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Tiny spots of fire deep low in the distance. Lying, lazily—for the first time in a while—on the jagged rocky face of the mountain, Sian stares up to the clouds overhead, as they formed and twisted, waned and shifted.
The dark rumbling that seemed to eternally erupt from the ruins of Northerot had dimmed to a distant thunder.
Home is where the heart is, huh, he thinks to himself.
He jousts himself forcefully off the cold stone and makes way to the rising town, all the way limping though somewhat and using a recently shortened quarterstaff like a cane, in order to descend back down to the level of the town.
Town... it's supposed... to rise to a city.
One moment in the middle, Sian pauses to look around himself curiously, pale-blue eyes scanning about his vicinity, but his raven friend is nowhere to be seen. He blinks and continues down the mountain.
Several of minutes later, Sian walks up behind the man known as Moskher Hezche and playfully taps him on the shoulder with his staff.
"Well well, I hope you are scheming how to get that sand, you; I believe we've lost the race to Fooser, my friend", says Sian, his lips curling into a feline grin.

The figure of a small, slim Halfling wrapped in layers of warm clothing staggers under the weight of heavy bags.
The occasional apple or log drops from his burden as he stumbles along.
"Wish they could make up their mind where they want their trees....." he mutters to himself.
"First a few trees around the coast.....now a forest. Still....means I can make a lasting contribution to this land. Jeremy's forest?.....The Willowbrook Forest?" He nods to himself. "That is good. The Willowbrook Forest."
He smiles to himself and lifts his burden with renewed vigor.
The figure heads out of town into the East staying close to the coast.

Sian laughs softly at the man's comments and turns to cast a glance at the settlement. Glimpsing Jeremy from the corners of his eyes, causing him to form another smile, he then turns his head to focus on Moskher again.
"My half of our part is already done," implores Sian with an impish chuckle.
"And you know I hate those beasts—truth be told, one beat me up last night, can't you see?" asks Sian and gestures at himself. He still wears the burnt grey cloak from his confrontation with Athian, and his appearance is rather tattered, ragged, and beaten up from the past few days. His face has twice the amount of scars it had before he had arrived, before the island, and he toothily grins at Moskher.

Crossing the land, a man wearing ful battle dress,black leather hunting armor, Shrouded in a cloak of black, the shadow of which conceals his face. He seems to be favoring his middle as he walks, but his posture makes it clear that hes fearless of even ogres. Two curved swords are sheathed at his side, and a dagger on the other side. He seems unfamiliar in the lands, and by his strides seem almost noble in nature

"Maybe someone in this new land can help me...." He mutters.

The man enters the village,spotting and approaching the two near the tree

"You there! You seem to know alot, as your observational posture preceeds." He calls.

An orc clad in an old and torn orcish war plate walks along the coasts. He walks with his head down and his helmet looms with a shadow over his eyes, an added shadow. As he walks along, the axe in his hand sways forwards and backwards. He looks to the trees on the coast and utters several cursed

More to cuts...He thinks to himselfJust all da more works...why don't dose stoopids plant elsewheres outside of ORCISH territory?

He walks up to an apple tree near him and begins to hack at it with all his might. Within three blows, the tree falls from the hatchet that hacks away at it's bole. With a growl, he lifts the heavy tree up upon his shoulders and then throws it into the sea, where it slowly drifts away out into the foggy night waters. Grunith turns towards the town where many lights mingle with the shadows that dance amid the rock ground of the ruins. Soon, a city would stand tall here, greater than the town that this orc remembered tearing down nearly a year ago. His heart thudded in his chest with a great and prolonged beat as he approached the group. He knew he would have to adjust to the changes, but this was what was wanted by many people. He would just have to deal with it.

Grunith walks upon the myriad of people and tents and looks about. The fire plays upon his face with a strange and eerie glow. Only his eyes remain beneath the shadows of his helmet in which the fires had failed to chase away. Only they could not be seen. But clearly, upon his lips, a smirk played about his visage as he spotted the group by the trees. He approached them with the sounds of his armor clanking against eachother. His axe swayed upon his back like a pendulum on a gnome's strange device. He was heavily clad and clearly he was noticeable amidst the ruckus of the night. His lower jaw's teeth seemed to play about his upper lips as he approached them as if he was ready to feast upon anything he could find. Yet the smirk that accompanied it showed his intentions were only friendly, if one were learned in the crude expressions of an orc.

Upon reaching the two, he stopped and stood silently by the two, not saying a word. As they talked, he turned and gaze out into the sea of tents and simply just shrugged. He grunted and uttered the words "Me has lots of getting useds to"

From the distance, a call came from the desert. Almost instantaneously, Grunith turned his head in the direction of the call. He did not respond but simply turned to the other two.

Sian swivels his head around and his pale blue eyes fix on the eyes of Grunith, searching for the entity that had lurked within the orc. Before his eyes can focus really and detect the glowing red, he nods his head deeply to his orcish mentor, and then turns it back to gawk in the direction from whence the black-dressed man came astride, eyes narrowing to gaze through dim grey daylight. The man's outfit had caught his eyes, however the blackness about it was not an uncommon sight in Varshikar.
"Of course we do! And who needs to know?" shouts Sian in reply, smirking at the man.

"My name is Absech. Who is the ruler of these lands?"

Sian arches his brows, skin of forehead wrinkling and displaying a quizzical air about him, as he shoots glances back and forth between Moskher and Grunith. Finally, looking back to the man who named himself Absech, he made sure he maintained a militant posture when he replied in a calm voice, trying to outshine his ragged and torn appearance thereby.
"Not a single one, but four be the rulers of these lands. They are nobody less than Veralion, Karmane, Aristeaus and Shukk."
In shades of growing distrust, a gloved hand of Sian's crept loosely to his side, ready to sling a dagger forth from his belt, if necessary.

"I've heard stories of a king here. A man named Darlok. What has become of him?" Absech removes the hood of his cloak, his brown hair caught in the breeze and revealing his noble albeit, windswept features.

"Like life tends to end, this king named Darlok is no more, my friend."
Sian's hand regains a calm posture again by folding up front before him with his other leather-clad hand.
"But I believe these gentlemen here may be able to help y' better," says Sian, then gesturing to the man Moskher and the orc Grunith—with the hand that had dangerously neared the dagger merely seconds ago.

"An orc, and a silent man. How quaint." Absech cracks his knuckles. "Care to wake them? they seem...pre-occupied"

"I need a home. And a means."

"Aristeaus....the other man mentioned his name..one of the four rules, yes?"

Absech surveys the ruined building with curiousity as he speaks.

Turning and walking away a few steps, Sian speaks.
"Indeed—a good man. Farewell to you all."
He looks up at the mountains and the dark castle, and his pale-blue eyes fix and focus on something in the distance. Or perhaps nothing, really. Blankly staring into nothing. Nothing but shadows cast by the mountains and the stronghold that loomed overhead like a dark omen. Ignorant of what would follow within the men's discussion, Sian wanders away into the mountain's shadows, sounds of the settlement fading away from perception. For the first time in hours, or days, it seems like fiery determination has returned to his stride.
And he eventually disappears, almost melting into the shadows.

A man who had been observing these passing of statements walks from the castle, white cloak billowing behind himself and his armour sparkling from the sun.

' Sian hold! '

Turning from the disapearing figure, he motions to the newly arrived man.

' Yes i know who you are, speak your piece friend '

Sian's voice carries off from the shadowy distance: "Meet me in the mountains, my friend."