The Events of the 24th of Granite, 1076
Deerowl held her pose as regal as she could, despite the deplorable filth. A film of rock dust, and... and what looked like ashes lined the cramped corridors. The rank smell of stale sweat and nearly-evaporated booze radiated from the waves of bodies that bustled past her. Her pert nose crinkled, and she thought briefly of wrenching the perfumed kerchief from the inside of her bodice, to press it up under her nose and run from this cesspit.
But she could see the shabbily-dressed outline of Aryn stalking down the hall, and despite herself, she smiled.
When he arrived, his clothes clean and mended, his patchy beard combed straight, he broke into a smile in turn. He reached out and clasped both her hands in his warmly, and smiled up at the Elven Emissary.
"I'm so glad you've arrived, my dear, because your merchants are still...
"Master Estetar, it's my pleasure, and I need to speak with you concerning our merchants..."
And after a pause, and a wide-eyed stare at one another, they laughed. Deerowl forgot all about the horrible little hovel in which they live, and Aryn, who for months has been suffering withdrawals and mood swings, laughed until tears were digging trenches in the rock dust caked on his cheeks.
***
"Whaddya' make of it all?" Maggarg asked, his voice surly and insolent. Merkil didn't bother to worry; it's only when the gruffness was dropped and you could hear the terror behind Maggarg's words, that anyone really needed to bother. The quartet sat at their designated spots on the ramparts, watching the courtyard for any suspicious activities. Across from them, peaking up from the ruins of the Sky Cells, was the horned helmet and wild eyes of Wilber. Adol gave a little shudder, seeing their insane hanger-on.
"There's no way to shake him, is there?" Adol asked, to no one in particular. Likot barked a laugh, though she never looked up from her custom bolt-slinger, polishing the wood with her one good black-gloved hand.
Merkil shook his head. He chewed relentlessly on the end of one fat-rolled smoke stick, occasionally brushing his quickly-silvering hair back into place as the wind rustled it up.
"Those elves have been milling about in the trading depot for months now... they're nearly out of roots and strings and... what do they eat?"
"Bugs, sir. And babies when they can catch them. And their own filth. They brew it into tea," Maggarg helpfully added.
"Just shut up; they've been here for almost two full seasons, what's their game?"
"They're scared to leave," Adol quickly added, before Maggarg could open his mouth again. "because half of them were killed by the camels in the wastes. And then a few more were killed when the camels got inside. I don't think they CAN leave, sir. They're in battle-shock."
The silence that fell on them was heavy, almost palpable. Merkil stroked his beard in thought, watching the way the elves moved; listless, their bodies seeming to be hollow shells roaming from sitting spot to standing spot. The poor squeaky bastards...
"Ya' know, the longer those reedy thieves stay in the depot, the longer it'll be before any other merchants will wanna' come and risk a trade."
"What are you suggesting, Maggarg?"
"Nothing! I'm just tellin' ya' a stone-cold fact. If they don't bolt out, or that skinny steel-eyed bitch wot' came in doesn't run 'em out, we'll be effectively cut off from any outside supplies..."
Merkil growled, the sound coming from deep in his throat. This isn't how it was supposed to work. They were professionals - no women, no children, and the elves were, if anything, all women. But still... "Just... keep your eye on Aryn and his lady-friend. They HAVE to leave. If the remains of the Mountainhomes don't show up with more booze... if we're running low on meat... oh, it'll be horrendous...."