While the dark elves began to drink in the village tavern, Talfor worked hard to tidy up the stables, where the Shaccares, large and ferocious black cats, waited impatiently. The old stables were rusty, with damaged roofs and rough weathered walls, but they were the best the village had to offer.
Valthorn and the other soldiers dumped balls and gadgets on the floor, laughing loudly and exchanging harsh words in their guttural way of speaking.
Inside the tavern, tension hung in the air. The dwarves who were there drinking and chatting at rustically carved wooden tables glanced nervously at the dark elves who occupied most of the tables, avoiding their gazes completely. The tavern keeper served beer and food with trembling hands, fearing the reaction of the newcomers.
Valthorn, with his penetrating gaze, watched every move. While his subordinates devoured their food and drank in silence, he sat in a larger chair with a smile on his face.
