Work Text:
1. You've Got a Friend in Wheels
The first time it happens, Orym doesn't ask.
They’re in the middle of a crowded market in Jrusar, stalls packed tight with all manner of trinkets and bodies. People jostle, shout, bargain, and wave goods under each other's noses like they are dueling with produce. The smell of cardamom and sweat hangs thick in the air. Bell's Hells are supposed to be trailing a contract - "a tall man in yellow with a limp and a knack for disappearing," according to their client - but between the cacophony and a particularly aggressive spice vendor who kept trying to sell Laudna haunted saffron, it isn't going well.
Orym, standing on tiptoe, barely clears a merchant's pushcart full of dried fruits.
"I can't see a thing," he mutters, craning his neck. "Anyone got eyes on him?"
"Nope," Ashton grunts, chewing something that looks spicy and probably unsafe.
"Too many hats," Fearne replies, distractedly putting one on her head - by taking it right off the head of a passing stranger.
Orym furrows his brow. They don't have time for this. It had taken them this long to track their mark here. And that is after losing him at three other locations.
Fearne would be his go-to but she's moved on from hats and is now distracted with a stall selling shiny jewelry that she will definitely not be obtaining through actual purchase. Ashton’s too bristly and Laudna’s back is too bony, so Orym wordlessly climbs up FCG like a curious squirrel until he is standing balanced on the automaton's round, whirring shoulders. The robot is only a few inches taller than the halfling himself, but at least now Orym has the view of a creature of relatively average height.
“Uh…was permission requested for shoulder standing?” FCG chirps mid-roll.
“You’re still moving," Orym grins, scanning the sea of heads as FCG wheels between throngs of people, "I'm takin' that as a yes."
"I don't know if that's how it works." FCG’s lens swivels upward. “But this is just like a parade float! But with knives!”
“I’m the knife,” Orym calls down.
“Even better!”
The market buzzes as FCG rolls along, weaving between startled shoppers while Orym keeps his head on a swivel.
"There - by the spice merchant. I think I see the yellow coat!"
“You mean the one with the cane, or the one juggling figs?”
“…Okay, maybe two decoys. But we’re onto something!”
Behind them, Ashton snorts.
“Orym’s treating you like a lookout tower.”
“He’s my little meat lighthouse,” FCG beams proudly.
“I’m not made of meat!”
“Your legs are very meaty.”
Orym blinks, glancing down at his own limbs.
“Not the point.”
2. Sky Coach to Panicville
Sky coaches are elegant in theory. In practice, when piloted by one previously dead - possibly crazy - woman, they are chaotic death wagons with questionable plumbing.
It started off fine.
Well - relatively fine.
The party had "commandeered" (read: borrowed forever) a sky coach from a crime boss who "definitely had it coming". It was supposed to be a quick getaway, but Imogen is tapped out of magic, Ashton is still bleeding - whatever liquid he bleeds - from two hearty axe wounds, and it's not like anyone else in their group exactly knows how to fly.
Orym isn't sure Laudna does either.
The sky coach is spiraling. Laudna’s puppeteering it through sheer chaotic will, and the controls aren’t so much controls as levers that squeak like angry possums.
“You sure about this?!” Ashton yells.
“I have driven before!” Laudna insists.
“When?!”
“In a dream!”
"Oh, that's real fucking comforting," Ashton barks, gripping the side rails as the whole thing tilts wildly.
"Maybe it was a dream," Laudna replies with a wide, toothy grin, "but dreams are just memories from another life, right? I mean, unless they're visions of people currently on the moon. But that's different."
Imogen hasn't opened her eyes since they took off, arm flung over her face. Letters is busy letting her crush his hand with her free one. Ashton would have taken the reigns by force by now, but their leg is busted up from the fight they all just barely survived (the one they stole this death trap from to escape). He can't stand to steer, but he can certainly sit there and shout. Chetney, well, Chetney and Orym both hadn't been able to reach the controls.
The sky coach pitches to the left.
Everyone screams. Well, almost everyone.
Orym, not one for dramatics - or any shows of weakness if possible - simply crouches low near the side panel, calculating his odds of jumping off and catching himself on a passing laundry line or tall tree. Spoiler: not good. Reaching up, he clutches one of the wooden rails for dear life and groans.
“We’re gonna die.”
So much for not giving in to the dramatics.
A blur of motion yanks him back just before the coach lurches again.
"Hang on now."
Fearne, as radiant and blissful as ever, grabs him by the belt like a satchel and throws him over her shoulder. Her arms are suspiciously strong for someone who usually uses them to pet frogs or pick poisonous flowers or cause magical arson.
"Fearne!" Orym protests, upside down and flailing slightly.
"I just think you're safer up here with me is all," she says, voice dreamy as always. "Also, it's kind of fun carrying you like this instead of up on my shoulders. Like a little backpack. A murder pack."
"That is not a thing," he grumbles, shifting to try and find some dignity while draped upside down.
Fearne just pats his thigh.
"Shh, Murder Pack."
The coach swoops again, dodging a very expensive rooftop garden with less grace than a drunk moorbounder.
Imogen uncovers her face to cling to the railing, eyes still screwed shut.
"Is it too late to uncommandeer this thing?!"
"I could let go," Laudna offers. "We could all see where fate takes us."
"Nope!" Ashton shouts. "Bad idea! Worst idea!"
Somewhere, bells are ringing.
Somewhere else, a nobleman's rooftop garden gazebo explodes.
And above it all, a halfling warrior is riding into the chaos, hanging upside down like a disgruntled satchel, trying desperately not to throw up.
“You’re not gonna offer to carry me?” Chetney asks.
“I’d rather drop you.”
3. Over the River and Through the Soot
It was supposed to be a simple infiltration.
Orym hates that sentence. Every time someone says "simple infiltration," things immediately get loud, flammable, and full of screaming.
The Bell's Hells had slipped into the outskirts of a defunct foundry - supposedly abandoned, supposedly safe. In reality, it was crawling with hired muscle and automated defense golems still running on arcane fumes and bad intentions.
The team had split off into pairs to cover more ground. Orym went with Ashton - less for stealth synergy, more for "in case the wall needs punching". Chetney had his wolf, Imogen had her telekinesis, and Letters had his tools. Each team had some sort of heavy hitter in case something big, or murderous, got in the way.
The two of them are currently creeping through a scorched corridor lined with rusted chains and shattered crates. Orym motions for Ashton to hang back as he inches forward to inspect a strange metal fixture on the wall.
A hiss.
A red glow.
A click.
Orym's eyes widen.
"Oh, shit -"
The world explodes sideways.
Flames surge from the wall, catching the old patches of grease and grime and leaping through the corridor like a vengeful spirit.
And Orym - Orym goes tumbling backward into a support beam with a solid crack.
"Orym!" Ashton barks, closing the distance and crouching beside the halfling.
"I'm -" Orym sits up, winces, and immediately slumps again, "okay...ish."
"Nope." Ashton curses, eyeing the smaller man up and down. "That arm's jacked, and your ankle's doing a bad impression of a pretzel."
"I'm fine."
"You're stubborn. And small."
Before Orym can retort, he's unceremoniously plucked off the ground and tossed over Ashton's shoulder.
"Hey," Orym grunts, "I can still fight."
"Sure," Ashton huffs, already trudging toward the exit, "and I'm emotionally stable."
"I can at least walk," Orym mutters, gritting his teeth.
"This isn't a rescue." Ashton shrugs the shoulder not currently supporting the halfling's weight. "This is efficiency."
“Put me down.”
“Nope. I can throw you if I need to.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Should’ve grown taller.”
The rest of the party regroups outside just as another explosion rocks the building behind them.
Fearne squints at the pair.
"Why does Orym look like a burnt marshmallow?"
"I'm fine," he repeats, wheezing.
"Don't move, sweetie," she coos, plucking gently at his head, "you have embers in your hair."
"I carried his crispy ass out," Ashton grunts, setting the halfling down next to FCG. "Give me five minutes and I'll go back in for the rest of my dignity."
"Too late," Laudna says brightly.
Letters hovers over Orym, humming a healing tune as they work.
"Orym, do you require a trauma hug?"
"I require new ribs," he mutters, "and maybe a new infiltration plan next time."
Bell's Hells collectively makes vague sounds of agreement.
None of them mean it.
4. All Aboard the Chet-Express
"I hate this," Orym says flatly, perched on top of Chetney's shoulders.
"I love this," Chetney replies, his grin a little too wide. "It's like I'm wearing a little nature helmet."
The two are cloaked in a long, draping curtain they'd stolen from an inn's upstairs parlor - one of those heavy velvet monstrosities meant to block light, noise, and any good taste. Together, they resemble a slightly moth-eaten nobleman with a hunched back and an unfortunate case of halfling head.
The disguise isn't good, per se. But it's the only thing that will let either of them sneak past the sentries without being spotted at knee-height.
People are looking for a pair of gnomes, or halfling's, or maybe one of each. No one is too sure. But Chetney and Orym had definitely been paired together for this mission. And Chetney had definitely done something to get them both in trouble with the local authorities.
The guards at the gate are checking all travelers entering the upper terrace.
"We're just a single person," Chetney whispers in his best 'grandpa-pretending-to-be-bourgeois' voice. "Definitely not two trained killers in a people costume."
Orym lets out a long, tired breath.
"Let's just keep walking and pray they're nearsighted."
"Keep complaining," Chetney huffs, "and I can go invisible right now and leave your scrawny ass behind in the dust."
"If you'd gone invisible before pulling that stunt, we wouldn't even be in this mess."
The "nobleman" shuffles forward.
Each step is a test of balance. Chetney walks stiffly, as if he is auditioning to be one of Laudna's marionettes. Orym, trying to match the sway, has to keep his knees bent slightly and arms stretched into the folds of the curtain, making them look like...sleeves? Maybe?
They pass the first guard.
"Morning," the man says, eyeing the strange figure with suspicion.
Chetney clears his throat, apparently forgetting he isn't the "head" in this two-man group. Orym dips his head low, hoping the "hood" of the curtain will obscure his face, and the fact that he isn't the one talking.
"A glorious one indeed, my good fellow. Let no vermin of suspicion darken the sunlit arches of civil discourse, yes?"
There's a long pause. Orym feels the weight of his sword and shield on his back.
"...Right," the guard says, "carry on."
"Did you just say 'vermin of suspicion'?" Orym whispers once far enough away.
"It worked, didn't it?" Chetney hisses. "This noble tongue's got legs."
"No, you have legs. I have...balance issues."
As they turn the corner, Ashton, Fearne, and Laudna peek from behind a wall, barely holding back their laughter.
"Gotta say," Ashton clicks his tongue, "I did not expect 'two idiots in a trench coat' to work this well."
"It's fashion-forward," Fearne nods. "Very avant-garde. Very...predator-chic."
"I think we should always enter places this way," Laudna pipes up, smile curling up at the corners.
There's a shout and a pounding of heavy footsteps and the group can guess what's coming next.
"I guess it didn't work," Fearne shrugs.
"At least I'll never have to do it again," Orym signs, tossing the curtain off and hopping to the floor.
The fight is fast. Mostly because they're vastly outnumbered.
Mostly because they are forced to run pretty quickly.
5. The Collapse
The fight is over.
Orym stands, swaying slightly, in the red-stained dirt. His blade hangs limp in his hand, slick with blood not his own. The world buzzes faintly around the edges - distant, numbed. His breathing is shallow, sharp, too fast.
He doesn't hear the others at first. Doesn't feel the blood soaking through the makeshift wrap around his ribs - remnants of this morning's other scuffle now ripped and reopened - or how tightly he is clutching at his side. His knees buckle slightly, then lock again as if by sheer instinct. He doesn't fall, but it's a close thing.
"Orym!"
The voice cuts through the haze, and he blinks sluggishly over toward it.
Imogen.
She's moving toward him quickly, her brow bent in concern, her fingertips still sparking with faint lavender light.
"Hey - hey, you're okay. It's over." Her voice is gentle, but it's shaking.
He opens his mouth to respond, but it comes out as little more than a dry rasp. His legs give out again - and this time, they don't catch him.
Before he hits the ground, he just - stops.
Suspended.
It takes him a moment to realize he isn't falling. He's floating.
Soft, invisible energy holds him just above the rocky ground - like a breath of air caught him mid-collapse. He feels it lift him, cradle him carefully like a current in the wind. Imogen's hand is outstretched, her eyes glowing faintly, and her voice is low and steady.
"Got you."
She guides him down gently onto a piece of broken stone, making it into a makeshift seat. Orym slumps there, breath hitching in his chest, eyes wet. Not from the pain - though there is plenty of that - but from the sheer weight of everything catching up at once.
How has this seriously only all been one day?
His vision blurs, his focus narrowing to Imogen's face as she kneels beside him.
"I didn't see it coming," he murmurs. "I thought I could stop it - should've stopped it."
"You did everything you could," she whispers, her voice as soft as the power that had carried him. "We're alive because of you. Let yourself rest."
Orym shakes his head.
"I should've been stronger."
"You were." She smiles gently, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "You are. Sometimes strength is knowing when to let someone else catch you."
Orym closes his eyes, letting her words settle over him like a blanket. She stays right there with him until the trembling stops. No one else comes to check on them. It should worry him, but Imogen is smart and she would speak up if she thought anyone was in danger.
"I told Laudna that we're okay," she nods, poking her own forehead with a finger.
Right. Telepathy.
Should it bother him that he hadn't thought of that?
"No," Imogen shakes her head, "you're just exhausted, and bleeding. A lot. We should really get you to FCG."
"Yeah," Orym nods, bracing himself, "you're right, I -"
He's barely got a knee out from under him when things go wobbly again.
"Now what did I just say about letting someone else catch you?" Imogen grips him under the elbows, this time with her own hands. "I might not be as comfortable as Fearne, what with all that hair and those flowers. Or as strong as Ashton. But I think I can manage."
She stands and Orym cocks his head, squinting at her.
"Manage wha -"
But he doesn't need to finish asking. Because he's floating again. This time, rising up through the air to come and rest right above her outstretched arms, cradled in the air like a floating babe.
"Apologies," Imogen scrunches her nose, "but I'm not sure how else to do this without making your injuries worse."
"It's okay," Orym sighs, "my pride feels worse now so at least that's taking my mind off the other pain."
"With everything we've seen together," Imogen cocks an eyebrow down at him, "and seen from each other, and of each other - and done together - is there really any room left for pride in this group?"
Orym doesn't try to stop the smile.
"No," he breathes, light and lingering with something soft like a laugh, "no, I guess not."
+1. When He Carried Them
The air is thick with the scent of blood and burned earth. The battle had been brutal, but it's over now - except for the aftermath. The group had been pushed to their limits, and then some - each of them battered and bruised.
Laudna leans heavily against a ruined pillar, her face somehow grayer than her usual pallor. Still, she manages to crack a smile at Orym when he makes his way to check on her.
Fearne's usually radiant energy has been dimmed by a massive burn on her side, her steps faltering with every movement. Ashton's hulking form is covered in wounds, one leg barely able to support his weight - or make a shape that is vaguely leg-like. Chetney, already a rough figure, had been knocked out cold after a direct hit and he was laying on the ground, motionless except for the rise and fall of his chest. Imogen is unconscious too, a slow-bleeding wound coloring her lavender hair red. Letters is sideways on the ground, but he's at least awake. The broken wheel laying several feet away from the rest of the robot's body isn't exactly doing him any good though.
Orym's heart beats hard in his chest, and somehow up there in his skull too. They need to get somewhere safe. The ruins aren't entirely stable, what with the all out brawl that just took place inside of them. There isn't really a fully intact roof to come crashing down on them or anything, but there are enough pillars and beams and half-crumbled walls that look far too precarious for the halfling's liking.
"Alright," Orym mutters to himself, setting his jaw, "time to move."
His small frame - just over three feet tall - makes it nearly impossible to physically carry any of their team. But he's not about to let something like that stop him.
He moves back toward Fearne first. She can barely stand, her shoulders slumped under the weight of exhaustion. She offers him a weak, but grateful smile as he approaches.
"Orym, I'm -" Fearne begins, but Orym places a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"No talking. Just hold on."
With a grunt, he bends down and takes hold of a strap on her pack, looping it around his own chest. It isn't perfect, but it gives him something to work with as he helps her maintain balance.
"I've got you. Just keep your feet moving when you can."
Orym hopes he sounds more confident than he feels.
Fearne leans into him, grinning despite herself.
"You're a lot stronger than you look, Orym."
"Tell that to my legs in about an hour," he says, winking.
He finds a clearing just outside the wreckage. The wagon is up by the road, but maybe, miraculously, a few more members of his team will be conscious by the time he hauls them all out and some of them will be able to get there on their own accord.
Orym is nothing if not hopeful.
He comes back for Laudna next. She is standing now, though barely, her face twisted in pain. Her expression softens when she sees him, just like Fearne's, her voice a a rasping whisper.
"Are you really going to -"
"Yeah, let's go. I'll get you moving."
Orym gives Laudna a gentle push to help her stay upright, looping his arm up around her waist. He moves carefully to avoid jarring her wounds, but she is surprisingly light. They move faster than he had with Fearne, faster than she would've accomplished on her own.
"Thank you, Orym," she murmurs, eyes starting to glaze, "I won't forget this."
"I'm sure you'll find a way to return the favor," he smiles up at her, adjusting his grip.
"I, I should help you," she shakes her head, slow and unsteady, "Imogen -"
"I got you," Orym helps her settle down onto the grass, "and I'll get her."
He trudges back through the tall grass until his feet find stone again.
"I'm sorry I don't have any more healing left in me." He can hear FCG before he sees them. "Maybe if I -"
"Just stop," Ashton grunts.
Apparently, Letters listens. Orym barely looks at the pair though, shuffling over to Imogen. He'd already checked and made certain she is still breathing. Just like he'd done with Chet. He still does it again. Just to confirm. Just to feel that steady heartbeat.
It thrums in time with the pounding still inside his own chest and head.
Orym is proud of his skills. His training. The fact that he can continue on with his blade when the casters are all tapped out.
But what he wouldn't give for a little of Imogen's telekinesis right now. A little parlor trick with a gust of wind isn't going to cut it.
Hooking his hands underneath her armpits, Orym pulls. His back is bent and his limbs are screaming and he has to stop once or twice, but he does it. He feels a little bad about some of the rubble and dirt he has to drag his friend through. But she's out now, laying in Laudna's lap as if just sleeping.
"Take Letters next," Ashton grunts in lieu of greeting when Orym makes it back again.
"I'm fine, I -"
"You're in pieces," Ashton interrupts, wincing when he moves too much.
Orym studies the robot. FCG is small, but just as heavy as their taller friends, maybe even more with all that metal. Crossing the room, Orym finds the automaton's wheel. The connectors are crushed, but the wheel itself is intact. Fishing a length of rope from his pack, Orym approaches their healer.
"Are you alright, Orym? You look like you're in pain."
"I think we all are," Orym answers as honestly as he can, lining up the wheel with what he can only guess are the matching parts.
"Don't injure yourself for me," FCG implores, so earnestly it hurts. "You can leave me -"
"Shut up."
"Not going to happen."
Ashton and Orym answer at the same time.
With the pieces aligned, Orym winds the rope around and around, temporarily, and very haphazardly, reattaching the wheel...sort of. Letters can't exactly control it anymore but it will sure make hauling them out of here a lot easier. With a grunt, Orym hefts the robot up. There's a moment where Fresh Cut Grass wobbles forward, then back, and forward again, and Orym is certain he isn't going to be able to support their weight if they go down, but then the halfling has two hands on either metal shoulder, steady and sweating. Orym makes it halfway by merely pushing the robot from behind, but navigating the loose stone and rocks are difficult when he can't see over his friend's yellow head and the pair trip and go down - twice. After the second time, Orym swaps FCG's buzz saw for the grappling arm. Letters catches on, firing it when Orym is out of the way. Pulling the automaton with the rope over his shoulder is definitely harder. Every step forward burns. The rope digs into his neck and shoulder, cuts at his palms and fingers. But they don't fall again.
And when he makes it to the clearing and deposits Letters next to Imogen with a tired grin, he's proud of himself when he doesn't immediately collapse.
(He does that on the way back when his knees forget how to keep doing that whole walking and bending thing for a few seconds.)
Recovering quickly, Orym returns to the ruins.
And swears.
He was really hoping Chetney would have woken up, or at least reverted into his gnomish form, by now.
A part of a nearby wall groans, pieces cracking and shifting. A pillar crashes down somewhere farther back.
"Get him next," Ashton instructs again upon his arrival, "I'm good here."
"Yeah," Orym pants, "you look real good."
"Shut up," Ashton huffs, and then coughs, "I always look good."
Orym stumbles over toward Chet. The werewolf is still unconscious, heavy with fur and muscle, breath slow but steady. There is no carrying this friend. No dragging him under the arms either.
With a grimace, Orym lifts the rope he'd unwound from FCG's wheel before heading back inside. His hands are red and raw but Orym just ties it securely around Chetney's midsection, and then his own, bracing for the new familiar pain.
"You - you got this?"
Orym glances up at the quiet question. Ashton's eyes are unfocused now.
"Do I have a choice?" Orym just shrugs, shoulders barely moving with the effort.
"Anyone else? Yeah." Ashton grins, and it's bloody but real. "You? Nah."
Orym offers a small smile back, not even sure if Ashton can see it.
"Alright, Chet," he mutters, "this is gonna be rough, big guy."
Orym pulls the rope with all his might, grunting as Chetney's body moves slowly, too slowly, in the dirt and rock. The rope digs deep into his stomach and he has to keep a grip to gain any sort of leverage. His hands are hot and wet, but he keeps going, one single step at a time, inching the large werewolf toward the others.
Imogen is upright, barely, slumped under Laudna's shoulder. Her eyes are open now, small slits against the pain and sun. It's enough to keep him from toppling over. Enough to keep him smiling through a grimace.
He does stumble when the rope comes loose around his waist, but Orym just turns, uses the momentum to propel himself back - one last time.
Ashton - their body a mass of glittering gashes - is still thankfully, somehow, conscious. The rope is back at the clearing, still attached to a werewolf at one end because Orym had been too dazed with adrenaline and agony to remember to retrieve it. Walking back for it now feels too far. Too much. Besides, he's not even sure that would work for Ashton.
Orym approaches the larger man. Ashton's breathing is ragged, sharper than even just a few minutes ago.
"Hey, big guy, you with me?"
Orym kneels down beside them. It's not a good idea, letting his body take a break, but he doesn't stop himself.
"As, as much as I can - be," Ashton groans, voice thick. "Wait, didn't you call - Chet - 'big guy'?"
"You're all big to me," Orym tries for a laugh but it doesn't land right. "Alright, I need you to lean on me as best you can. We've got a long way to go, but I'll keep us moving."
Ashton offers a half-hearted thumbs up, hand not even fully lifting off their thigh.
Orym forgets to warn Ashton before he starts to remove their belt. It says something about their current state that there's no objection, or any response. Orym undoes his own fabric scarf that he keeps around his waist. Wrapping the belt around Ashton's hips, and the scarf around Orym's chest right under his shoulders, the halfling ties their ends together. It's similar to how he used Fearne's bag before.
Orym bites his lip and helps pull Ashton staggering to their feet, bracing his own body against the massive form. Ashton isn't all that much bigger than Fearne, but the sheer weight of him is something else entirely.
One step, then another. And another.
Orym's shoulders are screaming from the weight, legs trembling. But he doesn't stop.
It's only a few seconds after they've gotten to their feet and moving when a slab of stone breaks off another wall, slamming down on the hard ground - the very same patch of ground Ashton had been resting on mere moments ago.
They don't stop moving, but both of their chests hitch. Both their gazes dart back. And then both of them, together, walk just the tiniest bit faster.
They're about halfway when it occurs to Orym that Ashton could've crawled from the ruins at any point. Laudna had probably been too dazed, what with how often the halfling had to course correct her on the way out. She would've gotten turned around or fallen and hit her head again if she'd tried to make it out alone. The burns along Fearne's side and arm would have forced her to crawl with only one arm. But Ashton's arms are both fine. And he's strong. Stronger than any of them. If he'd started moving when Orym first began this little rescue mission, he'd probably be to the clearing by now.
But he'd stayed. He'd stayed for the rest of them. To make sure Orym got the others out. Maybe even to make sure Orym got out.
When they finally reach that small clearing, Orym tugs at the knot between the belt and scarf. He hasn't even fully gotten himself free before his body collapses onto the grass and he's gasping for air. His body aches in a soul deep sort of way and his limbs feel like they might just fall off, but they are alive.
They'd made it.
There's a low rumble nearby, followed by a series of crashes and cracks and the ground underneath them shakes. Orym can see dust billowing out and up from where he'd been ferrying each of his friends out of the ruins.
Ruins that are not much more than rubble now.
Doubled over, hands on the ground and fingers digging into the dirt, Orym laughs. It's low and quiet, but long. His body gives out midway, flopping fully into the grass on his stomach.
Still laughing.
He only stops because he can't catch his breath.
And then, just as he thinks they can maybe rest, Orym glances up and sees the rest of the party - the conscious members, at least - looking at him, grinning, despite their exhaustion and injuries.
"I'll get you back to the wagon."
His smile is tired, but triumphant.
This wasn't about size or strength. It was about the will to push through, for his family. And that was something Orym had in spades.