Taking it to the Blackblades
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An hour has passed. Krelg sits patiently beside Revole. Another ten minutes passes, during which the halfling and the half-orc maintain their silent vigil among the trees on the bluff overlooking the abandoned stone quarry. And then, the slightest hint of indrawn breath from the half-orc. Revole sits unmoving, but mildly impressed. His companion is no thief, but nor is he a slouch at this cloak and dagger business.
Below, a pair of gnolls has come to the edge of the flooded quarry, the two carrying a lengthy pole between them. One gnoll takes the pole and begins lowering it into the water of the flooded quarry while the other produces a slate board and piece of chalk. Revole cuts his eyes at his fellow spy, to ensure he's clocking what's taking place. Below, the gnoll with the pole has lowered it as far as it will descend, apparently. He squats, reads something marked on the pole, and speaks to his fellow, who scratches out something on the slate with the chalk.
After a couple more minutes and a discussion between the two gnolls that cannot quite be heard by those watching from the hill, the quarry below is again abandoned, it's visitors having retreated up a hill on the far side of the quarry. At the top of a spur, the gnolls veer to the north. "They're heading to rejoin their patrol," says Revole.
"Then we follow and kill them?" Krelg asks, hopefully.
"That would make for two less to fight, down the road, but no. It would also tip off the greater pack, and there's no sense doing that," the halfling muses.
"How can this be their hideout?" Krelg grunts, stands and offers the seated halfling a hand rising to his feet. When that small arm rises, the hand that grips his is notably smaller — but oh, so strong! Their eyes lock for a moment, and then the half-orcs track the sleeve-covered arm to the halfling's hand, strangely blackened and with tough, calcine spurs and ridges.
Revole comes to his feet, still gripping the half-orc. He tightens his grip further and Krelg grunts in pain, "Enough! You've made your point. Small you may be, but far from weak. Where did you find such strength? There is clearly a story here."
"There is, indeed, Krelg, but it's not one that I'm free to tell. Suffice it to say that I don't want to get on the wrong side of the one who made me this way — and you don't want to get on my bad side, friend half-orc. I trust you're smart enough that you won't require further proof?"
"More than smart enough, friend halfling. Krelg is no wizard or alchemist, but he knows to be afraid of halflings who are stronger than he, and is content to let mysteries be. Krelg also knows that there is far more to your companion, the sorcerer, than can be seen with the eyes."
Revole Ting looks up at the half-orc and grins. "Why, Krelg, you're a philosopher!" And then the halfling's bemusement subsides: "My half-orc compatriot is correct that there are unseen depths here. Oh, and a minor correction: Lord Ember is a warlock; no sorcerer, he. A time will come when he will give you an order. Your life in that moment will hinge upon whether you obey swiftly, or instead look to your Nergalian priestess for her agreement."
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A couple hours later Krelg and Revole are seated in their makeshift camp in a dry gully paralleling Fern Creek as it winds its way southeasterly from the hills above Cranstonthorpe toward Smokeshadow.
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