Tusk grunted. Point taken. Leaving the kids to it, the orkin headed upslope, foregoing the usual rites to survey the ground ahead. Scavenging was a young Cazadore's game, one befitting Garrod and his protege. A good bonding experience, all the old heads would agree, reinforcing the practise of waste not, want not. A packful of cheap body parts was better than an empty one, just so long as the weight didn't slow you down too much.
Avarice was a tricksy maid and not one to mess around with.
Any hunter with half a brain would have no problem figuring out why.
'Alright then. Ready?' Plate rattled as Tusk took point. The wind pitched itself against them, tugging at hemlines, snaking inside collars, applying pressure to eyes that abhorred the irritant. Uncomfortable, aye, but then so was hunting a Den-killer.
Or receiving an obsidian mark.
He had done some digging, of course. Exhumed the past with the goal of securing a future for them all. No one seemed to know who had sent him the piece of maldizia, which was somewhat disconcerting. After the initial buzz, no one particularly cared. Just an old hunter off to do what he did best. Maybe he'd come back, maybe he wouldn't. Such was a Cazadore's lot.
'"Luck to you, Soulkeeper, and if you die, die hard."' The orkin shook his head, amused. 'Some fuck-ass greenie said that t' me on the way out of Merillion,' he smiled. 'Thought he was being clever at the time. Like he knew somethin' I didn't.'
The Soulkeeper blinked. Stilled.
'More sand than sense, these youngbloods,' he grumbled, noticing a break in the pattern of the earth.
Den Lionell, creeping up on them.
Avarice was a tricksy maid and not one to mess around with.
"Surely we don't need to carry those with us the whole time. Can't we get them on the way back?"
'What makes you think we'll be comin' back?' The orkin grinned, back to the group, one eye on the wild woman and her pet wolfgirl, the other watching the periphery for signs of movement. Nachzehrers weren't particularly brave, granted, but the hungry ones were always harder to predict, and this lot had been hungry for quite awhile.
Any hunter with half a brain would have no problem figuring out why.
'Alright then. Ready?' Plate rattled as Tusk took point. The wind pitched itself against them, tugging at hemlines, snaking inside collars, applying pressure to eyes that abhorred the irritant. Uncomfortable, aye, but then so was hunting a Den-killer.
Or receiving an obsidian mark.
He had done some digging, of course. Exhumed the past with the goal of securing a future for them all. No one seemed to know who had sent him the piece of maldizia, which was somewhat disconcerting. After the initial buzz, no one particularly cared. Just an old hunter off to do what he did best. Maybe he'd come back, maybe he wouldn't. Such was a Cazadore's lot.
'"Luck to you, Soulkeeper, and if you die, die hard."' The orkin shook his head, amused. 'Some fuck-ass greenie said that t' me on the way out of Merillion,' he smiled. 'Thought he was being clever at the time. Like he knew somethin' I didn't.'
The Soulkeeper blinked. Stilled.
'More sand than sense, these youngbloods,' he grumbled, noticing a break in the pattern of the earth.
Den Lionell, creeping up on them.