A beggining

Syreskala sits down and lets his backpack fall from his shoulders. His companions can now notice his longbow and a shield, slightly hidden in there. How you managed to not spot them before is a question that quickly slips away, as the scaled one takes out his set of bone dice and sets them aside. For now. "To start off-he wheezes-this is not normal. This is the setback of a diet of my own craft, that I might consider tuning down a bit. I believe the main problem would be in my throat, where the acid I breathe is produced and stored. (It's kinda like saliva, but it stays there, in a pouch) I'll be sure to follow whatever your advice is; a paladin is not someone I would ever take words lightly from." He then lays down, facing the starry night, hoping this will help the fellow traveller do his job.

"So, you did this t'yourself, then? Why would you go an'do a fool thing like that?"

The dwarf sighs.

"I'll see if I can find something around here for the pain. I think it'll be a recurring thing."

Sigismund removes his gauntlets, and then the gloves underneath so that he might get a better grasp of what is going on. Gingerly, he begins the examination of the dragonborn's throat, lightly massaging the front to get an idea of what would be happening underneath.

"Please open your mouth," he asks, taking a good look inside to see the tissues in the back. He furrows his brow. "Yes, there definitely appears to be some minor tissue damage. You are quite sturdy, but it is foolish to think that your natural immunities will simply improve themselves if you continue to ramp up your acid production so steadily. I second Giorg's assessment - this will continue to cause you problems in the future, likely worsening if left unchecked. You will need to find some way to improve your natural tolerance to the acids, or perhaps to begin ingesting things which might help nullify its effects on you. Milk is always a good choice, though I fear this is quite a bit more extreme."

"I could attempt some light magical healing for you, but I fear this is far from a permanent solution. There are still limitations to what magic can repair, at least effectively."

"You both are actually... right. This is the result of foolish thinking, and lack of medical knowledge. I'll try to tune my diet down, but my voice might be stuck as what you heard earlier. Heh. You know, my parents once said I could be a great singer.-he says, with the voice of an old smoker; the problem might not just be in his throat- Guess I can't anymore." As he remembers family, his dark can eyes seem to start watering, but that is soon gone. "Anyways, let's get to it. If you're ready. Because I am."

"This will take but a moment," Sigismund says, laying his hands gently upon the dragonborn's throat as his hands glow with energy. A warm healing passes into the dragon, purifying whatever toxins may have built up within. After a moment, he administers a second, much smaller dose of healing, to repair any immediate tissue damage that may have occurred.

"Now, there are still options, mind you. Simply... expensive ones. Finding a mage or a cleric with the ability to regenerate you may be able to repair whatever damage has been incurred. Or alternatively, a good alchemist may have some cures as well. I would highly recommend seeing if you can find a Dionan alchemist who is familiar with your biology while you are in the capital. Or at the very least, seeing if you can find a good recommendation. As I recall, our kingdoms should be on rather good terms, now that the marriage has concluded."

From behind him, Sigismund's pack falls over, spilling out some of its contents, including a dirtied child's doll.

"I suppose I shall begin building a fire then, since we are settling in for the night," he smiles, not having noticed yet.

"Bah, nothing around that could help. I can give an herbal tincture recipe that could help with the acid, but it's a dwarf mix. Dragonborn gut might not react the same."

Syreskala changes position, now sitting down. He notices the little doll "Friend, you may have dropped something." As the fire is finally lit, Syreskala's illuminated scales begin to shine blue and black, as if they were a rare stone, with properties you might not begin to understand. Now he almost looks like a blue dragonborn from some points of view. His physical characteristics show he isn't, if the images you've seen in books are of much help. Then, he takes his shield and using a clean piece of fabric, begins to clean it. It was rather dirty.

As the fire was now lit, and burning on its own without tending, the paladin turned to see what the dragonborn had been speaking of. "Oh. Ah, I'm sorry..." he mutters, picking up the doll and looking at it tenderly. He stares for perhaps too long.

"I should start setting up my tent I suppose. Have you both food to eat? I have some spare rations, if you are in need." He begins to dig about in his pack, removing the tent, bedroll, and blanket from it, before absentmindedly staring at the doll again. This time he does not stare for very long, though he places the doll quite gingerly back into the bag.

Syreskala does the same, but he takes only half of his prepared rations "Apparently I've got double the food, now that I'll be cutting my diet. Thank you both for your help." He then moves to a near tree with his waraxe in hand, and cuts it down with ease. "Just in case we need extra wood for the fire." Syre places the wood down next to his bag. The scaled one lays down, looking at the sky. His weaponry is laid down next to him, except for the bow. "I guess this is good night"

"Rest well friend, I'll handle the first watch," Sigismund smiles, finishing putting up his tent.

Once he is done, he moves over to the fire and sits, not bothering to touch his food just yet. Instead, he stares into the flames, caressing a braided lock of hair in one hand.

"Wake me up when it's my turn, then. Maybe our friend here won't have to stay up."

Giorg thinks to ask about the doll, but decides against it. In the stories, such things tend to be personal mementos. It seemed rude to ask. Instead, he just puts up his tent before nibbling on his supplies.

"Aye, wake me if'ts time. Or if something is tryin' to kill us all."

"But of course. Rest well, Giorg," the Paladin says, not bothering to look away from the fire.

His watch had once more begun.

Syreskala waskes up, and quickly realizes his companion did not wake him up during the night "Oh my..." He gets up and walks up to Sig "Hey. Why did you not change shifts with me? You should have rested." His voice sounds like https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=feDKB8rZyDQ&t=1s , but deeper, slightly less coarse and... 'wise'... Maybe more like Smaug.

"You seem to have awoken earlier than I expected. How are you feeling?" Sigismund asks, dropping another log into the fire to keep it burning.

Syre stretches his arms back, in a flexing position, and his companion can hear cracks, probably coming from his back "Ahh... Now, very well. You really helped my throat yesterday, you know? I owe you." The scaled one then heads back to his tent and there, he picks his axe up "Do you think we'll be needing any more lumber? We'll be reaching the city today if everything goes as expected, so I'd guess not. But you make the calls, warrior." He has his axe on his shoulder, held by one hand, smirking. His scales glow once again with a slight blue hue, but black is the prominent color.

"I think we will be fine. There's enough to give us embers for breakfast, after which we will be safe to move along. It never ceases to amaze me just how... quiet things can get out here sometimes."

The armored paladin chuckles slightly, rubbing the lock of hair absentmindedly with his left hand.

"It's a stark contrast from the cities, for certain. And not one that's entirely unwelcome."

The dragonborn then lets go of his axe, and comes closer, bending his legs, and places his hand on the paladin's armored shoulder. The lack of real armor other than leather shoulderpads and leg protection seems worrying, but this one is scaled.

"Then let's wake that lazy little dwarf up, aye?"

"There is a long night ahead, I am sure he could stand to sleep a while longer. As I perhaps should," he says, gazing into the fire again.

"If you'll permit my asking, the color of your scales. I couldn't help but notice that it seems to shift with the light. Is this a normal thing for your species?'

"uhh... maybe? My family has it. My neighbours had a variation of it. Maybe it's regional. The effect changes from scale to scale. My mother's looks red. My father's green. Mine's blue. Maybe it has to do with mood? State of mind? Or maybe it's just the scale's micro-scaled texture that refracts light a certain way back into your eyes so that you perceive it as another color from certain points of view. The last one sounds wrong, but meh."

It looks like Syre has never asked himself this question.

The paladin chuckles. "It's always the little things we never bother to think about. Take facial hair, for example. For every man, it is different. Some never grow it. Others can't go a day without shaving, lest they feel uncomfortable. As for me, I tend to not notice until it's gone on too long, even though it may be obvious to others at a glance from day two. Some men's hair is curly, others straight... some can never grow it beyond a certain length. We take these things for granted, but has anyone ever bothered to ask why?" he muses.

"It's such a simple thing, yet really, who actually knows about something so simple? I certainly don't, and I suspect you would have a difficult time finding anyone who actually did."

Syreskala's hand goes to his chin, then he remembers he can't grow actual hair.

"You're a natural speaker, you know, friend? I wonder how you do in the battlefield."

Syre sits down next to Sig, waiting for their dwarven companion.

"I cannot say how I'd fare on a battlefield. The battles I have taken part in, they were mostly against bandits, smugglers, and murderous brigands. Not all Paladins are the same, but I was always taught that a Paladin should protect others. So that is what I do - seek to shield others from harm, using myself if need be."

"Dinnae mind me," Giorg says, chuckling. "I'm enjoying myself listening to you two talk."