#pridemaw

When he attempted to return the next eve, the door was barred by a metal plate and he was unable to access the hole in the mound.

He found it that was the night after that--and yes, that was frustrating. Every time he was at the tavern to drink (find a wench) and ask, they merely ho'd and hum'd and never answered him at all about anything! Interesting, yes. Irritating, also yes.

He needed a blade,and he needed it now.

The third eve was finally to come, he arrived--the door was normal and he just walked into the area and wow-ee wow lookie there.

There was quite an attractive troll holding a blade and that was probably one of the best sights in this universe. If only there was alcohol in the other hand and then this would be perfection. Absolute perfection. Maybe a meal too.

There really wasn't much to say but take the blade and then swing it downwards to test it. It split the stone below them. And all he heard was "Can you NOT damage my shop? There are other things to damage."

He looked over the blade, and saw the engraved signature in the lovely handle. "Volundra?" Eyebrows rose, and glanced over to the blacksmith, dressed fine and dandy.

A finger was to their lips, shushing softly. "A secret."

"What do--" And he found a blade to his throat.

"And I would hope you quite understand what might happen if you choose to break it. I appreciate my privacy."

The blade was then withdrawn, and it wasn't surprising as to what happened after. 

He left with a grin on his face, and a bounce in his step. A great, legendary crafted blade on his side--and, well...

Broken.

Great.

His blade, his trusty sword: shattered. In pieces. A useless handle with no blade. How had this happened? What sort of shitty blacksmith gives you a blade that breaks?

What shoddy work. That had almost gotten him KILLED. He'd wring the neck of that blacksmith if he ever saw the ass again--but right now it was time to...

He was in the middle of nowhere, where would he FIND a proper smith, more than just some idiot with a hammer and anvil? Yeah, hah. Fuck.

So he goes around the town, a tavern his first stop. They direct him straight to the local smith that'll get him set up. He doesn't have faith, he'll merely have the half-baked troll fix it up and he'll go and find a real one in a better town.

So, of course...

Off it was.

The shop wasn't that impressive to look at. It was merely marked with a sign. Yes, the opening was nice of stone but it disappeared into a hill. A dirt-dweller. Of course. He rolled his eyes and marched in, seeing an open forge with weapons mounted all around... They... seemed quite nice.

He was to get closer to inspect but out came some heavy-clad troll ready to forge something. Definitely the smith--and a... um... troll.

Not that he could see much under all that.

Disappointing.

"I need a this blade repaired." Was his words to 'em.

"You know, I do not take many orders. Let me see that." And it was snatched right out of his hand. Examined. And tossed. "Trash."

Flabbergasted, he was about to say something when a hand was shoved over his mouth. "No, no. There's no need to talk." He was being examined quite thoroughly by this troll.

It was a little strange to be looked at so closely. He was measured, looked around--and his ass grabbed with a giggle.

"I'll make you a blade. Off you go. Come back three eve's time."

He was shoved out the door--

Once upon a time Volundra met Pridemaw.

They died about a fortnight later from sexual exhaustion.

A deep, glowing red. A strange ordeal indeed. Pridemaw was sound asleep, gently held by the sopor's mercy.

The lowerblood was safe, and he leaned down to give the sleeping troll a sweet kiss.

His sleeping gladiator's eyes opened, as if a magic curse was undone to cause him to awaken.

And, that kiss returned. "Good evening, love."