my, this place is fun. /for gale
the goblin camp makes itself dance around them; the singing, the drinks overflowing, and in the middle of it, a bard singing his last songs. a ruinous place, where tarnished souls flock like moths to a flame. the wizard finds himself wishing he had stayed at camp with the rest of their merry band, rather than stepping in dahlya's footsteps.
the sun, unforgiving, troubles him nearly as much as the battle drums: sweat gathers, both from overheating and actual discomfort at the hundred eyes following their every footsteps. the sorceress' words make him choke on a laugh; a nasty thing coming out of his throat. "by the gods, is that what you call fun?" he asks, not quite asking-- perhaps fearful of honesty coming from his companion.












