easy... though that shouldn't have shocked Il'Tak. If these Wasteland Walkers were willing to throw their aid at the first Orc with a sad tale to tell, they would be too foolish for their aid to matter much at all. Even so, it seemed that the orc had a challenge ahead of him... of some kind, at least.

Il'tak steps out into the camp, contemplating the challenge at hand as he stares out at the sands.

On the one hand, Il'Tak fills ill-fitted to meet this 'Elybin'. While he can fight well enough, its doubtful that he could win a fight without... uh... less traditional tactics. If fighting dirty sours her against him, though, that would defeat the whole point of the exercise. Looking at things through that light, a painful ride through the desert alone would be the most likely outcome.

On the other hand, what sort of test would someone like Cadrogg subject him to? A test of character would be fairly easy. By the standards of a book-smart thief, Il'Tak was a paragon of Orcishness. If the thief stole his possessions or abandoned him in combat to see how he responded, however, that would be quite the albatross around his neck. Probably the easier orc to get along with, though that may only be for the short-term.

Attracted to the sounds of commotion in the clearing, Il'Tak is alarmed by what Cadrogg tells him.

'A scout is dead? So much for the safety of the sand sea.'

Il'Tak pushes his way into the tent to get a closer look at this dead orc and see what he can learn. Rather than seeing bites and claw marks, however, Il'Tak is met with the sight of...

"...."

Il'Tak's breathing slows to a halt as he hovers over Ornargd, a foul lump of bile building in his throat.

"..."

The room is suddenly far too warm and loud, filled as it is with curious orcs. Il'Tak all but shoves his way outside, needing open air lest he vomit where he stand.

"..."

Il'Tak breathes in deeply, finding little relief as his eyes dart across the camp. While the orcs make motions toward leaving, none of them are moving nearly fast enough. One of the greatest warrior tribes is marching forward to kill them all and these Walkers are treating them like some wandering manticore. Wait, no... not to kill them. Death at a manticore's fangs would be merciful to the fate before this desert tribe.

"..."

Why is nobody running?

Why is nobody panicking?

At least somebody is screaming.

"THE AIJUR ARE COMING!"

How did they know that? Who else would recognize their-

"MY TRIBE IS COMING. RUN FOR YOUR MOUNTS! STAY LOW TO THE GROUND! DON'T LET THEM GET YOU!"

Oh... Il'Tak is the one who screams.

Il'Tak almost feels as though he is outside of his body, watching himself scream desperate warnings as he haphazardly stuffs his bag with loose supplies in the vain hope that this piece of rope or that piece of soap can save him. The moment that his bag is full, Il'Tak runs to stables in pursuit of Cadrogg... and a quick escape.

The Walkers were by no means being slow with their packing and preparations to leave. But a sudden panic, shouting fury from their guest certainly was enough to raise a reaction. It was hard to tell exactly what between the quick and rampant scavenging from Il'Tak. There was the quick rustling of feet upon the dusty sands, orcs moving quicker than usual. Otherwise, the reaction was relatively muted compared to screaming.

Running through the half worn-out door of the horizontal building, Il'Tek is beset by the sharp scream of the Walkers' scaly-like mounts. Its yellow eyes almost glow in panic as it raises its pincer like talons as if to threaten him, even when the mount is surrounded in its brick stable with a closed and locked, reinforced wooden door blocking its exit. Next to it are other small stables of similar structure, each containing one mount, each making neighs with a tone bordering on draconic. Beyond the rather uncomfortable ruckus, the stalls smell strongly of manure in contrast to the almost irritating lack of smell around the rest of the sandsea. It's as if none of the stalls had been cleaned for several days; it's almost a damn blessing that the wooden gates went up too high to peek his head over.

Cadrogg stands several stalls over from the entrance, goggles off, rigorously trying to keep a dark leather halter around one of the mounts as its head leans heavily over the wooden gate of its own stall. "Easy, easy damn it!" the Walker curses, sounding flustered and frustrated at the same time. The animal flails its head wildly, almost loosening off the halter before finally resigning to the bind. Cadrogg gets enough time to look over at Il'Tak with a hasty glare. Evidently, he is not amused by the prior outburst. "Go get your calvum," he says with some aggravation while pointing over to the stall next to him.

The now-named mount looks over the reinforced gate at Il'Tak, shaking its scaly head and giving off another loud neigh. However, one quick look at the taming stick on his hip is enough for the calvum to calm down. Getting a halter on it and mounting it is a trivial task.

Cadrogg, upon his own calvum, leads Il'Tak out of the building via the big hole in the corner. The two head out northeast, beyond the reaches and sights of the orc tribe-in-moving. In but a half hour, maybe even a scant ten minutes, the place will become nothing. If the orcs of Aijur are coming, there'll find nothing but scant ruins in the midst of a painful storm of dust and sand.

...Or at least, one may hope so.

---

It feels like an hour, past several remaining brick walls, as the two ride through the sandsea. Time barely feels coherent while the sun's concealment beneath the flying sand tell little more than 'night' and 'day.' The calvum, though hardy and relaxed on the move, do not particularly dash at blazing speeds across the sand; their pincers skewering down into the ground and back out like sharp clippers.

Eventually, the two arrive at a massive, curious structure. A thirty-foot tall building of dry, dark stone, surrounded on all sides by circular pillars of red metal. The brick structure appears more sturdy than the rest of the ruins in the sandsea. A huge, arched, door-less entrance rests at the front, as if designed for giants rather than most humans.

Cadrogg's breaths throughout the trip had been quick and exhausting; only upon seeing the structure did he relax. "Here's the Divine Shrine," he says as the two dismount their calvum overtop a small brick roof and wall; a third one rests with its eyes closed, legs crossed over each other. Elybin's calvum is, apparently, a lazy one. "Home to statues of the gods of war, destruction, and anything close to 'em. My kin should be inside. I'll take you to her." Cadrogg's voice is a little shaky as his goggles hide his eyes. He jerks his head back briefly from where the two arrived from, no doubt concerned whether they were somehow followed.

The small reprive gives Il'Tak a chance to look at what he smuggled with him earlier. Most of them are typical items of potential values; rope, rough soap, vials of water. But amidst those is a strange, clear, glass bottle of dark liquid. It's contents lazily wave and bob with moderate shaking as if half-water, half-sludge.

Poison, and a thick one at that.

It's nothing like Il'Tak has seen before, most likely something made from somewhere in the sandsea. He could ask Cadrogg, Elybin, or read up some Grand Library books he still carries around. Until then, it's a Mysterious Poison that could inflict any number of abnormalities when applied on a weapon or upon skin.

While the Aijur have countless advantages over human armies - greater strength, more brutal weapons, and undying tenacity among them - cavalry was not one of those things. Even as he approaches the savage, uh... calvum... Il'Tak becomes frightfully aware that his training with savage beasts doesn't cover riding skills. Even as the other orcs mount their steeds, this thing still seems more like the sort of beast he should be fighting for his supper, not a (possibly trained) ally. Of course, all of the screaming was probably bringing out the worst in them, not that it was doing much for anyone else... including Il'Tak.

Il'Tak allows a swift moment of shame as Cadrogg glares upon him before turning back to the matter at hand. With a bit of help from the taming stick, Il'Tak is soon gliding right across the desert... for a certain definition of "glide". At the very least, they are moving faster than Il'Tak could run across these sandy dunes. The vague promise of gaining distance away from his former kin gave Il'Tak a bit of space to think and catch his breath. After what seems like ages, reaching the Shrine... wait, they were still heading to the shrine? While he had asked to go there, yes, Il'Tak was certain that things had just changed. Even plans of visiting Lorestal had been banished by panic.

...useless, stupid panic...

"Cadrogg..." Il'Tak starts, dismounting his calvum but making no motion toward the temple, "I know that I asked... I mean... You heard my story, Cadrogg... You saw how I responded when I... If you want to send a warning, give your kin a chance to escape, I will stand by your side. If any meeting will end in a fight, however, I am in no shape for combat... not right now, at least." A painful swallow, "In fact, given my... weakness, I would understand if you wish to part ways... or to claim my calvum for your kin."

There is an uncharacteristically resigned sigh from Cadrogg as his calvum slowly walks over and stands diligently next to the lazing one belonging to Elybin. The scout takes out a small, grey, dry handkerchief one of the small leather bags hung on the side of his mount and wipes the sand off his goggles. "Enough," Cadrogg spoke, slowly turning toward Il'tak with a dry, annoyed tone. "My people know how to act against an invading threat. We're too few for a straight fight, so we quickly pack and move before they can surround us. And we have our ways of slowing them down." The grey-skinned orc pulls out a small, dark brown strap with a circular platform in the middle. Il'Tak hasn't seen a sling since the goblins in Aijur forest prior to the orcs proving them the wonders of bows. The sandsea, however, barely has any trees to make bows, much less arrows. A sling and various materials to fling from is a more efficient tool for the environment.

...Perhaps they dip their ammunition in poison?

Cadrogg turns his head around one more time, checking the distant sands, before sitting down on the first, half-buried step leading up to the shrine's entrance. "Our tribe moves all the time. If you leave the sandsea, you're likely not to find them so soon after. That's why any Walker who goes off on a journey prepares to be gone for a long time." He looks up and gives Il'tak a bittersweet smile. "Elybin and I prepared for months. We don't take our respective travels lightly, and we don't expect it to be short." He points his thick thumb at his calvum and its many small leather bags hanging on its saddle. "It's why we pack a lot; nothing for reading, 'sides what we find along the path." He brushes bits of dust off his loose-fitting tunic, taking another deep breath before lightening his humble mood. "So don't worry about my kind. And don't worry about me." He pauses and looks behind at the entrance. "The Walkers welcome allies, even despite any... embarassing outbursts."

There is another pause, a deliberate one, leaving the two with little but the sound of the dusty storm as the Walker scout considers about entering the shrine. "Ah, I'd better tell you about our trial," he adds in. His voice is grim, perhaps more from personal failure than potential risk. "I don't know how trial by combat works for the orcs of Aijur, but the Walkers can't afford honorable battles to the death. Instead, our trials are a little more like training: the first to draw blood." He presses his thick grey thumb against his neck right where the scar was. "The Walkers emphasize defence, footwork and pragmatism. Anything goes, provided no one else joins in. Any tool you have, you use, though killing is... frowned on." Cadrogg stands up slowly on his bare feet. "It's not about swinging the biggest sword. It's about control and landing the one strike you need."

The logic makes sense, in a way. None of the Walkers wore anything heavier than light leather given the heat of the sandsea and proper metals are rare. And they packed poisons and weaponry according to their environment. Their lives are about survival, not honor. No doubt some orcs of Aijur would scoff at that outlook.

"You don't have to fight Elybin in a trial if you rather," Cadrogg continues to try and perk Il'tak up. "She can be an angry orc, but she's not one to look down on her fellow kind. And there's time to pray to Gruumsch before we leave for Lorestall."

The choice is left to Il'tak. The Walkers' best warrior is within the shrine if he seeks her help. And he may pray there if he wants. Though there is nothing stopping him and Cadrogg from simply leaving for Lorestal right away instead.

Il'Tak sighs as he looks up at the Shrine. Ever since he reached these walkers, it seems that he has carried some deep and profound assumptions... when he wasn't blindly panicking.

Even now, Cadrogg describes the journey to Lorestal as a lengthy journey. Il'Tak had been hoping it would take no more than a few days... unless that is what passes for a lengthy journey out in the arid wastes. There are so many questions that Il'Tak could ask... that he would love to ask... but there will be time for questions on the road... hopefully. Then Cadrogg can scold him for speaking when all Walkers know to stay silent on the road to avoid... uh, sand dragons or something. Which he wouldn't know because he didn't ask sooner.

At times like this, Il'Tak remembers why he kept to the forest.

Il'Tak rubs his hands down his face and ruffles the matted pelt upon his head, trying to clear the grit from his eyes and to rub off some of the dust and sand. It doesn't do much, of course, but it gives him something to do. Without a word, Il'Tak dismounts from his... erm... "steed", keeping one hand upon it.

"You're people are more... patient... than the Aijur," Il'Tak remarks, looking to the temple, "I will offer my prayers to Gruumsh