** spoiler omitted **
Nightflier:
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Dorzar's axe has fallen beneath him. It's a dwarven waraxe, but wicked looking - even more so than usual for that kind of weapon.
Near the huge anvil is a large leather backpack. There is not much inside - that dagger that Dorzar used in a ritual and small book with strange writing in it. It looks like dwarven letters, but it is not written in old dwarven.
Ilona watches quietly feeling Ragnar's sorrow as keenly as Solvistania's almost frantic exhilaration. As the others go about thier task she watches, for sings of danger from their surrounding and for signs of stress in their group. Reaching into her belt pouch she takes aout a handful of dried berries and absently offers them to Muni.
"Hugi took your dad, kid." The bird says. "We only had time to take one soul before the curse set in, an' he was the first to fall. When they came, the shadows couldn't drive him mad. He managed to fire back one of the heavy bolters from the battlements. Three hundred arrows from the hand of one man. Killed scores of them. They were arrogant. Close. Didn't think anyone could resist the hell they let loose. He was the only one that did. That Legate that led them, Sunulael, he's the one that turned your dad to stone there on the wall, still holding that spear, where you found us sitting on 'im like a statue."
The raven looks at Ilona, flaps twice and settles on her arm to pick at the berries while he talks.
"I seen a lot o' stuff. Too much to believe in coincidence. The fact that of everyone in the entire city, you were the only survivor, the son of the only soul we saved, well, Hugi and I knew. You got things to do, kid. This is where they start. That's why he's here."
"I was not the only one." Ragnar says as he lays out the shattered remains of the blades on the smelting table, the ghost of his father still standing in the green flames.
"I said the only survivor. Your brother died there. You brought him back. You shouldn't have been able to, but you did. Now you're starting to learn how to do it on purpose. Careful with that, by the way. I know what they mean to you, but remember, the dead are no one's friends.
Ragnar stops, as if chilled to the bone, stunned. "Only...survivor..." he says, looking down at his upper arm where the Crown of Nalford snugly rests. He pulls it down and holds it in his hands. "That means... I... I am..."
"Yeah. Yeah it does. It was never your brother. It was you. It was always you."
"But I... am not even a man. I cannot..." His hands shake, a tremble at first then growing until he eventually jerks and hurls the crown across the room, clattering and sparking off the stone, echoing in the chamber like a thousand dropped hammers. He grips the anvil, his shoulders sagging, tears staining it's dusty face. Then with a massive heave he upends it. The temperature drops like the air was plunged in ice water. The spectral torches burn bloody and the racks and shelves full of tools shake like an earthquake. The darkness gathers around Ragnar, his breathing ragged, barely controlled.
"I...hate you bird. You should have left me to die. All you bring me is pain."
The bird hops backwards up Ilona's arm to her shoulder.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, c'mon..."
The bird looks at Ilona and blinks, for once at a loss for words.
Solvistania looks up from her studying as the darkness engulfs Ragnar. Her eyes flash a crimsom red, and she walks over to Ragnar, her eyes glowing. She grabs his shoulder and pulls him to face her.
"Pain. You speak of something you have no knowledge of. You know nothing. Pain comes in many forms, many shapes. I have also felt pain, Dorn. The pain of betrayal, the pain of loss, and the pain of...abandonment...of lonlines. The pain of one who has no past, no future!"
As he looks into her eyes, the tears start flowing down her face.
"Let me tell you of my origins, and maybe you will gain enlightenment, Sire. You are the Lord of Narfall, but that is but a title, it is not what you are. I am Solvistania, and I am not a true elf, I am what my creator calls an Elorg, an elfling mixed with orcish blood.
Chops picks up Dorzar's waraxe from the corpse's grasp. It is a peculiar thing. Obviously of dwarven quality, but different. Chops gives it a couple of swings, trying to feel the balance of it, but he frowns, clearly not satisfied. "Sorok." he calls. "Is this something you can use?" The dworg also picks up the book written in the dwarvish writing, but not in the order he is used to. "Black dwarf, can you read this?"
After interacting with the dwarf, and concurrently with Ragnar and Muni's interaction, Chops studies the strange crossbow that he lifted off of Dorzar's body. This could be useful. He holds it to his shoulder, takes aim at the corner of the room, and pulls the trigger. A clunk is heard as the bolt hurdles out and misses the corner by a meter. This will take some getting used to.
He sets the weird crossbow down, sees Ragnar getting ready with his broken swords, and realizes that they are going to be spending some time here. He picks up Pete's body and head, searches for the arm, and carries them outside of the cavern. Not in possession of a shovel, Chops lays down the halflings corpse near one of the trees and begins a search for rocks in order to build a cairn. He mumbles prayers to the moon goddess, wishing the halfling a safe journey to the afterlife. When he finishes the cairn, he heads back into the cave.
Chops picks up Dorzar's waraxe from the corpse's grasp. It is a peculiar thing. Obviously of dwarven quality, but different. Chops gives it a couple of swings, trying to feel the balance of it, but he frowns, clearly not satisfied. "Sorok." he calls. "Is this something you can use?"
Turning to look at Chops he walks forward and takes the axe. He swings it a few times and seems pleased. "Aye, I can use this."
The dworg also picks up the book written in the dwarvish writing, but not in the order he is used to. "Black dwarf, can you read this?"
Let me see here.
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Chops picks up Dorzar's waraxe from the corpse's grasp. It is a peculiar thing. Obviously of dwarven quality, but different. Chops gives it a couple of swings, trying to feel the balance of it, but he frowns, clearly not satisfied. "Sorok." he calls. "Is this something you can use?"Turning to look at Chops he walks forward and takes the axe. He swings it a few times and seems pleased. "Aye, I can use this."
The dworg also picks up the book written in the dwarvish writing, but not in the order he is used to. "Black dwarf, can you read this?"Let me see here.
I am not a true elf, I am what my creator calls an Elorg, an elfling mixed with orcish blood.
Ragnar jerks in surprise at her touch, and looks down at Solvistania. He sees her, and seems to be listening, or trying to, but his eyes flick about, locking onto other places around her, his body jerking, his clothes being pulled at by unseen hands. His brows knit and his head shakes, as if he is trying to listen to a number of things all at once. His face is contorted in sorrow, rage and confusion. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but does not. He simply closes his eyes, shakes his head and sits on the overturned anvil. When he opens his eyes he looks at her with full, red-rimmed focus.
"Orc?" he says and reaches out to tentatively touch her. His eyes flick to the side for a moment, then back to her. "I'm...sorry. I assure you it does not matter anymore. You are still here. You resist the call. The Shadow did not come for you. Your spirit is no darker than this child's." he says looking down near them.
After a brief moment Sorok hands the book back to Chops shaking his head. "No, I can't read it." Looking towards Solvistania. "Maybe the elf can..." His voice trails off as he sees Ragnar.
"But I... am not even a man. I cannot..." His hands shake, a tremble at first then growing until he eventually jerks and hurls the crown across the room, clattering and sparking off the stone, echoing in the chamber like a thousand dropped hammers. He grips the anvil, his shoulders sagging, tears staining it's dusty face. Then with a massive heave he upends it. The temperature drops like the air was plunged in ice water. The spectral torches burn bloody and the racks and shelves full of tools shake like an earthquake. The darkness gathers around Ragnar, his breathing ragged, barely controlled.
"I...hate you bird. You should have left me to die. All you bring me is pain."
1d20+9
Solvistania looks up from her studying as the darkness engulfs Ragnar. Her eyes flash a crimsom red, and she walks over to Ragnar, her eyes glowing. She grabs his shoulder and pulls him to face her.
"Pain. You speak of something you have no knowledge of. You know nothing. Pain comes in many forms, many shapes. I have also felt pain, Dorn. The pain of betrayal, the pain of loss, and the pain of...abandonment...of lonlines. The pain of one who has no past, no future!"
As he looks into her eyes, the tears start flowing down her face.
"Let me tell you of my origins, and maybe you will gain enlightenment, Sire. You are the Lord of Norfall, but that is but a title, it is not what you are. I am Solvistania, and I am not a true elf, I am what my creator calls an Elorg, an elfling mixed with orcish blood.
Sorok walks up to the two. Looking at Ragnar. "I can't say I know your pain Ragnar. Your clan was taken from you while I abandoned mine when I learned that the cause I was fighting for was wrong. I've been alive a long time and it took me far too long to realize what side I was on. I realized it because I was alive. Because of that my fate was to become just another sacrifice. You being alive helped change that. Do you really think anything will change by being dead?"
Turning to look to Solvistania. "There'll always be pain in life. You say you have no past, no future, you talk like a slave. I say you've just told us your past, though it's not a happy one. As for your future, you're free to make your own decisions aren't you? Whether you're a Dor or a Sorokhul you can make your own path. You say you're an Elorg, that's something I'm not familiar with, but I am familiar with Dworgs. Look at Chops he smiles the most of you lot and that's not usual. You should learn something from him.
Ilona walks up to Solvistania and Ragnar.. As she does she calls to the crow quietly, calling on the spirit of life within every object, calling upon its desire to be reurned to the only man possessed of the right to wear it.
The crown rises from the ground flying to her hand as she comes up to the noble warrior.
"You are one of the bravest men I have ever met.I can't begin to understand what it feels like to have everything you love die before your eyes, and I won't pretend to tell you it shouldn't hurt. It should, because you're alive, because you can feel love, it what makes you different from the enemy, better.
They stay with you because they believe in you Ragnar. We believe in you. I believe in you."
She hold up the crown before his eyes.
"I'm going to be standing there the day you put this on and let all the Dornish people know their king lives, and I'll laugh in the face of the shadow because of it."
She hands him the crown her other hand taking his cheek, as she holds his gaze.
"You're a good man. Thhey won't let you forget your legacy, I won't let you forget you're human."
She hold the look for a moment allowing emotion to speak more loudly than words before turning away with a smile.
Thirning to Solvistania she takes her by both shoulders, gently, conforting.
"You've had a life that no one should suffer, yet you survive, the shadow fears you because you are stronger than even your own blood. You are more elf than anything else and Izrador tried to destroy the elves like her tried too destroy the Dorns. Out of fear.
Little one you wield more power every day, your mind is amazing, you are a gift to those who would stand up and fight, never forget that. You are not alone, and you never will be again."
She envelops the elorg maiden in a warm hug, strong and soft, protective and caring. Over her Solvistania's shoulder she makes eye contact with Chops a look of understanding, support and encouragement.
After the fight, Gilian first took care of the living, sewing back muscles and skin, healing the rat and dwarf inflicted wounds.
Then she had laid to rest Pete and Anvinder, chanting the halfling rites for the estranged plain nomad.
Much later, she had to decline Solvistania demand: "I'm afraid I can't help you. I never learnt to read, you know. No one in our village could do it. Even my mother. But I can recall all the recipies she taught me as if they were written in one of you books."
With Cops and Sorok, she had gathered all the equipment and asked Ilona or Solvistania to identify any new items if they could.
When Ragnar and Solvistania reveal more of their past, she observes the reactions from both Chops and Ilona with an inside smile, as she used to do in her village when spring was back and despite all hashness, young couple found solace in each other. When there was love, she was not needed.
Chops reappears from his grisly duty of putting Pete's body to rest. He catches the last part of the conversation regarding Solvistania's heritage as he bends over and picks up Anvinder, and makes eye contact with Solvistania. He carries their companion, if only for a day cradled in his arms as he walks closer to the group.
"Hey, their are worse things than being an orc." as he shifts the dead weight. The body has stiffened because of rigor mortis. "And on the bright side. You are clearly the most beautiful orc on the planet. Next to me that is." He winks at her before he turns and carries the corpse back outside.
Through the corridors, the clop-chopping sound of an axe being used can be heard. Then the sound of stones being dropped on one another echo through the hallways.
Then she had laid to rest Pete and Anvinder, chanting the halfling rites for the estranged plain nomad.
As Gilian and Chops begin to care for Anvinder's body, Ragnar snaps his head to the side, interrupting the discussion and for a moment forgetting his internal struggle. He looks at the ghost of his father and his eyes go wide, he looks to an empty place in the room and lifts an eyebrow "Is that alright?" he asks, then nods after a moment. "True."
"Gillian, Chops, I am afraid I will need Anvinder's body."
He breathes in one deep, shuddering breath trying to get his emotions back under control. He looks to Ilona, at a loss for words to what she has said. He swallows.
"You... I... Thank you. Are you sure I'm alive? Are you? I... can't always tell the difference. I suppose the dead... don't bleed... but that is about all I can think of." He reaches out and slowly touches her and Solvistania once more, then withdraws his hands and looks up.
"If I am alive, why can I hear it calling me?" he glances around, sometimes at the living, sometimes at the tiny glowing lights where the eyes of the dead glow. "Can the rest of you hear it?"
Then she had laid to rest Pete and Anvinder, chanting the halfling rites for the estranged plain nomad.
As Gilian begins to care for Anvinder's body...
Solvistania returns the hugs of both Ilona and Chops, and finally allows the tears to flow. Her sobs wrack her frail body, and for a while it seems they will never stop.
To Ilona, "Ilona, I grew up in Erenland as an elf, but I was never part of them, not really. I had no mother, except for Queen Aradil, when she had time to educate me. My father....I refuse to speak of, he is a blight on Aryth. Ilona....you are like the mother I never had and I am fortunate to know you.. she gives the Sarcosan woman a fierce hug before letting go.
To Chops, "You, are truly special to me, more than you could know." She gives him a hug and then a kiss on his cheek. "My champion."
To Chops, "You, are truly special to me, more than you could know." She gives him a hug and then a kiss on his cheek. "My champion."
Ragnar watches, silently, and for the first time that any has seen, smiles, and awkwardly turns away, pulling his hood lower and staring into the fire.
"Gillian, Chops, I am afraid I will need Anvinder's body."
Chops carries the fallen comrade over to Ragnar. He then drops a cord of wood that he prepared after burying Pete for Ragnar to use for his forge, as well as the to help keep the group warm tonight. Then he hands his urutuk to the giant young heir. "This urutuk has been in my family two generations, but the blade is damaged. I would ask if you could repair this while you work. I could help keep the fires going hot for you."
To Chops, "You, are truly special to me, more than you could know." She gives him a hug and then a kiss on his cheek. "My champion."
Chops dark gray cheeks grow reddish-black as they flush with blood. He wraps his giant arms around Solvistania's svelte figure, embracing her tightly. He releases her and kisses her forehead gently before handing her the book.
When she turns to the book, he begins to clear out the cave of bodies, attempting to make the place habitable for the group as they rest and work for the coming days.
I would ask if you could repair this while you work. I could help keep the fires going hot for you."[/b]
Ragnar takes the strange axe and hefts it in his hands. He nods and lowers it. "Take this to the grinding wheel there for me, little one."
He lets go of the axe, but it does not fall. It floats jerkily to the table, light pattering echoing through the chamber, and deposits itself there.
Ragnar looks to Chops, "My brother has already offered to work the bellows, but I will need a steady hand for the smelting. I also need help getting the anvil back up on it's block" he says with some embarrassment.
Then she had laid to rest Pete and Anvinder, chanting the halfling rites for the estranged plain nomad.
As Gilian begins to care for Anvinder's body...
I would ask if you could repair this while you work. I could help keep the fires going hot for you."[/b]
Ragnar takes the strange axe and hefts it in his hands. He nods and lowers it. "Take this to the grinding wheel there for me, little one."
He lets go of the axe, but it does not fall. It floats jerkily to the table, light pattering echoing through the chamber, and deposits itself there.
Ragnar looks to Chops, "My brother has already offered to work the bellows, but I will need a steady hand for the smelting. I also need help getting the anvil back up on it's block" he says with some embarrassment.
"I've got some skill with the forge." Sorok says moving to help with moving the anvil back into place. "It's big enough that two of us can work at once. Though I'm better with armor. I can help with that if anyone needs repair or would like a better set.
"I've got some skill with the forge." Sorok says moving to help with moving the anvil back into place. "It's big enough that two of us can work at once. Though I'm better with armor. I can help with that if anyone needs repair or would like a better set.
"We shall try to stay out of your way." Ragnar says, turning to the ghost in the flames. After a moment, he nods. "Anvinder, would you mind?" he says, pointing to a beam near a set of quenching barrels.
The shadows coalesce around one of the tiny pairs of pale blue lights, knitting themselves into a framework of shadowy bones, the eyes of the skull forming around the lights as it moves towards the corpse on the ground. Hints and wisps of form can be caught, like a silhouette trying to form, outlining what the figure may have once been. As it touches the body, it takes on sharper ethereal edges. Anvinder's ghost, given substance by Ragnar, picks up his body and carries it to the barrels where Ragnar has strung a rope over the beams.
"Here" he says, pointing. Another shadowy skeleton forms and ties the rope around the corpses feet and hoists it up over the barrel.
"Of course Ragnar says handing the second figure a knife. "It is yours, after all."
As the skeleton takes the knife, it's edges also sharpen. The ethereal form of Eyvindr can be made out. superimposed on the skeletal frame. As Anvinder ties off the rope, Eyvindr slits the corpse's wrists and throat. Gravity does the rest. The still-warm body drains it's lifeblood into the barrel of water.
Ragnar strips out of his Bear-sark and jacket and disassembles the hilts of the swords with care, setting aside the hilt, pommel and cross guards. The tang and the shattered remains of the blade he lays in a stone channel on a smelting tray and places it in the fire. Adding the wood that Chops brought as the two dead Dorns work the bellows, the forge room quickly becomes sweltering. The fire, where the ghost of his father still stands, climb upward and curl around the stone tray. In the green flames, the ghost of the father can still be seen, his fiery hands on the broken metal, it's head bowed in prayer. The blades slowly heat to a cherry red, then to white, as the steel begins to melt together.
While he waits, Ragnar takes apart Chop's strange axe and inspects the pieces while speaking to his fallen companions "That magic you do. Can you show me?"
The bird finishes off the berries while it watches it's master for a while. The group begins to move to work on their various projects. It is remarkably close-beaked, eventually looking up at Ilona.
"Looks like everyone's got something to do but us."
Ragnar listens while he works, nodding and asking questions of an unseen teacher while moulding a fitting around the axe handle and head out of smith's putty, the fireable, grindable, carvable clay made from forge ash, ground bones and water. He works with surprising grace in his thick, clumsy fingers, using the fine carving tools with practiced smoothness. As he works, tools drift to his hands as he mutters for them, moved by unseen hands as the shadowy skeletons keep the fires blazing. With the mould right, he casts it and fires it, creating a new smelting tray in the shape of the pieces he had carved. Cracking it open, he tosses the remains of the hardened putty into a barrel, ready to be ground and watered and used again later.
After going through the ignots and plugs stocked in the forge, he eventually shakes his head. "Nothing but raw steel and iron. Inelegant." He rifles through his pack and comes out with another silver bar, like the one he used in his makeshift flail earlier. With a slight shrug he adds it to the smelting fires.
"Chops, I am ready to pour the core of the blade." he says, lifting a pair of heavy tongs to grip the tray with.
Ragnar listens while he works, nodding and asking questions of an unseen teacher while moulding a fitting around the axe handle and head out of smith's putty, the fireable, grindable, carvable clay made from forge ash, ground bones and water. He works with surprising grace in his thick, clumsy fingers, using the fine carving tools with practiced smoothness. As he works, tools drift to his hands as he mutters for them, moved by unseen hands as the shadowy skeletons keep the fires blazing. With the mould right, he casts it and fires it, creating a new smelting tray in the shape of the pieces he had carved. Cracking it open, he tosses the remains of the hardened putty into a barrel, ready to be ground and watered and used again later.
After going through the ignots and plugs stocked in the forge, he eventually shakes his head. "Nothing but raw steel and iron. Inelegant." He rifles through his pack and comes out with another silver bar, like the one he used in his makeshift flail earlier. With a slight shrug he adds it to the smelting fires.
"Chops, I am ready to pour the core of the blade." he says, lifting a pair of heavy tongs to grip the tray with.
Sorok watches the floating materials held by invisible hands and the skeleton who was the thin Dorn he had been rescued with only a short time ago helping to work the forge with Ragnar. As he studies the large Dorn he is clearly impressed with his quality of work. He then clears his mind with a deep breath and began recalling the techniques he had been taught by the master of the forges long ago. He moves next to Ragnar.
You've learned how to work the steel like a veteran smith, but you haven't learned it's secrets. Let me aid you in this and we'll make the finest arms and armor you folk have laid eyes on.
You've learned how to work the steel like a veteran smith, but you haven't learned it's secrets. Let me aid you in this and we'll make the finest arms and armor you folk have laid eyes on.
Ragnar raises an eyebrow, and nods. "If you would reveal the secrets of dwarven metalwork to me, I would be a fool not to listen."
Kiron sprints through the Valley trails convicted to the bone that his pack is close, so close he can taste it, He peers at the ominous entrance to the cave tunnel that will ultimately lead to friends and family. A certain exuberance expounds from him as he moves. A hundred yards off from the tunnel the orc crouches and undresses down to flesh, stuffing his clothes into his bag and securing his huge sword and other gear to it as well. The freshly bothered golem still out of the way of the entrance poses a large threat, if he is warded to protect against his kind then it would be a dire feat to oppose him indeed. He grins as his plan comes under way, he highly doubts that he is warded to protect against something as natural as a wolf.
Setting his bag and straps just right he rolls his neck and begins the process of shape shifting, his mighty muscle sinew compacting and shrinking into a more lithe and swift frame.
The well equipped Canine frame sprints toward the cave entrance, running swiftly as possibly while utilizing its stealth as best it can. They are so close he can’t give up his attempt.
stealth
Kiron bursts through the tunnel, lopping across the make shift bridge of a door. a sniff of the air easily allows him to follow the fresh track. His fleet feet send him sprinting downward head long through and past danger. Downward and downward still past battle and battle again,
He bounds into the room hoping to present himself to them as a wolf first.Kiron makes the entrance with little time to spare,The great white wolf pads up to the woman and raven, he bows deeply with his tongue lolling out in obvious happiness and then shows his neck and collar, hoping that the white bone is enough to buy him time. Enough to give him a chance to explain when he has the tongue to speak but not the skin to trust.
While the men get busy playing with metal and fire, Gilian quietly walks back to the surface, mourning their lost companions. Once outside, she passes by the big rock that is Grandfather Stone envelope. Walking to the end of the ravine, she sits on a large flat stone, by the small grave she had dug with Chops the day before, to bury Pete.
There, oblivious to the surrounding world, she closes her eyes and tries to remember the rhythmic songs of the halfling chamans when they thank Aryth for her generosity. On that rhythm, she superimposes the Erenlander call of the spirits that her mother taught her. The slow incantation, coming from the depths of her being merges progressively with the halfling rythm and fuses into something both new and old. New because it is the rhythm that defines her and old because it calls to beings as old as Aryth.
Twice, the Erenlander call brought up the last memories of her mother, burning down her village, breaking her concentration as she was wrought with grief. The third time, she managed to bring up earlier memories and got lost in her trance. Her breathing and movements slowed until it was so faint it seemed she had turned to stone.
It was more a sending than a call, laying bare what she was and listening for and answer, deep into the earth.
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While the men get busy playing with metal and fire, Gilian quietly walks back to the surface, mourning their lost companions. Once outside, she passes by the big rock that is Grandfather Stone envelope. Walking to the end of the ravine, she sits on a large flat stone, by the small grave she had dug with Chops the day before, to bury Pete.
There, oblivious to the surrounding world, she closes her eyes and tries to remember the rhythmic songs of the halfling chamans when they thank Aryth for her generosity. On that rhythm, she superimposes the Erenlander call of the spirits that her mother taught her. The slow incantation, coming from the depths of her being merges progressively with the halfling rythm and fuses into something both new and old. New because it is the rhythm that defines her and old because it calls to beings as old as Aryth.
Twice, the Erenlander call brought up the last memories of her mother, burning down her village, breaking her concentration as she was wrought with grief. The third time, she managed to bring up earlier memories and got lost in her trance. Her breathing and movements slowed until it was so faint it seemed she had turned to stone.
It was more a sending than a call, laying bare what she was and listening for and answer, deep into the earth.
Earth starts to shimmer like hot air, like it is not solid. Gilian suddenly feels a deep longing for companionship. So close is that feeling to her own heart that she finds it difficult to separate it from her own thoughts. Earth rumbles and surges around her like waves crashing on the shore. She stretches... that is the only word to describe what is happening to her... she envelops the earth and treas around her. She becomes one with the grass... For a moment, she is blind. She can not hear, she can not speak. Only thing that she can touch is that longing and sense of being alone, not understood by anyone. Somehow, she reaches and touches something. A stone... not, it's warm. Fur? No, stone... PEBBLE... but no, not a pebble. Why would she think of that? PEBBLE! Me think! Wait, those are not her thoughts... Someone else is... inside her head! How can that be? PEBBLE ME YOU MISTRESS thoughts rang in her head, giving her a headache. GRANDFATHER SAYS!
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Kiron sprints through the Valley trails convicted to the bone that his pack is close, so close he can taste it, He peers at the ominous entrance to the cave tunnel that will ultimately lead to friends and family. A certain exuberance expounds from him as he moves. A hundred yards off from the tunnel the orc crouches and undresses down to flesh, stuffing his clothes into his bag and securing his huge sword and other gear to it as well. The freshly bothered golem still out of the way of the entrance poses a large threat, if he is warded to protect against his kind then it would be a dire feat to oppose him indeed. He grins as his plan comes under way, he highly doubts that he is warded to protect against something as natural as a wolf.
Setting his bag and straps just right he rolls his neck and begins the process of shape shifting, his mighty muscle sinew compacting and shrinking into a more lithe and swift frame.
The well equipped Canine frame sprints toward the cave entrance, running swiftly as possibly while utilizing its stealth as best it can. They are so close he can’t give up his attempt.
stealth1d20+6
Kiron bursts through the tunnel, lopping across the make shift bridge of a door. a sniff of the air easily allows him to follow the fresh track. His fleet feet send him sprinting downward head long through and past danger. Downward and downward still past battle and battle again,
He bounds into the room hoping to present himself to them as a wolf first.Kiron makes the entrance with little time to spare,The great white wolf pads up to the woman and raven, he bows deeply with his tongue lolling out in obvious happiness and then shows his neck and collar, hoping that the white bone is enough to buy him time. Enough to give him a chance to explain when he has the tongue to speak but not the skin to trust.
I'm gonna let Ilona and Muni play this out for the time being...
Muni jerks his head towards the tunnel and leans it to the side.
"Well it's about damn time." The bird says in excitement and exasperation. "Hey, ah, Ilona, we got company comin'. Let's go head 'em off so Chops don't try to ugly it to death and end up bit. Head to the stairs."
Raising a delicately arched eyebrow in question, Ilona strides up the staircase, slowly drawing her verdatch as she does. As she reaches the entranceway she stops short at the sight of the massive white wolf before her.
With remarkable fluidity her body shifts into a combat stance.
"Muni, is this one of Ragnar's pack or you just trying to tell me I need to work out?"
Her face, remarkable in its beauty,takes on a slightly amused look at the wolf's antics though her posture shifts not a hair.
Kiron looks to the woman and her choice of blade instantly gaining a bit of respect, he however is obviously frustrated. His eyes then whip to the bird as he shrugs out of the pack and gear strapped to him. He pads to his quiver and slowly works one of the arrows from his quiver. Once the arrow has been procured he drags the object with haste moving about across the ground until he is satisfied with the result on each leter, the message might have been deciphrable before he finished, but he does so anyway.
scratched into the ground much like children play in the dirt with rocks, the wolf scrawls a messy message into the ground.
W HI T E BO N E S
He then tosses the arrow to the side and shows the collar again, hoping his message is now clear. He looks to the pair and tilts his head.
"Muni, is this one of Ragnar's pack or you just trying to tell me I need to work out?"
"What the hell do I know 'bout wether or not it's the armor makin' yer ass look fat."
W HI T E BO N E S
"Yeah, you found 'em. What's with all the gear? Where's Hugi? Did she send you? Waitaminute... ain't no self respecting Vigdir ever worn a collar, even a nice little scrimshaw one like that. You need some help gettin' that thing off?"
Without shifting her eyes from the wolf, Ilona grins.
"Listen birdy boy I don't hear anybody else complaining about my curves, especially not...anyway."
She looks at the wolf more intently, her hand starying to the eloborately detailed bone torc around her neck.
"So if he's not one of yours it seems like we still have something in common. Smart too. Who sent you/ Obviously you can understand us?"
Kiron pads to his back pack pulling out his cloak. and then back grabbing the hilt of the greater vardatch, the wolf raises his expressive eyebrows with hilt in mouth, he lets go and shakes his head left to right. He scampers back to his cloak putting the hood in his mouth, taking a deep breath, he waits the few moments he has left before changing back.
He closes his eyes as he changes back, when his paws reform back to hands he gripes the cloak and holds it to his waist, he drops the cloak out of his mouth if given the chance. He realizes that he has done his best and it is now up to the woman and the bird.
His eyes slowly open and he waits, not making the slightest movement.
"So if he's not one of yours it seems like we still have something in common."
"I didn't say he wasn't one of ours. That's a broad spectrum."
The bird sits still as the change happens, tilting it's head to the side. As the Orc is revealed within the Wolf, the bird, and the lady are silent for a moment.
Then the bird laughs, a harsh, sinister chuckle at first and building into a full throated cackle.
"Hehehe Haha ha, brahahhaaa Wow. You poor bastard. Man, that has to be a giant pain in the ass. Hehehe."
The movement comes as an explosion, sudden and violent, a spinning pirouette so flawless that for a moment none can do anything but revel in the beauty of motion.
The black verdatch flashes forward, almost invisible in the shadows, descending from an unpredictable angle to stop, just touching the white bone collar on the massive orc's neck.
The alluring face attaining a visage of almost divine fury, terrible and woundrous, her spectacular figure poised in perfect balance promising only death.
"Muni, why am I not killing him yet?"
Kiron's eyes locked with the woman's. Ignoring the mocking bird's jibe for the moment. he carefully licked his lips, the words he was about to attempt to say might be his last, but if he could not win their trust then all was lost for him any way.
"Because,I am destined to destroy the shadow alongside the rest of you."
His eyes didn't even wonder, not down the black blade, not down the woman's figure. He simply made his statement and offered his throat once more. It was extremely out of character for him to show such passive behavior toward anyone, but he couldn't afford to make demands here, it would only waste precious blood. They would need every drop of it to fight what they had to face. He would not fight his pack, even if they didn't recognize him yet.
He wanted to spill forth eloquent reasons that they should make pacts and not waste a moment more.His tongue could pour forth honey for them, but he was already working on borrowed hope. faith in the White Mother and the Moon Mother that they had not lead him astray.
"I've never met an orc that showed submission. Then again I've met very few orcs I didn't kill."
She takes a deep breath obviously fighting some great internal battle.
"Slowly she lowers the blade. If you plan on living stay quiet and let me go ahead of you."