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.

things,” one of the veteran southron elves spoke—a one-handed man named Yann. “Compared to spellcasters like you… vastly different trajectory.

nodded, agreeing with this

can do with his

of us can cast a spell for shit,” Florimund stood. “At some point, we warriors

room, retrieving a

the big one care

pommel of his greatsword, adjusting his position. He looked down to Argrave, who gave

blade is enchanted,” Galamon tapped his sword. “I’ll

too old for a real

to him,” Morvan interrupted. “He’s a

shook his head. “I’ll use the blunt end of the glaive. All you have to do… is block

it outside,” the female loom

then stepped outside. Everyone rose to their feet, following. Galamon drew his axe and moved to stand opposite Florimund. The veteran

got enchanted weaponry, you’ve already realized the limits of your

“Hmm,” grunted Galamon.

Galamon incredibly simply. Galamon pivoted, holding the

sense at all, the back of Florimund’s glaive struck Galamon in the neck. Galamon twisted his body, moving with the blow, and stepped away. He stepped back, then raised his head,

elf 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,

rubbed at his neck. He stepped forward, holding his

With a final flourish, he held

Galamon braced himself to receive it. Argrave paid special attention this time—the blade of the glaive seemed to move with a will of its own, and Galamon twisted the axe about, yet never caught it.

time. You get caught up in your own head, make

the Ebonice axe in his hand, and then took a step back. “Again,” he

crossed his arms, one eye

time. He stepped forward, swung, and Galamon waited. He did not move his axe about wildly. Instead, he calmly moved to receive the blow. It

the beard of his axe around the blade and pulled forward. Florimund was

placing his hand against the ground. He rose to his

uproar had settled,

shouted, then broke

your wrists moved,” Galamon noted, staring at the

wasn’t. But you get the point I was making, no? This is what we achieve with the Way of Worldbending.” Florimund held the glaive up into the air. “Blades that lie. Arrows

in his choice of companions, hearing