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"Aye, 'm no'afraid of some violence, plague mebbe, but ya better be offer'n better kit than a blasted shovel and rags. We also have a bit o'a problem with the local gang, so whatever payment yer offer'n better be somethin' they cannae take. Like our freedom or rank, or badges or some shite." Hathok grimaces at the last, he can barely believe he's willing to jump back into the "chain of command," but it seems the safer option rather than cutting his way into Shank's outfit.
A murmured word of thanks escapes Hathok's lips as the priest removes his hands. Hathok admires his mundane looking wounds as he pulls his clothes on. He's too astounded at his apparent good fortune to say anything further.
Hathok complies slowly peeling his ragged clothes off, side eyeing the priest with hope of a cure plain in his eyes. He stands unabashedly dressed as he was on his First Day, his wounds prominent primarily across his chest but also raked across his arms and thighs.
Hathok is worried, he tries to ask around the work crews after a healer or cleric, in his own sneering way.
After his first day back, he attempts to strike a plan with his cell mates, his level of concern provoking the largest consecutive string of words he's spoken in a long time. "Lads I'm feeling aright here'n'now but these wounds're lookin' stranger by the day. I needs a proper 'ealer, no offense friend," he says directly to Dwendle. "Problem is Shank's bound to come collect shortly and if'n it comes to blows I best be in fightin' trim and I cannae say how long I'll be hale. So we're down to three shite options as I see it: we do 'im 'is favor and hope eventually we can join 'is crew before 'is favors break us or I die of me wounds, OR we ambush the craggy bastard and take 'is place and force the dear Empress' local best to heal me, OR we make a run fer it and I roll the knuckles with whatever succor the locals 'ave on tap. Ah'm not sure I 'ave the time for the first, but Ah'm not sure we've got the sand for the second and gods only know what the locals can manage." His face turns grim as he continues, "I'd still be face down in the muck weren't fer ye two and I'd like to thank ye fer that." He hesitates before continuing softly, "I'd hate to have ta leave ya's without repaying my debt..." Hathok trails off leaving his desire for his companions help plain, but so too, his urgency for finding a cure.
Hathok's a tad worried about his wounds. The salve and halfling seem his best hope for a peaceful recovery. He wisely decides to keep his mouth shut. Hammered shit or not, he has the self awareness to know that he's a poor jest away from testing Shank's mettle. He grins and bears the extortion, hoping the halflings words hold water... For now.
"A'Reckon I look tougher with a few more scars..." Hathok offers as he puts on a brave face. Truth be told he felt like thrice hammered shit and not only because he'd begun to sense an impending physical confrontation with Shank. He relished the thought of it whilst hale, but in his current ragged state he frantically searches for any excuse to stall and put the inevitable off for another day. "Least that thing won't be picking off the chain gang no more, yer welcome." Hathok winces as soon as he finishes; tact was never his strong suit and he left boot licking behind with the army he deserted on another continent.
Hathok moans but he can't seem to rouse beyond the response to pain.
Hathok groans as he's dragged out of the muck. He remains unconcious.
"GraaaaaAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH DIE!" Hathok screams his fury as he can barely believe he's being bested by some gutter gecko. His wounds are grave but he summons the will power for one more swing from several layers back of Orcish ancestry.
Hathok puts everything he has into another swing of his much maligned shovel and, despite his Orcish battle fury, promptly succumbs to his wounds, falling into obliviousness.
Hathok is staggered as he's raked by dual claw slashes but the battle lust keeps him on as feet as he determinedly swings his shovel. A small part of him misses literally every other weapon hes ever wielded...
So the ring rust isn't so easily shaken but Hathok is determined to hurt this creature standing in front of him. He can feel his ire raising and channels it into the next swing of the shovel. Rage
Hathok shakes off the ring rust quickly and takes a two handed swing at the creature as it swipes at him.
Hathok is emboldened by Bregs words, his companions' attempts at stealth are clear even if what lies ahead is not. He too attempts a swift but stealthy approach as he nears the door he looks through and sees...
"Methinks yer right 'alfling, not so sure I wanna meet the residents... Well this way looks impassable and I dinnae think they've gone through here," he motions towards the hole, "let's see where this leads," Hathok straightens and cautiously sets off through the proper door opposite the hole. "I doubt ye two'll be objectin' ta me takin' point?" he mutters without waiting for a response he crosses the threshold, shovel at the ready.
Hathok grunts at the assault on his senses this "sewer" incurs. It's not his first excursion to a sewer but it brings his hackles up every time. He grips his shovel, grits his teeth, and growls; "This whole blasted place is ominous... Empress always has the best field trips don't she... Which way dya think they gone?" Hathok takes a second to look for any signs of recent dwarf passage and listens for movement.
He bends over trying to get a look through the tool marked hole while holding himself above the muck.
Hathok shrugs, and follows. Glancing about for a decent palm sized hucking rock or two before jumping down after the halfling has had a moment to step aside.
Ah've done it once and the blasted army goes to lengths to make examples of deserters, I 'spect the empress' reach be thinner out here anyways. Would be nice ta have someone to share watches with though...
"Ye've had me song friend, ya dinnae wanna see me dance." Hathok says his grin widening menancingly as he drops into an obvious fighting stance. His intimation borders on explicit statement; he's referring to something slightly more violent than a ballroom waltz (despite his bow moments earlier).
Rage
Noting the neutral stances of his two burlier bunkmates, Hathok does a quick and dissatisfying calculation of odds in his head as he finishes his ditty, paces slow but thoughts racing. They knows we fresh and ain't got a crust to give, mebbe it's a test, mebbe it's a jumpin in. Faaaack it, if'n I'm to catch a beatin may as well earn it and make em think twice bout next time. "The gift o'song... s'all I got to give friend." Hathok says as he performs a rapid courtly bow sweeping a leg out behind him and flourishing with the stool while keeping his eyes up, on the leader.
The burly half-orc uncoils from atop the comparatively tiny stool as the door bursts open, picking it up from between his legs as he stands. He idly picks at the stool clenched tight in his fist as Dwendle greets their visitors. Hathok's gravelly voice comes out in a jaunty, but quiet tune as Dwendle finishes, "The color, the color, the color of your skin don't matter to me." He takes two slow steps forward as he finishes his tune, "As long as, as long as, as long as we can live in harmony." Hathok feels his rage boiling, readies himself for violence and puts on a hungry grin.
Hathok walks to a bunk, leans on a top bunk to see if his bulk is remotely supportable and stares glumly at the obviously too small clothes while he waits for the reply to his companions questions. He pops his head out the window and judges there to be _____ hours till dusk. Hoping to catch a note of song on the breeze he listens for a moment.
Hathok is still keen to know if he can converse with the locals in common... Would that fall under an easy assumption or... a wait and see?
"Mostly for being green I 'spect. Although breakin' Fen's jaw an 'and mighta contributed summ'at." Hathok muttered in response. "How's about you half pint?" While listening to the halflings response Hathok stares resignedly at the piece of cloth and slowly struggles to pull it above his brawny elbow, the number 35 barely legible amongst the wrinkles. He follows the dwarf and halfling, pointedly keeping himself well behind and attempting to slow Breg inconspicuously. Bending forward pretending to struggle with the arm band still he says under his breath to Breg "Fulldwarf, if ye've a mind to become Slag'ammer agin, and want 'elp doing so, see if ye can figger anything 'bout these locals, wild and otherwise. 'Parently I ain't worth the spit o' a response with yer uppity kin."
Hathok paces for a moment then carefully tests the strength of the pens side bars, the pain in his flank rose as his arms tightened, but far more bothersome to the Half-orc was the familiar look of utter dismissal in the bureaucrat's eyes. Same ole, same ole. Us greens be the grass and the rest be the boots and scythes, shoulda known to bend rather than be cut. His cell mates were a rare pair, both looked like they'd spent some time inside a forge rather than stoking it. Hathok turned to the badly burnt, was it... yes, a half dwarf: "Thought they taught ya to stay outta the fire... Name's Hathok, nice ta know it ain't just Orc half breds gettin' dumped on. Got any strength to help me here if we get an opening?" He watches both of his erstwhile companions for their reactions as he says so, hoping to catch a glimmer of defiance to match his own.
If you start it up... It all sounds sweet to me BD. I dont think Hathok is much for bardic competition currently Polz but teach him anything new musically and he'll be happy to play back up lute and glare at the audience...
Hathok's fingers twitch as he stepped to the front of his line, barely recalled chords and fingerings subconsciously playing only on air. Is'at music I hear? Need a new damn lute afore I forget it all... Wonder how us greens do in this fresh hell... Welp, nothing to lose and no time like the present. Hathok leans in on the table, both fists firmly planted, and turns the menace up to the eleventh (his harshest, favorite chord). "Hathok the entertainer, na' mark me with whatever blasted colour puts a lute in my 'ands tha quickest and I'll put this shit show on the road!" Hathok's well timed knuckle crack puts an emphasis on the last syllable as his curled perma-sneer nears the bureaucrat's face.
W'ell drive our ships to new lands
I fought the law but... the law won! |