forum Stronger than 1, stronger than 10, stronger than 100 men!

Started October 12, 2023 by Deleted user

tune

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Posted across ever town square and in the windows of every shop was an edict, straight from the Queen Herself. To the people, it read:

To all men and beasts (author’s note: Men referring to humans and more specifically male humans and beast referring to magical beings such as centaurs, orcs, and elves etc) fit for work, you are called to the mountains of Sval-Ket to serve Her Majesty. All who serve will be compensated handsomely, and those who attempt to evade service will be swiftly and succinctly punished.

What was meant by this message, nobody quite knew. All that was let on by anyone of any sort of political power was that it was work, it would be difficult, and it would keep the people’s families safe from harm. However, it was soon found out that many would die before news was ever brought back. The Queen began to subject her people to a cruel reign, and rumor began to spread that She was seeking immortality, and somewhere in the mountains, the secrets to eternal life were hiding. Already was the Queen a powerful sorceress, the thought of an immortal tyrant spread dissent amongst the people. But that is not where our story lies.

Our characters are the people sent into the mountains, from ages 16 all the way up to 50, to work themselves to death in Her Majesty’s camps. They find themselves mining for something, deep in the mountains where no sun reaches even in the outdoors and where clouds and storms are always swirling. What they will find could heal a kingdom, or destroy everything they’ve ever loved… will you be a part of this epic tale?

Name: Ttarmek “Strongest Will“ Keva
Age: 46
Gender/Pronouns: Cis man, he/him
Orientation: Bisexual with a slight preference for women.
Species: Orc (becos I am OBSESSED with these guys lately)
Appearance: Ttarmek used to be huge, formidable, and powerful, now he is still all that but is thinner than before, more starved, and more weak than he would be normally. He has twin inky dark haired braids that run from his sideburns to his shoulders, other than that he keeps his head shaved (“It is what the Goddess commands, and it is practical for war,”) and usually has a bit of stubble but also maintains a largely clean face. Ttarmek has a strong face, with many scars, more than before he was made to work but he was still scarred even then. He is densely muscled, but without much body fat, a dangerous thing in this bitter cold. His skin is pale greenish blue and his eyes are a deep brown, with huge tusks and sharp teeth as well as ears kinda floppy like a goat’s. Ttarmek is 7’11”
Wardrobe: Simple clothes, good for work and that would last a while before getting torn up. Large coats with furs from animals he hunts in the little spare time he gets out here in the mountains.
Personality: Loyal, with a stubborn streak when it comes to protecting those he loves. A big (pun intended) advocate for his community, Ttarmek will always ensure that his people are taken care of, no matter who those people may be and no matter the conditions or consequences. He is kind, gentle, and generous, always sharing with those in need and even those who simply wish to take advantage of him. He believes in the proverbs of the Orc Goddess Grushi, to always trust that your battles will be won if only you give out your strength to win them. And lately, he has been hearing her call…
Skills: A very skilled hunter and outdoorsman, Ttarmek is able time and again to create something from nothing, whether that be clothes, or medicine from herbs, or what have you. Also very skilled in martial arts, and wields a giant wooden club made for bashing in the heads of those that bully the weak and poorly.
Power(s)?: Obviously superior strength, power, and endurance, but Ttarmek is also able to create small fires with just his mind (a spell his husband taught him) and thus he’s survived a lot longer than most would due to being able to keep himself warm in a pinch.
Backstory: Ttarmek has worked at the mines for the past five years, before that however he was in a relationship with a half-orc woman and an elven man (below) who he loved very deeply and did everything he could to protect. He was the leader of his predominantly orcish clan in a magical ghetto in Her Majesty’s kingdom, with six beautiful children that he gave the world to and sacrificed for every day to keep them happy. Overall, he and his partners and children lived a simple but happy life, that is until Her Majesty put out the edict to send him and his husband to the mines and leave their wife and children behind. Little known to him, his wife was later murdered by Her Majesty’s soldiers for attempting to organize a revolution, and her eldest daughter disguised herself as a boy to go find her father. Ttarmek doesn’t know about this and since his child would barely recognize him now with all the toil and strife his body has gone through, it’s been hard for them to actually meet properly.
Theme song(s)?: Prolly sea shanties and work songs, idk man.
Other?: Very good at befriending wild animals and making them do things for him, it isn’t even magical he just has really good vibes.

Name: Kindreth Keva
Age: 40
Gender/Pronouns: Cis man, he/him
Orientation: Pansexual
Species: Elf
Appearance: Kindreth was always a bit sickly, having always been more of the academic type that hates the sun, but now he is hollowed out and bone thin, never knowing where or when his next meal will come from. He is pale, with a faint face and sunken in cheeks and shadowed green eyes, his red curls falling flat, ashy, and a little greasy from not being able to bathe often. Pointy ears and slightly sharper teeth than normal. Kindreth still maintains his composure, however, always managing to keep going if only to not break his husband’s heart. His skin was once unmarked and unscarred, but now he is covered in scars from beatings or work or even wild animal attacks and fighting amongst the other men in the camp. He is 5’10”
Wardrobe: Wears simple work clothes, often slightly torn and muddied, with coats too big for him that Ttarmek makes to keep him warm.
Personality: Kindreth is more jaded now than he once was, and smiles rarely. He is still kind, but mainly reserves that kindness to those in his innermost circle for fear of being taken advantage of that kindness and causing his loved ones to suffer.
Skills: More of an academic, but has learned to do what it takes to survive in these cold mountains.
Power(s)?: Can perform three simple spells, one to create small to medium fires, the other to speak any language including that of animals, and lastly to transform metal into a newer state, which turns out well for bartering at the forges.
Backstory: Has been working in the mines for five years, but before that was married to Ttarmek and his wife, Lucina. He formerly was a scholar before meeting his partners, but fell on hard times and eventually lived on the streets writing poetry when he could manage to afford it and whoring himself out when he couldn’t. Eventually, Ttarmek and Lucina came into the picture and Kindreth has been happy ever since… at least, until the edict.
Theme song(s)?: I feel like this dude would appreciate a good hurdy gurdy cover of some metal song.
Other?: Despite being able to speak with them, Kindreth is NOT good with animals, like, at all.

Name: Dru Keva, goes by the alias “Kyrin Des”.
Age: 16
Gender/Pronouns: Afab nonbinary femme, goes by she/they normally but is disguised as a boy at the moment and thus would refer to themself with he/him pronouns and others would too.
Orientation: Lesbian
Species: Roughly one half elf, one quarter human, and one quarter orc if I’m doing the math right.
Appearance: Dru is taller than most elves, but shorter than most orcs, stands at around 6’7” with pointy ears, pale bluish skintone and pointy, slightly longer more rounded ears as well as small tusks and sharp teeth. Their eyes are a deeper brown, but with gold and green sparkles within, and she is muscular more than most elves would be but again less than your average orc.
Wardrobe: Owns one leather coat that they wear constantly now, six pairs of gloves that don’t protect as much as they should, and wears commoner clothes beneath that don’t keep warm very well.
Personality: Outgoing and determined, Dru is a big fighter and will keep going no matter the circumstances. Still, living in the mountains isn’t easy… and neither is having a dead mother and two absent fathers.
Skills: Is skilled in fighting mostly, but can garden some and hunt a little as well.
Power(s)?: N/A
Backstory: Has been living on the streets taking care of her siblings ever since their fathers left. Left for the mines about a year ago, and has been working there for roughly four months.
Theme song(s)?: Probably some MCR type shit idk.
Other?: N/A

Name: Romulus Vale
Age: 29
Gender/Pronouns: Male
Orientation: Willing to smile your direction as long as you've got a pulse.
Species: Human-Fey Lineage

Appearance: 6'6", 350lbs of bulky, robust muscle. Platinum blonde hair kept short, other than the fauxhawk towards the front. Pale complexion, covered in scars of varying size and age. Piercing icy blue eyes that always seem to be flashing mischief. A mountain of a man with a big smile.

Wardrobe: Typically wears one of two outfits, whichever happens to be cleaner. Black roughcloth tunic over black roughcloth pants over heavy workboots, or a red leather cuirass he won off a guard in a wrestling match, over a tartan toughcloth kilt, over the same heavy workboots. He can also usually be found wearing the black mining gauntlets his brother made him.

Personality: Friendly, gregarious, and pretty protective. Romulus is the type to fall in love with people quickly, whether that's platonic love with his brothers in the mine, romantic love with those after his love, or aesthetic love with people who are beautiful, inside or outside. There is hurt in his background, but outside of certain circles and situations, you'd never know it. Even in the mines, his loud laugh and quick smile make life a little more bearable.

Skills: He's been in the mines a long time, and is good at his job now. He was also formerly military, and is skilled with weapons of all kinds, or even just his fists. This has a lot less relevance in the mines, or against magic users. He also knows how to patch up wounds and keep people alive.

Power(s): Romulus has 2 powers; Adaptable Strength and Absorbative Healing.
Adaptable Strength means he can increase his strength in any situation he's in to be exactly as much strength as he needs. A ten ton rock falls on a friend in the mines? Romulus can lift it singlehandedly.
The problem with this power is that only his strength increases. His body's ability to take the strain doesn't, necessarily. The bigger the need, the closer to snapping his own bones and crushing himself he gets. Sometimes, he's strong enough to do something, but only by seriously injuring himself in the process.
Absorbative Healing means he can heal any wound, even up to fatal, mortal wounds, as long as he can absorb the pain and damage of the wound into his own body. It requires physical contact with the target, and is only limited by how much Romulus's body can handle. If a wound kills Romulus when he absorbs it, it transfers back to the person he was trying to heal, and they could both end up dead.
This ability also doesn't allow him to heal himself. He heals a bit faster than normal, but certainly not enough to overcome absorbing other people's serious wounds on a regular basis.

Backstory: The Vales lived in a poor area of the country, and Romulus grew up without a lot. He and his younger brother, both part-Fey on their mother's side, used their powers and skills to help keep the family eating and housed. Romulus got big quickly, and joined the military at 13, faking being much older because of his size and strength. He had served for 6 years, winding up fighting in far-off places for the honor of the Queen. He was able to visit home a few times, and the last time, he found his home destroyed, his family dead at tha hands of roving marauders.
When the call for workers went out, he signed up immediately. What did he have to lose? He's been in the mines the full ten years.

Theme song: Warriors- Imagine Dragons

Other: His time in the military has allowed him to forge good relationships with the guards and officers, which is part of how he's managed to survive this long.
…………………….

Name: Franklyn Vale
Age: 24
Gender/Pronouns: Male
Orientation: Ace
Species: Human-Fey Lineage

Appearance: 5'8", 120lbs. Pale complexion marred by a few scars. Face that was as pretty as a young girl's face for a long time. Big, soft brown eyes, full lips, gentle expressions. A smile like sunshine breaking through clouds, if you can get him to smile. Sandy-blonde hair, shoulder length, usually kept in a pony-tail. Franklyn has always been thin, but it's worse now. Ears are slightly pointed, pointing more to his Fey heritage.

Wardrobe: Thick grey knit garments with layered fur pelts over top. The cold is brutal to him, especially when he's working on his own projects. The pelts are in shades of grey and brown, like many of the other worker's, but a few articles of clothing set him apart. His work boots look extremely heavy and cumbersome, with lots of extra metal bits. Really, they're mechanical, and help him do a lot of things. His belt is a broad leather utility belt, with tools and gadgets of all kinds dangling from it. He wears a set of goggles with all kinds of lenses and crystals that give him various options for his vision, such as magnifying, checking for heat signatures, infrared, etc. His gloves are a soft leather, and fingerless, allowing him to work on the fine details of his gadgets. He can often be found with his hands in his pockets, to keep them warm.

Personality: Franklyn is pretty quiet, and often anxious. A natural introvert, his past troubles have made him even more distrustful of others, especially strangers and large men. However, he enjoys helping other people, if he can, and knows that he won't survive if he doesn't make allies in the camps. So he's doing his best.

Skills: Franklyn is very good with mechanical stuff. He always knows what tool to use, and often has it on him, in order to repair whatever needs repairing. He's also an excellent teacher, though he doesn't believe this about himself.

Power(s): Franklyn is a Frenetic Genius who can Imbue Animation.
Frenetic Genius is a state where Franklyn is hyper-intelligent, and an incredibly fast thinker. He's able to assimilate, synthesize, and extrapolate information extremely quickly, and come up with solutions and innovations. The problem is that doing this takes so much energy, he has to be careful about how often he does it, or he can be left extremely weak. He's already a frail person, so this one isn't easy.
Imbuing Energy means Franklyn can transfer some of his life-force into inanimate objects to make them function. For instance, he's designed little mechanical drones that transport rock and mineral samples for other miners. They're very small, only meant to carry small samples, and while they were well designed, they don't have a power core of any kind. Franklyn just gave them a little of his life-force, and now they'll go on functioning until they're destroyed, or he takes it back. This can work on any inanimate object, but is of course limited by how much life-force Franklyn can spare at any given time. It regenerates slowly, but if he gives too much at once, it can incapacitate or kill him.

Backstory: Franklyn is Romulus's brother. They grew up together, and while Romulus took after his father more, Franklyn was his mother's son, through and through. This meant nothing to the brothers, other than they were different. They remained close, all the way up till Romulus went off to war. Franklyn was still very young, but his mind was so developed, he felt the loss as if he and his brother were much closer in age.
When the little town he lived in was destroyed by marauders, and his parents killed, Franklyn was trafficked for 6 years. His pretty face and skills kept him alive, a much sought-after body in the dark underbelly of the kingdom. He hoped, the entire time, that Romulus would find him, but his brother believed him dead.
It wasn't until the crime ring was broken up in order to send some of the criminals into the mountains that he was rescued from this, and as payment for his rescue by the Crown, he too was sent into the mountains. It lead to his reunion with his brother, but this whole experience has left Franklyn with many, many issues.

Theme song(s): Cracked- Pentatonix

Other: Has managed to make friends with some of the roughest characters in the camps, by doing things like helping them learn to read, or learn to sift the gems from the ore and pocket a few, or learn which of the scarce mountain herbs will work as medicines.
……………………………………………

Name: Rixtus Tourmaline
Age: 32 (just past adolescence for gnomes)
Gender/Pronouns: Male
Orientation: Straight, Strictly gnome-attracted
Species: Cave Gnome

Appearance: 2'10", 75lbs, thin and wiry. pale skin, thick red hair usually tied back under his cap, short red beard he tries to keep trimmed and nice. Gnarled hands, bulbous nose, bright blue eyes.

Wardrobe: Long blue wool tunic, belted around his waist, black roughcloth pants and a small pair of black boots. A long red stocking cap on his head and a set of brown gloves complete the look.

Personality: Rixtus is reserved but friendly when he must interact with people. He tries not to be manipulative, but being small makes it hard to be safe if you're not super careful about your surroundings. Good at trading favors for goods and getting what he wants and needs.

Skills: Negotiating and persuasion. He also instinctively, as a gnome, can identify uncut gemstones and other goodies in the rock around them. Very good at cutting and polishing stones

Power(s)?: As a cave gnome, Rixtus can Stone Meld and has Earth Sight.
Stone Meld is an ability that allows Rixtus to mold or move stone like it's clay. This ability is limited in that he can only use it on an amount of stone that weighs less than he does, which isn't much. Still, it allows him to dig small tunnels and get gems out of rock without hurting them.
Earth Sight allows Rixtus to see through solid rock and packed earth and see things that don't 'belong', like ore and gems and other goodies. He can only see while concentrating, though, and can't see regularly at the same time. Using Earth Sight for too long gives him a serious headache, and the distance he can see is related to how hard he focuses.

Backstory: Rixtus was from a small clan of cave gnomes that already lived up here in the mountains. When the Queen's forces came through, his clan was ousted from their cave system, which became a mine in turn. When the clan tried to rise up and fight back, they were unceremoniously squashed, and Rixtus is one of just a few survivors. They've been spread out, so Rixtus is the only gnome in this camp. He has been here the whole time, as one of the first to be pressed into service, and has seen lots of people come and go.

Theme song(s)?: In My Blood- Shawn Mendes

Other: Rarely leaves the tunnels and mines; stays underground at all times if possible.

Sval-Ket referred to two sides of the same coin. On the side of Sval was harsh winters and rough terrain, where mountains upon mountains left nothing but rock and ruin for those who lived there. Every single one of Sval’s indigenous inhabitants had either been slaughtered or shipped off to the Queen’s palace for study, as they seemed to have a strange magic of a sort that nobody could really define. But on the side of Ket was deep trenches in the earth, canyons between mountains with rivers below that held a few of the Sun Orc tribes that had yet to be subjugated by the Queen’s rule. The clash between winter and desert was a strange one, but then again, magic ran strong here and made things all the more unpredictable.

This was where, at least in Orcish legend, where the Nameless Goddess of Wisdom, the Flame, and War had been born. An Athenian figure, if Athens had existed here, but of course it didn’t and so only the Nameless Goddess remained. It was obvious what strife had come over the land, what blood had been spilt.

Our story lives here, in the heart of the Mountains of Sval, far away from even Ket and any sort of civilization thereof. Deep in the ice, and the rock, hid something strange. Perhaps a deity, or the makings of one. Perhaps a pestilence, a disease that could wipe out all we’ve ever known and loved. Nobody knew what Her Majesty was searching for here. Three camps that contained hundreds of citizens each with more on the way were here (author’s note: our characters are in the same camp but may interact with the other two as the story permits) and the three camps seemed to hate each other more than they even hated Her Majesty. It was a thing of status: whoever made the most progress the most efficiently and was the most obedient got the best of the supplies and the most assistance.

Ttarmek knew that his camp was falling behind. He’d taken the leader role in stride, it was nothing he wasn’t used to. A younger gentleman by the name of Romulus had become his second in command, the one to distribute orders and information where Ttarmek couldn’t always communicate. It helped to have a more human-appearing face for the humans, and a more beastly face for the beasts. Ttarmek had lately been sitting in one particular room in the vast underground structure that made up their camp. It was safer and warmer to just hollow out areas in the deeper parts of the mountain than to use the flimsy tents the Queen’s military had supplied. This room was essentially a makeshift hospital, and was where about ten people were sitting in pain now.

Including Kindreth.

The smaller man had caught some sort of disease from bartering with the other two camps, and hadn’t taken it well. Two other patients had caught the disease as well, but the three had been pushed to the far reaches of the room where the warmth of the campfires didn’t quite extend far enough to feel comfortable. Otherwise, everyone else here was stuck with physical ailments such as broken bones or otherwise suffering for non-pestilence reasons. Kindreth had begged Ttarmek to stay away, keep going, but he’d been so weak and frail that he could barely protest as he was swaddled and bundled in as many blankets as could be spared.

The disease in question was nothing more than a fever and a cough at first, but soon it developed into an advanced pneumonia that kept wearing down at Kindreth’s system until he seemed like a ghost, barely alive and too close to death for Ttarmek to process.

Someone (author’s note: this can be anyone’s character or characters) walked into the room. Ttarmek didn’t notice. All he was focused on was keeping his love safe, even if it meant being ambushed himself. Not everyone at this camp was trustworthy, murders and horrific injuries were about a monthly occurrence due to fighting and violence of all sorts.

The tunnels cut into the stone of the mountains had a winding labyrinthine quality to them, but once you learned them, they weren't hard to navigate. Those who were new often had to make crudely drawn maps to find their way, or stay in the tents in the upper caves, open to the wind and barely shielded from the snow. The ones who had been around a little while knew where the important caverns were, like the "messhall" and the smaller rooms where a fire could keep you warm. The veterans who had survived this long knew the tunnels well, only getting turned around while tired or dazed.
Franklyn never got lost.
This was something he was glad of as he hurried now through the tunnels, his delivery steaming in his hands. He had just received a final ingredient for it, and had whipped it up on the surface, where he'd had the rest of the pot boiling. Romulus had returned from a foraging trip, and had been able to gather the herbs Franklyn had asked for.
Now, he was hurrying to deliver what he hoped was a cure, or at least a help, to Kindreth. His mechanical boots were speeding him along, allowing him to move much faster than he could have on his own. A few of the guards heard him coming and started to frown or question where he was going in such a hurry, but the presence of his big brother a few steps behind him put a smile on their faces. Franklyn was glad. If Romulus and his gregarious ways allowed Franklyn to move around easier, great. Trusting the guards was not a luxury the smaller Vale brother really had.
He came clumping into the 'infirmary', a bundle wrapped in furs in his hands, and nearly bumped into the hulking figure of Ttarmek, seated between Franklyn and his target: Kindreth. He stepped around the big orc and set his steaming bundle down, before quickly beginning to peel back the layers of furs and blankets covering the Elf.
"I was able to make a poultice and a broth that should really help. The poultice will sit against his skin and cause his airways to open, as well as helping thin all the phlegm in his lungs. The broth will fight the infection and also help him rest, as well as act as a painkiller. Both will warm him, too." He hurriedly explained himself, not wanting Ttarmek to think he'd lost his mind. Pulling coverings off the Elf in this condition wouldn't have been looked at too kindly, most likely.
Romulus caught up to his brother, having charmed the guards with a smile and a salute, and was standing just to the the side of Ttarmek, watching as Franklyn worked. He was still wearing his roughcloth tunic and pants, and the snow was beginning to melt off of them. He hadn't even had time to change into dryer clothes before Franklyn was off and pelting through the tunnels. His little brother's enthusiasm made him smile, but the guards were suspicious of such excitement, so he'd hurried after.
"How's he doing?" he quietly asked Ttarmek, as Franklyn laid the hot poultice against Kindreth's chest, and began rewrapping him in the blankets and furs. He stepped around the bedroll Kindreth was on, and picked up a small bowl or large mug. The dish acted as both, and was currently full of the broth Franklyn had made. Romulus held it out to Ttarmek, assuming he'd rather feed his husband than have Franklyn do it.

Ttarmek was pleasantly surprised to see Franklyn, and when Romulus appeared soon after he fully relaxed. He nodded at the explanation, and when Romulus asked about Kindreth all he could do was shake his head slightly. He took the broth and looked up from where he was kneeling, to the ceiling as if he was looking not at stone but blue, cloudless sky. He said a quick prayer in a tongue that only the orcs could understand-not for lack of trying, it was simply a strange language that required a certain apparatus in the throat that no other species had-and then brushed the unwashed hair out of half-asleep Kindreth’s feverish face, causing him to jolt awake in an unsettling manner that made Ttarmek flinch slightly.

Kindreth was sat up by his husband, leaning across his lap and watching the stone wall like there was something interesting happening there. He had been seeing strange visions and having nightmares since the fever took the reasonable part of his mind, and hallucinations were simply part of that. Ttarmek couldn’t tell what Kindreth was thinking. But he could hopefully get him to eat, and then could watch him sleep some more whilst Romulus led the group. The guards-although, they were generally more like torturers who sat around making sure you worked until your bones broke, then gave you an hour or two to rest before more work-didn’t tend to try to mess with Ttarmek. For all their magic imbued weapons and bravado, nobody wanted to take on an Orc, especially not a Plains Orc or anyone who that beast loved or at least respected.

Ttarmek brought the broth to Kindreth’s mouth, and the elf drank it slowly, taking moments to pause and cough before bringing his hands to the container and letting hunger take over. Kindreth then slumped into Ttarmek’s torso, falling asleep once more.

Ttarmek's silence was telling, so Romulus didn't push for more of an answer. Besides, hopefully Franklyn's poultice and broth would help significantly, and Kindreth would be feeling better soon.
Romulus certainly hoped so, for a couple reasons. For one, Kindreth's death would just be sad if he didn't make it. Franklyn was relatively close to the Elf, being cut from the same cloth- small, intelligent and bookish, traumatized and now stuck here. And two-… Ttarmek's silence was hard to overcome. The camp wasn't a unified whole, but there was a large swathe that was willing to work under a leader. The big Orc was that leader. Romulus looked up to him, in many ways. Romulus had lost his father at a young age, and couldn't help the father-figure vibes he got from Ttarmek. It also helped that they were similar, like his brother and Kindreth- both strong men built for war, but with big hearts, a spiritual side, and wisdom borne of experience.
The key difference was that Romulus was young, and enthusiastic, and didn't always know how to lead very well. His time in the military had made him a weapon, not a commander, and when Ttarmek wasn't around to lead…
"Shulkru has been giving me trouble again." Romulus said quietly after a few minutes. He'd waited for Ttarmek to finish feeding Kindreth the broth, and had been silent for a bit. "I'm not sure what to do… I've tried diplomacy, but he's not having it, and I hate trying to enforce things with 'Ttarmek said'… feels like a small child preparing to tattletale." The big bugbear had always been angry about the fact Romulus had sway within the camp, and in Ttarmek's absence, he was causing trouble, getting into fights with Romulus's friends and generally being problematic. "Do I just-… I could just beat it out of him, but…" He left the statement hanging, to see if Ttarmek had any wisdom to offer.

Franklyn, meanwhile, was watching Kindreth's response. He wasn't a doctor, but putting his mind to work on a medical problem was like trying to solve a puzzle, and that he was good at. So he watched, and waited. He was looking for a lessening of symptoms, some sign of relief from Kindreth, increased coughing as the phlegm began to come up, etc. His brother's troubles were different from the kinds of problems he ran into, being a small, less influential type. He was more concerned with small interpersonal things, rather than the loyalties of half the camp.

Name: Saffron
Age: 19
Gender/Pronouns: male he/him
Orientation: straight
Species: he's a human
Appearance: he has long white hair that he's put in braids for convenience sake. His skin is a darker tan from growing up as a kid in the sunlight. His eyes are grey like a storm, and he constantly wears a smile on his face even when the situation isn't good because he wishes to help keep spirits high. He's around 6'5 and has a more slim build. He's not super strong, and he won't hurt someone unless he needs too as a very very last resort.
Wardrobe: he has a simple beige tunic, that's been stained by dirt having been in the mine as long as he has. The usual pants and shoes.
Personality: he's a very loyal person to those he makes friends with, he's very trusting of people(sometimes albeit too much), he's very much a helper to other people, he always wants to lend a hand when he notices someone struggling. He's very wholesome and just extroverted, he will talk or start a conversation with anyone unless they made it clear to him that they don't want to converse. (well at least before they went mute)
Skills: he's good at foraging for food with his knowledge of herbs and plants that you can eat and can't eat.

Power(s)?: he has a good connection with nature, and plants. He can heal some small wounds and sicknesses, but it equally affects him in turn. The more he heals, the weaker he gets. He can also bring plants back to health, or grow plants in areas where they have grown before. He can't grow anything in dead soil.

Backstory: he's been working at the tavern since he was a little kid with his dad, and soon he grew up and learned to help manage it on his own. Well one day he found one of his paetrons cheating on their significant other, and gave them warning to tell them or he would. Well they didn't listen to him so he ended up telling on them. So the husband got mad and placed a curse on him so that he could only ever repeat what he hears and never form sentences on his own. He has been struggling for this curse for at least 5 years now, and somewhere during that time he was sentenced to the mines.

Theme song(s)?:
Other?: he has black tattoos on his arms!! They signify fire, and plants. Death and life. Etc. I will find a reference photo later :))

Name: Drekar Halbenarian
Age: 46
Gender/Pronouns: Male He/Him
Orientation: Bi
Species: Dragonkin
Appearance: Drekar stands at 8 feet and 4 inches and weighs 423 pounds. He looks vastly different from other Dragonkin of his clan in that he has no scales, instead sprouting feathers from where the patches of scales would normally be on his clanmates (the skull where hair normally grows, all the way down his back, across his shoulders, on his forearms and on the backs of his calves). These feathers are iridescent like oil, shaded in all manners across his body - though only in grayscale, ranging from true white at the tip of each feather to almost an abyssal shade of black at the base. His skin is shaded in a gleaming slate color, with little markings reminiscent of those on diamond back rattlesnakes covering every space of skin not covered by feather, shaded in the same white as the tips of his feathers. In many cases, however, his markings are interrupted by thick, vicious, ropey scars, likely from one of the massive bears that stalk his clans lands. His face is thick and lengthened slightly, like an Argonian's. His eyes glow a fierce, fiery orange; they look exactly like snake eyes otherwise. He has a thick, heavily muscled body with very little fat on it, indicative of clear effort to stay in shape. His palms and fingers are heavily calloused and scarred from years of handling swords and spears, and now pickaxes and shovels. His legs are divided into three sections: the base that connects at the hip, as normal; a second piece that bends back at a 45° angle below the first piece; and a third piece, which connects to a digitigrade foot.
Wardrobe: He generally forgoes heavy winter clothing for a thin tunic and light, baggy shorts that cinch down around the base of the first section of each leg.
Personality: He's a very practical, unassuming character within the camp. He does his work and then does whatever is left. He never talks or raises his voice, but if he does decide to say something, his unintentionally harsh tone usually gets people to listen. He isn't arrogant or prideful in any sense, nor does he ever want to come across as such. He just isn't good with words or people, instead choosing the easier options of avoidance or doing something himself. He avoids any conflicts he can as well; if he has to he will fight but usually he tries to just let the situation blow over. He actually tends to get overwhelmed by larger crowds of people as well, so he avoids them as much as possible.
Skills: Hand to hand combat, spear fighting, sword fighting, axe combat, knife and dagger combat, and archery. Despite his large and bulky frame, he's excellent at stealth and tracking. He's good at appearing where you least expect it and disappearing when he's no longer needed.
Power(s)?: Due to his heritage he has a minor glamor ability, really only useful for staying undetected within dark areas, as well as above average night/dark vision and an ability to mask his scent and muffle his footsteps. As for abilities from his clan, he has one: Battle Frenzy. It does pretty much what you expect, but it only lasts for a max of an hour before the stress becomes to great for his body to handle and he collapses.
Backstory: He was born and raised a warrior by his clan, but was eventually forced into hiding when his clan was beaten down and forced into near extinction, in the process losing his wife and their two kids. As a result of all this he denounced the path of the warrior and adopted the lifestyle of a common assassin, taking on a vow to never let the memories of his past fade from sight.
Theme song(s)?: None, but feel free to find one.
Other?:

Saffron was already in the infirmary, using what little abilities he had to try and help some of the people who were sick. He wanted to at least alleviate the pain while he still could ..and help them pass peacefully if that was what was needed. He was a bigger fellow…but he didn't give off an intimidating aura, just one of gentleness. He was simply just that, a gentle giant that wanted to help people. Yet he was unable to do much down here…try as he might he failed to help much.

He noticed someone entering the infirmary area and made his way to peak at them, before realizing who it was and walking over to the group of them.

"How is he doing…?"

Drekar stood in one of the tunnel entrances, looking out into the mountains in the distance.

Sval-Ket. Namely, Sval. Where he currently stood, the Mountains. Far, far away from his mountains, maybe even possibly across universes. Who knows at this point. . . they might be.

He sees a face for a briefest moment - a young child, a girl - before he shakes it off. He knew his vow, but now was not the time. Now was work-time, now was the time for hammers and pickaxes and shovels. Or it would be, if not for a giant gash on the Dragonkin's leg.

He sighs, his warm breath hitting the air and creating a large puff of white steam, before making his way to the infirmary within the cavernous openings of the mines.

He ducks inside, his large frame barely fitting through the entryway, and nods at the others that were injured. He takes a seat and waits, for now, seeing clearly that the medics were busy dealing with the afflicted in the back of the room.

(Urk- I've been staring at my dude for a while because he's got a little bit of everything from everyone already here. I'll try to play up his personality to differentiate him at least somewhat.)

Name: Rhival'lur "Rhiv" Orsaunin
Age: 33 years old, elderly where he's from
Gender and Pronouns: Male, He/Him/His
Orientation: Straight, but already taken

Species: Human / Beastspeaker
Appearance: A burly, grizzly-haired man standing at a little less than seven feet tall. In his prime, he was better-built, though aging and overworking in the mines have worn his physique. For the moment, he appears to be on the healthier end of Sval's miners, though there's no telling how long it'll last.
When looking from head-on, Rhival'lur's face is almost bear-like, mostly due to the oddly dark point of his nose, and the sleepness marks beneath his eyes. His head is blocky, though, and his piercing amber eyes are less than inviting. Most notably, his canine teeth are long enough to jut out past his lips. The bottom fangs – the more immediately visible of the pair – curl up and inward while the top teeth curl down and out to the sides. A short, paling beard frames his jawline. A thick, loose braid falls over either shoulder, and the rest of Rhiv's hair sweeps back into a silver-black tangle, stopping around his waist.
An ugly scar snakes across his neck. Rhiv refuses to tell where it came from.
Wardrobe: A smoky-gray bearskin cloak serves as an overcoat, keeping Rhiv warm in Sval's biting cold. According to Rhival'lur, it's an argenurse pelt, though whatever bears those are, they certainly aren't native to anywhere near Sval-Ket. Beneath the cloak is a simple tunic and ankle-banded pants combo.
Personality: For someone of such an imposing build, Rhiv is actually quite mellow. He is mostly nonverbal, though he occasionally graces others with single-word answers (but I'll write more than that, ofc). The man is reserved, but not unapproachable. As much as he'd prefer to keep his relations at Sval at a distance, he worries over those less fortunate than himself. He is often found divvying up his rations, sharing his cloak's warmth, or providing a shoulder to cry on. Still, he keeps a professional and mostly impersonal air about himself.
While usually passive, Rhival'lur still is more than capable of holding his own out in the wild and in combat. His self-restraint is usually impenetrable, though spending time in the mines has worn down his patience. Not enough for him to snap at anyone he sees, but enough to be some vague potential threat.

Skills: Thanks to his prior experience as a herbalist and forays into botany, Rhival'lur is fantastic at identifying plants, specifically those which are edible or have medicinal uses. Of course, there is little familiar greenery for him to find in the mines, but he is happy to discern any wilted leaves that tumble his way.
Though it's not his favorite pastime, Rhival'lur is an experienced hunter. He knows how to cover his tracks to ensure a catch or avoid being caught himself. Evidently, this has translated over to his usual mannerisms. Despite his relatively large size, his gait is quiet and his presence is scarcely felt. He often forgets this ability, and he hesitates to knowingly use it due to his strong beliefs in honorable combat.

Power: Being a veteran Beastspeaker, Rhiv is intrinsically tied to Nature. He seems to draw his health and vitality from being out on the surface in sunlight. Additionally, Rhival'lur is able to sense vibrations in the ground around him. As such, he is particularly miserable down in Sval's mines, far removed from the sun and overwhelmed by the constant clanks of pickaxe on stone.
Rhival'lur is also able to tap into the minds of animals, communicating through a mental link.

Backstory: Rhival'lur has lived a relatively modest life until lately. In his youth, he took up horticulture, learning any and everything he could about the herbs in his homeland, mainly which were safe to eat and which ones could help people. As a herbalist, he was notable among his fellows for not charging for his services. It worked then, as he could support himself and his wife just fine by foraging and hunting.
He was threatened to join the draft to Sval-Ket as a sort of "offering" to the Queen's workforce, protecting the heads of his village by giving himself up, supposedly. Now he's left constantly worrying about his wife, wishing to the stars that she's holding up alright without him. She should be, as he passed some of his herbal skills to her, but he can't help but to jump to worst-case scenarios.

Theme song: A what?
Other: Huge bear theme going on with him. I don't know if that'll tie into his future plotlines, but I thought it was neat to have the big protector dude be like a bear dad.
Also, as to why Rhiv hasn't become a medic at Sval-Ket, he isn't familiar with the local environment, which plants have which effect, etc. Maybe he would be if they were imported or something since Sval is wintery all the time? I'm willing to go either way on this, whichever makes more sense @OrionShenanigan

(Think I'll split the difference and just have beardude be an unofficial medic- like yeah he helps out, but only with basic medical stuff to help free up time for the more advanced medics)

---

Footsteps rippled on gritty stone, sending tremors into Rhiv's marrow. There were enough folk in the infirmary as was – how many others needed to be here? A heavy glare from him bore into the newest arrival. Not a Queens-guard, from the look of it. A relieved breath escaped his chest, fogging ever-so-slightly in the cool air at the infirmary's back wall. There were deathly ill folk in the corner maybe thirty-some strides away, so a general unease hung about here.

His gaze returned to the task at hand. For the past few moons, he'd been an unofficial medic – an assistant. He was still relegated to the mines as often as any other worker, but he was welcome enough to elude his extra shifts here. It was one of the few respites offered – he'd be a fool not to stow away down here. Others seemed to have the same idea, as rogue miners would sometimes mill about the entrance until he shooed them off like pigeons. He cast another stray glance towards the newcomer, this one much more respectful than the last. They were here for a reason, Rhiv concluded; for the moment, he gave it no further thought.

Beside him on a medical bed, a younger tiefling patient sat clutching their midriff, doubled over and groaning. The stomach pain was obvious enough, though whether it was from spoiled rations or starvation was unclear, as his patient whimpered in some foreign tongue. A painkiller would do for now. Spider-stalk was, thankfully, among the few herbs within the infirmary's stores that Rhiv could administer himself. A half palm's-full of the brewed roots could numb a man's freshly broken bone, assuming it wasn't already infected. When doubled, it could do the same for most beasts. Any more than that was a waste of the weeds, and here at Sval, waste was an unaffordable luxury. As relatively common as spider-stalk was, it was always better to ration than to use recklessly.

Rhiv's patient trembled as his firelit shadow loomed over them. Even as he crouched to soothe their nerves, they still sat a head shorter than him. He reached forward, presenting a small mug of spider-stalk tea, fresh off the fire.

"Drink. Slowly."

Wide-eyed, they stared at him before quickly drawing back with a hiss. His patient spat a little flurry of noises at him before finally noticing his outstretched hand and the warm clay mug he'd offered. Thready fingers snatched the tea, evidently not understanding Rhiv's instructions. True to its name, spider-stalk was bitingly acerbic. He'd have sugared or honeyed it up, but honey was a key ingredient elsewhere, and he couldn't remember the last time sugar had graced the larders. The tiefling's face contorted into a pained grimace, though they seemed to keep the tea down well enough.

He rose to his full height with a sigh, turning back towards the newcomer sitting idly by the entry hollow. A deep huff rumbled from the pit of Rhiv's chest, and as he caught their eyes, he made a quick "welcome" gesture with a tip of his head.

Drekar notes the sharp look shot his way by one of the medics when he walks in, but doesn't otherwise react to the bear man, instead respecting the clear sign to just sit tight and wait.

While he waits, he gazes down at the gash - still bleeding heavily - on his leg, poking at it with a long, thick finger with not much interest.

Just as Drekar was about to say something, the medic turns and fully acknowledges his presence.

The Dragonkin rogue blinks and nods back, pointing down at the considerable amount of blood that was now staining the rocky floor of the infirmary.

"I don't want to rush you, sir, but I believe I require attention soon. If at all possible. If not I can return later," he says, just loud enough for the medic to hear.

"I can just heat something up to cauterize the wound, but I didn't want to bother anybody else with the smell of burning flesh, so I didn't earlier," he adds, as if to try and make it seem any better that there was a gaping hole in his leg.

Romulus was mid-conversation with Ttarmek, but Franklyn glanced up as Saffron walked over. "Hopefully, better soon. That poultice and broth should do the trick. If it does, I'll give you the recipe and we can work on making more for the rest." He looked back down at Kindreth, who seemed to be getting better, and stood up from his spot on the floor.
"How's it going with the rest of them?" Franklyn knew Saffron did his best to be a help, but… it was often for naught, unfortunately.

He glanced up as Drekar came in, immediately noticing the gash on the Dragonkin's leg. Grabbing a roll of bandages, he moved to help, only for Rhiv to move towards him. Franklyn stepped on over anyway, and began wiping the wound clean with a strip of the bandage. "You wanna handle this, Rhiv, or should I? We'll need to clean it out and see how to close it… might wind up cauterizing it after all…" He devolved into mumbling as he thought about his options, his mind racing as he questioned whether they had needles strong enough to sew Dragonkin skin shut, but still thin enough to not cause new wounds, whether the wound could just be covered, etc, etc…

……………………………….

Rixtus heard voices up ahead of him in the tunnels, and was tempted to duck out of the way, but… the guards behind him were being particularly problematic today, and nobody walking through this stretch of tunnel should be allowed to just walk into that and get their noses broken. So he kept walking.
Around the bend, he could see a diminutive vampire and a larger Beastman ambling down the tunnel, chatting amicably. He hated to douse their good mood, but…. they needed to know.
"Hey there, where you two headed?" Rixtus was too small to stop them, probably, but he stood right in the middle of the tunnel, hoping to warn them. "The guards up the tunnel at the checkpoint are feeling prickly tonight, so… if there's another way to get where you're going, probably best to take that."

"I can just heat something up to cauterize the wound, but I didn't want to bother anybody else with the smell of burning flesh, so I didn't earlier," he adds, as if to try and make it seem any better that there was a gaping hole in his leg.

In another life, Rhiv might have gone through with that, but if there was a distinction between medic and assistant, this was it.

He made his way to the Dragonkin, nudging past too-close beds, the fire pit, and a trio of supposed medics whose concerns were elsewhere. Despite his size, he moved lightly across the stony ground like a morning shadow. There was the slightest shift in his shoulders, the closest thing to a greeting bow Rhiv could manage. With a sturdy gaze, he took a few heartbeats to assess the wound entirely.

How long was it, and how deep? Was it fresh, or was this new patient walking on a rotting deathwish? Spider-stalk should numb it, though Rhiv hadn't the permission to work much further. He'd have to ask the other medics, wouldn't he?

"Can walk, laddie." It was a question, but his hefty monotone did little in conveying that. "Free bed, aye. Past the tine oscailte."

Another beat. "Past the fire," Rhiv corrected himself. The word was odd and unfamiliar on his tongue, a byproduct of having been forced out of his native dialect here.

"You wanna handle this, Rhiv, or should I? We'll need to clean it out and see how to close it… might wind up cauterizing it after all…" He devolved into mumbling as he thought about his options, his mind racing as he questioned whether they had needles strong enough to sew Dragonkin skin shut, but still thin enough to not cause new wounds, whether the wound could just be covered, etc, etc…

Was someone talking to him? He glanced over his shoulder, and - oh! One of the gawkers had finished their staring, and presently, they were standing close. In a few strides, they passed him up and began poking about the Dragonkin's wound.

"Can numb it. Not much else." Rhiv muttered darkly. "Aye. Just'n assistant.

The gash wasn't a very long one, but it was deep. Any normal person would have been screaming, or at least in shock from pain, but Drekar seemed to care very little, at least on the surface.

He was used to the blunt, short and often not very well conveyed tones of the people within the mountains - it was a lot of the reason some of them were there, was because of poor communication skills. So when the not-question was posed, Drekar nods and ambles to his feet.

"I can walk, yes," he states, half limping over to the bed that was mentioned and sitting down.

"And it needs no numbing. Stitch it up, wrap it in a bandage an' I'll be good to go," he interjects into the medics thoughts. He didn't want to be here longer than necessary; the smell of sick and the iron and coppery smells of blood were unpleasant and harsh in his nose.

Franklyn watched as the Dragonlin moved over to a recently vacated cot. He was limping a bit, which meant this was relatively serious. Dragonkin were about as tough as you might expect, so for the big guy to be limping was… not good. "I'll be right back. Rhiv, try and clean it out as best you can, will you?" He turned and hurried back up the tunnel.

He returned a minute or two later carrying a small metal contraption. It was a round disk, about as big as his palm, made of brass.
Examining the gash, he was pleased and relieved to find no infection, and moved to close it. He set the disk on top of the cut, and immediately, 10 little hooks shot out of opposite sides and latched onto the skin around the gash. They pulled the wound shut, and then there was a small flash of light, accompanied by a sting on the wound. The hooks released, and the little machine crawled further up the gash, before latching on and repeating the process. After a minute or so, it left nothing but a freshly cauterized scar on the Dragonkin's leg. Minimal pain, minimal burnt flesh smell, minimal time.
"There we go." Franklyn held his hand out, and the little contraption jumped into his palm, before pulling its legs in and returning to just looking like a disc. "Good as new." He smiled up at his tall patient, and his tall assistant, both of them towering over him. "I wasn't sure it would work on your skin, being thicker than most, but… seems to be OK."

"There we go." Franklyn held his hand out, and the little contraption jumped into his palm, before pulling its legs in and returning to just looking like a disc. "Good as new." He smiled up at his tall patient, and his tall assistant, both of them towering over him. "I wasn't sure it would work on your skin, being thicker than most, but… seems to be OK."

"Taoidí na hoíche…"

A spark of interest flickered on Rhival'lur's face before his usual mask of cool indifference fell back into place.

"That thing," he rumbled, pointing a thick finger at the disc and its apparent owner. In place of a proper question, there was a vague grasping movement of his hands, mimicking the machine's hooks.

A spark of interest flickered on Rhival'lur's face before his usual mask of cool indifference fell back into place. "That thing," he rumbled, pointing a thick finger at the disc and its apparent owner. In place of a proper question, there was a vague grasping movement of his hands, mimicking the machine's hooks.

Franklyn smiled at him and held out the disc for Rhival'lur's inspection. "I built it to close wounds quickly, like you just saw. It can do a few other things, like remove shards of rock embedded in skin, and arrowheads and the like." He swallowed as the memory of what had caused him to build such a thing flashed through his head. An image of Romulus, with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder, desperately trying to hold off a guard from beating a worker to death over an insult…
Focus. Franklyn shoved it away, concentrating on the conversation. "You're welcome to hold it if you like, it won't hurt you."

Drekar blinks slowly at Franklyn as he places the disc on his leg, and again as the thing opened up into a spider like shape.

And then a third slow blink as it sears his skin closed.

He looks at the medic for a solid minute with his baleful orange eyes and then blinks slowly once more, standing.

He turns to go then looks back at Franklyn.

"Careful wit' tha' device. It'd only be of use to the thick skinned races like orcs or dwarves, or werewolves. . . though they'd normally heal faster than you could ge' to them," he says. The only indication of his shock at the object and what it could do were only evident in how his accent had thickened.

He goes to leave before catching Rhiv's words bit not the motion, and the ensuing conversation. He takes silent note of this and slips out if the infirmary. He glances down at the burnt new scar on his leg, then back at the medic in the infirmary, then sighs and hurries off down the tunnels, back to work.

He would, however, have to head towards the camp. Which meant guards. He sighs and just walks off down a tunnel, eventually hearing voices. His quiet footsteps become silent as he unintentionally slows down to eavesdrop.

Focus. Franklyn shoved it away, concentrating on the conversation. "You're welcome to hold it if you like, it won't hurt you."

It fit nicely in Rhiv's palm. He held it as though it was delicate as an egg – for all he knew, it might have been. He tapped gingerly on the smooth surface, taking care not to reactivate it. There were slight echoes in its brass casing, sheet-thin pockets of space between its tiny mechanisms.

It wasn't alive. Admittedly, Rhiv had tried to reach his mind out to it, only to be greeted with pleasant, fuzzy silence. Surely, the disc would've had something interesting to say. Though he hated to admit it, Rhiv had been starved of decent conversation. Not that he was particularly good at it, anyhow, but he could remember his glory days by the fireside, enraptured by his brigade's latest tall tales. "The Maiden with the Weird Seal Leg" well may have been the greatest campfire tale ever told. In a stark comparison, most folk here had their spirits crushed some time ago. Merely chatting was near impossible with the heavy shadow of labor looming overhead. Bats and bandit-mice could hold sporadic dialogue if one traded a grub or two for their attention. It was mostly about the bug they'd just been gifted, unfortunately.

Rhival'lur gave an approving nod, relinquishing the disc to the little medic – Franklyn, was it? He'd heard it in passing a few times, though he'd never connected the name to a face. Until now, he supposed. Rhiv wasn't one for verbal conversation, but he could attempt, at least.

"You made it." Another not-question. "They letcha."

Franklyn gave Drekar a nod. "I usually lower the settings for weaker creatures. Turned them up to max just now for you, though." He appreciated the Dragonkin offering the tidbit of advice.
The big guy left, and Franklyn turned back to the other big guy, currently fascinated with the disc.
In Rhiv's hand, the disc hummed for a moment and, despite the big man's carefulness, activated anyway. It's legs popped open, and it began skittering over Rhiv's arm, looking for wounds. The whole time, there was a little bit of a mind present, but it was completely focused on its task, leaving no time for conversation.
When no wound was found, the disc seemed almost annoyed, as if irritated it had been awoken for nothing, and quickly returned to Rhiv's palm, where it closed back up and went back to sleep.
Franklyn smiled as Rhiv handed it back to him. "I did indeed make it, and they didn't let me so much as… well. The guards don't really know I have this, or what it does. Just looks like scrap metal to them. Most of my stuff is designed that way, to keep from getting detected."
…….

Rixtus was always more aware of his surroundings than others down in the tunnels. Being a cave gnome meant he was born to this, so it was easy for him.
As such, he noticed the sounds of someone coming down the tunnel before Carter or Raiki. He stared at the rock wall ahead of them, looking straight through it and around the bend. There was a worker there, a Dragonkin he didn't know.
"Hey there, come on out and talk to us. No guards here."

Franklyn smiled as Rhiv handed it back to him. "I did indeed make it, and they didn't let me so much as… well. The guards don't really know I have this, or what it does. Just looks like scrap metal to them. Most of my stuff is designed that way, to keep from getting detected."

"Aye. Smart."

He stole a glance at his arm where the little thing had gone crawling. The feeling wasn't entirely unpleasant, but the bristling hair on his arm begged to differ. Rhiv shifted his cloak, and the hood flopped lazily behind him. There weren't open sleeves, more elbow-deep pockets lining the inside. He wasn't much of an inventor, certainly not one of Franklyn's caliber, but he could create little odds and ends of his own.

"Use ta whittle in m'spare time," He said, tamping down some of the growl in his voice. From his pocket, he produced a palm-sized sculpture of some long, hog-nosed beast sitting neatly on its haunches and gazing curiously up at the ceiling with narrow, gleaming eyes. Rhiv set it in Franklyn's free hand, and the older man's gruff exterior slipped away briefly as some amity lit up his face.

"Madit frum m'old pick's 'andle. Guards gave'm a right bualadh when they's found out. Still gotthe scars, mm."

The thought reminded Rhival'lur that he should've been working. Working the mines, working the infirmary, working anything. He paced about as he talked, drawing a few sick and weary glances from the recovering patients. Rhiv could walk and talk in tandem – he could hang onto this just a little longer.

"Is jus' the firs' one ah've made. Still whittle some now'anthen, buh the guards'r bit smarter than they's were. Least mine are."

Rixtus stared at the rock wall ahead of them, looking straight through it and around the bend. There was a worker there, a Dragonkin he didn't know.
"Hey there, come on out and talk to us. No guards here."

Drekar blinks as he rounds the corner, shaken out of his head. He was surprised that the gnome had noticed him, though only slightly so. It made some amount of sense. Gnomes were notoriously hard to deceive, even if one wasn't intentionally trying to do so.

He notes the other(s) in the group as well, but he didn't know how to talk to them.

He nods at the gnome.

"Apologies. Didn' realize I was mufflin my steps like tha'. I tend t' hide in these tunnels to avoid people. Name's Drekar. Dragonkin from way yonder west, a refugee who's taken up residence up 'ere in the mountains. Been 'ere for a while, but I stay outta the camp mostly; I sleep down in the caves," he tells the gnome before holding his hand out awkwardly for the man to shake.