The inside of Drok’Ir’s tent was decorated lavishly with all sorts of weapons, armours and the trophies of various beasts. Zalrodal recognised a skull that closely resembled that of an Ursapus. The inside was illuminated by a single large fire in the middle which not only granted vision but also warmth in the marsh weather. Drok’Ir signalled towards one of the chairs around the fire and nodded towards Zalrodal. The Dark Lord took a seat, it was an old chair made out of wood and metal it creaked slightly under his weight before growing quiet after a final crunch. He rested his hands on the modelled bronze wolf heads on the armrests before turning towards Drok’Ir. The troll leader took a seat opposite Zalrodal, his large frame visible through the flames of the firepit. Drok’Ir was accompanied by two other trolls, their tattoos showing the bodies of various beasts making their way across their bodies in bright orange colours. Zalrodal himself was flanked by Blackrock and Rigrig who was fidgeting in place, fingers trailing the pommels of his knives.

“What brings the lord of the Arberonian dungeon to the marshes?” Drok’Ir asked, his head resting on his fist, his fingers slightly curved upwards stroking the underside of one of his four tusks.

“I have come to speak to you, to Drok’Ir and his people, I am aware of the trolls great craftsmanship and would be so inclined to have it used to accomplish my goals. Mainly being the equipping of my armies both now and in the future,” Zalrodal said, mirroring the troll leader’s posture. He could feel Migaal growing nervous, while not a bad move it wasn’t the safest of actions to demand something of trolls in their own territory.

“You would have me move my people to your dungeon and have them work your forges to equip your armies, did I understand that right?” the troll smirked, the way he smiled seemed almost playful as if he had set up a trap and was waiting for someone to fall into it.

“Yes,”

Silence filled the tent, Zalrodal grew slightly nervous as he continued with his eyes locked on the troll. He had practised the art of negotiation with Migaal while at Lord’s Rest while also reading some of the books in the dungeon’s library, the past from which he had summoned his demon. He would not leave this place empty-handed. Both leaders remained unmoving, the tension thick enough to burn to cinders in the firepit.

In one swift motion Drok’Ir rose from his seat, he swung his hand upwards grabbing one of the jars resting next to his chair. The large troll bellowed a great laugh and then poured the contents of the jar into his open mouth, liquid spilling all around him. “I like this one,” Drok’Ir proclaimed to his fellow trolls, “this dungeon of yours, is it better than the marshes? Will there be no humans to bother our work?”

Zalrodal looked around the tent a moment and returned to Drok’Ir, “your housing and forges will certainly see improvement,” Zalrodal pondered out loud, “as for the humans the ones that are there work for us, and the ones that don’t are dead,” Zalrodal smiled, the troll smiled and then they both broke into laughter. The troll leader seemed content with the idea of joining Zalrodal and having the trolls work in his smithies if they so desired. The only demand was that the trolls would receive their own territory away from everyone else and would maintain a certain amount of autonomy within their number. Trolls were creatures tradition and a troll leader was always tested and chosen before assuming the position.

The trolls and goblins spent the rest of the night drinking and eating, the initial tension of the encounter now forgotten. They sang songs some in the language of the trolls others in that of the goblins and once again others in the common tongue. Zalrodal continued his conversation with Drok’Ir in the main tent in which they discussed their plans while A Troll’s Smith’s Hammer resounded in the background. As they drank and spoke of things unrelated to the downfall of human kingdoms Drok’Ir asked the Dark Lord to join him on the next hunt, it was tradition for a troll leader to bring a trophy for the clan, these trophies could range from great works of craftsmanship to the remains of some great beast. The trolls would then vote on which trophy was the greatest and whoever brought it would become the next leader. In the case of Zalrodal, there would be no competition to his trophy but Drok’Ir insisted that tradition demanded he bring something to the trolls.

The next day the trolls started gathering their things and packing up their camp to start the journey back to Lord’s Rest. It wasn’t a quick process but then again they carried everything they owned with them. While the trolls packed up Zalrodal, his Stenjin guards, Rigrig, and Drok’Ir went back into the marshes to search for a beast or other to hunt as a trophy. While great beasts were not particularly uncommon in the marshes as most things, they seemed to disappear from existence once one started looking for them. There seemed to be no sign of any creatures for miles around and the ever-present fog of the marshes did not help their situation. Zalrodal would probably have spent days searching the Dusrian marshes for a trophy if the troll beast slayer wasn’t with them. Drok’Ir was so well versed in tracking it seemed as if he spoke an entirely different language. He saw tracks where any other person just saw mud, he saw paths where there was only grass and bushes and he smelled the odour of creatures that had been there days before.

It wasn’t long till Drok’Ir discovered the location of a beast worthy to be brought back to the trolls as a trophy. He explained how the slight elevation of the mud in certain spots indicated a warmog had moved through here not too long ago. warmog’s Drok’Ir explained, were long worm-shaped creatures with ten clawed legs and a protective carapace along their backs. The warmog also had a trunk on its head which it used to move underground and snatch any food it found. Tracking a warmog once it descended was usually impossible unless one found the entrance to its excavation or in the case of Drok’Ir knowing the marshes and its creatures like the palm of his hand. He signalled the group to follow him as he began to quicken his pace through the dense mud and murky waters. He pointed at rocks and explained that they had been moved recently, how he could remember such details eluded Zalrodal. Following the beast slayer would have been difficult as he seemed to traverse the difficult terrain as if were a perfectly plastered road however the trolls large frame and continuous comments through the fog were easy enough to follow even through the marsh.

Some hours passed as they trekked through the Dusrian marshes until they reached what could be described as a massive hole in the ground. “This should be the warmog’s lair, it is clear by the big hole, they like to dig those,” The hole as Drok’Ir called it was luckily not a pit going straight down but rather slopped down into the darkness certainly an improvement on plummeting to one's death upon arrival. Drok’Ir handed Zalrodal and Rigrig a flask he had attached to his hip and they took a swig from it in turns. Immediately Zalrodal’s throat was filled with a fiery sting. As the liquid reached his stomach Zalrodal immediately had to squint as the light passing through the fog seemed as bright as the sun. “You will be able to see with this in the darkness of the cave,” Drok’Ir said.

“What was in it?” Zalrodal asked.

“Oh, nothing much, just some berries, herbs, and Tingil piss. Nothing to worry about, the effects will disappear in an hour or two.”

“Tingil piss? That sounds fantastic, unfortunately, I have a dark vision already,” Migaal said still perched on Zalrodal’s shoulder. With that, they descended into the warmog’s cave.