Episode 2: The Rage of War

Izar sits on the table, placing a bowl of hard tack and fruit near Oraam. "How's it goin' topside?


For my part, I might've made a friend here with..." He pauses and waits for the young man to fill the silence or show how well he can withstand the subtle weight of expectation.

Silence, well wielded, can be revelatory.

The man smiles from the barrel "Hey, answers for answers. You said you don't want us dead but blood started dripping from the deck and I'm down here in a barrel." He plops his hands on the edge of the barrel and pulls himself up and over, pausing for just a moment to let the loose powder fall off him. He frees most of the remaining flour in a cloud of pats and wipes.

"So?"

Kho'nan dips his hands into the pouches and pockets of the presumed first mate. Inside he finds a couple handfuls of hardtack, an apple, and a voyage's wage of twenty five gold galifars. He also carries a longsword by a frog on his belt and a belaying pin is tucked under the back. Beside him, a semi-transparent globe sits in the crack between two planks, rolling with the boat's sway. You remember this roughly 1 ft. diameter globe following behind the first mate and emanating a torch's glow.

The woman stares at Jorian with wide eyes, her voice shaking. "After the Karrnathi conscription, every man had seen his share of blood... I-I never suspected he was any different. He was kind, honorable. He said you threw his brother's head into the Scion's Sound and gave his crew to the Lhazaar slavers. Right hand to a pirate prince."

Somehow he has found himself inclined to praise his crew for having "only" killed what, a half dozen? and it was postively galling. Despite wanting to grit his teeth in annoyance, Izar instead gives the man the smile of a younger child realising that the elder is teasing them.

"Hey now! Not all answers are created equal. What I'm askin' for is simple common courtesy... And information we'd likely get from any of the many, many shipmates of yours whose blood's not drippin' on the deck."  

He pauses to take another bite and instead continues, pointing at the man with a corner of the hard tack"And, you are clearly not in a barrel. Why could you possibly've felt safe enough to emerge? Don't we want you dead? The question is asked with an almost childlike sincerity of tone and demeanor that is impossible given the conversation.

Izar places the cracker between his teeth for a moment, and uses his newly freed hands for a cantrip.

*At least one other person down here. We're chatting. No trouble yet* Izar's voice is calm and matter-of-fact in Kho'nan's head. Hopefully there would be no reason to revise the situation at hand.

He finally takes the long-delayed bite, and then contentedly takes another. If they were to travel on ships more often, he'd have to find ways to spruce up hard tack.

Kho'nan gathers the gold, hard tack, apple, and longsword. The dwarf eyeballed the orb. He had more of his wits about him now with the Symbiont sated and shutted the fuck up.

...for the time being.

He gently nudged it with his foot and took a bite of the apple.

Free-followin' torch could be nice, he thinks.

Kho'nan blinked as Izar's voice came through and then replied. *How nice. Got an orb up 'ere. Was followin' th'fake captain 'round before I kilt 'im. Glowin' like a torch. Could be nifty. Could explode.*

*I had forgotten about the driftglobe. It is not the kind of orb to be exploding, but it is nifty. Good thinking!*

It wouldn't be a bad idea to inventory everything and take a finder's fee before handing the bulk of the cargo over to their employers. For the Nth time in their life, Izar wishes that he had a bag of holding; but between getting paid and being sent on all kinds of missions, for the first time in a while, he is optimistic that he might actually be able to get one in his life time.

Jorian ponders the woman’s words. At mention of slavers, his eyes narrow. He despised the trading of men and women that was openly practiced in the Lhazaar Principalities, but it seemed a past mistake would still haunt him. Turning abruptly from the woman, Jorian’s boot heels echo once again as he walks towards the chest. Having already checked the wooden locked container for any traps, magical or mechanical, Jorian slowly opens the wooden box and glances inside. His back was to the woman as he spoke sardonically.

“I have thrown several heads into the Scion’s Sound, you’ll need to be more specific….”

In truth he remembered the incident well.  Clenching his jaw, he continued sincere, but stern.

“A mistake of which I take no pride in. I do not condone utilizing the living as currency, but I take responsibility for the actions of my past…..”

He switches gears, immediately changing the subject to the matter at hand.

” This vessel will be scuttled. Your options are narrow, but they are your own nonetheless. You may join me aboard my ship until we dock. You have my word that you will not be harmed, and you are free to leave at your own volition. Your second option is simple enough…you may swim.”

The woman pauses for some time as you look over her captain's belongings. Inside the chest you find a set of nice clothes, marked bags of coin totaling 208 gold galifars, 473 silver sovereigns, and 86 copper crowns. There's also a string of twenty beads, ten seem to slosh about with water inside, the other ten smell of wheat. There's also a short sword within which has a pommel in the shape of a torch's flame.

"I... I'll do it, I'll go with you." The woman says from the edge of the bed. "I don't have any reason to doubt you, but your friend... I don't trust him. Please... I don't want to die."

" It's Bronner, and wasn't it your words that you didn't want us dead?" The young man says with a hint of indignance. "We could at the very least parley in good faith. Besides, it sounds like I'm on the crew, so we're on the same side."

Kho'nan picks up the Driftglobe and tucks it into his backpack.

"Take th'time y'need with yer dead, but be quick about it. We're on the move as'soon as we'can go. Move."

He realized he was still angry at being forced to kill those he had. He wouldn't be making any friends here, and he was happy not to.

In Dwarfish at a hushed whisper::

Oraam looks up at Izar when the question about topside is asked. "Pretty decent. Everyone's in control, at least for now."

Looking at the man in the barrel, Oraam looks at him with a face of subdued displeasure, very clearly over this guy. In a very matter-of-fact tone, Oraam says "Listen, my friend here may have qualms about killing you guys, but you're really getting on my nerves. I've stabbed more than a few of your friends, and you better start talking plainly or you'll be another that we'll have to throw overboard."

He goes back to eating the food set in front of him by Izar. "Thanks for this, by the way."

Izar gives a nod and friendly grunt of acknowledgment at the update. At the threat, Izar shrugs at Bronner as if to say Well, I tried, and then angles his body a bit more towards Oraam.

"My pleasure. You've gotta keep your strength up, what with all the stabbin'."  He chooses to be grateful that Oraam is being so stone cold with his bluff, rather than deeply concerned that their new "friend" is growing ever closer to considerable harm.  

"S'pose you're right about bein' crew... then we obviously outrank you, innit." He refrains from adding a bit about naval discipline and flogging; one not-so-implied threat at a time.

Bronner shook his head in his hands as the two interrogated him. "And I thought the Blood of Vol clerics were the unabashed ones... I've already agreed to work with you, and I've answered all your questions Ghaal'dar. You wanna throw your weight around? That's within your power, but don't flaunt your mortal crimes and demand my respect. Question me then, and leave me with my grievances." The young man's voice quivers as he speaks, accented by a sharp croak as the boat rocks toward Jorian's directed heading.

Sailors on the top deck wrap the dead with a thick chain. Within the hour their remains will be tied off to their belongings and sunk to the bottom of the Scion's Sound, a sailor's burial. What crew remain after tying off their sails to a new heading swab the deck of blood. Beyond the scrub of brush and the lapping of waves, little else is heard about the ship.

Izar looks at the young man with a combination of annoyance and sadness. "Look Bronner. I don't know you, but it sure as hell seems that you've not often had your ass kicked by people stronger than you. And not for mouthing off. Just for being in the way. Or because they didn't like the way you were looking at them. Or because they are mean, petty bastards who know that they are strong and you are not." The Bard sighs, and scrubs at his face with his palms. "I hope that you never have to learn just how patient we have been... Now, onto the questioning - we'd not want your grievances to have to go unsulked over for too long, would we." The question is said with a cold flatness; any trace of softness or playfulness long gone.
"What is you role on this ship? Where can we find the manifest? Who, other than the Captain and First Mate might have useful information for us? Is Alea a full-fledged member of the crew?"

Bronner stares through Izar, whatever emotion he originally showed seems washed away by their conversation."The war touched us all, and I've not been spared it's horrors. I suppose I'm just tired of losing friends to the immoral, and I've faced death enough times that I struggle to find my fear. No matter, what's finished is finished. I'm just a deckhand, the manifest should be in a lockbox bolted to the wall the next floor down, I'm not sure what information you'd find useful, we're just traders. There's not really a quartermaster or chef or anything like that, we're on the ship for just a day or two at a time sailing between Rekkenmark, Thaliost, and the nearby cities. And Alea, I'm fairly certain she's just the captain's bed bauble. Will there be anything else?"

"Thank you. No. Nothing else for the moment. You are free to join your comrades or... whatever," he sighs, deflated.

"This," Izar gestures vaguely towards Bronner, "Is just one of the many, many reasons that this mission is shite," Izar says at and/or to Oraam, resting his head in his hands. "No matter what we do, we're the assholes... I just wanted to have a chat."

Once released, Bronner's gaze seems to drift, not away from Izar, but through him. For a few long moments he stares... then makes his way to the top deck.

In a couple of hours you find yourselves entering the mouth of a small, unnamed river in the Silverwood. Indeed, much of the forest remains uncharted due to the therianthrope presence, many of the waterways therein lie unknown as well. This river is just large enough to fit the barge, though not without the constant fear of a sharp rock suddenly sending your ill-gotten gains to the river bed. Against all odds, the sunrise silhouettes the forest along with the three masts and raised sails of the Severed Fang; you have arrived. Looking closely, troops move along the riverbank, preparing to unload the cargo that your piracy rewards. A half-orc clad in his signature long coat waves you down, you recognize him as Kahle. A few rowboats meet the barge as it weighs anchor.

"Lo there!" Kahle cries from one of the boats. A few men throw ropes over the side of the barge as the rowboats approach. Kahle regards those aboard quietly, pulling Jorian to the side. "You needed them to sail the boat? When do you plan to handle the rest?" While Kahle speaks with Jorian, two more men unload from the rowboat and ask for direction to the cargo from the Aberrants.

Jorian responds confidently, with no effort to lower his volume.

“The rest have already been handled. The men you see before you are now my crew. I have one in particular whom may prove useful in providing information on your enemies’ naval intelligence. I may be inclined to share this information with the True Aundarians once I gather it, should you be interested…”

Kho'nan's ears perked up at Khale's question and the war-dwarf walked over toward the half orc and Jorian.

He was tired, already annoyed, and wouldn't hear a word of any disapproval of how the job was handled.

"The job is done. You can offload th'supplies, look like a hero, further the cause, aye. An' now Jorian has more crew for the battles to come. It's a win-win."

He took a step closer, the frustration getting the better of him.

"But y'need to understand somethin' now, boyo - I'm not yer fuckin' executioner."

If Kahle had something to say, now was the time.

Unable to make out first Kahle and Jorian’s words, and then Kho'nan's, Izar walks towards them with practiced nonchalance looking to get within earshot. Fairly certain that a step or three or nine would bridge that gap, he stops short when the dwarf closes in on the so-called True Aundarian.  There was the whisper of the promise of lethality in that step, and Izar assumes that the words are resonant with that same sussuration.

The whisper of the promise of lethality? Khyber's tits! I am going to need an editor, he thinks ruefully, while also quite satisfied with the scene unfolding before him. Kahle might not have balked as aggressively as Belina, but he certainly hadn't been their advocate either; and seeing how this senseless, murder filled plan was his to begin, Izar is far from opposed to the half-orc being cowed, regardless of the reason.

With an abjectly smug look on his face, he takes the number of steps necessary and sufficient to listen in.

Kahle swings one leg wide, turning to face Kho'nan as the hand on Jorian's shoulder turns into a pinch on the bridge of his nose. "You look me in the eyes and tell me I want to give the order to slaughter the entire crew of a glorified ferry-boat. I like this no more than anyone, but let me clarify your role, mercenary. Their loyalties lie with their coin, with the enemy. What do you think happens when they figure out our plans? You think they keep their mouths shut and let us kill off their friends and income? No, they run. They run back to their warm beds and hearths and they give their friends good, ample warning. Then when we strike, they'll be there, prepared, fortified, and well out of our range. Hold on to your moral high ground then, and see what its worth with Thranish arrows in your eyes. You want your coin, your life, or your comrades, you sleep when I say sleep, you shit when I say shit, and by the six you kill when I say kill. Keep your press-gangers, Farrik. When they run, it's your head. For all our sakes, I hope you keep a tight leash."

His piece spoken, Kahle moves to recover the cargo from the decks below.

Kho'nan lets out a bark of laughter and shakes his head. Even in Kahle's worst case scenario, it was still Kho'nan and the Aberrants who would be facing the arrows in the eyes, while Kahle gave orders from the rear no doubt.

Self righteous, pompous cattle fucker.

He was tired, and it would do no good to kill Kahle. Not yet, at least. He waited a moment to see if any would join him, and if not, he walked on alone.

Izar listens to Kahle fuss and bluster, and allows himself an obnoxiously self-satisfied grin. Funny how ordering a wholesale slaughter of people gets filed under easier said than done when they are within line of sight, innit, Kahle?  

He desperately wants to start disparaging Kahle, but it feels likely that once opened, those floodgates would be hard to close, and so settles for sass.

Falling in beside Kho'nan, he exclaims softly, "Oh thank The Nine, Kahle's here! I haven't taken a shit since we were at camp! Has he given the order yet? Did he mention if we could wipe this time?"

Kho'nan, who had only moments earlier been dwelling on thoughts of what it must feel like to have Kahle's jaw crunch under his fist, lets out a subdued laugh that grows as the mere thought of it settles in.

"Y'know, I dinnae believe he has. Better to no' risk it an' get another stern talkin' to, lad."

The dwarf throws in a wink for good measure, and the tattoos on his face gently fade from a war footing to a more pleasant path. When Izar was around, the Symbiont seemed quieter too. Kho'nan would have to figure out what that meant later. Now, there were more important things to do.

"An ale before we get handed our next set of no-doubt rousing, piss-filled orders?"

Noting but not commenting on the shift in Kho'nan's facial adornments, Izar chuckles at the wink and returns it. While not yet fully out of the proverbial woods, this mission has been a mere fraction of the mess that he had feared. So far anyhow.  The Aberrants will eventually have to convene; they had disobeyed a direct order, and sooner or later there would be consequences.

Decided that sooner did not necessarily mean now, he has an honest, rather cathartic laugh. "Just the one?"

Jorian flags down one of the crewmen and speaks with him out of earshot. The man nods as Jorian speaks, eventually turning heel and beginning to direct the True Aundarians to offload the cargo. Jorian looks almost relieved as he steps onto the shell boat with Kho'nan and Izar.

"Well... A few strong drinks after that should mend my mood. There were plenty of opportunities for this morning to have gone much worse." Jorian waves over to their hobgoblin friend. "Oraam! We're headed to camp!" He calls out. Oraam takes a few long strides to the edge of the railing, throwing himself over into the rowboat.

The four of you gently feed rope through the supporting pulleys, setting the boat to the water and rowing yourselves to shore. You pass off the boat to some lesser soldiers and Jorian has another word with a crewmen of the Severed Fang, before your merc crew makes the few mile trek through the quiet Silverfang to get back to camp.

As you approach, you note the camp is well camouflaged, with magical cookware, there are no fires, and so no smoke; the trees have been left where they can, making it harder to see the treeline and the canopy being disrupted; forest floor and foliage have been incorporated into Kho'nan's stonework walls, giving the outward appearance of an old ruin before an occupied camp. Once inside the camp walls, the True Aundarians are very much alive. Soldiers drill in ordered rows, men sit in trees watching the forest for scouts or invading forces, and even a few horse-drawn carts that passed you on the way in are abustle with men and women moving boxes and barrels about the camp. You all press on to the mess, with ales all around.

It's a couple hours before the bulk of the crew would arrive from your last job, and so you enjoy a rest while you are able. A table away, a squad of men sit enjoying a brew themselves, possibly from the night's watch. They seem restless, murmuring to themselves and eyeing you all. Finally, one of them speaks up, "Oi. You're the mercs, aye? Galinndan's dogs? Each of you comes with your own mark, eh?" He wipes sweat from his brow, a bit larger than most thanks to his receding hairline. "Let me see 'em." He says with a blunt cadence.

It is often in a bard's best interest to de-escalate situations before they get out of hand as it is often challenging if not impossible to perform (let alone get paid!) after a brawl has broken out. Having been called far worse epithets by far better people, Izar is unfazed by the man's uncouthness, and even makes placating gestures to his fellow Aberrants.

The Changeling lifts his stein, but pauses to give the sweaty oaf an apologetic smile. Instead of drinking, he speaks, keeping his tone friendly. "I'm afraid that you'll have to sate your appetite for molesting dogs elsewhere. A local kennel perhaps?"

He raises the stein to the man and his squad as if in a toast, and then turns to do the same with his own crew.

Seriously? Oraam thinks, his hand absentmindedly going to touch his face to make sure the mark is still there. Realizing it is, and is still disfiguring his face with scaly, crackly, and scarred skin, Oraam stares forward at the man, before his face turns into a slight frown, almost in contemplation.

Turning to his companions and away from the other group, he says "I should maybe get a mask on further thought - right?"

He noticeably turns his body away from the other group, focusing on his drink and friends and trying to ignore the rabble-rousers.

"Oraam, if you looking to be affirmed in your own desire to wear a mask, by all means, get one." The bard briefly considers and just as swiftly rejects, offering to wear one as well; not liking the odds of Oraam understanding to be solidarity rather than receiving it as pity.

"But unless a mission calls for it, do not imagine that we want you to wear one..." A mischievous smile adds a shine to Izar's eyes, even as he takes on a more pompous bearing. "You may consider that to be a 'royal We' or to be me speaking for all of us. It is immaterial, seeing that I am quite right and will brook no argument on the matter."  

He winks at Oraam, and nudges Kho'nan playfully before finishing his beer.

Kho'nan felt the Beast inside of him stir, like a wolf not quite awoken from a slumber, but alert in a sort of half sleep.

Izar's gesture allowed him to push it down and not say what immediately popped into his mind. He glares at the belligerent before completely turning his back on him and enjoying sipping his ale.

"If ye feel ye need it, lad. I say 'fuck it.' Fly yer flag. Let them know who ye are."

[Fun Fact: I wrote that dialogue before reading AAKA's last post - we basically said the same thing to Oraam, which I find heart warming].

Kho'nan allows himself a brief smile at the exchange between the three.

Izar leans forward and signals to the other to do the same. He speaks softly so as to not be overheard, but in the end is unconcerned with eavesdropping. If the others agree, the whole camp would know the topic of this exchange soon enoug.

"At some point, things will come to blows, whether it is with these idiots or another equally rabid pack of fools. I think that we should impose a nonesense premium into our work with the army..." He glances over to their possibly-soon-to-be-future antagonists, and exhale sharply. "One that is exponentiating. Once the cost of their soldiers being asses gets high enough, there will be discipline."

Kho'nan doesn't respond outside of a nod of approval.

It was a nod for violence.

He finishes his ale in a gulp and stands, facing the men. "Ye wannae look?" The Beast says as his knuckles crack from flexing.

With his marks on his hands, he prepares to show them very closely.

This is not what Izar was expecting, and he is annoyed with himself for not having considered the possibility. The silver lining (he hopes) is that this altercation will likely precipitate the discussion about the Aberrants' nonsense premium. He takes a mental inventory of his spell components, weighing his options.

"No killing, limited injury if at all possible," he says quietly to his fellow Aberrants.

Depending on how the confrontation progresses, he would either draw the vital warmth from whichever of one these fools Kho'nan ends up harming first, or send a message to someone higher on the chain of command, with a vested interest in de-escalation and put an end to this nonsense.

The drunk laughs as Kho'nan stands. Slapping the shoulder of a nearby friend, he pulls both legs around the bench he sits on, leaving some mud where his boots dragged upon the wood. "Look at 'im, if he doesn't kill soon he might start to shake." He stands, rubbing his wrists, "Does it tell ya to kill? You ever hear it muttering to you, drivin' ya crazy? Me and the mates think you're weak, can't control it. You're gonna blow, aren't ya?"

His words seem to attract some attention, nearby tables look on as words threaten to grow to blows. The man takes a step forward.

Kho'nan says nothing. His face turns stern to one of mild annoyance. This was wasting drinking time, but a message had to be sent. Standing in place, he knows that everyone is watching.

What they are seeing is a coward who wants to talk more than take action.

"If ye've got no more'n soft words, go back to buggerin' one another's soft mouths, so I can'av another drink. Barkeep - another round."

The drunk falls back into his seat, swiping his tankard off the table and taking one final sip before slinging the amber contents at Kho'nan. "Have that one on me." He says, wiping the froth from his stubble with the back of his hand.

Kho'nan turns his ale-drenched face to Izar. "No promises."

He steps forward and shows what happens when someone wastes ale.

He swings hard for the solar plexus - limited injury - before following up with a brutal headbutt to the nose. The attack sends the drunk crashing into, and over, the table he was on.

Attack rolls and damage:

"I trust that you will try," the bard's reply is calm and certain. He is pleased to realise that he does trust that Kho'nan will not go out of his way to murder this jackanapes; but combat is a stupid and chaotic thing where lives can be lost.  Kho'nan's hoppy baptism being a clear escalation, Izar opts to likewise escalate by reaching out to a commanding officer.

*Come rein in your men before they get themselves killed.* Izar's hand immediately traces a second treble clef, not waiting for a reply. *And we will be discussing a cost structure for your soldiers' lack of discipline.*

Oraam stands up from his seat, cracking his knuckles and moving to stand beside Kho'nan in a fighting stance. He wouldn't throw a punch first, but if someone came at him he'd swing right back.  (Mechanically, readying an action to punch whoever comes at him.)

Wincing at the poor guys broken face, Oraam says to all those who can hear in the vicinity. "We would really prefer not to fight, but if you won't leave us alone, we have no choice."

Glancing at the situation around him, Oraam tries to get a clear read on how the bar population is reacting to this scuffle. [Insight roll: 20 + 0 = 20]

First crumpling forward, then reeling backwards, the drunk is beat back into his seat by Kho'nan's whetted fury. With one hand on his blood-gushing nose and the other on his friend, he seems like he's going to throw himself up for revenge just before an echoing ring resounds through the mess tent. The chef slides the lid off a large roast bird on the serving table, two more stand behind him prepared to do the same. The chef calls out, "Aberrants! Heard you took a whole ship just the four of ya, so first cuts are yours. Well done." There's murmur through the tavern, seems folk are surprised by your accomplishments. The drunk holds a hand up for pause, the man next to him holds him steady in his chair. He's in no shape to cause further trouble, and his companions make no effort to worsen the matter.

Kho'nan loosens his stance as the drunk capitulates. He takes a look at the food and gestures to his comrades, "After ye, my fellow Aberrants." When he finally makes the move to head to the table he pauses, looking back at the drunk.

"Wasted ale is a sin among Dwarf-folk. Now ye know."

The tattoos on his face and neck began to shift once again into more neutral Dwarven runes.

Once at the table, he chooses two nicely sliced portions of breast meat, and two thighs. As always, he would eat slowly and carefully - not giving in to The Beast within at any point.

He thanks the chefs with a nod of deep appreciation and takes his seat.

This was better than Izar's best case scenario, one that the bard had not even considered to be a possibility. The Aberrants were triumphant, an authority figure had highlighted their prowess unprompted, no one had gotten anything worse than a bloody nose, and now food!. Despite generally being against unnecessary effort, an idea lodges itself in his mind. He serves himself what might be described as a mound of victuals, returns to the table.  When Kho'nan heads towards the chef, drawing the eyes of their would-be tormentors, the Changeling prestidigitates thrice in quick succession from behind his alimentary hillock.

Roughly 6 seconds after the whiff of an oddly ammoniacal odor wafts around the drunk, a similarly scented wet spot appears at his crotch.  The final application of the cantrip sees (approximately 1 cubic foot worth of) Kho'nan cleaned of beer.  

Izar begins eating, looking to hide the smile that tugs at his mouth. ”Nonsense. Premium.” He says, once everyone is seated, stabbing a piece of meat on each word for emphasis.

Whether as a famished waif on the streets of Metrol in Cyre, or as a starving artist in any number of taverns across Khorvaire, Prestidigitation had been Izar’s go to spell, a constant companion. How could it not? So many simple uses that could help make every copper last that bit much longer (assuming one had a copper to begin with).

As the bard excavated their Beinn? Fell? Mont? various strata of food stuff, it was a pleasant surprise to not need to use their favourite cantrip; it would seem that the army chefs were making good use of the plundered supplies.

The thought of all of the mouths that would go hungry because of their exploit came unbidden, just as quickly shoved back down. The Aberrants had been told that the goods would be redistributed to the people, and while it had galled him at the time, Izar clung to the idea now. He had to, else no amount of magic would make the food palatable.

He shakes his head briskly, hair losing its length as additional weight settles on hips, belly and thighs. The pudgy, bald, bottom-heavy half-dwarf woman resembles a favourite instructor of Izar's; a woman of ferocious appetites and intellect. Rubbing a hand over her fuzzy the scalp, the Changeling sighs, wondering what the professor would think of all of this, and unsure that she wants the answer, reaches for her beer instead.

"To beer, a positively gobsmacking lack of senseless death... And to beer!" The toast is said softly, but with a suprisngly genuine smile that even reaches her eyes.

Izar will have to pace herself; she still had to write out their most recent exploits, and there would be a point where the booze was more hindrance than help.

Kho'nan is enjoying himself at the banquet. Really, this was the first time he'd enjoyed himself since helping build the barricades and walls for the camp before the last foray into troubled waters, so to speak.

Ale: check.
Good food: check.
Plenty of both: check.
Good company: check.
Bad company had manners headbutted into them: check.

His tattoos danced around his skin - forming scenes of dancing, feasting, and revelry.

He fixed his electric blue eyes on Izar as the Changeling made their toast. His loins felt a tingle of excitement as the form shifted into a more familiar, chubby, Dwarven form. He cleared his throat to get his mind back on track and raised his glass.

"T'beer. T'victory. T'tomorrow."

With one last look of a mixture of pity and annoyance at the drunkards, Oraam turns away towards the feast. Taking a moderate portion, he sits with the rest of the group quickly, letting out a sigh of relief as the situation seems to finally blow over.

Content to sit, drink, and eat, he raises his cup for the toast and digs in.

As the morning slips away, the bard sends it off with a medley of  bawdy tavern songs in a quiet pizzicato. Good food and drink, and the desire to shake off the tensions from earlier on are just the nudge that the more inebriated and/or gregarious soldiers need to begin singing and celebrating in earnest. The din is familiar for the city-born orphan of Cyre, comfortable even;  far more than the eerie, terrible silences of the forest.

Idly chewing on a heel of bread, she begins to organise her thoughts on their recent adventure.  What they had managed was impressive, and could as easily be a riveting play as it could be a long form story told by her fellow bards. The narrative arc begins to take shape in Izar’s mind; how the Aberrants... was it even safe to call themselves that? Even without the name, Izar is certain that the story would have to go untold for weeks if not months because of the conflict...

"Blast it all!" She snaps in frustration, reaching for whatever food might yet be within arm's reach.

She has been carefully documenting their work from day one, and is frustrated with herself for only now recognising the process for the major liability that it is.  During the war, administration and intelligence were often two sides of a single coin. Why even care? These assholes are, well assholes! The so-called True Aundairians are their employers, not their comrades at arms - the recent kerfuffle and frictions and their idiotic nationalism were ample evidence of that.

From her fellow Aberrants' perspective, the Changeling went from happily taking in the sights and sounds of the mess, to being deep in thought, followed by a burst of annoyance and then disdainful eye rolling; all without anyone else needing to intervene. Whether or not they know or notice it, this level of naked, honest expressiveness is rare; it was not for anyone or anything; rather an artifact of a nascent comfort born of familiarity and beer.

The late morning passes into midday as you feast, the food laid out all day for the soldiers continued to flow, the sounds of drills and hard work can be heard around the camp. Galinndan comes to retrieve you all for your next assignment.

"My good friends, congratulations on your success, you've struck a major blow to the Thranish occupiers today. Taklinn and I have been discussing the next steps of our resistance, and we have decided upon your next mission. Could we discuss this in the Officer's Tent?"

The idea of dropping everything to go on another thankless assignment chafes at Izar’s irritation from the earlier altercation, which up until then had been nicely mellowed by a good run of committed day drinking. "Verily, verily, Olladra smiles upon us this day," she says archly, offering a smile of her own.

***

As they walk over to the Officer's Tent, the irritation gives way to two feelings:a deep-seated dread at what mission Taklinn and Galinndan might have thought up for them, and a keen excitement at the prospect of having a new tale to tell. Neither one sits very well with her, but the thought of coming to enjoy her time working for the True Aundarians is particularly loathsome.

Oraam grimaces at the request of Galinndan. Couldn't they have just ONE more day of rest? However, he doesn't say anything and fixes his face quickly, standing and following the group.

Saying out loud to not particularly anybody, he exclaims "Isn't it crazy that not too long ago I was just 'the mail guy'? Now people actually want something to do with me."

"It's because yee've proven to nae be a total twat, lad." Kho'nan smacks a heavy palm across Oraam's back and makes his way to the tent as well. As he does so he glances at the defences. Not too much could have been done in the time they were gone, but even still he makes mental notes at which areas need shoring up.

He then takes a brief glance back at the mountain that housed the mine, wondering how his kin were faring. No doubt, they were about as at-home as a Kobold in a pile of shit. Even still, he would need to check on them after this meeting.

He continues on with Galinndan to the tent, "Galinn, it is good to see ye."

Galinndan leads you all through the camp towards the officer's tent. "Indeed, Kho'nan, friends are hard to come by in war, I am glad you're my rock in all this storm. All our efforts are soon to pay off, I'm hopeful that in the coming weeks we may finally be a complete nation. Thank you, Izar, Helden, Oraam, and Jorian for your efforts toward-."

Galinndan is cut off as the cleric of the Sovereign Host, a man you recognize for managing the medics, calls out to you all as he closes the distance "Izar! Kho'nan! We must speak, it's of your friend, Helden." Now within a whisper's range, he speaks softly.

"Last night, your friend came to me. 'Twas shortly after you all went to bed. He was different, his speech strained, his words confusing. He mentioned he had failed you all, and his god. He sought help to purge his condition, then he revealed himself to be changed. A wererat... seems he didn't avoid the curse from the mines. He said he could feel his hatred toward his curse wane, and that he feared for the safety of his friends. Removing an early stage therianthropy curse is difficult, but not impossible. I left to procure the reagents for the spell, but when I returned, he was gone. If not for my duties, I'd have spoken to you sooner. I am sorry." He lowers his head in respect.

Kho'nan cracks his neck, hyper focused on the master-of-medicines.

"Where'd'ye last see'im? We'll need t'find his tracks and get movin' quick."

In his mind he was already imagining the fight that was going to come. If Helden left as the healer had said, he either did so because he knew he'd be a danger to those here in the camp, or out of madness. Either way, he wouldn't be coming back with a mere talking to.

They needed manacles and rope, and Kho'nan would likely be the one doing the physical restraining.

The defenses and the mine would have to wait.