The squalor of Alternia’s more backhanded hideouts would be enough to make any normal troll nauseous with the smell. However, if someone were hiding in one of these low-down establishments, normal would be the last word used to describe them.
He’s used this town several times before, too, which isn’t the brightest idea he’s had in awhile. Anyone could be a spy. Mituna was all too aware of that fact ever since Carmin’s last big sermon had gone awry. Weeks slipped into months, and the psionic had long lost track of the date. When not hiding from the hemoists, he was searching for signs of Carmin, Delephine, or even, with luck, the Dolorosa.
Mituna surveys the place coldly with his heterochromic gaze. Hushed voices reach his ears, and someone sounded-- Wood and metal crash, and his eyes widen. Someone in a hood is shouting. A someone in a colorless hood with fervent passion in his voice. And nubby horns. This could get ugly. Quickly.
With a quick few steps, Mituna claps a hand on the shoulder of his old friend.
“say, stranger. did you hear about the troll who lost his left arm??”
