James Wyatt - Storm dragon

Farmhouses appeared more often, and at last the party came within sight of the town’s wooden palisade. Haldren called a halt. “We need to be careful how we approach,” he said. “I’m certain I can get us all inside, if we’re careful and play it right. People of Darguun are not generally fond of elves-and I have no idea how they’ll react to Cart. So Darraun and I will draw near the gate first. And I will do the talking,” he added, with a commanding glare in Darraun’s direction.

Darraun nodded, and the two of them closed the remaining distance to the town. Cart took a few long paces after Haldren, then dropped to one knee to wait and watch. Gaven found himself more or less alone with Senya. She gazed after Haldren too, and Gaven shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s funny,” she said, without turning toward him. “Haldren was in Dreadhold for three years, and he’s basically had only one thing on his mind since he got out. You were there, what? Twenty-six?” She turned to face him now. “And you’re afraid to look at me. I’m starting to wonder if you found a way to become deathless while you were locked up.”

Gaven felt his face flush, and he turned away from her.

“Or is it your destiny that keeps you focused on higher things?” she said. He heard her step closer behind him, and he swallowed hard. “The Storm Dragon must have more important concerns-the realm of the spirit, not the flesh.” Another step, and he could feel her presence close to him, electrifying, like a storm brewing overhead.

Gaven found it strangely hard to speak. “I’m not the Storm Dragon, Senya,” he said. “I’m just a book in which the Prophecy is written.”

He heard the creak of her leather coat behind him and felt her light touch on his shoulder, tracing his dragonmark where it disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. “And written on,” she said. Her finger tugged on his collar as she traced the dragonmark downward. “But who wrote it, I wonder?”

Gaven closed his eyes, and Rienne was there with him, touching him, letting him lose himself in her skin. He felt Senya’s hands on his chest, and she pressed herself against his back. He pulled away, whirling to face her again.

“You don’t want me,” he said, shaking his head violently and looking down at the ground. “You want the power you think I represent. You’re wrong about me, Senya.”

She stepped close again and breathed into his ear. “So what if I am? What do you want, Gaven?” She put a hand on his chest and started to slide it downward.

He took her shoulders in his hands and gently pushed her away, looking straight into her bright blue eyes. “I don’t want you,” he said.

He couldn’t quite read the expression that twisted her face. It was clear that she wasn’t used to being refused, and her hurt pride made her angry and defensive. But her eyes held something else, something that her anger couldn’t quench.

“Senya!” Cart’s voice surprised them both, and Gaven saw Senya’s pale skin flush red. “Gaven!” the warforged called. “Haldren is signaling! Time to move!”

Gaven wondered how much Cart had seen or heard, and what he’d tell the Lord General. His mind filled with a string of curses directed at Senya and himself, even as his feet carried him quickly to the gate of Grellreach.

Darraun took in the scene while he waited with Haldren for Gaven and the others to catch up. His travels had taken him over most of Khorvaire, to Xen’drik a couple of times, and now to Aerenal, but Darguun was a new experience. It wasn’t uncommon to see the three races of goblinkind-the burly bugbears, proud hobgoblins, and sniveling goblins-in the rougher parts of many cities, and they were more common the closer you came to the fringes of civilization. Here, though, they were everywhere, from the guards at the gate to the merchants hawking their wares in ramshackle stalls that lined the main street.

Four hobgoblins stood proudly at the gate, wearing piecemeal armor-mismatched plates and bits of chain over a basic suit of leather-that was at least clean and well maintained. They leaned on polearms that were as motley as their armor, watching impassively as Haldren led the group through the gate. The guards were all almost a head taller than Darraun and looked considerably stronger, so he was glad that Haldren had so easily talked his way past them. Just past the gate stood a bugbear who looked like he was normally kept chained and as if he might begin a savage rampage at any moment-head and shoulders taller than the hobgoblins, covered in matted fur, and armed with a wickedly serrated sword. Despite his appearance, he too let them pass without incident.

If one could forget that all the citizens of this town were goblinkind, Darraun reflected, it would not seem very different from Whitecliff. The buildings were constructed from stone blocks salvaged from the surrounding ruins, but they were well made. Street vendors hawked food, clothing, and tools from push-carts and wagons pulled by donkeys or oxen. Many of the buyers were women, and children ran and played on the rutted dirt streets.

One thing made this place different from Whitecliff in a way that Darraun didn’t like. People stared at them wherever they walked-particularly at Cart, he noticed-and Darraun squirmed under their curious gaze. He had made a living out of blending in, and to be attracting so much attention made him nervous.

“Senya and I will get the supplies,” Haldren said as they made their way down the town’s main street. “We won’t spend the night here, so there’s no point in getting a room-even assuming we could find one that would take us.” He called a halt in front of an open-air building-some sort of restaurant or tavern by the looks of it-crowded with rowdy hobgoblins, probably drunk even in the early afternoon. “Why don’t you three find a table here and pass the time until we’re finished?”

Some of the nearby hobgoblins stared at Cart and pushed out their chests in a way that Darraun recognized as a sign of aggression, so he wasn’t sure Haldren’s idea was a good one. But the sorcerer was already walking away, his arm locked around Senya’s waist. “And watch your tongues,” Haldren said over his shoulder, shooting a glare at Gaven.

With a sigh, Darraun led the way to a table in the quietest corner of the place, making a wide circle around the aggressive hobgoblins near the street. “Do either of you speak Goblin?” he mumbled as they took their seats.

Gaven shook his head, and Cart said, “A few words-the kind soldiers throw around.”

“Let me order, then,” Darraun said, as a rail-thin goblin woman approached the table.

“Azhra dam?” Her voice was a high growl.

“Two ales,” Darraun answered in Goblin, and the goblin woman vanished in the crowd.

“I hope Haldren comes back quickly,” Gaven muttered.

“I agree,” Darraun said. “Cart, some of these men were looking at you in a way I didn’t like.”

“I noticed that,” the warforged said, “but I’m used to it.”

“Kak-darzhul!” Three of the hobgoblins Darraun had seen before stomped to their table, and the one in front addressed Cart. The warforged turned to face the one who had spoken. He was almost as big as Cart, and his arms were as thick as Darraun’s legs.

“He doesn’t speak Goblin,” Darraun said, pronouncing his words carefully to avoid any insult.

“Tell him I think his ancestors’ swords couldn’t cut the tail from a lizard,” the hobgoblin said.

Darraun started to explain the hobgoblin’s insult to Cart, but the warforged interrupted, rising to his feet. “Your ancestors couldn’t sharpen sticks to use as spears,” Cart said in perfect Goblin.