The smell of game stewing in a broth of wild herbs teased at Robin’s nostrils and made his stomach growl. Or was it his stomach right now? He was currently walking through the middle of the hobgoblin camp, in the form of a eminently-forgettable hobgoblin scout.

It was an interesting question. How much did he change on the inside when she shifted shape? Did each of his organs change as well? Was it all the way down to the cellular or DNA level? Was DNA even a thing in this world? He assumed there was some degree of change, especially when he employed [Assume Quality] but there was no way he could think of to truly know for sure. Magic broke, twisted, and bent a lot of the rules as he knew them.

Maybe Savra would know, if her goddess would tell her.

Robin moved purposefully through the camp, though he had no hobgoblin-y reason to be there. You’re less likely to be stopped or challenged if you look like you belong and if you look like you’re already doing something productive.

The camp, or village, or whatever it was, wasn’t huge, but it was far larger than Robin was comfortable with, considering just how many enemies were surrounding him. These were rather terrible odds if he got caught.

He’d already identified the salient features of the settlement: the place he was thinking of as the mess hall, though it was more an open fire pit with a cooking tent nearby; the larger and largest tents or pavilions that held the officers quarters and the command structure; and so on.

The hobgoblins of this war camp—and he couldn’t really think of it as anything else—were a curious mix of settled and on alert. He hadn’t yet been able to confirm the theory that they’d been here since the army that sacked Tarin-Tiran, well, sacked the city, but circumstantial evidence certainly pointed that way. They didn’t seem to have transitioned fully to a peacetime footing, even though they were fairly relaxed in their war bands.

The dungeon probably had a lot to do with that. Robin had gathered that wandering monsters were very common. He could even see some of the trophies dotting the camp. And it was frequent enough that there were a few wounded and several active warriors that were still trying to win points by bragging about the last encounter.

There was also a sense of wariness to the camp, something that didn’t feel usual. As Robin made his way through the place it was easy enough to pick up on the mutterings and whispers, concerns about the patrols that had vanished without a trace.

That would be because of Robin and his friends.

It was still a faint under-stirring of unease, nothing that would mobilise the whole camp, and Robin would prefer to keep it that way. Several hunting parties in nicely paced succession, that was what they were after.

Robin kept a sharp eye out, storing away faces and names in his mind. He’d likely need to impersonate some of these individuals in the future if he wanted to successfully sow the rumours that would lead several patrols into the areas his party wanted them.

He’d need to find the scoutmaster as well, and see if he could use [Lesser Mindreading] to pull details of how patrols were divided up and which routes they were sent along from his brain. The more that his party could nip at the edges and keep their location from being discovered, the better.

Robin was also here to sow rumours of a terrible beast, sent up from the dungeon below. They might need a distraction, or possibly even a way to drive the war camp off, in the future. Or the idea might not be used at all. In any case it was something useful to cultivate for now.

The problem was everyone seemed to be doing something. There were no casual gatherings engaged in idly chit-chat. And he’d need enough people in one place that he could slip in some illusory words, or he’d have to take the face of someone that was really here. This camp wasn’t so large that a strange looking hobgoblin could wander up and join a conversation.

Robin pondered the problem as he carried an armful of supplies from one side of the camp to the other, looking busy. What he needed was…aha! There.

A patrol was clearly headed out. Robin adjusted his trajectory and pacing to make sure he intercepted them before they made it fully out of the camp. As he walked he yanked as much as he could about cultures like this one out of his [Bardic Lore]. The right attitude would go a long way to selling this.

Right before he made it to the approach, he cast [Lesser Mindreading]. He was going to need every advantage he could get, today.

‘Good hunting,’ he said as he approached.

‘Sharp spears,’ came the reply.

‘Word is there’s some sort of beast out there,’ Robin said. ‘Some of the other scouts just back say they’ve seen signs.’ He didn’t say anything about the missing patrols being connected to the beast sighting. He didn’t say anything about the missing patrols at all. it would be considered—not a bad omen, precisely, nor exactly in poor taste, but something in that vein. The cultural concept didn’t translate perfectly to his own experience.

‘What kind of beast?’ the patrol leader asked. ‘Any useful intelligence or is it more scout jumping at shadows.’

This one was clearly in the mould of Khavren, when it came to leadership.

‘It’s fast, sticks to the shadows, and the one track that was found showed signs of wicked claws. Six of them, possibly seven.’

‘Dungeon’s getting creative again,’ one of the other scouts headed out with the patrol muttered. ‘I hate it when it does that.’

‘It doesn’t like people poking around,’ the patrol mage said, ‘so what did you expect? We have our orders, deal with it.’

Orders? Poking around the dungeon? Interesting.

Robin focused his mind-reading on the mage, hoping to catch a bit more information on what, precisely, the hjuncta was up to.

The emotions came through first, the reddish-grey of resentment, then the faint yellow-green flash of fear, quickly suppressed. There might have been a thready-gold-flare of hope, but the dull wash of general cynicism that overlaid the mage’s mind made it hard to tell.

‘Orders are orders,’ Robin said, to keep the subject on the top of the nearby hobgoblins’ minds, ‘whoever is giving them.’

The flare of resentment that flashed through the mage’s mind then was practically blinding. Robin caught flashes of thoughts that said something like ‘arrogant outsider’ and ‘but Urkhan commands.’

‘Orders are orders,’ the mage said.

Robin dug a fingernail into the fleshy part of his thumb to help him focus. It was a very weird thing to hear one thing more loudly in a being’s thoughts while the words coming out of their mouth said something else.

There was a fascinating flash of resentment that accompanied the idea of unwanted orders and the image of the collar around the mage’s neck. That was interesting. Was the collar more than just a magical item? Or did it have an effect that Robin had yet to see? One that would cause the mage to resent it?

Robin filed the idea away for later. There was no way to chase it down now. And none of the regular hobgoblins really gave the mages much thought. Or at least, not that Robin had found so far.

‘Good hunting,’ Robin said, noticing the irritation and impatience growing in the mind of the patrol leader. ‘And keep an eye out for the beast.’

The flashes of wariness were satisfying as Robin moved away. There hadn’t been any suspicion in any of the minds around him, so he didn’t think his disguise had been compromised at all.

He criss-crossed the encampment a few more times, always carrying something from one end to the other. When the opportunity presented itself he’d pause and mention the beast a few more times.

By the end of the day, there would be at least a few sighting reported to the scoutmaster. Robin had left a bit of evidence that one or more of the patrols were sure to pick up on, and he’d primed a few patrols to specifically be looking. They’d assume it was precisely what it appeared to be, what they’d already heard about.

At least Robin hoped they would.

He sat his latest burden, a bundle of wood, at the end of a pile of stuff destined to fuel the cooking fires. There was a large amount of dried dung as well as the expected wood and dried vegetation. He was looking around for the next obvious errand he could use as an excuse for his presence when a voice interrupted him.

‘You there. What are you doing?’

Robin froze, then slowly turned to face the speaker.

Fuck. What now?