Snippet #2467422

There was plenty of scolding to go around, and just when she'd mustered the courage to spit something scathing in the barbarian's face (for his chuckle had not gone without her acknowledgment and utter chagrin), Arkas stopped short. Oriana came to her tiptoes in an attempt to see over his hulking form, but grew impatient and came to stand at his side.

There was something ... off about this man (if such a term could be used). She'd seen her fair share of hell hounds, of mysterious beings with hooded faces and foreign robes; she'd often been guilty of fitting such a description herself, as often the art of demon hunting required her to be both mysterious and foreign. She knew instinctively that what stood before them was neither alive nor dead, but could not be sure it was what held the skeletal army's allegiance. It was this uncertainty that caused her to grip her crossbows tightly again, and to give Arkas a nudge with her shoulder. When he looked at her, her eyes now tinged with a red glow beneath her heavy leather hood, she tried her best to shoot him a look that said, I'm not sure this is our guy, and most importantly, We should be careful.

She wondered immediately if barbarians were even capable of interpreting facial expressions as saying more than "To battle!" or "Where's the beer?"