In the depths 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. 

There was a universe created and undone with every lay. For a troll and his girl, was there ever a more ethereal and honest conversation than when seed and cries were exchanged?

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 had been thrusted into his role among the horde. He hadn't accepted it to charitably help those struggling in his community. Such noble pursuits took a backseat to self-preservation, whether he acknowledged it or not. After years of unsuccessfully trying to emulate his green brother, Larimer was lucky to find salvation in his unexpected appointment.

Although simple, Larimer was no fool. 

Yet, he could never match the prowess of such a masterful criminal like Vilk. His strengths were raw and forceful, whereas the goblin wielded finesse and strategy.

The underground establishment of the horde became a sanctuary, liberating Larimer from tasks that were ill-suited to his hands. Ironically, in his new role, he had begun to understand the hardships of others. His world's were interconnected rings, often in conflict. 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 otherwise 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 expert craftsmanship in its length, long enough for such a body as his. Its stability, under his and Ellenore’s combined weight, was 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 naïve girl in earnest. Ell had little other choice but to relinquish her control 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 into the back of 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 won’t leave with me?”

They glanced 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. 

Once he exhaled, the troll turned around, catching a faint trace of the woman he had spared. His heart was heavy with disillusionment, but a soft warmth offered joy. Not all humans had abandoned elms. Still, he couldn’t dismiss the naïve nature of Ell’s optimism. Even had Larimer believed he could go, the Hord would surely have crumbled without him. 

In his honest thoughts, it was inappropriate 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 in the ceiling. 

As a leader of the Hord, there weren’t many souls who could sneak up on Larimer. Even fewer had skill enough to make him second guess his observations. But the stoic troll knew his brother too well to miss his arrival. He couldn’t say what had given the goblin away until Vilk was in view. 

Vilk's side was bleeding. His wounds wouldn't kill him, but they certainly hampered his mobility. Had he been without magic, the green shadow would have been exposed. Thankfully, his shadow magic could hide any aspect of his presence at a time. He often hid his image, but Vilk could just as easily hide his sound or scent. Regardless, without his full strength and abilities, he stood seemingly no chance of hiding from Larimer. At least, not for long.

“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.