[h1][center][color=teal]Jerod[/color][/center][/h1]

Jerod smirked at the Manakate as she got right up in his face, meeting her gaze levelly. He could handle a half dragon chick that seemed more interested in messing with other people as she did being all sorts of angry dragon, burning everything to cinders type. Well, that was an improvement of sorts, even if she seemed to lack the basic understanding of personal space, and her statement got a snort of amusement out of the Feroxian. Pirate, eh? Well, he was far from the sea faring sort, boats and him never got along, he preferred to keep his two feet planted firmly on solid land. Same went for those crazy folk who rode wyverns and pegasi around. Nope, he was not putting himself in a situation that would fall apart, literally, due to something else failing, not if he could help it. But he met the draconic laugh with a snicker that had undertones of a chill colder than the farthest northern wastes of Ferox. Two could play that game, and even the high and mighty Manakate's couldn't stop him, even if the prospect of facing another one in a fight was not a pleasant one. [color=teal]"Ach, ah pirate, eh? Ah've been accused o' wor'e, sure ah sure. Ah'n ah would recommend ye dinnae try a' torch m'. Ah dinnae burn lig'tly, savvy? 'Sides, ah wouldn't want t' be takin' t'e axe t' ye, yer alrig't, far a' ah reckon."[/color]

Jerod watched the drama and Champion lad go about their paths, arms crossed over his armored breastplate. The Feroxian fighter was amused by the rather disparate elements that seemed to have been drug together by this Champion's presence. So, Plegia first, eh? Good, most Feroxians hated going to the desert nation, which meant less likely for anyone important to recognize him. Besides, seems no other Feroxians had been attracted. Odd, but convenient. What was also very odd, but very inconvenient, was the fact that the Champion lad had saddled him with organizing things and getting the barracks squared away. Wait, since when did he lead people? Hell, he hadn't led a band since, well, it had been many years. And it was not a task he relished, even though it was a simple one. Clean things up, hell, he might as well dispatch folks to clean out the barracks part, claim their own cots, all that general nonsense. But he turned, clapping his armored hands together, which made an odd clanging noise, and spoke candidly to the assembled folks that didn't promptly run off. [color=teal]"Ach, w'y me? Ah well, alrig't lads, lasses, ah reckon t'is ain' over complex. Groundkeeper fellow, ah dinnae expect ye t' finis' t'e outside in suc' s'ort order, s' 'ead inside wit' all t'e ot'ers an' find yerself a cot. Same goes fer t'e rest o' ye. 'Ead inside an start cleanin' up, reckon t'e sleepin' quarters will do fer starters, eh? Ah'll go clean out t'e armory, see 'ow bad off we are. Gods knows ah mig't be in t'eir a fair 'mount..."[/color]

Jerod would shepard, no pun intended, the group inside and send them off to the sleeping quarters to claim bunks and start cleaning. Jerod, Gods above help him, had to start cleaning up other parts of the barracks that the Shepards were now going to be operating out of again, starting with one of the more important places. Armory, where folks would clean up, maintain, and replace their gear as needed. Jerod walked into the place, and groaned under his breath. Place was a wreck, and he sighed as he hauled a weapon stand upright, coughing from the dust it kicked up. Great, this was going to take awhile, and he shook his head and went to work without delay. If anyone needed his help, they would know precisely where to find him, as he had announced as such. But, not surprisingly, there wasn't much laying around here. Seemed like they were going to be Shepards, after all. Small, elite force running around underfunded, underequipped, trying to deal with a situation well over a fair number of their collective paygrades. Well, sure as hell was above his, he was just a Feroxian with a sharp axe. Past be damned, of course, but things seemed to be going smoothly in that regard. High profile like this might attract attention, but he could probably avoid anyone who would really recognize him. [color=teal]"Ach, t'is job ain' goin' t' be t'at bad, a' t'is rate..."[/color]

Jerod heard the lad call out, as he was running around blowing all the cobwebs and dust out of the rooms (which saved him a considerable amount of work) about being ready to leave within the hour. Poking his head out of the armory, Jerod responded to the (in his case) redundant question. [color=teal]"Ah can leave at a momen's notice, lad, like ah said earlier. T'is place is a Gods damn'd wreck, ain' no supplies left over either, ah 'ope yer plannin' on lootin' the dead fer t'eir gear, ah t'is rate."[/color] Laughing at the idea of running a group of 'elite' soldiers off the spoils of the dead, Jerod went back to work cleaning up and resetting the armory to some semblance of proper order. After all, next place that needed cleaned up would probably be the mess hall, and he did NOT want to see what shape that was in. So as he was wrapping up in the armory, he set about making sure any equipment for maintaining weapons and armors, grindwheels and the like, were at least set up and functional. Might as well leave as little work for their return to this place as possible.