The crisp mountain air bit into Torrum, as fierce as ever—relentless, like the hellspawn that plagued these cursed peaks. He drew his wool cloak tighter, grumbling under his breath. Though he hailed from harsh lands, the icy winds here were a new beast entirely, far different from the sweltering jungle he called home.

  Torrum groaned, the sound barely cutting through the howling winds.

  “What’s that, a little wind making the big dwarf uncomfortable?” came a voice from behind, light and mocking.

  Torrum turned, narrowing his eyes at his companion, “Nah, I was groan’n ‘bout the fuckin’ ass load o’ gear I’m carryin’. Some o’ it’s yers, if I remember right.”

  Lazuel laughed. “I’ve got my own burdens! I’m practically carrying this trip, what with having to stop you from walking off a cliff more than once.”

  “Oh, shut up, Lazuel. Maybe if I weren’t haulin’ all this, I could focus on the road and not on not breakin’ my back.”

  “Quit your whining. We’re almost there, see?”

  She jabbed a finger ahead, pointing toward a crumbling stone tower that loomed through the storm, ancient and battle-worn. Guards stood along its battlements, their forms barely visible through the snow and jagged backdrop of the mountain it was nestled in. Torrum grunted, resting for a moment, hand raised to shield his eyes from the biting wind. As they approached the gate of wood and iron, Torrum rapped his fist seven times—in the form of a tune he couldn’t quite remember the name of.

  Moments later they were greeted by a muffled voice from behind the old gate.

  “Speak your purpose and identity,” the voice commanded in a bored and sour tone.

  Torrum dropped his heavy gear to the ground before responding, “We’re Torrum and Lazuel from Winterdeep, sent ta deal with that demon problem of yours”.

  What sounded like a sigh followed by rustling through a box could just barely be heard over the wind, a few moments passed before the voice answered them back.

  “Torrum Hammersong and Lazuel Ironbough from Winterdeep, you were expected two moons ago,” the voice stated harshly.

  Before either Torrum or Lazuel could reply, the guard continued, “If you want to get in you will have to give the correct phrase that was decided on by King Thalgrim Stonebloom.”

  Torrum smashed into the door with his fist, causing it to shudder slightly, “First off, we’d’ve been here much earlier if ye’d given proper aid n’ taraversin’ this damned mountain. An’ second, I don’t know any passphrase, ye rotten stone gobbler.”

  Seeing that this could end quite badly for the both of them, Lazuel cut Torrum off before he could make a further mess of the matter.

  “When Iron scales meet the souls of men, the flames of gods are stolen in revenge,” She stated in a sing-song voice.

  For a brief moment, Torrum’s scowl faded, captivated by the melody of her ethereal voice, as the words floated from her lips.

  He quickly slipped back to a stoic composure befitting of a dwarf like himself, he sluggishly picked his gear back up off the ground as the gate began to open. The duo quickly made their way inside the keep as soon as the door was wide enough for Torrum to squeeze his bulky form through the entrance.

  Once inside the two were greeted by the guard who had spoken with them through the door, “This way please, the others are in the main room.”

  They were guided briskly up an old stone staircase as left standing in front of a thick wooden door that had splintered with age. Just behind it they could hear quiet chatter and the clinking of mugs with a crackling fire just in the background. Torrum was the first one in as he hurriedly burst through the door, slinging his baggage to the ground and rushing to sit by the fire.

  “By Thaldar’s lucky hammer, it’s cold out there!” Torrum exclaimed while plopping his bulky form directly in front of the stone hearth

  Lazuel followed behind him and quickly shut the door, rolling her eyes at the dramatic display of her companion. After brushing the snow off herself Lazuel found a seat at one of the empty tables and put her travel pack on top of as she began to root around in it. She let out a satisfied sigh as she procured the item she was searching for. Removing a book from her bag titled ‘Embrace of a Rotting Heart’, she stretched back into her chair as she began to read.

  After warming up, Torrum forced himself to take a proper look around the room and see exactly what he had so brashly rushed headlong into. The stone room was relatively small in size, forty feet across both ways at most. It held 4 tables that were positioned somewhat evenly in the middle of the room with about 5 feet between each one, the table itself being four by five feet wide. There were also two benches, one on either side of the room.

  All of the furniture was made from the same cracked and stained oak wood that looked as if it would fall to pieces at any moment with the exception of one chair positioned in the corner of the room nearest the veneer stone hearth. The room had only two doors, both of wood reinforced by iron, one that Torrum and Lazuel had come in through from which led to the old tower’s gate, and the other presumably giving access to the rest of the tower's facilities. The room had little in the form of decoration. The only notable pieces being that of a bear skin rug that sat next to the hearth, and a painting of a human lord dressed in emerald green robes with a heavy gold crown sat evenly on his just above his brow, his lifeless painted eyes stared to the left so that only the left side of his face was visible.

  Moving from the contents of the room, Torrum now looked to the other people that inhabited it, for he had completely forgotten that there was anyone else here. The first thing he noted were the two guards in the room, they were dressed in half plated armor emblazoned with a symbol of a dragon headed knight holding a shield in his left hand and a spear in his right. A light looking sallet helm sat loosely on their heads with a single worn leather strap under their chins seemingly being the only thing that kept the helmets from falling off. They held a crude spear in one hand and a medium wooden shield in their other.

  However it didn’t take long for his gaze to be stolen as a loud thud came from one of the nearby tables. Torrum’s eyes snapped in the direction of the sound to find that two people engaging in some kind of activity which seemed to involve a lot of yelling, cheering, and banging of cups, thus the source of the commotion. One was a crimson dragonkin, he appeared to be loosely clothed in leather and cloth padding with the exception of a metallic belt that held a fur covered kilt to his waist. The clothing on his upper body, or what little he had, covered the upper part of his chest connecting just under his shoulders leaving his stomach exposed. The scales on the innermost parts of his chest had a slight white hue to them. Which were only further exaggerated by the deep crimson color the rest of his scales had. He wore no other articles of clothing. There was however, a very large greataxe strapped to his back. Its head was chipped and the metal was overall dull in hue and most likely sharpness. The crimson dragon kin himself was not much better. The horns coming off his head were an ashen gray, but one of them seemed to have been broken in half. As Torrum got a better look at him he saw that he had spikes coming from the center of his head curving backward just like the rest were. The difference being that these smaller ones continued all the way down his back along his spine. Past his wings and stopping at the base of his tail.The latter of which swept aggressively across the floor while he shouted with a mouth full of ale. Which spilled in a shower of drops every time he spoke.

  Now shifting his gaze to the large dragonkin’s companion, he raised his eyebrows in surprise when he realized it was a lynxari. Torrum had seen many in his life, they were native to the jungles of his homeland Izomi after all. But it was rare to see one that had decided to move outside of the small continent. She could be from Yala’thua over on the mainland, he thought to himself. Shaking his head to clear the thought as he decided he would come back to it later, instead he turned his attention to inspecting the form and movements of this lynxari.

  It wasn’t long before she spoke, leading him to realize it was a female. She was white as the snow that battered at the tower so violently, her sky blue eyes darted around the room constantly seeming to take in every detail at any given moment. She seemed to be engaging in some kind of game between her and the dragonkin, who was almost double her size, which included a metal cup, a set of dice, and a pile of copper coins. Her attire was decently plain. A gray cloth bound by a few leather straps and a belt to keep it all together. She had two daggers which were sheathed on the right side of her belt, on the left there was a small leather pouch tied shut in a frayed knot. Suddenly her nose twitched and her eyes darted to meet Torrum’s, who had been staring at her most intensely, she gave a toothy smile as she met Torrums gaze.

  Torrum quickly looked away, embarrassed that he had been caught staring, but when he looked back up to the lynxari, he saw that she had gone back to her game, obviously bothered by her interrogative admirer. The gruff dwarf went back to his inspection of the small stone room. His eyes next fell up on the sleek form of the half elf he had traveled with through the mountain pass, Lazuel. She was leaning back in her chair, which at the moment was balancing on two legs, her boots kicked up on the table with her legs crossed as she read from her book, ‘Embrace of a Rotting Heart’.

  She sat fully engrossed in her reading whilst absentmindedly fidgeting with the belt around her tunic. Torrum would never understand how someone could find a romance novel an enjoyable read, and it had truly taken him by surprise when he learned that the Lazuel Ironbough, top of the line archer and team captain in the Winterdeep military, had an affinity for the things. As far as he was concerned, books existed to teach you strategy, monster hunting tactics, fighting tips, and recipes for alcohol.

  She had half haphazardly slung her pack across the table, leaving many of the contents spilling out of the side, which laid in a pile next to her boots. Though she was an elf, her boots were of dwarven make, which is what you get for growing up in the dwarf dense kingdom of Winter Deep. It wasn't just her boots of course, her pants and tunic were crafted from a fine Chitinox leather, which were cow like creatures with a chitinous hide that the dwarves raised in on the outskirts of the city next to the various crops that were used for food. She had a helmet of the same kind of leather, but she only wore it whenever she deemed absolutely necessary. Which meant her head full of long silky golden hair was always exposed, it was one of the few features that truly distinguished her as a half elf, besides the slightly pointed ears, of course.

  Her bow was nothing much of note, even though the things she could do with it were devastating, but her gauntlets were of elven make. Made from a fine silver stained leather with a metal brace on her firing hand to protect against a misfiring bow string, not that it ever happened, the knuckles too were made from a gold colored metal, and served as an excellent set of brass knuckles if she ever got to hand to hand combat. That rarely ever happened of course, and even if it did she was far more likely to switch to a dwarven clan dagger that sat on the back of her belt, which at the moment laid in the pile by her boots. Torrum ceased his stare knowing that if she caught him, he would most likely get yelled at and told to stop dozing off. Torrum grasped his amulet of Thaldar, the goodly god of Protection. Torrum was a divine warrior of his and a devoted one at that, the amulet was in the shape of an iron shield with an eye embedded in its center. This same symbol was engraved into the center of his dwarven steel breastplate, he moved his hand to it, then he began to run his fingers down the armor piece, inspecting all the grooves that made up its frame and all chips it had acquired over the years. He began to reminisce on his battles, from the victorious honor filled deployments, to the blood soaked battlefields littered with the bodies of his comrades who fell to the might of the Iron Tyrant. Tearing his mind away from the dreaded thought he went back to his inspections.

  Under his breastplate was a deep blue tunic which he had gotten from his military training camp back when he first joined, the armor however, had been obtained at graduation, given to him by his commanding officer, and beloved mentor. Torrum chuckled to himself, I wonder if I’ll see ol bastard again after this is all over. Then his darker thoughts and doubts crept back up if this is ever over. Torrum swore at himself for the thought, doubtin’ isn’t just da’ first sign o’ loss Ye gravel-brained git! He scolded himself; it's also da’ first mark o’ bein’ a pansy. Torrum had not fought many battles, but he was one of the most experienced of his troop no less, highly skilled with his divine magic, and the massive iron warhammer he used as a weapon.

  Which had been a gift from his father, a family heirloom, the hammer had been forged by his great grandfather and passed down through the warriors in his family. The head of the hammer was 40 pounds of steel at the very least, and the full metal rod handle wasn't helping the weight in the slightest. Most would be unable to even pick up the weapon, let alone swing it, but Torrum was a divine warrior of Thaldar, and a stone dwarf of the Hammersong family, the weapon was heavy but that certainly didn't stop him from using it to wreak havoc. Torrum’s hand came to rest on the head of the massive hammer as he thought back to the day his father saw him off to his first mission.

  ‘I know ye’ll do us proud son, just hold yer head high and the head of that hammer higher, if ye do that, you might just keep one o’ um’, Torrum laughed to himself as he thought about his father’s words, but there was still a sense of doubt in his mind, worrying he’d prove his old man dreadfully wrong. The rest of his armor, including his boots, pauldrons, bracers, and helmet, were all made from the same material and all decorated in honor of his god. Torrum’s face was full with a bushy black beard that was braided at the two sides, he always kept it smooth and tended to it well, unlike the rest of his form.

  Torrum’s thoughts began to wander once again as he turned back to the small room. And as his gaze continued to drift across the meeting area, Torrum started in surprise as his gaze moved to the corner of the room nearest the hearth just behind him, sat a figure he didn’t notice during his first inspection. The elegant yet foreboding form of the man that sat in a cushioned chair carved from a fine stained dark oak was undoubtedly that of a hellkin. Clad in worn black leather boots, which had short heels on the bottom that rapped on the floor as he repositioned the way he sat. He had a deteriorated brown robe that swayed side to side, folding over his slim yet powerful form, with a faded black under shirt. The robe had a red leather outline, which was adorned with tarnished brass buttons. None of which were buttoned up meaning the robe often hung loosely open to reveal the black shirt underneath, which Torrum realized had an olive green shirt under it.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  What little of it that poked out of it however, was mostly covered by a faded ashen gray ruffled tie, which protruded out from the rest of his attire, having been tied around his neck in a secure fashion. His hands were completely covered by metal gauntlets that looked to be made from a heavily tarnished antique metal, with the exception of a silver ring adorned with a diamond hourglass on the finger of his right hand. In his right hand he held a tea cup, filled with a deep brown liquid which steamed and sloshed about as he drank, over the brim of which he surveyed the room with his piercing ethereal blue eyes while his thin tail flicked carelessly to the side of him. After taking a long sip, he rested the cup on his right leg which was crossed over the left, revealing a well trimmed black goatee.

  Just passed his curved ram like horns which were red in color, just as his skin, sat thick black hair, which seemed both soft and oily at the same time, tied up in a careless messy ponytail. Seeing that Torrum had finally noticed him, the hellkin gave him a kind smile with his perfectly straight white teeth. Torrum stood up in surprise, cursing at himself for not noticing his kind sooner. You fool, what kind of warrior doesn't take note of all possible enemies first thing! Torrum gathered himself and put one hand on the long handle of his great hammer, ready to retaliate at the first sign of danger.

  The hellkin, sensing the now rising tension, held up a reassuring hand in a vain attempt to diffuse the situation.

  "I must extend my sincerest apologies for not addressing you and your companion sooner,” the hellkin reassured.

  With a slight smile and humorous twinkle in his eye he added, “I simply thought it prudent to allow you both the chance to warm yourselves—both physically and, perhaps, metaphorically."

  Torrum, still unconvinced by the man and even more skeptical from his formal posture, eyed him angrily before asking, “And what be ye name, hellkin.” Torrum practically spat the final word as it left his mouth.

  With an amused smile the figure tilted his head slightly to the right before standing suddenly as if he had forgotten something very important.

  “Oh by the twelve thrones, where are my manners,” he took a set his teacup aside before taking a dramatic and deep bow. Speaking on, still mid-bow he continued, “I am Nephadius Kavidus of Larendel the 8th and I am entirely at your service my stout friend.

  Rising back to his full height of six foot two, Nephadius regained his elegant posture, and a stance befitting of a noble.

  Torrum looked him up and down before barking back at him, “first off, I aint ye friend hellkin, an’ a another, tell me exactly why I shouldn’t cave those ugly arse horns into that pretty little head of yours?”

  There had been tension in the room before, but at that Lazuel threw her book down on the table and shot up from her seat, nearly falling down in the process. The dragonkin’s head sprang up with interest, looking back and forth between the two hoping for a fight. The lynxari watched the scene with a worried look on her face. The two guards in the room stirred uneasily, hoping they wouldn't have to intervene. Lazuel rushed over and stood in between Torrum and Nephadius with her arms up and hands out.

  “OK, that is enough of that, how about we don’t kill each other before we even know everyone's names,” she stated firmly with annoyance evident in her voice.

  “His name’s Nephadius somethin’ or another, to fuckin’ long of a name, can’t trust m’” Torrum replied venomously, his glare still fixed on Nephadius’s shifty eyes and thin red tail that flicked about with malicious intent.

  Shooting a glare of her own in the dwarf’s direction, “you can’t distrust someone just because of their name, Torrum.”

  “I Sure as shit can, and sides’ I don’t give two shites about his name, I don’t like ta’ fact that were in this room with a goddamn hellspawn.”

  Lazuel went to reprimand her companion, but Nephadius interrupted her before she could get a word out.

  “Ah, I believe I now grasp the nature of our disagreement,” Nephadius observed, pacing with deliberate, measured steps, his hands clasped behind his back, every few strides, he would pause, pivot, and resume his path, exuding a sense of careful contemplation

  “Indeed, this was to be expected. How remiss of me not to anticipate such a response,” he announced in a voice that carried across the room, his tone growing more theatrical for effect.

  “For, after all, what should one expect from a creature born of the infertile fires—summoned to extinguish the very flames from whence he came?” Nephadius’s voice dripped with irony, his brow raised as though addressing the absurdity of it all. “A vile being, no doubt, whose sole delight lies in preying upon the weak and fragile, coaxing their souls from their bodies for a light afternoon repast!” He finished with a flourish, bowling his head slightly, though the grin upon his lips betrayed his mockery.

  “And what, pray tell, ought one expect of such a loathsome thing as myself, yes?” he continued, now halting his grateful pacing to lower himself to Torrum’s eye level, his gaze meeting the dwarf’s unyielding stare.

  Torrum’s face tightened, clearly unnerved. As stubborn as he was, even he began to recognize that perhaps he had been too quick to judge, relying only on gut instinct and deep-seated prejudices.

  Noticing Torrum’s discomfort, Nephadius’s grin widened, sharp and knowing. “I fear, my stout friend, that I may be a greater disappointment than you had anticipated, for I am unlike any hellkin you have encountered before,” He instated, straightening once more, his expression transforming from playful to serious.

  He pivoted again, standing tall in the room’s center as his tone grew grave. “It appears that there has been a profound misunderstanding,” Nephadius declared, his posture regal and commanding, “or perhaps an unfortunate lack of pertinent information.”

  “You see, we five have not been gathered here by change, but summoned from all across Nelphine with a singular purpose—to address the matter of the infernal refugees, who have settled without invitation upon the peaks of Hell’s Pass.” His voice carried a weight that silenced the room, and even the dragonkin seemed to shrink before him.

  “We are entrusted with this charge because of our respective talents and histories. Furthermore, we have been granted command of this fort.” His eyes swept over the assembly, settling briefly on Torrum, as if to remind him of their shared duty. “I, for one, have no intention of running this fort like a gaggle of unruly children. We have equal authority in this matter, and I expect us to carry out our task with the seriousness it demands.”

  Nephadius relaxed slightly, a smile once again softening his features. “Now,” he added with renewed warmth, “I have already had the pleasure of speaking with Poem and Kazalath,” he gestured toward the lynxari and dragonkin respectively, “but it seems I have not yet given a proper greeting to our two newest companions. Allow me to remedy that.”

  With a graceful extension of his right hand, armored in a tarnished gauntlet, he offered it to Torrum and Lazuel. “Shall we start anew? I am Nephadius, at your service. May I inquire as to your names?”

  Before Torrum could respond, Lazuel moved up to grasp Nephadius’s outstretched hand while giving a polite bow, “Absolutely, my name is Lazuel Ironbough, I am a guard captain and training instructor from Winterdeep.”

  She raised back to her typical swaying elegant posture, looking up at Nephadius with as friendly a smile as she could muster. Torrum could tell she was trying her best to diffuse the situation, which was not her strong suit, but here she was nonetheless.

  To the confusion on Lazuel’s face, Nephadius bent over Lazeul’s hand with practiced grace, his lips brushing the back of her hand lightly.

  “Charmed, truely,” Nephadius responded sincerely, he straightened, his eyes gleaming with a knowing charm, as he slowly let her hand fall from his. Torrum couldn’t shake the unease prickling at the back of his mind, though the reason slipped through his fingers like sand. His brow furrowed, irritation seeping in, though he couldn’t place why.

  Lazuel, looking as if she had been enchanted by Nephadius’s politeness alone gave him a bashful smile, “you have my apologies as well, Nephadius,” Lazuel explained, “my companion here should know better than to assume based off nothing more than his gut and prejudice alone, I myself am a half elf after all.”

  Nephadius, thoroughly satisfied with Lazuel’s response, turned now to Torrum and once again offered the gracious extension of his hand with a slight bow.

  “Might you, my stout friend, see fit to overlook the circumstances of my birth? In turn, I am more than willing to put aside our less-than-ideal introduction.” Nephadius graciously offered.

  Torrum looked at his hand for an uncomfortable second before sighing and grasping it with his own, finally giving in to Nephadius’s charm. As soon as he accepted the outstretched greeting, Nephadius shook his own firmly, Torrum was taken by surprise at the strength of the handshake, he certainly expected no such thing from someone who seemed to hold themself like a noble.

  “Uh, yeah… Greetin’s’. Pleased ta’ meet ya. Name’s Torrum… oh, and, uh, sorry ‘bout the horn comment, they, uh, they got a nice spiral to ‘em, I guess?” Torrum shifted uncomfortably as he tried his damndest with this awkward apology.

  Nephadius’s laugh echoed through the room, rich and unrestrained, as he released Torrum’s hand, ”Ha! No offense taken my dense bodied friend, trust me, I’ve been called far worse things.”

  “Besides,” he continued while straightening his ruffled tie, “I can, in the very least, come to partially understand your motives, after all, we are in a mountain swarming with horrors from the infernal fires.”With a slow, measured turn, he glided back to his seat, his posture never once breaking from its noble poise. He once again took up his cup bringing it to his lips, but before the liquid reached his mouth, Nephadius looked disappointedly down at the drink. With a delicate touch, he dipped a finger into the golden liquid, coaxing it to rise but never spill over the rim. To the amazement of both Torrum and Lazuel, the tea once again sprouted a small torrent of steam, and Nephadius smiled, returning to sipping graciously at the drink.

  Both Torrum and Lazuel stood for a moment, as if looking for the words to continue the already ended conversation. However, before either of them could formulate a sentence, a booming voice from just behind them interrupted their train of thought.

  “Well now, since you’re all done glaring at each other, how about we get to the good part—drinking!” the dragonkin exclaimed enthusiastically. Not long after the statement had left his mouth, the lynxian jabbed one of her elbows into the side of the hulking red behemoth.

  “Oh, yeah. Name’s Kazalath! By the way.” Kazalath stated proudly, holding a balled fist to his puffed out chest. The lynxari then hopped down from her own seat and walked up to Torrum and Lazuel, “sorry about this one, Kazalath doesn't understand how to give a proper greeting.

  Straightening up as much as she could in an attempt to appear a little taller, which only made her look that much frailer, she extended both of her arms towards Torrum and Lazuel in a welcoming gesture, “Poem's name is Poem, and Poem is really happy to meet new people!” Poem informed them happily.

  Torrum looked at a loss for what to do with Poem’s outstretched arms, but Lazuel accepted her with a hug, which seemed to be the right decision based on her reaction. Though as soon as the hug ended, Lazuel felt that something was off but couldn't place exactly what it was. Unable to come to a decision she shook her head and forced the feeling to subside, she then continued her introduction unabated.

  “It’s nice to meet you, I’m Lazuel, and my gruff companion here is Torrum,” she said graciously, before turning and giving Torrum a playful wink.

  “I can speak for myself, Lazuel,” Torrum muttered gruffly while crossing his arms, though the moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Lazuel raised her chin slightly and stared for a moment before looking away, somewhat hurt by his response. Torrum also looked away, but inside he felt that he had handled the situation poorly, and wished he hadn't responded in such a manner.

  “HEY!” an upset Kazalath shouted from behind her, “I know how to greet people. They just don't know how to be greeted.” Kazalath informed her.

  Poem sighed before looking up at the crimson dragonkin, who towered over her, “Kaz, the last person you greeted was that tavern owner in Kolondoor,” before she could finish her statement Kazalath interrupted her.

  “Yeah, and he was so impressed that he fainted from delight.” he stated proudly, crossing his arms across his chest in triumph.

  “He fell unconscious because you broke his spine with how hard you hugged him Kaz,” Poem pointed out tiredly.

  “Well, if his spine was that weak, that’s hardly my fault!” Kazalath huffed, planting his hands on his hips like an oversized child denied a treat. Poem just looked up at him with a defeated expression on her face and sat back in her seat. Kazalath also sat back down, but in ascendancy.

  “And you accused me of petty squabbling,” Nephadius chimed in jokingly, “and yet here you are, delegating yourself to nothing short of utter tomfoolery.” Nephadius gave Kazalath a warm and teasing smile, which Kazalath promptly rewarded with an angry glare.

  “Alas, as gratifying as indulging in the previous session of dialogue has been, we should all head to our rooms and get some sleep,” Nephadius proposed, which was shortly followed by a yawn.

  “I am certain that I alone do not feel the exhaustion from a full day toil and absolutely tireless longevity,” Nephadius gave a merciful glance in Torrum and Lazuel’s direction, “especially our two newest.”

  “I for one agree, it was a long trip here and the warm covers of a bed have never sounded more inviting,” Lazuel spoke up, also yawning. Kazalath stood up from his seat and stretched while giving a massive yawn in agreement. Poem hopped down from her chair and started walking towards the door, “Poem hopes they have something good to eat for breakfast here.” She opened the door, stopping only to let out a yawn, during which her mouth seemed to open far wider than one would expect of any normal person, then again, she was a lynxari. Kazalath grumbled in agreement as he followed after her.

  Lazuel, coming to the same decision, started to follow the train of people making their exit while Nephadius watched merrily on. Torrum however, was more concerned about the contagious yawns he had just watched spread across the room, and wondered if he was next. He felt them coming but he pushed them back down, refusing to give into the drowsing curse. Torrum stayed behind after the door shut, watching Nephadius carefully. Who, after getting the notion that Torrum wouldnt leave until he did, let out a sigh and also made his way towards the door.

  Stopping just before he opened the door, Nephadius turned back to face Torrum once more, “I meant no ill will by my melodramatic rant from earlier, I merely intended to smooth the descending situation before it got any worse.”

  Torrum thought to himself for a moment, and just as Nephadius was about to head through the door himself, Torrum came to a decision.

  “I don’t hold anythin’ against ya, I’ve no right to either. That wasn’t the greatest first impression on my part, I never was very good at ‘em,” Torrum explained, trying to sound as sincere as possible, but he found that the right words seemed to evade him.

  To his amazement however, Nephadius just regarded him with a warm smile, “I appreciate the attempt at recompense, it has been duly noted and I look forward to more leveled conversations with you in the future—Torrum.” And before Torrum could say anything else, the aristocratic hellkin had disappeared into the door. Torrum stood for a time, thinking on the matter before coming to a conclusion and smiling to himself. Which quickly faded as he realized he had no idea where the rooms were.

  After what felt like thirty minutes of stumbling around in a dark keep, cursing as he ran into who knows what, Torrum found a hallway with signs hung outside doors. Going up to his own, he found that he was positioned at the left end of the hall right across from Lazuel’s. Torrum thought about going to her room in order to apologize for earlier, his hand hovering over the handle to her room, but he figured she was probably already asleep and retreated to his own door. Opening the door he was met with a warm blast of air and the strong scent of… cinnamon?

  Torrum delved further into the warm embrace of the foreign quarters, quickly closing the door behind him, as to not let out any of the heat accumulated by an unknown source. After he had laid out his pack and gotten out of his armor, he sat down on his bed. The mattress was firm, not hard as a rock, but not so soft he’d drowned in it. It was exactly the way he liked it, even the blanket was thin and soft as satin, allowing air flow so that he wouldn’t get too hot. Torrum laid down, suspicious as to why everything seemed to be so perfectly tailored to him, even smelling like the cinnamon they used in the jungle of Izomii, but all that soon left his mind as the perfect conditions set him off to sleep.

  Just as he was about to fully drift into the land of dreams, Torrum was overcome by a loud and long yawn, to which he cursed aloud, and fell unconscious, still grumpy.