"Oh I, uh - no, that's not, mm." Naali says, bewildered as her head is tilted to and fro from the grasp of the blind elf, but not wanting to rescind her offer to help.
She looks pleadingly at the others until Anevia and Abrielle steps in - she mouths a soundless 'thank you' to the women.
She inspects the scale she's handed - she'd been rather alarmed at the time when she saw the dragon, but the tone of Gwyneth's words told her all she needed to know. "She decided to save all of us, and for that I'm grateful. I'm sure no one else will forget her sacrifice either."
With pockets already brimming with things - she could no longer call it all junk after her gameboard-turned-splint had helped them - she tucked it into her belt, where its luster caught the torchlight as a constant reminder of Terendelev's sacrifice.
"But you're right, we need to find a way out of here right now."
"Only one way to go, really," Therrik says in regards to the words said around the group at needing to find a way out. He starts towards the section of the cave that he hadn't yet been able to look out, his eyes not able to see that far even in the dark, and prays to no particular god that there will be some sort of exit on this end.... or they face a long and arduous task of trying move all the rubble, in hopes there's escape that way.
He listens as he goes, on the alert for anything that might be drawn to their noise and light.
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Though you set off in the only direction that you can, the entire group quickly finds that the going is extremely slow with two injured people. Fortunately, you run into no other massive beasts for the moment and get a lovely scenic view of rock walls, stalagmites and stalactites, and stones of every shape and size. No one ever said spelunking has great views.
After a few minutes of walking, you happen across what looks to have once been a small camp used by two people. From the look of the left-over gear that remains here, one of the dungeon delvers was here much more recently than the other. Within a worn, dusty backpack rests a trio of candle stubs, a bend fishhook, a torn bedroll, and 10 feet of badly frayed help rope.
Beneath all of the rather useless junk in this pack, there looks to be a small copper brooch depicting a bat with tiny amethysts for eyes perched on a mushroom. It looks rather valuable and makes you wonder what it is doing forgotten down here in the first place.
Beside this pack is another, in far better condition. It looks to be a masterwork backpack containing a dozen arrows, four flasks of liquid of various colors, a set of caltrops, some flint and steel, and 10 days of trail rations. However owned these things must have left in a hurry, or had their belongings dropped down here during the attack on the surface. These appear to be in pristine condition.
While two of the flasks appear to be mundane flasks of oil on closer inspection, the other two seem to be a potion of cure light wounds and a potion on lesser restoration.
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The slow pace doesn't bother Gwyn as much as it ought to. The necessity of the situation weighs heavy against her impatience, and to curse the life of even one fellow--no matter the injury--damns the very code she holds her life to.
I will never abandon a companion... Or so the Fifth Tenant demands (though the second half of it she's never really been on speaking terms with). So she's fine with it. As fine as an orphaned soldier can be, anyway. Truth be told, she's more concerned Horgus'll open his mouth. Pound-for-pound, that thing'll probably cause more damage than an abyssal rift.
The small encampment catches her by such surprise that the actual contents of it elude her entirely.
"That's...weird," she says aloud, brows knit as she looks up to the stone walls. "We're...under Kenabres, yeah? I didn't know you could get down here."
Not that I'm complaining, she adds in afterthought. A way in is a way out. Right?
Tales of adventurers had always caught Naali's interest. It hasn't quite dawned on her yet that she now falls into that category, so she excitedly rummages through the backpack in hopes of a treasure map or some other fantastical thing, but turns up only a few outdated and ruined items.
"Oh well. Does anyone need a backpack? It's a bit dusty, but it still seems like it's holding together alright."
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Abrille picks up the pack in better looking shape and shuffles through it's contents, taking note of the flasks and setting them gently to the side for identification.
Some useful things in here," Abrielle announces to the others. "Whatever the flasks here are, some caltrops, a flint and steel... Handful of arrows of all things, no bow of course to make em useful unless one of you has got one, and... Ta-da~! Food!" She tucks the lot of it, with the exception of the flasks, tidily back in the bag then looks over to the others rummaging around the older sack. "Anything interesting, or at least of use in there?" she inquires.
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"Archery's not my expertise," Gwyn answers to Abrielle's tally of contents, having only just remembered the longbow strapped to her back, though the flasks grab enough of her attention. Two of them she knows for some kinda mundane oil--the paladin's carrying enough of the stuff herself to take an educated guess--but the third the Aasimar retrieves is too odd a colour, and Gwyn, being Gwyn, thinks nothing of picking up the bottle and giving it a shake, cursing the lack of labels but remembering an old trick from the cathedral quartermaster.
An idle thumb dips into the flask, draping it in liquid, before she rubs it into the inside of her gum. With luck, this time it won't be alchemist ice.
"Whoa, um, yeah...*cough*...That's a restorative," she says, mouth clacking as she recaps the potion and pushes it back into Abrielle's neatened line. "Lesser, if I had to guess. This one..."
Yeah, no. Gwyn can't get the fizz of the Lesser Restoration out of her mouth. Everything tastes purple, and no, she can't explain how that makes sense.
"Naali, you've a penchant for unidentifiable and apparently hazardous fluids," she says, recalling a pack of vivid orange vials. "What's your take on this?"
Naali swishes the vial around, uncorking it and wafting the smell towards herself as she studies the contents.
"Let's see... dark red, a little gritty. Mild smell of... strawberries, and... hints of oak? Mmm, that's a healing potion if I ever saw one. Not a powerful one, but it'll do something." She nods at the well made potion. Adding strawberry odor was a nice touch.
"Could this help Anevia or Aravashnial's wounds at all?"
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"Suppose there's an easy way to answer that," Gwyn mutters, gingerly plucking the morbidly coloured potion from Naali's fingers.
Now, Private Koschei's no healer. She's never had the gift, never known how it feels to wield divine magic from the inside (though Father Alodae had hope--and oh how she wished the old priest had been right); but if there's one thing Gwyn knows, it's the practicality of rationing. When you've got four hundred wounded and a medical wing full of diseased soldiers, you get used to triage. Save what you can on whom you can. Lives are altogether different kettles of fish--to use a waller idiom--but fingers, toes, the occasional hand....Well, you beg the Inheritor for those. A weak potion won't fix the scholar's face, won't restore his eyes--but perhaps it'll aid the ones he has. The ones he's borrowing. For now, anyway.
"Master...Riftwarden?" Gwyn says, settling for his apparent title. She's never quite gotten the grasp of Elven names and currently hasn't the mind to start. "You're the knowledgeable sort, is that right? Got a theory on what in the abyss happened up there?"
...Because clearly she doesn't.
At the same time, Gwyneth silently holds out the curative to Anevia, eyes rolling as she speaks. In any other world, her question might've had a hope of being genuine--but here, surrounded by rock and stone and being what feels like a mountain away from the fight, it's obvious the Paladin doesn't have patience for the answer. She's talking just to fill the air, to give the blind man something to focus on.
As to the potion...Bottom line, Gwyn'll take an archer with a cracked leg-bone any day, and if easing the pain'll help her aim...that's good enough for her.
Regardless of whatever Anevia does with the tonic , Gwyn does one last sweep of the camp before she takes point at its furthest edge, eager to get the hell out of this light forsaken place.
"Huh," says Therrik, brow knit together, as he studies the two abandoned packs. Why would anyone, down in these tunnels, leave their stuff... He helps idly root through.
He fishes out a tiny, bat-shaped brooch from the bottom that gleams in their lights. "Looks like copper," he observes. "Just amethysts for eyes.... but the workmanship is nice. Could be worth something..." He pauses, then adds on, "...well, you know, not down here. Can't eat it, and it can't show us the way out. But maybe if we get back to the world, and to merchants and things."
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Abrielle makes no objections to handing the potion to the limping archer. Hell, if they could even go just a touch faster, that'd be alright. For the most part, she ignores the nobleman, keeping just enough of an eye on him to hopefully catch him before he gets himself into trouble. Last thing they need is the fat noble whining for an arm to lean on. No one wants to have to lug around a fatty.
"What's that you've found?" she asks Therrik curiously as he announces his find. She peeks over his shoulder and eyes up the trinket. "Pretty. Might as well pocket it. For all we know, me might find the owner." Probably dead, she thought morbidly. Better to be realistic than hopeful in her experience. She saved her optimism for the dying, they tended to need it more than anyone else.
"Keep an eye open for friendlies down here. Try to shoot second, if you get the chance," she warned, picking up the older backpack and handing it to the nobleman to wear. He didn't seem like much of a combatant, so he can carry a little extra. Maybe it'll help work off those excess pounds.
"The wardstone was destroyed," Aravashnial replies matter of factly, though there is still a slight quiver to his voice. Clearing his throat carefully, he tries to stand a bit taller as though he were not clutching Anevia's shoulder for dear life. "By the Storm King. Of that I can assure you; I was rather painfully close to the demon." Perhaps that is the reason for his destroyed eyes.
Anevia, on the other hand, peers across to her elven ward and frowns uncertainly, but does nod and take the potion. She downs it without a second thought and a bit of color seeps back into her face. Her leg is still broken, but she is doing far better off than when you found her.
Horgus, on the other hand, wrinkles his nose at the thought of having to carry much of anything else when he is already rather busy. Busy with what, you may ask? Why, bemoaning every single minor difficulty that the group faces, particularly when any of it is directed in his direction. "Thank you, but no. I would rather not endure that ratty old scrap of refuse touching me in any form of fashion." And that seems to be the end of the conversation as he tentatively starts forward, beckoning the rest of you on with him. Someone apparently wants out of these caverns as soon as possible. Other than all of you, of course.
When you decide to follow the obnoxious man, you actually find that he seems to be going the right way despite the annoyance. For the better part of an hour, you wind your way through the dank, musty underground tunnels with little more to pass the time than idle chatter. All the walls, floors, and ceilings look much the same, so it may occur to you that you are going in circles. At least until you reach a fork ahead of you, leading in two directions; left and right. The right path seems to lead to a quick dead end while there is a great deal of sickly green light spilling from the left.
Within the left tunnel, it quickly opens up into a thirty foot high cavern with a single sizable twenty foot tall building in the center. The building itself appears to be a bunker of sorts, with no windows and walls made of worked stone blocks. A towering carving of a hammer decorates the building's facade and the ruins of collapsed outbuildings stand to either side.
The symbol on this building can be clearly identified as that of Torag.
Unfortunately, it seems that the old stone door leading into the building is stuck, requiring someone to force it open.
"So.... I was new to Kenabres," Therrik says as he moves after the nobleman, Horgus it seems by name. "What's all this about a wardstone? And the Storm King-- I take it that was, uh, the... really big ...thing... that killed the dragon?"
He catches up to Horgus with his long legs. "How about you let me go first?" he asks the rich man. "You know. In case there's trouble."
If anyone's inclined to explain what a wardstone is, Therrik listens as they move along, his eyes constantly scanning the darkness ahead for trouble. He's just beginning to wonder if they're somehow gone in a circle when there's a new juncture ahead, and he sighs in relief.
His steps slow as he realizes there's a building ahead. "Hang on, what's this..." he mutters.
"...isn't that the symbol of that dwarf god? Torag?" he asks nobody in particular, as he moves up to check the door.
"Seems stuck. I can try and force it," he says, with a glance over his shoulder at the others, "but it'll probably be loud..."
Then again, they haven't been terribly quiet so far, either. Plus there's their lights. Therrik figures anything around here knows they're here, already, and he puts his big shoulder to the door and throws his weight against it.
His first try has no traction to it, his boots sliding in a little gravel before the door. Therrik curses, repositions, and tries again.
"The wardstone is the only thing that has been keeping the demons from breaching Avistan for years," Horgus gladly offers as he falls into step beside the orc, simply content to have someone to talk to for the moment. "In addition to the Crusaders, of course. But the first line of defense for the cities themselves have always been the wardstones. I've no idea how they managed to destroy the stone, though. They're meant to be absolutely indestructible. The explosion must have been the first part of shattering the earth to create those chasms, which sent us down to this damnable place." He continues nattering on about all manner of nonsense relating to the wardstones, from his personal concerns about what could have caused it to what he believes it takes to build one.
When they come across the large building, Horgus peers up at it uncertainly and hangs back a bit, nodding to Therrik. "Of course! After you. I will see to the elf," he replies, spitting the final word like a curse. True to his word, though, he does fall back to join Anevia and Aravashnial.
His first try may have been in vain, but the second attempt sets stone to grinding against stone. It echoes off of the walls, signaling to any and all who are listening that they have arrived. Inside is a small chamber that is dark as night, but looks to be some sort of church to those with darkvision. Stone benches that greatly resemble pews rest in twin rows on either side of the room, and a small stone basin rests just inside the door. Within the basin looks to be a few waterskins worth of water. Another stone door that is similarly closed rests at the end of the room, clearly leading to another area.
Therrik listens to Horgus talk without many interruptions, merely a brief clarifying question here and there to the rich man's nattering. It's easier on the ears, and the nerves, than hearing the man complain. Besides, it's educational-- at least for one as ignorant of Kenabres as Therrik himself is. He wishes Janayya had told him more of this stuff... or that he'd thought to ask, he supposes.
He does arch a single brow at the particular venom Horgus seems to have for the elf-- there's a history there, it seems-- but he merely focuses on the door.
When it's opened, Therrik squints ahead into the dark room beyond.
"Small room. No lights. Look like pews... a church to Torag, I guess. There's some water here, though gods knows if it's still good to drink. Another door in the back," he calls to the others. "Can't imagine anything's been in here in a long time though, the way that door was stuck."
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With Horgus determined not to lower himself to the menial task of manual labor, Gwyneth adjusts the grip on her torch and lifts the second pack out of Abrielle's hands with a shrug. Gwyneth's no stranger to hauling a little extra weight--even if it means she can't keep immediate grip of her sword.
All throughout the winding march, Aravashnial's confirmation of the Wardstone's destruction sits like an anvil in her stomach, and while the nobleman's candid depiction of the Mendevian defense system is as insightful as it is informative, his proclamation of it's supposed indestructibility makes her laugh.
"The year I was born," she adds between Horgus's rambling on the logistics of divine protection, "Khorramzadeh--that thing they call 'Storm King'...he came once. Assaulted the city on wings of carmine lightning, playing havoc across the eastern border. O'course then Terendelev fought him off and, beyond a bit of collateral damage, the siege disbanded pretty sharpish. The Kite took a battering, but the Wardstone itself? Hah! One crack. One!"
That last line gives her pause for thought; that twenty short years bought the abyss enough power to annihilate Kenabres' greatest defense in one single strike...but what's done is done, and with Terendelev dead, Gwyneth wonders if her vision of a battle-shewn city isn't looking just a touch optimistic.
"Following that Her Majesty launched the Fourth and...well..." The paladin's voice teeters off again, not at all interested in discussing the slow and agonizing death of the Fourth Mendevian Crusade. No sense in painting the bigger picture when you can't even see what the current canvas looks like.
Just...don't let them die up there, Iomedae, she prays, teeth grinding into something barely resembling a smirk. Not without me. Else you and I are gonna have a very, very long talk about this whole 'First into the Fight' condition...
By the time they come across the church, Gwyneth's mood has gone from determined frustration to mild boredom, and if the abandoned encampment confused her--a Toragdan hovel succeeds in jumping to an outright headache.
"What."
As Therrik busies himself listing the contents, the Paladin wastes no time in sticking her head in around the door, torch bathing the room in amber light and a lone orcish shadow as she strains to understand what a house to the Father of Creation is doing so far buried beneath Kenabres--and, more importantly, why the hell it's been abandoned.
Naali is happy to see Horgus distracted enough to stop being petulant - though that quickly returns when he speaks of Aravashnial. She wonders what caused the animosity. They must know each other. I probably shouldn't ask, no one wants more bad feelings stirred up right now, I'd just make it worse. Besides, Therrik seems to be doing just fine distracting Horgus.
"So not only were there explorers down here, but people were down here long enough to build stone shrines?"
That bodes well for us escaping, unless the earthquakes collapsed an important tunnel.
"Do you want help with the other door, Therrik?"
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Abrielle followed along with her band of impromptu spelunkers, keeping as good of an eye out as she can. The others, with the exception of the humans, will probably see something long before she does but it never hurt to stay on ones toes.
She's grateful to the distraction Therrik provides for the whiny nobleman, but her annoyance is redoubled when the tone behind the word elf is obviously unpleasant. They'd have to have a real nice, long talk about manners when they got out of here.
If they got out.
"Torag, huh?" she says as they gather around the underground chapel. "Not surprised it's underground, to be honest. Dwarfs have a certain affinity for the earth, and the earth seems to return the respect more often than not."
Therrik looks at Naali at her offer with some skepticism, given she stands no higher than the middle of his chest... counting the horns. "...Sure," he says indulgently. "I'll push high, you push low? Might not even be stuck."
Therrik moves to the other door, looking for a handle or similar before trying brute force.
Naali nods in agreement to Abrielle's assessment. "Well if it was dwarves we'd be pretty lucky, they're pretty good masons." She looks suddenly alarmed. "N-not that I'm trying to stereotype all dwarves as stonemasons or anything! Dwarves can do whatever they want to do, just like anybody else. I'm sure dwarves would make great bakers, or clothiers, or uh... candle makers or..." She trails off as she realizes she's not doing herself any favors, and plays with her hair a bit as she looks around the room again for something else to talk about, slowly meandering around the rows of pews. "Uhh..." *Mostly forced cough* "Sure is dusty in here, huh?"
She finally chooses the lonely basin of water to be her new subject of study, and gazes into the water. Realizing that the room had been sealed, the tiefling looks around the room for a hint at the water's source. "Maybe there's a plumbing system, normal water couldn't last too long unless something was replenishing it. Or someone."
Maybe the dwarves are still down here. She ponders hopefully before remembering the abandoned backpacks and grimacing. Or something else.
"Oh right! Good thinking, it might even be open. Right. Smart."
She stretches a bit before she moves to help Therrik with the door. "Always stretch before you exercise, my mother always said, or you'll pull a muscle."
Though no one else seems to have noticed, the oracle with her clouded eyes quickly makes out a form slumped in the corner. It is a stocky, hooded figure that looks to be a dwarf, covered in a thick layer of dust. Judging by the cut of his garb, he was likely a priest or cleric of some sort.
The back door is certainly not stuck and is shoved open easily with another shriek of stone grinding on stone, though the sound is quickly echoed. And not simply because of the surrounding stone walls. The sound rouses the dwarf that had appeared dead from the corner and it lunges forward to swipe claws at Therrik!
The dwarf slashes at Therrik first with one claw, and then with both, clearly trying to carve him to ribbons!
Fortunately, none of the frenzied swipes seem able to break through the half-orc's armor. Time for a rebuttal!
"What the hell?!" shouts Therrik, completely blind-sided by the slumped figure he hadn't even noticed. The feel of claws raking against his armor spurs him into motion only a few seconds late. He whips his falchion from its scabbard on his back, having put it away to open the doors, and swings with more power than finesse, his startlement lending extra force to the blow.
Force, but not accuracy. "Where the f&*@ did he come from?"
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At Therrik's shout, Gwyneth's hands let loose of their contents, fingers leaping for her sword as she works to close the distance.
Unable to recognize the creature, the Paladin shrugs off her doubt with a reinforced grip and a thicket of faith, teeth grit as she forces every possible ounce of strength into the blow, letting the Inheritor's whim guide her swing.
We don't have time for you, dammit!
With the sudden yelling, and growling from their newest surprise guest, Naali wondered about all of the soldiers that had been patrolling past the wardstones during the attack on Kenabres - and of her mysterious savior.
This unlikely group had been lucky to survive, and since waking up had found nothing but trouble. Perhaps lost somewhere beyond the wardstones was the safer place.
Luckily, it looked like Therrik and Gwyneth had the situation in hand - she decided to stay out of the way until she was needed. It'd be dangerous to try to attack into the fray.
Therrik belatedly realizes one of the claws got him after all, as he feels his own warm blood soaking into the gambeson he wears under his scale mail...
Despite getting its claws into Therrik, no ill after-effects of the attack befall the half-orc just yet. For the moment, the only burn he feels is from his own shredded flesh. Perhaps because of the blow, his own attempt at rebuttal misses the mark and skitters off the creature's tough hide.
Gwyneth, fortunately, is there to pick up the slack with the divine guidance of Iomedae backing her swing. The sword cleaves easily through the enraged dwarf, cleaving straight through its shoulder blade, leaving a gaping hole down into the center of its torso. And yet, the creature still comes, snarling black curses at the lot of you. At least, until the purifying holy light washes over it. Withered flesh singes and sears with the smell of rotten meat hanging in the air as the dwarf seizes for a moment. It falls to the ground, twitching and gurgling horribly before it finally falls still again.
In the wake of the undead's re-killing, the church seems extraordinarily quiet, especially with adrenaline thrumming through your veins. When the rush of battle begins to die down and you have a moment to catch your breath, Anevia mumbles something about her leg paining her and moves to sit against the wall. It is hardly a surprise; for a woman with a broken leg, she has done an exemplary job keeping up with the lot of you. Especially while also looking after Aravashnial.
"Hmph," Horgus mutters with a disdainful look in the archer's direction, "maybe it would be wise for our group to split up. I suspect some of us may simply be slowing the others down." He does not even try to disguise who he is talking about as he peers pointedly down his nose at the two grievously wounded individuals.
"Oh, please!" She shoots back, her weariness gone in the face of frustration and anger. "I'm not surprised a man afraid to even acknowledge his own faith isn't moved by a forgotten temple like this, anyway. What are you, ashamed? Worried people will judge you?" She leaves off adding in, "more than they already do," but the implication hangs in the air alongside the reek of burned corpse.
Though this shrine has clearly been desecrated by the reanimation of this dwarf, it could be consecrated again. It would require a fair amount of work of both cleaning and prayer, but the building would be a holy site again. And it would give the group a place to rest, for the time being.
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Though the creature falls, singed and burning, it is not until Gwyneth impales her sword into the remains that she stops, white teeth and eyes orange in the torchlight, collapsing in her armor as the unending thud, thud, thud drums loud in her chest.
Undead. Abrielle's word reverberates in her skull like an old bell, and though her anger still burns, in the instant she lets loose of her blade, Gwyneth feels tentative pangs of pity pulling at her heart--how poor a fate, to be denied even a peace in death. Now, she prays twice over for the surface--that if they fall, if Kenabres slips between her fingers, then please, please Goddess, let them leave this world as they were. Not to return as these...abominations, fit only for the sword.
It still takes a minute or so for the paladin to regain her composure, but she soon stands again, leaving her blade upright in the creature's skull as she moves to retrieve her light from the ground, rubbing off dust and long-decayed cobwebs from the corners of her tabard as she goes.
"Still with us, Therrik?" she offers to the orc, trying her best to crack a smile in spite of the blood spilling between his armor.
She doesn't get much further into thinking about how to deal with that before Horgus pipes up. Because of course he does, and Gwyneth's earlier premonition of a fallout follows perhaps a little too perfectly afterwards--enough that she, for once, seems more tired than angry.
"Alright. Fine. Clearly there's history here," she begins, retrieving her weapon with that same vindictive tone she used towards their cerulean crusader only hours before. "Anevia, what a man does with his faith is his own doing. How much or how little pride he takes is a matter for the Gods, not us, not here, not now--unless it's darker forces he worships, at which point I wonder why you haven't pin-cushioned his ass and saved us all the trouble." The last part comes out as more of a joke, but it doesn't last, as Gwyneth soon turns her attention to the stout one laced in finery.
"And you?"
She gives Horgus a look, looming over him with more than a literal fire reflecting in her gaze.
"I'm going to do you a favor," she says simply. "Because I'm going to pretend you didn't just consider leaving someone, anyone out here to die. Because that, no offense Madame archer, Riftwarden," she gives the two of them a nod, forgetting the latter is completely incapable of sight, "is more or less what you've just suggested. Or is there some part of 'We Are All Getting out of this' that you don't quite seem to understand?"
"So." Gwyneth sheaths her sword, looking about the ruin--not necessarily its occupants--with disgust. "Anyone else got laundry they feel like airing? Because I'm going to get this damn corpse out of here before Iomedae haunts me with hymns of Ozem."
With that, the paladin takes off her own backpack, shrugs her shoulders, and promptly lifts the still smoking corpse onto one of them, marching off to lose it beyond the chapel's walls.
Naali pokes at the corpse that Gwyneth left impaled on her sword, and looks around apprehensively at the room. "Undead? Is the shrine haunted?"
Though she hasn't been a fan of Horgus' complaints and comments, she felt like she needed to defend him on at least one point. "I don't think anyone would last long in Kenabres if they were really doing anything wrong, but not sharing your religious views isn't always about pride, Gwyneth. Not everyone is so understanding of being different, even when you're doing nothing wrong." She throws a quick glance towards Abrielle, remembering the elf's demands to know about her religious views, and general demeanor towards her. "I think you've felt that feeling of not being accepted?"
Therrik breathes out in relief as the ex-dwarf falls, smoldering, at his feet. The half-orc's pulse is still racing with the sudden adrenaline rush, fading now to the burn of pain in his ribs.
"Still with us, Therrik?" she offers to the orc, trying her best to crack a smile in spite of the blood spilling between his armor.
Therrik flicks a sidelong glance to the woman. "Yeah. Just a scratch," he manages, though as he feels at the weak point in his armor and brings his fingers back, they come away bloody. Okay. Okay, big scratch, then.
He looks unhappily down at the dead thing at his feet. "...never fought a walking corpse before," he mutters. "I mean, you hear stories, but... I'm not going to become one of those, right?" Punctuated with an uncertain laugh, because he's only half-joking. Ow.
He feels again at his ribs. Nothing broken, just bleeding. Well, Janayya taught him the basics of binding a wound. Can't do that with armor on, though. "We stopping for a bit?" he asks the others, looking towards Anevia and the elf in particular.
"Because we'll take rests if anybody needs it. Nobody's getting tossed overboard." Though Therrik's words are less impassioned than Gwyneth's, there's a calm, steady quality to his statement that suggests he means it. He looks steadily at Horgus. " 'Course, if someone wants to be a crew of one and strike out on their own, that's their right too."
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"I think you've felt that feeling of not being accepted?"
"What I think is that no one here has had to worry about their own shadow running off to the abyss without them. So yeah. I can relate." Gwyneth frowns, realizing she's said a few words too many, and promptly lets the thought drop before it becomes any more of an issue than it needs be. "...Sorry. That's...really not fair of me."
With that Gwyneth tries to find somewhere to hang her torch for the while; a wall brazier or something else that'll suspend the light.
"Eh? Oh, sure, you'll be fine," she eventually answers to Therrik, her reasoning quite clearly grounded in nothing but faith--they've come this far with a blind man and a broken leg, after all. "Not sure what to do about this place though. Demonic rites I might know something on, but undeath is..."
The paladin begins chuntering to herself, eyes narrowed as she recites incomplete bits of scripture she obviously hasn't read in years.
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Abrille sighed, letting the words of the others in her party echo meaninglessly through her ears. She strolled up to the alter and gazed into the water sitting in the basin, dipping a finger in it and giving it a small taste the way she would check the contents of a potion.
Dirty, she thought as she looked at the alter at the front. Tainted in some way. Otherwise I doubt an undead would be sitting quietly in the corner. She paced around the room a few more times as the others settled out their differences.
She paused, tilted her head to the side, then interrupted the social drama going on around her.
"We could clean it. This temple I mean. It's desecrated now, but..." she trails off as if considering what she was saying herself. "I think if we clean it, literally, and pray within it to clean it spiritually, I think we could un-desecrate it. Consecrate it. Whatever. It'd take time, several hours actually, but I think between Gwyneth and I we could manage eight hours worth of prayers and between us all we could clean the place. It'd give us somewhere to rest before pushing onward."
At Gwyn's words about a shadow, Therrik looks over sharply. That's it-- that's what was bothering him but he couldn't quite put his finger on it... her shadow. He stares a moment, brows knit-- how the hell does someone's ... shadow.... run of...? Well, demons, he guesses, by her words. He grunts to himself, shaking his head a little at the strangeness of everything.
The blue-haired woman's words make him look over, brows climbing up. "...well... I'm not real devout, or anything, but... I can probably clean things okay." He offers a faint, toothy smile. "At least, I can reach the high corners."
Mostly, he's okay with the idea of resting. Each breath makes the gash on his side sting, and he wants to get his armor off and check the cut. Therrik closes the door that he'd just opened, since it doesn't seem to open anywhere other than some rough cavern wall, and unshoulders his pack, then starts the ginger process of unbuckling the straps that hold his scale mail.
"I'm gonna drag the, uh, the body outside, unless someone wants to do anything with it first."
At most of the group's abrupt move to support one side or the other, both the humans promptly shut up and stew quietly. While you all might be right, that does not mean that they have to like either what you have said or their treatment thus far. Fortunately, it only takes both Anevia and Horgus a moment or three before the exhale a respective sigh and get comfortable on the pews. While the latter offers a begrudging but respectful nod of thanks in Naali's direction, Anevia clears her throat quietly.
"Thank you," she says in a small voice to no one in particular before she turns to make sure Aravashnial does not trip over anything. Upon closer inspection from anyone within reach of the re-dead corpse, several curious items of note become apparent. At his belt hang two vials that look much like the one offered to Anevia not so long ago, and a bright gleam of gold in the firelight reveals a knotted gold ring on one withered hand. Beside where the dwarf had one rested in silent repose, a finely made warhammer sits covered in dust, long forgotten.
The ring appears to be worth 125 gold. Not that you can sell it to anyone down here.
That is definitely a warhammer of the masterwork variety. How fortunate!
As Aravashnial sets to asking about what has happened and where exactly they are, Anevia tells him what little she can. The elf professes surprise and singular delight at the find of a temple to Torag so far below the surface, but frowns at the mention of an undead dwarf. "I...suspect that this may be a huecuva. Priests that have lost their faith and take their lives are sometimes returned to undeath by malevolent deities. It would certainly be wise to consecrate the grounds, if only for the sake of giving evil one less place to hide, no?"
Naali breathes a sigh of relief as well, happy that the two are at least done fighting for now. Worrying over the constant angry glares and comments had been giving her a stress headache - she has never excelled at dealing with people being angry, whether it was directed at herself or those around her. Her usual strategy of hiding away with a book or game to distract her until no one was angry was not viable in a tunnel apparently full of undead and vicious monsters.
"Okay. Well that's good then," she states, mostly to herself, as if to ask confirmation that everything was, in fact, good.
"Wait, consecration can actually repel evil?", dark eyebrows raised in surprise, "I thought it was just something priests did to make a building official, but I guess it makes sense. Sorry, I don't know too much about the divine..."
The tiefling hefts the hunk of metal up surprisingly easily and turns it in her hands with an increasingly excited look, her tail swishing back and forth behind her.
"Oh! Oh! This is acid etching right here! On the side, right there! Oohh, it's really intricate, too. One of the blacksmith shops in my home city bought acid from our shop so he could do this to his best pieces. Swords for captains of the guard, and lord's sons."
She takes a few unwieldy test swings after making sure she won't hit anyone accidentally. It's unlikely she'd be able to hit much of anything with the hammer, but not for lack of trying.
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"Holy water," Abrielle said as she moved back away from the basin. "should have just dunked that fellow's face in it. Ah well."
She gave a quick glance at the items on the re-dead corpse, but doesn't give them much additional thought. She'd never been one to know or understand the value of mundane items and it certainly didn't seem like she was about to suddenly figure it out now.
"Alright, it's settled then. We'll be cleaning this place up. And you," she said pointedly in the direction of Horgus. "Will be helping. Complain and it'll be your clothes I use for scrubbing cloths. Refuse and you'll be put outside to fend for yourself until we fetch you in the morning."
That said, she pulls out a few of the remaining bits of cloth she had ripped from the corpses earlier and hands them about before dousing them with water conjured with her create water spell.
"I've got a touch of soap in my pack, too, if we run into anything more stubborn than what water will do away with," she added. "Almost glad I didn't have a chance to unpack before all this."
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"There's a few different rites of consecration. Burial grounds, hallowed sites, new conscripts of the faith. I guess the best way to look at it is that...the divine hear everything?" Gwyneth offers to Naali, though she might as well be talking to herself given how hyped the little Tiefling appears about the impressive bit of smithing in her hand. "You've just got to know how to ask."
...Which I don't, she adds, but it's certainly not going to stop her from trying. She'd be lying if she said eight hours didn't come off as just the tiniest bit trying of her patience, but she fiddles to shed off her heaviest layer of armour regardless, the better to settle in for the long haul. With a minute of work, the thick scale mail shirt slips clean off her back, revealing clean, if now slightly crumpled, vestments of the church; all white and gold, save the smear of vermin grime where the paladin had earlier wiped her blade. As with the rest of her gear, Gwyneth finds an unremarkable spot to keep it; out of the way.
Without the steel to hide it, the boxed outline of a badly battered holy text reveals itself, secured to her as if as much as weapon as the sword to her left. It comes out clean as a knife from its sheath of belts as Gwyn sets it down beside the altar, watching the book's shadow melt to life as it leaves her fingers.
One of Abrielle's cloths soon replaces it in her hand, and for that she offers a muttered thanks--praying the aasimar lets the noble keep some of his dignity--before shifting back to her much-beloved copy of The Acts, rolling her sleeves. Her left arm doesn't appear to be taking the affair well, ever-angry with scars and discolored though it is, but Gwyneth gives the wrist a snap, as if it were a dog to keep controlled.
"Suppose I'll spare you the hymns," she says dryly, scanning pages almost black with supplemented prayers, amendments, and wards against the abyss. Aravashnial's explanation of the dwarven priest's demise at least offers her a starting point. "Something from the Shining Crusade then...Canticles of the Eighth? 'He marched on shades of glory, heart entombed by rage, soul burning embers of justice; so that Your voice might spark fire in the dark...'"
She wanes off to a hush, reciting the rest from memory as she scrubs what seems like decades of filth from the altar.
Therrik wrestles out of his armor and tunic, then cuts a small strip from his bedroll in order to staunch the gouge that the dead thing's claws had left. Too bad they're not in the swamp, he thinks-- Janayya had taught him some good mosses to use, but...
He watches the tiefling's eager assessment of the hammer, glancing it over himself-- and noting in passing that she's a little stronger than she looks, too.
"Yeah, nice hammer. Ring looks gold but I'm no smith. Hey, are these potions medicinal?" he says, nudging the two vials on the corpse's belt.
The half-orc also glances sidelong at the blue-haired woman's further dressing down of the rich man. Therrik grunts to himself, but just focuses on securing his makeshift bandage, before tugging his tunic back on. He then moves about the chapel-- a little gingerly, it's true-- lending his shoulders to the task of straightening the stone benches, and his height to the high corners that need reaching. Plenty of old dead cobwebs, but he's just glad they're not occupied by demonic spiders.
He listens with half an ear to the rise-and-fall of the religious speech, or whatever it is. Few people on the river had much time for church, or the gods... other than to ask Hanspur that you didn't drown, he supposes.
Horgus's eyes widen in surprise and he parts his lips to offer a quick retort, only to be silenced by Abrielle's next sentence. He gulps quickly and offers a curt nod, moving to reluctantly take the cleanest scrap of cloth he can find of the bunch. And then he sets to work, just like the rest of them. He does cast the occasional annoyed look over in the direction of Anevia and Aravashnial, who sit quietly by themselves.
To their credit, they try not to get in anyone's way as they clean and do offer to help once or twice, but it is very clear they cannot. Any "help" they might be able to offer would only further complicate things for the uninjured and likely aggravate their own wounds. So instead, the talk idly between themselves and trade theories about what has happened.
Aravashnial seems to be something of a conspiracy theorist, if anyone takes a moment to listen to his ramblings about corrupt crusaders and nobles supporting the demons' cause. Anevia, on the other hand, is not so sure and remains politely skeptical. A careful listener might be able to observe her mention here and there about a wife back on the surface who also happens to be a crusader. Every mention of her significant other causes her to drift briefly into despondent silence which the blind elf misses completely.
Therrik works in silence for the most part, listening to the exchanges between Anevia and Aravashnial just as he had Horgus's rambling. He's on a stretch of the river that's foreign to him, so to speak; best he learn all he can from those who know the region better.
Even if 'the region' doesn't normally extend to caves, he supposes.
When the church is cleaned, Therrik sits down on one of the benches, catching his breath, touching gingerly at his side. Once he's not actively moving, he becomes aware of the chill of being deep underground, surrounded by cold stone. Therrik fights off a shiver, and looks at the others, especially the wounded. It's going to be a long, cold night... day... whatever time it is.
And there's no trees down here, to gather wood and make a fire.
The half-orc clears his throat. "We should take stock of what we've got with us," he rumbles. "Food. Water. I haven't seen much of either so far-- above ground, we could count on hunting, on finding streams... but down here..." he shrugs.
Therrik digs his bedroll from his pack, unrolling it and taking it over to the blinded elf and the woman with the broken leg. "It's cold. Either of you got blankets with you, or similar?"
Therrik looks from the two injured to the others. "...am I the only one here who's not local to Kenabres?" he asks, curiously.
Naali whistles a quiet tune to herself as she works, a skill she picked up initially out of absent minded experimentation, and then concerted effort when she realized her pointed teeth and oddly long tongue meant she was actually fairly good at it. Her singing was atrocious, after all.
Mostly she worked on scrubbing some of the grime out of the nicer parts of stonework - Abrielle's soap and several of her own failed alchemical experiments doing quite well to clean up years of caked on dust. The manual labor seems to quell her usual absentmindedness, distracting her just enough to keep her from distracting herself - a trick her mother had to use frequently during Naali's youth.
She puts a friendly hand on Anevia's shoulder when she hears her go silent. "Hey, don't worry! We're going to get out of here, we've dealt with everything that's come up so far! Like Gwyneth said, we're all gonna get out of here."
...
"That's a good idea, Therrik. I don't have too much, I wasn't expecting to leave the city for weeks at the least. I don't have a blanket or bedroll, but I have an extra set of clothes that would sort of work. Probably only for me though, I don't think they're quite big enough to cover anyone else." She sighs wistfully as she unpacks her backpack.
Again and again foiled by my height. What I wouldn't give to just be a normal height...
Terendelev's scale on her belt gives a barely perceptible gleam.
"Well, if we might be stuck down here, I can store some of that water in vials. Holy or not, water might be important down here. Other than that, not much. A few tinder twigs. Sorry I'm not prepared."
"Egede. It's also in Mendev, if you didn't know. I grew up there with my mother. Where are you from? I can't quite place your accent. I mean, I haven't traveled much, so I'm not saying you sound odd or anything, it's my fault. I spent most of my life in the same house in the same city, doing the same things."
She chuckles to herself, and gestures around vaguely. "I guess this is what I get for following my heart."
...
With a puff, a sizzle, and a bit of vigorous shaking, Naali mixes together a few powders, herbs, and goos together in one of her less dirty bottles. Proper cleaning for all her gear was now a luxury, but from her pleased face it's clear that at least something went right with her brew.
Therrik shrugs away Naali's apology for her lack of preparation. "Don't think any of us planned on getting dumped underground," he points out drily.
He shrugs again at the mention of Egede-- he knows nothing of Mendev beyond what he saw from the West Sellen, going north, but nods at her clarification of where it's at.
"River Kingdoms," he says. "About three... four-hundred miles down downriver, depending how you reckon it. Grew up there with my mother too," he says, with a crooked smile for the similarity.
...and he'd followed his heart here as well, he supposes. Seems like maybe a bad choice for both him and the tiefling. He opens his mouth to say as much-- then hesitates, squinting at the short, horned woman.
"....uh," he begins, and isn't quite what to say after that. ...are you growing? Well, on the other hand, they've got a woman with 'em who doesn't have a damned shadow, so.... this is a weird enough bunch.
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It should be a point of pride--that for a life spent betwixt cloisters and garrisons, the wear and work of a thorough clean suits Gwyneth far more than the weight of her armour. She works methodically, ridding the worst of the dirt and dust from awkward crevices in the stonework, voice waxing lyrical with the Act of The Black Prince's earnest redemption...
But anyone with half a care can see the Paladin's shoulders sit too tightly for the task at hand; that her eyes have long glazed over, ignorant of all but the church's grime; and though her palms scrub so fiercely that their colours almost match, Gwyneth's mind is clearly somewhere else. Years away, in fact, with smaller fists and less company. Polishing white walls and alabaster floors. There was...an alcove, she remembers--lined with sunburst reliefs and the outlines of angels--where busts of the divine lay in wait.
The first, and eldest; an impression of Aroden, the last Azlanti, victorious; ancient, by her childish standards, and prone to fracture. She broke off his left ear and never touched it again.
Second, Saint Lymnirin. Eagle faced and severe; every bit the warden of her post, such that the statue ever shined. At the time, Gwyn guessed dirt wouldn't dare mark the image for fear of disappointing the Patron of First Blood. A few short years and one month of preemptive drilling by the Inquistors of Kenabres later, she'd never question what wasn't terrified of the former-priestess ever again.
And of course, the last of the three: the Knight-Inheritor herself. A rare depiction, actually; imperfect, showing the telling nicks and scars of a soldier long seeped in, and tired of, war--or maybe someone had dropped the bust and didn't bother calling in a talented Shelynite for repairs. Either way, while Gwyneth had her fair share of love for the altars, for Iomedae's own symbols of valor; the young teen had never loved a piece of art like she did that one. When she closes her eyes, she still feels those groves under her fingers, still hears the rumbling echo of busy clergymen and crusaders trafficking through the halls, still knows the cold touch of worked stone against her lips--
And it's at that point in her daydream that Gwyneth returns to the real world like the Starstone risen from the sea, coughing the air she's clearly forgotten to breathe between her sermons, feeling more than content with the room's sudden rise in temperature and twice as uncomfortable for it.
So. The whole cleaning thing? While it should be a point of pride, it isn't. Cleaning lets the paladin's mind wander...and Gwyn's never been all good with that. When Naali says her name, she hasn't quite gotten the blush off her face, much less had time to reverse-engineer the conversation, so she straightens her spine, stops twisting the life out of the rag in her hands, and gives the most earnest of nods, plus a few over-enthusiastic sounds of agreement for good measure.
"Nn! R-Right. I mean, of course! What...Where did I get to?" "...Screw it. Cerulean, got a favorite parable? Ah. Wait, no, chanting's beneath you, right?"
Gwyneth's laughter follows thick. She doesn't mean anything by it--she's certainly not looking for a fight. Not really. She just doesn't want to think. So she doesn't. Not for a while, anyway.
.........
A little while later, with the place looking a damn sight better and less claustrophobic, Gwyneth takes back her holy text with a heavy hand, slumping down a freshly cleaned wall with her backpacks to one side and her armour to the other. She's back to mouthing prayers at this point, but they're nothing you'll find in any copy of The Acts, and certainly no church. They're infinitely less formal. More mundane. Probably a little concerning too, actually; like a madwoman talking to an imaginary friend, but Gwyneth puts her heart into every syllable. Alongside her requests for consecration, there's a few humble whispers thrown in for everyone present, and all those who aren't--for Naali and her savior; Aravashnial and his eyes; Abrielle and the souls she's already saved; Anevia and her wife---
"Wait, you're married? To a Crusader? Seriously? Anyone I know? I mean I've heard how one in the family causes heartache, but...Inheritor's Hand, how do you even have time for..." Beat. "No, no, no--please don't answer that. Forget I said anything. I mean I'm sure she's...breathing. And not to mention contractually honor-bound to punch me in the face. So there's that. History dictates she can't be that far off."
--Therrik and his heart, wherever it leads him (which helps explain the incredibly obnoxious snort she gives when his demeanor says it's what brought him to Kenabres in the first place--Welcome to the Worldwound. Where lives end and dreams come to die.); and yes, even one for Horgus. Though Gwyn makes a point for Iomedae not to judge him too harshly. Maybe get Abadar for this one? she thinks. The rich usually favor the Master of the First Vault, right? Maybe with bit of hope, it'll work in reverse.
"I've...never really left," she chuckles sadly on hearing Naali and Therrik's perhaps slightly romantic comings to the city from which the crusades are--were--launched. "Iomedae kept me for something, I guess. Regulation keeps the active rota alive with enough of this and that just in case of...well..." She fans her good hand to the ceiling. The other lies dead on her lap. "Torches, handful o' hardtack, half a day's water, basic provisions--fairly certain they weren't expecting..." She faffs her hand again, clearly not wanting to give their situation the honor of a name. On the topic of mothers, Gwyn turns completely numb, letting her eyes roll over the edges of shadows as they fade in and out with the torchlight.
...One of which does not appear to be playing along, until she notices her perspective of the tiefling looks wrong...and sees the look on Therrik's face, presumably mimicking her own as she puts her hands horizontal, widening the gap vertically with a quizzical eye to the orc as she mouths: The f*ck?
After a moment she stops with the action, leaning her chin on a palm. She's not really in a position to talk but..."Say, Naali? How tall are you?"
"I mean, normally," she clarifies.
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"Just because I'm not in the city often enough to attend a formal mass in a fancy cathedral, doesn't mean I'm not in the field praying over the dead and dying," Abrielle says in a tone far too casual for the words. Of course, you have to distance yourself a good chunk to stay sane when you're off fighting the stuff of nightmares while friends and allies die around you.
"I know my fair share on prayers and hymns."
Sure enough, when Gywneth pauses, Abrielle more than happily begins her own prayers and hymns, along with a few songs the legions sing in hopes of gaining Iomedae's blessing as they march to war. She's got the voice of a song bird, and singing actually seems to bring a smile to the usually dead-pan face of the elf.
~ ~ ~
"Kenabres local," Abrielle says with a raised hand in response to Therrik. "One of few. Most people leave when they want to start family, dangerous so close to the Wound, and the people who stay are here to crusade across the region, not settle down."
"Normally? I've been the same height for the past decade, I think this is my 'normal'. What? What's everybody staring at? Oh no, I didn't do something insulting to the shrine did I? Oh no!"
It takes her a second to realize that everyone is not towering over her quite as much anymore. She scampers over to each person, comparing their height to her own - still falling much shorter than each one.
"I'm so tall! Ahh!" she bubbles to anyone that will listen, "What happened? When, how? Did someone cast a spell? None of my extracts could do this, but I don't have anything else that could - wait!"
Naali grabs the shining silver scale from her belt, and a tingling sensation spreads through her hands. It's cool, but not so cold as to be uncomfortable. She waves it excitedly to the others before turning it over in her hands, feeling the texture and trying to figure out what makes it 'tick'. She had always loved a puzzle, and magic items in particular had always held her interest - to her they seemed simply to be puzzles with the most interesting prizes at the end, whether it was a way to cure wounds, or shoot fireworks.
"I think Therrik was right, they must be magic! I was thinking about wanting to be taller, it must have noticed. I bet if I focused I could even control it."
"I'll be damned," Therrik mutters. It's one thing to make a theory about those scales... another to see it so literally have a difference on one of their number. "Well... guess that's something you should, uh, practice then. Wonder how tall it'd let you get?"
Therrik's green eyes wander their little group, because survival means you've got to know the measure of any crew you're with. His impressions so far are gathered from those moments of interactions stolen during the trek so far.
The blue-haired woman-- Abrielle, he thinks.... a sharp tongue on her, he's witnessed that. Comes off like she's used to being the skipper. But she's also gods-blessed, it seems, which is rare and valuable a skill and... sings pretty, he muses. In that, she reminds him of Janayya.
There's the Iomedan with the temper. She reminds him-- sort of-- of a halfling sailor he crewed with when new to the boats. Quick to anger, quick to laugh, would throw a punch at you for a sideways look but would stand you a round five minutes later without a blink. Of course, the similarities only go so far... the halfling had had a shadow, for one thing, and hadn't been a religious fanatic.
The tiefling... that one reminds him of one of his youngest sister. Not that he'd seen much of her, the last few years (rare that his boat and his mother's had crossed paths), but that... curiosity, getting excited over every little thing, Lanni's like that too. 'Course, Lanni's ten years old, and the tief's probably older than that. Therrik rubs at his jaw thoughtfully.
The elf... makes him think of how Janayya had spoken of the Kyonin big-wigs. All brains and words, she'd said, and not meant it flatteringly, but... knowledge is good. Better if paired to action. A blind man's a traveling liability, alright, but the knowledge in the mind's still good. He tells himself that the elf's injuries trump any other considerations... but there's a dark little voice in his head that mutters about whether the elf might react differently, might react the way the Kyonin elves had, if the elf could actually see Therrik's green skin...
Anevia: he can't draw many conclusions about her yet. She seems a straight shooter-- Therrik's mouth quirks briefly at his own inadvertent pun-- just a lady who wants to get home to her... lady. Hopefully that broken leg won't slow 'em down too far, he thinks.
Horgus, now... Therrik's torn between a bit of wry pity for the rich bastard, and the (larger) desire to get in his face a bit every time the man starts whining. Two things stop him: one's the knowledge that Abrielle seems more'n eager to get in his face enough for two, and the other's the fact that they don't know how long this course will be, and snarling may buy you an hour's work, but in the long run it leads to people jumping ship.
And that leaves... Hendron. The half-elf's been quiet since they tumbled on down; Therrik throws concerned glances the other man's way, ever so often, but there's too much going on for him to get too wrapped up in the troubles of the man he'd shared a drink with.
"We should make sure everyone eats," he says, pulling his own little bundles of smoked salmon, hazelnuts, and dried apples from his pack. "We don't know how much walking-- or climbing-- we'll have to do tomorr-- once we've gotten some rest."
He notes his bundle of tea leaves in his pack as well, and sighs. No wood for a fire, and probably he shouldn't risk using up the water, either.
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"Kenabres local," Abrielle says with a raised hand in response to Therrik. "One of few. Most people leave when they want to start family, dangerous so close to the Wound, and the people who stay are here to crusade across the region, not settle down."
To that, Gwyneth gives an uncertain nod, about to open her mouth and say something about that being part of the appeal--knowing your legacy will die where you stand, before it has chance to bleed any further over the Mendevian landscape--but Naali's exuberant joy filters the thoughts from her mind, and she fires back at the blue-haired Crusader: "Unless of course you happen to have a slight...problem. Or three. Then you get all the fun work like guarding fancy Cathedrals and shelter for the armies to return to." She sighs, "I loved that fancy Cathedral, by the way. Better acoustics."
With eyes rolling as Naali still appears to be bouncing off the walls about her abnormal growth spurt, Gwyneth's good hand fishes about her person till it finds her prize; her own draconic scale, its silver sheen fresh as newly forged nexavaran steel. For a moment she wears the same face as Naali--a fierce curiosity of the unknown, and a clear determination to learn...but then she remembers what it is she holds in her palm, whose it is...and so lost does Gwyn become in that moment that the flash of magic from her scale goes wholly unnoticed, save that her reignited wrath appears to keep the chill of the underground firmly at bay.
Her daze lifts enough to tug her backpack at Therrik's word, tucking away Terendelev's last gift and rummaging through the contents, her voice seeming to fall back into her prayers...but for those whom the soldier's melody hasn't quite yet turned to white noise, there's a slight difference to her speech.
"Spare the Good, Inheritor. Their souls need no saving. Take those dark ones who've still some spark to flare instead; in whose hearts Your light might burn, whose shields might bolster Your legion. Because the rest?" She's quite jovial for it, practically candid as she breathes, "Oh, they're going to have to die. And if they won't die, we'll figure something else out. Because anything is better than this, y'know? This...nothing." Her fist pulls at something she doesn't recognize by touch. Ah! Her flask, of course; though it's still technically Naali's, she thinks, as Gwyn didn't exactly earn its ownership. "I'll not be taken prisoner by it. Not by these walls. By this siege. Not by anyone. Least of all You, determined as You are to keep me from paying a visit, apparently."
She rubs a thumb over the symbol, eyes aglow as she channels her given gift to detect evil on the world--if only to check it does, in fact, still work.
Really, Iomedae. She grins. One day this girl's gonna get the wrong idea.
Settling the flask aside, she does a tally of her gear, lining everything out in haphazard stacks; torches, parchment, a real excess of oil ("Hey. Have you ever had to deal with fiendish locust swarms? No? Fire good. Sword...not so good."), chalk, rope...four...maybe five portions of cremated breadcake that'll keep you alive, but damn if it won't make you work for it. Much like Therrik, she's none too interested in partaking, and it's with a clear mind--and some relief, formally revising her earlier impression that their orcish armsman isn't a heartless bastard, merely a pragmatic one--that she takes one look at her bedroll, all neat and belted and still with that fresh fancy cathedral smell, and sets it out alongside the rest.
"You're all free to it," she says, taking exception to the flask and her wads of paper, upon which she seems fit to start writing if the hunk of graphite in her hand is any indication. "I'm sure we'll be fine."
"Wow, Gwyneth, that's a lot of stuff. It might fit better in that backpack we found, it looked a little roomier."
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With the temple cleaned and purified, Abrielle finally dropped her wash cloth with a heavy sigh. "Nothing like a bit of scrubbing grim to beat the humility back into you," she said, more to herself than anyone else. Maybe a bit to Horgus, too. She struts back to where she had set her pack onto a broken pew, patting Horgus on the back as she passes.
"So, we're swapping lunches now? Reminds me of the days back in school when we'd trade out with friends. I've got a few rations packed still-- Have I mentioned I'm rather relieved I hadn't stopped back home to unpack yet? Between all of us, we should be alright. Might want to keep an eye out for roots. Lots of edible roots and of course fungus in caves."
Abrielle seems a touch more chatty than before and more in her element. She'll share her rations with whomever requires them, and fill any waterskins as needed. At the end of their day, she'll bed down and rest up, taking her watch turn when it's time.