Ruthless Frontier AKRA: 2.1 Camouflage

Something erupted from the pile of bodies.  It was covered in blood from head to toe and at first they couldn’t make out it’s race other than it was humanoid.  It took a while after that to determine it was a man, and not another zombie or some demon that enjoyed hanging out in a pile of bodies.   They never really found out what color his skin, or hair was, but that’s another story. He threw an arm that did not belong to him off of him, and walked out of the pile with a little lunge.

“Damn it boys. Been a long time since I been buried unconcsious under a pile of bodies like that.  I hate that shit.” The man picked an eyeball off his shoulder, stuck there by goo. “Anyone missing an eyeball?” He looked at each of them. “No, I guess not.” He flicked it to the floor.

“Who? Who?” Stammered Theros.

“Who am I? Name’s Camouflage.” The bloody man put out a hand, bloody mucus oozed off of it and fell to the floor. “Now, lads, who is your commanding officer here at Akra.”

“We don’t have one,” said Gerrell. “We aren’t from here you see.  Just was out walking around and happened upon….”

“You disgusting deserting pig droppings!” Yelled the man.  “You A-walling assholes! Did you really think I wouldn’t catch wind of you leaving your ranks?!” yelled the man. “Now look at the mess we’re in!” He kicked the body of a goblin and it landed in a spot where the light from a window hit it. It started to smoke and hiss, then caught fire and flashed into ashes. Gerrell gulped and put his hood over a little more on top of his head.

“What mess, you old coot?” yelled Ares.  “The fort is gone.  You’re the only one alive!  If anyone deserted, it’s you!”

The sergeant, as clearly marked by his rank indicated by two golden lines upon the shoulder portion of his armor, stepped to Ares and put his face right next to his.  Ares could smell Celn relish, a popular condiment in nearly all Celn foods. From the town of Breland it was very popular with Celn soldiery. Supposedly it was made with anchovy paste and the innards of crabs left over from processing crab meat at the docks in Cillandar, but the exact recipe was a secret tradition of the family that produced the stuff  “Did you just call me a deserter boy?”

 

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