Snippet #2336194

Orogoth was among the first awoken among the camp. Those days in which he indulged himself in alcohol, woke up the next morning with his head pounding and bed warm, were over but the fact remained that so many others were still so young and lively. Their very own leader was one such person and to what little observations he had after drinking a glass of beer before quickly retreating back to his small study/tent, sometime during the week, a rather boisterous, roaring drunk. It was good cause for celebration, the prince had been rescued, and no rebel casualties. Though it seemed everyone was in good cause for celebration except for Orogoth himself as it seemed he thought he was the only one who could see how the prince was in no shape of rule. Neither prince, for it's easy to disregard their physical wounds as to be healed by the matron of time, but not the wounds of their minds.

Those wounds are something not even the healing hands of magic can soothe over and there is only so much time the matron can spare.

In just the three months since "Duma" found the rebellion, he had his own fair share of contributions: the most recent of which was the drawing of a main floor plan with what sources and information the rebellion could gather. Although he himself had a blueprint of the castle, they were hastily drawn/copied in secret during his youth, the paper was spoiled, but bits and pieces were salvageable.

As the hunched half-orc sat on his small work-table, tending to a gauntlet with a ring, twine, and a sharp dagger, the scent of food had snaked it's way into his small, yet solitary tent. It was distracting him and with a sigh, he decided to leave his cozy tent, filled with blueprints, and stands of dead birds with their wings spread and left with his own custom crossbow in hand, the same one he slept with. It was half the size of a regular crossbow, light, had a magazine of four bolts on top and a lever which made for faster loading. What remained though, was that it was considerably weak, sometimes misfired, and with a good knock it could easily break. It was a prototype though so he kept a dagger just in case. Improvements would be made, things had to be done.

The air was nice and cold, Orogoth only too used to Magna's climate, dressed in only leggings and a dirty tunic with long sleeves. For his feet, they were wrapped in a thin cloth and placed into sandals, for what little warmth that can offer.

Although he could have just had at the stale pieces of bread he had saved up in his room, the taste and texture of actual cooked bread, with meat or eggs, became something of a luxury meal nowadays. Neira, passed him as he went to the fire, and he recounted how generally odd it was that the leaders of the rebellion were women save for that one guy. Back when he was still an architect, he had worked with high-ranking officers of the Magna military, generally in making their homes, and he observed that they were always male. Of course, Orogoth himself couldn't speak about military tactics, and he wasn't the one who rescued the heirs to the throne, so really it was a dead thought.

Still, there was something about Neira. Maybe it was just the contrast when put beside their lively leader, Tacita, but something was odd about her. Orogoth didn't trust her but then again, he didn't trust anyone.

In the midst of justifying his distrust, he walked into the body of one of the young rebels, just a slight taller then himself, his shoulder rubbing off of him. "Watch it." He instinctively growled before he even took a look at the man, noticing it before he continued to move before stopping, turning round his heel, and staring right at him. Three months in a small and steady group and it was in the first and a half before he get a general feel for everyone's faces.

Then again, he pulled this shit the day before the rebellion snuck into the castle, nerves as it was. In a way, it made sense that this was actually a spy, considering that throughout this whole week, they were at their least vigilant, celebrating.

Standing just about six feet away from the suspected intruder, Orogoth barked at him in both an english and quickly after an elvish tongue, slightly raising the small crossbow he held in one hand as he did so. The string wasn't pulled back but there was no way anyone but Duma knew thanks to its strange design that hid the bowstring from sight.

"Who are you?"
"Who are you?"

After those questions, his left hand had gone to his hip to check if he was missing anything, like an empty leather pouch. What can he say, old habits die hard, and after 170 years of checking his pockets everytime someone bumped into him in the city, the habit needed to be decapitated, quartered, gutted, asphyxiated and smothered before it can ever die.