Oryx looked to his empty mug, and then to Martox and shrugged. Motioning from the window, the Vanguard walked over to the Tundal and clanked his cup against his ceremoniously.

"No need to waste good drink on me," Oryx joked as he placed his cup down on the table. "Everything just goes through me. No need to make a mess."

The pile of bones made his way back to the armchair he had claimed before and gave everyone a smile and a thumbs-up. He felt better now, some of that weight lifted off his chest. It was still pressing against him with the force of a drunken Mountain Beast, but it felt lighter.

He remembered The Archers Three fondly. Triplet Royal Orcs, a more urbanized and intelligent breed of Orcs that had long made peace with Elves and man. All of them were in their late one-hundred nineties, with long grey breaded beards that made dwarves overtly jealous. The Three were masters of their craft, able to rip apart armies in minutes from the tree tops just using their bows and their wits.

Sadly, one's wit does not protect them from giant boulders. In their travels the group had to make the journey across The Deadstone Valleys of Reffio, a massive collection of valleys and mountain ranges that divided the Reffio Coasts far east. The most notable feature of the Deadstone Valleys was that a great battle between Golems had taken place their hundred and hundreds of years ago. Old broken bodies of pure stone were scattered across the landscape.

The Necromancer was there though, and corrupting the long-dead as soon as they arrived. Oryx did his best to cleanse and protect the bodies closest to them, but that still give the damned bastard half a dozen under his control. The Archers Three fought valliently, finding an obscure cliffside perch to fire arrow after arrow at the Undead Golems. Despite their skill and their intuition, all three of the Royal Orcs fell as soon as one of the Golems lifted an ancient boulder and chucked it at them. The result was...visceral. Just the thought of it made Oryx squirm.