Cohort of Trog'dor Strife
The workshop levels of the Mammon metropolis, deep below what was once called Ketucky, was not a place one expected to see a half-elf. Especially not one that was on fire. But that is what Tyler Bourbon found at the door of his rented workspace one evening. Flames emanating from inside a large cloak obscured the half-elf’s feet and crawed up his neck, outlining his head, as he scowled and started to speak.
“You are not going to believe what happened,” he began. Tyler invited him in.
Trog’dor had been renting the workspace next door for a few months. He had arrived as part of an official diplomatic mission the previous year, working to normalize relations and arrange for some basic trade between the dwarves of Mammon and the humans of Tandel and the other southeastern cities. After the initial formalities, the national excitement quickly leveled off into mundane negotiations and paperwork. Trog’dor was not needed or even particularly skilled for this, but as the official in charge, had been required to stay in town. It was a surprisingly short time before he was drawn to the great workshops and forges, full of fire and magic.
Although he was not allowed into the official forges, Trog’dor had found ways to buy or rent minor facilities as long as he stayed out of the way. Tyler had rented a workshop here for years, since it was cheap, trying profession after profession as he got bored of each one. His peculiar new neighbor had quite a few interesting stories, not to mention the constant excitements resulting from his self-directed crafting experiments.
Tyler returned from the back of the shop, setting down a couple of tankards of the ale he had finished the previous week and sat down across a table from Trog’dor, who was checking around himself to make sure that this magical fire was in fact still not spreading from his failed cloak.
“Trog’dor, I know you don’t like being stuck in this city, but it really hurts seeing you try to, you know, take your own life.”
Trog’dor scowled again. He explained that although he did not seem to be in any immediate danger (he apparently had some kind of innate resistance to fire), he was not able to remove the cloak and this was quite a bother.
Tyler leaned back, taking a swig while feigning a critical eye. “Alright. If you want my opinion, it’s not bad, as far as winter fashion goes.”
“It’s hot as the inside of a dragon’s bum. And all of my clothes turned to ash about fifteen minutes ago,” Trog’dor replied. He raised the tankard to his lips, but choked and spit a stream of bubbling ale across the floor as it began to boil in his mouth.
Tyler burst into laughter, deep and loud. This elf moving in next door had been the most interesting thing to happen in years. He stood up, still laughing as he walked past several unfinished armor pieces, practice dummies, a display of crafting tools, several fermentation vats, and over to the fireproof cabinet in the corner where he kept some valuables. He returned with a glowing remove-curse scroll which he tossed in front of Trog’dor. “I’ll have to go shopping for these again.”
Tyler wasn’t even all that mad when six weeks later his entire workshop was completely destroyed in a mysterious explosion.