If Hassour could give a word to the scent he was smelling right now, it would be 'fear'. The smell of charred, burnt wood, linen, hay, and something more pungent lingering below it. Like memories themselves had gone up in fire until what remained, and subsequently what he was seeing, were skeletal wooden husks.
He could see that there had been animals in the barn. A lot of them. The people who'd lived in this small farm had gathered them up, and trapped them in the building before it had been set ablaze. He picked through the charred remains slowly, looking for anything that would interest him or his hungry belly, but despite the gnawing pains in his stomach, even he knew this was not a food source he could take advantage of.
Maurnel's words echoed briefly in his memory. 'I've heard there's been an awful plague in Lordaeron. I've heard a lot of people have died already. It's not a good place for you to be right now.' But true to his predictable nature, Hassour had ignored him, and set on by himself. There were more important things to worry about than plagues, or political strife, or even his own safety. His chest felt briefly warm at the familiar, comforting sensation of purpose.
Unfortunately, there was little in this barn that could serve him. These animals had been sick, and though Hassour's self-preservation was questionable at the best of times, even he knew eating them would probably end badly. Glancing once more around the remains of the building just to be sure, he picked his way back through the blackened carcasses, and toward the farmhouse itself. The smell became more pungent there, almost overwhelming. It looked like someone had tried to start a fire there, too, but it had failed, and instead devoured the tall grass surrounding it. All in all, it was fairly undamaged, and probably held a few odds and ends he could make use of. Food being one of them. He approached the building slowly, his yellow eyes moving from corner to corner in search of any kind of movement. Hassour might have been an opportunist, but so were others. For all he knew, this could belong to an elaborate den of thieves who'd take full advantage of his curiosity. Not as if he'd let them, though. He'd been traveling too long, and too far to let himself die to a squabble of petty criminals.
Surprisingly, the door to the farmhouse was unlocked. It opened slowly under the weight of his hand, and the light from behind him crept in like a slow-moving beast. He could see nothing at first except the long, troll-shaped darkness cast by his own shadow, and a quick glance at the floorboards and the walls on either side of him revealed no traps. It seemed, for the moment, that this place was safe. Hassour took a few slow steps into the house, his toes leaving marked indentations in the layer of dust and ash. From what he could see, it looked like a normal home that any well-to-do human family would own. Bigger than most he'd seen around here, and the quality of the architecture indicated they probably had money. Unsurprising, given the large amount of animals he'd seen in the barn. In the living room, though, he found nothing of interest. A dining table with a knitted cover. Chairs positioned around an empty, cold fireplace. A rug. What he didn't see, however, were any signs of a struggle. Whoever lived here had cleaned up nicely, as if preparing to leave for a long time.
Frowning, Hassour looked up again toward the door leading into the kitchen. Another careful examination of the threshold and the wooden framing indicated no more unseen traps, and he entered quietly, making a beeline toward the cupboards. Finally- some food. He hungrily searched the shelves, shoving aside beetle-infested flour, and unpalatable spices until he found jars of preserves, stacked neatly one on top of the other, and even labeled accordingly.
Hassour might have adopted the appearance of a self-controlled and educated troll, keeping his shoulders squared and his demeanor stoic, but not even he could fight the urge to eat like a ravenous beast, half-starved. Especially not after three days without food. He pried open the jar, and shoveled jellied strawberries into his mouth, crouched down on the floor like an animal. The idea of silverware didn't even occur to him; why would it when he had perfectly good hands to use? The only thing that managed to break him out of his food-induced stupor was a dull, but audible THUMP from the second floor of the home. Hassour's reaction was almost immediate. His body froze instinctively, wild sulfur eyes darting across the ceiling like a startled cat as his ears swiveled forward, searching for any indication of the sound. There weren't any footsteps. No voices. No further sounds. Just uneasy silence.
Carefully, Hassour abandoned his jars of preserves, standing up slowly. One hand rested on the knife at his hip, half-drawn in anticipation of danger, and he moved like silent fog back into the foyer. The door was still closed. Only his footprints were visible in the dust. Clearly, he was still alone, even if only on this particular floor. And then a new sound came to his ears.
Crying.
Not any kind of cry that an adult could make, no, but a primal, shrill, desperate cry specific to babies. He'd heard a lot of that in years past. Living in close proximity to neighbors with newborns left him with a keen familiarity to such sounds. But why was a baby here? Why hadn't he heard him before? Hassour frowned suspiciously, keeping his hand on his knife as he carefully ascended the stairs to the second floor of the house. There was a door blocking his path, locked. And judging by the cracked damage to it, someone else had tried to open it, too. Luckily (or perhaps unluckily) for the troll, his size afforded him an advantage in this situation.
Hassour pushed in, his weight bowing in against the thick wood. There was something laying behind it- something heavy. Like whoever was up here had barricaded it to prevent intruders from entering. He doubted they'd factored in the possibility of a troll doing the same. Taking a moment to push aside the heavy weight, he was immediately greeted by a toxic wave of rot and decomposition the moment he opened the door, the smell almost making him vomit right then and there.
Choking, he covered his face quickly, the noxious fume even making his eyes water. How any infant, much less one that sounded as young as this, could survive up here was beyond him. Keeping his face covered, Hassour crept forward, passing into the hallway, where the source of the smell became abundantly evident. There was a body on the floor, half sprawled from one room to the next, and judging by the dress it wore, and the long, dark hair tangled behind it, it had belonged to a woman. Her features eluded him; rot had eaten away at what she might have possessed, but he could see no wounds, and no bloodstains on her body. She must have succumbed to the plague.
His attention became diverted once more when the infant began to scream again. Had it belonged to the woman on the floor? Judging by her decomposition, she had been dead for days. Hassour frowned behind his scarf, and turned, making his way to the source of the crying.
The baby's room, if one could call it that, was dark, and very small. Clearly not suited for an infant, but perhaps the woman had put it here for it's own protection. She'd obviously been trying to keep -something- out of here. Hassour cautiously circled around the outer edge of the small room, keeping his eyes on the tall wooden cradle in which the baby lay. He couldn't help but wonder how the incredible noise it was making hadn't attracted other opportunists before him. Surely, someone would have heard this.
The baby itself was undressed except for a badly soiled diaper, the contents of which Hassour could smell from across the room. It had been wrapped in a blanket, it seemed, but had kicked it into a bundle at the end of the cradle. Screaming, red-faced, and hiccuping in exhaustion, the infant could only lay there helplessly, kicking it's feet occasionally. An unfortunate victim of poor circumstance, but the troll couldn't help being impressed at it's remarkable resilience.
Hassour liked to think of himself as stoic and immovable. A man built by nothing but his will to survive, and the purpose to do so, thrust into misery and clawing his way out of it with the aggression of a wild animal. But there had been a time when he, too, had been helpless like this. Dependent on the assistance of strangers. His rigid expression softened faintly as he stared at this screaming infant, left terribly alone in a dangerous world, but fighting to survive nonetheless.
Carefully, he reached down into the cradle, and picked up the baby, as well as it's blanket. The effect, of course, was almost instantaneous, and the infant's endless wails devolved into exhausted hiccups. Closer inspection revealed him to be a boy, with a pretty bad case of diaper rash from the look of it- not that such a thing was surprising. He'd probably been sitting in that diaper for days.
Discarding the soiled cloth almost immediately, Hassour wrapped the child up in his blanket, and cradled him against his chest to keep him warm. What a tiny thing he was- he couldn't possibly be older than three or four months judging by his size, but the troll wasn't well-versed in human infants to begin with. For all he knew, the baby could have been even younger. Whatever the case might have been, though, it wasn't safe for him to be there. The smell of the corpse was going to attract scavengers eventually.
Holding him tight, Hassour shielded him from seeing his mother as he moved back down the stairs. For what reason, even he wasn't sure. The baby was too young to remember her, and without any knowledge of what death was, unaffected by it. Perhaps it was for his own benefit, rather than the baby's. But there was a new problem now.
What on earth was he going to -do- with him?
It's not as if Hassour could just keep him. He had a purpose. A clear one. And none of it involved caring for infants. He couldn't just hand him over to the next human, either. Barring the fact that he'd be killed on sight as a troll, he had no way of knowing if the human he chose was even capable of taking care of him. Frowning, he looked down at the tiny infant, who was still whining with hunger, now sucking his thumb. Hassour exhaled through his nose.
Whatever decision he had to make, the first one was going to be finding baby food. Adjusting the tiny thing against his chest again, he set off West, back toward the direction he'd come from. There had been towns there, which he'd passed by quickly. Perhaps he'd have some better luck there.