Post by Varis/G'Lorth/Sundilar on Nov 23, 2019 17:30:17 GMT
“Danton you bow-legged prick, keep your damn shield up or I’ll feed you your own balls!”
Gretcha spits through the gap in her teeth, hefting her padded training hammer and gesturing the tiefling to try again with a flick of her head. When he doesn’t move, she straightens from her fighting stance and takes a step towards him.
“Something wrong with your ears you flame-spawned shite-bag?”
The lean, carmine-skinned soldier just smiles and nods to the gate into the street.
“The little mountain is back.”
Gretcha lets out a sigh, taking a moment to calm herself before turning and walking to where a young Goliath girl stands looking sullen just inside the walls. The dwarven woman has to crane her neck to look the girl in the eye. She keeps her voice low, her obvious frustration tempered by an uncharacteristic softness.
“Listen, kid, I’ve told you. The boss man says we can’t take you on. You know if it was up to me, you’d have a sword in that enormous fucking hand of yours and it’d be you kicking seven shades of shite out of Danton there. But orders is orders. Go on now, get back to the Refuge, before old Allenby comes to drag you home.”
The girl doesn’t answer, instead handing Gretcha a roll of parchment. The dwarven woman frowns, taking it and breaking the red wax seal. As she unfurls the letter, a second paper falls out, this one covered in mechanical notations and calculations of the tensile strength of iron chain. She puts it aside, returning to the letter. It is written in the tight, efficient handwriting of the Order’s Grandmaster. A grim smile spreads across her face.
“Danton!”
The tiefling jogs up, and she thrusts the schematic at him.
“Give that to Ben. Boss wants as many as he can make in the next week or so. Then tell everyone to be ready to leave by sunrise. Full campaign kit. The Order rides to war.”
Gretcha spits through the gap in her teeth, hefting her padded training hammer and gesturing the tiefling to try again with a flick of her head. When he doesn’t move, she straightens from her fighting stance and takes a step towards him.
“Something wrong with your ears you flame-spawned shite-bag?”
The lean, carmine-skinned soldier just smiles and nods to the gate into the street.
“The little mountain is back.”
Gretcha lets out a sigh, taking a moment to calm herself before turning and walking to where a young Goliath girl stands looking sullen just inside the walls. The dwarven woman has to crane her neck to look the girl in the eye. She keeps her voice low, her obvious frustration tempered by an uncharacteristic softness.
“Listen, kid, I’ve told you. The boss man says we can’t take you on. You know if it was up to me, you’d have a sword in that enormous fucking hand of yours and it’d be you kicking seven shades of shite out of Danton there. But orders is orders. Go on now, get back to the Refuge, before old Allenby comes to drag you home.”
The girl doesn’t answer, instead handing Gretcha a roll of parchment. The dwarven woman frowns, taking it and breaking the red wax seal. As she unfurls the letter, a second paper falls out, this one covered in mechanical notations and calculations of the tensile strength of iron chain. She puts it aside, returning to the letter. It is written in the tight, efficient handwriting of the Order’s Grandmaster. A grim smile spreads across her face.
“Danton!”
The tiefling jogs up, and she thrusts the schematic at him.
“Give that to Ben. Boss wants as many as he can make in the next week or so. Then tell everyone to be ready to leave by sunrise. Full campaign kit. The Order rides to war.”