Murmurs Before Dawn

The chill of the hour before first light clung to the wooden wall like a living mist. Grashok stood alone atop the battlements, his breath clouding faintly as he gazed out over the plains beyond Ingunde. The sky was a tapestry of pre-dawn greys, stitched with slow-drifting cloud and the suggestion of stars retreating to the horizon. Soulrend, slung across his back, whispered softly in its sheath, its faint hum oddly comforting.

He couldn’t see the treeline now—just darkness beyond the wall’s reach, thick and impenetrable—but he knew exactly where it began. Two hundred paces out, where the forest had once pressed in too close, his forces had cleared a wide swath of earth, stripping brush and saplings down to raw, exposed dirt. What had once offered cover and concealment to any creeping foe was now a bare expanse—a kill zone designed with brutal pragmatism. The goblins, townsfolk and even some adventurers when spurred on by quests had cut through the undergrowth, dragging chain-hooks behind them to tear up roots, whilst mages had burned the stumps and denser patches with controlled bursts of flame. The brushfires had smouldered for hours, then been tamped out and salted. In his mind, he walked that field, every inch memorised. It would buy them time. It would cost the enemy blood.

Below, the town slumbered in uneasy stillness—save for three quiet voices approaching near the base of the wall, just on the inner side of the defences. Grashok leaned slightly forward, unseen in the dimness, peering down through a narrow gap between the parapet timbers as they stopped beneath him. Through that slit of shadow, he could make out their shapes, their postures, the way they glanced at one another as they spoke.

It was Elenara who spoke first, her voice low but clear. “I still don’t understand what happened last night. Around an hour into nightfall, everything just... stopped. What was going on?”

“I wondered the same,” Maren said, her tone light but puzzled. “We were halfway through stockpiling arrows and barrel-lifting, and then—nothing. Grashok came through, told us all to be quiet. Dead quiet.” She looked at Tilda “Even the deep rothe were hushed.”

“He had people kneel, remember?” Tilda chimed in, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. “All those with sharp hearing. There were at least a dozen of them—goblins, adventurers, even Zarukk. All kneeling with their ears to the ground like they were trying to hear the stone breathe.”

Elenara made a thoughtful hum. “It narrowed near the Guildhall, didn’t it?”

“That’s what it looked like,” Tilda confirmed. “Some of them went inside with Grashok and Sylrith—xvarts too. They’re quick and quiet when they need to be. I saw them later, hauling gear back and forth. There were construction noises as well—hammering and such.”

Maren shifted, the scuff of her boot barely audible. “I noticed it while tending my animals. They were scurrying through the side entrance, carrying sacks and cases, and things wrapped in cloth. No idea what it all was, but they were careful. Secretive.”

Elenara exhaled through her nose, eyes narrowing. “So... something was down there. Or under.”

Grashok allowed a small nod to himself. Sharp as ever — he’d expect nothing less from his spymaster.

The conversation shifted, softened, as Elenara asked quietly, “What’s it like being back in Ingunde? After everything?”

There was a pause before Maren spoke, her voice warm but slightly bittersweet. “I don’t miss it. Honestly, I think living in Grashok’s dungeon is the best thing that could have happened. Ingunde feels so... small. And exhausting. The adventurers made it worse. Always leering, always asking if we were available.”

“They thought we were part of the furniture,” Tilda muttered. “Only ever wanted something from us. And don’t get me started on the inn—three steps inside and some smug rogue or bard has got his arm halfway round your hip or worse.”

Elenara gave a sympathetic noise, and Maren chuckled faintly. “They always acted like we were here just to entertain them.”

“and please them,” Tilda added disgustedly.

Their agreement settled into a short pause, before Tilda’s voice shifted with curiosity. “Speaking of odd things... Maren, what’s with those Saritchbloom Pods? Are we actually supposed to shove them into our ears?”

“Yes!” Maren replied brightly. “They’re amazing—soft, fibrous, like cushioning moss. A bunch of us collected them yesterday from the old grove beyond the walls. Distributed them to the fighters standing watch. They dull the distant sounds without completely deafening you. Sort of helps to focus, I guess. Or at least Grashok seems to think so.”

“I saw you handing them out,” Elenara said, a smile in her tone. “With that little basket and your boots clacking across the scaffold. Looked almost elegant.”

Tilda giggled. “Elegant until one of the town boys gave her a cheeky slap on the backside.”

“Oh gods,” Maren groaned, clearly mortified.

“It’s true!” Tilda laughed. “She turned around and clocked him square in the jaw. I swear, he only came back to consciousness a few hours ago—and he’s still walking sideways.”

Elenara chuckled. “Good.”

“What’s funny,” Tilda went on, teasing, “is that Maren used to fancy him. Back before we were—well—taken from the town.”

“I did not,” Maren protested weakly.

“Oh, she did,” Tilda laughingly confided to Elenara.

There was a brief explosion of laughter, a clatter of boots as one of them shifted against the low wall.

“Alright, maybe I did, but I’ve grown up now,” Maren said at last, cheeks flushed even in the near-dark. “I’ve found better.”

“Oh yes,” Tilda drawled. “Much better.”

Elenara’s voice danced with mirth. “Grashok is better.”

That sent all three into another round of laughter, lower now, more conspiratorial. Above them, Grashok stood silent and amused, letting the early wind brush his brow as he watched the horizon shift. The enemy would come. The sun would rise. But in that moment, there was quiet giggling, soft murmurs, and the easy warmth of friends who trusted one another.

Tilda’s voice drifted upward through the wooden boards, lightly teasing, “I’m the only one who hasn’t slept with Grashok. Is he really that good?”

A brief pause followed, then Elenara hummed with mock solemnity. “Oh, he’s good.”

Maren giggled. “Very good.”

“It’s hard to explain,” Elenara said, her voice tinged with something warmer. “But there’s a kind of magic about him. Not literal, not the spellcasting kind. Just... something in the way he moves, the way he knows what you need.”

“And the way he listens,” Maren added. “And takes his time. I mean, you don’t expect that from a war-leader, do you?”

“No,” Tilda said quietly. “You don’t.”

“And then there is the…” Elenara said and they both spoke in near unison, voices dropping to playful husk. “The Hobgoblin tingle.”

That sent both women into laughter once more, the sound rich and knowing, full of shared memory and wicked delight.

Tilda groaned theatrically. “So I am missing out.”

Maren leaned in with a grin. “Well, maybe, but you’re also the only one of us who’s slept with the Rock Troll.”

Elenara made a surprised sound, part gasp, part amused shriek. “What? You didn’t!”

Tilda made a mortified sound, boots scuffing awkwardly. “It wasn’t... It just sort of... happened. I mean, they’re surprisingly gentle. And strong. And he was very polite!”

“Was it good?” Elenara asked, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and interest.

Tilda nodded slowly, then gave a sheepish smile. “Surprisingly, yes. A lot of strength and a lot of length.”

The three of them fell into hysterics, leaning against each other for support as the laughter echoed through the early morning stillness.

Above them, Grashok’s lips curled into a wry smile. The wind tugged at his armour, but the warmth below held firm. He’d long stopped being surprised by the lives his people led, or the bonds they forged—sometimes in pain, sometimes in pleasure, but always with loyalty and friendship woven deep.

A sudden shout rose from the north gate tower.

“Scouts approaching! The scouts are back!”

Grashok straightened at once, his expression sharpening. “Snippa,” he thought, the name echoing like a warm ember in his chest.

Without another glance at the women below, he turned and hurried along the parapet toward the gatehouse, boots thudding softly against the timber. The laughter continued behind him, warm and fading, as dawn approached and war loomed ever nearer.