A cruel smile twisted Elvis’s lips in the shadows of his tusks. "You mean they’re giving us all the credit?" The room was small, nearly filled to bursting by the 225-kilogram troll himself. Wooden casks of cheap wine and beer were stacked against the back wall. The Bloody Rosebud of Phelia, named after the ork warrior-woman who died defending her charges at a children’s hospital during the Night of Rage, didn’t have many customers at one a.m. of a Wednesday morning. A few cheap fuel-oil lanterns with the bar’s logo printed on them filled a few handmade wooden shelves on the wall. Cullen Trey sat in a straight-backed chair, paging through a dusty book that had been painstakingly reassembled.