Salgant woke, and again it was some moments before he remembered: the fall, the unexpected glint of hope. That he would take the offer was not in question. If it was a trick or some cruel jest, so be it.
He washed and dressed with the air of a warrior arming himself. His mind shied away at the thought of Saur – Forgemaster Thú – finding him pleasant to look upon, but he must be at his sharpest regardless. Lives would depend on it. He touched the stained emblem on his ruined festival clothing, and then turned the fabric over. The living before the dead, always.
What would he need to prepare? Salgant could keep any figures or agreements in his head without trouble – he was, after all, a trained bard – but memory was easier changed than paper. Salgant searched for it, but that, apparently, was one need that Saur – the lieutenant had not foreseen. Food, also. Though his body had passed through hunger, Salgant knew that starving himself would help no one.
Taking a deep breath, Salgant rang the bellpull. What would answer, he did not know.
After brief scratching and scuffling, a goblin answered. At least, presumably it was a goblin– it wasn’t quite an orc, and definitely not a man. It had round, amber eyes and a flat, furry face, its limbs long and spidery as a langur or gibbon’s. It squinted at Salgant suspiciously under tufted eyebrows, having difficulty meeting the glinting stars in his elven eyes.
“What do you want?” it squeaked, its hand clenching the door handle while the rest of it hunched near the floor. Little fangs flashed as it spoke, “Food? Water? Piss pot?” It hesitated, putting a long finger in its mouth and muttering, “…Do elves piss? Never heard of an elf pissing…”
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