The men’s hands clapped together, and Corin groaned quietly as the aches of his injuries announced themselves. Once standing, Corin quickly slid a finger over the citrine in his necklace and a warm light spilled out from it. A pale mixture of orange and yellow, the light seemed tangible, like it could be plucked with one's own fingertips.

Corin did just that, and guided the beams of light towards the cuts, scraps, and bruises of the both of them. The pain seemed to dull, if only for the moment. Corin sighed, locking eyes with Elithar and taking measure of him.

Taller build, but that’s normal for an elf. Maybe from Valenar? Or is he local? He seems friendly enough…but this is also the jungle after a crash site. Anyone would be friendly at first glance.

A brief moment of interspeculation, and Corin offered his hand to the elf. ”Tough times call for group efforts. Wherever your original goal was, it might be best to divert to one of the local towns.” Coron pulled up his hood, deliberately turning around to see if there were any observers or optimal paths to traverse from here.

”I don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

And then he turned around.

Interactions: Corin @Lava Alckon

Title: The Gem Knight
Race: Human (Cyran)
Class: Paladin — Gem Knight Archetype
Interaction: Everyone, in their own special way
Location: Lhazaar Jungle --> Port Verge
Attire: Think rough-n-tough artisan. Cotton shirt rolled up to the forearms, with a wool artisan coat to cover his torso when he does his craftwork. Brown leather pants with reinforced knee-support, and a practical belt full of pouches and clasps for his various tools..
Gold Balance: 30
Injuries: Cracked arm, embedded crystalline shard near sternum, mild concussion
Equipment:

Corin had paused. There was a long silence following his question before he slowly sighed. ”Guess that’s my answer. Oh well.” The man’s absence had told him what he needed to know for the time being. He was alone. And would have to figure out this poor situation on his own.

Branches clawed at Corin’s cloak as he pushed through the Lhazaar jungle, each step landing with a tired but stubborn certainty. Every joint in his body protested his reckless descent, yet here he was — not a corpse at the base of some forsaken tree, but a very sore, very alive man heading toward Port Verge. Corin stuck to the more traveled paths that would likely avoid any predators or pursuers, but the most persistent tails could stick to him rather easily.
He shoved aside a curtain of vines. Humid air clung to him like a second skin, the scent of salt beginning to thread its way into the musk of wet earth…the sea was close. Ahead, the undergrowth thinned. A salty breeze kissed his face. Lantern-light flickered through the leaves with Port Verge, nestled at the edge of the world like a hungry grin. Smugglers, pirates, traders, mercenaries, a proper nest of rogues and survivors.
”Alright. One foot in front of the other, Corin. You aren’t dead yet.”

Corin sauntered into the port, keeping his reflexes honed for the various threats that loom in the shadows. Nameless vagabonds rustled in the distance, just out of sight as the new “shmuck” made his way into the bowels of the lion’s den. Corin paid them little mind, unless they decided to approach him. This caution only bubbled beneath the surface however as he approached the stall with the words “Madam Zarra’s” sprawled along its entrance. It was time to see what Port Verge had to offer.

Corin browsed through the wares, thinking of just what he could buy or what he could hear. Information came free if you listened long enough — and Corin had always been a good listener. Besides, his coin purse still felt too light for comfort and he needed to take stock of local “opportunities”.
He was halfway through debating whether the next item was a scam or merely shoddy when a shift in tone cut through the market. Tension, hushed voices, the kind that precedes either applause or violence.
Corin’s head turned.
At the docks' edge stood a group unlike any he’d seen. Five of them — recently untied by a handful of smugglers and sea-scoundrels.
First, a warforged with sun-themed plating, a blue scarf fluttering like it had something to prove. Corin’s eyes immediately shot wide as he recognized the mechanical menace. Bastion? Then his eyes moved to a half-elf crowned in bone, nature-touched and wild-eyed beneath a deer skull helm. A yuan-ti woman who was beautiful in an unsettling, too smooth way, hints of scales catching the light when she moved. A tiefling in starlit skin with an eagle perched like a judgmental sentinel at her side. And a robed wolf-kin in human guise, purple hair flowing in the coastal breeze, eyes too watchful for a simple wanderer. This group had trouble and talent all wrapped in the same bow.
Corin slowed his steps, feigning interest in a cracked spyglass while listening.
The group appeared to have been given two rules: don’t leave and don’t die. Disobey either, and you die. One of those is kind of inherent, but sure. He continued looking through the cracked glass as if to admire its craftsmanship while the group was untied.

“When Prince Dane’s ready for you, we’ll come find you. Don’t worry, we’ve got our ways. For now… welcome to Port Verge. Try not to make me regret untying you.”

And there it was. A name to hang onto. And a new group of compatriots to possibly align with. The fact that Bastion was among them meant they would likely be good company, and he was fairly certain he had seen some of them on the Stormrider—with very limited interaction. This was proving to be far more interesting than he could have hoped. It was as if destiny itself was sharpening its teeth—ready to sink itself into himself and the eccentric people present.

So Corin smirked and noticed a group of three immediately begin to break off—the smaller half-elf had proclaimed she was hungry, and the wolf-man followed shortly after. This could be a good chance to meld himself with the group. He chose his path carefully, nonchalantly marching forward until he bumped into the ever-determined Phia on her quest for food. The two collided softly before he innocently smiled. ”Are you just as lost as me?”

Corin Talmor

Title: The Gem Knight
Race: Human (Cyran)
Class: Paladin — Gem Knight Archetype
Interaction: Phia @princess, Menzai [@sammies], Bastion @Oso, and Arya @Potter
Location: Port Verge Market
Attire:
Think rough-n-tough artisan. Cotton shirt rolled up to the forearms, with a wool artisan coat to cover his torso when he does his craftwork. Brown leather pants with reinforced knee-support, and a practical belt full of pouches and clasps for his various tools..
Gold Balance: 30
Injuries: Bruised arm, embedded crystalline shard near sternum, mild concussion

It wasn’t long after bumping into one of them that the entire crew began descending unto Corin in a flurry of quick, hurried, and measured responses. Some careful, some threatening, but the one he was drawn to was the tall familiar warforged who addressed him as “Commander”. How long had it been since he heard those words?

Corin grinned, reaching a firm hand out that took hold of Bastions in a deceptively vice like way. Not to threaten him—Corin knew Bastion could snap his old body like a twig if he really wanted. But he didn’t. That’s what Corin always liked about the gentle giant. He always knew when to swing the big sword, and when to stretch out a hand.

”Bastion. It’s been far too long, old friend.” His voice hummed with reverence. ”The men used to call you Big Red — on account of how you’d scare the living daylights out of anyone in the dead of night with those fancy oculars of yours.” Corin smiled, giving Bastion’s hand a final shake before adjusting himself.

Corin sized up the crew of adventurers. If nothing else they were all quite capable. They had the survival instincts to make it through things most people wouldn’t. The airship crash was evidence of that. But sometimes in a place like this it takes more than just instinct to get by. He just hoped such nefarious qualities wouldn’t infect them like it had the rest of the filth wandering through the market.

”It is as your small protective friend says. I was on the ship falling to my death before I collided with a tree and used what little sense I had while I was spinning to crack my shield into the dirt and soften the blow. My arm isn’t too happy, nor are any of my ribs….I also have a rather persistent headache since the crash. But other than that…I think I made it out well.” Corin smirked, the absurdity of his tale would likely earn him a rightfully justified look of skepticism.

Then he furrowed his brows. ”There was another man. An elf with orange eyes and dreadlocked hair. He seemed the cautious type. A brief exchange of words was all I could afford before he ran off in some unseen direction. Sound like anyone you might know?”

Corin turned and gauged the surrounding area, the worried and anxious stares began to blend and morph into ones of intrigue and perception. It was like a mountain lion sizing up its prey before the fatal strike. His skin crawled with the faintly malicious intents that were written on all of their crooked faces. As he continued his scanning, his eyes met with the bird perched on Arya’s shoulder. He took a few steps and held up the back of his hand to the eagle, offering his scent for her to familiarize with if she so chooses. ”What a good bird.” Corin said softly.

”It might be good for us, since food seems to be on the mind of many here, to find a more private venue to talk. Care to join an old man for some dinner?” Corin laughed and began walking the same way Phia had initially been walking before their fateful encounter.