Open Chronicles Fever Sands

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The sands beneath his feet were more red, mixed with coyote brown . The winters here were mild, compared to the tundra he was from. He dug his feet into the same, recalling how he ended up here. Belgrath was a pyrric victory, the losses on both sides of the conflict too hefty to say that either completed their objectives fully. He supposed the dwarves won, in the end. But yet… here he stood. As he understood, he was in Molthal, somewhere that he had only heard of in passing, in a book he had read, or on a map of the known world. Now that he was here, standing in the pits, he felt nothing but contempt for the orcs and all that swelled within these lands. All the creatures, all the people. Contempt and hatred. Fury rose from the combination of the two, tempering iron will into steel. It was the fury, the rage that sent him to the pits. His pale skin, blue eyes, and woven hair brought crowds to watch him fight, fight with such ferocity that many wondered how he was even captured. The details were scarce- but even an injured Arnor took many orcs with him, before succumbing to sheer numbers, sheer volumes of orcs.

They sent him here to die, to be a spectacular display of orcish might- and he was sentenced to death for his crimes against the orcish people. The Nordenfiir displayed such violence from his first ‘trial' that he ended up throwing a dismembered arm to the crowd. The man who could break spines, could also, turns out, rip arms off all the same. So, after taunting his new overlords, he found himself routinely sent down, off to fight some other beast, or some other unlucky soul. Tonight was his fifth fight. Night time matches were somewhat risky- the low light didn’t draw as big of a crowd. However a clever use of lighting, fires, and what he assumed magic, made the arena seem larger, seemed the shadows that plagued it throughout the day disappeared, replaced by a orange glow. He was basked in it, coated in the dim light as he stepped from the tunnel. Shirtless, marked by his Svalen and tattoos alike, he towered over the three orcs before him. They spoke in their ugly language, a language he had only a faint grasp of. He twisted the crude sword in his hands, coiled like a snake preparing to strike. A horn blew. They lunged, savage fighters.

He cut the first one down, leaving a gash in his chest. The second received a crushing blow to his face, his nose cracking and his teeth flying. He followed it up with a kick that sent him against the stone wall. The third crashed his shield against Arnor’s back, sending a shockwave across his body, lunging him forward , against the wall. The shield bearing orc came at him, only for Arnor to break his guard with a crushing attack with the pommel of his sword, but the orc came with his sword, trying to swipe across his abdomen, recovering far too quickly for Arnor’s liking. The sword barely missed his skin as Arnor backed up. Arnor took the time that the orc was undefended, grabbed him by the teeth- and slammed him face first into the wall. He felt bones shatter, and grabbed him by his hair, and slammed his face, over and over against the stone. He grinded what remained of his life into the stonework of the pit. The crowd fell silent, amazed and horrified of the violence of the man from the North.

Arnor threw his sword aside, holding his blood soaked arms out in triumph. He laughed, curling his hands into tight fists as they roared, some in anger, some overcome with bloodlust, some out of pure excitement as to what they witnessed. He reveled in it for a moment, before the gate at the opposite end opened, signaling him to leave. The post fight ritual was always the same. He was disrobed and checked for weapons, and cleaned. Depending on the fight, or the fight given, was how well one was cleaned. He seemed to have graduated to soap and water. His quarters was the next step, being flanked by three orcs in heavy armor. From their mannerisms and discipline, he assumed they were second degree shitstains. But without a plan, escape was a pipe dream, a fool’s errand. He had no idea where he was beyond the name of the city, and he couldn’t blend in- a six and a half foot tall Nordenfiir was bound to set something to him, much less if he broke out WHEREVER he was.


He sat on the straw mattress, feeling the cheap animal fur that lined the top. A nice touch, to a shitty situation. He gripped the iron under it, trying to find the nerve to go to sleep. It was difficult enough, but his time in the summer lands had let him appreciate a deep sleep. He rolled around, before drifting off relentlessly and restlessly. He usually had the same dreams. Red hair. Golden fields. Great halls. Broken bottles in the bad ones. They’d be getting worse as of late. He awoke suddenly, a cold sweat on his body. He had a fever. His eyes fluttered and he felt himself go under, hitting the hay, quite literally. He awoke in a strange room, on a low, iron bed- the smell told him he was in, or near the pits still. He rolled around, before a hand pushed him back down. A soft hand that cooed him to relax- in his tongue. He could feel her here. Soft red hair. Strong, soft hands. A voice, sultry and commanding. His eyes adjusted. An elf. He'd seen her before. She whispered into his ears, speaking a language he did not understand. Given the context, she was trying to relax or soothe him. She held a bowl and held it to his lips. It was ice cold when it entered his throat, sending him into somewhat of a relaxed state. Somewhat. He noted the fever had subsided, for the time being. He fell back into the table, looking on the elf that treated him. Where had he seen her? The answers wouldn't find Arnor- he fell back asleep quickly. He assumed it was some time before he awoke again, because when he finally did, he was filled with a ravenous hunger and a terrible thirst. He sat up slowly, getting a bearing on his surroundings. The fever had returned, sweat formed across his face and body. His eyes had been closed for some time, because even in the low light, they needed to adjust. It was his cell, albeit a few more amenities. The elf girl was unlocking the door, which must have been what stirred him. Normally, Norden caused a great fuss about waking up, but he had learned during his years in the summer lands to not freak out on people when they woke him up. Generally speaking, it was frowned upon. The elf girl spoke again, and the orcs guarding him went away. If he had the strength, he would have crushed her throat and made his escape. He was too weak to fight, let alone make an escape. She came and laid the towel across his forehead, trying to cool down his fever. He sat up, staring at her, trying to make out what she was saying. He had zero luck with it. She eventually left, sighing in defeat at trying to communicate with him. He was left alone in the cell, faint torchlight basking him in a soft orange glow. He stood up, walking over to the bucket of water near the door. They cared enough to keep him alive. An orc guard came by. “You fight again. Two hours.”

He hadn't met many orcs, but he wasn't getting a good impression. First, Belgrath, now, a forced gladiator in a shitty arena of sorts. Criminals, perhaps? He hadn't the faintest idea, but it was the best he could guess for the time being. The language barrier hadn't been doing him any favors. He sat on his bed, holding his bucket. He took small, deliberate sips. He wanted to be well hydrated for his fight. Hydration was key to any victory.

 

[Ayman]

Gambling was something he'd always been good at, thanks to a little help anyway.

Cards, dice, guessing games, anything that had to deal with chance. There was a reason for it of course, a reason that he leaned towards that sort of thing.

Half a decade ago when he'd first boarded a ship his captain had carried a pair of dice. Where he'd gotten them Aymen had no idea, but when theyg were boarded by pirates and the Captain was killed, he'd ended up with them in his hand. Those dice, by whatever magic lay upon him allowed him to alter the very fates.

He had no idea how it worked, no idea how it did but, but using the dice he could give luck. An arrow that might hit him may instead encounter a gust of wind, a card might flip to be one that helps him, a misplaced piece of fruit may cause someone to fall.

Always small, always almost insignificant, but it always worked.

Of course there was a price. Whenever he changed his luck, for better or worse, the opposite would later occur. Sometimes it nearly killed him, sometimes it saw him fall on his face, one time it had even broken his ribs. Usually it was worth it, whether it saved his life or earned him a heavy bag of coins.

He'd tested it out on nearly everything, and now...now he hoped it could help him here.

Gladiator battles weren't based on luck, not really...but perhaps he could help the man he bet on win. If only because he needed coin to get back to the Sparrow.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The hours passed quickly. Too quickly for his liking.

The fever came back in spurts, but eventually subsided. It was always the same ritual, the same pre-battle routine. He was given an opportunity to eat, wash, and given a moment alone.

The loneliness was the worst part. He found himself rolling the red in his blonde more than praying. He was then lead to an arms room of sorts, by no less than three guards. They'd only recently stopped shoving him once and a while. A prisoner guard on a power trip, pushing the man who could not fight back. What a surprise. He was never allowed to choose his weaponry, it was always chosen for him. Last time, it was swords. Today, he was given a hammer. A hammer! A big one, at that. Although, a big stone lashed to a stick certainly stretched the term, in his opinion.


The low lights of the tunnels, which he took to calling the wormways- aptly named due to their intricate, winding ways, eventually gave way to a ramp. Sunlight hit his face. He was glad it was winter still, the air was cooler. He imagined the blistering heat that could envelope this place. He wanted to keep it there, in his imagination. Nordens were bred for the cold, and for war, and work. Not the hot, damning sun. That big yellow bastard could fuck off. He was lead down more dimly lit tunnels, to the gate. The gate was crude, wood and iron. The guards went behind a separate gate, safe from Arnor’s wrath. For the moment. There was a silence among the murmuring crowd, as someone with a great voice began to speak. He could only make out certain things, certain words from the context. Pale, he knew, and tattoos, or their word for it. They did not understand Svalen, the marks it left. He held the hammer loosely in his hand, one hand holding a weapon made for a lesser man.

Arnor stared forward as the gates opened. He let his eyes adjust before stepping out. His feet, clad in the same shitty boots, dug into the sand beneath his feet. He took a deep sigh, stepping forwards. Four orcs, with shields. Uniforms. But not military. Too much differentiation between them all to be a standing army. The orc with the big voice spoke again. His syntax was like the greatest storytellers. The four heroes were meant to slay someone. His ears twitched. Human. That word he knew. Must have been an old fight. Four orcs fighting an oppressive, massive human. They'd only win by standing together, as one. Fighting as a unit, as a tribe. At least, that’s the message he'd take away from it. Arnor began to laugh, curling the hammer. He spoke for the first time since he arrived. He used his native language to add to the exoticism, to his mystique. “You think I'm human.” It was then, with a great swing of the hammer, that he splintered the shield the middle left orc was holding onto. He didn't break it, but another strike or two would. He began to wonder- he could smell them. Could they not smell him? He hadn't the time to wonder, to truly dwell on it.

They were trying to kill him, after all. He turned to the second, sending a forceful kick that sent the orc sprawling onto his ass. He turned and drove the hammer across the gap in the shield line, catching one of the orcs in the side of the head. The ensuing gore was like a watermelon being smashed, turning the sands red. He laughed as the three collected themselves. He turned and walked, out of their weapons reach. He faced the crowd. Orcs. Other races. Elves, dark skinned ones. Some dwarves. And humans. The scent of the pits covered his Nordenfiir birth. Useful, if they didn't know. He turned and watched the orcs fall into a three pronged formation, advancing forward towards him with measured steps. The walls were adorned with wooden stakes to prevent people from coming in and escaping by climbing. They were going to try and push him into them. He had to gain ground. A lot.

He chose the left side, the one armed with a spear. He was the biggest threat to deal with first. Reach meant to be able to claim victory. Reach could prove advantageous in a formation. He stepped forward to charge the middle. Big as they were, physics was on his side. He turned at the last moment, as they braced for him to crash into the shield wall. He instead, pulled down the shield of the left most Orc, and brought the hammer down onto the crown of his skull.

He hit him hard enough to slightly push his spine into a compressed state, and his head slightly went down, about an inch and a half down where it normally stood. He collapsed, and Arnor retrieved the spear before the other two could retaliate against him. He dropped the hammer, and with his free hand, braced his body for a rolling motion. Arnor was not dexterous enough to do it without the aid of his hand. He gained some distance from the remaining two, catching his breath.

Murder was exhausting.

 

[Ayman]

Had he bet on the wrong Horse?

Aymen wasn't entirely sure if he could even tell. The man seemed to be fighting as though he were being dragged into an abyss by demons. He was fierce, stronger than the others...but they moved against him at once. A frown touched the rogue's face as he peered down into the arena, his lips thinning.

A hand fell into his pocket.

He had bet quite literally his last bit of coin on this man. The odds were not well...not really, but...he needed him to win if he was ever going to get out of here. Without that money he'd have the debt collectors on his head. That would very swiftly lead to...well him not owning a head anymore.

Unlike the man below Aymen was not a fighter. He had a knife, he could use it, but against a collectors thugs? No. No there was no way.

So he took a breath, the dice falling into his palm in his pocket.

The effects wouldn't be noticeable, they never were, but suddenly the man below in the fighting pit would find himself just a tad more lucky. A spear might graze him instead of entering his heart, a man attacking might slip, small things. Little things that would never leave anyone guessing, but hopefully enough.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Despite the man's efforts to the contrary, Arnor certainly didn't feel any more or less lucky. He felt tired. He felt weak. And he had a fever, coming back in spurts.

He leaned on the spear, bracing himself as he pushed himself slightly upwards, to a stand. He held the spear in both hands, holding it as his sides. Covered in the blood of their comrades, he advanced. Norden men were not known for their... subtlety. Or a lack of tenacity.

It was what allowed him to reach over the shield and impale the second to last orc in the throat with the spear. He pushed it hard enough through his neck that it actually landed in the ground behind the orc. In his moment of triumph, lay defeat. The second orc, not one to take a chance like this, was not able to move his sword arm from the angle he was at to Arnor, sure enough, as Arnor had counted on-

But that meant that he could smack Arnor right in the face with the shield. Arnor was too close to the spikes. This wasn't going to be good. He was sent sprawling, free-falling. And with a shift of the sands, he was saved. A spike was a breath away from his face. The orc came at him, shield first. He was attempting to pin him to the ground with the shield, trying to trap his arms and go for his head, or throat with the sword.

He got as far as pinning him with the shield. Arnor, ever the wrestler, bucked his hips, throwing the Orc off-balance. The orc crashed into the spikes, but not nearly hard or fast enough to cause any puncture. But enough for Arnor to gain an advantageous position and start to beat his face to all hell. He reached down, grabbing the orc by his two fangs. He slammed his head into the sand, dazing him.

He looked up to the roaring crowd, feeling sickened by their savagery. But was he any better?

He dug his thumbs into the eyes of the orc below him while he questioned what made a man 'savage'.

He hadn't the faintest idea.

 

[Ayman]

Ayman quietly thanked whatever deity was currently watching over him.

The young rogue had absolutely no idea what divine being would ever look down on him in any favorable means, but...well this was good. The man was winning against all odds, and in fact he was making a good show of it. His bet would pay off, or at least it seemed that way.

His heart thundered in his chest.

The barbarity that Arnor was pondering seemed entirely lost on Ayman of course. This sort of thing was common within the Wilds. Fights to the death, gladiator pits, they were a mainstay in all the ports that the Golden Sparrow liked to visit. Even before he'd joined the crew this sort of thing wasn't anything new.

Dozens of tribes and species practiced things like this where he came from.

Barbarism for some, entertainment for others.

Ayman didn't particularly care, he only cared that his bet would get him the coin he needed. Finally.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Like a candle, he snuffed the life out from the orc below him. The orc screamed, cursing Arnor in their native languages. Arnor said nothing. The last thing the Orc ever saw, was the Serpentbreaker pushing his thumbs into his eyes. Arnor stood tall, wiping his hands with the sands beside the orc.

He stared up at the crowd, who had fallen mostly silent in disbelief, or disappointment.

Humans were not particularly liked around here, he imagined.

His ice-blue eyes wandered around the crowds, before spotting a particularly...content looking individual. He breathed deeply, looking up at the sky, then down to the man. He pointed a marked hand at Ayman .

He spoke in his native tongue, to the crowd. His voice was soft, betraying his size.

"Did you enjoy your show, creatures?"

He walked around the edge, kicking over the mutilated corpse of the first orc.

"Or was I supposed to die?"

He reached up and pulled the spear from the dead orc.

"You can't kill me!"

But maybe whatever disease was in him, would.

 

[Ayman]

Ayman smirked to himself.

He had no idea what the other man said, the tongue was as foreign to him as the Naga, but it didn't matter. Against all odds the man had won his fight, and that meant he won his bet.

The money wouldn't be enough to make him rich, none of the bets in this place would do that, but it would be enough to get him back to the Sparrow. A certain amount of relief washed over him for a minute, mostly because it meant he wasn't going to die in this wasteland.

The rogue smirked, then half stepped away from the ring.

As he walked he overheard a conversation, though he didn't know where it came from.

"Aye, they'll kill him anyway. Barbarians, cant let em live, ya know?"
​

A slight frown touched Ayman's lips as he heard the words. Did they mean him? No...fighter. A frown touched his lips, and slowly he glanced back towards the ring.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Three more orcs came from the gates, surrounding him.

So it was an execution. Just not a good one. Covered in blood, triumphant, and tired, the Nordenfiir marched forward. He was covered in blood, sweat, and sand. It covered his earthy scent well. They had no idea what he was going to do. So he dropped his weapons, throwing them aside. The crowd fell silent. They were awaiting a reaction.

They came at him with spears. He had transformed before their wrists could complete their thrusts.

They had never seen a Nordenfiir before, let alone the transformation.

So when the Barbarian turned into a fairly large bear in a relatively small space-

It terrified the crowd, sent some of the weaker-willed ones to the exits. For the three in the ring, it struck them with fear. He stood on his hind legs, roaring. He cut one of them down by swiping them across the face. The second, he bit into the neck of. The last, oh- oh he would make an example of. He mauled him to death, slicing him to pieces with his claws. When he was finished, he stood atop the lifeless body of the Orc, and transformed back into his normal self.

He had his back to the audience, those who remained. He looked to the sky, darkening with approaching snow or rain. He held his arms at his sides, raising them up in a praise to the spirits. He started to laugh, picking up one of the spears. He launched it into the crowd, impaling one of the guards in the neck. He tapped his chest, blood pouring off of his face. Not his, no- he was rarely ever covered in his own blood. This was the blood of the vanquished. He picked up the spear, pacing around the spike-covered ring.

He needed a way to get out. Things were accelerating faster than he would like.

 

[Ayman]

Ayman had always been good at getting where he wasn't supposed to be.

It was a talent that he'd often used in employ of the Golden Sparrow, one that the Captain had said was a gift from one demon or another. Aymen himself wasn't entirely sure of that, he was just a man and he'd never made any sort of pact...but it did help to have a little bit of luck.

Within just a few minutes he had managed to slip into the tunnels below the arena, a space that was usually only for those who owned gladiators or controlled the ring itself.

That was of course the point of it.

Aymen moved quickly, clinging to the walls and rushing forward. Sand kicked up from his heels, yet no noise resounded from his footsteps as he drew nearer. A guard stood at the corner, his eyes fixed through small slits upon the ring. Aymen slid up behind him, his dagger pressing into his throat.

A slight gurgling noise erupted, and then the man fell. From his waist Aymen pulled a set of keys, and then he pressed his face against the small slit bars that looked at the bottom of the ring. "Hey!"

He called out to the gladiator, a yelling whisper.

"Move towards the gate." He gestured towards one end of the ring with heavy piked doors.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Apparently Ayman hadn't seen his little show.

What a shame.

He had no choice but to follow instructions. That, and none of the orcs spoke the common tongue as far as he knew. He reached down and picked up one of the fallen orc's swords, making his way to the far gate. As he got closer to the gate, Ayman could tell exactly how...large, Arnor was.

Arnor didn't not trust him, being that he was helping him escape. He just didn't know who he was. So there was a little apprehension. He stood in front of the gate, hearing the distinct sounds of clanking metal. More guards were being mobilized.

Arnor stood in front of the gate, sword held tight in his off hand. He turned back to the ring, in case more of them came through the ring.

 

[Sigguatur Eilifsson]

Well, this wasn't going exactly as he'd planned. But when did it ever. A hood and make covered up the nordic man's pale features, and the attendees of the fight hadn't paid him much mind, they were too focused on the bearkin mauling their champions to death. That man was the reason he was here, he was the only person short of his siblings he'd ever have hauled his ass into this miserable land for. But Arnor was his friend, though brother felt more accurate.

They'd split up a ways back, both had different ideas about how to make their money, but they hadn't parted on bad terms. Thus why he was here to save Arnor Skuldsson, not kill him. Yet Ayman, whoever he was, had been one step ahead of him. Now his friend was getting freed, and Sigguatur was tempted to just watch, but there was no fun in that. That in mind Sig had neither the time nor the patience to make his way into the tunnels, he was going to be a bit more direct.

He pushed through the panic crowds to the rim, and promptly vaulted over the side, clearing the spikes meant to prevent escape with ease. Any other time it would've been an excessively stupid move, but Arnor was getting busted out anyway, better if he joined him and ensured the altruism of his other rescuer. He hit the sand with a thud, kicking up a plume around his hooded figure.

Sig imagined it wasn't the greatest look, he might've come off as some sort of assassin out for Arnor's blood, but he'd clear that up in a moment. A pair of orcs stormed through another entrance, bellowing as they so often did.

"You never could stay out of trouble could you?" He called out, pulling the hood and mask from his head and tossing it into the face of the first orc, the second received a face full of sand. Neither had expected it, and both were cut off guard. He thundered forward and crashed into the first one, hurling the orc onto its back in the sand before pivoting towards the second.

He wrapped his hand around the orc's head and produced a dagger in the other. In a flash he introduced the two, slamming the orc's head into the blade again and again, blood spilling onto his hands as it cried out for an instant and fell silent. As the second crumpled, the first recovered. Instinctively he snatched up the fallen guard's sword, smashing aside the other guard's attempt to run him through then promptly burying the blade deep into its skull.

The two fell in a matter of seconds, and he turned to his friend, shrugging nonchalantly as he simply walked towards him with a smug grin on his face.

 

[Ayman]

The gate fell open just as the other man approached.

Two heavy steel doors parted, the rusted metal creaking as Ayman threw him open just far enough for the man to pass through. As soon as he did so confusion bloomed on his face as the other man passed through his sight-line, his appearance both a mystery and shock.

"Err." The Rogue made a sound in his throat.

In truth he had absolutely no idea what to make of the situation. He'd only wanted to help the Barbarian in the first place because the man had won him quite a bit of coin and now...now there seemed to be two of them.

What the hell had he gotten himself mixed up in?

"Come on." He urged. "They'll be in the tunnels fast."

In for a penny, in for a crown.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

So there he was. So far from home. Stricken with fever. Stricken with despair. Enslaved. Forced to fight. Forgotten. Bound in chains and dropped to the fever sands of Molthal. And yet, he found him.

How long had it been?

Close to ten winters since he laid eyes upon his dear friend, Sigguatur. If not more. He thought he might see him in the summer lands, beneath their frozen tundra, but he underestimated the scope and size of the world he stepped foot into. A stranger in a strange land, indeed.

Ayman- the man who he had won a fair amount of coin for (though Arnor was unaware- he'd have choice words and perhaps a few bone breakings for any man who bet on his life for sport) opened the gates for him. He tossed his sword into his off hand, giving Sig a two-finger salute as he passed him. He had no time to reminisce or give real thanks. They needed to get the fuck out of there.

He turned to Ayman. He spoke in a heavy accent.

"Do you have a plan now, or are you planning as you go?"

For a man about to face a squad of angry Orc guards, Arnor seemed pleasantly calm.

 

[Sigguatur Eilifsson]

They'd sort everything out later, for now outside of his introductory remark, Sigg had nothing to say. Turning on a heel he followed after Arnor to meet with his friend's benefactor. Much like his friend he seemed far from rattled at the prospect of a coming fight, and if it was to be believed he and the other bearkin were even remotely the same in terms of capability, the nonchalant attitude was justified.

He wished he had something a bit beefier on his person but getting in with a dagger was difficult enough, so for now the stolen Orcish blade would have to suffice.

Sigg debated simply echoing his friend's question but opted to remain silent for the time being. Plan or no plan, it wouldn't make a world of difference, there would likely be a good number of dead orcs all the same. Not that he was complaining about the prospect. He never had liked orcs.

 

[Ayman]

It was a good question, and unfortunately one that Aymen did not have a good answer for. His lips thinned for a moment, fingers tightening as he took a slight breath and then shrugged. "I thought we would rely on luck."

Likely, that was not what the man had wanted to hear.

To be fair, this place was almost as foreign to him as the backside of an Anirian Baroness. He had come here not because he liked it, but because he knew that he could earn himself some coin. An escape had never been particularly part of his plan. Nor was it something he could have foreseen.

"There's tunnels that stretch for miles." He told the man as he turned and lead the way. "That'll be our way out."

He hoped.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

He knew the way?

More than Arnor, more than likely. Arnor had never been anywhere in the arena but the sands and the cage he was kept. A cage. Like an animal. The statement about luck did not bother Arnor in the slightest- he was winging it as much as the two men were gathered.

He gave a firm nod to his dear friend- the time for pleasantries and well-wishing was not now. That would come later. Arnor made his way to be near the raven-haired man who helped him, but stopped, his vision blurry. Dehydrated and ill- and thoroughly exhausted by weeks of fighting, Arnor was suffering to say the least. He leaned on the wall, dropping his sword.

He coughed, and coughed and coughed- the fever growing, or so it felt with each passing cough. He dropped the sword, leaning on the adjacent wall near the gate. He collected himself, gathering the sword at his feet. He blinked, regaining his composure.

"We may need to accelerate our hasty retreat."

Arnor was getting sicker by the day.