Snippet #2763200

The chanting continued outside the tent, Syra once again trying to sleep. Soon the chants would turn to rummaging, marching- the sound of shields being handed out and orders being barked across the camp. Something was happening.

She was awoken by blinding sunlight, the flaps of her tent burst open by Muskrat the Molerat, the hilarious camp person. "Syra! Wake up ya' stupid thrall!" The tiny man exclaimed, smashing a sandalled foot into the woman. Muskrat glared down at her cross-eyed. "Come on, 'den, wake up! Wake up!" He barked in a thick Sorillian trudge of an accent. "We caught sometin' on the old legionnaire radio. A distress signal. A ship sayin' it was in da' Rock's atmosphere. Sometin' 'bout a mutiny, Captain barricaded 'imself off and all 'dat. Don't sound good. Fer 'im at least. Fer us sound like a potential payday of weapons."

Muskrak ripped the blanket off her, hobbling toward the tent entrance with the fabric in hand. "The Prince is takin' 'da rough riders 'ta Schittle, thats where they said they were flyin' over, cross' the river. Twenty hours nonstop ridin'," Muskrat glared back at her. "You're comin with. Now."