feature that could be considered "Two Trees." '...or was it three?'

---

A collective sigh of relief is released when the party finally halts outside the tavern. It had only been a few days that they had all known each other, but those days had been a whirlwind. All Eltrezar wanted was an ale and some chicken. Dry. Unseasoned. He craved some hard cheese, but it was undignified for a magister of his caliber to get gassy. He hands the reins to the stablehand before heading inside. 'All business to attend to will have to wait until tomorrow.' He orders an ale and plate of food for himself, and another two pints for his companions. He stiffens his back when he notices the whole room paying close attention to the wizard who had proven himself strangely adept at survival when so many others had not.

Life had not recently treated Luban well. Actually, life had never treated him well. Inside the Welcome Wench sat the half-orc ne'er-do-well, rubbing the luster off a single gold coin. Whatever face had once adorned the coin was long forgotten. He had been in some tight spots, but this coin had been far more loyal than any folks. Sitting in silence with an empty table before him, Luban weighs his options. This wouldn't be the first time he had collected empty pints and pretended to be passed out drunk just to have a place to sleep. It wouldn't be the last time.

But that was before He arrived. The door to the tavern opens, and an older, bearded fellow entered. Luban pays close attention as the man orders food and several rounds with a heavy purse; his clothing and stride marked him as someone more important than the locals slowly dying in this room. Thoughts flood through Luban's mind, plans that could work as well as plans that definitely wouldn't work. One key theme was that luck was involved in each, and luck was something he could not rely on.

Finally, Luban decides to ask for work, no matter how trivial or demeaning. He has a whole speech prepared, one with plenty of groveling. Humans loved seeing a half-blood grovel. He takes some dirt and rubs it into his face before rising from the table and approaching the man. And after saying a single word, he receives a hand of silence and a glare full of daggers. Without the same confidence he had upon his approach, Luban returns to his seat; his belly threatens to start a mutiny if its demands are not met soon.

Just behind the wizard, Mal and Thurig enter the inn carrying Bors by both ends. Mal nods to the innkeeper and sets Bors on the floor to reach for her purse.

"We'll need rooms, food, and ale if ya please. Anyone around here ya know is lookin' for work?"

Upon seeing the dwarf enter the tavern and order food and, to a secondary degree, ask for work, Luban nearly leaps out of his chair. He quickly scrubs the dirt from his face (likely ineffectively), and grabs an empty tankard from another table. He moves quickly to the pair of dwarves, slowing at the last moment to not appear desperate. "If yer lookin' for work, look no further! Mayhaps we talk terms and needs over an ale?" He holds the empty tankard before him, a slight wiggle in his eyebrows to suggest they purchase the drink.

It is yet another stroke of bad luck, perhaps, that Luban be one of the few in all of Hommlet to not know of the group's growing deadly reputation.

Mal looks the scraggly fellow up and down and holds up a hand,

"You're lookin' for work you got it, but we're gonna get this man a bed first. We can talk after."

Luban nods at the reasonable statement. Inviting himself to carry the particularly tired warrior would likely be too much, as they didn't yet know or trust him. A loud grumble from his belly interrupts his train of thought, and he meekly returns to his table.

Mal and Thurig carry Bors up stairs to his room and remove the fighters armor so that he can rest. A short time later the pair returns to the taproom to where their food is waiting. Mal, not being completely without empathy, orders an extra chicken and ale for the obviously starving man she intends to hire. Once the sound of the man's stomach is quieted enough to hear over she fixes him with an icey stare and begins to question.

"We aim to rid this land of a cult, the members of which are secreted away within the township as well as the ruined keep down the road. I won't lie, many have died in this glorious pursuit. We need people with courage and skill, how are you with a bow?"

Thurig keeps his eyes on Mal as she speaks, almost as though she were interviewing him as well. Though the two dwarves were kin the events that led to their exodus from the mines of their homeland had strained their relationship. Thurig had always admired his cousin and sought her approval now more than ever, but the broken dwarf could not look at her without seeing the past.

Mal lowers her head and speaks with a somber tone.

"Kobort and Turuko fought bravely, but they were taken by the living dead in the crypts below the keep. The evil men responsible for raising those dead men will pay dearly. We were able to send those blights back to hell, but the cost was high."

Mal is unconcerned with the opinion of the bar man, she says these things more to make sense of them herself.

"They died in service of Saint Cuthbert and the church, their souls will bask in the glory of heaven eternal."

Gilly finds her way to the ale that the wizard had bought. She accepts it, though she can’t bring herself to truly acknowledge the act either. She sinks deep when the cleric talks about service and glory and heaven.

She stays quiet. He cheeks feel flush and red. Big talk for what amounted to butchery in the dark. And not for the first time. Nor even the second, Gilly didn’t think. She couldn’t quiet remember. They hadn’t even gotten Bors out of his bloody tunic, before they had hired another poor sod to take his place.

She wondered if it was safe to sleep in the village tonight. Maybe tonight would be okay. Maybe even tomorrow. They might even thank her for bringing an old half Orc down into the ruins to be butchered. But how many more would they village be willing to see fed into the old place? If Elmo fell, would they stick a knife in the old wizard’s back in retaliation? Should they? Would they be justified in it? Had the ruins caused more death for the village, or had the merry band she had fallen in with? What would Sister Alice think of another plunge into the darkness?

She drinks the ale down, and then silently slides off the stool to go and tend to Bors in what small way she can.

"I've been known to shoot the bedbugs with arrows in many-an-inn. Hopefully not this one! But I would be more than happy to pledge my bow to your cause... for a share." Luban puffs out his chest in an attempt to sound convincing, but it's likely Mal can see through the bravado. This is just a man with some talents desperate for pay.

Mal is momentarily distracted by Gilly's sullen silence and watches her as she leaves the table and heads upstairs. She turns back to the stranger and nods as though she were following his statement all along.

"An equal share for all involved. I'm Maloria Stoneforge, this is my cousin Thurig Stonehearth, and the wizard there is Master Eltrezar. Gilly is the halfling who just left, what praytell is your name sir?"

The scraggly man doesn't seem to notice her distraction, likely not a good sign. "They call me Luban the... well, Luban. It is a pleasure to meet you, Maloria Stormforge. When do you plan on departing next?" His hand moves to a notably flat pocket, and he begins rubbing that single coin yet again.