Keeping her voice soft, Murob replies. "I hope not. We don't know all that happened here. Perhaps the colonists did something to harm the druid, or those she protects."
She keeps alert as they walk, searching for any other clues of what might have occurred in this place. True, the farmhands had been unarmed, but who knows what Bredaric's Blades had been up to before the arrival of the farmers.
Having discovered all that they're going to at the farm, the group heads out after the wolf tracks. The trail leads into the deep jungle, forcing the group to rely on game trails and hacking from Sorala's falcata in order to progress sometimes. However, tracking is a prolific skill in the group, so following the tracks of over a half-dozen wolves isn't impossible.
After about an hour, it is mid-afternoon, and the group comes upon the site of a wolf den. Tracks headed in every direction make it impossible to tell what way the wolves have gone from here, but they slept here at least in the last couple of days.
Since it is summer, wolves just lie about in the open, so "den" is really more of "a clearing in the forest with interesting deadwood to lounge on". A small stream trickles peacefully through the center of the clearing. The area is currently empty.
"Call me paranoid, but why do I have a feeling they're stalking us right about now?"
Ehiz looks around nervously, feeling the burning gaze of the wicked druidess on his back - imagined or not.
Yosiah frowns at Mogwai's four-word question, the insightful goblin forcing him to think hard about the road ahead. "No. Must is too strong a word. Angry, yes. Want to kill, yes. Must kill? No. We will speak. We will try to save, we will pray for good luck and bounty in the form of new hunter. But if this woman is no good, we must protect colony."
Yosiah rests his hand on Ehiz's shoulder, nodding. "Yes. We are prey now, for this pack. I have this suspicion as well."
Taking a seat on a bit of driftwood, Sorala removes a bit of hardtack from her pack and chews thoughtfully. She rests one hand on her falcata, stuck in the ground, next to her, as she looks around the "den."
"Then we should wait, I suppose? They can come for us."
An idea occurs to the White Squire, and she wraps the rest of the hardtack and puts it back into her pack, and then leaves the pack on the tree, in case she needs the mobility. Standing, Sorala cups her hands to her mouth, and yells, "We'd like to talk! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"
Shrugging, Sorala sits back on her driftwood and waits.
Mogwai nods at Yosiah and Murob's responses, feeling significantly relaxed that he wouldn't be standing alone, as well as quite impressed with how quickly Yosiah had picked up the Common tongue. Certainly he had more eloquence with it than Mogwai did. Mogwai didn't know enough about linguistics to know whether Yosiah's native tongue was closer to Common than his own (nor enough to even know to ask that question), but he was pleased that it had happened in any case. They needed all the allies they could get at this point.
As the group reaches the clearing where the wolves had been resting, Mogwai begins sniffing around, trying to get a lead on which way they may have gone to, whether the Druid changed form here at all, or if indeed the others were right and they were being watched.
Mogwai searches around through the undergrowth, checking for dropping, tracks, food leavings, and more. Based off of what he can see, the wolves have definitely rested here for the last several days. It's an ideal spot - shaded and cool, with a fresh water source. They rested here last night.
As Sorala calls out that she wants to talk, Mogwai can see... vaguely, but he's sure... there are several pairs of eyes watching the group from deeper undergrowth somewhat far away. Waiting for something.
"Ah, perhaps they do not understand. Let me try."
Placing herself in the middle of the clearing, arms out to show that she is not bearing weapons, Murob calls out the same words in Sylvan and Arcadian.
"Biz sizinlə danışmaq istəyirik! Xahiş edirik kənara çıxın!"
"Nous voulons te parler! S'il vous plaît, montrez-vous!"
A half-dozen wolves appear out of the distant undergrowth. Three groups of two, surrounding the group.
From a fourth direction comes the druidess you have been searching for. A human woman, dried blood covers the lower half of her face. Apparently, the group has just got done with a hunt, telling from the rank meat smell from the breath of the wolves. The druidess has long, dirty, matted brown hair underneath a wolf pelt that she wears on her head. She is otherwise naked, showing off her well-muscled and lithe body. In one hand she grips a spear formed from the tooth of some huge monster and an armbone from a giant. Her voice is scratchy and her language uncertain, but she calls out to the group, "que fais-tu ici?"
She begins to stalk a slow circle around the group. Her wolves follow suit, creating a ring. "Ami des esclavagistes?"
"You friend of plant-slavers?"
This woman is assuredly a human.
Forging through the jungle in search of civilization or safety, you continue north. Based off of your knowledge of the weather and of geography, you know that you landed well south of your intended destination, and have been hiking north ever since. Today, you discovered something interesting - your first sight of any civilization!
Tree stumps! Cut cleanly and with no deadwood, you know that this must mean they were felled by people. A search of a few hours brought you to within sight of the logging lodge, a wooden building fit for a dozen inhabitants. Though nobody seems out and about right now, you're sure you're headed in the right direction. Perhaps the loggers are bringing some of the spoils home. What do you do?
Yosiah clears his throat, shying his eyes away from the nude woman and staring at the ground as if the soil itself was in the middle of telling him some very important secret. "Pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle. Nous ne sommes pas des esclavagistes. Nous sommes ici pour régler ces terres. Pour attirer un Lares et apporter la paix dans ce pays sauvage. Nous voulons seulement la paix. D'où êtes-vous? Je viens de Kansai. Le savez-vous? Peut-être Haidao?"
After, he mutters in a low voice, such that only his colleagues can hear. "She is from the North. My home. She is human."
Sorala grabs her falcata and plucks it from the ground, moving close to Ehiz as the druid and Yosiah talk. Standing protectively by the priest, the Irrisenian concentrates on the conversation, picking up some words here and there.
Sorala says nothing. She suspected there was only one way this would end.
With a furrowed brow Ehiz watches Yosiah and Murob converse with the wild woman. Reasonable. Be reasonable. There's no need for conflict. He keeps repeating this thought, hoping the spirits of the land would catch on to the wisdom of what he was thinking and so, pass it on to her.
The druidess' face screws up in concentration when she tries to decipher Yosiah's words. Then she snarls. "Pas les preneurs d'esclaves, veulent la paix, au prix de la liberté de vivre," she says. She scoffs at Yosiah's question of her birthplace, and adds, "Je viens de la terre. Pour la terre, je reviendrai."
She takes an aggressive step forward, and her wolves follow suit, growling and snarling on cue. Once again, she asks, "Ce que tu veux de moi?"
"I come from earth. To the earth I will return."
"What you want from me?"
So, the matter was mostly that the druidess objected to them... enslaving plants? How do you respond to such an accusation? Shifting aside towards Ehiz, Murob hurriedly translates the exchange so far.
"You are a priest and a farmer. What do you say to one such as her to convince her we mean no harm?"
As Sulan makes his way through the jungle, he thinks back to the people he left behind on the ship.
All those sailors, and others, taken by the sea. The sea and the sky. I can't be the only one that survived. That gillman, Markos, he could have made it. The others...
But I have seen nothing so far, except wreckage thrown up by the sea. Back home I would say they were weak... but were I a normal man I would be dead too - it was only my magic that saved me. Magic that the others could not have had, most of them. I sank straight to the bottom, but I was still able to breathe, so I walked. What sort of world is it when one needs the magic merely to survive a storm?
It was no natural storm though. My spell should have calmed the wind, at least just a little bit. Enough for the ship to stay off those rocks. But it did nothing.
Perhaps I deserve this. My clan turned against me, perhaps I am cursed...
Sulan's musing is cut short suddenly when he sees a clearing ahead through the foliage.
A house??!! he thinks, alarmed.
He hunkers down in the bushes. For a time, he merely waits and watches. Looking for signs of life. When there is none, he begins to approach, treading carefully. He looks around, trying to identify who might have lived here.
Another survivor perhaps? I wonder if it is Markos? Or someone else? Or maybe it is natives of this land that live here? I must be careful, and find out who they are before... before what? I do not know.
He looks around the house, looking for anything of interest, and then examines the ground for footprints.
When he sees prints leaving the clearing, he turns to follow, and vanishes into the undergrowth.
Let us see where this leads.
The victims' wounds appear to have bled profusely, for the wood of the building is stained with gallons of dried blood.
Sulan also finds something interesting. There are two sets of tracks leaving the area. One set, of about eight people, leaves towards the northeast. Another set is older, and is splattered with the occasional old bloodstain. It leads further into the jungle, to the west.
The farmer frowns at the druidess's crazy thoughts. Enslave plants? They were living things without reason or thought other than a singular drive to grow and thrive. He clenches his fist in an elaborate manner before touching his forehead with the flat of his thumb. "Care to translate for me? I'll speak slowly." Speak slowly he did.
"Plants are like animals: the strongest will claim the light of day and push the less fortunate into the shadows, where they will wither and die. Us farmers give more plants the light of day and once their cycle completes, we harvest their most wonderful gifts before they perish and fade away. We fight any sickness that might overcome them and shelter them from the worst of the fickle seasons. Farmers and plants are friends. In return, they help us sustain ourselves so that we may continue this cycle, living in a harmony that only nature's more destructive side can damage or undo. Erastil fends, Alseta observes, us mortals we simply do."
Hmmm... a battle... between these men and what... some large cat?
Murob translates Ehiz's words dutifully, watching the druidess to see how she would react. She attempts to make the priest's words sound as convincing as she can, using an even tone of voice and slow gestures.
Now and then she asks Yosiah for help with a word, as she is far from having mastered the local language (and if she is not mistaken, this druidess doesn't speak it very well either).
The savage druidess begins to pace as Ehiz and Murob speak to her. Her wolves are agitated by her upset feelings, baring their teeth and growling, although none of them attack. The druidess scoffs as Murob finishes Ehiz' speech.
She begins her own, "Les gens et les plantes amis? Je n'ai jamais vu. Les gens dépouillent la terre de la vie pour se bourrer le visage. Les gens tuent les plantes quand ils aiment manger. Les gens planent la terre et tuent beaucoup d'arbres pour faire de l'espace pour asservir plus de plantes."
"Vous dites des choses différentes. Tu peux vivre maintenant. Quand je vois que tu mens comme les autres, je vais te manger."
"Si vous avez tellement faim de manger, prouvez que vous êtes le plus fort et chassez votre nourriture comme un bon prédateur. Mangez le fruit et la noix comme nature. Pourquoi ne faites-vous pas cela? Es-tu faible?"
As she begins to talk, she seems to calm down somewhat. Her wolf-friends take the cue and calm down as well. She still grips her bone spear tightly, but two wolves sit down and one lies down.
"You say different things. You can live now. When I see you lie like the rest, I will eat you."
"If you are so hungry to eat, prove you are strongest and hunt your food like good predator. Eat the fruit and the nut like nature intended. Why do you not do this? Are you too weak?"
"Il y a des centaines d'entre nous. Combien de noix devrions-nous prendre? Combien d'animaux devrions-nous chasser? Est-il préférable pour la terre si nous ne laissons aucun fruit pour que de nouveaux arbres poussent?
Nous devons exploiter le sol, cultiver de la nourriture pour que la terre puisse prospérer. Cela ne nous rend pas faibles. Cueillir des fruits jusqu'à ce qu'il ne reste plus rien est faible. C'est idiot. Il est difficile de faire pousser des cultures chaque année. Pour planter des graines et nourrir de petits semis et récolter de la nourriture. Il faut de la force et de la chance pour créer une prime."
The words spill from Yosiah's mouth as a look of surprise grows in his eyes, as if he was unaware of his own passion on the subject. His words are soft, smooth, his tone level, but there is no doubt that he has conviction behind what he says.
There are hundreds of us. How many nuts should we take? How many animals should we hunt? Is it better for the land if we leave no fruit for new trees to grow?
We must harness the soil, grow food so the land can thrive. This does not make us weak. Picking fruit until nothing is left is weak. It is foolish. It is hard to grow crops every year. To plant seeds and nurture small seedlings and harvest food. It takes strength and luck to create a bounty.
The druidess shrugs. "Si la terre ne fournit pas, vous devriez mourir jusqu'à ce qu'il le fasse. Peut-être que vous apprenez à vivre avec la terre comme moi. Peut-être que vous le faites déjà, mais certains d'entre eux déjà ne le font pas"
Ehiz blinks and looks at Yosiah and Murob, hoping for a translation as things seem to get more tense yet the situation somehow de-escalates all at once.
Sulan gets to work stripping the bodies of anything useful. He grins when he sees the handaxe and shovel. These will be useful! Won't need to use my greataxe to fell trees anymore. It's an insult to use such a weapon that way.
He throws the other goods in his bag and gets up, preparing to move on.
He takes a few steps, and then looks back.
Those men... I suppose I should do something about the bodies. Scavengers will eat them, and then they will not have the fear they ought to have of mankind. Bad for the men and for the animals.
Sulan turns back, and begins dragging the bodies back to the house. With the handaxe he smashes up whatever furniture and loose pieces of wood he can find, and builds a bed of kindling. He empties a flask of lamp oil onto the wood, and then begins throwing the bodies onto the kindling. Once all the bodies are inside, he takes his new hand axe and cuts a few beams within the house to weaken the timbers, but not collapse it yet. Then he goes around outside the house, and trims back any tree branches that touch the house.
Then, with a rag torn from the clothing of one of the dead and soaked in oil, he lights a makeshift torch and begins to light the kindling. Once the kindling begins to catch, he sets the various beams of the house alight as well. Then he steps outside and watches the house burn.
Be grateful, humans. This is a far grander pyre than any in my tribe ever get. There is wood everywhere in this land.
Eventually the fire burns through the weakened beams, and the house collapses in on itself, still burning. Sulan begins to chant quietly:
"All returns to ash,
It is the fate of all things.
Do not fear the fire,
For when all is ash,
You shall be one with all your kin,
Forever."
Sulan lingers a moment longer, watching the flames. Then he turns, and walks into the wood, following the trail.
Murob continues to translate to Ehiz and the others what the druidess and Yosiah are saying. She feels that some progress is being made, and is feeling hopeful. The woman seems to have some very strong views regarding the freedom of animals and plants, but at least she is willing to talk.
"Nous voulons vivre en harmonie avec la terre. Certains d'entre nous ne savent pas comment, c'est vrai. Nous allons leur apprendre. Peut-être que vous pouvez aussi leur enseigner, enseignez-nous. Toute cette terre est sauvage et libre, et nous n'en avons besoin que d'une petite partie pour cultiver. Vous pouvez nous montrer comment récolter des arbres malades ou mourants, afin de ne pas tuer d'arbres sains. Peut-être pouvez-vous nous montrer comment faire pousser un mur vivant, pour nous protéger des animaux sauvages et des mauvaises personnes."
She stretches out her hands, palms up, in an imploring gesture.
Sorala reddens as she picks up on the gist of the conversation, and then she begins shaking as Murob translates. "I grew up with little farming, just coldboxes that could yield beets, kale, and other hardy vegetables. We would gather bark and chew it, turn the berries of elder pines into soup, and when lucky, kill a bird or a fish. I've lived the way this woman desires. It is a hard, cruel existence. The strong hoard power, those under their boots suffer indignity after indignity, and live short, miserable lives. Anyone lauding this existence would be burned by a mob in my homeland, and rightly so."
Shutting her mouth for a second, Sorala finds herself unable to let it go. She spits. "This is madness! Remember, you speak for ninety people, including farmers. What will they do with their livelihoods? What of the loggers? Will they be happy to know that you've chosen to accommodate a murderer over them? Are the people of First Landing accustomed to bowing to the wishes of the insane? Why does the wants of one trump the needs of many?"
Turning to Sorala, Murob replies. "I have lived the way you have described as well and I did not relish it. Nor do I want to impose that way of life on anyone. But we are guests here. These are not our lands. It does not hurt to try and respect that. There would still be land to farm, trees to chop. We just do it with a bit more thought, if that is the price to pay for living in peace with those who already claim this land."
She gestures to encompass the druidess and her wolves, the forest, and the horizon beyond. Narrowing her eyes at the smudge of smoke on said horizon, she continues. "Would you prefer that we come here as invaders, kill anyone standing in our way and doing as we please? What right have we? If we want to build a home for everyone, with none of the injustices and oppression from back home, we cannot lay that foundation by murder and theft."
A look of confusion crosses Sorala's face. "Who's guests are we? The slavers? The murderess? You find our hosts kinder than I, if that is the case."
"I don't understand. We have not invaded anyone. We have not killed anyone that didn't attack us first. We did not kill those farmers. I think you confuse we with her."
"How much land does one person need? If she wants a portion of it, and leaves us alone, then that is one thing. But that is not what happened. There will be no foundation to lay if we are killed and starved."
"She is not a victim. Treat her as one, and she will be the death of us."
At Sorala's outburst, the druidess becomes agitated, and with her, her wolf companions. "Qu'est ce qu'elle dit?" she snarls.
Her attention is momentarily drawn away by a column of smoke rising into the horizon. At a guess, it looks like a mile or two away. The druidess growls. "Plus de vos amis? Brûler dans la forêt? C'est la saison des pluies encore, pas de feux naturels pour le moment."
"More of your friends? Burning down the forest? It is the season of rains still, no natural fires yet."
Ehiz speaks softly when he asks the obvious question. "What's she saying? Is she taking away the land from us by burning it??"
"Ah, no, that is not her doing. Perhaps some of the other colonists? In any case, the timing of it is most unfortunate." Murob replies to Ehiz.
Addressing the druidess again, she attempts to swing the conversation back to a constructive place. "Elle est inquiète pour nos camarades. Tous ne peuvent pas survivre dans la nature, et nous ne les laisserons pas mourir. Quant au feu, nous ne le savons pas. Nous pouvons enquêter ensemble, si vous voulez."
She gestures towards the direction of the smoke.
To Sorala, she speaks in a low voice. "We haven't done any of those things, it's true, but what of the colonists, or these Blades? Breddaric is a cruel man, I have witnessed it myself. I find it difficult to believe that this druidess reacted as violently as she has for no reason other than their presence here."
Sorala reddens again, this time with shame. Cursing herself for letting her emotions get the better of herself, the White Squire wills her face to be slack, impassive. She was no diplomat. She was merely a tool. Looking to Murob, she offers up an apology of sorts: a shrug. "The Blades are just hammers. They can be pointed at the right nails. As for Brederic... Karzok is going to kill him, when the time is right."
Looking towards the smoke, still gripping her sword tightly, Sorala tries to judge the distance, and size, of the fire that creates it.
The druidess snarls and bounds off into the undergrowth, running quickly towards the fire without another word spared for her temporary conversational companions. Do you want to follow her?
Mogwai spends most of the dialogue listening, both because he's somewhat uncertain of what's being said (since large parts are in Arcadian and even the ones that aren't are delivered rapidly), and also because he wants to see how the others will handle the situation.
As the Druidess quickly leaves in the direction of the fire, concern spreads across Mogwai's face. Even without knowing all of what was said, he knew enough that it wasn't the handshake and well-wishes he'd hoped for. Her expression and running in the direction of the fire spoke volumes. Mogwai moves quickly after the Druidess. "Angry face. May bring danger."
Ehiz nods at the stoic goblin, damn straight, Mogwai, and then follows with spear in hand.
"Yes." Murob's reply is laconic as she saves her breath for jogging after the druidess and her entourage.
The group dashes after the druidess and her pack of wolves. The woman is quite fast, and difficult to keep up with... but with nobody in the group being heavily-armored, they manage to keep her in sight for the whole time. It's only about an eight-minute run through the undergrowth until the whole group reaches a building that has been set ablaze.
This is obviously the logging encampment, as the area around the building has been cleared of trees and there is a clear road heading east towards First Landing. The loggers' lodge is beginning to collapse and is a raging inferno. Standing in front of it is a large half-orc wearing stone armor, singing an unsettling song about fire destroying everything. The druidess snarls at the sight and begins to dash around the building, hacking away branches with her spear that come anywhere near the building. Each branch that falls to the ground is collected by one of her back and dragged to a safe distance.
Yosiah claps his hand on Mogwai's shoulder, pursing his lips in a solemn nod before the group departs. "Yes. Angry. Maybe danger still. We will act with care."
Upon reaching the site of the fire after a short jog, Yosiah's jaw drops, surveying the scene to determine the possibility of the fire spreading, and the best course of action to prevent such a thing.
After no more than an instant, he begins pointing and directing his comrades to assist him and the Druidess, cutting away overhanging branches, digging fire-lines, and creating water gallons at a time, to saturate the ground and prevent any further damage. He does not even seem to notice the Half-orc - that problem will be handled later. For now, the fire has demanded his attention.
Sulan turns around as the other enter the clearing. First the druidess starts to pull branches away from the burning hut.
Sulan watches with a bemused smile for a little while.
"You know that fire is necessary for a forest, don't you? It cleans out the dead wood and bracken and lets new trees grow. It will happen sooner or later."
Then he sees the others enter the clearing.
"Hey! You don't look like natives... Are you guys from the Arcadian Expeditionary Force?" Sulan becomes excited now that he realizes he is not the only survivor.
"I was on the Legacy. She went down in that storm. You're the first survivors I've seen. Say- did your ship make it through? Which ship were you on, anyway?"
Ehiz blinks, unable to cope with what he's seeing and hearing. "W-what are you doing? The druidess has already killed multiple colonists simply for cultivating the land..."
Violence now seems to be only a couple of heartbeats away.
As she hears the other half-orc speaking Taldane, Murob sets down the branch she was carrying and hurries over to him.
"You are not Arcadian? Are you from First Landing?" She points behind them, to where she approximates the settlement to be located. When it becomes clear that that was not the case, her eyes go big.
"You were on the Legacy? We were on the Marie-Celeste! Our ship got wrecked about two, three days up the coast from here. We came across another wreck site a bit closer to the settlement, but not many survivors there." If time allows, she proceeds to relate their misadventures from the moment of the unnatural storm, recounting the most interesting aspects briefly and to the point. She also mentions the troubles that the settlement has been having, frequently glancing at the druidess as she does so.
The druid is momentarily busy clearing deadwood from the area. She doesn't understand Sulan, which gives them another moment to talk.
Sorala ignores the druidess, for now, and focuses her efforts on helping Yosiah. Curling her fingers, the White Squire flexes them and barks an arcane command, conjuring frost from her fingertips, again and again and again. She concentrates on the fringes of the fire, using the frost as a firebreak, dousing licks of flame and freezing branches and brush.
"W-what are you doing? The druidess has already killed multiple colonists simply for cultivating the land..."
Sulan turns and looks at the druidess again.
"She wants to kill me she's welcome to try," he grins menacingly. He tightens his grip on his obsidian axe.
"There were a bunch of dead men here. Maybe your lady friend here killed 'em? I wasn't going to bury 'em, but I figured they deserved a funeral pyre. The building seemed pretty convenient for that."
He looks back at the group. "Is there some reason you're scared of her? If she wants to fight, and has already killed some o' yourn, why not just give 'er what she wants? You got cause."
"You were on the Legacy? We were on the Marie-Celeste! Our ship got wrecked about two, three days up the coast from here. We came across another wreck site a bit closer to the settlement, but not many survivors there." If time allows, she proceeds to relate their misadventures from the moment of the unnatural storm, recounting the most interesting aspects briefly and to the point. She also mentions the troubles that the settlement has been having, frequently glancing at the druidess as she does so.
"So you're castaways too, huh? I didn't see where Legacy went down but I know she was headed for some rocks. Her sails were shredded to rags and the maintruck had snapped. I went overboard. Lucky for me, I know a way to breathe water." Sulan winks.
"The others... they didn't have my luck."
He turns back to watching the druidess, and mutters a few words under his breath. His hand traces an odd gesture in the air, and he pats his chest.
The druid advances on Sulan while Yosiah and Sorala help to contain the fire. With all of the measures they all take, it does not look like the fire will spread. The lodge begins to collapse, weakened beams splitting under the weight of burning woon.
The druidess' voice is fast and aggressive, and she waves her spear in his direction. "Qu'est-ce que vous pensez que vous faites, idiot? Vous auriez pu faire du feu de forêt!"
"Oh, and my name's Sulan, by the way," he remarks to the other colonists.
Sulan is a Sandkin (desert) half-orc, and his skin is a sandy dark tan color. His eyes are gold, and he stands 6'3"; he is powerfully built. He has prominent tusks and numerous scars, including some that look like burn scars, which most people find off-putting. His clothing is that of a desert nomad, and he wears strange armor that seems to be made from interlocking stone plates sewn to a leather backing. It has many nicks and scrapes and looks like it has gotten plenty of use and has been patched and repaired many times. He carries a large axe with an obsidian head over his shoulder, and looks like he knows how to use it.
"Anyone know what the hell she is sayin'?"
Corporal Yosiah Crint stands tall above most of his fellow Arcadians. His broad shoulders and lanky, wiry arms belie his warm smile, hidden beneath a thick, bushy beard. His dark hair is tousled and matted, as he does little to maintain it, but somehow it gives him a certain unkempt-handsome quality when it's visible - which is not often, as he is rarely without his helmet, which affords a full view of Yosiah's face, but protects the soldier's skull, ears, and neck.
His body is similarly armored, nearly always. A thick sheet of chain links protects the gangly torso beneath, and a drab, green tunic is barely visible peeking from beneath the armor. Gloves protect his arms and hands, both of which are scarred and calloused beneath the rough leather.
He's prone to tap on his buckler as he speaks, and his axe hangs from his waist, never far from his dominant left hand.
"Oh, and my name's Sulan, by the way," he remarks to the other colonists..."Anyone know what the hell she is sayin'?"
Yosiah fights back the urge to laugh at the newcomer's visible annoyance with the Druidess. "She is complaining at us about you, and the possibility of starting a forest fire."