Vorox Run
Arakhe rode back to the encampment, three Dark Hunters in tow. From his mounted spot atop the final hilltop he could see the tents and banners of the war camp amidst the mirrored canyon walls. The black sheen of its armor-clad guardsmen glittered under the desert sun. Agori and Glatorian slaves moved about, directed by more Skrall warriors in studded leather. Even now he could tell the garrison he assembled now waited, under the command of the warrior he had appointed. He would have to make some further arrangements.
He glanced down at his ‘companions’ from atop his Rock Steed: their group leader ‘Mimic’ was a quiet one, the larger one more so. Arakhe swore he saw ‘Subterranean’ wince even from the lightest steps on the heavy desert sand. The third was a noisy ass who took every chance he could to be insufferable. He would be glad when he would finally depart with the others to the Black Spikes.
After a few seconds he turned his gaze back to the path to continue on their way.
Subterranean trudged awkwardly through the sands. Try as he might, he had never quite gotten used to his large, mutated legs and feet. He saw Mimic drop back to walk with him and brightened up. Mimic often did thoughtful things like that, to cheer up a comrade or get them back in the fighting spirit. Subterranean almost smiled, at least until Mimic cried, “How’s it going, Sub?” and transformed into a grinning Visorak spider.
Mimic glanced back at Subterranean, groaning in pain, and Triglax, proud of his own ill-humored joke. “Cut it out,” he said, softly but firmly. “This isn’t a fooling around sort of mission.”
“Every mission is a fooling around mission,” Triglax replied, and changed into an exact replica of Mimic. “Unless you’re a goody-two-shoes Shadowed One’s pet, like someone I know.”
“I mean it,” said Mimic, glaring into his own eyes. “When we encounter the baterra, we’ll need to work as a team. If you’re not willing to do that… well, we might just look the other way and let the robots do their work.”
Triglax chuckled. “I’m sure that fantasy really tickles you. But you know who it might not amuse?”
Mimic watched, unimpressed, as the Shadowed One’s form appeared before him. “I simply can’t imagine who.”
“Face it, kid,” Triglax said, “you need me, just as much as I need you. You let me bite the dust, and Old Threelegs will make sure you’re nothing but dust.”
Mimic muttered something foul. “I heard that,” said Subterranean.
“Lord Arakhe,” said Mimic, changing the subject. “I apologize for my teammate’s irresponsibility, and promise to curb it going forwards. Will we be meeting your soldiers soon?”
“We will; our camp is just beyond this hill.” He paused, “I have last minute arrangements for this mission, however. It would be best if you other two keep distance while I plan with your group leader. Skrall don’t take well to shapeshifters, and I’m sure you already know how loud it will be,” he stated, gesturing to Triglax and Subterranean.
“I don’t need to hear casualty reports because you thought it was funny to try and scare one of my men and one of them puts one of their swords in you... or vice versa.”
It’ll be difficult enough to introduce them to the men already without any more headaches.
