Apostles of Doom

Respectful of the Grove or not, it was clear to Gastropé that the orcs were not likely to release the prisoners without some concessions.

“I, personally, agree that the alvar acted hastily and are technically in violation of the armistice. Prince Ariel, however, considers their activity to be self-defense,” Trevin tried to explain one more time to the chieftain.

“How defense against not attack?” Elgrida asked in typical broken Trade.

“It is complicated,” Trevin said.

“We no attack. We do our lives. Alvar attack our people. No provoke. Our land, our peaceful land. Alvar violent, attack innocent travelers,” Elgrida said. “Deserve death.”

“And most of them did die. Your people saw to that. However, those that are still alive, the alvar would like to have back with no more harm done to them,” Trevin said.

“Why? They proof of alvar lies and treachery!” Elgrida demanded.

Trevin shook her head. “This will take some time. I believe it will speed things up if I speak Orcish. May my associates have some water and be allowed to stretch their legs while we talk?”

Elgrida’s mouth twisted in what Gastropé thought might be a pleased grin. Apparently things were moving in the direction the chieftain wanted. She gestured to one of her warriors, who motioned to the rest of the party: Maelen, Elrose, Jenn, Gastropé and Peter, who had driven the carpet for them.

They had purposefully gone in without obvious weapons, since they were on a peaceful mission. Trevin had assured them that the orcs knew who she was and that their lack of weapons would not be seen as a weakness, but rather as a sign of strength.

They exited the tent with the warrior who had gestured to them and one other warrior. “Devdesh bring water in short time. Walk this area. No spy! No go in tents,” The warrior said.

“Uhm, is there a latrine, someplace I can — make water?” Gastropé asked the warrior. He had been holding his bladder for some time. He probably should not have drunk so much tea earlier.

The orc warrior snorted derisively and pointed to what appeared to be a roofless tent about three hundred feet away. “Go make water. Hah.”

Gastropé clenched his jaw and marched off to the latrine. It was a bit embarrassing, but if the talks were going to take quite some time, he would have no choice. Better to get comfortable now rather than be squirming later.

Gastropé made his way back from the open pit surrounded by curtains that the orcs called a latrine. He was very glad he had only needed to make water. There had been no amenities for the other sort of business.

“The question is, will Elgrida be able to get the alvar to agree to leave our lands in exchange for their prisoners,” a rather familiar-sounding voice said in perfect Trade from a nearby tent.

“Doubtful. We will probably have to fight them all the way to the Doomalogue,” another, deeper, voice said.

A third, very large-sounding person chuckled. “I really have no problem with that. Personally, I hope the alvar need some more lessons.”

Gastropé stopped. Who in an orc camp would be speaking perfect Trade with no accent? And why did that first voice sound so familiar?

“I would not mind a few more of those training lessons from Lord Tommus,” the first voice said. Gastropé suddenly recognized the voice.

“Tal Gor?” Gastropé called softly towards the tent. He did not want any of his compatriots hearing him.

There was sudden silence inside the tent; within moments a tent flap on the left side of the tent opened and Tom’s shaman, Tal Gor, popped his head out. “Gastropé!” he called out happily. “What are you doing here?”

Gastropé quickly made quieting gestures with his hand and hurried over to Tal Gor. “The alvar have asked the Nimbus to bargain for the release of the prisoners,” Gastropé told him. “I wondered if it was you and your friends that took out the alvar; I just didn’t expect you to still be here.”

Tal Gor nodded and gestured for him to come inside the rather large tent.

Gastropé entered to find three other orcs and two very large — D’Orcs? He had never seen a D’Orc, of course — none had come through with Edwyrd — but they could be nothing else.

“Who is this?” one of the D’Orcs asked suspiciously.

“This is Gastropé; he is one of Lord Tommus’s warlocks!” Tal Gor told them.

Not technically true… Gastropé thought to himself, but he was not going to disabuse them of that fine point.

“Gastropé, this is Zargvarst El Crooked Stick, our D’Orc mission commander.” Tal Gor gestured to the D’Orc who had asked who he was.

“This is Dider An Sep.” Tal Gor gestured to what Gastropé suddenly realized was a female D’Orc. He was not sure she wasn’t scarier than the male D’Orc.

“Lob Smasher is an elder of my tribe,” he said, gesturing to an older orc. “And this is my brother Bor Tal and sister Soo An.” Tal Gor motioned to the remaining orcs in the tent.

Gastropé nodded. “An honor to meet you.” He had no idea what the appropriate greeting was for an orc ally.