Oh please please please give him something to talk about that isn't divine betrayal or death by spaceship- and Cor obliges!
"UH, it's called 'The Hunt' for a reason?" He adopts a know-it-all tone that will not help Cor's patience at all he knows. "Bragging rights? Reknown? Big Dick Energy?" Not only can he keep going, but he refuses to shut up: "Valuable research specimen acquisition! Local stability measures- did you know that slaying an S-rank has been shown to drop localized aggression in native fauna by about fifteen percent? It's due to the overabundant aether consumption of the Mark disrupting breeding grounds and hoarding food resources. Culls are crucial for maintaining balance in an ecosystem!"
Instead of dropping, this time the ship surges up to make up for all the turbulence. Its as the passangers are slammed back in their seats that O'rhok's sensitive nose picks up something terrible: smoke. in the ship. Something. Is burning.
Two plus two means panic and Cor will feel a rush of magic go through and around the idiot beside him. When he looks again, his companion is wrapped in midnight black armour, cut with regal red. The metal is folded and formed into a thick breastplate and protective pauldrons, aether whispering off the woven mail and ornate hides covering just about every bit of him. Worst of all, in his hands and precariously balanced is a war axe, which has no place else to be since he's sitting down and its gold-wrought handle isn't foldable.
There's a beat of precious silence before O'rhok brings one gauntlet clad finger up and slowly slides his visor down over his (rather ashamed) face.
"...I panicked. Alright. I panicked. I think that's fair. I think I'm allowed a shard of weakness, don't you?" His armour looks damn good and if he's gonna die he's gonna be wearing it when he sees the Mother Crystal again.
no subject
"UH, it's called 'The Hunt' for a reason?" He adopts a know-it-all tone that will not help Cor's patience at all he knows. "Bragging rights? Reknown? Big Dick Energy?" Not only can he keep going, but he refuses to shut up: "Valuable research specimen acquisition! Local stability measures- did you know that slaying an S-rank has been shown to drop localized aggression in native fauna by about fifteen percent? It's due to the overabundant aether consumption of the Mark disrupting breeding grounds and hoarding food resources. Culls are crucial for maintaining balance in an ecosystem!"
Instead of dropping, this time the ship surges up to make up for all the turbulence. Its as the passangers are slammed back in their seats that O'rhok's sensitive nose picks up something terrible: smoke. in the ship. Something. Is burning.
Two plus two means panic and Cor will feel a rush of magic go through and around the idiot beside him. When he looks again, his companion is wrapped in midnight black armour, cut with regal red. The metal is folded and formed into a thick breastplate and protective pauldrons, aether whispering off the woven mail and ornate hides covering just about every bit of him. Worst of all, in his hands and precariously balanced is a war axe, which has no place else to be since he's sitting down and its gold-wrought handle isn't foldable.
There's a beat of precious silence before O'rhok brings one gauntlet clad finger up and slowly slides his visor down over his (rather ashamed) face.
"...I panicked. Alright. I panicked. I think that's fair. I think I'm allowed a shard of weakness, don't you?" His armour looks damn good and if he's gonna die he's gonna be wearing it when he sees the Mother Crystal again.