VEYL: First Campaign Thread

The two guards look down at Cork as she approaches, then they look at each other, then Rory.  

"Goblins."  One says.  

"Ankle biters."  The other nods.  

There's a second where they examine each other.  Are they going to laugh?  Is there further commentary?  

They both look back down at Cork, sizing her...up?  Down?  

Then one of them shrugs, turns, and makes a 'follow me' motion with his hand.  He's silent the whole way down the corridor they arrived down.  Past mess halls full of troops eating.  Past make-shift armories where soldiers oiled and sharpened blades and fletched arrows.  Past arcane workshops where wizards and their ilk worked on contraptions of this and that design.  And then they were exiting from the rear of Kaelor's field headquarters, and into a hastily constructed stable where grooms were busy taking care of the horses stabled there.  

The guard doesn't have much to say.  Like Kaelor, he looks haggard and tired, as though the weight of untold battles was slowly weighing him down, much like it was weighing down the warlord he followed.  

They follow the guard down the muddy path between stalls where animal waste and spilled water and who knows what else has turned the fine dust of the Sere Marches into filth.  It sticks to boots, sops up around ankles (and in the case of some of our shorter folken, even deeper than that), and just generally stinks and makes things unpleasant.  

Eventually, he steps up to a groom, and they mutter some words between each other.  For anyone listening, it becomes clear they're not hiding anything as much as they're just....disinterested.  The groom finally nods, the guard departs without so much as a 'f*ck you', and then props his hands on his hips.  

"Eh, so, you lot are here for the cart?  Torp says you is, aye?" , all five feet of his scrawny human body blocking the way forward.  "Ah, well, he says the General sends you, so ain't for me to judge now isit?"  

He stars down the muddy thoroughfare, and you all see he is barefooted as he plods along without a care in the world.  

"Aye, well, these here two 'orses are Golly..."  He points to one, "...and Gillpy."  He points to the other.  Both horses are big and strong and already lashed to a cart.  "Ih, I done checked yer cargo, yeah.  All set, everything nailed up nice and tight for your journey, and strapped in too where it shouldn't jostle and shift about.  Tried to make it flat as I could, so you can sleep on it if you need to.  Also stored about two weeks worth of food in there for the lot of ye, and a couple casks of water, and oats for the 'orses."  

He nods in approval at his own work.  

"Eh, ah, what's now can I do for ye more?"  

Harper looked at the cart. He looked at the mud around his ankles. He looked at the cart again.

Without a word he found the wheel spoke, hauled himself up, and settled onto the flatbed. He kicked his boots against the back of the cart once flinging what had accumulated there into the mud behind him, narrowly missing Rory, before settling in with his back against the cargo and his journal already open. He did not apologize

"well, that certainly makes finding food easier." Toil looks this random human up and down appreciating the simplicity. "Why not? You said it's not for you to judge, but have you tried it? You might like being judgemental? Give it a go, what's the first thought that pops into your head when you see... ummm him!" Toil grabs the stable hand around the shoulders and points to Aubrik, squinting his eyes as though to see the man better.

Aubrik offers a slow, respectful inclination of his head to each member of the mismatched company as the names go around. When the grim-faced guards let slip their dim-witted remarks about goblins and ankle-biters, his gaze shifts quietly to Cork. In his line of work, he has learned that the small ones in rough places usually carry the sharpest teeth, and the fact she is here means she can handle herself. He is thoroughly interested to see exactly how she chooses to handle the situation.

Once the meeting dissolves, he gratefully retrieves his ironwood stirrer, along with his other gear. As they march through the sprawling underbelly of Kaelor’s headquarters, his eyes drift over the mess halls, the frantic weapon smiths, and the strange, humming arcane workshops. It is an impressive machine of war, but it lacks a soul. The oppressive, ankle-deep muck of the Sere Marches outside feels far more honest.

Arriving at the stables, he watches with quiet amusement as Harper immediately claims the dry high-ground of the flatbed, completely unbothered by the mud he flings behind him.

Then comes Toil. The tiefling grabbing the scrawny, barefoot groom by the shoulders and pointing a finger his way seems intended to make people uncomfortable. Was the groom his target, or was he the target, or both? He doesn't let the friction catch. Instead, he steps forward, his rugged features softening into a warm, easy smile.

"It looks as though you have done a fine job", he says to the groom, examining the cart for a secure spot to place his own pack. As he does so, the rest of the party likely notices a pair of small, sturdy casks tightly lashed to the bottom of the pack frame.

Leaving his gear settled, he steps past the cart to approach the horses. Golly and Gillpy are big, solid beasts, and he has never been that comfortable around horses. Because of that, he cautiously approaches them here, letting them familiarise themselves with him in a safe environment.

Rory ignores the guards and their comments, following along behind them, his mind seems occupied.  He begins to trudge through the muck on the street, looking at the different stalls and shops as they are led.  When they pass the mess hall and armory, he looks, appraising without a thought.  His hand strays back to his quiver and bow on his back, but he keeps walking.  Finally they encounter the groom, Torp?  He watches as everything is pointed out in the cart.  His hand goes to any blade or arrow absentmindedly, fingering, checking.  Finally he speaks.  

“Casks of water…”.Rory checks the placement of the items.  He doesn’t mind Harper jumping up into the wagon and his dirty little feet, a grim smile comes over his face as he watches him settle in.  A small look of disappointment on his face as he’s looking at the casks.  “Anything stronger for our long walk?  Some casks of ale?  Or wine?  Something a little stronger to wet the whistle?  General wants us happy.. and effective.  I would certainly appreciate something more for our march.”  Rory sums up his full height and looks down on the groom, giving him a hard eye and strongly suggesting silently that he should comply with the request.