Of Stakes and Steaks
"Finally!" Freyr thought to himself as they approached the gates of Pikehold.
Freyr and the others had traveled long and hard from the vampire-infested village, eager to make their way to the capitol city. Now they had arrived: exhausted, filthy and eager to rest. Freyr approached the gates with the rest of the group, hoping there wouldn't be any more delays in getting to the nearest inn, the nearest dinner table for a huge slab of meat, and finally, the nearest bed. He hadn't been sleeping well on the road; there always seemed to be a large lump under his hip, no matter where he'd put his bedroll.
The cleric suddenly came into Freyr's peripheral. He enjoyed the cleric's company, despite the supposed hatred and mistrust between Dwarves and his above-ground-dwelling cousins. The Dru never knew that another race lived underground. He thus found he and the cleric had much to talk about regarding their respective traditions and lore. The dwarf was always ready to hear another story about his people's history.
"History," he frowned in thought. "That's nearly all that remains of my people now. Most of us are dead, and those that aren't will eventually marry into new families and races." He mourned the loss of the pure bloodline for but a moment.
"But better that than dead!" he suddenly said aloud, startling his companions.
The rogue looked and him inquisitively, but his attention was quickly distracted by the nearest shiny object. Even though the rogue was his brethren, he couldn't bring himself to spend more than five minutes chatting with the man. His sheer lack of intelligence was at time dumbfounding, as if his stupid had rubbed off on Freyr. Not to mention his rash decision making. Freyr still fumed over the way he'd decapitated that girl. Maybe she wasn't much more than a chew toy at that point. But she still had a life, and there may have been a way to save her, if only they'd had more time. Instead, the foolish elf had unilaterally decided to chop her head off.
Freyr was having difficulty controlling his rage: Who was this man to decide who lives and who dies? The cleric had told Freyr about the incident in the dungeon before they'd found his people. Freyr hoped it was merely a result of his childlike stupidity, and not an actual malice for life. Still, children who misbehaved needed to be punished.
Freyr was still puzzled by the humans. The warrior who accompanied them was devastatingly good with the blade he'd retrieved from Parroldon Keep. It was even frightening at times how easily he ripped through the enemies that stood between them and their objective. He was even more intimidating because of how little he spoke. Freyr supposed the singing of his sword was enough to get the point across: he was not to be trifled with.
The other human was somewhat of a quandary. Freyr could sense that the wizard is more than he seems, but he couldn't be sure as of yet. The fact that he wielded a rapier was odd, but not out of the question. He did have an imposing presence wielding the weapon, though less so when using it to pick through decomposing food. But his stunt in Sunnybrook had angered Freyr. He and the rogue had stood idly by while a demon consumed the lives and souls of at least a hundred people. Granted, they were probably better off not battling such a monstrosity. And then he'd taken no action yet again when the party had battled the butcher, seemingly because he just didn't feel like it.
Regardless of how he felt of them as individuals, Freyr owed a debt to the group. They'd found and helped rescue him and his people, and for that he would be eternally grateful. But when the time came, and they had found the reason that those dark being had destroyed his city and theirs...
"Well," Freyr thought. "Certainly no one will envy the rogue's position."