Author: Jericho_Foehammer
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From the Foehammer Chronicles, vol. XIV:
"I'm sure this was the place, Jericho." N'Dayeth shook the raindrops from her hair and squinted into the murky distance. She'd tried a ponytail earlier, but that had only seemed to concentrate the water in one spot, and she'd gotten tired of wringing the back dry. The rain had given her skin a strange jet-black sheen, like the lacquered armor Jericho had seen during one recent trip to Chardok. It was, even he had to admit, an impressive effect.
"We'll give it a little more time, then." Jericho had learned to trust N'Dayeth's instincts despite himself. It wasn't so long ago he'd have expected her to slit his throat as he slept. But things changed, as they sometimes do, and Gareth's utter faith in his long-time friend and companion had eventually got the better of the stern knight. "But keep an eye out. There may still be trolls skulking around."
She chuckled. "Not if they know what's good for them. I've got to admit, I didn't think the webfeet had it in 'em." The froglok conquest of Grobb had surprised a lot of people, none moreso than the enigmatic Grandmasters of Neriak, who now found themselves with a substantial troll refugee population, an inconvenience which amused N'Dayeth to no end.
They heard Anethe stir behind them, stretching languorously and picking the moss off her robe. "Gareth back yet?" she asked, through the last vestiges of sleep.
"Not yet," Jericho replied, handing the young mage a mug of the improvised coffee from the fire. "I'm sure he won't be long, though."
"He's overdue," she pointed out, making a face as she sipped from the mug. "Next time, I'll make the coffee," she muttered, ruefully.
"Everyone's a critic." Jericho went out to the opposite end of the camp from N'Dayeth and peered into the bog. "If he's not here in an hour, I'll see if I can't find him."
N'Dayeth snorted. "Oh, yeah, you'll blend in. You know, I'm not just a pretty face, shiny-boy."
Anethe could tell Jericho was distracted by something--no pithy comeback, this time. He was clearly nervous, and she knew N'Dayeth could see it, too. But both had known the paladin long enough to know that asking would be fruitless.
A noise came from the south, a soft "schlup". "It's him," whispered N'Dayeth after a moment. "And he isn't alone." Jericho had long ago stopped trying to figure out how it was N'Dayeth knew this sort of thing. A talent.
Indeed, Gareth came into sight shortly, the clink of his chainmail now noticeable above the croak and twitter of marsh fauna. Jericho blanched noticeably as Gareth's companion came into view.
Their guide was a froglok. The knight had been afraid of this.
"Well, there you all are!" Gareth bellowed, cheerfully. No sense of situational awareness, that one, N'Dayeth said frequently. If there were any trolls within a half mile, they could probably expect them shortly. "Meet Gil."
"FRRRROOOOOOAAAAKK!" went the froglok, in the traditional Guktan.
"Does he speak Common?" asked Anethe.
"After a fashion," replied the little amphibianoid. He had a small sword on his belt and a suit of the strange, scaly armor the Guktans preferred. Gareth hid a smile. He had no wish to wake up as a two-headed cow in the morning. Not that Anethe would do that, but...well, you could never be too careful.
"He knows where the Temple is," announced Gareth, pulling off his helmet and wiping off the sweat from his bald head. "And how to get past the lizards."
N'Dayeth continued to regard Jericho carefully. "Well, that's good. Lizard blood is impossible to clean off." She noticed that Gil had spotted Jericho's sword, or, at least, its hilt.
The froglok blinked. "I say. Is that what I think it is?" He pointed at the blade.
Jericho's shoulders slumped visibly as he nodded without a word, drawing the weapon to display to the now-rapt Guktan. Ghoulbane--that most holy of froglok holy relics--glowed softly as it passed to the froglok. Many a foul spectre had met its overdue end at its razor-sharp point.
"If I may ask, how did you--" the froglok trailed off.
"I defeated the shin lord of your race in single combat and claimed it," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "It was--" The rest of the group looked on, raptly attentive, unaware as they had been of this burden their friend had carried, this weight upon his heart. "--not my proudest moment. I--I'm sorry."
The froglok's croaky voice acquired a slight edge as he regarded the sword. "I have heard of you, Jericho Foehammer, and it is true, you are not welcome in the Temple of Guk." Jericho bowed his head, unable to look Gil in the eye. "But your campaign against the ghouls plaguing them have not gone unnoticed, either. One could almost call it a crusade." He cocked his head with an insightful look. "A form of penance, perhaps?"
The knight lifted his head to look in the massive, unblinking eyes of the scout. A brief look of understanding crossed their faces. "The greater shame, I think, was not putting it to its proper use." Gil handed Ghoulbane back to Jericho. "I hope you will continue to do so."
A long, silent moment passed, the palpable tension releasing itself. Finally, Gareth slapped his thighs loudly as he stood up. "So, that's that. We start at dawn."
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