Location: Woods North of Salarn, Orc Encampment, Evening of Day Three
Interacting With: Orcs, vigorously.
A sound finally did issue across the moonlit forest. It was hazy and uncertain, observable for a half second before being drowned out by exclamations of approval in the guttural tongue of their hosts, uncertainty striking anyone not in the immediate vicinity of the event unfolding as to its true nature. The quiet returned, though not as absolute as before. There was an underlying shuffling of leaves over rainpacked soil, the quieter sounds of feet jostling for position. The apprehensive, total quiet returned.
A dot of campfire at the other end of the wide cave opening, low and embery in the evening hour, was obviously the central point of this strange happening. It was confirmed very quickly as a murderous noise tore from that very fire, the sound of a great avalanche rolling into a lake of jam; a bubbly, tearing sound that struck deep into the very psyche of many around as unnatural, possibly in conjunction with forces most sinister. It lasted far longer than the lung capacity of a mortal man could scream without faltering, with an emotion of raw, abyssal hopelessness radiating outward therefrom.
But that wasn't the entirety of the scene unfolding. The dim, low fire suddenly exploded into a diagonally upwardly reaching, fiery conical conflagration, two feet higher than the bonfire and four feet beyond. The terminal end of the hellish illumination revealed the faces of many Orcs nearby, shocked and stumbling back from the conflagration that threatened to scar them. The point of origin... No, couldn't be. The idea was patently absurd.
The nearly-singed Orcs changed their notes of revelry and surprise to that of looming violence. For a second or two, the far campfire took on the makings of a fistfight in its embryo stages. It was not until a single command from a dominant Orc voice issued that the quiet returned, if only briefly.
This patch of stillness lasted only as long as it took for another sound, massive and guttural, blarbled across the campsite. But lo! In the dim illumination of the evening, this noise faltered; beginning as a ripping trumpet blare, but fading into syrupy staccato, bereft of the raw force of character present in the first wordless, earthy exclamation of the evening. The low fire caught again, but instead of a lance of flame reaching out and heavenward, it instead followed a horrifying trail back to the point of origin. The dim light gave way to a more eye-friendly illumination, as a rather massive Orc's rough pantaloons caught ablaze, prompting a member of a race not generally inclined to the proclivities of dance to engage in an entertaining one nonetheless. The Ritual of Pant Extinguishing ended with said Orc dragging his bottom across the ground in a manner most undignified.
The unbridled laughter of Orcs can be terrifying. Unless they're laughing at one of their own.
The broad Pugilist known as Keystone returned to his own camp in notably better spirits, a sense of prideful accomplishment smiling across his scarred face. He rummaged out a ceramic bottle, the very one that he picked up back in Salarn some three days prior, and walked back over to the other side of the cave entrance. In the distance, a person leaning in ear in his direction could hear a sympathetic underclass tone roll out,
"...ey there. Sorry 'bout y'nethers, yeah?" Keystone returned, poured a hearty cup of black tea, and took a small, breathy sip to best gauge temperature before committing to a full savoring of the rich, tanniny fluid. He dropped in a small handful of a something-or-another, gave it a stir, and settled back onto his oversized pack.
"Ah yeah, that's the good stuff." Keystone drank once deeply, and began cleaning up after supper.
"Right then, what'd I miss?"
