"I'm surprised that anyone in that town would care to aid an ignited hobgoblin," growled Toede.
"Well, to be exact, they didn't," said Groag, raising his eyebrows in an expression of sad bewilderment. "It was the visitors-a group of scholars from the west, looking for permits and collecting supplies for their investigation of folklore and legends in the area. A group of lesser sages, and librarians under private sponsorship."
"That wouldn't be this lot?" said Toede, motioning to the entrance of the tent at the greater world beyond, where the scribblers and scriveners had finally abandoned their work to the darkness.
Groag nodded. "They were quite decent. They rescued me and took care of me, using their own potions and poultices to bring me around. Of course, by this time, most of the seaward side of your manor had burned and collapsed, and they found Hopsloth."
"Parboiled, I hope," muttered Toede.
Again the eyebrows raised, pinched in the center. "Happy and healthy. By the time I regained consciousness, his story was on everybody's lips. You never said the creature could talk."
It was Toede's turn to shrug. "I, myself, learn new things each and every day."
"Well, he talks," added Groag. "And spins a mean tale through his own spokeshumans. Gildentongue had kept him in squalor, he said, intending to tyrannize Flotsam. He had prayed to the Dark Gods for your return, and you were sent by Takhisis herself to restore rightful order. Unfortunately, you died locked in mortal combat with Gildentongue, and the pair of you were immolated by the draconian's final destruction. Freed of such traitorous minions, Hopsloth could now take rightful control of the city. It all sounded like something you might have dreamed up, had you lived, but the idea of Hopsloth in charge made me very nervous, so I promised these scholars my assistance in the field for a while."
"The question is," asked Toede, "what are you and (by connection) they doing here? You undoubtedly realize you are on the borders of a gnoll-inhabited marsh accompanying a group with the common sense of a troop of kender?"
Again the pinched eyebrows. Toede decided that this (new) trademark gesture was Groag's alternative to the kenderish shrug he had adopted the last time Toede was alive. Toede thought to change his line of questioning. 'This time, how long was I…"
"Dead or missing?" said Groag. "Again, about six months, give or take a couple days. As to what the scholars are doing, well, how much do you know about ogres?"
"Ogres?" asked Toede, mildly surprised by the sudden change of subject. "Nasty, filthy brutes. Make gnolls look positively angelic. At least the gnolls wash their muzzles after biting the heads off kobolds."
"Right," replied Groag. "Well, the idea these scholars have is that the ogres weren't always like that. That they were once a more noble, gentle, and good race that was twisted by some foul magic or catastrophe. They believe that this area was once the home of these proto-ogres, and these stone markers were their handiwork. Work's been slow, since only Bunniswot has a handle on the proto-ogre language. Everyone else has been copying carvings, making rubbings of the stones, and minor excavations, but Bunniswot is the mastermind of the operation."
"Ogres serving the cause of good," sniffed Toede. "What a load of gorgon patties! This Bunnysnot is the older gentlemen with the sonorous voice?"
"No, that's the chief scholar, Renders," corrected Groag.
"Bunniswot is the other one, the one with the fiery red hair."
"Talks through his nostrils," said Toede. "Seems fairly unpleasant. Since he's the only one irreplaceable here, have you thought of gutting him in his sleep and just going home?"
"That would be unkind," said Groag, and Toede was surprised to see that he was sincere. "As well as unnecessary. Renders keeps Bunniswot on a short leash. Besides, I don't think the human ever sleeps. He's in the field all day, and works on translations all night. He keeps a magical stone in a box, which gives off sufficient light for his work."
At this point the front flap of the tent vibrated, and Renders poked his head in. "I heard voices. Are you awake, Groag?" Such stating the obvious was a peculiarly human trait, Toede observed silently. For all he knew, that would be the next ugly habit that Groag would pick up.
Renders entered carrying two trays heaped with the boiled vegetables in gravy that Toede had seen cooking in pots earlier. The food looked fairly gray and unappetizing, even to someone whose last real meal was raw weasel. Toede took a sniff, wondering once again if the humans were drawing their water directly from the swamp. Still, it promised to be filling (after a fashion), so he dug in.
Groag picked at his food, as Renders squatted between the two hobgoblins, his bony knees jutting up like mountains on an old map. "I hope you're feeling better. I had a few of the boys finish the cooking, but I'm afraid they haven't the hang of it." He gave a patriarchal smile that reminded Toede of Gildentongue.
"It's… pt… very good… pt…" said Groag, trying to spit out little bits of grit. "Though next time tell the lads they should skin the vegetables, since it… pt… gets rid of most of the dirt."
Renders nodded as if sage wisdom had been imparted to him. "I'll tell them it was a good first attempt. But they were a bit… ah… lavish with our remaining stock. I'm afraid that someone will have to return to Flotsam to purchase some supplies sooner than, ah, expected."
The hairs on the back of Toede's neck immediately went up.
Renders continued, addressing Groag. "You can take the horses, and, ah, be there and back in four days. We should be able to hold out that long. You can take your, ah, your friend along." Renders motioned toward Toede, who rose to his feet.
"Advisor, actually," said Toede, smiling broadly. "We haven't had proper introductions yet. You can call me Underhill." He held out a hand.
Renders admired Toede's outstretched paw with the caution usually reserved for investigating locks for poison mechanisms. Then he shook it once, quickly, and turned back to Groag as if Toede had suddenly vanished in a puff of smoke.
"You and, ah, Underhill, can leave tomorrow morning. We'll give you sufficient moneys for the supplies." With that, Renders turned and left the tent, without even saying good-bye to Toede.
"Who does he think he's talking to?" huffed Toede.
"The cook… pt…" said Groag, spitting out a particularly large stone, then added, "and the cook's advisor." He pursed his eyebrows together, and Toede suddenly realized he had seen the same expression on Renders's face when talking about "the boys'" attempt at cooking dinner.
It was almost enough to make Toede miss that irritating kender-shrug.
Groag, now fed, drifted off in a light, muttering sleep, but Toede remained up, sitting in the entrance to the tent, watching the humans. They were less feverish than in the last hours of daylight, but no less insane in their actions: involved in deep discussion with each other, examining scrolls and old books in the light of the dying campfire, pawing over bits and pieces of what they had discovered during the day. Even from this distance Toede could see that they were pawing over veritable garbage: shattered pot shards and pieces of aged leather.
There was one unusually bright light in the camp, coming from what Toede assumed was Bunniswot's private tent. He could see the silhouette of a human crouched over a camp table piled with scrolls, books, and paper. The figure seemed to be working hastily, checking one tome, leafing through another, getting up, pacing, writing a few words, then repeating the cycle.