Aberresai Savannah
The Dead Men Free Company camp was a murderous place where only one law presided; only the strong eat. Numerous tents of various shapes and sizes were scattered unevenly across the encampment, and the uninitiated would question how such a seemingly chaotic group could function, especially when its numbers grew by the day.
The many faces of the Dead Men were flies on the earth, and when the Warchief called for it, they set upon the lands a terrible reckoning, leaving nothing but blaze and corpses in their wake. For this, the Dead Men were feared and hunted, but none thus far could match their cruelty.
At the camp's center was the largest of all the tents, and in it, resting atop a pile of cushions, was the four-armed Warchief. Surrounding him were many offerings brought to him by his followers, but he had little need for worldly things. The tent was dark and lit only from the sunlight that passed through narrow slits in the ceiling.
"Warchief," a bespectacled man with sunken cheeks and dark circles around his eyes stepped into the camp. Tucked under his arm was a ledger, and he pushed the frame of his eyeglasses up his beaked nose. "A guest has arrived bearing your emblem."
Hanuman silently waved one of his four arms. The bookkeeper stepped out, and a girl replaced him. The giant leaned forward, his four red eyes gleaming through the shade. How unexpected.
"Welcome," said Hanuman; his voice was a dreadful timbre, like drifting ash.
The Dead Men Free Company camp was a murderous place where only one law presided; only the strong eat. Numerous tents of various shapes and sizes were scattered unevenly across the encampment, and the uninitiated would question how such a seemingly chaotic group could function, especially when its numbers grew by the day.
The many faces of the Dead Men were flies on the earth, and when the Warchief called for it, they set upon the lands a terrible reckoning, leaving nothing but blaze and corpses in their wake. For this, the Dead Men were feared and hunted, but none thus far could match their cruelty.
At the camp's center was the largest of all the tents, and in it, resting atop a pile of cushions, was the four-armed Warchief. Surrounding him were many offerings brought to him by his followers, but he had little need for worldly things. The tent was dark and lit only from the sunlight that passed through narrow slits in the ceiling.
"Warchief," a bespectacled man with sunken cheeks and dark circles around his eyes stepped into the camp. Tucked under his arm was a ledger, and he pushed the frame of his eyeglasses up his beaked nose. "A guest has arrived bearing your emblem."
Hanuman silently waved one of his four arms. The bookkeeper stepped out, and a girl replaced him. The giant leaned forward, his four red eyes gleaming through the shade. How unexpected.
"Welcome," said Hanuman; his voice was a dreadful timbre, like drifting ash.