In the deep silence of night, a bed sprawled wide in a dim room, an island of dreams amidst a sea of shadows. Alone, it beckoned, a solitary refuge where once there were two explorers etching out maps of the wet land.

  The mattress, soft and inviting, whispered solitude's secrets to the restless hearts that would tread its stable yet yielding frame. Sheets billowed and crest, an ocean of cotton, giving way to an empty nest. Each corner was distant like unexplored shores in a room where silence came after roars of beaten pleasure. The bed, in the aftermath, became a raft adrift, exploring the vast unknowns of adventure ended.

  Pillows, clouds in an endless sky, cradled echoes of the night, whispering moans and cries for more left to sink or float into air. The warmth once shared had dissipated, leaving an island of longing where bodies splayed provocatively. In the stillness, dreams tangled with memories of lust ever present but too far, divine and haunting. In that solitude, one found an island of both torment and peace, where their heart struggled to unwind.

  Larimer was a man of simplicity, but like most souls, he troubled to compartmentalize his life. He had a responsibility to the other elm touched of the city. Then, there were his duties as a leader of the Hord. And, of course, he owed respect and time to himself.

  One’s self, one’s work, one’s community.

  The blue-skinned barman was thrust into aiding the horde. He hadn't accepted the role to help those struggling in his community. Such noble reasons took a backseat to self-preservation, whether he acknowledged it or not. After years of unsuccessfully trying to emulate his green brother, Larimer found salvation in his unexpected appointment.

  Although simple, Larimer was no fool. Yet, he could never match the prowess of such a masterful criminal. His strengths were raw and forceful, whereas Vilk wielded finesse and strategy.

  The bar became a sanctuary, liberating Larimer from tasks that were ill-suited to his hands. In his new role, he began to understand the hardships of others. His world's interconnected rings, though often in conflict, revealed their intricate tapestry. Dealing with the city's underworld presented a path to growth without pursuing the impossible. Sadly, the horde remained a constant threat to any elements tied to its ranks.

  But Larimer was a simple man, a simple troll. Despite the draws and cuts of each compartment he juggled, he remained stable. Peculiar, was it not, that simple things, simple people, had a way of finding themselves tied up in unfathomable knots?

  “You trust the boy?”

  “He’s as good as I’ll find.”

  “Do you trust em?”

  “He’s a craftsman, like my father even. He hasn’t a heart for foul intent,” Ellenore explained while her nude frame clung to the troll’s sweat washed skin.

  The barman’s bed was a work of wonder in its length, long enough for such a body as his. Its stability, under his and Ellenore’s combined weight, was far more impressive considering the two had shared a late night etching runes into the troll’s bedroom floor. Cries of pleasure had reverberated off the walls, traveling through the ceiling and into clouds. Surely, someone on the streets outside must have feared a murder was afoot. Though, no matter how vocal the girl was, she never pulled away. Riding the cock of an elm several times her size made it all the more tempting to ask for more. And Larimer wouldn’t deny her. Perhaps, at the start, he may have hesitated for Ell’s sake, but after a rhythm was found, he released his aggression. Savoring the sticky work of bonding their bodies, he pushed and pulled at his leisure. With a firm hand, he threw away his passive belittling concerns and thoroughly fucked the na?ve girl in earnest. Ell had little other choice but to relinquish her freedom at the moment, but her loss of dominance was a sweet thing to be cherished. The air, humid and fogged, had washed the space in red hues wafting in the dim light. Their lust hadn’t stopped until the troll exhausted them both, which took more than a hand’s worth of orgasmic bursts.

  Elm Corner was home to most of the touched, but Larimer resided in a place elsewhere. The Hord’s alehouse was underground, but above the foundation, accessible to the common public, there was a false establishment. Red Hill, a bar that seldom sold more than two drinks a night, was just another forgettable hole in the wall of the pleasure district. Though there was an entrance to the alehouse tunnels hidden under the building, few among the Hord ever used it.

  More importantly, there was the living space Larimer had built in the building.

  “Do you care?” Ellenore asked as the naked troll stood from their embrace.

  Despite the grand scale of Larimer’s home, thanks to his stature, it was nothing grand to him. His head could nearly touch the ceiling, hands could easily reach it either way. Ellenore, much smaller in comparison, felt she was on an island, and it grew more lonely the further her friend moved away.

  “Has our time together finally softened your exterior?” She questioned.

  On her knees, using a sheet that had been soiled with seed, she playfully covered herself. Larimer, with a grin, only looked back at the girl before telling her, “You should leave before daylight reaches.”

  “Come with me.”

  “To the estate?”

  “On my adventure,” Ell joyfully suggested and stood up in the middle of the island.

  The barman collected his black pants from the floor, dawning them before retrieving the lady’s garments. He laughed, reminding Ell, “You have the craftsman,” as he held out her clothes.

  “I want you,” Ell said.

  The troll kept his grin, but in the faintest of ways, light had left its core. His arm, which held Ell’s garments, fell back to his side.

  “Why stay here? There will always be a bar when we return,” Ellenore said.

  “I can’t leave.”

  “You can’t leave with me?”

  They looked at one another, and in quick time, found they had fallen out of sync. Ellenore dropped the sheet from her body and left the bed. She took her clothes and passed the troll. Behind his back, she dressed herself not in a rage, but utter disappointment.

  “I’ve never cared what breed you are. But you, daughter of the inventor, you should,” Larimer argued with a shake of his head.

  Neither he nor Ell could say they were surprised by how quickly their alignments had split. It was the same as it had always been between them.

  “Don’t tell me what matters, Larimer. I can choose for myself.” She paused before her attitude grew out of voice. “Sixteen days. Reconsider,” the girl spoke in defeat before, with hesitant resolve, she left the room and the bar. Had she lingered any longer, her maid surely would have caught her sneaking back into the estate.

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  Once he exhaled, the troll spun around, catching a nearly visible trace of the woman he had spared. His heart was filled with warmth by the knowledge that not all humans had abandoned elms. Still, he couldn’t dismiss the na?ve nature of Ell’s optimism. Even had Larimer believed he could go, the Hord would surely have crumbled without him.

  In his honest opinion, it was not appropriate for Ellenore, an honest girl, to associate with criminals in any case.

  It was with a sigh that the barman spoke aloud, perhaps to a spirit, “Will you hide forever?” He rested a hand on his head and a hand on his hip before adding, “I know you’re there, Vilk.”

  There was a moment of silence. The troll, however, waited with annoyed confidence.

  “The inventor’s daughter?” Vilk said as he dropped into the room through a slanted window.

  If the goblin hadn’t appeared, Larimer would have felt silly. As a leader of the Hord, there weren’t many who could sneak up on or hide from him. Even fewer had skill enough to make him second guess his observations. But Larimer knew his friend too well to miss his arrival. He couldn’t say what had given the goblin away until Vilk was in veiw. The goblin’s bleeding side wouldn't kill him, but it had certainly hampered his normal mobility

  Vilk’s shadow magic could hide any aspect of his presence at a time. He often hid his image, but he could just as easily hide his sound or scent. Regardless, he knew it was rude to ease drop on a friend.

  “I told you, she favors us with pointed ears,” Larimer joked. His mood had softened, clearly unbothered by the goblin’s odd habits, but his tone hinted at concerns he struggled not to mention.

  It was a challenge to make light of a lay while his brother was hurt.

  Later that night, in what most considered early morning, Larimer served his brother several drinks mixed with healing herbs, though he never questioned where wounds came from. With the troll behind his bar and Vilk seated on a stool, the men focused on lighter subjects, choosing to avoid the heavier.

  “If anyone knew,” Vilk argued.

  “They won’t, less you’ll tell em.”

  Vilk had begun to notice a growing pattern, but he couldn’t say what made it recurring.

  The city was enthralled by the inventor’s daughter. If the people weren’t trying to steal her, they meant to bed her. The green skin finished his drink before setting the trend in his mind aside.

  “The alehouse needs to move,” he warned Larimer, but the troll, without fluster, questioned “Why?”

  “They’re coming for us, The Coppers.”

  “They’ve always been, ain’t they?”

  “This is different,” Vilk went on while the barman made another set of drinks.

  He was ready to pass Vilk a fresh mug, but he held on to it instead, wondering aloud, “How would you know?”

  The dimly lit bar was eerily quiet. The two figures occupying the space grew in awareness as their eyes met in silence, and laughter ceased. The air was thick with tension, the kind that preceded a storm.

  Larimer's eyes, usually calm and calculating, burned with betrayal. The revelation hit him, a punch to the gut, and his long, agile frame tensed with anger that Vilk immediately recognized.

  "How would you know?" Larimer's voice was a low growl, filled with hurt and fury as he continued to hold himself back. His strong hands held the wood of his bar, cracking the sealed surface under the pressure of his restraint. He wished not to believe what he now knew.

  Vilk instinctivly clutched the dagger on his hip, though he had no intention of using it. Looking up at his towering friend, he tried to be civil, saying, "Larimer, I—"

  Before he could finish, Larimer's hand shot out, nearly grabbing the goblin by his throat. Of course, Vilk was too swift to be caught by a motion he'd seen coming, but his injured side made it a close call. When the troll couldn't catch his brother, he instead took up a bottle from the bar and hurled it. The glass flew across the room and shattered against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

  Vilk ducked under the projectile, but his heart pounded with shame and adrenaline alike.

  "You betrayed the horde!" Larimer roared, his long arms sweeping across the bar, sending bottles and glasses flying. He moved with surprising agility, coming over the bar and closing distance with noteworthy haste for his size. His reach, his long legs, gave him an advantage.

  Vilk dodged and weaved every brutish strike the troll threw, his short frame darting between tables and stools to gain back even an inch of distance. He knew Larimer's strength and didn't want to fight him, but he couldn't stand still and take it. "I had to! They forced my hand!"

  Larimer grabbed a table and hurled it at Vilk, who barely managed to dive out of the way. The table crashed into the wall, splintering into pieces. "You could have told me!" Larimer's voice cracked with emotion.

  Vilk's eyes were wide with fear and regret. "I couldn't risk it. They threatened to—"

  Another bottle flew past Vilk's head, smashing into the floor. Larimer was relentless, his anger driving him to destroy everything in his path. "You should have trusted me!"

  Vilk's grip tightened on his dagger, but he couldn't bring himself to use it. "I never wanted this."

  The goblin took advantage of his brothers frenzy, and it took a while before Larimer realized he had lost sight of Vilk.

  Trolls, naturally towering in stature, rarely possessed matching muscle. However, their favored magic, stone magic, granted them immense strength and endurance. Larimer wielded stone spells with the same finesse that Vilk commanded shadow magic. Such power allowed him to stride across the room, crushing broken glass bottles beneath his bare feet without a second thought. It endowed him with the might to lift and hurl a table effortlessly.

  But stone magic came at a cost—each spell drained Larimer's breath, demanding a toll on his lungs as they fueled his flesh, bone, and skin with extraordinary power. Every use was a test of his endurance, forcing him to balance his formidable strength while becoming ever more light-headed and asphyxiated.

  The goblin melted into the shadows while the barman fumed and searched. Larimer’s strength, though formidable, was useless without a target. His tantrum’s intensity would soon reach its peak, yet the constant spinning in search of Vilk only fueled his frustration. His anger distracted him from the growing strain on his breath, his powerful lungs heaving with each futile movement.

  Vilk knew there would be no end until one of them suffered a blow great enough to bleed, or Larimer sufficated himself from rage. With shut eyes, he presented himself out in the open. Standing atop the only table that hadn't been tossed, the goblin dropped his dagger, and the sound immediately summoned Larimer.

  The barman took his brother by the throat and prepared to deliver a punch to his face that surely would have cost a handful of teeth, but then he paused. His chest heaved with exertion. The bar was a wreck of broken furniture and shattered glass littering the floor. He looked at Vilk, his eyes filled with a mix of rage and sorrow. "What could they have on you?"

  "They had you," Vilk answered with eyes peering into Larimer’s. His words earned him breath, and the troll let him go. He wouldn't have had strength enough to follow through with his next strike either way. All the air was gone from his lungs, nearly forcing him to fall. But Larimer remained standing, too stubborn to pass out despite how exhausted he suddenly realized his body had become.

  "Speak," he ordered with a single word that must have burned to release while his chest struggled to find rhythm. His heart beat, quick as a rabbit was thunderous.

  "They were too close. I was caught, and I would have let that be the end, but I knew they would find the horde soon. They would have found you. So I offered my aid and used it to steer them further from the alehouse. I've had to give them crumbs, but I would never give them,"

  Larimer had heard enough. "Get out, Vilk," he said, exhausted after expending all his strength.

  "I would have let it go. I would have let it die, but you grew in the ranks. You took up responsibility, and it looked good on you, better than fumbling over your feet, tracing my shadow."

  "Don't blame this on me. I ain't ever want this. How else was I supposed to watch after you? I've always followed your shadow. Would have lived another life out in the sun if you had led me to it. We're all we've got, ain't we?"

  "Then leave with me. The horde is dead, has been for a while."

  "I've made myself an arm, Vilk. How can I leave without bleeding everyone who look to me now? You will always be my brother, but I aint so selfish to let everyone die for our family."

  "I'd put them to the blade myself if it meant saving you," Vilk remarked.

  "What would be left to save?"

  The troll picked up his brothers dagger and tossed it through a window for the goblin to fetch outside. He knew Vilk would retrieve it, but the door would shut behind him just as surely.

  Yes, the rings of Larimer's world were stitched together, and they often clashed. But One’s self, one’s work, one’s community could never defeat the final ring. One's family, a glorious and toxic thing that the troll had only then found it in himself to question the worth of, had always been the most prominent and difficult to ignore.