Grok's massive, scarred face loomed inches from Delores's own, his breath hot and foul against her skin. The sheer murderous intent radiating from him was palpable, a suffocating wave of pure menace. His thick fingers tightened around the studded handle of his mace, the knuckles whitening.
Shit, Delores thought, her mind racing frantically. Okay, diplomacy failed. Spectacularly. Might be time for Plan B after all. She desperately tried to recall the signal she'd vaguely agreed upon with Rael. Her mind blanked under the pressure.
She took another involuntary step backward, bumping against the log palisade behind her. She raised her hands placatingly, forcing a shaky smile. "Now, let's not be hasty, Grok," she began, trying to buy time, stalling, hoping Rael sensed her imminent danger. "Killing an envoy of Elarvain would bring far more trouble than—"
She never finished the sentence. With astonishing speed for his size, Grok's free hand shot out, snatching the front of her reinforced battle dress. Delores yelped as she was lifted effortlessly off the ground, dangling helplessly several feet in the air, her boots kicking uselessly. He brought her up to his eye level, his cruel gaze scrutinizing her like a piece of meat.
"Hasty?" Grok chuckled, the sound a low, dangerous rumble in his chest. "Nah. Thinkin' maybe killin' ya is wasteful." He tilted his head, a disturbing glint entering his eyes. "Yer awful small... kinda cute, in a squishy sort o' way. Bet someone'd pay a fine piece o' gold for a rare little thing like you. Maybe keep ya as a pet?"
Revulsion and fury warred with terror inside Delores. Dangling from the grip of this monstrous half-giant, threatened with enslavement… This was not how her adventure was supposed to go. Her carefully constructed composure shattered.
"BARIN!" she screamed, the sound high-pitched and desperate, echoing through the tense quiet of the camp. "HELP ME!"
Grok blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sudden shriek. He looked down at the struggling gnome in his grasp, then glanced towards the woods where she had emerged, confusion creasing his heavy brow. "Barin? Who in the blazes is Barin? Another tiny baron come to whine at me?"
He didn't get an answer. Instead, the forest line fifty yards away exploded.
With a sound like splintering oaks and roaring thunder, a figure burst from the undergrowth, moving with impossible speed and force. It wasn't the stout, four-foot-eight half-orc dwarf Grok might have expected based on Delores's size. This was a hulking behemoth, easily ten feet tall, encased in grotesquely stretched but miraculously intact plate armor that groaned under the strain. Its face, though recognizably Barin's, was contorted in a mask of absolute fury, dark eyes blazing. The figure crashed through smaller trees and bushes like they were twigs, charging directly towards the bandit camp, its massive falchion held ready in disproportionately large hands.
Grok stared, dumbfounded, his grip on Delores momentarily forgotten. The two guards near the gate gaped, spears falling from nerveless fingers.
"What in the seven hells IS THAT?!" Grok bellowed, his confusion instantly replaced by primal alarm. Reacting purely on instinct, he tossed Delores aside like a discarded doll, sending her tumbling onto the hard-packed dirt several feet away. He ripped his massive studded mace from his belt just as the giant, furious form of Barin Strongsunder crashed into the clearing.
"GROK!" Giant Barin roared, his voice amplified to a terrifying, ground-shaking bellow. He pointed his enormous falchion directly at the half-giant bandit leader. "I, BARIN STRONGSUNDER, CHALLENGE YOU ON BEHALF OF BARONESS DELORES VON PIXIEHEART! PREPARE TO FACE JUSTICE, YOU RIVER-FOULING SCUM!"
The challenge hung in the air, heavy and absolute, as the ten-foot-tall dwarf-orc faced off against the nearly eight-foot-tall half-giant, the fate of the Green River Valley about to be decided in a clash of improbable titans. Rael's theoretical magic had worked. And it was terrifyingly spectacular. Delores scrambled to her feet, wincing as she brushed dirt and grime from her battle dress. Her side ached where she'd landed, but adrenaline masked the worst of the pain. Her eyes were locked on the impossible spectacle before her: Barin, impossibly huge, radiating righteous fury, squaring off against the hulking half-giant Grok.
A flicker of worry crossed her mind, where were the other bandits? But Barin's thunderous entrance and roar had answered that question. Even as she watched, the four bandits who had been chopping wood near the river came sprinting into the clearing, axes and crude swords drawn, their faces a mixture of fear and aggression. Simultaneously, the flap of the main tent burst open again, and the last bandit, a wiry human with shifty eyes, emerged, dagger flashing. They instinctively formed a loose, wary circle around the two giants now slowly circling each other in the center of the camp. Grok spared his men only a brief, dismissive glance. His entire focus was locked on the colossal, armored dwarf-orc before him. A nasty grin split his face, revealing yellowed teeth. He hefted his massive studded mace, its weight looking almost comfortable in his oversized hand.
"A challenge?" Grok boomed, his voice dripping with contemptuous amusement. "From a magic trick? Fine!" He waved a dismissive hand at his surrounding men. "Step back, you fools! This bloated runt is mine!"
The bandits hesitated for only a second before scrambling backward, clearly unwilling to get caught in the crossfire between these two behemoths. They fanned out, forming a wider circle, their weapons still raised, ready to jump in if needed.
Grok turned back to Barin, spinning the heavy mace casually. "Alright, filth. Let's see if yer strength matches yer size!"
With that, Grok lunged. Delores gasped at his speed. Despite his bulk, the half-giant moved with surprising agility, closing the distance before Barin could fully react. The studded mace swung in a brutal arc, slamming into Barin's heavily armored side with a sickening CRUNCH of stressed metal.
Barin roared, stumbling back a step, but the enhanced plate armor, though dented, held firm. He swung his massive falchion in a wide, sweeping counter-attack, but Grok was already moving, ducking under the heavy blade and driving a powerful blow from the mace into Barin's thigh guard. Another loud CLANG echoed through the camp. Barin bellowed again, more in fury than pain this time, but his movement was clearly hampered.
The pattern repeated. Grok was faster, more agile, using his reach and speed to dart in, land heavy, bone-jarring blows with the mace against Barin's armored legs and torso, then weave away before the slower, more powerful swings of the falchion could connect. Barin was immensely strong causing Delores to see the ground tremble slightly with his heavier steps, and the air cracked when his falchion nearly connected, but he was too slow, too ponderous in this giant form to land a decisive hit on the surprisingly nimble half-giant. He managed a few glancing blows, scoring shallow cuts on Grok's arm and shoulder that seemed only to infuriate the bandit leader further, but Grok's relentless assault with the heavy mace was clearly taking its toll. Dents appeared all over Barin's armor, and he was starting to favor his injured leg.
Delores watched with growing anxiety, her gaze flicking towards the woods where Rael was hidden. She remembered the tiefling's warning about the spell being draining, untested, and wouldn't last forever. Was it her imagination, or did Barin seem… slightly less colossal than he had a few moments ago? A subtle shimmering around his edges suggested the magic was indeed beginning to waver.
He can't keep this up, she realized with dawning panic. Barin's strong, but Grok is wearing him down. And once the magic fades… She didn't want to imagine Barin facing Grok at his normal size after taking such a beating.
She needed to help. But how? Rushing in herself would be suicide. The other bandits were watching, ready to pounce. She needed to distract them, disable them, give Barin an opening. Her eyes fell on the hurdy-gurdy still strapped securely to her back. Music… and magic. Could she? The idea felt audacious, risky, potentially disastrous. Weaving sorcery through music was something hinted at in obscure Guild texts, theories about resonant frequencies and arcane harmonics, but never something she'd seriously attempted beyond the subtle atmospheric effects during her recital. But what choice did she have? Barin was fading.
Taking a deep breath, she unslung the instrument, her fingers finding the familiar keys and crank. Okay, Delores. Focus. Not just music. Not just magic. Both. She closed her eyes for a second, picturing the effect she wanted, not aggression, not fear, but… confusion. A mental fog. A trance. Something to make Grok and his men pause, lower their guard, just for a moment. Her fingers began to move, the crank turning. She started with a simple, repetitive drone, low and resonant, then layered a strange, meandering melody over it. It wasn't a song of battle or beauty, but something hypnotic, slightly discordant, designed to snag the edges of the listener's mind. As she played, she channeled her sorcerous energy, not into blasts or illusions, but into the sound itself. She pushed the magic into the notes, weaving threads of compulsion and lethargy into the very airwaves, directing the subtle enchantment towards Grok and the surrounding bandits.
The strange, droning melody filled the clearing, weaving through the sounds of Barin's grunts and Grok's mocking laughter as the half-giant continued his relentless assault. Delores kept playing, her fingers moving automatically over the keys, her mind focused entirely on the arcane task at hand. This wasn't like simply letting her innate magic leak out; this required intent, precision, a delicate fusion she'd only ever theorized about. She shut her eyes tight, blocking out the brutal fight before her, focusing solely on the music and the spark of sorcery within her. She pushed her will into the notes, imagining the sound waves carrying not just vibrations, but tendrils of subtle, compelling magic. She felt it then, a strange sensation, like extending invisible fingers through the air. Her magic, guided by the melody, crept outwards from the hurdy-gurdy, reaching, seeking purchase in the minds of those around her.
Instinct took over. She shifted the tempo slightly, letting the drone deepen, resonate, targeting the duller minds of the common bandits first. The meandering melody above it became sharper, more focused, a piercing note aimed directly at the core of Grok's furious concentration. She poured more energy into it, trusting the music, trusting the magic, trusting the connection she felt forming between sound and will. Listen, she urged silently, weaving the command into the notes. Focus. Calm.
After another few intense seconds, sweat beading on her forehead from the sheer concentration, Delores risked opening her eyes.
Her breath caught. It had worked. Better, perhaps, than she'd dared hope.
Every single bandit surrounding the central fight had stopped moving. They weren't attacking, weren't cheering, weren't even watching the giants anymore. All five of them stood frozen, their weapons held loosely, their heads turned unnaturally towards her. Their eyes were wide, unfocused, glazed over with a vacant, almost lifeless stare, completely captivated by the hypnotic, magic-laced music. Even Grok seemed affected. His relentless assault had slowed, his movements becoming sluggish, his swings less coordinated. He blinked rapidly, shaking his massive head as if trying to clear cobwebs, the studded mace lowering slightly in his grip. He hadn't stopped entirely, but the spell had clearly dulled his aggressive edge, clouded his focus.
In that moment, Barin, who had been staggering under Grok's blows, also seemed to shake his head, blinking hard. The giant dwarf-orc looked momentarily confused, glancing from the mesmerized bandits to Delores, then back to the now-slowed Grok. The edges of his giant form shimmered more noticeably now; the magic was definitely fading fast.
Delores met Barin's gaze across the clearing and gave a sharp, intense nod. Now! Finish it!
Understanding dawned in Barin's eyes. He didn't question it. With a grunt that seemed to shake off the last vestiges of Grok's assault and perhaps the lingering edges of Delores's own magic, he seized the opportunity. He ignored the falchion's blade for now. Moving with surprising speed for his wavering size, he stomped towards the nearest entranced bandit. Before the man could react, Barin brought the massive, oversized pommel of his falchion down hard against the back of the bandit's skull. The sickening crack echoed as the bandit crumpled silently to the ground, unconscious.
One down. Barin moved to the next, then the next, methodically and brutally efficient. Crack. Thump. Crack. Thump. He dispatched the remaining four mesmerized bandits in seconds, none offering the slightest resistance, their minds lost in Delores's arcane melody. Finally, only Grok remained standing, still blinking sluggishly, trying to shake off the magical stupor. Barin turned towards him, the giant dwarf-orc now standing nearly eye-to-eye with the half-giant leader as Rael's amplification magic noticeably began to recede. A wicked, terrifying grin spread across Barin's scarred face.
"Yer lost, giant trash," Barin growled, his voice still booming but losing some of its unnatural resonance.
He hefted the massive falchion, no longer needing its pommel. Grok finally seemed to snap out of his daze, raising his mace defensively, but it was far too late. With a final, explosive roar of effort, Barin swung the enormous blade in a devastating overhead arc. Steel screamed through the air, connecting with Grok's thick neck with unstoppable force. There was a horrific severing sound, and Grok's head flew from his shoulders in a spray of dark blood, landing with a wet thud several feet away. His massive body stood frozen for a split second before collapsing like a felled tree, shaking the ground one last time.
Just as Grok's body hit the dirt, the shimmering magic around Barin completely dissolved. With a startled grunt, he shrank rapidly back down to his normal, stout four-foot-eight stature, stumbling slightly as his center of gravity abruptly shifted. He stood panting amidst the carnage, leaning heavily on his now appropriately sized falchion, looking utterly exhausted but grimly triumphant. Delores finally let the music die, the sudden silence deafening. The compelling magic faded, leaving her feeling drained and shaky, but victorious. The bandit threat was over. The silence in the bandit camp was profound, broken only by the crackle of the central campfire Grok's men had maintained and the heavy, ragged breathing of the victors. Delores lowered her hurdy-gurdy slowly, her arms trembling slightly from the sustained effort of weaving magic into music. The adrenaline drained away, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a faint headache from the intense concentration.
She watched Barin, now back to his normal, formidable size, methodically wiping Grok's dark blood from his falchion onto the tunic of one of the unconscious bandits. He worked with a grim efficiency that spoke of long, hard years on patrol. Delores felt a wave of relief wash over her as she scanned the other prone figures scattered around the clearing. Barin, despite his giant-sized fury and the brutality of the fight, had shown restraint. They were breathing, groaning softly, merely knocked out, not slaughtered.
Taking a shaky breath, Delores walked carefully across the clearing, picking her way around the unconscious forms, towards Barin. "Are you... alright?" she asked, her voice a little hoarse. "That looked... intense. Especially the shrinking part."
Barin finished cleaning his blade and slid the massive weapon back into the sheath on his back with a grunt. He flexed his shoulders, wincing slightly. "Feel like I wrestled a mountain," he admitted, rubbing a dent in his breastplate. "Magic's strong, cleric's spell. But wearin' off felt like gettin' squeezed back into a bottle." He looked her over, noting her paleness. "Ye seem alright yerself, Delores. That… music trick o' yers. Worked better'n I expected."
"It surprised me too," Delores confessed, still feeling the residual thrum of the strange compulsion magic. "I wasn't sure it would..."
Her words were cut off by the sound of someone stumbling into the clearing from the woods where they had hidden. Rael appeared, leaning heavily against a tree trunk, his face pale and slick with sweat, breathing heavily. The usual awkwardness was replaced by sheer exhaustion, the effort of maintaining the powerful size-amplification spell clearly having taken its toll.
"Is it... over?" Rael panted, his golden eyes scanning the dead leader, the unconscious bandits, Delores and Barin standing relatively unharmed.
"It's over," Delores confirmed, walking towards him with concern. "Are you alright, Rael? That spell..."
Rael waved a dismissive, shaky hand. "Taxing, but manageable. Akrion provides strength when balance is threatened." He pushed himself away from the tree, his gaze sharpening as he looked around the clearing, then focused intently on Delores. "Also… while I maintained the amplification, I sensed… another magic flare here. Just before the spell ended. Unfamiliar. Potent. Was that… you?"
Delores hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I think so. When Grok wouldn't listen, I… tried something. Weaving sorcery into my music. To compel them, distract them." She described the strange resonance, the feeling of authority in her voice, the way the bandits had frozen, mesmerized. "I've never done anything quite like it before."
Rael listened intently, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, a spark of intense scholarly curiosity igniting in his golden eyes. "Fascinating. Compulsion through harmonic resonance… Akrion teaches of manipulating balance through influence, but this sounds like raw, innate power shaped by artistic expression. Bardic magic amplified by a sorcerous core… Highly unusual. Potentially powerful." He looked thoughtful. "We must document this."
Barin, meanwhile, had produced some sturdy rope from his pack and was efficiently tying up the unconscious bandits, securing their hands and feet with practiced knots. "While you two chatter about magic sparkles," he grunted, tightening a knot, "maybe we should see what loot these river-foulers left behind. And figure out what to do with 'em."
Delores nodded, practicality taking over. "Right. Let's search the camp. Oleg mentioned compensation, maybe these lot had something worth taking."
They began to move through the crude camp. Barin checked weapons and pouches on the unconscious bandits, finding little of value beyond some tarnished coins and crude knives. Rael cautiously examined the area near the makeshift dam, noting the extent of the pollution with a frown. Delores decided to investigate the leader's tent, the largest and slightly better-constructed one. Inside, the tent smelled strongly of unwashed bodies, stale beer, and woodsmoke. A rough cot covered in furs dominated one side, while a makeshift table held maps, empty bottles, and discarded food scraps. Rummaging through a large wooden chest at the foot of the cot, Delores found mostly stolen sacks of grain likely from caravans, bolts of cheap cloth, some tools. But tucked beneath a pile of dirty furs, something else caught her eye.
It was a book. Old, bound in weathered dark leather, but clearly of high quality. It felt heavy, substantial in her hands. There was no title, but embossed on the spine, catching the dim light filtering into the tent, was a single, elegant, gilded letter: V.
Curiosity piqued, Delores opened it. The pages were thick, cream-colored parchment, remarkably well-preserved... and completely, utterly blank. Not a single mark, not a word, not even a smudge marred their pristine surface. It felt strange, holding such a fine, empty volume found in a bandit brute's tent. Why would Grok have this? Shrugging, deciding it was at least more interesting than stolen grain, Delores tucked the mysterious book into her own satchel. It felt oddly significant, though she couldn't say why.
Just as she exited the tent, Barin and Rael approached, looking grim.
"Found this pinned to the inside o' the gatepost," Barin said, holding up a crumpled piece of parchment. It looked like a hastily scrawled notice.
Rael pointed to the crude writing. "It appears to be a warning. From another bandit group, perhaps, or maybe someone Grok owed allegiance to." He squinted, deciphering the rough script. "It warns Grok about... 'the flame-walker'... 'burning beast'... in the woods nearby. Says it's been causing trouble for other crews operating in the area, telling him to be cautious."
Delores read the crude warning note again, unease settling in her stomach. A 'flame-walker'? A 'burning beast'? It sounded considerably more dangerous than common bandits. Combined with the exhaustion from the fight and Rael's magical exertion, pushing onward immediately felt unwise.
"Alright," she decided, tucking the note away with the mysterious blank book. "We've dealt with Grok. Let's take advantage of this... slightly upgraded campsite." She gestured around the crude palisade. "We rest here for a few hours, recover our strength. When we're ready to move, we dismantle that dam as best we can, then we haul these sleeping beauties," she nodded towards the tied-up bandits, "back to Oleg. He can decide what to do with them."
Barin grunted in agreement, already settling himself near the still-burning campfire and pulling out some rations. Rael, looking relieved at the prospect of rest, found a relatively clean spot near the edge of the clearing and sat down, immediately pulling out his tome and beginning to read, though his eyelids drooped heavily. Delores found a spot near Barin, leaning back against the rough log wall. The adrenaline had faded completely now, leaving her feeling the bruises from Grok's rough handling and the deep weariness from her magical efforts. She closed her eyes, trying to push away thoughts of fire beasts and mysterious books, focusing instead on the relative safety of the moment.
A few hours passed in relative quiet. The sun climbed higher, warming the clearing. The unconscious bandits occasionally groaned or twitched, but none woke except for the wiry human who had emerged last from Grok's tent. He regained consciousness slowly, blinking groggily before panic flared in his eyes as he found himself bound. Delores tried questioning him, asking about the warning note or other bandit groups, but he remained stubbornly silent, glaring at them with pure hatred, offering nothing but spit and curses until Barin threatened to gag him with a dirty sock. They left him tied up with the others. Delores was just beginning to feel properly rested, considering rousing the others to start dismantling the dam, when Barin suddenly stiffened. He had been idly sharpening his falchion, but now he froze, head cocked, listening intently, exactly as he had before scouting the camp. Without a word, he surged to his feet, moving silently to the flimsy gate of the encampment and peering out cautiously into the surrounding woods.
Delores exchanged a worried glance with Rael, who had also looked up from his book, sensing the shift in Barin's demeanor. They both rose quietly and moved to join him near the gate.
"What is it, Barin?" Delores whispered. "More bandits?"
Barin shook his head slowly, his dark eyes narrowed, scanning the trees. "Dunno," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "Thought I heard somethin'. Metal... lots of it. Like..." He trailed off, listening again.
Delores strained her ears. At first, she heard nothing but the wind rustling the leaves and the distant gurgle of the river. Then, gradually, she caught it too. A faint, rhythmic sound, growing steadily louder. Clink... shink... clank... The unmistakable sound of metal armor and marching boots. Many sets of them. Moving through the forest, and heading directly towards their position. Her heart gave a nervous thump. That wasn't the sound of disorganized bandits skulking through the woods. That was the sound of disciplined soldiers. But who? And why were they here?
"Could it be... guards from Cerindor?" she whispered, though it seemed unlikely they'd send such a large force this far out for mere bandits.
Barin shook his head again, his expression grim. "Too many. And too organized. Sounds like a proper military unit."
Rael looked deeply uneasy, his hand hovering near his holy symbol. "Should we... prepare for another fight?"
Delores considered their position. They were exposed, tired, and vastly outnumbered by whatever was approaching. Fighting seemed like suicide. Hiding wasn't really an option now. "No," she decided quickly. "We wait. We see who it is. Don't make any hostile moves unless they do."
They stood rigidly just inside the gate, watching the treeline intently. The marching grew louder, closer, accompanied now by the occasional snort of a horse and the jingle of harnesses. After another tense minute, the first figures emerged from the woods. Soldiers. At least fifty of them, clad in polished steel breastplates and helmets bearing the silver hawk insignia Delores had seen on the map Faelar showed her, the crest of the Kingdom of Elarvain. They moved with practiced efficiency, fanning out slightly as they entered the clearing, their spears held ready, eyes scanning the bandit camp.
At the center of the formation rode their leader, mounted on a sturdy warhorse. Delores blinked in surprise. The commander wasn't human, but a powerfully built orc. Not a half-orc like Barin, but full-blooded, with green skin, prominent tusks jutting from his lower jaw, and fierce, intelligent eyes. He wore ornate, clearly master-crafted plate armor that gleamed even in the dappled forest light, and a commander's striped cloak flowed from his shoulders. He surveyed the scene of the dead bandit leader, the tied-up prisoners, the three disparate figures standing by the gate, his expression unreadable. With a single, sharp hand gesture, the orc commander halted his troops about thirty yards from the camp entrance. The soldiers stopped instantly, forming neat ranks, a silent testament to their discipline. The commander then urged his horse forward at a walk, alone, towards Delores, Barin, and Rael. He stopped a respectful distance away, his sharp eyes taking in Barin's mixed heritage, Rael's tiefling features and clerical garb, and Delores's small stature and unusual dress.
"I am Knight-Commander Corin Stonehide," the orc announced, his voice deep and resonant, carrying easily across the clearing, lacking the guttural edge Delores might have expected. "Sent on behalf of King Theron III of Elarvain to deal with the bandit Grok and his depredations upon this river and the Crown's border territories." His gaze swept over the scene again. "It appears someone has saved us the trouble." He looked directly at Delores, seemingly identifying her as the leader despite her size. "Who speaks for this group?"
Delores swallowed, momentarily stunned by the official title, the kingdom's name, and the sheer unexpectedness of a disciplined orc knight leading Elarvain troops. Knight-Commander Corin Stonehide sat patiently astride his warhorse, his sharp orcish eyes assessing the unlikely trio before him. Delores felt a strange mix of irony and apprehension bubble up inside her. Her bluff to Grok about being an envoy from Elarvain, maybe even a Baroness, had somehow manifested into reality, albeit in the form of a heavily armed military contingent led by an actual Knight-Commander. Life outside the Guild was proving far more unpredictable than she'd anticipated.
Taking a steadying breath, Delores stepped forward slightly, ensuring her hands were empty and visible. "We mean you no harm, Knight-Commander," she said, her voice clear and carrying, though perhaps lacking the forced authority she'd used on Grok. "We are... friendly." She offered a polite, if somewhat strained, smile. "I am Delores Von Pixieheart. These are my companions, Barin Strongsunder," she gestured to the half-orc dwarf, who gave another curt nod, "and Rael D'Gar," she indicated the tiefling, who offered a quick, awkward bow, clutching his tome.
Corin's gaze lingered on each of them for a moment, the heavily armed dwarf-orc, the bookish tiefling cleric, the small gnome musician who spoke for them. Delores could see the surprise and curiosity warring behind his professional soldier's mask. How had this group managed to take down Grok, a notorious brute who had troubled Elarvain's borders for months? He clearly had questions, but seemed to decide, perhaps out of discipline or expediency, to keep them to himself for now.
Instead, he cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his saddle. "Baroness Von Pixieheart," he said, using the title she'd claimed with a hint of formality that felt both validating and deeply awkward. "While the Crown of Elarvain appreciates the... resolution of the Grok situation, there are protocols for matters of this capacity." He gestured vaguely towards the defeated bandits and the camp. "Technically, Grok, by establishing a fortified encampment and exerting control over this stretch of river, had created a rudimentary claim, however unlawful. Overthrowing such a claim, especially one backed by... well, by some form of military power," he glanced at the tied-up bandits, "usually involves certain procedures. Declarations. Challenges recognized by Crown law."
Delores opened her mouth to explain about Oleg, about just doing a job, but Corin held up a gloved hand, shrugging slightly, a surprisingly human gesture from the imposing orc commander.
"It matters little now how it transpired," he continued, his tone pragmatic. "The outcome is the same. Grok is dealt with." He sighed, a sound like shifting gravel. "The laws concerning the Free Lands, the borderlands outside Elarvain's direct rule but under its sphere of influence, are old, but clear. Any claimant, acting independently or under summons, who definitively eliminates a recognized blight or established threat within these territories..." He paused, clearly reciting from memory. "...be it by blade, spell, or righteous deed, shall be granted provisional stewardship over the lands directly affected by said blight, assuming the title of Baron or Baroness thereof, until such time as a proper liege lord is assigned or the claimant relinquishes the title back to the Crown."
He looked directly at Delores. "Which means, Baroness, according to the Southern Border Accord, this valley, including the cleared bandit camp and the homestead downstream, now falls under your provisional barony."
Delores stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. "My... barony?"
Corin actually cracked a small smile, revealing a hint of tusk. "Indeed. Frankly, I was expecting to claim the title myself upon defeating Grok. Would have meant more paperwork, more patrols out here in the muck..." He shrugged again. "Law is law. And honestly? I'm rather glad to avoid the added responsibility. Patrolling is one thing, governing is another headache entirely."
He reached into a saddlebag and produced a rolled-up piece of fine parchment, tied with a ribbon bearing Elarvain's silver hawk seal. He leaned down from his horse, offering it to Delores.
"This document requires your signature acknowledging the title and the provisional borders of your barony." He unrolled it slightly, revealing not just text, but a skillfully drawn map outlining the Green River Valley, encompassing Oleg's homestead and a significant swathe of the surrounding woodlands, including the land where the bandit camp stood. "It formally recognizes you as Baroness Delores Von Pixieheart of the Green River Valley, protector of these lands under the distant oversight of King Theron III. Congratulations, I suppose."
Delores took the parchment numbly, staring at the official seal, the elegant script, the map defining her lands. Her head was spinning. She had left the Bard's Guild seeking freedom and adventure, hoping to maybe earn enough coin for food and lodging. Three days later, she had faced bandits, discovered unsettling magic within herself, allied with a stoic warrior and an awkward cleric, and was now being declared the Baroness of a valley she hadn't even known existed that morning.
Her parents would be... well, she had no idea what they would be. Probably horrified.
She looked up at Corin, then glanced back at Barin, who looked utterly bewildered, and Rael, who seemed to be trying to fade into the background. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Delores Von Pixieheart, the newly minted and entirely accidental Baroness, prepared to sign her name. Her adventure had just taken a drastically unexpected turn.