They through the defeated village, the remnants of the battle surrounded them like a somber reminder of the violence that had taken place.
They soon found themselves in front of a modest tavern, its wooden exterior was worn and weathered.
As they entered, the sound of conversation ceased, and all eyes turned to the unexpected guests.
The tavern owner, a grizzled orc with a hardened expression, leaned against the counter, idly cleaning a glass.
He looked up at Arnar and spoke with a hint of defiance in his voice, "You're not welcome here, King of Elves." His words were tinged with bitterness, a reflection of the strained history between their two races.
Arnar simply chuckled, his laughter filled with a touch of amusement. "So, weren't your problems in my kingdom? But here we are, aren't we?" His smirk spoke of a confidence that was not easily shaken.
"What do you want from us?" the orc's voice rumbled, deep and annoyed with the elf king's presence.
Arnar leaned casually against the counter, his gaze met the orc's. "What do I want? I want to talk to your village head," he replied with a tone that spoke of authority.
The orc didn't say much in response, but nodded in understanding. "Very well, wait here," he grumbled before disappearing into the depths of the tavern.
Eira clenched her fist, her unease felt palpable. Arnar turned to her, his eyes filled with concern. "Eira, can you listen to what they're saying?" he asked, knowing the extent of her magical abilities.
Eira nodded, her focus intensified as she honed in on the orc's footsteps. In her mind's eye, she followed the sound, leading her to a dimly lit back room.
Darkness enveloped the space, but as she opened her eyes, a faint shimmer of light emanated from her palms. "Touch my hand, my king," she whispered.
Without hesitation, Arnar reached out and touched Eira's hand, a surge of energy passed between them. In an instant, he could hear the voices in the back room, their conversation flowed into his mind. "Orc, the king is here and he demands your presence, chef," one orc said. Another responded with annoyance, "Tell him to go away, I'm busy." Then, the first orc's voice grew urgent, "He slaughtered the village!"
"This son of a bitchh!"
Arnar released Eira's hand, his eyebrows tilted as he processed the information.
Eira, visibly shaken, looked at him with widened eyes and a voice trembling with unease, "I felt something, something dark within your touch..."
Arnar reassured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Do not worry… It was the darkness within them, not within me," he said softly, understanding the weight of the emotions she had absorbed.
Just then, the orc reappeared, breaking the somber moment. "You can meet him, but be quick," he gruffly announced, begrudgingly granting them an audience with the village head.
Arnar and Eira descended into the depths of the tavern, their footsteps echoed through the dimly lit corridors that led to the dungeon-like room.
As they entered, they were met with a scene of darkness and gloom. At the center of the room, an ugly orc sat hunched over a table, indulging in a drink that appeared suspiciously like blood. His features were distorted, his skin mottled and scarred, and his twisted grin revealed jagged teeth.
It was a visage that mirrored the darkness that resided within his soul.
Upon seeing Eira, the orc's gaze shifted, and a wicked smirk crept across his face. "Did you bring me a gift, King of the Elves?" he sneered, his words dripped with malice.
Eira's unease became palpable and her instincts began warning her of the danger that emanated from this creature.
Sensing her discomfort, Arnar closed his eyes briefly, summoned his resolve, before opening them again to face the orc head-on.
"Yes, indeed I did. I slaughtered your village for you," Arnar replied, his voice carried an icy undertone. "There will not be as many disgusting creatures walking on this ground." He mocked the orc, taking satisfaction in his words.
The chef, enraged and fueled by grief, choked on his drink as he shouted, "You son of a bitch! How dare you touch my people?"
As Arnar smirked, his amusement mingled with a touch of arrogance. "It's not like you nasty creatures don't populate easily anyway," he retorted, as he stared into the orc's eyes.
"You come to my house, announcing that you killed my people for what?"
The orc let out a roar of frustration, rising from his seat and towering at an intimidating height of at least 11 feet.
But Arnar, unperturbed, merely flicked his fingers dismissively. "Sit your ass down before I turn your stomach into a river of blood," he commanded with steely determination.
The orc immediately complied, his bluster subsided under the weight of Arnar's presence. Seething with anger, he tried to regain his composure and retort with a jab at the elf king's vulnerability.
"You think your words are intimidating? You think I don't know what your wives did to the pathetic and sad you?" he spat, trying to provoke a reaction.
Arnar's jaw tightened, his patience was being tested.
He leaned closer to the orc and gazed, piercing through the layers of ugliness that marred the creature's face.
"Yes, and shall I tell you what I will do to you if you won't shut up and listen to me?" Arnar's voice carried a dangerous edge, leaving no doubt about his intentions.
The orc fell silent, realizing the gravity of the situation.
Arnar took a moment to study the orc's repulsive countenance, searching for any flicker of information that might help him achieve his goal.
Leaning in, he spoke with authority, "I need information about the Elven dust. Where do I get it?"