/n/jackal-among-snakes-1520/c-128
chapter-127

“Wanted to say…” Galamon looked at Argrave as they watched the oasis town, far out of sight. “You’ve gotten tougher.”

“The hell does that mean?” Argrave asked, worried at Galamon’s praise.

Galamon shook his head as though telling Argrave to calm down. “You used to never stop complaining. Couldn’t bear the sight of blood. Hated physical work. Different, now.”

“Not my choice, believe me,” Argrave turned his head away. “I like soft hands.”

“Regardless… you’re blind to yourself, at times,” Galamon finished.

“You’re still making potions and poisons next time we need them,” Argrave pointed at Galamon without looking.

“…as ever,” Galamon said with a sigh. “Enough talk.”

Argrave and Galamon proceeded openly and honestly into the oasis town of the southron elves. It would be difficult to approach any other way with both of them being over seven feet tall, and they also didn’t come for deceit and trickery. Of late, that was a rare thing.

“Just a reminder…” Galamon began seriously, and Argrave turned his head to look at the elf. “…don’t use the Blackgard name,” he advised.

Argrave laughed once. “Hadn’t planned on it.”

“I’ve been with you too long,” the big elf noted, looking around the town. People were starting to take notice of them, and anxiously moved to act.

“Tired of me?” Argrave kept his gaze facing forward, keeping an eye on developments.

He shook his head. “Used to you.”

Argrave spotted familiar people and kept his eye on them. “So what’s the problem?”

“Didn’t blink an eye at jumping into a pool of water and blood to enter a cave with a dying race within. It’s… concerning, that’s all.” Galamon tapped Argrave’s elbow. “Keep your hands up. Demonstrate we’re harmless.”

Argrave obeyed Galamon’s command, keeping his hands in the air. “I just broke one of their illusion spells. Though… that’s not the least crazy thing I’ve done, I’ll admit. Maybe you can help convince Garm that I’m as all-knowing as I claim to be.”

“He’s seen enough. If he isn’t convinced, my words won’t change him,” Galamon answered. Argrave saw Garm’s eyes move around in the helmet on Galamon’s back, and then squeeze shut.

A great many of the southron elves moved around the oasis, weapons in hand as they moved to confront the two intruders upon their territory. As they came closer, Argrave saw their features clearer.

The southron elves were far distinct from the pale-skinned Veidimen—they deviated far from their ancestors, enough so it was near impossible to think Galamon or Anneliese might be distant relatives to those present. Most notable was their jet-black skin, far darker than that of the southern tribals or other denizens of the desert. Their hair, their nails, and even their eyes were black. Their ears were much larger, and their bone structure was altogether sharper.

The southron elves were a lean and skinny people, and a little taller than the humans Argrave had seen in the Burnt Desert—a couple inches, perhaps, but not to the extremes of the Veidimen. They wore elegant silk clothing matching in color with their skin.

These elves gathered in front of Argrave and Galamon, most pointing a large glaive towards them. They shouted and cried and made demands, but their voices were too many to follow any sort of direction.

Argrave took an uneasy step back, and then called out, “We aren’t here to cause any trouble.”

But his words were drowned out by a multitude of questions, and the glaives in the elves’ hands did not lower. At the very least, the conflict was not escalating. Argrave was content to wait until things settled enough for him to speak, but then he spotted someone he knew quite well walking out towards them.

“All of you, let me pass!” a loud voice rose above the rest.

A grizzled veteran pushed past the crowd, face marred by scars and burns. Half of his nose had been torn off by something, and one of his eyes was blinded by a burn. Even still, he looked no less of a warrior as he pushed through the crowd, using his own glaive as a walking staff that he did not seem to need.

He came to stand a cautious distance away from the two of them. With silence reigning, Argrave pressed the advantage, using his classic trick—knowing everybody’s name.

“You’re the warrior Corentin?” Argrave pointed.

Corentin shifted on his feet, planting his glaive in the ground.

“I mean… can’t picture anyone else matching your description,” Argrave pressed, lowering his hand.

Corentin pointed with his glaive. “Who told you this? How did you get here?”

“Gebicca, of the line of Burgund,” Argrave disclosed.

Though the hostility from the southron elves did not evaporate, it did diminish into a steady caution in the silence following. The Brumesingers hiding in his clothes came out at this moment, and the sight of their long-dead warpets evoked gasps of silence and mutterings from the crowd.

“Gebicca? Is that right?” Corentin said. “And what did she say about me?”

“She said…” Argrave paused, rubbing his chin. “Well, she said that you’re a real asshole, honestly.”

Corentin laughed. “And Gebicca… why is she not here?”

“Because she’s dead,” Argrave said simply. He picked up one of the Brumesingers off his shoulder, holding it in his hand and petting it.

Corentin stared at Argrave. “Then it seems you have a reason to be here.”