Topic: The Corruption Hidden Beneath the Surface... Subject:
Grateful for a full night rest, fitful as it was due to the haunting images living in opposition to the dead from the night before, Gib rises out of habit just as the false dawn is beginning to color the sky—or will be if it isn't for the persistent blanket of pea soup mist that refuses to lift. Even before dressing fully, chilled a little by the cool night air, the priest sets about his prayers and the study of his holy scriptures. Candlelight is necessary for the reading and the flickering flame is a lonely reminder of the pressing heat of the day.
Dressing, packing his gear, and armoring himself, Gib eventually makes his way downstairs to join those of his companions who are already up for the day. Thoughtful and caught up in his own musings, the warrior-priest dines on as hearty a breakfast as can be mustered. He isn't rude to those who speak to him, nor is he thoughtless in his manners; the cleric of Therassor is merely locked in contemplation seeking some guidance from his deity.
Away from the village of Crandel, however, he does not indulge in such luxuries as a blatant disregard for his surroundings. Here, in the wilds of Northern Ertain, life is far too dangerous for a man to wander blissfully as though enjoying the blossoms of a temple garden. Odorous mists have a grip on the countryside here as well but Moreno is more than a little hopeful when the lack of undead or bodies present themselves; despite the lack of Nature's sounds. It is, in fact, the lack of Nature's sounds and the thick ichor that drifts through the air that insists he keep his eyes sharp, ears open, and head on a swivel. Thus it is that he reacts to draw steel at the lurching shadow approaching them.
"Gods be praised!" the battered and bloody woodsman cries out as he stumbles toward them. "Ye are livin' folk! Please, 'elp me! Me wife and boys, they're in tha cabin, but tha dead 'ave crawled from the ground, an' are tryin' to drag us down wit' 'em! The 'ad me, nearly killed me, but I go' away, went fer 'elp, I did.. gods be praised, ye lot are 'ere! Please, there are too many fer me, I canna save them meself! Please, I beg 'o ye, I'll do anythin'... please save me family!"
Ch’dau moves to intercept the man or at least prop him up before he falls face first into the dirt, “This cabin, human,” he rumbles, waiting for one of the clerics to see to the man’s injuries, “Where is it?”
((OOC: Assuming an answer of some sort… ))
At the man’s words, the Kazari looks to Aranwen and the expression on his feline face is not one seeking orders or even asking permission. Instead, without the words needing to be spoken, the big cat’s look says; “I’m going. Who else?”
Gib slips his backpack from his shoulder but is wary still, his eyes flitting about the wash of mists as he releases the grip of his sword and begins to open his luggage in search of bandages and healing salve.
"When did this start?" Cedric asks the man. "How many creatures did you see? Have you noticed anything strange over the past few days?"
(OOC: Assuming an answer of some sort... ))
"Come on guys!" the priest of Solaris urges. "This man needs our help."
"There does appear to be a need for alacrity," Gib reluctantly agrees, closing his bag as Cedric begins the prayers to his god for a miracle. Looking directly at Ch'dau he continues with his advice, "Rushing into such a situation without any surveillance would be folly. Should the God of Light and Life find it prudent to provide this poor soul some healing, I'll take that as a definite sign that the Divine are in favor of the goal.
Now looking to Aranwen, he continues, "If we are to break from the road, I suggest we do so in formation and with all due caution."
Keeping his more critical thoughts to himself. If the poor man is a victim as he claims—a look he wears—and he was forced to leave his family in search of assistance—assistance that he is as unlikely to find unless he ran all the way back to Crandel as he is to defeat a horde of zombies led by those laughing menaces—then the warrior priest holds out no hope for the defenseless family's survival.
Grimly sliding his pack back over his shoulder, the dour man shifts it about until it rests comfortably with his shield once more. Hand on his hilt, he awaits the decision that will change the course of the companions' day.
Posted on 2018-10-23 at 17:30:17.
Edited on 2018-10-23 at 17:30:38 by Bromern Sal
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