The large fur cladded figure that seemed to tower over the rest of the group was rummaging through it's make shift bag, it looking like it was poorly stitched together from a elk's hide, for the third time since they exited the small village of Ivarstead. Tandagh was more than ready for the undoubtedly lengthy journey that would be climbing the infamous seven thousand steps of the massive throat of the world. But one of the first lessons that the Orc had learned when he entered this unnatural existence, that he had long since come use to, was to always be prepared for difficult situations. As he reexamined the three bottles swishing with a thick red liquid Tandagh reassured himself that he would be set for a few days if this trip took longer than expected. 

Tandagh closed his bag as he heard the small Dunmer, who was the apparently the one who got the group all together in the first place, speak up from the front of the group. In all honestly the girl's words rang rather hollow for the Orc. Tandagh knew exactly why he had join the group, why he was risking exposing himself, why he was journeying to this old Nordic temple to learn this ancient magic. Not because of honor or for the greater good of others, but because of the rage and the craving of revenge towards those flying lizards he had burning inside of him. Tandagh pulled the bear skin that was wrapped around him a bit tighter as he let out a low grunt before he began to follow after the others up the mountain.