i don't like sand | OTA

[extortionate]

WHO: Lazar + OTA
WHAT: Finally intro-ing
WHEN: Wobbles hand vaguely
WHERE: The Western Approach
NOTES: hmu on plurk for whatever

The village had a name once.

No one's left to speak it now. These ruins have been abandoned for an Age, stone worn soft by the dunes that still bury its shape. The village had a name, but the guides didn't know it. Wouldn't mark it on a map. Averted their eyes when you grabbed your own pen.

Those guides fled last night — with the horses, and the water —

So it's a good thing you've got company.

Comments

CAMPSITE;

[extortionate]

Introductions may be unnecessary. But for those not engaged in the business of adventuring, looting, and occasionally writing papers about it:

The old one's Schiele. The big one's Lazar. Explorers, you could call them (at least they call themselves). Explorers on a journey of discovery.

Chiefly, they'd like to discover some profit.

Riftwatch is invited to use their campsite, even share some of their provisions. They aren't eager to share much else. Schiele's cagey, and questions agitate him. Lazar's as amiable as he is well-armed.

Whatever they want can't be far. Better that Riftwatch beats them to it. Get one to fess up, or do your own recon.

[taxonomy]

Last he'd been to the Western Approach had been-- after the Anderfels, surely? Yes, must have been, he'd had to go back to the University after and there'd been some dragon spotting to be done, a combination of research--

Not that the Approach ever changes much, not to his eyes.

"Well." For want of anything else to say because Tavin's never been good at keeping his mouth shut too long, recognising a type if not their type. (Hopefully he's never hired them, it'd be terribly embarrassing to forget, maybe even rude.) "Drink?"

A decent enough wine - you have to travel with some comforts - offered out to the one he thinks is more likely to take it.

"Is this camp secure enough, nothing come prowling? The phoenixes were more than bold last time I was out here."

RUINS;

[extortionate]

Excavating the ones of the entrances takes time, and strong hands. Someone's stacked rubble to hide it.

The tunnels are long and deep, carved out of rock and reinforced — here and there — by the fossilized bones of something enormous. An unsettling mosaic illustrates small figures thrown into massive jaws.

The village is abandoned. The tunnels aren't: Spiders devour each other, and anyone who comes near enough their webs. A trapped bat thrashes, signals some traffic to the surface.

The path winds, and splits, and dead-ends. Sudden cave-ins threaten to drown you in sand, or an improbable number of venemous snakes. Step carefully. Someone left clever levers and wires and caltrops behind.

Someone. Hm. What a dick.

SHOWDOWN

[extortionate]

Eventually, a single tunnel opens onto the altar-room, and its prize. The air about the idol wafts unnaturally cool, damp. It tastes of salt.

Schiele's already shoving it in a bag.

"You gotta be kidding," Lazar mutters, draws his blade. Mostly that's show. Two on everyone else isn't great odds. One's worse. "Suppose we better come to an agreement."

His companion sputters something in Ander. Doesn't sound like an agreement.

[imbroccata]

He wasn't with the party that happened upon Lazar's camp because he was scouting their surroundings, but now he's here and though he sees the old man first it doesn't take long for his attention to fall upon the bastard that tried to feed him to a bear not so long ago.

It might be longer than not so long ago but grudges make time immaterial.

The word agreement is barely uttered into the air between them when Lino hurls his spear at Lazar.