Re: The Netherworld Plane - Game Thread
Ham stretches both arms out and spins in a circle with a wide grin. then he moves quickly to the highest quality stonework in the area that he can reach. He places both hands on the rock and mutters a quick litany in dwarven, praising several of the pantheon by name. VERGADAIN!! is the only repeated name other Moradin himself. And, then suddenly, he hurries off, in the direction he was led from, he moves as fast as before but in the opposite direction. Driven to move faster when possible, by some happy motivation evident by the grin on his face. He has no time for anyone and will not be distracted until he arrives back at site of Harold's pantry.
He hurriedly paces the perimeter that Harold pointed out to him, pausing only at his pile of gear. There, he quickly puts his damaged breastplate from his armor, the most ornate of the steel boxes, and his hammer in his cart, leaving the rest.
A quick moment later, he grabs his helmet and steps outside. he scans the sky overhead and then hurries along the edge of the structure hoping to find a puddle of rain water or fresh runoff from the roof that he collects in his helmet. He doesn't need much it seems. He seems to resent this time outside, always keeping a wary eye to the sky, as if expecting something to fall on him from above. Soon enough he is stomping the ground and admiring any prints he leaves in the soil, but now his grin is gone, jaw set and a low grumble, or a growl can be heard.
He returns to take up his miner's pick and stomps to the corner of Harold's plot furthest from the door. He places the helmet aside carefully before violently pivoting and swinging the pick in a wide arc, driving it deep into the soil. Again and again... soon both feet are off the ground even as the swing begins so that his weight is levered into the speed and power of the tool. Over and over. A rhythm develops as he cuts a 5' square loose at an even depth. Then, as sudden as he tore up the dirt, he stops, drops the pick and starts sifting through the loose dirt for clods that cling to his bare hands. he quickly sorts the loosened dirt by texture and color and then touches each with his tongue, applying saliva and noting how the texture changes. he's looking for a certain loam, clays, which he will seperate out in one pile, putting the sands and gravels in another.
Again, he works furiously to loosen another layer along the edge of Harold's outlined area, roughly 5 feet square before pausing to sort and uniformly only as deep as his pick goes, almost as if he is more interested in the composition of the dirt then making real progress. As quick-witted as the food crew is, Harold might even believe it is a strong start. he drinks from his helmet at measured intervals, to keep saliva running to test his mud.
Ham works until the entire area that the cook lined out is loosened and sorted, shakes like a dog, steps out of the dust cloud, takes his cart with a few items inside and leaves, grinning broadly and moving calmly this time he clanks and rattles back to the area the lanky young human had brought him. This time, he doesn't pause or delay,instead he pushes his cart inside.
