Always and ever have I pointed out this problem with "Low Magic" games: They take the magic out, and suddenly every class gets boring. Without spells to keep pace with, everything is peppered with barely-useful things that aren't in any way as useful as spells. Suddenly every level becomes just another excuse to add +1 to the die rolls.
Compare that to 5E that gives the classes what are in essence magical powers and ways to use what they do in game-altering ways. Be it the Superiority dice of the Weapon Master or the various sneaking themes of rogues. Even the paladin has a myriad of different Oaths.
Indeed, it seemed like this system very very badly needed something like Superiority dice for -EVERY- class. Fine, no one gets spells, but it's cool to have, like, the Healing Scholar manage their healing dice to cure either massive quantities of hit points OR various conditions. So why can't other classes also have some kind of refresh-at-rest powers to keep track of? Just because you get rid of spells doesn't mean you get rid of power.
But, yeah, AIME does do that, and it's a shame. From what I hear the whole thing needs to be taken back to formula, which is too bad.
It's been both real AND good everyone! (I think I'm even still in games with everyone here.... =)
Breathing like a bellows, Thorgrim allows his natural vitality to infuse with strength enough to keep fighting, even as one of the unworldly weapons of the spirit-fey thrusts through him with life-stealing cold.
"You will have your toy later, or will have it never!" Thorgrim calls at the spirit fighting him. Does the spirit care? Or even hear him? Who can say? Who knows? Who is John Galt? But he can make it suffer and send it back to whatever grave it is stealing from to think on his words.
”Yes, Talandil, let us move on. Some of these items may be purged of the shadow taint if exposed to the cleansing power of the sun,” says Ingold as he regretfully puts them all away for now and starts wriggling out of wretched lair they have lingered in too long.
"I do not need to wonder if we are servants of the shadow, as the wisest man I know has a plan to cleanse these ancient treasures of their taint. Therein we take a weapon of the enemy and ply it to our will. What is more benevolent than that?
Do these before us look like they are creatures that frolic in the sunlight? Will they lay in lush seas of green and gold, allowing the cleansing day to chase away the shadows?
Nay, nay my friends, nay. These are things of the dark and of caverns. Were we to yield to them now, we would put ourselves on a path of yielding ever hence."
For all his bluster Thorgrim had to take a moment to gather breath, his bladepoint dipping as he gulps air and ponders his "victory". He unleashed all his fury on the wist-wraith, and only now did it fall. And there were still a hand's full left! Would they all be as stout a tree to chop down?
Well, there was nothing for it. If Ingold, or Doderic, could come up with a plan, then good on them. But for the nonce there has ever been but a single way to deal with spirits of the long past.
He takes the ever-ready Noctocide in a firmer grip and engages the sole spirit now dancing with him.
"You are DEAD! You HEAR me?!?" Thorgrim yells at the oncoming specters even as they fight back against him. "You have no RIGHTS! You have no CLAIM! You are full of LIES and DECEIT and your very EXISTENCE is an EVIL and BLIGHT upon this land that we will snuff out!" His yells are from the very bottom of his lungs as he swings Noctocide to and fro.
"Are you MAD?" Thorgrim calls back as Doderic sees the undead plan. "There is no truth in their words! How are they to prove their claim? Are we solicitors now that even the most vile of creatures can come to us and just demand all our possessions? These things are servants of the enemy and must be fought with FIRE and STEEL!"
Head reeling and his cheek slightly purpled by the force of the blow, Thorgrim stands a moment while the fear leaves his eyes and his quickened breathing returns to normal.
"Gratitude, Ingold. I needed that."
Returned to himself, Thorgrim turns his baleful gaze toward the phantasmal interlopers. "You dare? You. Dare. You who are ABOMINATIONS to all things normal and good! You who are the stuff of nightmares made manifest! You would dare to walk into a campsite of peaceful people and good intent and DARE to demand a boon? I care not if I rightfully owe you a bent copper to purchase ale for a lifetime, I care NOT what you want returned."
He hefts Noctocide. If there was a debate between courteously resolving this dispute through solemn negotiations, and quickly charging into GLORIOUS COMBAT, the eager yellow light that surrounds the great sword, combined with an almost tangible growl of hunger, states in which camp the sword would vote.
"You want to be returned? Then I shall return you. TO THE GRAVE!" the Beoring yells, his words again turning a cry, but this a word-less cry of battle!
"Come, Cereidh, let divine mercy be the only reward they see this day!" he yells behind him, heedless that his recently given bravery is still needed for his heart behind him.
"AIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" comes a blood-curdling scream from the large Beorning, finishing the wakefulness of any who were not yet up from their blankets. Such a thing was unlike the myriad of monsters he had slain in his time, and should not even exist, least of all be upon their camp.
Though every nerve in his body screamed for him to run, to run and hide! such an instinct was so unlike him that, though he could not advance and run it through, he split the difference and did nothing but stand and scream.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
A smallest part of him wondered how it was making speech without a head, but that hardly seemed to matter now.
I guess it sounds like a take ten that you get always. Makes sense.
Thorgrim pauses in his whittling. Something in the grass? Mayhap a hare, or some hunting vermin? Two rats rutting? Hard to say. Certainly nothing worth rousing the group from their blankets and calling out the guard.
Still, he took Noctocide in hand and added fresh wood to the fire. Couldn't be too careful.
Thorgrim was content as the others settled down for well-earned rest, and he to his watch. In sooth he did not feel the least bit tired, for one of his iron constitution the short pause they had enjoyed, along with the potent herbal brew, robbed him of even the memory of the bone-dead exhaustion that had plagued him so recently.
Hence the time seemed meat.
Cereidh:
When you wake a flower crown greets you. By your head rests a creation that some young girl might make from wildflowers to rest atop her head. But the workmanship and detail given to the thing leaves no room to think it came from any but hands long-used to working with what nature leaves us.
A complex and strong triple-weave flows through the emerald crown as gayfeather, snowgum, and soft ivywine flow and intertwine as of they were feyfolk of the forest chasing each other. Though it might not last 'til the end of the age, none could say that its equal has been seen in these lands.
The crowning jewel of the work is the fire-bright wild lilie that is raised to prominence on the front. White with bold red and yellow interiors, the flower is not only unique, but lifts the heart of all who gaze upon it. It gives assurance that the whole of it was made with forethought, skill, and care.
"There is battle given, but not for us," Thorgrim observes as warhorns call throughout the air. "I would not slacken our pace, but he no longer need risk exhaustion upon the field to speed our steps."
Thorgrim listened to Cereidh and looked at her. He couldn't help but smile.
"Aye, I too would maintain such a heading. But soft, elf, not all are made for endless journeys." While facing her his eyes motion toward the Scholar. "As you say, visibility is good. Why not take the chance and make a camp? If the enemy again catches our trail, we will be able to see them in good time and we will be leagues ahead by the time they make it to our cold fires.
And besides, we are four now!" he clamps Anar palpably on the shoulder. "More eyes mean mean watches so each can get more rest. Let's give Ingold a chance to find a meat place for us to lay our heads.
(Don't forget to spend HD during that short rest. Thorgrim will get maximum HP from every HD he spends during this rest thanks to the draught Ingold gave him.)
Thank you! Ha, I totally forgot we were resting! Blargh last week was nuts. I'm intentionally playing hooky today to get my bearings back. ^_^
Oh man that White Lily stuff is powerful to keep around!!
"Gratitude," Thorgrim rumbled in his way as he let himself be administered to by Ingold's tending. He timidly takes the brewed tea the man had made and, holding his breath, knocks the drink back in a single swallow, wishing it was hard Haradian liquor.
The instant the brew touches his tongue he feels energy flow through him, as if from a volcano of power. "Confound I am restored," he says, the cup only having just left his lips. He stands and flexes, relishing the feeling of being, well, himself, in his full power. "That is potent stuff, Ingold! When next you visit me in my homestead I will mix that with good barley beer and never will the woods cease their song of praise for such a drink.
Indeed, I feel the Dew of the very Mountain flow through me!"
Restored, it was no wonder that he rushed down to meet what turned out to be Anar's tent. How could one stay still after such an imbibement? Really? Imbibement is really a word? Thanks Spellchecker. Also, 4 x 14 = full hp. =p
"Allow me to help with that, Ingold," Thorgrim offers as false tracks are discussed. "I may not have book-learning, but I have some small experience with this."
Thorgrim had kept to his own council through the brief march. Having poured all of his vigor into the most excellent battle offered by their former hosts, he felt need to save his breath for whatever was to come. His day was not finished yet, no matter what may come.
"Eh? To battle?" he recites distractedly, staring into the middle distance. "For a small campfire? Gah, Ingold. We are chased by a full warband of of orcs. Probably. Even if two-hands worth of orcs have made a fire, they are of no threat to us.
Either the owner of the fire is no threat, or mayhap it is a friend of he that we have left behind, come to see where the erstwhile scout has gone. And that is all the better for us.
Let us advance and keep to our march. Let them worry about arraying for battle."
As Thorgrim escapes into the cool evening air, it is if he was a goatskin full of air, and of a sudden he is poked with a hatpin. "Ugh," he grunts, slouching down. "Now, with the rush of battle leaving, I feel I've run a hundred leagues.
Aye, Bree seems a fine idea," he says, sluggishly, as though he has not the strength to contemplate the question.
"You'll get no argument from me," Thorgrim rumbles, heading for the exit. "This day is already as fine as any could be. Any gambler knows when to walk away, and when to run."
"Oooofff," Thorgrim exhales as the orc pays in the only coin that his low-browed race has. But he pays out well, and the wind is knocked from the weaponmaster. For a moment he gives ground to catch his breath.
"Oh what a way to cap the day!" he shouts when finally he has lungs enough to. "To start with the undead horror, and then the spider, and then a bevy of orcs, at last to end with these two champions of the orcs? Even if we fell this day could any say it was not well spent?"
I mean, he had no plans of falling this day. He had things to do. Still, there was only one way out of this.
Later we would swear that Noctocide seemed to hear and understand, like a well-heeled dog. The blade rose and fell and fainted and slashed with a preternatural ease that bordered on sentience.
"I'LL KILL YOU!!" The words rushed from Thorgrim's throat and in an instant he was upon the massive orc.
He had been having a good day. After leaving a great many foul orcs laying motionless in his wake, he got to destroy their only egress out into the open world, crushing it with his bare hands, which is always fun.
On the short jaunt back out, he took another gander at the grubstake of stars fallen from the grand ceiling. If anything he had under-counted the fruit of his labors. Even not counting the prize of the diamond, he judged himself able to purchase anything that could be purchased, save only perhaps the grandest of works. That the thing he actually wanted was the grand work he now strode out of and away from seemed like a poetic tragedy a bard in a wineshop might sing of.
He had begun thinking of flowers when the arrow hit the elf.
"YOU SHALL KNOW THOUSAND DEATHS!" he screamed, Noctocide in his hand in an instant. "YOUR LIFE HAS MEANT NOTHING AND IT ENDS HERE! NONE BUT YOUR FLEAS SHALL MOURN YOU!" All his training. All his experience. Every ounce of martial ability he poured into this target, for only the greatest of violence could ever hope to balance the scales against this greatest of insults. "THERE SHALL NOT BE ENOUGH LEFT OF YOU TO FEED THE DOGS THAT ARE YOUR BEDMATES!"
First Crashing Mountain, then Raging Flood. All of the pain.
Also, Doderic, don't forget that, 1) You are a better front-line fighter than me, and, 2) to have two in the front line would be much, much appreciated than standing on my own.
I know you're well-built for ranged combat, but half the party is also ranged (Ingold isn't really built for tanking and Ceredh is built around the bow) so it would be great if I could, well, always see you in the van next to me.
You have a higher AC, and your sneak attack damage gives you GREAT slaying power.
Wait, are we actually proposing staying here and fighting ~200 orcs?
Thorgrim has motivation to do so, because he wants to live here. ^_^
Also, I have no problem logging in and just posting to-hits for Thorgrim because that's what he's built for. =)
I'm not sure if that would get monotonous for you guys.
This is something we might wanna talk about. Knowing Tareth, it sounds like he's pushing us to evac this place for some other adventure, but, also knowing him, I'm sure he has no problem serving up near-infinite combat, if that's what we're looking at.
Seeing his arrows fly far and wide, Thorgrim frowns, lowers the bow and sighs. "And that is why I don't do that," he mumbles, un-stringing and stowing the bow.
Back at the entry hall, Thorgrim waggles a finger at the far-off horns, as if counting their number.
"I, um, I...uh...I agree with you, good Talandil," Thorgrim states as if ripping out unwilling words from his throat. "I have seen orcs in number, but never have I seen them in so great a pack as this.
Still, they are, alas, just orcs. As deadly as they are in massed formations, the narrow tunnels and warrens of this place play havok with their numbers, giving us at least equal footing with however many."
Thorgrim looks up at the high balcony which they had to descend to get here. "I can imagine that even we few could hold off a hundred orcs here, killing them as they came on. I could certainly keep them from gaining purchase above, and I would wager our archers could keep their archers well-harried, enough to keep them from playing a factor."
He's musing now, thinking out loud. Letting the words roll about his tongue, tasting them like a foreign wine.
"Such would be a hard slog, aye, but either they attack us, and die, or we strike and return and rest and strike, and they die.
If we could retake this glorious hall, even to die in the attempt would make a fine song to sing."
Unable to help himself, Thorgrim starts laughing at the retreating orcs. "HAhahaha! Ha! You see that? No sooner do I start opining that the orcs might have one good attribute of fighting to the last, then they break and run. Ha! Have we learned something of our foe, or have I simply been granted the power to make all that I say suddenly come true. Oh, I wonder if it will begin raining gold dragons now?"
Thorgrim turns his face to the ceiling and waits for a moment, only mildly surprised when he is not deluged with coins.
"Well that answers that. Yes! My friends, let us away back down the hall we came in from. To make our stand in the hall would be quite fine, or even all the way to the initial room with the balcony."
Not really wanting to get out his bow to chase the fleeing orcs away, he instead takes the van and goes back, searching for a better bottleneck.
"I do not know if the orcish habit of fighting on in the face of hopelessness is admirable or despicable!" Thorgrim calls, giving voice to his own curiosity. "Or perhaps they know their own evil, and seek to do one last good deed by meeting their end on our steel!
If so, let us not disappoint them!"
Noctocide certainly has no problems with this philosophy. The steely blade, ever sharp and ever ready, leaps into the enemy ranks and plays with their entrails the way a dog might play with newly fallen snow.
"You are right, Ingold. But we can't just let our rear be without obstacle." His head swivels around, a plan forming, until at last his eyes settle on the forge. "We canst not make a gate, but there is something else orcs hate more than a barred entrance."
Thorgrim quickly gathers up two goblin bodies, one in each meaty hand, and tosses them into the tunnel they just came from, toward the multiple horns. Then another pair nearby follow, forming a good-sized cord of not wood, but bodies.
Then he jobs over to the forge and his workman's eyes quickly spy a pot of bubbling steel. It's not good quality stuff, no, but it laid undisturbed in its heavy ladle, and now it would do good work.
Walking quickly, he takes the molten metal over to the stand of bodies and carefully pours the stuff over them, covering as much as he can. The air immediately begins to smoke and stink...and burn. Everywhere the hot liquid touched it immediately brought whatever it was, be it cloth or flesh, up to its flashpoint and soon the fire of meat and fat made a good-sized pyre.
"That should slow them a bit," Thorgrim observes before sprinting toward the single horn sound.
"Excellent. I prefer a straight fight to all this sneaking around," Thorgrim says. "And, apologies, Cereidh. It looks like I'm about to get the answer to my question." He smiles, feeling no pressure.
"Let us away to the smithy room. There we can make barricades and create such a choke point where we might defend ourselves better."
Thorgrim starts a loping jog back the way they came, already making a mental note for their defense.
"Why would he blow the horn? How many can be left?" Thorgrim wonders aloud as his thews start pumping to bring him quickly within range of the remaining vanguard.
"Are you really using The Tide Goes Out against me?" the warrior wonders, having not encountered a defensive fighting style amongst the orc in...well he can't recall having ever seen it. "This is a very, very strange day.
Okay, Mr. Fencing Orc. Can you handle Crashing Mountain?"
"Aye, you have the right of it," Thorgrim whispers to Ingold and Cereidh as they nock arrows.
"I'll stand with you and wait for you to loose. Then, once the enemy charges close, I'll meet them in what is sure to be another rousing battle!
I feel it best to wait, lest if I charge upon the heels of your shafts, they might just retreat anonce, and lead us into a place of ambush. I would rather meet them here, in this hall, where we can see what to expect."
Thorgrim will hold his position just in front of the archers.
"That was well done, my friends. Well done indeed," Thorgrim says, wiping his blade on a fallen orc's tunic. "And aye, Ingold, I'm not so done in that I need something swift, but some of your ministrations might go amiss.
Now I feel we have interrupted some evil works of some import, but we've a decision to make. Do we skulk about here, trying to see what it is that we've undone? Or do we keep on? Those that tried to flee were, perhaps, trying to flee to something. I wonder if they were simply making to save their own skins, or trying to warn some force of greater power?"
"Ha! Now we have them on the run, friends!" Thorgrim calls out, sprinting headlong in chase of the fleeing enemy.
"Oh no, no no no," he calls out to the demi-humans, like the baying of hounds. "We canst not let so much as the least of you go, whether to warn thy fellows or to simply carry the plague of your evil to another locale would be equal folly. Nay, we are come to make this place clean if your eternal filth, and it makes no cause to leave the job half-done!"
Thorgrim looks down an notices the grip of Noctocide has become slick with the foul blood of the great many of enemy slain. Not only is it fouling his aim but he'll be a goodly amount of time cleaning it if he ever wants to reap so great a harvest again.
"Yes! Excellent!" Thorgrim cries in battlejoy as the orcs engage him. He was honestly worried they would flee from him and he'd have to chase them down. That they are choosing to face him in GLORIOUS COMBAT and die with honor is an actual surprise. And a joyous one. He revels as he allows them to draw blood, for to repay such a sliver of valiance with immediate culling would just be rude.
He re-doubles his exultations as familiar elf-fletched arrows fly past him to find warm homes in his new attackers, the best gift he could have ever asked for. He laughs in great joy. "Ha! That's the way, Cereidh! Let us finish this sport in the way we always knew it would end!"
A part of him realizes that his blows do not land with quite the adroitness that they usually do. Surely his leaping heart must needs play a distraction.
Blargh, since I've already updated the sheet (and, this late at night, the math is starting to make my head hurt) let's keep it as you had it. I keep the Action Surge, take 15, 2nd Wind it all back, and this round I take 9, putting me at 65, with the Surge still.
Oh, man, you have no idea how long I've waited to use that movie quote in its context!
There is always a moment.
It's hard to catch it. Between all the shouting and yelling and movement and screaming and weapons rising and falling and rising again, the clang of steel on steel, people living people dying...well there's a lot going on.
But there always, always, ALWAYS comes a moment. That moment. _The_ moment. The moment when a battle shifts, ever so slightly, but certainly palpably, when it goes from one side against another side...to one side wins, and another side loses.
In honesty he hadn't known if they would win this one. He hadn't really bothered to count the orcs' numbers, just knew they were here, and in such strength that they had to be dealt with. Once he had seen their numbers, well, he had a doubt.
But seeing the well-oiled killing going by his friends, he knew who would be walking away from here.
Oh. Um, heh, I didn't know we were in a surprise round. Can I have that action surge back so I can spend it this round to Dodge?
Like, it didn't really say that the first was a surprise round, do I used the Dodge, but obviously that's silly if it was a surprise round, which I didn't know that it was.
Shall I just hold on to the Action Surge and use it later?
"Oop! What the-- Thorgrim wonders briefly as he finds a whiling dervish of death and steel darting between his legs, reaping a great red harvest amongst the demi-humans that rush them. "Oh-ho! Doderick, good to see you in the fight!" he roars, seeing his aura of death enhanced.
As the two goblins make for the exits, he sees the threat they pose and shouts to the archers behind him. "Ingold, bring them down! Cereidh! Kill them!" he yells, then nods in satisfaction as a withering volley is sent at the runners.
Having done not-killing things for long enough, he now gets back to his favorite past time of killing things that need killing.
Oh. Um, heh, I didn't know we were in a surprise round. Can I have that action surge back so I can spend it this round to Dodge?
A part of Thorgrim's mind, the part not fully subsumed with the raging red of battle, took note of the great number of corpses that lain strewn about the hall's aged floors. Pleased it was to see the dead of the evil races now laid low, making the world safer, for however small a modicum.
But this was a smallish part. For the lion's share it too found joy, but this was battle-joy, the lifting of the heart that comes with hard, cold steel in hand and a great thronging horde of worthy foes that need to meet the blade and add to a warrior's glory.
Still did he sing and call out, his throat finding strength as the steel-barbed arrows of his friends flew all about him, finding warm homes and making even approaching him a deadly affair. Though that said nothing of the lethality of actually standing before him.
He tried to find some bottleneck, a place where he could anchor himself between the mewling hordes and the bow-wielding worthies behind him. But that danced too close to strategy, so he didn't really try that hard.
"When they see us, they will run for their lives,
To the end they will pay for their lies,
So long did we wait, now we are home!"
Here once again there's a battle to fight,:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (17) + 10 = 27 Gather together for the sound and the might,:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (17) + 10 = 27 So long did we wait,:2d6 + 7 + 2 ⇒ (2, 4) + 7 + 2 = 15 now we are home.:1d6 ⇒ 2
Now we will FIGHT for the kingdom, fighting with steel!:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (20) + 10 = 30 Kill all of them, their blood is our seal,:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (18) + 10 = 28 Fight till the last of the enemy is dead,:4d6 + 7 + 2 ⇒ (4, 6, 6, 1) + 7 + 2 = 26 Ride through their blood that we gladly have shed!:1d6 ⇒ 4 = 29
As Thorgrim sees the volley of cloth-yard shafts sail through the air, and as a shadow departs itself from the darkness to worry one of the stinking monsters before them, Thorgrim knows the part he must now play.
He openly holds his greatsword aloft as he valiantly strides toward the enemy lines, singing the song of the ancient kings!
"I'm the master of the world I have no fear of man or beast,
Born inside the soul of the world.
Riding hard, breaking bone with steel and stone
Eternal might I was born to wield!"
Let us drink to the battles we've lived and we've fought!:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (19) + 10 = 29 Celebrate the pain and havoc we have wrought!:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (4) + 10 = 14 Great heroes charge into the fight:2d6 + 7 + 2 ⇒ (3, 2) + 7 + 2 = 14 From the north to the south in the black of night!:1d6 ⇒ 1
Fierce is my blade, fierce is my hate!:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (16) + 10 = 26 Born to die in battle, I laugh at my fate!:1d20 + 10 ⇒ (18) + 10 = 28 Now pay in blood when your blood has been spilled,:2d6 + 7 + 2 ⇒ (4, 2) + 7 + 2 = 15 You're never forgiven death is fulfilled!:1d6 ⇒ 1
Feeling the bloodlust upon him full, he weaves before him an impenetrable web of steel. His deadly cuts force the enemy upon him while his indefatigable vigor keeps their feeble blades at bay.
Normally Thorgrim bellows a song of the ancient kings as he wades into battle, but conceding to the spirit of stealth, naught save his breath escapes his lips.
Thogrim didn't know if he reached for her, or the other way around. All he knew was that as the smell of orc grew stronger, and the light of Ingold's lantern was shuttered and horded, his hand was in hers, and he let himself be lead forward. He held to no fear, and his footsteps did not falter, for he trusted implicitly those around him, and she who lead them.
"Don't think just because I can't see, I'll let you kill all of them," he rumbles to Cereidh, envying the sight in the darkest of places.
Thorgrim and Ingold remind me, do either of you need actual lantern/torch light in order to see? I know Cereidh and Doderic have darkvision. How are the two of you getting along? Guided by Cereidh?
That, sir...is an interesting idea. Cereidh? You up for that? In dark places you could just hold my hand while I follow, guided by nothing but faith and trust?
"We fear no machines," Thorgrim rumbles, frowning at the ladder as though letting it know how disappointed he was in it. "Though we may find no orcs where there are items of industry, methinks we may as well explore the whole of this complex.
Doderic, with your quiet ways and ability to see in the darkest of places, it seems meat that you take the van and bring us wisdom."
Thorgrim waits until the hobbit is safely down and then follows him.
He wanders around the courtyard, seeing if a closer inspection can lend a clue.
Perception!:1d20 + 6 ⇒ (3) + 6 = 9
If there are no further clues to be had, he says, "Let us keep to one side, and so keep our direction in this labyrinth. We can start to the North, and ever keep to the right hand,"
Thorgrim nods his head. His nose, long honed by many nights on the hunt for a meal that would save him from starvation and the fate of a frozen corpse, does not fail him when called upon now.
"They are to the East," he says definitively. "There is danger to the North, aye, danger most foul. But we have tarried with diversion over-long, and the prey is wont to move, if we delay again.
Besides, methinks that if the horror to the north--and I say 'tis a horror for what else has this place held for us--were going to come upon the unwary, 'twould have fallen upon the orc afore now.
Let us have done, as we are at full strength and I would not give so willing a partner as orcs less than the best.
The hall is rented, the band is struck. Now let's see if they can dance."
Thorgrim strides East with an air of impatience. Dorrick will probably scout ahead.
