Muni:
Muni:** spoiler omitted **
"Heh. That's a little better." Muni says with a chuckle. "Birds? Yeah, I might be ablle to come up with somethin'. I ain't much of a hunter, but you are, an' I got good eyes. If nothin' else I can help you find 'em. Gonna have t' wait though. We got stuff needs doin'."
Muni
"Among my people," Ragnar said as the group gathered around the table "it is said that a smith does not craft, so much as aid the metal to reveal it's true shape. As the dwarves know stone, so do the Dorns know steel. We brought it here with us, according to the stories. The sarcosans drove us out of our lands with wood and leather, and the flesh of beasts, reminding us that the tools do not make the warrior. To survive in this new land we traded all we knew to the Dwarves, who listened to the metal so much better than we ever did. Over time, we forgot our own secrets. But Dwarves do not forget, and this week I have been reminded. These tools I have made are forged with knowledge no Dorn has had for centuries, and I give them to you now as a legacy. Even should I fall, these things will endure and serve my purpose so long as you, or others like minded, carry them."
He unrolls the first fold of his bundle, revealing a pair of exquisitely crafted axes, their blades a rounded hemisphere with protruding, wavy points, like the rays of the sun. Engraved and inlayed with dwarven runes in gold, and set with iron on the back edge, adding weight and balance. The haft is solid steel, and straight with a gentle forward curve at the end of the leather-wrapped grip. The steel ripples with waves like the radiation of heat off boiling water.
"Chops, you bring warmth to our otherwise bitter and dark group. These axes reflect that. I am told the dwarves revere the sun as a father. One who protects and provides, lighting the way in darkness. It is the privilege of a smith to name his creations, and these I call the Sun-Choppers, Bane of Shadows, named for he who they were made for. They will bite deep and fly far and true."
"Solvistania, you are not a warrior. I had thought i would not have much to offer you, but with Sky'tor's bow in your hands I realized that you had a tool I could help you use, and provide a means of protecting yourself from those creatures that would hunt you."
He unrolls the next section of his bundle revealing a supple leather case. He lifts the top flap and reveals arrows. Metal arrows. The heads gleaming, some shining, some dark, all wickedly back-curved with the edges flared outward in opposite directions to add to the spin of the shaft, and spiral deep into flesh. Each is set with a single tiny ruby pushing through the head, glinting out both sides of the sharpened heads.
"These dwarven secrets allow me to do things with metal I'd never dreamed before. These shafts are lighter than wood, and tempered to flex but not bend. They are barbed to make removal nearly impossible, and the heads made to screw on in the same direction as the spin, so twisting them out will merely leave the head buried. These twenty are steel. These ten are solid silver. I call them the Blood-Eyed Shafts and their strength will surprise you."
The hooded Dorn passes the arrow case to Solvistania and unrolls the next layer of his bundle, revealing a simple braided leather cord. It is heat-blackened and well oiled made in a rounded whip-braid of many woven strips. The knots at the end thicken and weave back in on themselves in a pattern called a Monkey Fist that Dornish sailors have been using for centuries. The each end knots around a silver core, it's end slightly protruding from the end. The center of the cord is actually a three-link chain attached to slightly thicker flattened grips.
"Gilian, your farmer's rope is a weapon of surprising versatility. I had not seen it's like before, and after some thought I discovered a means to make it even more so. It can be worn like a belt for disguise. The ends are silvered. I've left them untreated so the will tarnish to black. The grips in the center allow the cord to be easily doubled up and gripped for shorter range combat, letting you strike with both ends in one swing like a two-headed flail. I call her Life-Line, and she will serve you well."
"Sorok, none of this would be possible without you. You spoke of a lost hammer. I hope this will serve as a suitable replacement."
The roll is again folded back revealing a massive battle axe. It's crescent-shaped head curves outward, sending the blades reaching out like fangs. The entire thing is tempered black, save for the silver dwarven pictographs that adorn it glorifying the moon and the thin silver edge along the concave curve of the wicked blade. The opposite side of the head is a massive, flat-headed hammer of immense proportions. On the face is a raised, perfectly circular silver ring, the dwarven symbol of the full moon. The leather-wrapped haft is thick and straight, ending in a heavy iron oval to counter balance the massive head.
"I call her Umbra. The darker it gets, the brighter the light she reflects."
"Kiron, I never once expected to be forging a weapon for an Orc. I still have my reservations about the fact that I may be handing a weapon to one who would turn on us. I trust the word of the Vigdir, however."
Another fold of the roll is exposed revealing a massive weapon. It scarcely resembles the great Vardatch it was based on. The entire thing is one great bar of steel, sharpened on one side, blunted on the other. The folded steel gleams in lazy waved of silver and gray. Along the blunt side, grips are shaped, like ovals cut into the thick side of the weapon. Four of them, just wide enough for an orc's hand, each nearly 18 inches in length, built to allow the weapon's grip to be changed quickly and easily while recovering from a swing or switching striking edges. Rounded knobs of iron sit along the blunted ridge. It's most striking feature, however, is the head of the blade. Ragnar has shaped the end of the weapon itself into a snarling wolf's head. It's jaws spread wide, teeth gleaming silver, it's neck reaching upward, it's ears and the ruff of it's neck creating the serrations that edge the blade. It's eye is a thin black slit where the metal twists strangely creating a rippled hole all the way through.
"This is Howler. When you swing her, she will."
"Gilian, your farmer's rope is a weapon of surprising versatility. I had not seen it's like before, and after some thought I discovered a means to make it even more so. It can be worn like a belt for disguise. The ends are silvered. I've left them untreated so the will tarnish to black. The grips in the centre allow the cord to be easily doubled up and gripped for shorter range combat, letting you strike with both ends in one swing like a two-headed flail. I call her Life-Line, and she will serve you well."
Gilian was looking at Ragnar "distribution" with a detached air. Her weapons were crude, made by the plain halflings with stone and leather and she did not share the fascination of her companions for weapons and the forge.
As Ragnar calls his name, she looks puzzled at first but then gets a grip on herself and moves forward. Her voice is hushed, barely disguising her surprise and emotion. "I don't know what to say", she mutters. her voice then takes back her usual assurance. "Ragnar, this is truly a beautiful present. I did not expect you to put so much of yourself in these weapons and it gladdens my heart to see your work. Thanks as well to all who helped him," she adds, nodding to Chops, Sorok, Ilona and behind, to the spirits that swirl around Ragnar.
Her eyes seem to focus on something beyond sight and she snaps back to reality. "Remember today, my friends, remember it well. In the next years, if we survive, our fight will be gruesome and full of despair. Just remember today, that's what we are fighting for. For the people right to create such marvels and make the world a better place. Remember today, my friends."
"Solvistania, you are not a warrior. I had thought i would not have much to offer you, but with Sky'tor's bow in your hands I realized that you had a tool I could help you use, and provide a means of protecting yourself from those creatures that would hunt you."
He unrolls the next section of his bundle revealing a supple leather case. He lifts the top flap and reveals arrows. Metal arrows. The heads gleaming, some shining, some dark, all wickedly back-curved with the edges flared outward in opposite directions to add to the spin of the shaft, and spiral deep into flesh. Each is set with a single tiny ruby pushing through the head, glinting out both sides of the sharpened heads.
"These dwarven secrets allow me to do things with metal I'd never dreamed before. These shafts are lighter than wood, and tempered to flex but not bend. They are barbed to make removal nearly impossible, and the heads made to screw on in the same direction as the spin, so twisting them out will merely leave the head buried. These twenty are steel. These ten are solid silver. I call them the Blood-Eyed Shafts and their strength will surprise you."
Solvistania, surprised by the gift from Ragnar, and his speech, gives the Dorn a bow, and murmers, "You honor me, Sire, with this gift. I speak for myself and also Sky'tor, whose spirit infuses his bow, when we say, thank you."
She straps the case to her leg, and then turns back to Ragnar. "One note, Ragnar, I may be unskilled with weapons as the rest of you, but I am a warrior, as are we all against the Shadow."
On hearing Gilian's words, she turns to the petite healer, and sees something she has not considered before. She looks over at Chops, admiring his gifts, and a wave of emotion hits her, and her eyes glaze over with unshed tears.
Ragnar nods to Gilian, looking at the things he has made. "This was my intended purpose before my wyrd saw fit to change it. My father was the forgemaster of the greatest arms acadamy in Erenland. He taught me from the time I could listen that every craftsman worthy of being called such pours his heart into every project he undertakes, for it may be his last. It would not do to leave behind a shoddy legacy. Of course, the true measure of a craft is not it's artistic merit, or the way it displays the craftsman's talents. Such things are vanity. Instead, it is measured by how the craft serves it's purpose to the person it was made for. One must always consider the purpose, and the person, for whome one is working."
He turns to Solvistania. "I did not mean to say that you are not a fighter. In my culture one's place is defined by their craft and the tools they use to perform it. Warriors are known by their weapons and armor, the tools of their trade. To my people you, and Gillian as well, would be called Magus or Cunningfolk, and would be honored above all. You are the ones we rely on most. Your battle is not just against the foes who would strike you down, it is against the spread of ignorance and oppression. As my father would say, some fight with bloody blade, others with the ring of hammer on steel, but none fight so hard as those who learn and teach and plan ways to better the world."
Another fold, another masterpiece revealed.
Ilona's vardatch sits on the table. It is the same, but different in subtle ways. All the roughness has been smoothed from it. All the imbalances taken off. It is narrower, sleeker, re-tempered in low head and worked with black charcoal to further dull the steel. It is like a patch of midnight cut to the shape of a wicked instrument of death. The handle has been narrowed and lengthened to better fit slender hands, and a second half-grip has been added on the spine of the blade to allow her to choke up and reposition it. Black leather wraps the grip in an intricate braid that knots along itself to form a pattern of slightly raised knobs to prevent the heavy blade from ever slipping free. Added to the serrations at the top of the blade is a slightly longer tooth, made of silver, the only part of the blade that shines.
At the top of the grip is an oval-cut amethyst the size of walnut, it's perfect facets enclosed by the steel and protruding out both sides of the thick root of the blade. Along it's length are smaller amethysts set into the spine running upward in a line on both sides.
"Ilona, your weapon was an ugly thing. A reminder of a sad and terrible past. We are all products of what has been, and such things should not be replaced or forgotten. They can, however, be used as the foundation for something better. This is Requiem. Her song is one of sadness and mourning for the past, but also of hope for the future."
He hands her the blade, and as he does one of the floating torches zips into the gem at the hilt, illuminating it and casting scintillating light through the facets, outward gently, and upward to the next gem, and the next, until the blade is a glowing blacklight brand both beautiful and terrible.
"So long as you are near me, your past will be held steady in your hands, and your future plain to see, lit in this glow before you."
He unrolls the first fold of his bundle, revealing a pair of exquisitely crafted axes, their blades a rounded hemisphere with protruding, wavy points, like the rays of the sun. Engraved and inlayed with dwarven runes in gold, and set with iron on the back edge, adding weight and balance. The haft is solid steel, and straight with a gentle forward curve at the end of the leather-wrapped grip. The steel ripples with waves like the radiation of heat off boiling water.
"Chops, you bring warmth to our otherwise bitter and dark group. These axes reflect that. I am told the dwarves revere the sun as a father. One who protects and provides, lighting the way in darkness. It is the privilege of a smith to name his creations, and these I call the Sun-Choppers, Bane of Shadows, named for he who they were made for. They will bite deep and fly far and true."
Chops takes the gifts from Ragnar. He examines his bone haft and admires the new head. Then he gazes at the completely new urutuk and smiles broadly. "Sun-choppers, aye. Thank you for your gift, Ragnar. I shall use these to bring light to many fell and shadow creatures. Yes." He then starts to test out the balance of the hatchets, feeling for the balance and the weight. "Ah. Perfectly balanced." He then tosses them into the air, performing a juggling act with his two new weapons.
Ilona looked on as Ragnar presented their pack with the fruits of his labor, her face showing progressively more of what seemed like pride.
She had watched him work himself far beyond the point of exhaustion, coaxed the best out of him, inspiring him to even greater levels of workmanship. Even then the product of his work was beyond imagination, each a masterpiece perfectly made for its intended owner.
As he presented her with Requiem her heart swelled, the workmanship a greater testament to the man's heart than any words could possibly express.
As the spirit flies into the blade bathing her with violet light, she hears the song, one of mournful beauty that pulls at her heart while lifting her spirits.
She caresses the blade gently, "Hello Requiem," she whispers, tilting her head as if listening, "yes, that's true."
She smiles.
Looking into Ragnar's eyes as he spoke, she replayed the last week in her mind. She still couldn't believe she had told him all about her past, sitting of the stool as he worked into the small hours of the night, all their friends asleep and only the silent company of the spirits around them, she had told him everything, for the first time letting someone else see her pain. He had been perfect, his quiet strength an immovable pillar, his arms iron yet as comforting as velvet.
Even had he not literally been hundreds of years old, last of a royal line, a man of almost divine skill at the forge, he would still be one of a kind.
"Then this glow will light my way for a long time to come. I will always be near."
She breathes deeply as if drawing in energy of some sort and glances at the blade again for a moment before stepping closer.
"You have given me back a piece of my soul." she says quietly.
She reaches up to grab his beard playfully and draws his face down, bringing hers up to meet his in a sweltering kiss, a long languishing moment wherein which Ragnar experiences waves of emotion washing over him like the ocean tides, gentle yet immeasurably powerful and inconceivably vast.
After a moment that feels like an eternity she steps back, ambient emotion spilling out to the group for a brief moment before subsiding.
"Consider that a downpayment."
For a moment he is paralyzed, bent awkwardly down, not sure what to expect as the kiss lands. He whole body freezes, then like a crack in a dam slowly releasing more and more until bursting, his hands come forward and his head tilts into hers, and then he swiftly sweeps her up into his arms and off the ground, straightening, one arm across the small of her back, the other cradling her beneath her rear, suddenly making the kiss much more than originally intended.
When he finally breaks, breathless, his lungs shuddering as they draw air, he looks deep into her eyes. He swallows, and then seem to realize what he has done and where he is, and his face slowly blushes again, turning read all the way up his bare scalp, exposed by the traitorous hood which has somehow been pushed down in the moment. He glances away a moment, then back like he's checking to see if she is still there, and when he finds her again his mouth curls upward into an amazed, almost disbelieving smile that knocks away the shadows around his eyes and makes him look like a youth not yet twenty summers.
He seems to have forgotten to put her down.
Ilona's smile seems to catch Ragnars and amplify it, for once free of it's usual mischief, reflecting only pure radiant joy. That which the shadow feared most.
In her mind's eye she had stepped back but she was surprised to find that her body had its own ideas.
She hung quite confortably suspended in his grasp, her feet a foot of the ground and eyebrow arched in amusement.
Solvistania stares at the display between Ragnar and Ilona, and feels the passion they have for one another like a physical glow radiating from their bodies. As it washes over her she feels...a warmth, not unpleasant, starting to build and radiate from her own body. Unconsciously, her hand seeks Chops own hand, and squeezes it. She pulls Chops over to her face and looks into his eyes. Those dark blue eyes, that reflec her own reddish hue in a mesmerizing purple hue. Before she is even aware, she is in his arms, holding him tightly, and her lips are on his, tentative at first, then growing more needful as it stretches onwards.
It takes him a minute to get it, then he looks at her, and where she is, looking him in the eye. Then he glances down at the ground. His eyes go a little wide and he gently lowers her to the ground. He swallows again and steps back turning even redder. He glances looks at the rest of the group and rubs his head, then down to the glowing blade and up to Ilona again.
"I'm glad you like her."
"Frickin' bipeds... You know we got s*$$ to do, right? How about we suck on each other's faces after we pass out the new toys and talk about the body-swapping monster prowling around outside? I swear, what is it about walking around on your hind legs that screws with your brain? And lips? What's up with that. Frankly I just don't see the appeal."
"Frickin' bipeds... You know we got s~!~ to do, right? How about we suck on each other's faces after we pass out the new toys and talk about the body-swapping monster prowling around outside? I swear, what is it about walking around on your hind legs that screws with your brain? And lips? What's up with that. Frankly I just don't see the appeal."
"Aren't you using your hind legs to walk ? Let them enjoy the little moments of happiness. We'll be back to work soon enough."
"Aren't you using your hind legs to walk ? Let them enjoy the little moments of happiness. We'll be back to work soon enough."
"Hell no! I'm perching, and occasionally, I'll stand or hop. Walking is for poor suckers without wings."
While examining his new harness to sheath his urutuks, Chops tries to decide if he would prefer the handles to stick over his shoulders or be flush against his back. Well, over the shoulders would look more badass, but it might be more convenient to have them low. Then they wouldn't get caught on anything. Hmm? What's this? Chops pulls out the diamond tipped pen just as Solvistania grabs his hand and the pen goes flying.
She grabs him and presses her body and her lips against the surprised Chops. Although he has sharp teeth, his lips are full and soft. He returns Solvistania's kisses with a the kind of passion born in a dworg's fiery heart. The world disappears into the young elorg woman. When they stop, he has her head cradled in his hand and is staring at her red eyes. Over her shoulder he sees that the pen has landed stuck in the ground, at an angle.
He smiles as he hears Muni's statement. "Hey birdy! If you're jealous, I think Solvi's new friend will suck-face with you, ha ha ha!"
"Kiron, I never once expected to be forging a weapon for an Orc. I still have my reservations about the fact that I may be handing a weapon to one who would turn on us. I trust the word of the Vigdir, however."
Another fold of the roll is exposed revealing a massive weapon. It scarcely resembles the great Vardatch it was based on. The entire thing is one great bar of steel, sharpened on one side, blunted on the other. The folded steel gleams in lazy waved of silver and gray. Along the blunt side, grips are shaped, like ovals cut into the thick side of the weapon. Four of them, just wide enough for an orc's hand, each nearly 18 inches in length, built to allow the weapon's grip to be changed quickly and easily while recovering from a swing or switching striking edges. Rounded knobs of iron sit along the blunted ridge. It's most striking feature, however, is the head of the blade. Ragnar has shaped the end of the weapon itself into a snarling wolf's head. It's jaws spread wide, teeth gleaming silver, it's neck reaching upward, it's ears and the ruff of it's neck creating the serrations that edge the blade. It's eye is a thin black slit where the metal twists strangely creating a rippled hole all the way through.
"This is Howler. When you swing her, she will."
" Your Reservations while well founded in my species actions, shall be answered with their blood, My loyalty is here and shall remain, with this blade in my hand I shall prove it all the more thuroughly. Thank you Ragnar, I will make my self worthy of this gift before your very eyes."
Kiron turns to give the nuzzling pair a moment. after Muni speaks up. and the exchanges are played back and forth. He waits for the pairs to settle.
"Speaking of work, we came across an unsettling scene while we were out today. Gilian believes it to be the works of the shadow, that was here. I think it may be something a bit more basic. either way it is terribly aggresive and brutal. we need to be on our toes while we travel where we must go next... speaking of which, where is that?
Muni
Once Solvistania breaks the kiss, with great reluctance, everyones sees her face is flushed and she is breathing hard. She takes a moment to compose herself, but she does not let Chops hand go.
"Dorzar's journal mentioned a black Dolman that is carved with trees where he left his bodyguards to guard it. It seems to me a logical place to start our search."
Muni** spoiler omitted **
"Yep. Longer you watch 'em, the less sense they make, too. But they got thumbs, so it's usually worth it to keep at least one of 'em around."
As she is gently placed bak on the ground Ilona lets out a soft sigh before flashing Ragnar her trademark grin. Glancing over at Chops and Solvistania she literally beams, winking at Ragnar almost conspiritorily.
She turns to look at Muni.
"You'd think that with all the time you spend around humans you'd figure it out by now. We fight the shadow for the freedom to live. f we forget to do the living, the fight's pointless.
Every now and then we need to be reminded what we're fighting for."
She looks around at the group, her pack, and an almost predatory grin creeps across her face.
"Now let's go kick something's ass."
"Kiron, Muni and I found some oruk and worgs that bore the same marks as the dwarfs down here when they failed their summoning. We also found the body of one of the dwarves, and tracks of an oruk that could not walk properly. I think we're facing a spirit that can possess bodies and change from one to another. We have to stop it first. And for that I suggest we go backto where we last saw the tracks and track it together.
Then there still is the question of our "mission". Who is the brother we were sent to wake and where is he?"
"Gilian, I suspect we will find our answers at the Dolmen Dorzar referenced in his journal. We should attempt to track that spirit down, as it certainly is a threat to us."
Kiron raises his eyebrows at the last statement waiting for them to point a direction, he stays quiet listening to the group, thinking about the possession demon and more so about the weight of his reformed blade. the blade raises and falls seeming to howl quietly, but impatiently.
Ragnar unfolds the last roll of his bundle, revealing a weapon of unsurpassed workmanship. It is a single-edged Dornish bastard sword nearly as large as a greatsword. It's pommel is capped with a bone-carved wolf's head, snarling, ears back. The cross piece curves slightly up in back and down in front, capped with blackened raven's heads. The grip is cast with raised Dornish runes along it's length, and the base of the blade itself is engraved and inlayed with a symbol of the top of a tower, making the blackened grip itself into it's core and base.
The blade seems impossibly well made, colored a deep charcoal, almost black at the thick. blunt spine, and softly changing it's shade to a bright silver along it's edge. It has been folded and tempered so many times that it is nearly impossible to see the lines that ripple along the blade where the shade shifts lighter as it reaches the edge, waving softly like smoke off fire, or mist off frost.
A blood-groove runs along the spine, nearly as wide as a man's pinky finger, also inlayed with silvered runes promising death to those who's blood fills the channel. Along the back of the groove, on both sides of the blade, sit straight rows of tiny rubies which match the amethysts in Ilona's blade. Tiny rubies also wink from the eyes of the ravens and the wolf on the pommel. Most striking of all though, is the gem set in the center of the cross piece, right in the middle of the inlayed tower. A ruby the size of a chicken egg, somehow expertly cut into the shape of a skull.
It is a breathtaking weapon, full of dark promise which lights in a red glow as one of Ragnar's spirit-torches travels down his arm and leaps into the ruby skull throwing sinister crimson light through the chamber. As it lights it lifts free of the table and places itself into his waiting grasp. He turns the blade and looks at it for a moment, his face typically unreadable. He looks it up and down then slowly and surely slides it into the scabbard on his back.
He says nothing about the blade, simply nodding and looking to Ilona's smile.
|
Ragnar unveils his sword, his brother's sword, the sword of his House, the blade made with the bones of his ancestors. And then... he freezes. His eyes become vacant and for once even Muni is silent. Eerie lights around barbarian shaman start to whirl in a dance not unlike the northern blizzards and strange noises fill the air. Those next to the Dorn feel as if savage wind is blowing at them and pulling their hair and clothes. Felina scrambles and hides under the shelf with various tools and raven hides his head under his wing, watching Ragnar through the feathers.
Then... something happens. Ragnar blinks and wonderingly gazes in the blade of his sword. And the wind and howling just stops.
|
|
Kiron, not knowing the nature of what goes on here, and still being on edge from hearing tales of Gillian possessive demons, and putting together that they are in the forge of such dark things Kiron puts himself between Ragnar and everyone else in the room, taking a cue from Felina's cat instincts he prepares himself for what might happen next. He keeps a defensive stance but on guard for what the dorn might do next.
upon the Dorn's blinking to wakefulness he tilts his head and squints his eyes for a moment at the Ragnar.
Kiron feels a light hand on his shoulder, and when he turns to face to see who it is, Chops big grin is greeting him. "No worries brother. He does this alot. He sees dead people."
Ragnar takes a deep breath and nods. "I understand. I am called Ragnar."
Around him, the pairs of pale lights have grown brighter. Those standing nearest to him can see that somehow they illuminate soft lines in the air around them. Faces. Dozens of them, pinched in rage and sorrow. The eyes sit in their sunken sockets lighting up their nearly skeletal cheeks as they drift and stare. Occasionally a clawlike hand will become clear as it reaches for things around them. Objects touched twitch and rattle. people shiver and have chills run down their spine. The seeking faces hang in the air around him crying and laughing, becoming more and more clear the closer one gets to the giant Dorn. Those close to him feel their hearts begin to be gripped by an otherworldly fear.
Then, as he looks around at the group and lays the blade on his shoulder, the terrible visions somehow change. Instead of seeing the terrible spirits that swirl around him, they begin to see them as the children they once were. Fresh-faced and full of hope and joy. It must be how he sees them, not hindered and twisted by the veil between worlds. The fear melts away, somehow left with a slight sense of wonder and innocence.
Solvistania feels the cry pierce her heart, and wonders at its portent. She feels time rushing through her fingers, unable to stop it, the forces of the Shadow are on the move.
She moves to Chops, and beckons Felina to her side, and takes his hand in hers. Looking at Ragnar, she murmers, "Time is passing, Sire, what would you have us do?"
Ragnar's head snaps to the sound of the howl, then to Solvistania, looking at her like she's grown a second head.
"I... uh...sire? what?"
He seems completely at a loss for words.
"*coughcoughhack* Bwahahahaaaaaa. Oh c'mon! Hehehehe. You gotta warn me when yer gonna do that to 'im. *cough* Hahahaheee. I was preening. *snort* Inhaled a feather. *snicker*
C'mon dogboy, lets go take point. Everyone else can follow once they're done laughing at his majesty here.
Ilona grins and places a hand on Ragnar's shoulder.
"I'll explain later, we need to move."
Solvistania allows Ragnar to move in front of her, and when she catches Ilona's eye, she gives the beautiful Sarcosan warrior a knowing smile.
Ragnar shakes his head and allows himself to be led out of the chamber, still staring at Solvistania until he passes her, then pulling up his hood and sheathing his sword on his back.
Ilona looks ahead making eye contact with Kiron. He voice takes on her now familiar confident battlefield tone.
"Kiron, scout, make a therat assesment, but don't engage until we get there, I can feel the hate wahing off you but bottle it up a little longer ok?"
"Muni, eyes open for anything...weird. If they're waiting for us the warning call's in your hands. Everyone else let's move out, standard formation, chanellers back, 2nd rank protect, frontline hit hard and don't stop."
The amethysts flare, her black blade seeming to darken in the glow.
"I know," she says quietly, "today we send them off with a song"
To Ilona
Ilona smiles.
"You hunt near Solvi. Anyone tries to inturrupt her magic, they're yours."
Kiron raises his head slightly tilting a little to the distant sound of wolves his nostrils flare and let out a soft puff of air as if he has smelt something he doesn't like. He looks to Muni and nods. as he moves to take point he grins at the comment of the bird. " Wolves are dogs as much as you are a canary." He grabs his quiver and back pack now heavy with a deers worth of rations. He shoulders the pack as to not add to the weight the others carry.
It is a hard thirst to quench. Scout, assess, wait for the pack. He nods and disappears up the stairs with Muni in tow.[/b]
He comes to peek of the stairs and surveys the area before bolting to the nearest tree. He moves in a small semicircle securing the exit for an ambush and then moving in the desired direction at a quick lope. keeping all his acute senses to the task of finding the nearest shadow to slay.
scent
survival
perception