Downtime at the Camp

A few barrels of ale behind the mess tent are what passed for a bar in the camp, leaving the crew to grab some steins and take a table in the mess. After a short while, Jorian met up with the rest of you for a nice drink. Izar drinks her fill, downing the rest of Kho'nan's stein in the first round, which prompted the crew to send Oraam for a refill. The Ghaal'dar makes little fuss, deeply invested in the conversation with everyone. Oraam spends his idle time working on his infusion of Izar's Viol, a process in which Oraam draws a dazzling array of sigils and runes upon the instrument in a wide variety of arcane magics, producing a nearly endless array of colors and shapes as the Veil of magic is warped around the viol. You all make your preparations for the evening, with Jorian returning to the Severed Fang to prepare for the short voyage, and Kho'nan finding the dwarves he had requested from the Stonethrowers.

A greying dwarf stands between Kho'nan and Hagen, locked in conversation as a crew of dwarves idle about a few well-crafted crates, collecting and outfitting themselves with mining equipment. "...and the main lode extends well below the surface, and still bears many rich veins. I trust your team to be fully capable after a short tour, and your safety is affirmed by Kho'nan himself." Hagen's tone is almost pleading as The Beast approaches from behind the dwarf, who casts a powerful, but calm voice. "And where is the boy now? I was of the mind that I'd be assisting him with this lode, not these 'True Aundarians,' and I didn't bring a crew of soldiers. My kin are miners, damn good ones, but they aren't prepared to defend your rebel crew. If any combat comes down on us, you'd best bet we're on our own damned side." The familiar voice of Bertram Stonethrower hits Kho'nan's ears, and the irritation within it gives no sign of stopping without intervention.

[With the Abberants]

Kho'nan makes sure everyone has a seat and a full ale before serving himself, a smile spanning from ear to ear as Izar drinks their fill and then some. Watching Oraam work was a welcome relief from the horror that seems to fill most of the Berserker's memories. The colors, shapes, and pure artisan work is greatly appreciated. What Oraam can do with magic and tools, Izar can do with song; Jorian can do with words and silence, Kho'nan can do with stone and brew.

They might not know each other well enough yet, but they knew one another enough to bring all of their talents together - to turn the random noise of each "instrument" into a harmonious cacophony of delight, or terror.

Kho'nan took a moment to be happy, ever aware that these were always fleeting.

He drinks steadily but not with reckless abandon. He eats similarly. The Symbiont inside was quiet as it too took the nutrients from the food, forcing Kho'nan to get seconds. And thirds. But they were content for the moment.


+++++++

[With the Stonethrowers]

Kho'nan gives Hagen a nod as he approaches. Bertram's voice, and the irritation in it, bringing a frown to his face. But it was only for show. It was good to keep Hagen on his toes, even though he had proven himself thus far to be fair.

"Not here for a day and already you're threatening to leave," he says in Dwarfish. He throws a wink to the first of the Stonethrowers beyond Bertram to see him coming. "Thought the Stonethrowers were known for throwing stone, not running home." He finishes the rhyme with a hard furrow of his brow. He was chastising his elder.

To Hagen, this no doubt looked like a serious moment, until Kho'nan's frown turned into a smile. He laughed heartily, hitting Bertram and the shoulder and taking his forearm in his own.

He switched to the common tongue for Hagen's sake. "What's this now'bout defendin' th'camp? Dinnae y'have eyes, kin? Open them then an' see. Stone walls, tough and Dwarf-made. The mine itself, full'o'crawlers an' bastards of all sizes, wiped out by yours truly an' my merry band o'warriors. Nae, won' need'ta be fightin', kin."

He snaps his fingers and points to the rest of the Stonethrowers, "Mind yourselves away from th'talkin' table. Mimic down there'as'hungry as they come, but isn't a cunt like ye might expect. Jus' bring it somethin' to eat from time to time, lads."

As she keeps drinking, Izar feels some of the deep tension that they routinely carry gradually ease, and realises that if she is to stay up with the others, she would have to stop trying to keep up with them.  A lesson learned the hard way in Cyre, and which had required a few remedial sessions to really sink in.

While Oraam works on the viol, Izar unstraps her drum.  The tattoo that she beats out seems familiar, and most of the people in the mess recognise the classic barroom song when the bard begins the first verse.  When the chorus comes back around after the second verse and the bridge, she is fully in "performer" mode.

"Screaming..." She stops playing the drum and raises her stein, leading the mess hall in a raucous final singing of the chorus.
"Feed me, here
Fill me up again
And temporarily pacify this hungering"

As Izar leads the people in raucous song, Kho'nan sips an ale and runs his Kukri over a whetstone. His shirt was open and loose, but he had now begun to wear his gloves at all times in the camp.

When the music finally settles, Kho'nan speaks to the present group. He notices still that Helden has not shown his face since their trip down the mine shaft. He hopes the War Priest is alive and well, and makes a mental note to ask after him at some point.

The tattoos on his head form slowly moving cloud with waves underneath, reminiscent of an ocean not yet on the brink of a storm. Between the two are Dwarven runes in solid patterns. He motions with his head for the group to have a seat.

"So, we've got'tuh take a'boat. Kill everyone aboard, then sail it t'friendly territories. Right. Sounds easy enough. Thoughts?"

Kho'nan was particularly concerned about the fact that the boat could very well have a crew or at least passengers who were non-combatants. "Kill everyone," in his experiences rarely went well enough.

The Beast within disagreed.

The bard makes her way back to the others, weaving among the other patrons, complimenting one on their singing voice, letting another get a bit handsy before sidling away with a laugh, and altogether making sure that all knew that the revelry might yet pick up anew.

She sits down, still every part the playful, joyous songstress.
"It might be pointless, but the more the camp can associate us with a good time..." She offers a shrug in lieu of finishing the sentence.  When Kho'nan restates their mission, the smile is just as bright, brighter even.

"I just don't know which part I like better!" Izar begins happily, expertly pitching her voice to be readily heard by her colleagues.  "The fact that we are stealing food so that this lot can be seen as heroes for returning whatever crumbs they deign to spare, or the wholesale murder - such great options! Oh wait! How could I forget?" She brings hand to temple, and taps dramatically while shaking her head.

"There's also the delightful added benefit of stoking fears as to our sanity if we do kill, and of our loyalty if we don't... Yes. I think that one might be edging out the first two. How about all of you?"  Looking at each one in turn before adding "Thoughts?" In a cheerful tone that would be better suited to asking about the choice of dessert or how one would go about determining whether puppies were cuter than kittens.

"Well, personally, I have no qualms about killing civilians or kids. It was pretty brutal growing up and that really skewed my sense of morality when it comes to killing things. At Wynarn there were all these philosophy and ethics classes but I skipped most of them, honestly.  I'd honestly prefer not to kill innocent people, but if it comes to that and we ask them to surrender and they don't, I say let's have at it."

The drink was making Oraam a bit more confident than usual, and he says this with a very nonchalant attitude not quite familiar to everyone.

Kho'nan rises an eyebrow and stares at Oraam like he just grew a dick out of his forehead.

~~~Yessssssssss... bleed them alllll... the young, the elderly, the weak - bleed them all alike and feed on their corpsesssss ~~~

The symbiont slithered in Kho'nan's mind. It fed on his rage and bloodlust. Like so many times before, he pushed it back down.

He cleared his throat and chose his words carefully. "Things'appen in th'heat o'battle, aye. Killin'appens. Sometimes tha' means killin' those who don' deserve it. But if ye'can prevent it, ye'should, lad. Their souls an' final screams become yer nightmares forever. If a young lad wields a weapon against we four, then that's one thing. But I won' be fillin' me mind with any more innocent screams for the sake o'any cause. Righteous or no."

He could feel the symbiont wanting to come out - wanting to rebuke him and call him weak, and he crushed it down. In his mind he heard it whimper under the anger he had for it, but in that whimper was a hint of laughter.

The rage would come. Battle would be fought. And that's when the Beast would reign.

Singing demands a command of one's breath; from the sustained operatic note to spitting a word avalanche, one is only as good as one's breathwork. A breath in. Hold. A breath out. Hold.  A breath in.

Careful, evenly paced breaths to match her carefully manicured look of amused indifference at Oraam's statement. It had been easy when they were defending themselves or fighting aberrations to overlook just how effective her these people were at killing. Maybe this was her life now: mortgaging pieces of the person that she wanted to be to finally afford an existance that wasn't a lonely, brutal, hard scrabble thing. The idea is nauseating, but Izar knows that in the end the drive to survive would triumph over all of the pretty ideals - always has, she thinks bitterly, ashamed. A breath in. Hold. A breath out. Hold.

A breath in, a perfect smile, an approving nod; somehow Kho'nan's take on murder is more reasonable than Oraam's. She refills her beer, and tops up any steins that are looking a bit low. "No murdering innocent people, unless of course they force our hand. Good. Great, even. Did not know that we needed to settle that one, but I sure am glad that we did!"  Incredibly these words are said without a trace of sarcasm, and yet there is nonetheless a satirical quality to the genial casualness of delivery.

The past days had felt like perhaps she could let herself be with the Aberrants, but it seems that the sensible course of action is to stop letting your guard down like some coddled, idiot scion who cannot grasp the idea that a professional relationship does not a friend make.