She wouldn't have picked him for a runner. The human perhaps, if anybody, but in truth all three had seemed the death before dishonour type, the type she'd obliged by providing said death more times than she could be bothered to remember.

It mattered not. She'd be finished with these two before he could get far. It wouldn't have been long in any case, but with the dwarf's axe removed from the equation the conclusion was now even more foregoner.*

So, she kept a casual eye on his running form as she effortlessly evaded the two blades still clumsily hacking away at the spaces she had occupied moments before, and pondered on which of the human or the elf she would kill first.

The elf was tempting, as it rankled that the unworthy creature had actually managed to draw blood, something no other opponent had achieved since those long ago days in the training arena. But then, given her attempt to save him, it seemed the human meant something to her, so perhaps it would be more satisfying to kill him first and prove just how vain those efforts had been.

In any case, she should decide before the dwarf's flight carried him much...she blinked. With a momentary lapse of concentration, in which the human's blade actually managed to nick the sleeve of her robe, she saw the stocky figure was no longer running. Instead, he now stood at the entrance to the alley, silhouetted against the sunlit street beyond, where—bafflingly, inexplicably—he proceeded to remove his shirt, revealing in the process that while his figure might be stocky, it rocked a serious sixpack. Well, perhaps a fourpack.

Defending now on reflex alone (which would still have been a match for half-a-dozen Slashes or Carris), she stared in perplexity at the dwarf as he raised his arms above his head, stretched his muscled body to the limit of his not at all considerable height—and began to sway, as if to some rhythm apparent only to him.

While she was no student of dance, lest it be the dance of death, she was transfixed. First with confusion and next with derision, but then with...something else. As the dwarf's movements became more powerful and purposeful and...and...personal, a trace of curious and unprecedented empathy stirred deep within her, just the tiniest of chimes, like a tuning fork in her heart. And much as the merest tremor might bring down a mountainside, as the harmonics of that chime reverberated through her, something buried deep in her psyche broke free. Something troubling and mysterious and raw. What exactly that something might be, whether the swirl of heady emotion rising within her was something new or something discarded and long-forgotten, she could not say.

Although she still defended every slash and thrust with ease, her lack of attention—for she spared them scarcely a glance—soon became apparent to her foes. And as she continued to stare beyond them, the ferocity of their attack waned, until at last their evident curiosity as to what the hell could be more interesting than the two blades trying to kill you overcame them, and they too turned to watch the dance of the dwarf.

Moving with rapturous abandon and yet breathtaking precision, his compact form tumbled and flew, floated and spun, as butterflies flittered in the pit of Wonda's stomach and long-dormant feelings stirred and stretched, expanding to inhabit every fibre of her being. A mysterious moisture formed in her eyes (tears, she realised, the first her eyes had known since the day of her childhood abandonment, a lifetime ago) as the beauty of the dance, the purity of the dance, the sheer, heartrending truth of the dance stripped away the scar tissue she had so assiduously built up over the years in order to keep her innermost self safe in this world of danger and death.

There was no music, beyond the cadence of his dancing feet, the sounds of the street, the rush of blood in her ears and the intoxicated pounding of her enraptured heart and yet, she realised, what more fitting music could there be than this, the very music of life itself? What better soundscape in which to take stock of the state of her soul, to catalogue and accept the vast and varied range of scars and blemishes it bore, and to understand that, irrespective of its battered state, while it was hers and hers alone it was also as one with the universe?

Whirling, spinning faster and faster, much as her world now seemed to spin around her, the dwarf approached the climax of his performance, moving into the centre of the alley and then, with a final, convulsive spring, soaring into the air, turning a complete somersault and landing lightly at her feet.

Breathing deeply, ruddy features aglow, eyes alight with the simple and pure joy of being alive, he gazed into her face as they shared a look of complete understanding and accord, in the deep and unspoken atavistic bond of the dance. And then—the look of simple and pure joy becoming just a little less pure—he knocked her out cold with a single crisp uppercut, right to the tip of her pointed chin.

Silence reigned in the alley. Rubbing his knuckles, Hobe gazed down at the fallen goblin.

"Interpret that, sunshine."

And then, as Carri and Slash broke into spontaneous, stunned and rapturous applause, he bowed.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here, then?"

At the sound of the voice behind him, Slash paused in the act of backing out of the alley. He considered the unconscious assassin, whose ankles he was clutching, the shirtless dwarf holding her by the other end, and the elf coming up behind them, cradling two swords and a very large axe. Now was hardly the time for conversations with curious passers-by.

"Um. Nothing?" he ventured.

"Nothing, my arse. Nice try, matey. I wasn't born yesterday, you know."

Slash resumed backing. "Look, our friend just had one too many, alright? So, we're taking her home to sleep it off. Not that it's any of your business."

"None of my business?" It seemed some people couldn't take a hint. "Ha! I'll decide what's my business, thanks very much. And around these parts, everything's my business. Now, I suggest you put down that goblin pretty damn quick smart and start telling me the truth right about bloody now, otherwise I just might start to get a bit cross. And believe me, you don't want that."

"Cross?" In exasperation, Slash turned his head to see just what manner of idiot they were dealing with. "Keep talking that way and you'll soon see what cross looks..."

He swallowed. Standing behind him in the afternoon sunlight, with passing pedestrians giving it a wide and wary berth, was a troll. A particularly large example of the species, which, given largeness was pretty much one of the key defining attribute of being a troll, meant it was very large indeed. It was also an usually eloquent example, as Slash couldn't recall ever before having heard one string more than a few words together (and those words generally came from a pretty short list, in which 'ugh', 'hungry', 'eat', 'food', 'clobber' and 'me', 'kill', 'you', 'now' all featured heavily). Eloquence and size notwithstanding, this one did at least bear the traditional troll expression of deep stupidity on its rubbery oversized features as it stared down at the strange little tableau.

"Uh, look," said Slash, with the best attempt at a conciliatory smile he could manage while looking awkwardly over his shoulder and simultaneously holding up one end of a surprisingly heavy unconscious goblin assassin, "sorry if I spoke out of turn a little there. It's just—"

"Sorry? I should damn well think so. I'll have you know you're addressing two of Quollo's finest, my friend. Two of the best damn law-enforcement officers to ever brave the down and dirty streets of this blackhearted city. So, just you show a little respect, matey-boy."

For the briefest of moments, Slash was about to add ventriloquy to this singular troll's list of remarkable attributes, but then noticed the little figure flittering around down by its midriff and understanding abruptly fell into place. Well, into something, at any rate.

It was a fairy. Gossamer wings glistening in the sunlight, it was a male fairy decked out in a blue uniform of a vaguely military style, but not from any regiment or legion Slash had seen before. Given fairies were very much known—notorious, even—for their verbosity, it seemed clear this little creature was the source of voice. Not for the first time, the surprising depth and volume those miniature chests could generate had led Slash to expect someone considerably more substantial. And, now that he thought about it, there was something familiar about that voice. Not to mention, upon closer inspection, the face.

"Barderim!" he exclaimed, unceremoniously dumping his goblin cargo. At Carri and Hobe's looks of askance he added, "Don't sweat it, he's an old friend," before turning back to the fairy, with a wry grin. "Long time, no see. How's it hanging, you overgrown excuse for a mosquito?"

"High and handsome, boyo, same as usual." His look of censorious disapproval transforming into a devilish grin, the little form flew down and punched Slash in the shoulder. "How the hell are you?" he went on, patting the soldier's glistening epaulette. "I see you haven't wised up and moved on to greener pastures, like I did. Still slumming it in the Dragons, eh?"

"Yeah, yeah. Guilty," replied Slash. He gestured at the fairy's crisp uniform. "Which legion's desperate enough to have you?"

"Legion?" Carri sniffed in disapproval. "He's not with any legion. He's competition, is what he is."

"Competition?" Slash frowned at the little figure. "Wait, so you've gone freelance, these days? Huh, I never would have picked you for that kind of thing. You always loved the uniform and the bling and the bossing people around too much." He nodded at the troll, still standing there in benign vacancy. "What's this, your muscle?"

"Freelance?" scoffed Barderim. "Oh, please. I'm not some street-rat blade-for-hire like your elf friend. Nope, good old Blompo here"—he flew up and patted the troll on the leathery dome of its great head—"and I are official officers of the law, officially appointed by the High Council to officially police the streets of Quollo. And as such"—alighting on the troll's head, he put his hands on his hips and gave them all a stern look—"it's now my official duty to officially inform you that you're all officially under arrest. Book 'em, Blompo."

*No sooner had this thought formed than somewhere way down in the deepest recesses of her brain an annoying little voice piped up to express some reservations as to its grammatical veracity, along with the sentiment that, given said reservations, perhaps it might have been nice if the League elders could have foregone, say, the bottom three items in the top ten list of things to watch out for when garrotting a troll, in order to spend just a tiny bit more time on the three Rs (and no, the voice wasn't talking about reaming, ripping and ravaging). Fortunately, she had become very accustomed to ignoring this voice over the years.