⌠The marshes some five miles or so south from these fields are dank and quiet, and quite peaceful, or so the barkeep at the Dog's Fang back in Doria assured one bard yesterday afternoon. An ideal shortcut to reach Arinan, the biggest trading center this side of Omnthar.
Well, ideal, except for the Banelar that live there and have just spawned some very temperamental and hungry kin.
Who mistook Alastair for dinner.
Being pups, our musical hero got away pretty lucky -- however, there had been five of them. Shame he had to kill three of them, but he left one stunned and threw the last of his rations as a distraction to make a crippled-runaway attempt. Dark and caught in the marsh's lush and stifling grip, he trekked all night to find the plains once again.
Where he is now, he is quite unsure -- but it is open, mostly flat, and there are trees for him to lean against when his filthy gnawed legs ache too much to walk on. He isn't sure if there's dirty water or swamp gunk from the Banelar's mouths caught in the open teeth marks, but it hurts like hell all the same. At least they've stopped bleeding. Stay positive, Alastair.
Half of his belongings are lost to the swamp, thankfully none of the treasures he intended to trade off in Arinan, but basically everything else including the half of his potions that would actually be useful right now.
Thumping, crunching, running approaches him but he hardly notices over the sound of his own tired stumbling through the moist grass. That is, until he hears a voice⌡
Hehh? ⌠Alastair moves as if he meant to whip around to the source of the question, but only his neck cooperates with the command. Eyes narrow under a sheen of wet on his forehead, and it's difficult to tell if it's pond water or sweat.⌡ I...ssss-- I'm fantastic!
⌠Don't be fooled for a second, as he strains through his words and hisses at the feeling of his punctured pants dragging against the open bites, torn sleeves pulling at his swollen forearms. He turns to prop himself against this tree and face this...whoever this is.⌡ Jus' strollin' through, me. Nothin' like the fresh air.
Re: 2.1 for ~wildnobility
Well, ideal, except for the Banelar that live there and have just spawned some very temperamental and hungry kin.
Who mistook Alastair for dinner.
Being pups, our musical hero got away pretty lucky -- however, there had been five of them. Shame he had to kill three of them, but he left one stunned and threw the last of his rations as a distraction to make a crippled-runaway attempt. Dark and caught in the marsh's lush and stifling grip, he trekked all night to find the plains once again.
Where he is now, he is quite unsure -- but it is open, mostly flat, and there are trees for him to lean against when his filthy gnawed legs ache too much to walk on. He isn't sure if there's dirty water or swamp gunk from the Banelar's mouths caught in the open teeth marks, but it hurts like hell all the same. At least they've stopped bleeding. Stay positive, Alastair.
Half of his belongings are lost to the swamp, thankfully none of the treasures he intended to trade off in Arinan, but basically everything else including the half of his potions that would actually be useful right now.
Thumping, crunching, running approaches him but he hardly notices over the sound of his own tired stumbling through the moist grass. That is, until he hears a voice⌡
Hehh? ⌠Alastair moves as if he meant to whip around to the source of the question, but only his neck cooperates with the command. Eyes narrow under a sheen of wet on his forehead, and it's difficult to tell if it's pond water or sweat.⌡ I...ssss-- I'm fantastic!
⌠Don't be fooled for a second, as he strains through his words and hisses at the feeling of his punctured pants dragging against the open bites, torn sleeves pulling at his swollen forearms. He turns to prop himself against this tree and face this...whoever this is.⌡ Jus' strollin' through, me. Nothin' like the fresh air.