Belthor is Not Returning to Allia

The sounds of a dog furry and a half dwarf arguing rang out through the empty meadow, and persisted long into the morning hours.

“We can’t follow the others to Irolladice!” Irolt declared, not for the first time.

“But we need to move, and it’s the next city!” Franza whined. They were obviously growing tired of the ceaseless debate..

Belthor too, was exhausted. He had long since given up on trying to contribute to the conversation, and was instead staring back at the town they had just fled. He had never taken the time to consider it during the weeks they’d lived there, but the whole place seemed rather lovely. The beauty of land often escaped his notice, because it was something he didn’t have the slightest notion of how to steal.

Yet.

“Irolladice is the last place we need to go right now!” Irolt countered, his voice rising louder than what was appropriate for his new station as a poorly-hidden fugitive. “That would defeat the purpose of sending the others ahead, and you were all for that! But five people are easier to look for than three!”

It would be nice if he could figure out how to steal property, which always seemed to be rising in value. Plus, if he had some, he’d have a place to store all his stolen treasures. As he looked out over lovely Allia though, he realized how impractical it would be. The town was too open, too vulnerable, and visible from the road.

How would I know that people weren’t touching my things while I was away?

Franza’s voice rose to match Irolt’s. “But we have to tell The Resistance what happened!”

Maybe I could hire guards.

“We are The Resistance!”

Guards could watch all my things.

“But you said you have a Zazsnoot!”

What could I pay them with though? Guards must be expensive.

“A what?” Irolt thundered.

Is it possible to steal guards?

“A Zazsnoot!”

Can’t be any more difficult than stealing an entire town.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

But stealing people -- I think maybe that’s different? There’s a separate word for that…

“A Zazsnoot! Like you said yesterday! Like a boss lady or something.”

It’s strange how loud the silence can seem, when a person has grown used to the sound of bickering. It cut through Belthor’s thoughts and he turned his attention from his lofty goals and to the matter at hand.

Irolt’s eyes were glassy a moment before there was a spark of recognition. “You… do you mean Zazeezy?”

“Right! That!”

His expression teetered on the delicate edge where anger met defeat, and Belthor did his best to lead him back down safely. “Zazeezy is probably in Evermore, not Irolladice.”

In truth, it was hard to know where their leader would be at any given time. A roaming android mastermind was exactly the kind of complication that could draw out the conversation even further if they got into the nitty gritty of it though, and he wasn’t sure Irolt had the stamina for much more debate.

“Can’t we just go to Evermore, then?” Franza’s voice calmed, instantly dropping when they addressed Belthor, who had not spent the morning yelling at them.

“We can’t go anywhere until we’ve gone back into town for supplies,” Irolt repeated. This had been his main point throughout the fight.

“Which town?” Franza asked, squinting suspiciously.

“Allia!” He growled.

“But that’s too dangerous!”

“Not if Belthor stealths in.”

Belthor had been dangerously close to tuning out again before he heard his name.

“Does Belthor know what we need?”

‘Need’ had always been a relative word for the elf, who thought back briefly to the image of his beautiful, stolen city.

“We can make him a list.”

“But won’t it be dangerous for him in there? With all the Parliamentary people on high alert right now?”

Oh shit. That’s true.

Every pair of eyes that The Parliamentary might have in the city increased his chances of being caught, and that was the last thing he wanted to be. He was stealthy, sure, but if that failed him he didn’t think he’d do well in a fight alone.

“Belthor would never even be seen, that’s why it’s perfect.”

“All I’m saying is that it might be safer not to try and recover anything from the base right now.”

“Franza has a point,” Belthor chimed in.

If looks could kill, it would be an entirely different world filled with unimaginable consequences that are best not dwelled upon. Since looks could not kill, Belthor had to endure the silent wrath of his friend’s gaze.

“You want me to just give up my blacksmith shop?” His eyes were filled with rage, but his voice was all pain.

Belthor knew how much the forge meant to him. The two of them had struggled along in The Resistance a long time before he had gotten the opportunity to settle down as a leader, with a business. They had been stationed there less than a month, and Belthor could only imagine how painful it must be for his friend to abandon another home.

Though I’d rather imagine a place where I can be surrounded by all my things.

But he tried his best to commiserate. He remembered targeting a stubborn looking blacksmith who had looked unlikely to chase someone who wanted to lift his wares. He remembered the fine craftsmanship of the blades that had so caught his eye, that familiar glint of silver. He recalled how chase had been given, and the many adventures which had followed.

And when all was said and done, he gave me the blades anyway.

Belthor guiltily ran his thumbs over the hilts of the twin daggers at his belt. He disliked seeing his only friend look so betrayed.

“We can come back,” he said at long last, as gently as he could. He meant it, too. The forge was, afterall, a place filled with Irolt’s things.

Irolt was shaking at that point, barely able to control the fury and hurt of the moment.

Franza, who lacked all emotional context to the scene, empathized nonetheless. They put a paw on Irolt’s shoulder. “Right now, the important thing is that we’re all safe. And Belthor is right. We can always get your stuff when it’s safe.”

“Fine,” Irolt agreed. His tone was even more defeated than his words. “I guess we’ll just come back, then.”

So the three set off down the road away from Allia, never to return.