A Meeting With Sir Berran Sianmista

There could be no peace and quiet through the camp as the two factions mingled. The sounds of joy and merry making rang through the Witchwood. While Grorr's Order of Courage set up their own small detatchment, they were still allowed to mix with the Elven mercenaries. Neither side saw each other as a threat despite any thought of racial tensions. As long as the beer was cold, food was hot, music was loud and the fight pits were electrifying, both sides would remain satisfied. 
The only quiet could be found in the tent of the Thorn's leader Berran Sianmista. The tent itself was a goregous mixture of felts and fabrics, the base colour took the form of a solid gold with great strokes of a deep blue, with little stars dotting the sea coloured fabric. The common tents couldn't even compare to one of such grace and beauty. 
Grorr couldn't help but think about how this was the kind of tent that only a leader or a noble would dwell in. She knew she had to silence the thoughts as the two guards led her into the tent; she had to focus. This was to be an act of diplomacy, and Grorr wanted to ensure her preferred results. 
"Commander Sianmista," came the first guard. "Grorr BrokeJaw, leader of the Order of Courage, conqueror of Wrathshollow, seeks an audience with thee." 
The elf stood with his back turned to the three. His back was draped with a golden cape with a single star in the center. Grorr could see that his sandy brown hair had a small bun at the back of his head with the majority of his hair hanging loose. He leaned over a table, scribbling away on parchment. Grorr remained indifferent, despite her urge to see what the man was doing. 
Inside the tent looked like a chamber inside of a castle or a regular home. There was a small sofa in the corner, a large table in the middle of the room and a bedroll with a makeshift frame on the side of the tent adjacent to the rectangular table. Berran lay his feather down beside his helmet and his sword and closed the book in front of him. 
"Grorr BrokeJaw," he said over his shoulder. "My men have been talking about your feats." 
"I didn't realize that you had left your tent," the woman grinned. "How does one hear gossip if they assign themselves a position of isolation?" 
Grorr wouldn't have seen Berran's slight smile if he hadn't turned around. "Did you think I would let you and your people into my camp without constant updates on your behavior?" 
"Have we done anything to insult you?" 
Berran waved off his guards and watched as they exited the tent. "Nay. In fact, you've been quite the decent guests. My men are happy and unbothered by your being here, so I can only share their feelings. I think I'll grant your audience. Care to take a seat?" 
Grorr stepped forward, reaching behind her and sliding her claymore from her back. She rested it against the table, putting her flair, shortsword and handaxe around the claymore as Berran motioned for her to sit on the couch. He pulled a chair up to his table and poured two glasses of a very dark red wine. 
"What do you wish to discuss, Miss BrokeJaw?" 
Grorr ran a hand through her auburn hair. Berran's sky blue eyes were quite the mesmirizing sight. His eyes were almond shaped yet still had quite the depth behind them. "My people have been abandoned; betrayed on the highest possible celestial scale. Do you believe in any gods, Berran?" 
"Aye, I've made love to Hanali Celanil once. It was an evening that consisted of pleasures I had never yet experienced - nor have I known anything of such magnitude since."
"You made love to a god?" 
"Naturally, the goddess of love works in ways not quite as mysterious as those of war." 
A grin crossed Grorr's lush lips. "Now that, I suppose, I can't argue with. I've shared a bed with tyrants, warlords, torturers and sadists, but never once with a deity, minor nor major. I've killed giants and drank with kings, but you're making me realize that my list of achievements are no where near as great as that of the elves." 
"And I have not enslaved nations out of the kindness of my heart. My men are calling you Grorr the merciful, known for giving even her blood sworn enemies the chance to assimilate before facing total enslavement. We could compare our adventures all night, but I have a feeling you have other desires to discuss." 
Grorr's thin eyebrows rose to the sky. She sunk back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other. She sipped her wine as her eyes scanned Berran's armor. It was a beautiful craft of platemail, but featured many dents from many a skrimish. "Hermitvaeon, the god my people worship, has abandoned us. I've lived up far too close to the moniker of Grorr the Merciful. There was a seaside city that had been crippled by a tsunami - quite the disaster itself, and instead of offering an olive branch, I elected to leave the city to rebuild and recover. Hermitvaeon was not happy with my decision and cast my people out, vowing to unleash eternal damnation upon all of us. Our time on this Earth was cursed to be filled with dispair and unluck, and he promised to make our afterlife as miserable as they come." 
"Where do I fall into this equation?" 
Grorr licked wine from her lips. "I'm building up an army. We are making allies and creating a new nation in order to take our home back. The Order of Courage was cast out of Wrathshollow by a man I used to trust with my own life. I wish to take back my home, and win Hermitvaeon back." 
Berran downed his wine in one gulp, standing up to refill his glass. "Have you come here to threaten me? My men outnumber you by at least two hundred. I don't wish to hear threats." 
Grorr stopped for a second, her eyes attempting to get a feel for Berran's thoughts, mood and emotions. "I don't wish to threaten you. I'm giving you an option to either help us, or point us in the right direction toward Ona Lenora in the morning." 
"If you are travelling to Ona Lenora, we will not be able to enter the city with you. The titular Thorn is that of Elven society. We have been pricked by said thorn when they cast us out for whatever reason belongs to the individual. Thus, we became brothers and sisters in our banishment. If we enter the city, that would spell out a death sentence for my men and myself. I want to help you, Grorr. You are both the strongest hobgoblin I've met, as well as the most beautiful." 
A slight reddening blushed its way on to Grorr's pale green cheeks. Her eyes grew soft as she was starting to understand where Berran was about to go. She had allowed many men to charm her - and she had a feeling Berran knew how to charm a woman. She looked down at her hide armor and realized just how unflattering it was. She stood up, sliding out of the armor and leaving her in a sleeveless tunic that cut off just above her upper thighs. The burlap tunic hugged tight to her body, accenting the surprisingly curvy shape that she hid underneath her armor. 
"Then please," Grorr said as she sat back down. "Help my people find Ona Lenora, and meet us to the North after we are finished with our business." 
Berran's eyes were locked to the warrior queen. A grin found itself painted from ear to ear. His eyes took her body in, causing him to unclasp the top of his armor, allowing it to fall to the ground. His chest was scarred from battle, and branded with the Ona Lenora mark of banishment on his left breast. "Grorr BrokeJaw, I give my forces to you. I name you my ally, and my queen." 
Grorr threw her glass to her lips, swallowing all of the wine it contained. She threw it to the ground as Berran did the same with his own empty glass. "Well then," she said as she sauntered to his chair. "How about we commemorate our newfound partnership?" The only answer Barron had to give was a slow nod, just before Grorr mounted him on his chair, crashing her lips to his. 

SESSION VI: THE TEMPLE OF DAIMONOGOG