(group 2) Chapter 1: The Price of Survival

"Well that's a relief." Deresk says with snarl once the birds go quiet. The bear, however, gives him a puzzling look, as if it to remind him that the fact the birds are gone is rather unusual. Deresk has to admit that he has a point. The stupid creatures do tend to linger past their welcome, and if they're gone...

He gets up from his perch, axe in hand, and starts sniffing around. He hears a rustling. Not exactly a typical noise far up, but it could just be a cat moving around. His
Dice Roll:
d20 Results: 1 (Total = 4)
eyesflick back and forth, and his lips draw tighter around his tusks. He cocks his head to
Dice Roll:
d20 Results: 19 (Total = 22)
hear his surroundings better, and he lets his primal side guide his senses.

When boredom sets in, two things usually follow. One, the things that occurs most of the time, is nothing. Occasionally, it's Armageddon. This time, contrary to all expectations, it's just the beat of silent wings. What that foretells, Deresk does not know, but his prior quiet, complacent watch is interrupted, and now is the time for action.

In the tribe, the natural thing to do would be to yell and charge, and then hope the rest would follow. Unpopular watchmen usually found themselves fighting alone. Deresk has learned caution, however, so rather than go investigating, he'll first have to tread through another, less certain foe.

The humans in the tavern will be hostile, though whether it'll be cold shoulders or cold steel is matter for the spirits. Nonetheless, he finds himself with few alternatives, so with the little time he has, he makes himself as unthreatening as possible. He tightens the leather covering of his axe so it looks more like a staff, he raises his deer skull hood so more of his face shows, and walks with a less hunched manner, despite the damage that will invariably do to his spine. Thus prepared, he enters the heat of the inside, looking for his partners.

Walking with his axe staff, he finds L'lef and Corynn in the heat of the inn. The smell of meat and beer sends his stomach growling, and he can't help but grab an unattended leg of mutton and a stein of ale as he settles down. Such is his hunger he actually takes a bite and a swallow before beginning his tale.

"Alright, lads," he begins softly in his gruff orcish voice. "Our visitor from before has returned. The winged creature, bird or beast I can't tell. But his shadows fallen over the village. Best be prepared, I'd say."

Ruln sits patiently, hands wrapped about the mug of ale, occasionally lifting it to his lips for a drink as the man innkeeper speaks. His jaw shifts slightly at the mention of cold, and his shoulders lift in something like a shrug. "Cold. Mm, this is not cold. Cold is your breath turning to ice, your flesh freezing as the air touches it, even the great beasts staying in their caves." He falls silent for a time, listening to the man's opinions regarding orcs.

And then the man in question arrives, and his gaze shifts towards him, following him without saying another word until the other speaks, upon which he nods. "You will find no trouble here," he notes, lifting a hand to indicate the tavern. "And yes. Readiness is the mark of a survivor."

"I was just about to come and get you." Corynn tells Deresk as he sees the orc walk in. He continues his meal as he listens to what Deresk has to say. All he can do is shake his head at the situation. "Well, if there's time I'd like to finish my dinner before we see what that thing wants, I don't fight well on an empty stomach after all." and with a sigh he adds. "And if it comes to a fight someone's gonna have to get that thing on the ground before I can be of much use."

At that moment, Alistair (Corynn's soldier friend) comes stumbling and staggering over to the table, trying not to spill his ale but doing a terrible job at it. He sits down heavily next to Corynn, drunkenly laughing.

"Ohhh Corynn," he drawls, "Why, oh why, are you talking to this thing?" He gestures at Deresk. "Ya remember...remember the time ya killed a buncha those things and then the Queen gave you that thing...haaa we's had good time that time. You killed so many....what clan was it? Uhh, Blackfang? Bloodtooth? Ehh, somethin' like 'at..." He clapped Corynn on the shoulder and doubled over laughing.

If Corynn ground his teeth together any harder than he was doing right now he'd probably break a few of them. Clearly he's not to happy with the current company, or at least the state the man is in. "Alistair, if you were more sober you'd have enough brains to remember that those times weren't that 'good'. We just did what had to be done, that's all." By the tone it's fairly clear that Corynn had some less polite words in mind too, but he's not about to start anything right now. Besides he doesn't know Deresk well enough to judge how he will react to all of this, which is another good reason to try to avoid starting anything.

Ruln's eyes narrow as they fix upon the drunkard, and he sniffs at the air, his gaze unwavering. Upending his tankard, he finishes the drink, setting it down with a clunk and rising to his full seven-and-a-half feet. "What do you seek, fox?" he questions in his usual deep rumble. "What spirit clouds you?" He spends a moment simply watching the man, studying him, before straightening abruptly and sniffing at the air as he gaze shifts skyward; the distant warning cough of the great cat echoes in his mind, and he pivots suddenly to his companions.

"It has landed on this lodge," he states, suddenly, taking a stride toward the door.

Deresk takes another bite on his meat, nodding in agreement to Corynn's statement. The flying beast needs to land and he needs to fill his stomach if the spirits are to be with him. He is about to say something on strategy, but is cut off by the human. Even beyond the foul odor he emits, there is a waving energy from him, something that just doesn't seem right. Human spirits are usually mired in indecision and weakness, but this one has a different curse about, one the drunk breath only enhances rather than creates.

He takes a long snort of beer as the man goes into a wild speech. If he really detested orcs as much as he says, he would just attack. The man is a coward, nothing else. He is curious though, as he rambles through various tribes that he and Corynn supposedly fought. Blackfang and Bloodtooth are both real tribes to the best of his knowledge, though strikingly similar to his own Redtusk. He rubs his tusks in consideration. He'll have to ask Corynn in private, though he seems to have the fool under control. When Ruln stands before him, taller than he'd ever seen him, Deresk lets out a contemptuous snort at this Alistair, and goes back to his meat; he has no need to further control the situation.

That is until Ruln simple, yet terrifying statement, turns it upside down. He lets out a foul curse in the orc tongue as he reaches for his staff, and looks up towards the roof. "Let it stay there," he growls as he follows Ruln toward the door. "And we must move quiet, better not fight unless we must. Dwarf-buggering flying beast be damned."

Spirits help them, if it decides to make a meal of them as they go out. Damn thing probably thinks the tavern is good hunting grounds, with all the beer soaked humans inside. He's never thought he'd have to defend such types, but strange times call for strange measures. Deresk slides the leather off his axe.

Corynns hands automatically drops to check his weapons as he hears Ruln's words. He doesn't know how he knows, but he isn't about to argue. He quietly mutters a long string of curses as he gets up, far from amused with this entire situation. "Assuming the thrice-cursed beast doesn't have enough brains to know what a door is for." Granted, he doesn't know that much about wild animals, but anything smart enough to land quietly on a roof might be smart enough to set up an ambush. But he doesn't have any better suggestions so he follows the others.

Powered by vBulletin® Version 3.8.8
Copyright ©2000 - 2015, vBulletin Solutions, Inc.
Myth-Weavers Status