*
"Why can't we just fly over it?" Aramus asked.
Ol?rin stood on a sandy road on the outskirts of a small village called Bartertown, with Aramus hiding in the nearby bushes. Even from their distance, the old wizard could see the unmistakably stout silhouettes of a few dwarfs mixed in with the regular sized humans. The village itself was only three streets long, with little more than a tavern, a trading house, and a blacksmith to supply its commerce.
"You have not yet recovered your full strength, and I don't fancy plummeting to my doom. Not only that, but if we fly, how are the dwarfs to know that we are coming?" he said, pointing his staff in the direction of the village. "This is the nearest outpost to Balbuldor, and it is frequented by trading dwarfs. They are somewhat paranoid at the best of times, my young friend, and if they should see you flying above them in the air, they will undoubtedly take it as a hostile invasion."
Ol?rin reached into the bushes and grabbed hold of Aramus's arm, pulling him out onto the road for all to see. Aramus checked the road up and down to make sure that it was clear. Even though it was, he still tried to flatten his wings against his back as much as possible.
"Dwarfs have gotten a bad name really," Ol?rin said, ignoring Aramus's unease. "But they truly are a most hospitable people; so long as you have no intention of stealing their gold, diamonds, or fabled unbreakable dwarven iron from them. However, they do not trust easily, and surprising them is their least favoured way of making new friends. By walking through the village it won't be long before a dwarf, or two, reports us back to their city. That is how they will know that we mean them no harm. Oh Aramus, for the Goddess's sake, would you come out of those bushes."
"That's easy for you to say, old man," Aramus said, reluctantly stepping back out onto the path. "People don't scream at the sight of you, do they? They don't want to pierce your heart with a blade, or hang you by your neck either, I'm guessing. If I show myself in broad daylight like this, things could get very dangerous, very quickly."
"You have lived your entire life in the outskirts of Lothangard, have you not?" Aramus nodded his head whilst still nervously looking about him. "The city, though it has its own charms and attractions, is a very culturally bland place to live. You can undoubtedly find anything you need there, from elven potions to dwarven swords, but you will very rarely see an elf or a dwarf within the city walls. There is no need, you see. Not with trading posts such as this.
"Therefore, the people of Lothangard are not accustomed to seeing a variety of creatures walking their streets. So, you can understand why they would be utterly terrified by your appearance. But in a village like Bartertown, variety is a commonplace and I will wager that you will only get a few curious stares."
Ol?rin glanced at his young companion and, by the knitting of his eyebrows and his dark expression, he could tell that Aramus was unconvinced. Ol?rin didn't blame him, he wasn't sure he believed himself either. While he knew that distant trading posts are more accepting of the unusual, Aramus's unique appearance might be too much, even for them. But the young man stayed on the path regardless of his concerns, and followed Ol?rin into the village.
The sandy road gave way to cobble stone thoroughfares, scarred deeply with two parallel lines from the wheels of many heavy carts. A distinctive aroma of horse droppings and smoke, appearing to predominantly come from the blacksmiths furnace, hung in the air. Ol?rin knew it was the type of stink that would linger on his clothes long after he had left. The tall five story buildings, either side of the streets, were wooden and all slightly off-kilter. Long lines of freshly washed clothes hung high between the buildings, dancing like celebratory flags in the fetid breeze. With the amount of laundry visible, Ol?rin dreaded to think how many families lived on each floor.
For a small village, the noise of metal slamming on metal, carts rattling, and trading partners arguing amongst themselves, was almost deafening. Ol?rin began to wonder if they would be noticed at all as they strode through the streets. But sure enough, the further they travelled into the village, the quieter it became.
People stared with open mouths as they walked by, some sheltering their children's eyes from the sight of Aramus, and Ol?rin could feel the tension build inside his young companion. From the corner of his eye, he saw his fists ball so tightly that they shook, and his jaw clench repeatedly.
"Smile, Aramus, you look like you're about to murder everyone," Ol?rin whispered under his breath.
Ol?rin smiled broadly, feeling a small sting in his wounded cheek, and tipped his hat to two ladies in fine dresses. The splendid ladies stood motionless in the streets, with their hands over their reddened lips and their heavily-painted eyes wide enough that they threatened to pop out altogether. Affluence was worn outwardly in Bartertown.
Aramus, in turn, attempted to smile at the ladies.
"Good Goddess, Aramus," Ol?rin said after the two ladies ran into the nearest building. "You looked like a devilish cat waiting to pounce on its prey. How about you leave the smiling up to me instead, eh? All you have to do is stand next to me and try not to look so threatening, or stiff."
"That's easy for you to say," Aramus replied. "And I don't look like a devilish cat. I'm just not used to smiling at people, that's all. So forcing it is somewhat, unnatural to me. I can't help it if that's what comes across."
"Indeed," Ol?rin said.
With a street full of curious eyes watching them, Ol?rin and Aramus took refuge in a large store in the centre of the village. The walls were lined with dusty boxes of curiosities, grubby glass bottles of fermented produce, and colourful rolls of fabric. Dusty floorboards creaked under their feet as Ol?rin and Armamus walked in. Three large wooden counters, with glass fronts displaying the more expensive items, lined the walls. Behind them were three older gentlemen. Each one had a magnificent white moustache that curled up to a point on either side, fine red britches, matching jackets, and a black gentleman's hat atop their three heads of bushy, white hair.
"Good evening," all three said in unison. "How may we help you?"
Not only did they look identical in every way, even down to their twinkly grey eyes and pointed noses, but they all appeared to know what the other was doing without the need to look. The man on the left, having just made a sale to a stout woman, tossed her produce toward the man in the centre. He in turn caught the object, without looking, and took payment for it. Once the woman had paid, he lobbed it to the man on the right, who packaged it neatly without a single glance.
"Good evening to you, fine gentlemen," Ol?rin said, taking a step toward the man on the left.
The stout lady, having only just seen the new customers as she was leaving, let out a squeak of surprise and bustled out of the trading house in a hurry. The only customer left was a burly, blonde-haired dwarf, who remained open mouthed and firmly stuck to his spot as he ogled Aramus.
"Oh dear, it seems we have startled one of your customers. I do apologise."
"No matter," said the first man.
"No matter," chorused the other two.
"How can we help you this fine day?" all three said together.
"Are they normally like this?" Aramus asked under his breath.
"Ah, you'll have to forgive my young friend here," Ol?rin said with an apologetic laugh. "He's never met a Trithonian before."
"No matter," they said in unison.
"What's a Trithonian?" Aramus asked quietly.
"We are a Trithonian," they replied in unison. "Psychically linked, physically in tune, and spiritually the same."
"I am he, and he is I," the first pointed to the last.
"They are me, and I am them," said the second.
"We are all, and all are one," said the last.
Aramus threw a confused look at Ol?rin.
"Think of one mind sharing three bodies," Ol?rin explained.
"A good analogy," said the first.
"Now, if we can be so bold, may we ask, what are you?" all three a
sked, pointing to Aramus.
Aramus opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Ol?rin suspected it was because he didn't quite know how to explain what he was. Here was this unusual creature standing before him, separate but one, able to explain what it was and with a solid understanding of where it came from. But yet, Aramus was lost with that question.
"I don't know," he answered quietly.
Ol?rin felt a pang of sympathy for his young friend.
"But we do know where we are headed," Ol?rin interrupted. "We seek an audience with the dwarven king of Balbuldor, and we would like to bring him a gift."
All three men laughed like they were one, and the dwarf customer snorted as he absently perused a nearby trinket.
"You know the king?" the Trithonain asked.
"No, we haven't met, persay. But I'm hoping that he has heard of me, and will grant me an audience regardless."
"And who are you?" they asked.
"My name is Ol?rin Talfan."
The tree men looked at each other, their mouths opened to exactly the same amount as the others. A heavy footed shuffle let Ol?rin know that the dwarf had suddenly left the shop in a hurry. With precise steps, the Trithonian huddled together at the back of the shop, whispering in hushed tones and taking the odd glance back at Ol?rin.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd swear they looked scared of you," Aramus whispered.
"Perhaps they are," Ol?rin replied with a knowing smile.
Before Aramus had a chance to ask another question, the Trithonian bustled forward with a large bottle in their hands.
"Here, for you," they said meekly. "Please take it, free of charge. This is the finest bottle of whisky for miles around, and the king is an avid lover of the drink. Please, we want no trouble, nor do we cause any trouble. Take it, with our compliments."
"Why, what a lovely gesture," Ol?rin said taking the bottle and sliding it into his hat. "I thank you my kind friends. It is lovely to see how your people have come to be so generous. And might I add, I am pleased to see your moustaches have grown back so nicely too."
Each of the men touched their well-groomed lip hair protectively and tittered with a nervous glance at one another. Ol?rin nodded to them and left the trading post, followed by Aramus, who looked more confused than ever.
"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?" he asked.
"The Trithonian didn't used to be just three," Ol?rin said, keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead as they left the village. "It once occupied hundreds of physical forms and was called the Centhonian. So many crimes it got away with, so many alibies to choose from. Its numbers had to be reduced, you understand?"
"You killed the others?" Aramus asked with surprise. "I thought wizards couldn't kill."
"Killed? No, indeed not. Think more along the lines of squashing lots of grapes into one bottle, and you will understand what I did."
"Oh," Aramus nodded. "If someone had done that to me I think I would have remembered them. But the Trithonian didn't know you until you said your name."
"Ah, yes. It was many years ago, back when I first became a full wizard. I'm afraid a lot has changed since then, and most of it has been on my face," he said, gesturing to his wrinkled appearance. "Anyway, let us not dwell in the past because it only serves to rouse ghosts, and what use are they? They will neither feed us nor comfort us. We must make our way to the badlands now, because that's where we will find the entrance to Balbuldor."