Some hours later, as dusk approached, the goblin host arrived. The fading light made their numbers difficult to calculate, but they were some six-thousand. They moved quickly, encouraged by the unobstructed advance of the rock-gnomes.
As daylight approached, the third wave was reported to be coming. They silently worked their way to the valley floor and waited. It was trolls that came, and they scarcely numbered eighteen-hundred! And what was more, no other forces followed them at a meaningful distance.
As they peered over large boulders, watching the valley floor, a nearby soldier's appraising look caught Akaru's attention.
"You have a question?"
Abashed, the young fellow shook his head.
"No? You and your fellows were certainly muttering about something! Out with it!"
Red-faced, the soldier admitted, "You do not look like . . . well . . . THOSE trolls . . . Sir."
Akaru grimaced to himself at that. "I am a half a REAL troll," he grumbled, observing the semi-upright posture of the creatures below bearing crude weapons; clubs, cudgels, maces, war hammers that appeared impossibly unwieldy. "Those hirsute savages you see yonder are your own distant cousins. Though you may not believe it, the elves are more kinsmen to myself than any other race."
Though he saw the doubt in the young soldier's eyes, Akaru ignored it, telling himself that knowledge is best uncovered in due time by the one wishing to know the truth. Finding that truth, he knew, would come not from himself, but from the young soldier's own personal experience, assuming he lived long enough to find it.