Ozen chuckled, dark eyes carrying a faint glint of humour from where they peered under the rim of her wide, stone hat. “The climate of the Fifth is an unwelcoming one, but you and yours are not ready to ascend. If we do that now, all of you will break your bodies before we can mount a hill.”

If she could choose, she would’ve led them to the First Layer, where the weather was much more mild and the strain of ascent wouldn’t likely kill them. Unfortunately, they’d emerged from the portal into the Sea of Corpses, the lowest point of the Abyss where one could ascend without losing one’s humanity. They didn’t even have the childhood training of Delvers that somewhat acclimated their bodies to the Abyss, so a journey up would have to wait.

"Ah, that explains why you seemed familiar."

Corkus looked at the man with suspicion, his hand by instinct resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to unsheath it if needed. "I remember that too, you got your ass kicked, quite literally. So what are ya doin' here, came to finish the job?"

“I was... temporarily outmatched. A frustration that has been dealt with.”

“That bounty was fulfilled when the Band of the Hawks disappeared, and nobody has paid me for your head. Therefore you can keep it.”

He stood back, his arms taut as coiled springs. He was surprised to find yet another survivor, and wondered again what could possibly have happened. 

But those were not questions to be asked just yet.

“Oh!” Corkus jerked his head up, lifting gaze from the man’s chest to his face. That wasn’t revelation he expected, but he didn’t really expect being found out either. “Well, you could’ve fooled me.”

“Shit, I thought I got better at tellin’ the difference after Griffith…” he mumbled under nose.

Charles-Henri sighed, and took a sip of his soup. As a young man in his late teens, he was often mistaken for a mademoiselle outside of his native country, mostly due to his long hair and style of dress. It made him a frequent target of the rougher sort during his travels. At least this man seemed friendly enough.

Anonymously send me what characters you ship my muse with!        

“He is foul-mouthed, bad-mannered, and utterly crass. Thankfully that’s the kind of fire I like in a person. I can tame any man, including him. He will be begging to eat out of my palm in no time.”

[Corkus] "Hah! Wussy!" points and laughs before groaning in pain and going back to dying from stomach aches as well.

[@corkusofthehawks]

“Look who’s fucking talking-....” The swordsman wheezed upon hearing Corkus’ comment, his brows knitting together as a groan of pain came from him right after, a hand shifting to clutch his aching stomach...

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“I don’t know what you were thinking, Corkus.” 

To risk his life for another was out of character for a man she knew as one of the most selfish mercenaries in the band. Corkus was insufferably cocky, a mediocre swordsman but decent enough archer, who loved the sound of his own voice nearly as much as the shameless exaggeration of battlefield stories. Why the ladies fell for it was beyond Casca. In her eyes, he possessed the charm of a mule. 

The story he was to tell after today’s ambush should reap him the praise he so desired. In heroic manner, he threw himself into the arrow that was aimed at Casca’s heart, pushed her out of harms way to take the attack instead. But, she felt the honesty of his act with every pained groan he gave as she tenderly patched up the wound with skill and patience. Once finished, she wiped her fingers clean by rubbing them against her tunic. 

Corkus may love the touch of drama, but he would never get himself hurt for the sake of a story. 

“I’m not the one you should sacrifice your life for. Griffith alone decides if we live or die.”