Russell just couldn't.

He just couldn't tell Arron that a fine row of toilets and bathing stalls had been set by the elves just fifty yards from there.

Poor guy looked miserable. He was walking with a limp. Every once in a while he'd stare at the forest and shudder, like he's thinking of giant horse-chickens.

Giant horse-chickens.

Russell smirked a bit.

If somebody came two days ago and told him they met a giant horse-chicken in the middle of the forest at night while taking a leak, Russell would've simply asked that person what they had been smoking. But compared to the what's been happening of recent, this just wasn't all that shocking.

"Hey, hungry for some stew? They're serving it over there." Truth is Russell himself was hardly resisting himself from toppling over from nauseating hunger and wanted somebody to go with to reduce the awkwardness.

"I'm hungry for sandles!" Arron declared enthusiastically.

"You wanna eat sandles?" Russell arched an eyebrow. Alright, perhaps he shouldn't have been so trusting. The last two days had, after all, been enough to strain one's mind.

"Oh no! Ugh! That came out wrong! I meant to say, I'm so hungry I could eat sandles!" Arron stammered, " but wasn't Orpheus tell us to meet up?"

"He did. But there was no hurry. He went to talk to Len anyway. I gave the bread to the girls. I think we deserve to do some stomach worshipping now."

Arron didn't argue. Apparently his stomach god was angry too.

They walked through the crowd. It was hot and most people were wandering around aimlessly. Some were running around with purpose, as if to look for somebody in particular. A melancholic vacant look adorned the eyes of the ones who sat on the ground. Sunken into their sockets, they looked hollow in the low firelight.

As they neared the makeshift kitchen, the crowd got thicker. People started to look more and more lively. The sweet scent of bread started to peek over the pungent stew. Russell's stomach started to audibly roar and thrash as his mouth salivated.

There was a line of three people. They stood in the line, and in a moment Russell was in front of the shop.

The shop was a white cloth tent about thirty feet long. Smoke came out from the back, hearth radiated from it. A section was opened up wide for distributing food. Several elves were trying to give food to both humans and elves. From the little opening, a oven and a pot could be seen, along with another elf who was brewing it.

The stew was served in a tin can, along with a loaf of rye bread. The stew was excellently dense and the rye was well baked. Both Russell and Arron got a serving before they could pass out from hunger.

They took the stew and sat down on the ground a bit far from there. The ground was cold, but Russell's stomach was burning.

He inhaled the food.

The stew may have been delicious, but it passed down so quickly his tounge couldn't quite register the taste.

After the god in his stomach was pleased and half the stew was gone, he dunked the bread into the stew and ate it. The sense of taste seemed to come back now and the stew indeed, was delicious.

Russell looked over to Arron. He seemed to be on the same page, vigorously dunking the bread and chewing on it. Picking pieces of meat once in a while. Deer meat, Russell could tell by the salty taste.

Suddenly Arron looked into the can and carefully picked up a odd piece of meat, probably suspicious of it's origin.

"Don't look," Russell advised through eating, "it's easier when you don't look."

Arron shot him a horrified but convinced glance. Then he proceeded to plop it in his mouth, swallowing almost immediately.

They both finished at about the same time. Russell was getting up with the cans when a voice sounded.

"Is this what royalty has come to these days? Eating on the ground beside peasants?"

Russell looked up to see the owner of the voice.

The man standing in front of him was tall. Or at least he seemed tall. That might've been because Russell was sitting down.

His hair was snow-white. It still somehow maintained a perfectly combed state, the weirdest thing Russell had seen over the last two days. In the firelight, his pupils looked whitish gray, with a large black hole in the middle. And he had the most well groomed, magnificent beard Russell had ever seen.

It wasn't so long it'd make him look old, not so short it'd make his face look exposed.

It was perfect.

His fair skin glistened in the low light of the camp. He looked around forty.

Russell sighed. It was one of those faces that would've looked handsome if not for the scrutinizing scowl resting on it. And the fact that he called him a peasant. Which he was, but still. Rude.

"Hey, uncle Cadwell." Arron said from beside him.

"Don't hey me! What are you doing sitting next to and eating the same thing as that...that.." Cadwell regarded Russell like he was a overgrown centipede,"peasant.", He retched out the word.

"It's Russell," Russell said as he put his hands behind him. His fingers were itching to clasp around the neck of a certain very handsome someone.

Cadwell had the most genuine it-speaks look on his face that Russell had ever seen. He regarded him with nothing but pure degradation for a few moments. Then he turned towards Arron and said, "If you indeed have to eat the same thing as it, you should at least take the bigger share that is rightfully your's! Like this. Will!" The man hollered.

A scrawny boy in about his twenties who was hovering around extended his can of stew. He was wearing a flashy red and green outfit that, alongside his skin, took a dark grey in the camofire. His hair was brown like Russell's. It curled down in loops. His dark eyes looked tired.

"Here, your majesty." He said as the other man picked up a huge chunk of meat and gobbled it.

As he chew, Arron stroke up a conversation with the young man.

"Hey, Will. How'd you get out?"

"We released Argi. Escaped when there was a commotion, your highness." The last "your highness" sounded a bit forced, as if Will and Arron were on informal terms with each other.

"Oh, good. And why are you listening to this guy?" Arron nonchalantly thumbed at Cadwell.

"Because I'm a loyal servant to the royal family." Will said as he pointed his eyes to a pouch attached to Cadwell's belt. Whatever it held, the outline definitely didn't indicate any coin.

Arron made an "o" with his mouth, as if understanding what it means.

Russell could've sat there for a while longer listening to the royals talk, but then he spotted someone in the crowd. A certain unmistakable someone.

"Wait for me," he said as he tapped Arron's shoulder and stood up. Cadwell looked at Russell in horror and then looked at that spot in Arron's shoulder where he had patted like it was an infection.

Moving through the crowd, Russell caught sight of him again. Russell quickly caught up and tapped on the dwarf's shoulder.

The dwarf turned around, confirming Arron's expectations.

"Gloir!" He exclaimed as he hugged his boss.

Gloir was taken aback for a second, then he exclaimed even louder, "kid! You're alive!"

They pulled away and examined each other. Gloir's wasn't quite the sight for sore eyes. He had a blunt face, completed with several scars and burn marks. A scruffy black beard covered his mouth. His eyes were black and bloodshot, probably from the recent sleepless nights. But his body was a wonder in it's own. You could just watch him walk and you could tell that there was a four feet piler of pure muscle under that dirty black coat.

"Well, you look you've been through hell." His voice was raspy but somehow soothing. Or maybe that was just the pleasure of hearing a familiar voice.

"You look like you always do." Russell was surprised to hear his voice breaking up.

"Is Vivi okay?" Gloir mercifully decided to overlook it.

"Yeah, she's fine. You won't believe who we met on the way!"

"Kid, after the last two days," Gloir sighed, "I'd believe just about anything."

"Come on, I'll show you." Russell said as he dragged Gloir by his hand. Gloir didn't resist.

Gloir never married. Never had a family. Russell was the closest thing he had to a son. He'd go anywhere with him.

Arron was found sitting on the ground alone. Apparently uncle goddamn-tree-up-his-butt decided that Arron was already so much of a heretic that advices were being wasted.

Arron looked up when they came, "Hey, sorry you had to hear that. I thought you went back to Orpheus or whatever."

Before Russell could say anything in return, Gloir said, "You're the prince."

Arron looked taken aback by the fact that Gloir could tell. Not really surprising though. He was wearing a super expensive coat.

Russell quickly said, "Arron, this is Gloir. He is the owner of the blacksmith shop I used to work in." Giving Gloir an introduction to Arron didn't seem necessary.

"And you're running away too." Gloir continued.

"I..." Arron tried to get back.

"That means you have nothing to do with this or know what is going on, right?" Gloir questioned.

"I'm just as confused as you are." Arron managed.

Gloir regarded Arron for a moment like a delicate piece of metalwork. At last he said, "I believe you, kid."

"Your name is Gloir?" Arron asked.

"Yes."

"Are you this Gloir?" Arron said as he loosened his sheathed sword from his belt and put his finger on the hilt. Just infront of his finger, in tiny inscriptions, were four letters. G-L-O-I-R.

Nothing else. No last names.

Writing one's introductions in their creation is a dwarves tradition, but Gloir likes to keep it short.

He took the sword and unsheathed it. It was a magnificent short sword with a curved wasp waist. The blade was twenty inches long unnaturally shiney silvery metal. The way it reflected every single light around them beat mirrors. The hilt was made from obsidian stone, the arm guard out of some kind of white metal.

Gloir's eyes gleamed with eagerness and recognition.

"Oh, I remember this beauty! Yes!" Gloir goaded, "So you were that prince who'd blow up all the swords! They told me to make a sword that could channel your power but also not blow up from it. I knew right then that, nothing made out of iron could ever withstand that kind of temperature."

"Wait," Russell was confused, "you made this sword? You made a royal sword?"

"The Royal sword, boy!" Gloir yelled, the joy in his voice turning a few heads around.

"And you never told me?" Russell said, hurt, "And what do you mean it's not iron? What's stronger than steel?"

"It was before you started work for me," Gloir didn't seem offended by Russell's remark, "Well, it has iron. Inside. But on the outside, where the fire burns, it's coated with sapphire!" Gloir turned the blade, and a blue reflection of the camp's light landed on his face, "It's shiny! It's heat resistant! And it's even harder than most dragon scales! I had to leave that damn stone in the furnace for a whole day to melt it. Then I had to give it a week to cool down on the blade. Sapphire isn't really elastic, you know."

"Wow, so my sword is like, special?" Arron was trying to keep up with the wrong dwarf at the wrong time.

"The most special sword in the world, kid!" Gloir replied enthusiastically, and extended the sword's hilt towards Arron, "And she's made just for you."

Arron took the sword, the sheath and put them in their place in his belt.

Russell suddenly remembered something important.

"Oh crap, we were going to meet Orpheus, weren't we?" He looked towards their rendezvous, "Now we are late."

"Now I'm pumped up! Who is this Orpheus?" Gloir would take some time to work out of that energy.

"Come on and see!" Russell hollered as he walked towards the luggage area, where they were all supposed to gather.