You can't go home again. (Storm Veritas)

[Tobias Stalt]

Radasanth is a far cry from here. As the jungle slowly recedes into the horizon at my back, the port greets visitors with the rank fish market stench and freshly flayed flesh on display. Fires in their pits dance to an unheard beat, inane and wild like some tribal harmony that time forgot. Dheathain offers no quarter to friend or enemy.

They call it "Jungle Law," and it is the rule of this land. I learned that when I first set boots on the ground. Ebon skinned and fat lipped, the same oarman greets me now as the pier creaks under each step. "Ay brudda," his lips stretch across his thin features and his rotted, golden teeth shine in lieu of sunlight. "Ya made it alive, den. Praise de spirits."

My response sounds more like an animal growl than agreement, but it seemed to make no difference to this man. "De Jungle takes, nevah gives. When ya make it out, dats when boys become huntahs, ya?"

"Hmph." Hunter. On any pair of lips, the sound if it is grating. "Well, I made it."

Open and closed, in the customary way of conversation for me these days. His smile quickly fades as courtesy evaporates into business. "You not a happy man, are you, brudda."

His statement is phrased like a question, but the judgment in his eyes tells me otherwise. Funny, the way people ask me about happiness, or seem to direct me toward it. I can feel the leatherbound grip of a knife at my hip, among the newest of my acquisitions. The thought of letting it taste his blood seeped into my mind, but I quickly brushed it away. "Too busy for that," I reply.

"A good huntah finds time for his friends, for his family, and for hisself."

"I'll take it under advisory," I dismiss him a second time.

"Oh, brudda!" he screams over my shoulder, waving madly at someone. With a backward glance, I strain to see the figure blending with the sunset. "Ya both made it back, ah, praise be. It is a bless day."

Now I see. Storm. That was the name that Tarot agent screamed at him. The man I hefted into the temple, away from the elements. My lips form the word "ah," but it dies before making a sound.

"You're still alive," I remark with arms crossed at my chest. "Good."

[Storm Veritas]

(some minor bunnying; let me know if you want me to edit)

The docks of Talmaidh were euphoric compared to the jungles and swamps that were found inland, however they were still an awful long way from what you’d describe as “pleasant”. The sea air carried it a stagnancy with it, a marshy odor that reminded one you weren’t far from the festering waste that lay in the swamps. The creatures were also foul and unnecessarily diverse. Orcs, goblins, and all other sorts of nasty creatures came and went with an ignorant urgency. One such abomination was yapping his way, alongside an old friend.

Tobias Stalt was, by contrast, a very welcome sight. He was human, and familiar, and slight. He carried himself with a noble quiet that also lacked any quality that one would describe as “aloof”. Perhaps it was his stature, but his behavior didn’t betray that portrayal. He seemed almost shy, a characteristic that was entirely foreign to Storm.

I think you’re a little touched, mumbles, but you’re decent enough. Better than these goddamned bubble-skinned orcs or shit-smelling goblins.

Storm smiled in response to Tobias’s greeting, a charming response that was left to twist in the air. Tobias had been instrumental in saving the wizard, and Storm could see that Stalt had not been repaid.

“I am alive, thanks to a few good men. You’re one of them, and I owe you more than I can repay.”

Instinctively, Veritas rubbed at his stomach, and under his newly-purchased dress shirt resided a mighty scar. Karuka and Taische had healed him well, but the scar would remain as a reminder that Moxxilus had brought him to the edge. Were it not for John and Tobias, he’d still be somewhere deep and wet beneath the pyramids.

“I’m off to Corone, myself…” Storm redundantly offered with redundance. “Radasanth, where a man can find a decent whiskey and some reasonable quality whores.” He smiled with this, trying to humanize the stoic little warrior.

When Tobias failed to smile at the prospect of hooch and harlots, the tall magician realized he would have to work harder to repay his life-debt than digging into his purse-strings for some well earned hedonism.

Who brought the goddamned choir boy!?