Lornaal observes the empty village dispassionately. Those that survived are safe, and those that did not are now deadly enemies. The matter was as simple as that.
Adjusting the makeshift strap that slung the finely honed great axe over his shoulder, the big northman listened as his companions spoke of options. Hearing Talton press the question of continuing after the undead scourge or making north for the tribes a sense of frustrated anger welled within Lornaal. When the witch-man T’alen responded that he would stay to face the threat, whether the rest of the party did or not, he virtually exploded.
NORTH! To the Spine Gulch! There are Children of Lodd there, and my people…
Lornaal wished that he could better explain his case, but words had never been his ally. Turning, he stalked towards the inn, a cloud of unjustified fury gathering around his head. Lornaal would abide by the will of the group, she had been very clear about that, but the continued delays were extinguishing any hope that he might find his missing tribesman alive.
The memory of the raiders in the snowy pass came unbidden to his mind.
Once inside the inn Lornaal kicked a fallen chair out of his way to the bar where he drew forth random bottles, drawing the corks and trying the draught until he found something as strong as the northern winter.