"Not as risky as you'd think. There's a family of dwarves that live there, the Dust clan. They call it the Underforge of the Wildmother, the whole thing is tucked into Kravaraad which is a pretty intimidating looking volcano to tell the truth. But even in the rooms you could still feel the heat of it." Them trying to catch Frumpkin was no worry- the cat would simply vanish from whatever hands or snare caught him, back to he assumed the Feywild until Caleb summoned him again.
He's glad that things seem to be continuing in a peaceful vein, happy to help pack up salvage- while he might not know what they'd find useful to pick from the rest, he can still carry things where they need to go, help with setting up and breaking down camp. It's not just to make friends, though he's glad to see that if anyone looks askance at his eye color, his skin or ears, they don't seem to pay it much mind beyond that initial glance, are willing enough to welcome him.
Fjord accepts the gratitude of the Crows, looking almost a bit uncertain about the idea but clearly glad that their people weren't harmed more than could have been. That they're reunited. The bracelet is gingerly wrapped around a wrist before they leave, the half-orc musing over the faint prickle of a breeze that wafts through, though he sees no sign of it in the area around them, no ripple of shallow puddles, no ruffle of threadbare fabrics.
He appreciates Furiosa's invitation to ride in the cab, but he feels much more at home now that he understands the idea of the vehicles better, riding on the back with the War Boys. Keeping a grip reminds him in some ways of scrabbling around on a ship, up the mast or in the rigging, or maybe along the side dangling from a rope to help with repairs. Enough so that he takes to the method of hanging on easily, doesn't seem to be in danger of falling.
The sun was high, the sky was a familiar, starkly searing sort of blue overhead, and while the Rig was strange, the blast of wind as they got to a good clip reminded him of those days when he was just another sailor, with no notion of anything more dangerous than another jaunt over the horizon to look forward to.
And the shanty that came to mind was fitting enough, so with a playful grin to the War Boys he was set up with he started singing a easy enough, lighthearted sort of tune that would be easy enough for the others to pick up along with him.
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sarken
(no subject)
Date: 2021-03-23 01:31 am (UTC)He's glad that things seem to be continuing in a peaceful vein, happy to help pack up salvage- while he might not know what they'd find useful to pick from the rest, he can still carry things where they need to go, help with setting up and breaking down camp. It's not just to make friends, though he's glad to see that if anyone looks askance at his eye color, his skin or ears, they don't seem to pay it much mind beyond that initial glance, are willing enough to welcome him.
Fjord accepts the gratitude of the Crows, looking almost a bit uncertain about the idea but clearly glad that their people weren't harmed more than could have been. That they're reunited. The bracelet is gingerly wrapped around a wrist before they leave, the half-orc musing over the faint prickle of a breeze that wafts through, though he sees no sign of it in the area around them, no ripple of shallow puddles, no ruffle of threadbare fabrics.
He appreciates Furiosa's invitation to ride in the cab, but he feels much more at home now that he understands the idea of the vehicles better, riding on the back with the War Boys. Keeping a grip reminds him in some ways of scrabbling around on a ship, up the mast or in the rigging, or maybe along the side dangling from a rope to help with repairs. Enough so that he takes to the method of hanging on easily, doesn't seem to be in danger of falling.
The sun was high, the sky was a familiar, starkly searing sort of blue overhead, and while the Rig was strange, the blast of wind as they got to a good clip reminded him of those days when he was just another sailor, with no notion of anything more dangerous than another jaunt over the horizon to look forward to.
And the shanty that came to mind was fitting enough, so with a playful grin to the War Boys he was set up with he started singing a easy enough, lighthearted sort of tune that would be easy enough for the others to pick up along with him.