Wonderful 42.

The Principality Of Maladimbah and The Nomads Plains...

Lord Farque and Mira Reinholt the mage spend two days coming down out of the mountains of western Maladimbáh. The Vexilian mage in exile who has got his power back, does all he can do to keep up with the undead warlord who is in a hurry as they head south.
The once powerful mage has to teleport often so that he can even keep the heavily armoured deathlord in sight, who is running at a steady pace for him. But would be a break neck one for anyone else as they come down out of the mountains, and into the foothills in the south western area of the elven principality.
After two days and nights traveling like that, the spellcaster who has only got his power back, and doesn't have a lot to begin with, starts to drop behind. So late one morning after he teleports, and he stops to have a drink from his water sack, the mage Reinholt spots the deathlord of Farque less than a hundred yards away, walking normally along a trail that heads downhill.
The exiled Vexilian mage hurries to catch up to him, and he runs down the bare looking hill, which partially resembles the arid looking plains that the once powerful mage can clearly see away to the south.
Once he's caught up to the undead warlord, and he gets his breath back, lord Farque briefly glances at him, before looking forward again and says "Will i have to carry you mage?".
I fucking hope not, Mira Reinholt the mage thinks to himself as he refrains from wincing at the prospect of being flung over one of the heavily armoured deathlords shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"I don't think that'll be necessary" says the spellcaster who is also a highly skilled swordmaster, who then sourly smiles when the lord and ruler of the lands Farque dryly says "You hope" then the mage from the city-state of Vexil in the Southlands says "Times like this i wished i had a bit more of my original stores of power".
Draugadrottin as he's known by the people of his lands, doesn't say anything about that rare admission from the mage Reinholt about his lack of power, which was once vast. The deathlord of Farque just nods full helmed head, and slightly changes the subject as he says in a tone of voice tinged with irony "Well if you had learnt to cast a rift when you were younger, instead of trying to blow up every fucking castle, village and town we used to visit, you wouldn't be in this predicament now would you".
Mira Reinholt sourly smiles at the truth of that, then he says "Hey, you were the one who wanted me to blow up those castles, villages and towns" the once powerful mage adds "So don't go blaming me for something i didn't necessarily have the time to master".
"Are you blaming me because you don't know how cast a rift spell?" says lord Farque in a cool tone of voice as he looks down at the spellcaster who is more than half a foot shorter than he is "Ah no" hastily says the Vexilian mage in exile, who knows better than to get into an argument with the undead warlord, besides the heavily armoured deathlord is right in this case.
"I thought not" dryly says the lord and ruler of the lands Farque as the downhill trail they're on starts to level out a bit, next to the large figure in the dark blue, black full suit of plate armour, the mage Reinholt softly sighs, as he knows if he knew how to cast a rift, things would be a hell of lot easier for him in life. In particular right now, where he could move easily out onto the nomads plains which he can clearly see at the moment, stretching out to the horizon to the south.
The spellcaster who is also a highly skilled swordmaster, who wants to change the subject completely from his inadequacies when it comes to certain spells, asks the deathlord of Farque "How far out into the plains is he?" the lord of the death realm, who is known as Des'tier to an older generation of elves who might know who he is, says "About another two days travel" the undead warlord glances at the once powerful mage beside him, and adds in a slightly dry tone of voice "Well could be three or four for you".
Mira Reinholt refrains from sourly smiling which he wants to do, instead he starts jogging after the heavily armoured deathlord sets off again. Fairly quickly, the swordmaster from one of the most powerful and successful trading families in his homeland of Vexil, is left behind by the undead warlord. The spellcaster who was once the most powerful mage of his generation to be found anywhere in the Southlands waits some time as he continues to jog, then once the heavily armoured deathlord can barely be seen in the distance, then he teleports to get slightly infront of lord and ruler of the lands Farque.
Mira Reinholt walks for a little while, and soon lord Farque runs by, in the long, powerful stride, that the Vexilian swordmaster in exile knows he can run in, well forever basically. After a while, the mage Reinholt starts jogging again so that he doesn't get left behind, as the two of them continue on their way southwards to the dry, arid plains where the nomad tribes of Belinswae dwell.
In the early evening, the once powerful mage has to stop and rest as he can't go on any further, the swordmaster Reinholt has something to drink and eat, and taking his blanket out from his pack, he lies down on some soft green grass, in one of the few areas of greenery to be seen anywhere so close to the nomad plains, and quickly falls asleep.
Lord Farque has stopped, and turned around, and in the nightfall, he heads back the way he's come from, the heavily armoured deathlord moves fairly quickly, running faster than the pace he's been moving at as he travels south. Draugadrottin soon finds the mage Reinholt, the undead warlord shakes his full helmed head as he stands over the sleeping spellcaster from the city-state of Vexil in the Southlands, who is out to the world.
"Knew I'd end up carrying you" dryly murmurs the deathlord of Farque who speaks in his own language, the ancient language of command, whenever he's alone. The lord of the death realm picks up the swordmaster's pack, and puts that over one shoulder, then he rolls Mira Reinholt up in the the exiled Vexilian mage's blanket, picks him up, and puts him over the other shoulder.
The once powerful mage is so exhausted, that he doesn't even wake at this, nor does he wake when the undead warlord sets off again. This time running quickly, and not at the steady pace that he had been previously, so that the mage Reinholt could keep up.
The lord and ruler of the lands Farque heads south to the nearby plains of the nomads, heading to where he knows the person they're going to meet, is located.
The day after next, very early in the morning before sunrise, Dorc da Orc sits in one of the cuttings in the camp of the nomad tribe he's basically been staying with. The large ork is sitting there munching on a pile of snakes that have been cooked on wooden skewers, the ork warleader enjoys the smokey taste of the snake meat that's cooked over coals that are mixed with dried animal dung, and kerosene bushes.
The ork weaponsmith is happily munching away on the cooked snakes, making sounds of satisfaction, mixed with utterances in his native language, when he grunts when he smells and hears someone approaching.
"Fucken what?" says Dorc da Orc in the common language, which he tries to repeat in the dialect of the plains nomads, but he gets it entirely wrong.
After chuckling at what he just heard from the monster, Halatai says "People are coming" in his broken common as he looks down into the cutting where Dorc is sitting, stuffing his face with cooked snakes.
"Me know that" mutters Dorkindle in the ork language, after he growls "What the fuck you say ya little cunt?" in reply to what Halatai just said. Which caused the large sword on the back of his weapon harness, a sword that isn't his, to hit him in the back of the head, and inform that the nomad child just told him that some people are approaching the camp.
"Oh alright" mutters the large ork in his native language, after Ryn the Sword of Power tells him to get up, and go with young Halatai. The weaponsmith from the wolf tribe of orks stuffs a handful of cooked snakes into his mouth, stands up, and easily climbs up and out of the cutting in the ground, and while chewing a mouthful of smoked snake meat, he asks the nomad child "Where cunt?" Halatai who got the gist of that, points then says "North" in the common language.
In the pre dawn darkness that's slowly turning to light, the large ork and the tribe leaders son start walking north, as they do, Dorc da Orc repeatedly sniffs, the warleader of the ork race briefly stops in surprise, then once he gets underway again, he snorts, slightly grins, then says "The fucken cunts".
"Two of them" quietly says Saladén the far hunter to his brother Chanük the tribe leader, who has just asked him "How many of them?" the far hunter who is just returned to the edge of camp with another of the hunters, quietly says "They're heading straight towards the camp".
"Think they're townsmen?" quietly asks Chanük who wouldn't expect townsmen to be this deep into the plains without a wyvern, or for them to approach from the north, as these two people are doing.
"Biggest damn townsmen I've ever seen" says the other hunter, who continues with "Even in this lack of light, i could see the shorter of the two must of been six foot tall, and the other one towered over him".
The leader of the tribe lifts his eyebrows in surprise at that, for townsmen are mainly short people as the nomads themselves are. You'd be hard pressed to even meet a townsmen or nomad who is five foot ten or over. No one in Chanük's tribe is over five ten, which his youngest brother the far hunter is about that tall.
The tribe's leader lifts his eyebrows again, when his brother Saladén quietly informs him "The larger of the two is wearing armour unlike any townsmen I've ever seen wear" the far hunter nods in the direction the two strangers are approaching from, as he adds "Even the knights i saw in their lands didn't wear head to foot steel like the out there is in".
The three of them turn as they hear who is approaching them from behind in the camp, it's the monster, the ork named Dorc, along with Chanük's son Halatai.
"Seems we've got some strangers coming in" says Saladén who is the one who speaks to the ork most often, as the far hunter is fluent in the common language, which he's speaking now to the monster, who they all slightly step away from, as he stinks more than usual this morning.
Looking down at the nomads in the darkness that's fading away, as the light of pre dawn starts to take effect, Dorc da Orc grunts then says "Me know" the ork warleader then adds "Not to fucken worry, me know 'em" the large ork continues with "They fucken" Dorkindle is about add  cunts, but the Sword of Power prompts him with another word, and he says "Friends?". The ork weaponsmith scowls as he definitely didn't want to say that, but he felt compelled to say it.
Dafuck? the large ork thinks to himself with a backwards glance over his right shoulder at the weapon across his back that isn't his, while Saladén the far hunter translates what he just said to him to the others.
Dorc da Orc looks forward again, and grunts as he sees the two familiar figures approaching from the north, it's by the time that the sun starts coming up over the horizon in the east, that the nomads can clearly see in the early light of dawn the two people walking this way towards their camp . . . . . .