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NytefallHraakir
The snow elves were cowards. This single statement ran through the Dragonoid’s head and danced on the tip of his tongue throughout the ‘briefing’ he was forced to endure. They always ran and hid, never surfaced, never spoke, his tribe knew of them only as the shirking ones. In their periphery when traversing the northern snowfields, lithe figures agile enough to dance on the surface of the lightest drifts, but they never made contact. They feared the Redscales, it had seemed, and Hraakir knew in his heart that the snow elves were not warriors, so how then would they help the Resistance in its fight? A different man may have voiced this concern, but Hraakir knew better. Let these manlings have their false hope, let it drive them to the field where steel and blood would decide their fate. Getting to that legendary day was all that drove Hraakir. The battle in which he would gain glory in the eyes of his god, perhaps be elevated to that of a true dragon, he’d do what he must to see it come to pass.
Fortunately, none of the ignorant cow-people saw fit to join the group heading North. There weren’t many in the camp to begin with, so it was not all that surprising. Minotaur favoured the apotheosis, it seemed. Unsurprising that they would throw their lot in with godless manlings, the fat cows were cowards beneath all the fat and fur, they wouldn’t choose a losing side. Good, good, Hraakir would have hated to have to kill another of the party so soon, he might need some of the others to look upon him if not favourably, then at least not with outright hostility. The North was dangerous for one alone, even if they knew the wilds well, and it was in Hraakir’s blood to co-operate in a tight-knit group. They were bound to be poor replacements for his tribe, but he would make do with what his god had given him.
The Gate
Unbound by any ties to the camp, the Dragonoid slowly meandered towards the Northern gate of the impromptu fortifications, ignoring the light rain that drizzled down his furs. All he owned he carried with him, and he had been prepared for travelling through wilderness all his life so last-minute purchases were unnecessary. He made just a short stop to climb a nearby tree in which he had placed his halberd, a steel-bladed weapon that was very unlike the bone-axes at his side, a weapon that had already taken a life. Eventually, fully equipped and breathing heady reptilian fog from his nostrils, he arrived at the gate and awaited the arrival of the manling chief.
However, arriving early had put him close to a brewing conflict. A scant ten minutes after he arrived, the sounds of argument reached his ears from close by. Sitting atop a large horse was what seemed to be a manling in armour, and in front of him other bald manlings swaggered and cursed. A fight, then? Amazingly, the manling abandoned his mount in favour of fighting on foot with a huge hammer, an act of courage that caused a swell of admiration to rise in the Dragonoid’s breast. He could have fled his foes on the horse, or fought from on high, but he chose to die with his feet on the ground and a weapon in hand. So impressed was Hraakir with this foolishly brave act that he pushed himself from his position beside the gate and sidled over, clawed feet making sure purchase on the wet ground, reaching the ensuing battle before it had chance to begin. He plunged the haft of his halberd into the slushy mud beside the armoured man and barked a declaration, for good or ill.
“I fight with this one.”
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Summary: Hraakir accepts the quest on the odd chance that upon succeeding he'll get his big battle, he then promptly wanders into the ensuing skirmish at the gate and after being satisfactorily impressed by Reed's bravery, decides to randomly join him should it come to bloodshed, despite not even recognising him as one of his own party.
