5
The neutral land known as the Mephitic Mire was a dismal place. Seemingly endless bruised clouds hung low and swollen, occasionally spitting a pungent rain. The ground was uneven, filled with muddy bogs and stagnant puddles, with a thin layer of low fog throughout. The Lore creatures that called the place home were no more than small irritants, but added to the bane of the landscape.
There were stories that visiting fae could be sucked dry of their glamour by the pervading leech-like denizens of the Mire, but only if they were foolish enough to lay and rest. The Mephitic Mire was otherwise not considered to be a highly dangerous place, although Ragnar of the Red Rock was glad to be nearly clear of it nonetheless.
The huge troll took the last few steps through the soggy terrain, finally reaching his destination. The moody clouds above abruptly stopped in a defined line to allow azure blue skies ahead. He checked his footing in the foul terrain and then gazed at the claimed property immediately before him.
Thick and lush blue-green grass formed the initial border, followed by a low, makeshift timber bespoke fence. A few paces beyond that began a dense field of sugar cane. To the left and right, the grassy border and its slipshod fence curved away into the distance. The descriptions Ragnar was given were accurate.
Even if his sense of honor allowed him to, the troll was wise enough not to tread onto a bauchan's land without consent. That race was creative with defensive traps; trespassing fae could be afflicted with a wide variety of creative curses after only a short stroll onto a bauchan holding unannounced. If received and welcomed, hopefully those traps would stay dormant. Ragnar hadn't ever had need to visit any bauchan before, but planned to make the meeting cordial... at least initially.
Following an unwritten rule of Lore etiquette, Ragnar placed one of his huge, muddy sandaled feet onto the soft turf and let it linger before removing it. He then stepped on the held land twice more in the same fashion, not unlike politely knocking on the door of a Verden home. The bauchan - surely as any other fae - would be attuned to his holdings and aware that he had a prospective guest. If Ragnar was for some reason unwelcome, he'd simply send all of his spriggan servants to retrieve that particular fae in any manner necessary. One way or another, the two would converse.
It wasn't long before a quirky, high-pitched voice called to the troll from somewhere within the robust sugar cane field. "My mind wonders who you are and what your purpose here is. Tell my ears now or be on your way."
Ragnar assumed a relaxed pose with his hands clasped loosely behind him. "I am elder Ragnar of the Red Rock, respectfully requesting audience with the bauchan named Haas."
A diminutive creature, standing no taller than the troll's knee, cautiously slipped into view from between leafy stalks. His wild, cherry red hair and muttonchops stood out in contrast to both his neutral clothing and the yellow-green fields around him. The bauchan's small, pale blue eyes flicked about before settling on the giant troll; his long fuzzy ears twitched, and his pug nose took in the scent of his visitor with short whiffs.
The small fae took a tentative step with his oversized bare feet out onto the thick grass with a look of curiosity. "You're elder Red Rock? My brain knows that respected name from stories of your exploits and campaigns." In a quieter tone, he asked, "Are you sure you've come to the correct holdings?"
"Quite sure," Ragnar nodded once. "I am told you have information that might aid me; perhaps we could come to an understanding."
Haas assumed the renowned warrior wished to barter; the temptation for such an opportunity was irresistible to the avaricious fae. How could he refuse? The troll was sure to have many covetable items, should one strike his fancy. Even better, he could hold the favor over the powerful elder, calling in the debt when there might be need. Grinning wide, the bauchan replied, "My ears say there is an offer for parlay; I'm quite fond of the notion."
"Then am I welcome onto your holdings? I've trekked the inhospitable Mire for longer than I care for."
"Ah... sure; of course you are, elder," Haas invited him with a welcoming wave to come forward. "Your ears will be soothed by the birdsongs, your nose will savor the heady aromas of rich soil, and your eyes will soften at seeing my fields roll in the breeze."
Ragnar easily stepped over the low fence and closer to Haas without looming over him. The air was warmer on the bauchan's holdings, even if only from a dawning sun. There was indeed a natural, comforting scent in the soft breeze; the wary troll had a slight concern that it was a subtle trap to lull him into complacency, and so resolved his vigilance. The gentle chirping of birds sang from the taller multicolored foliage in the near distance, which appeared to encircle the center of the domain.
From his high vantage, Ragnar could see orderly fields of various crops further in the distance to his left and right, marking the land's borders. He thought it a small pity that his objective wasn't for tranquility; the bauchan's land certainly offered it.
He looked down at his host. "Your land has a rustic appeal indeed. Is there somewhere to your liking where we might conduct our business?"
"Yes, yes, follow me. The path is just over here." Haas moved quickly to stay ahead of the troll's long strides. Further along the field's slow curve was a cart path of packed earth - just wide enough for Ragnar's huge form - cutting through the dense crops. "Not many come to call on me," the bauchan said up and over his shoulder as they moved along. "How did you learn of my location, good elder?"
"A few fae in Saraid's war party knew of your general whereabouts." He saw the little bauchan tense at that information, but didn't falter in stride.
"Ah, so... you've joined their ranks, then?"
"I've not yet fully committed myself," Ragnar replied vaguely. "In searching you out, I was told of an unfortunate incident concerning you and a sprite named Renard. I hope your banishment wasn't too painful. All the same, your land seems robust enough to restore your glamour soon enough."
Haas flicked his hand dismissively without looking back. "A mistake is all it was. I'd brought some of my more potent beverages to an encampment revel; Renard imbibed a wee bit too much, as did I. If my brain recalls correctly, many did. My ears heard gaiety, my skin felt warmth and freedom, my mind swam in happy waters, and my eyes saw a blur of campfires and dancing. What they didn't catch was that fool Renard swinging his big morning star wildly as he sang and jumped about. It caught me full, curse my luck, but it was over quick. I suspect that sprite will offer debt when we meet again, if he knows what's good for him."
"Hopefully his wisdom and honor will prevail," Ragnar commented in a proper, if dismissive, fashion. He was taking mental note of his surroundings and the lay of the land, as any strategist would. Reaching the end of the sugar field, there was a wide swath of grass separating it from a dense orchard of fruit trees. A mix of both Lore and Verden varieties were being cultivated, apparently for the bauchan's enterprise of intoxicants.
Taller foliage stood beyond the compact woods, more than likely circling or comprising the hub of Haas's domain. The troll presumed that few, if any, traps would be laid there; most unwelcome fae would retreat or be repelled long before they reached it, so none were necessary.
The taller vegetation turned out to be gargantuan planted onions; their bulbs - halfway protruding from the dark soil - were as big as boulders. In various colors of white, faded yellow, muted red and pale orange, they grew in close proximity to each other except to allow paths leading out to the orchards and fields. Their formation ringed an open area of shade-dappled turf.
In the center of the sward was a half-submerged yellow onion over twice the size of the others; recessed into it were numerous small port windows and a miniature, radius-arch cherry wood door, currently open. Three aging pixies with butterfly wings of fading color were busy flying in and out of Haas's onion-haven, setting out a pile of pillows and cushions in lieu of furniture that wouldn't hold their huge guest.
Ragnar looked up at the heavy, bowed stalks of the ha
ven-plant that created even more shade on the close-cropped grass lawn. "Interesting and aesthetic; I've not seen anything like it."
Haas nodded his appreciation and gestured for Ragnar to have a seat. He waited for the troll to adjust his toga and sink down onto the cushions in a relaxed pose before taking his own seat in a sturdy chair that his servants had just brought out. "Would you care for a drink, elder? I have quite a selection."
"Thank you, no; I wouldn't want to deplete your stores."
Haas grinned. "Trust my words, elder Red Rock, I have ample supplies. I trade kegs to the hamlets of Aisling-maith, Solnedgang-kysten, and Elementus, and with many individual fae besides."
Ragnar let out a sigh. "I'm not here for a drink. I have travelled various lands to arrive here -"
"Yes, elder, my eyes saw the last of it."
The troll stared at his gabby host. "That you did. In any event, I did not come here to barter for your wares. I am here for information, and -"
"Yes, elder, my ears heard you say that before." Haas had an expectant look, apparently oblivious that he was being rude.
Gritting his teeth, Ragnar continued. "I am here to learn what you know of Saraid's war party. There -"
"Yes, elder, my mind remembers many things of it. I doubt that I shall return to -"
"Be quiet."
"Elder?" Haas looked more surprised than concerned.
"Your manners are found wanting, especially to a guest," Ragnar said calmly. "I am not here to sample your goods. I am not here to listen to your chatter. I am not here to barter."
"But," Haas sunk into his chair, "earlier you said you wanted to negotiate. I took that to mean -"
Ragnar leaned forward in his seated position. "Yes, negotiate; not barter, not parlay. It is an agreement. For your part, you will give me information on the war party you've been a part of; its amount of mercenaries, noteworthy names, planned actions, gate locations, and the like. Whatever your crafty mind can recall, and details are important." Ragnar's smile was anything but pleasant. "Now, for my part; if I feel you are not fully forthcoming, I will pull the answers out of your head rather unkindly. Then, while you drool as you try to remember your own name, I will lay waste to all you own."
Haas stared at him with wide eyes. "That's no agreement! That's a threat!" The hovering pixie servants shot away, up and through the foliage canopy.
Ragnar shrugged. "Semantics; you still have a choice."
"Some choice, that." Haas sat straighter in his chair. "I thought you were nearly in league with the war party. Why not just gather your information from them? Even more, you were in camp not long past; why do you even ask me when you can get your own answers. Unfair, my brain says."
"I said that I was not fully committed - I did not say to whom my allegiance was leaning toward. I was only in the war camp long enough to learn of your whereabouts; any longer, and difficult questions might come my way. True, I learned a few other snippets, but you've been much more involved in their activities, both socially and covert."
"I am only one of many in that position!" Haas replied with exasperation and fear in his voice. "I could gladly name others who might know more than I; why me?"
Ragnar casually rubbed the palms of his hands together. "To begin with, you're a bauchan; your strong senses might have seen things or overheard whispers. It would only make sense that you know much."
"I know nothing," Haas said hastily.
"More importantly," Ragnar went on, ignoring him, "your name was given to me by a comrade."
"What? Who?"
Still with a cold smile, Ragnar answered, "Aldritch of the Old Wood. He had words with you on some Verden Eire lawn, did he not?" He then rhetorically added, "Perhaps you'd rather answer to that angry force of nature than to me." Although the dryad wasn't known to take part of many battles or war campaigns, most fae would still decline - if not flee -from singular confrontations with that elder.
"What - what if the party hears of this?"
"Ah, well then, if one of them find me, question me, and find my answers not to their liking, I'll deal with them accordingly. Then I'll return here for another 'agreement'. Are you done stalling yet?"
Haas bowed his head despondently and muttered a harmless curse in an old Scandinavian language. Without looking up, Haas grumbled, "Just ask what you will and be gone."