Vindar sighs, dragging the edge of his shield over the red metal of the Doors as they go past.
This is a mistake. He's not ready for this. Maybe he never will.
The crippled man now wears a second-hand coat of overlapping plates that fit snuggly over dull mail. Chain coif. Brand new helmet. Midgrim's boss shield is in his left hand, orc spear in his right, used heavily for balance.
The refurbished thulian officer's sword at his waist.
Klyman's stained pack on his back...
He looks back often, at the shrinking light of the entrance.
I'm going to die in here.
I'm sorry aunt Lynn.
Maybe he could have done some good, if...
Then he scoffs at his own cowardice:
8 days later? Alone? Not a chance in hell.
And yet... (The light of the entrance disappears). Maybe his cousin's life hadn't been the only point.
I'm not ready for this.
--
And yet, despite his various misgivings:
you are able to return to the site of the battle without issue. Other than the blood stains marring the floor you wouldn't know that a fight occurred there. The bodies have all been moved.
Vindar sighs again: they are in it now.
Leaning on his spear to take the weight off his peg, the newborn paladin points to the various ways out of here, his question plain:
which way now? Vengeance, conquest or exploration?