Fate - First Reply Molthal's sweet Spring song

[Afanas]

Koltûn
Afanas sniffed and glanced back at the marching column. “Pray you are right,” he said. “If not, the Dark Ones’ servants will clean their teeth with our bones.”

The sword across his back rattled in its sheath, a dry rebuke. He tapped the pommel with one finger. The steel fell still.

Dark veins rose under his pale skin, thick as worms. Heat pressed close. The sun chewed at him. His mouth dried. His pulse thudded like a mallet on thin wood. Hunger answered.

“I must feed,” he said, plain as iron. “Which can you spare—man or beast? I prefer sorcerers, but anything strong will suffice.” His gaze moved over the ranks, counting breaths and faces. “If your heart clings to them, we camp. I scout for large game. I take what the landscape will give.” He squinted at the white blaze of sky. “Choose quickly. The sun peels me like bark as we speak."

 

[Koltûn]

He raised his hand, causing the entire column’s march to grind to a halt.

He looked down at the Psuchephage, and then around at the landscape. He’d hoped the Allirian could’ve at least kept his appetite in check until they’d reached the borders of the Blightlands.

As it were, there was no way he was giving up a single member of his column to satiate the hunger of his ancillary. Turning back for the sake of the newcomer was, likewise, not an option. He was also aware, however, that in the Blighted Plateau there wasn’t a quarry worthy enough to keep his guest satisfied for a long time.

As his eyes swept across the rugged, barren wastes, his bright gaze came to rest upon a set of dark peaks in the far distance. Seemingly taller than all their peers around, the jagged mounts rose abruptly into the sky, like blackened fangs against an ashen-gray maw.

Maybe.

- “There is a place you might find of interest.” - He drawled, eyeing the dark passes. - “It lies deep in the mountains, where the light doesn’t touch.” - He dismounted, glancing at his iron-clad elites. The men understood the implication, quickly dismounting in turn, and then heading out to the back of the column to instruct the orcs to set up camp.

- “I can lead you there.” - He shifted his gaze back to the Psuchephage. - “Unless you prefer to settle for lesser prey?” -​

 

[Afanas]

Koltûn

Afanas nodded, stiff at the neck. His mouth felt dry as chalk. He lengthened his stride. The cloak clung like a living shadow and would not flap.

“Point the way,” he said. “The stronger the prey, the longer I last between meals.”

He cast one look at the far spires. He counted holds and ledges in a breath. He could scale them. The dark would not balk him. His eyes cut night like a whetted knife. His hands remembered siege walls and broken towers. Tendons sat quiet, ready to draw him upward, quick and sure.

He tasted the wind and the grit. He thought of the murk ahead. He hoped it held no lost tribesmen from the Blightlands. Pity soured the tongue, and pity made weak meat.

“There is no honor in hunting the frail,” he said. “That is the road to hell, best suited for cravens and half-men.” His gaze fixed on the stone teeth and the black gullies between. “I want a fighter’s blood. If not fighters, then monsters. Give me something that bites back.”