[Same for him. It could've come from anyone in Solvunn, but this is definitely enough to know someone's been attacked out here. It's not all families deciding to pick up and move to the middle of no-fucking-where. He pockets the charm, standing up.]
Yeah. [Towards the swamps. And the closer they get, the worse the stink.] I got your backs.
[He takes his place behind Steve, hand on the grip of his sword. They're certainly about to walk into some shit, even if it's just a bunch of cannibals having a rip in the forest graveyard.] Stay quiet.
[And together, but he figures he doesn't need to say that. His body tightens in preparation for an ambush. It's probably gonna be nothing, in the end -- nothing he can't finish in a few seconds -- but right now, he's running more on an excited adrenaline than anything approaching real worry. He's not lettin' anything hurt either of them.
They follow the trail, and like he thought, the smell of the swamps gets deeper, settling in the lungs. On the last vestiges of dry land, he can see them over Aloy's shoulder just before they duck down.
Cultists. Fucking got to be. Robes and masks? It ain't Halloween. The hand on his sword grips tight, pulling it quietly from his back to settle the tip of her blade in the mud next to him.
The swamp may overpower his nose, but he can still hear. And there's a sound under their curt, short words that sounds like -- like crying. He peeks around a tree and hisses.] They got captives.
[And the way he's staring them down, it's clear that Nero's not gonna let that stand.]
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Yeah. [Towards the swamps. And the closer they get, the worse the stink.] I got your backs.
[He takes his place behind Steve, hand on the grip of his sword. They're certainly about to walk into some shit, even if it's just a bunch of cannibals having a rip in the forest graveyard.] Stay quiet.
[And together, but he figures he doesn't need to say that. His body tightens in preparation for an ambush. It's probably gonna be nothing, in the end -- nothing he can't finish in a few seconds -- but right now, he's running more on an excited adrenaline than anything approaching real worry. He's not lettin' anything hurt either of them.
They follow the trail, and like he thought, the smell of the swamps gets deeper, settling in the lungs. On the last vestiges of dry land, he can see them over Aloy's shoulder just before they duck down.
Cultists. Fucking got to be. Robes and masks? It ain't Halloween. The hand on his sword grips tight, pulling it quietly from his back to settle the tip of her blade in the mud next to him.
The swamp may overpower his nose, but he can still hear. And there's a sound under their curt, short words that sounds like -- like crying. He peeks around a tree and hisses.] They got captives.
[And the way he's staring them down, it's clear that Nero's not gonna let that stand.]