[center][h1][b][color=lightblue][u]Cormag Ruunsten[/u][/color][/b][/h1][/center] 

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The City of Volenstul was a bustling hive of activity- it always was, rain or shine. The din of the city could be heard from miles away, people and animals all going about their business. Not far from the south gate of the city proper was a small camp- relative to the city anyway. The walls of the camp were rudimentary wooden palisades, hastily assembled logs sharpened to points and lashed together surrounding the cluster of buildings and tents larger than average. As if to dispel any confusion to who the camp belonged to, parked outside were a quartet of vehicles that were too large to be wagons- closer to sailing ships on wheels. This camp was a camp of Nar Ir-Har Ogres, once an enemy of the state, now subjugated servants. However, any animosity one might imagine there to be had long since filtered away, and if lingering tensions remained, it was hard to tell here at least. 

The camp was a mess- an organized chaos, as armored ogres dragged massive crates back and forth, beasts of burden assisting them. Human officers stood atop rapidly constructed platforms, barking out orders. The piercing sound of a hammer crashing against an anvil created a rhythm for the work. A massive chest of gold sat in the center of the camp, surrounded by Imperial flags. A cadre of human officers armed with books and notepads dolled out sacks of gold to a growing line of ogres- signs of a job well done. A host of ogres returned from a season of campaigning on behalf of the Empire, come home for rest before deploying again. 

However, where most of the occupants of the camp seemed to be settling in, one in particular seemed to be preparing to head out. Still clad in steel, painted the blue of Imperial Auxiliaries, Cormag Ruunsten plodded through the camp with purpose, his heavy footfalls kicking up mud as he stomped across the mud. 

[color=khaki]"Eh? Wassat there Cormag? You look like you've seen a ghost ye have."[/color] called out squat dwarf, sitting on a bench by the blacksmith's anvil. The dwarf appeared even shorter than usual, surrounded by a collection of fusilaxes he was currently servicing. Cormag merely grunted in reply as he reached across and grabbed his- particularly well maintained, with faint runes still carved along the axe blade. Out from behind the pile of axes came a familiar mastif forged of steel and wood.

[color=lightblue]"Think I very well might've."[/color] Cormag grunted in reply, as he patted the top of Ferrus' head, inspecting the weapon for a moment, before slinging it over his shoulder. [color=lightblue]"Oi Durnan, whereabouts is the supply tent again?"[/color] Without waiting for an answer, Cormag's eyes found the quartmaster's tent and began plodding over towards it. 

[color=khaki]"Eh? Cormag? I haven't even looked at that one yet-"[/color] The dwarf named Durnan called after him, throwing his hands up in frustration as the ogre disappeared beneath the tent flap.

The supply tent was less a tent and more of an open air supply depot, cordoned off by wooden walls and cloth doors. Supplies, perishable and preserved were stacked in crates. Spare weapons and ammunition in the opposite corner. One of the crates had been knocked over a little while before and currently had its contents- sacks of shot and powder currently laying haphazardly on the floor. The quartermaster in question was a big, scarred Ogre, missing eye hidden beneath an eyepatch, the wooden stump of a log in place of his foot.

[b]"Cormag? What's all this eh?"[/b] Quartermaster Orlson asked with a cocked eyebrow as Cormag passed him a list of supplies. [b]"Fight's over, didn't you know? Its our first break in months, and you're heading out again? Go be a good son and pay your family a visit."[/b] The aging quartermaster chuckled. The big ogre merely shrugged in response. 

[color=lightblue]"That's the plan, sah'."[/color] Cormag replied with a shrug. [color=lightblue]"Thinkin' my da's gotten himself into some trouble up by Somerset."[/color] Cormag didn't explain any further than that. Instead, he pulled a sack of coin from his hip and placed it on the table, the heavy metal clinking against the wood. [color=lightblue]"I'll need another combat supply of shot and powder, field pack, spare tools, forge, a wee bit of rum and one of tha' pack Oxen. I've got the scratch for it o'course."[/color] 

[b]"For what? You know the Imps don't take kindly to Ogres walking around with ammunition- not without service lined up."[/b] Asked Orlson. 

[color=lightblue]"Just get me the gear you cottonhead. Tell 'em I'm responding to an aid request out by Somerset."[/color] Cormag remarked as he made his way to the front of the tent and began unshackling one of the Ox from the front of the armory tent, a large brown beast with a collar labeled 'Gomie'. Still confused, Orlson nonetheless nonehteless accepted the coin and began pulling the supplies out of the armory, and handed them down to Cormag who quickly strapped them to the sides of pack Ox: A leather covered box filled with 40 balls of lead shot and powder, a field pack with all the typical supplies needed for overland travel- mess kit, bedroll, waterskins, field rations, fishing line, an aid kit and the like- a half full bottle of rum, and a mobile forge. Seemingly satisfied with his quick preparations, Cormag nodded to himself and began stomping off in the direction of Somerset, his pack ox and steel defender dutifully following behind him.