Post by Chrysaor on Sept 5, 2015 6:38:20 GMT
The hissing wastes was not the least pleasant place he had ever been (That award went to the two weeks he had spend on the streets in the slums of Minrathous) but were he to make a list of places he never wanted to see again from most to least despicable, the hissing wastes would at least place second.
It was a dry, flat, cold stretch of land. During the night the chill air seeped into one's bones no matter how many blankets they bundled up in, leaving them shivering and cold in the morning. Odd howls and screams and whispers echoed across the nigh-empty landscape at regular intervals, never ceasing. Occasionally one of the other men in the camp would be heard screaming an alarm, and either they'd wake up in time to kill whatever terrible lizard showed up in the night to eat them, or they'd wake up in time to chase it off and box up the corpse before the sun rose.
Worst of all, everything was always full of sand. Chrysaor would bite into a slice of bread and hear it crunch between his teeth. He would pull off his shoes at night and empty them out away from his tent. They unpacked crates of weapons and supplies to clouds of dust and sand.
All in all, 0/10, would not adventure again.
Nevertheless, deep down he knew that their work was important. Maive must see it, the others must see it; so it must be something worth fighting for. Whatever Corypheus's endgame was, it would be better.
So he pulled himself out of his blankets in the morning. Shook the sand out of his hair, and carefully folded everything the way Elysia had taught him as a child, tucking away blankets and bedrolls in a neat stack in the corner, so at to attract as little sand as possible while he was away. He stretched; let out a groggy yawn, and then picked up his staff and left the tent to water his horse and check the camp.
He was an early riser. As many of the non-mage members of the Venatori were either liberati or indentured servants, many of them took the chance to sleep in as a blessing. He didn't feel like disturbing them, so he packed his books quietly and tied his bags to his horse's saddle, strapping his staff to his back and riding up the hill towards the ruins they had been investigating.
It was a short ride, but long enough that the sun was well above the horizon when he got there. The morning was pleasant, and luckily free of hungry wyverns. All around, tall, dwarf-made pillars jutted haphazardly out of the sand. Two high walls with various inscriptions written across them had been unearthed near the center, and he trotted his horse down in that direction.
Hopefully the day stayed clear.
It was a dry, flat, cold stretch of land. During the night the chill air seeped into one's bones no matter how many blankets they bundled up in, leaving them shivering and cold in the morning. Odd howls and screams and whispers echoed across the nigh-empty landscape at regular intervals, never ceasing. Occasionally one of the other men in the camp would be heard screaming an alarm, and either they'd wake up in time to kill whatever terrible lizard showed up in the night to eat them, or they'd wake up in time to chase it off and box up the corpse before the sun rose.
Worst of all, everything was always full of sand. Chrysaor would bite into a slice of bread and hear it crunch between his teeth. He would pull off his shoes at night and empty them out away from his tent. They unpacked crates of weapons and supplies to clouds of dust and sand.
All in all, 0/10, would not adventure again.
Nevertheless, deep down he knew that their work was important. Maive must see it, the others must see it; so it must be something worth fighting for. Whatever Corypheus's endgame was, it would be better.
So he pulled himself out of his blankets in the morning. Shook the sand out of his hair, and carefully folded everything the way Elysia had taught him as a child, tucking away blankets and bedrolls in a neat stack in the corner, so at to attract as little sand as possible while he was away. He stretched; let out a groggy yawn, and then picked up his staff and left the tent to water his horse and check the camp.
He was an early riser. As many of the non-mage members of the Venatori were either liberati or indentured servants, many of them took the chance to sleep in as a blessing. He didn't feel like disturbing them, so he packed his books quietly and tied his bags to his horse's saddle, strapping his staff to his back and riding up the hill towards the ruins they had been investigating.
It was a short ride, but long enough that the sun was well above the horizon when he got there. The morning was pleasant, and luckily free of hungry wyverns. All around, tall, dwarf-made pillars jutted haphazardly out of the sand. Two high walls with various inscriptions written across them had been unearthed near the center, and he trotted his horse down in that direction.
Hopefully the day stayed clear.
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