Jackal Among Snakes

Florimund held a pure white—likely genuine ivory—chisel in his right hand, a hammer in the left. He turned them about in his hand, inspecting them for any flaws or deficiencies. The other warriors looked over his shoulder, leaning atop him to see the thing better.

They sat cross-legged on the floor in a rather strange place—a silk-crafting room. Above, there were innumerable cocoons, each made of black silk. It made Argrave quite uncomfortable, but he hoped Galamon, standing just behind him, would stop him from being hit by any dislodged bugs. There was a loom, too, and a female southron elf attendant, who paid loose attention to the many warriors and two outsiders in her building.

The conversation had gone passably, and Argrave had explained most of what he needed to the southron elves. They had agreed to communicate with Durran, though nothing more and nothing less. That was what Argrave needed.

The chisel and hammer were the items that Argrave had acquired in the southron elf tomb—though the Brumesingers had been the purpose of their visit then, in ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ the reason the player went was to obtain those items. It was a fetch quest to earn the southron elves’ trust. It wasn’t entirely dissimilar to how Argrave was using them now, yet different enough Argrave had some doubt.

“Been near a century since I’ve seen a complete set of these,” Florimund noted, and the other warriors in the room nodded, clearly impressed. “Do you know what these are?” he raised them up.

“They’re the tools for your illusion magic,” Argrave nodded.

Morvan No-Nose crossed his arms. “Don’t call it magic, you damned palm tree. It’s artisanship. The Way of Worldbending.”

“It’s magic,” Corentin shook his head. “Stop being a pretentious twat.”

Argrave might’ve been uneased by the banter bandied about, but he felt it was actually a good sign coming from these people. If the southron elves hated you, they acted polite. If they welcomed you, they always said what was on their mind, even if it was incredibly rude.

Florimund handed the tools off to the other warriors, who eagerly took them from his hands and examined them. “Why are you showing us these?”

“I’m giving them to you,” Argrave held his gaze.

They all cast a glance at Argrave in that moment—surprise and suspicion bundled together.

Argrave held his hand up. “They’re Gebicca’s, by right. She told me of the tomb. And I’m pretty certain she’d want to give it to you.”

“Don’t pull that noble nonsense,” Corentin waved his hand. “You can’t use it, so you’re giving it to us.”

Argrave laughed. “Even if I could use it, I’d give it to you. Not because I’m some saint, but because I don’t have a use for it.” The people bristled at him when he said that, like he was contesting some point of pride of theirs. Argrave quickly added, “They’re largely stationary things—entryways, traps. I very rarely sleep in the same place twice.”

“Hmph. Stationary,” Florimund chuckled. “You must never have seen our glaives at work.”

Think I’ve hooked them, Argrave thought, but feigned ignorance, shaking his head.

named Yann. “Compared to spellcasters like you… vastly different trajectory. Mages start off piss-weak—a militiaman with a spear could slaughter most mages up to D-rank. The spells

agreeing with

“There’s only so much a warrior can do with his body alone. The

eyeballs and limbs, I suspect. None of us can cast a spell for shit,” Florimund stood. “At some point, we warriors have to look for other ways to handle things. Ways to exceed

the corner of the room, retrieving a glaive. He turned

big one care to have a

his hand on the pommel of his greatsword, adjusting his position. He looked down to Argrave, who gave him

Galamon tapped his sword. “I’ll have to use my

old for a real spar,” Florimund

listen to him,” Morvan interrupted. “He’s a

his head. “I’ll use the blunt end of the glaive. All you

the female loom

following. Galamon drew his axe and moved to stand opposite Florimund. The veteran southron elf twirled the glaive about before holding

realized the limits of your body,” Florimund

“Hmm,” grunted Galamon.

towards Galamon incredibly simply. Galamon pivoted, holding the

Galamon twisted his body, moving with the blow,

smiled, while some of the veterans hooted and hollered. Florimund planted the bottom of the glaive in the ground. “You’ve got damned sharp instincts, quick reflexes. Had I been using the sharp side, I don’t think my blow

rubbed at his neck. He stepped forward, holding his axe out. “Again,” he

kicked the bottom of his glaive, setting it spinning about in his hand. With a final flourish,

or fast, and Galamon braced himself to receive it. Argrave paid special attention this time—the blade of the glaive seemed to

get caught up in your own head, make a mistake. Seen it

in his hand, and then took

get beat,” Corentin crossed his arms, one eye watching

his stance, as serious as the first time. He stepped forward, swung, and Galamon waited. He did not move his axe about wildly.

Galamon locked the beard of his axe around the blade and pulled forward. Florimund was pulled forward briefly but released the glaive. Galamon advanced, then held his hand out

himself from falling by placing his hand against the ground. He rose to his feet, rubbing his forehead, then took the

the uproar had settled, Florimund called out,

be!” Yann shouted, then broke

wrong. Had to follow the way your hand, your arm, your wrists moved,” Galamon noted, staring at the glaive.

wasn’t. But you get the point I was making, no? This

of