Men of the Middle Land (IC)

[Anders Celsius]

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Alright, everyone ready to roll, it seems.

Nothing strange noticed, Dearg goes back to taking care of his weapon. It's an awfully silent night, not only he and his fellow tribesmen didn't seem in the mood for friendly banter, but also the nature seemed to have gone suddenly quiet, as if it feared some presence. "Not a good sign" he thinks, "could have we done something to anger the spirits?", for there is little mortal he fears, but the same does not count with spirits. They are immune to his blade, and can do more than just take away his life, taking also his soul and bringing him eternal pain and torment. Or they could simply deny him access to the after life, forcing him to wander through earth as another restless soul, always seeking the relief that would never come. With such thoughts he shivers, but as he looks at Vadinek he calms a little bit. His deep knowledge about things that belong to this world, and about others that don't, comforts him as much as his mysterious aptitude for the magical arts, which fascinates him and grabs his attention in the rare moments he gets the opportunity to presence such kind of display. "No, that kind of things cannot be taken lightly", he concludes. "With Vladinek keeping the bad spirits away, Kian will surely find another settlement-suitable place in no time, and then I would be one of the heroes. All I need to do is to get sure that their heads remain where they are, attached to their bodies. Many perils await to collect them in this treacherous land." Lost in thoughts, he realizes he has stopped his manual work. He takes a piece of his cloth and starts cleaning the axe, while resuming his inner monologue.