Neutral Ground, Hostile Air

For Kaelan, the drive to the neutral area was like voluntarily entering a cage. A new layer of Whitespire's familiar order was removed with each league, displacing the well-kept fields with hardy croplands, then wild woodlands, and eventually the bleak, gloomy terrain that abutted goblin territories. The recollection of battle made the air thicker. He rode in wary stillness with his guard, a carefully selected troop of veterans who were chosen for their discipline rather than their excitement. In addition to being surrounded by gleaming steel, Kaelan felt a heavy burden of responsibility. He had spent the journey reading Baron Fontley's "Treatise on Goblinoid Habits," a work that described goblins as uniformly hideous, slave-rising creatures and was full of rumors, first-hand recollections, and drawings. It was scarcely comforting. How could someone who was thought to communicate mostly through violence and grunts be politely greeted? He practiced polite openings in his mind, openings that were meant to be respectful without being weak, and each one sounded more phony than the previous. Despite being a knight who had vowed to protect peace, this task felt like negotiating a minefield while wearing a blindfold. The kingdom's fate depended on his not offending a creature he could not imagine as sentient, much less a future … wife, in a way that would be disastrous right now. The word felt like a piece of bone stuck in his throat.

Grakka crept like a ghost through the dark passageways of the mountains miles away. walking out into the intense glare of the sunny higher slopes from the familiar darkness of the deep tunnels was always like walking upon bare earth. The breeze delivered strange smells: blossoming plants that weren't edible fungi, wet ground that wasn't cave mold. It seemed eerily exposed and open to her. Her tiny group of fighters moved with a stealth that had been practiced, their dark iron and leather armor blending in with the shadows and rocks. In case diplomacy failed, she kept a strong pack with supplies like dried beef strips, extra bindings, sharpening stones, and a powerful, fast-acting nerve poison made from cave spiders, along with her cleaver at her hip. Diplomacy. The idea itself seems ridiculous, a human game of deceptive language intended to hide meaning. At first, Grok'nar demanded that she try, even if only a little, to keep their half of the agreement. Alright. She was able to remain motionless and refrain from attacking the softskin knight right away. It took work. Her major goal remained tactical: evaluate the adversary. Was this 'Sir Kaelan' a phony, or was he really as honorable as her father's scant research indicated? Was he a powerful man? Weak in mind? Struggling with human emotion that can be exploited? She was the advance scout in this marriage, which was an infiltration rather than an alliance.

The skeletal remains of an ancient border watchtower, situated on a windswept hill with a view of a barren valley, served as the meeting spot, which was as bleak as the treaty itself. It belonged solely to the ghosts of previous battles and the crows flying overhead, neither goblin nor human territory. The air was chilly and sharp. Kaelan was the first to arrive, his banner, which featured a silver hawk on a blue background, shivering languidly in the wind. With their professionalism standing in sharp contrast to the deteriorating surroundings, his soldiers formed a perimeter. A plain, solid blue canvas pavilion was built, providing little shelter but representing some human diplomatic heritage. Like an actress waiting on an empty stage, Kaelan stood next to it, feeling vulnerable and ridiculously formal.

Instead of flags or trumpets, a little change in the shadows on the opposite slope signaled the goblins' arrival. Figures moved with a predatory fluid grace that, in contrast to Kaelan's disciplined soldiers, made them appear stiff and noisy as they freed themselves from the rocks and bushes. Maybe a dozen of them, dressed in black, utilitarian clothing, their faces hidden behind hoods or the inherent gloom of their features. Then a single figure—clearly the leader—came forward. Grakka.

Kaelan had prepared for the hideous parodies found in Baron Fontley's treatise. It was a different reality. She wasn't the massive, stooping monster he had dimly imagined. She had a coiled energy in her stance, was a head shorter than him, and was slim rather than robust. Her thick, coarse hair was firmly braided back, framing her sharp, angular features and drab, mossy green skin. Indeed, little but incredibly sharp tusks protruded from her bottom lip. But her dark, hyper-aware eyes, which scanned him and his surroundings with disconcerting acuity, were what kept him there. Her massive cleaver stood out at her side, and she was dressed in functional, well-maintained, scarred leather armor. Her pragmatism was sharp and threatening, and she lacked any softness or yielding. She was completely foreign, but she was definitely... strong.

Grakka was similarly quick and critical in his evaluation of the human knight. He was taller than he should have been, and his location could be clearly communicated to all the archers for miles around thanks to the incredibly impractical polished metal that shined even in the dim light. Humans seemed to think that his hard, upright posture indicated strength, but it just provided a larger, less mobile target. His face was clean, and his fair hair was cropped short. Too tidy. Not wounded. Had he commanded combat from behind guarded walls or had he ever witnessed it firsthand? But his eyes were not shifty, a stunning shade of grey like a winter sky. They were there in front of her, carrying a fatigue that startled her, a shadow that didn't quite fit the immaculate armor. He appeared more like a well-worn, well-maintained tool, resigned to its purpose, than a pretentious nobleman. Perhaps a little more complicated than she had expected, but still a softskin and an enemy.

There was a long, hostile silence. Generations of animosity, the King's absence, and Kaelan's expectations of his warriors all weighed heavily on him. He had to take the initiative. He took a deep breath and moved forward, pausing at a reasonable distance. He bowed slightly, as is customary when welcoming foreign dignitaries of unknown status. He said, "I am Sir Kaelan of Whitespire," in a firm voice that showed none of the internal conflict. "I come on behalf of King Theodan the Third, to honor the accord struck between him and Chief Grok'nar."

Grakka's lip curled slightly as she saw the bow. A sign of surrender? Or merely a useless human custom? She made no gesture in return. She responded with a harsh, guttural sound from the back of her throat that sounded more like clearing it than speaking, followed by brutal words in a Common Tongue that was significantly accented but yet intelligible. "Grakka. Grok'nar's daughter." She did not tilt her head or extend her hand. She maintained a difficult stance, her hand hovering close to her cleaver's hilt.

Kaelan felt a new wave of anxiety at the glaring absence of any discernible civility. Despite the crudeness of Baron Fontley's essay, the underlying cultural divide was horrifyingly true. He gave the pavilion a hazy gesture. "We've got refreshments ready. Maybe we could talk under cover.

Grakka looked suspiciously at the thin blue structure. A snare? Or simply more proof of human frailty, requiring shelter from a light wind? "Speak here," she ordered in a tone that made no room for debate. Their bad wine and stale bread did not appeal to her. She wanted to know if this knight recoiled.

To prove... goblin benevolence? Grakka grabbed for a pouch at her belt, or maybe just to get rid of extra weight before any conflict. Halfway between them, she pulled out a little, black, strangely hairy object and tossed it on the ground. It hit the ground with a gentle thump. A dried cave lizard is regarded by her people as a handy and nourishing meal. A useful gift.

Kaelan gazed at the dried-out body. Its scaled hide was brittle, its small claws were coiled, and its beady eyes seemed to follow him. His stomach tightened. Yes, refreshments. He had trouble understanding the gesture. Was it offensive? An examination? A sincere, if disgusting, effort to share provisions? He labored to keep his face neutral, which was no small accomplishment. He managed to say, "A… generous offering," but the words felt forced and awkward. "Though human customs differ."

Grakka only growled once more, her keen eyes closely monitoring his response. She immediately hid the spark of disgust that she observed. "Soft," she told herself. Easily repulsed. However, he hadn't flinched or shown signs of offense. Fascinating.

Unspoken animosity and deep miscommunication splintered the air. Standing on this barren hill were representatives of two peoples that had been estranged from one another for generations and were now united by a last-ditch agreement none of them really wanted. The ruins surrounding them appeared to be a monument to broken relationships, and the gap between them was unfathomably wide. One incorrect phrase, one misread look, and the tranquility seemed brittle enough to break. And there were still weeks until the wedding. Grakka gazed at the gleaming, unreadable knight, while Kaelan gazed at the ferocious, extraterrestrial fighter in front of him. They both came to the same depressing conclusion: this would be far more difficult and far worse than they had anticipated.