Fallenreaper
Emeth
BlackRoseSiren
Ti
Not a Sayan
Echotech71
FourtyTwoRintor regards the portal: a chaos of time and space made real. While others concern themselves with thoughts about their pasts and futures, while they formulate plans, position themselves, and wax philosophical, the lightbender relieves his mind of all thoughts. There is only colour and light - light so fast that it takes everything that he has to catch it and coax it to do what he needs it to do. Amid the fanfare and hubbub, they don't even notice him disappear. They don't notice when he slips in front of the wagon, or when he's the first one through the portal.
For the barest of moments, Rintor loses track of the light's thread. He has to catch it again, but by the time that others step through, he's gone. Green plains, a handful of trees, misty mountains in the distance, and unsettlingly blood-red flowers. The sky is strange, as would be expected of a strange land, but the air is breathable. Otherwise, this would be the shortest expedition ever, he thinks wryly. Perhaps the day/night cycle here is nothing like it is back home. In any event, he does what years' worth of expeditions have taught him: preliminary scouting for immediate dangers. Rintor is under no illusions that while his linguistic skills were a nice addendum, he was chosen for his more... martial abilities.
He is nearby when he registers the half-elf with the wraith blade talking about setting up shelter. Reconnaissance comes first.
He has reached the first line of scrub when he notices the changeling shift until it resembles an elf. He listens as it lays into the whelp. Vinegar over honey, this one.
He is a few steps further when the Mithra, fresh out of the academy with her shining armour, starts barking out orders as if she'd suddenly been promoted. You'll be placing lots of square pegs into round holes, child, and not all of them will like it.
He is nearly out of earshot when his prediction comes true and the elf and the dwarf seethe.
The onetime Blade of Boshir is determined not to treat this as a military expedition with a chain of command. And yet, some discipline might be required. There are a lot of people here - young people, strong, headstrong, and eager, itching to make their marks on the world - who've never seen a day of real combat in their lives. Who've never crossed through hostile territory or had to forage for food. Hopefully this will be a voyage of exploration and discovery, where he can focus on unraveling the linguistic tapestries of cultures that he could scarcely imagine. Rintor earnestly wishes that it will proceed with nary an enemy nor incident, but his years of experience tell him otherwise.
Paying careful attention to the direction of the wind, which is summarily unpredictable, he crests the nearby ridge and gets the lay of the land. These clouds and their constant motion require a lot of concentration to blend in with. They look ready to dump their contents, though Rintor will not allow himself to assume anything about the weather of this place.
Finally satisfied that their immediate surroundings won't kill them, the lightbender makes his way back to camp and lets the threads go. He rematerializes among the others, right in front of the mithra and the elf. He hates intervening. He'd hoped to remain quietly anonymous, but there is ambition and pride at work here. "Your instincts are sound, young soldier, but I, for one, did not come here to be ordered about like a green recruit by someone whom I've scarcely met. There are capable people here, and proud ones. I recommend we allow them the dignity of introducing themselves and their abilities."
Rintor glances around. Perhaps some people are looking at him. "I am Rintor, a servant of knowledge and a student of languages. You have seen what I do. Once, I led soldiers, and while I wish to do no violence, I retain many of those skills. I've scouted beyond that ridge. We are safe for now, but I'm of the opinion that this position is too open and the low ground is prone to flooding. Let us speak, know each other some, and then move on." He seats himself on the ground, cross-legged.
For the barest of moments, Rintor loses track of the light's thread. He has to catch it again, but by the time that others step through, he's gone. Green plains, a handful of trees, misty mountains in the distance, and unsettlingly blood-red flowers. The sky is strange, as would be expected of a strange land, but the air is breathable. Otherwise, this would be the shortest expedition ever, he thinks wryly. Perhaps the day/night cycle here is nothing like it is back home. In any event, he does what years' worth of expeditions have taught him: preliminary scouting for immediate dangers. Rintor is under no illusions that while his linguistic skills were a nice addendum, he was chosen for his more... martial abilities.
He is nearby when he registers the half-elf with the wraith blade talking about setting up shelter. Reconnaissance comes first.
He has reached the first line of scrub when he notices the changeling shift until it resembles an elf. He listens as it lays into the whelp. Vinegar over honey, this one.
He is a few steps further when the Mithra, fresh out of the academy with her shining armour, starts barking out orders as if she'd suddenly been promoted. You'll be placing lots of square pegs into round holes, child, and not all of them will like it.
He is nearly out of earshot when his prediction comes true and the elf and the dwarf seethe.
The onetime Blade of Boshir is determined not to treat this as a military expedition with a chain of command. And yet, some discipline might be required. There are a lot of people here - young people, strong, headstrong, and eager, itching to make their marks on the world - who've never seen a day of real combat in their lives. Who've never crossed through hostile territory or had to forage for food. Hopefully this will be a voyage of exploration and discovery, where he can focus on unraveling the linguistic tapestries of cultures that he could scarcely imagine. Rintor earnestly wishes that it will proceed with nary an enemy nor incident, but his years of experience tell him otherwise.
Paying careful attention to the direction of the wind, which is summarily unpredictable, he crests the nearby ridge and gets the lay of the land. These clouds and their constant motion require a lot of concentration to blend in with. They look ready to dump their contents, though Rintor will not allow himself to assume anything about the weather of this place.
Finally satisfied that their immediate surroundings won't kill them, the lightbender makes his way back to camp and lets the threads go. He rematerializes among the others, right in front of the mithra and the elf. He hates intervening. He'd hoped to remain quietly anonymous, but there is ambition and pride at work here. "Your instincts are sound, young soldier, but I, for one, did not come here to be ordered about like a green recruit by someone whom I've scarcely met. There are capable people here, and proud ones. I recommend we allow them the dignity of introducing themselves and their abilities."
Rintor glances around. Perhaps some people are looking at him. "I am Rintor, a servant of knowledge and a student of languages. You have seen what I do. Once, I led soldiers, and while I wish to do no violence, I retain many of those skills. I've scouted beyond that ridge. We are safe for now, but I'm of the opinion that this position is too open and the low ground is prone to flooding. Let us speak, know each other some, and then move on." He seats himself on the ground, cross-legged.
