Member
Fetzen
op2024
Xaltwind
Bingelly
Shu
Emeth
ctrlsaltdel
Hope Lover
Ti
LupusIntusBarille Outskirts
The next to speak was an olive complected man dressed in dark leathers. He stank of gunpowder, but his scarred face--though perhaps not as disfigured as Alistair's own--said that he had fought up close more than once. Maybe losing those fights was why he relied on firearms now. He had darting, sharp eyes...but spoke frivolously, and with dextrous skill flipped a deck of cards between his fingers.
A smooth talker and opportunist. Possibly with a proclivity for violence. said Alistair's Inquisitive instincts. But he withheld judgement, and when Chance suggested a game the priest simply declined and held up his palm in understanding. The other fellow, however, a burly sort with weapons and armor openly on display, seemed irritated. Chance introduced the man as Bert and teased him. Clearly some sort of mercenary, or perhaps law enforcement. A bit uncouth, perhaps, for the latter. Yet either they're close enough friends to tolerate a bit of ribbing...or Chance knows Bert can't bloody his nose in present company. Their dynamic didn't seem to be a normal one.
The Dragonborn, Kharne by name, said only a single word. Actually, maybe it was an assumption to think that was his name? Maybe "Kharne" meant something in the dragon tongue like sod off you filthy humans? Alistair didn't think that was the case, but it was clear from the big one's body language that he wasn't comfortable being social. However, the warrior had been the second one on the coach, and thus Alistair had observed him the longest.
He didn't like the animals, to whom the feeling seemed mutual. He didn't seem to know exactly what the cues were for getting off or onto the carriage, each time the doors had opened to admit another of the party. And when Valentina had introduced herself, there'd been a tiny sigh and twitch that Alistair recognized as a disdain for social activities.
Barbarian, then.
The Inquisitor continued to watch his erstwhile companions as they played or refused to play Chance's game, constantly filing away new information. Whenever the thick fog outside provided any opportunity, though, he also took stock of their surroundings. The dead lands couldn't tell him much...save just how bad things had gotten in the once prosperous lands of Grandsylva.
Soon their ride came to an end. The coach driver was only too happy to leave them behind, but Bert seemed just as eager, if far from joyful, to press ahead. The way he dragged Chance with him suggested the card dealer was not of the same mindset.
"May God speed ye on your return, and keep you safe all your days." he prayed for the driver, as the cart's creaky wheels grew more distant
Here under duress. Bert is a keeper of some sort. Meaning Chance is...needed, somehow? For what?
As they walked the rutted, puddle-spotted road of churned mud and overgrown roots, ravens cried overhead. A chill wind brushed them with wispy, wet fingers. Although most of Alistair's body was covered, his breathing quickened as he felt the clammy air upon his face. He pulled his mantle tighter and pressed his lips in a stony, grim line.
The village of Barille was a wreck. Blood, long dried but moistened just enough by the breeze and soil to smell, stained the streets. And an upturned cart...and a fallen basket of fruit, now rotted and covered in flies. The dirt smelled like gravesoil.
"...It seems this place is in dire want of the Lord's blessing." he finally said, the first to break the silence. He glanced around at the others, and then at the seemingly empty buildings. "What say we search for an inn to get our bearings?" Or perhaps it'd be better to look for survivors. But no. Alistair suspected that, if anyone remained in Barille, they were no longer human. Yet, hope against hope, he wished that his instincts might be mistaken...
@Eviledd1984@Kazemitsu@shadowsaint007@Vlad Tepes
