Newcomer
EXP: 3,760, Level: 2
Level completed: 59%,
EXP required for next Level: 1,240
The howling wind buffeted and battered the conclave of war-torn tents with wild abandon. The single campfire within the circle of tents had been reduced to little more than kindling as the dying flame wavered under the cruel and biting wind. A curse rose up from within the privacy of one of the tents, a dwarfish slur that Umbra had heard quite often as of late.
From what Umbra had been told, if roughly translated to “Heathen lands” A sentiment that all the dwarfs had shared for having to march across the lands of Alerar. A sentiment coloured by old feuds and ancient disputes and all that good stuff.
Umbra however cared little for it, their disputes belonged to their fathers, fathers. Instead, the Iron clad warrior’s concern lay upon the horizon, they had told the young faun that they would cut open a path towards the demon gate, and yet fate had conspired against the Mercenary from taking such action.
‘Would that I had the clout of our fair little diplomat, or the same level of respect that Shinsou commands.’ Umbra Idly mused.
Following the guide that led them closer to the outskirts of the dwarven camp, the shoddy fraying fabric of the surrounding tents became more apparent of the lack of care that was offered to the men and women stationed here.
“Don’t mind the wear and tear, we had to scrounge what we could to ensure that the people here were protected from the rains” Their guide offered as their boots sank deep into the mud beneath their feet.
Umbra deigned not to answer, it wasn’t their place though if it were the mercenary was sure to have a few choice words of their own. Thick smoke of the many campfires mingled amongst the morning smog as dark elven men and women idled around sipping warm gruel for breakfast.
The guide spared not a single glance to their plight and continued to guide Umbra around a winding path of the labyrinth of tents towards their destination and Umbra’s future squadron that the dwarven commanders and deigned to toss them amongst
“Brom, you awake yet you lout? Get out here now, you've and new recruit” their guide hollered standing before a tent that was as in poor condition as the ones the dark elves had been offered.
The person within the tent cursed up a storm in a thick dwarven accent in response and emerged a moment later from his tent. Clad in leather and metal while hefting a mighty dwarven hammer. His amber eyes briefly passed over Umbra and their guide as he scouted the tents around him with a foul mood resting heavy on his brow. Idly he stroked the magnificent well kept russet brown beard as he stood alone with his thoughts.
The smell of ale lingered around the tent he had emerged and if Umbra was not mistaken there was still a little bit of the grog that clung to his beard. A sense of unease began to creep up within Umbra’s mind and the lingering sense that their part in this war was barely an afterthought within the grand scheme of events.
The dwarf that the guide had named Brom belched out loud with little warning as he stepped up to the mercenary while using his hammer to help him wade through the mud. “Ugh, not another outlander.” He complained while casting a critical eye up and down Umbra’s iron plate armour.
“Pheh, well at least yer more protected than the scavs i usually get, but irons only gonna get you so far” Brom said with a mild disdainful iota of respect.
The dwarfs grin then grew wide “I bet you're wondering just who you got saddled with didn’t ya?”
The guide blinked and looked between Brom and Umbra in confusion. “Sir?”
Brom waved the guide off “Nothing that concerns you, now go back to your masters”
The guide scowled at the other dwarf, muttered something under his breath and promptly turned and left Umbra alone with the partially drunk Brom.
The dwarf sucked in a sharp intake of the crisp morning air and beat his meaty first upon his metal breastplate before yelling out at the top of his voice. “Wakey, wakey Head-hunters! Demon spawn for breakfast!”
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