Mer Fuhgoad D'Got
The Dwarven woman straightened, dirt dropping in clods from the roots of the asters in her clutches. To the blue giant she replied:
"beggar or a king,
depends who you are, love, what
gets under your skin."In a deft movement, the alchemist stripped the roots, sending the remaining dirt to the earth. With a rolling motion, Fuhgoad D'Got balled up some of the stems and flowers to place them in a vial, tucking it inside her tired, leather hip pouch. Her glassy eyes took in the rest of the awakened condemned before her.
The group seemed to be comprised, in part, of two old men, clad in plate armor. One of whom had yet to speak, though his body language expressed his disapproval clearly. The other seemed to be doddering and vocal as he mused and poke at the sky with that spear of his. The blue giant seemed playful, which made Mer smile a puckish smile. The young man, on the other hand, was all seriousness. Finally, the Orc beside them, who moved far too calmly for a creature of his size and build, seemed to be taking it all in. While the others got their bearings, Mer had already begun her task.
In the distance, she spied the blue giant's hawk scanning the horizon; she lighted for a moment on the departing back of one of the prisoners, in spry fashion he jaunted. Then she turned her haggard face toward the lithe young man to hear his opinion.
"If gold ye seek,
Ye may not know,
The Warden's task,
We're meant to sow,
For we are food,
To that great Beast,
To seek delights,
Should suite us least,
Our only path,
Let age expound,
To slake her wrath,
Keep nose to ground."At the last syllable Fuhgoad tapped the side of her crooked nose while looking up at Amal. With a wary eye, she turned away and, holding the aster vial in one hand, sought something else with the other in the folds of her pouch. Glass vials and ampules clinked as she rifled.
"Best it be for us to 'we',
Alone there is no hope,
Though none expect us to succeed,
Death, if we elope."
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