A story done in parts. Thank you, very much, to everyone who participated. :)

 

Part I

 

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  Soldiers. Ferriers. More soldiers. Cooks. Cavalrymen (and cavalrywomen). Healers. Officers. All these and more bustle through the neatly-pitched sea of tents that make up the Myrrish camp, no matter the time of day or night. At night, firelight flickers off the tents and lengthens peoples' shadows.

An herbal scent comes from a large group of tents off to the side, nearest the front lines--these tents an an appropriated farmhouse make up the field hospital, where the wounded are brought. A neat graveyard stands behind the field hospital--a few men are almost always on duty digging new graves.

Nearby, an entire (albeit quite small) town has been appropriated for officer's quarters and Myrrish war business--the smithy in particular is certainly making money. The only tavern in the tiny town, the Blushing Rosalia, is something of a gathering place for officers and adventurers.

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 Darshan A sith'makar in Myrrish livery 0s 6m

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Blushing Rosalia <BR> The Front Lines <TFL>  

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Arianwen has arrived.

Neynos has arrived.

It's Eliday, Rhaltaas 04 23:01:13 1006. The full moon is up. The tide is high and slack.

A chilly wind blows from the west, driving dark clouds before it and blotting out the stars in patches overhead. The air is clear and elsewhere they glitter brightly in the dark sapphire sky.

"Cold." One word, ineloquent, but muttered with the veracity of someone unfond of the current trend in weather. It comes with the trudge of foot through the slush and half-frozen mud. The trudge is accomplished by means of...well, trudging, and that accomplished by a large, or broad-shouldered creature who appears made out of the mud, itself.

"Arvour varru ruu sruusar," from a smaller mudpuddle, likewise shivering. This one's a more slender version of the adult, and a Daeus-like disc hangs around, splorches against what must be a chest. The disc hangs on a muddied shoestring.

"Still cold."

Arianwen has somewhere acquired the skin of some sort of herdbeast. Hopefully, this time she didn't accidentally take it from the Myrrish. She has strapped it to a wooden frame, and is painstakingly pounding and scraping it to the desired consistency. Her goal is fairly obvious; the leathers she wears, not as armor but as clothing, are tattered, irreparably bloodstained. As the mudpuddles cometh, she glances over at them, a particularly tender look spared the younger.

"Sruu arvr--Aaa...aaachooo!" Splut. The younger mudbeast slop-rubs a mud-arm across his mud-muzzle, and snuffles.

"Still cold." Darshan-the-Muddy looks over Arianwen's way, and back again, and Ijara says something. It sounds like something, something between a hiss, growl, splat, or actual language, and he hooks his tail with the younger (for that's what those mudpendiges must be) and trudges over that way.

Arianwen just so happens to have a virtually roaring fire nearby, and a variety of pots bubbling on sticks over it. Convenient, no? She chins the two lizardfolk in its general direction -- there are rocks to sit on. "Training?" she asks, whether right or wrong clearly curious for an explanation as to their rather extreme condition.

"We mrm...mudpuddle," Darshan mumbles. He glances sideways as he says it, out towards the greater camp. And MudIjara's unslung his tail from the adult's, and is slinking towards the hung hide. He's covered in it, from head to toe--and a particularly large dropping lands in the midst of Daeus' face on that shoestring.

Silence.

Throatclearing.

And the adult nudges Ijara from the hide. "Yessssu," he says. In him, the youth-muzzle forms awkwardly about the words--they hiss through in the attempt for his tongue to compensate for the lack of lip flexibility. And blinks sea-green eyes.

"Please don't touch," Arianwen enunciates carefully, covering the hide with her arms as Ijara gets a little too close for comfort. This is supposed to be made into a set of actually CLEAN clothing! "Clean." To Darshan, she continues, slightly faster, "Maybe you guys should go get a hot bath."

Darshan looks away again. Oh, he's /grinning/ this time, by the look of it. A faint upturn at the muzzle-edge, a flush of color along the frill, and he folds his mud-arms across mud-chest. Ijara snorts, and shakes his head. Laughter. He thinks its funny, whatever it is. He points to himself, and then the hide, and then the scraper. And by now, Darshan's grinning like a bandit. Clears his throat. "Could mrm, take a seat?"

"Mmm." Arianwen looks down at her scraper, carefully made of wood and bone. It is clean. Mmmmm. In the end, her pity for the young one wins her over to the idea, and she moves aside the hide frame, and picks up the scraper with the air of someone rolling up her sleeves to attempt a big job. "I can get the mud off your back, then you can do the rest," she suggests.

"Yes!" Ijara lengthens his form, and the shoestring and its Daeus-disc flops against his youth-thin chest, splorching more of the mud onto the grasses. Darshan looks to laugh again, and--looks behind him, and settles on the earth to sit on. Where he falls with a sort of thuk!, not thud! The mud does a considerable job of sharpening it. Ijara eyes her, of course, in his standing-up-straightness. It amounts to leaning forward, with his tail stretched out behind him.

"It ...started as training," Darshan offers. Pauses. "It didn't end up that way."

Must not facepalm. Must not laugh at little lizardfolk guy. Arianwen's lips twitch, and she hurries to get behind him so that he can't see the dreadful amusement in her eyes. Carefully, and very gently, so as to not take any scales off, she begins the slow process of removing the mud. "So it seems," she agrees.

As she works, Darshan leans forward, and watches. He's quiet for a time, as the scrape-slop, scrape-slop, scrap-slop continues, and gradually, his tail picks up with it, the tip of it beginning to move in tempo. Ijara occasionally twitches beneath Arianwen's work, but it doesn't seem related.

"So," and how does one begin a tale? This one pauses. And its speaker begins to weigh words, weighs them, and...sighing, leans forward, with his hands between his knees. "...mrm. You need some clothes?" Awkward. He's getting at something. He's singularly bad with words at times, apparently.

Arianwen pauses in her work to study Darshan with unabashed curiousity. She has a very penetrating, soul-searching look. For now, though, she seems content to let him get where he's going at his pace, going back to work on the youngling, who is slowly, but steadily, becoming significantly cleaner. "Yes," she responds amiably, with her typical paucity of words. Why use five when one will do?

"Mrmmm..." a deep sigh in a reptilian throat. A more of blowing, sighing-out through the muzzle. The tail flickers, and Darshan looks down at it, as though it contains all the answers in the world. "I need some help with Srassha. I would...in exchange. It would be work," he says, hurriedly. "She's mrm, gotten herself in..." and the rest of it isn't loud enough to hear. Ijara stands where he's supposed to, of course. He appears very good at following orders, and when the adult falters, chirps at her, releasing a string of words in the old tongue in an attempt to explain.

"Your bond is sacred. Why would I succeed where you have failed?" wonders Arianwen, after smiling her total incomprehension at Ijara, and continuing her work. It seems she isn't stopping with his back after all, and has proceeded on to his tail. Her motions are oddly formal; it is as though she is girding him for battle, only somewhat in reverse, since she's removing his covering, not putting more on.

Darshan folds his hands together. It's a very human expression, and not one meant for claws, perhaps. One set of fingers laces through the other, and he leans forward, looking at the ground ahead. "She has gotten herself into the Lady Sandiel's basement," pause. Let that sink in. Ijara breaks off in another string of words again, standing now instead of leaning forward. Some description or thing or the other. His fluency is clearly, not in human-common. "She refuses to come out. I think, mrm..." Again, Ijara starts to speak, and Darshan shakes his head. Starts to, and looks up again. "She's being /temperamental/, and the Lady..." pause. "It would--will--be difficult."

"Wait, which one do you want help with, here?" Arianwen asks with the slightest flicker of a smile, igniting her eyes rather than her lips. At least she said 'which one' instead of 'which raging, temperamental beast.' Paucity. Ijara is nearly clean; as she does the last bit, she grabs a bowl of warm water from one of the pots on the fire, and hands it to him, pointing at Daeus' marred face.

Daeus' face flickers. It almost smiles on its shoestring, and Ijara says something again, holding Daeus' smiling face in front of him as he ambles off towards the pot. Darshan waits for him to quiet down, and grins--just grins, in the human style, before looking back towards Arianwen. "I am trying to prevent an explosion." Very, very simply put. "I...when the Lady finds out, and one must tell her," of course he has to, "she'll...there will be two mrm, problems. And she'll put her own plan together, and it will--" "Explosions," Ijara supplies, and dunks Daeus in the warm water. Sploosh! goes the Daeus-face. And Darshan looks up at her. "I will pay you." So blunt.

Arianwen watches Ijara work with a kind expression -- and his comment actually makes her crack a real smile, not just a half. "Grave," the situation is. After a moment's thought: "I would like to learn your language, when time allows. A favor for a favor."

Darshan pauses, and nods. A look towards the hide, "Clothing, also. The Lady doesn't live locally," and he quiets again, clearly uncomfortable. And ducks his head, looking at the ground as Ijara noisomely splashes Daeus in the little pot. And sploosh! Sploosh! goes the majestic deity, his face oozing mud-tears and mud-smile, with water splattering everywhere and which way. Clears throat. "Mrm, what type of animal is it?" a gesture towards the hide.

Arianwen blinks at the mention of clothing, but lets it go with a shrug. Then she looks over at the frame, then down to the terribly muddied scraper in her hand. The animal she names in another tongue; she does not know the human word for it. Something like a buffalo. "Would you like me to do you next?" She holds up the tool.

I don't see that here.

"Ah..." clearly, he hadn't considered that. Darshan had been monofocused, for a while, and the tail falls limply against the ground in his surprise. He stands up, though, slowly, as a lizard would, at the moment, is doing. And Ijara pulls the deity's face out from the cup a final time--a smiling, disc-made benediction on them all. "Mrm, one would, thank you. That's--for hides, isn't it?" A gesture towards the scraper.

"Yes." Arianwen takes a few strides to close the distance. She's as gentle and careful with the larger lizard as she was with the smaller, nimbly removing mud without nicking so much as a scale. "How did she get into the basement?"

"I...I think there's food down there," and the words are a little more sure now, still slow, thoughtful, crocodilian. He shrugs his shoulders, rolls them underneath the scraper, and leans his head forward so all parts can be gotten to. "Mrm, it's likely she smelled it. One was delivering a message, and the next thing I know..." pause. "It took a while to calm the servants down. They were--they've agreed to wait until I find some solution, but a few of them are frighten--" Ijara nods his head, bobbing it exaggeratedly in the human-style, and mimes grabbing his throat and running around in a circle.

Pause.

"Like that."

Arianwen listens to the story while skillfully stripping mud away. Having practiced on Ijara, she's a bit faster, though no less careful, the second time around. There's a lot more lizard to cover, after all. "Indeed," she murmurs, obviously waiting for any more pertinent parts of the story, if they exist.

And there is not. Or, does not seem to be. Darshan relaxes after a time, the scales sliding to a smoother, more relaxed pose. Ijara takes again to eyeing the hide, and he looks more slender, now that the mud's been scraped away. Some of it still lingers, of course--in pits, or line of scale, but that's for rain to get, and as the adults do uninteresting, obviously boring adult things, he wanders over to circle, slowly, around the hide. "There are passages...this evening. Tomorrow." With the implied question of which she prefers. "One apologizes for the rush, but..." pause. "...she is mine."

"Today is fine," Arianwen says easily, freely. Though she hasn't much to say on the specific topic of Darshan's feelings, she obviously understands the urgency, and possibly the depth. It is difficult, with loved ones. "Just lead the way."

 

Part II

 

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* Myrrish Camp *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 Soldiers. Ferriers. More soldiers. Cooks. Cavalrymen (and cavalrywomen). Healers. Officers. All these and more bustle through the neatly-pitched sea of tents that make up the Myrrish camp, no matter the time of day or night. At night, firelight flickers off the tents and lengthens peoples' shadows.

An herbal scent comes from a large group of tents off to the side, nearest the front lines--these tents an an appropriated farmhouse make up the field hospital, where the wounded are brought. A neat graveyard stands behind the field hospital--a few men are almost always on duty digging new graves. 

Nearby, an entire (albeit quite small) town has been appropriated for officer's quarters and Myrrish war business--the smithy in particular is certainly making money. The only tavern in the tiny town, the Blushing Rosalia, is something of a gathering place for officers and adventurers.

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 Darshan Mechagodzilla 0s 3h

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Blushing Rosalia <BR> The Front Lines <TFL>  

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<Meet> You offer to meet Xander.

Xander has arrived.

<Meet> Xander joins you.

It's Variday, Rhaltaas 05 05:19:58 1006. The full moon isn't up. The tide is low and slack.

A chilly wind blows from the west, driving dark clouds before it and blotting out the stars in patches overhead. The air is clear and elsewhere they glitter brightly in the dark sapphire sky.

Tea. The heady steam from large, undainty mugs of it (as though one were compensating for something) stands bastion-like against the wind chill. And, two sith'makar sit at the edge of the camp, in a small fortress they've made from a creatively strung tent. It stands, too, against the windchill, and not far from it, across a log, is a half-finished hide. Pieces of mud scatter vein-trails between their scales, and the older sits behind the younger, picking, picking, picking out these mud-riverlets with a hooked claw, while the two of them talk in low voices, and drink hot drinks. In front of them, a fire--wider, larger than other camps. Of course.

Hooded cloak coiled around him, Xander trudges through the camp, a light frown on his features. It isn't uncommon, no, that frown, not during the days of this war. He spies the pair not on his own, but because a similarly scaly, albeit considerably smaller creature spirals down his leg and onto the ground, darting for the fire. The warmage looks after the tiny snake as it zips towards the larger, more humanoid reptiles, and sighs, softly. He himself doesn't yet approach, likely out of politeness. The pair seem to not be looking for company.

Not that the little viper cares. Over there, it's WARM.

Drink. Darshan puts his drink on a stone, and nudges it. And the youth, for that's what it is, gets up and takes both cups. Wooden, large things, the claws settle in them easily, and he hisses something, stops, and blinks at Xander in straightforward curiosity. He hisses at Darshan in the Old Tongue, something along the lines of, 'tall softskinthing standing there' and takes a drink from his mug before stepping over to kneel by the fire and its boiling pot. And that, well...Darshan jerks his head around to...stare. Blink. And sneezes, a slow smile coming over his features. Neither one notices the viper, not yet--but he waves the mage over. Srassha isn't anywhere to be seen.

Isis chooses the most inconvenient possible spot to stop. Namely, there's a little scrape of scale meeting scale (or scale meeting metal, should he be wearing his boots!) as she crawls onto Darshan's foot, coiling there comfortably and relaxing. It is, after all, a spot that is reached by the heat of the blaze, but not the smoke or other inconveniencies. The mud she doesn't seem to mind much, no.

Xander? He looks ready to facepalm at his unruly familiar. Still, he approaches, nodding at both the lizardmen. The heat of the fire and lack of wind under the makeshift shelter almost immediatelly begins to set in, and he removes the cloak, draping it over an arm.

"Cold," from the older sith, and he looks towards Ijara, who's ladling out a set of cups, with fire-hot liquid. It looks to be the only thing at the camp, except the half-scraped skin, and after a while, Ijara starts. And picks up a third cup, and begins to ladle that, as well. 

"Mrmm..." the sound of an alligator in the water. Quiet, slow. Contented for now not to move. Dar looks lazily down at the creature on top of his foot--"I don't know how she stands it. Winter will be here, soon."

"She does not, really." Xander replies, taking a seat of his own, if there is a convenient place to. "She uses the heat of my body to sustain herself. In winter, she is lethargic - were she not bound to me, she would be hibernating."

The she in question has gone into a similar state of stillness, one so common to reptiles when they wish to conserve energy. She's just... there.

There's a pause from the mage, a glance at the smaller Sith-makar over yonder. "Care to introduce me to your young friend?" he inquires of Darshan.

"Mrmmm...Ijara, from Am'shere," and Ijara, so named, thumps his tail--and splashes the third cup. He scrambles backwards, holding all three, still--his lighter, more bronze tones flash in the darklight, but nothing like the great-sized Disc of Daeus tied around his neck with a shoelace. As thin as the youth is (gangly) it's nearly as wide as he is, and he chatters something--almost. The mouth opens, and a sort of panting noise comes out because he'd stopped the words.

Of course, Isis gets slid onto the earth, because Darshan's getting up to help this Ijara. "He mrm, came over with the kids you met some weeks ago..."

"Ah yes." Xander says, nodding knowingly. Hopefully? He wasn't one of the ones trying to steal his wands or climb onto his shoulders. He gestures, idly, at the fire, now that the youth is away from it, and it flares, glows, its waning strength renewed to its fullest from magic's touch. He allows Darshan to lend the helping hand, glancing down to watch his disgruntled, displaced familiar transfer to a small rock instead and curl there. "A pleasure to meet you, young one. Do you speak the human tongue?" he addresses the timid youth, his voice quite serene.

Darshan takes the cups from the youth as Ijara rights himself--or rather, takes hold of them, and the two of them squat by the fire, then. The youth takes hold of the ladle, and begins spooning in the liquid. Looks at Xander, "Svo. Learving, ah..." he shrugs, but his eyes light up, and he repeats, "Learving." The stiffer muzzle works with the word, bumping over the 'n' that the tongue hasn't learned to form, yet. And so, liquid's poured, scented, even with some natural flavoring--a broth. "He may be staying a while," Darshan looks over at Xander, and his eyes--a sudden, excited lightness to them that the mage probably shouldn't notice. "Learning the mrm, human tongue, too. Arianwen's looking to trade--" "Olvk tongue," from Ijara, then a slew of quickly-spoken words /in/ that tongue, mostly about Arianwen learning it, and something about howls being part of the humantongue. It's very fast.

"You understand, however. That's good." Xander says. And then, effortlessly, he slips into the Wyrmtongue, its most ancient and undiluted form: "I speak your tongue." he says, the harsh, throaty words formed effortlessly. "So I believe we shall do fine when it comes to communication. I am Xander, Sea's Warden." For the first time, now, Darshan hears the mage pronounce his name in this tongue. It's apparent now that the human tongue... changes it, much like his own.

Darshan's tail flickers, and he grins at Ishara, a drawing-up of the frill, a flush of color at its base. And he passes the mugs about, one to each, because Ijara looks to excited--takes a breath, and--Xander's never faced so many questions before in his life. Quickly spoken, the words growl and shove against eachother in the sith's quick-speak. And it's evident the language has /changed/. Slang. Am'sherian slang. And Xander finds his title just as quickly translated back as 'Dream-speakin'' or 'Finger-movements-go-whoosh!' 

"He's mrm...descriptive," from the older, as the mug's passed to Xander's hands. And it /is/ broth. It's a murky brown, but warm and spiced. Likely with simple pepper, but it's...warm. And meaty. And...their own version of tea, there, in this weather.

Xander's sharp, though. Sharp as a razorblade, and a cunning linguist. If he can understand gnomes, he can do THIS. He pauses a moment, to arrange the questions in his mind in order they were spoken so that he may offer some answers. There's a missing word here, there, but most of the gaps are easy to fill for him. Most. He glances at Darshan, accepting the mug, and... repeats a handful of words at the poor paladin, brow raised, awaiting a translation. He seems to have understood cultural refferences - it's the more common things, in slang, that are the mystery here. Less than would be expected, though. Seems someone visited Am'shere before.

And...Darshan shakes his head, even as Ijara waits, excited. "Those are new ones, to me. Mrm...my own generation invented a few," and Ijara looks at him like he'd stick out his tongue. "We used to say...scrub, when we wanted something quick-fast. Eat-now, scrub," he says, and settles his claws around his own drink. Ijara snorts, and gives another word. Clearly, only Old People say 'scrub.'

Xander nods, amused, and settles back to answer what questions he can. He refferences the question before providing the answer, lest the youth mix them all up or not recall what he'd asked. There was a lot of questions. Some remain unanswered, as there are likely ones that are impossible to give answers to, or the answer is less than appropriate for one of Ijara's age. He picks and chooses his own words to not have more than a couple that the young Sith-makar wouldn't understand. He pauses once again, to glance at the thing in his hands. He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent, and when that deems it worth a taste, he does take one.

'Svavolo' comes out as another word for mage, blending with words he uses for 'civilization' and blending with another slang term for 'what the FUCK, man?' Ijara speaks quickly through it all, gesturing with one hand and holding his mug, quite untouched, with the other. It rests on his thigh, getting cold--and Darshan leans forward to stir it. And that--it /is/. A leg of a deer pokes out from the pot, just the bone of it. The juices, marrow, are slowly mixing in, sliding away into the broth. 

"What brings you out this late?" from Darshan, eventually. He leans forward to lift another ladle of the stuff. His is already empty.

If Xander minds the contents of the broth being what they are, it doesn't show. Maybe he's just thirsty. Er. Hungry. This does NOT qualify as liquid. He takes another sip, offers another couple of words in answer to the youth. Then, Darshan speaks, and he turns to regard him. "Paranoia." he answers. A pause. "Not my own, however. One of the guards was getting concerned about odd noises coming from the woods, but too afraid to go investigate." He must've been -terrified-, seeing it's Xander he decided to wake. "It turns out it was a pair of foxes." Doing WHAT? No, no, scratch that, nobody wants to know.

Darshan's tail flickers, and Ijara's already grinning. The youth shrugs, "Least they were having a good time," before dropping back to his drink. And finds it cold. Boo. 

"What...here, though? There's mrm, bloodshed enough, one's surprised they'd come near." He puts the ladle back, and settles back. Mrmmm. 'Tea.'

"Down by the stream." Xander says, gesturing in the direction. One of the few that criss-cross the valley and the nearest to the camp. He leans forward, reaching out and tapping the side of the young Sith's mug. The liquid inside seems to boil, and then subsides. Cold? Who says?

Mages, they're so... what's the Am'sheran equivalent for 'cool' again?

"Speaking of the wilderness, the priestess, Tasha and myself will be going hunting sometime soon, likely. We thought you might wish to accompany." There's... more to it than he's saying. But, Not In Front of the Kid.

A look, a quick look. "Not tonight," he says, hurriedly. And Ijara looks up. Darshan takes a breath, and takes a long drink of his--drink. Pause, pause, the pace of heartbeats. And a letting go of breath, warmer now, broth-scented. "We're headed back to Alexandria tonight, with Arianwen," Ijara looks at them both. "If you're mrm, proposing going--there or here? You could catch a ride with us." On the airships, meaning. "Or do you already have its scent?" Is it now, here?

"The regular kind of hunting, paladin." Xander says, gently, relaxed. Not the kind of hunting that involves hunting foes! "For boars, to feed the hobgoblins." Fat, drooling, DIRE boars. "It would do you good." he adds. A bit of hunting to let loose that primal instinct of his, the one he carries with him all the time. There's a pause, another topic picked from the reply. "Ah, the elf's finally expressed desire to visit the city, has she?" he asks.

Pauses. Longer pause. Ijara looks like he's laughing, Darshan looks like he's flummoxed, because the older sith'makar sits there, staring off into space over his mug a while. Pauses, again, and mutters something about Srassha getting stuck in an elf's basement, and females being somewhat temperamental. And, "Mrm...one hasn't told the Lady of the house, yet. I'm...one wanted to have a...plan in place, first." "Kavoom," Ijara says, solemnly. Or, 'kaboom.'

Xander tips his head sideways, quizzically. He finishes his mug of Am'sheran cuisine, setting it aside and waving off the offer for a refill if it is made. He allows Darshan a quiet moment to calm and get his thoughts in order. And also, explain what in the Iron Hells he's mumbling about!

Grump. He doesn't want to explain, perhaps. He gives the mage a sour look, and oh, it doesn't have a thing to do with Xander. It has to do with--"Temperamental swiftclaws. She mrm, made her way into Sandy's basement and is..." pause. Sigh. "She doesn't want out. It's probably warmer there." Which explains Ari. Only it completely doesn't, except Ijara's flickering the edge of his frill, as though this makes perfect sense.

"I... see." Xander says, and yes, it doesn't explain a thing. There's a pause. "So you hope to use her... relationship..." Rivalry. "... with the wild elf to coax her out?" he guesses. It's the only way Arianwen fits into the story, really. "And all the while, you hope Sandy isn't going to find out there's a giant lizard in her basement?" Well, she totally missed the vampires! There's hope.

Flicker. The curling, uncurling of a tail that's by now almost a lash. Ijara's definitely laughing--a cracking hiss that suggests his voice hasn't changed over, not yet. Or it's in the middle of it. "She...has a way with wild things," at length. Pause. "And one will tell the...tell Sandy. But when one tried, she was temperamental and drunk."

Wait, isn't Sandy ALWAYS temperamental and drunk? Xander nods, however, and, politely, doesn't provide further inquiries. He's just being pleasant, when it comes to that. The entire story is rather ridiculous, after all! "Well. I do wish you luck in your endeavor." he says, but it ends there. Thankfully.

Darshan goes OOC.