Reima’s Shards Auto-translated

Are we at Lumen?

The soldiers in the camp were surprised by the arrival of such a small group, as they had expected a much larger number of people. In any case, the survivors were helped to rest, heal, and recover, but before that, the leader of "Lumen," Zaffir, awaited a report from Alaria Doran, the leader of the group.

- Whew! - Knichad exhaled. - That's how grandpa went for a walk, to feed the pigeons, and sit on a bench. Where am I, anyway? - Knichad looked around.

Are we in Lumen?

Well, not in "Fenrir," at least.

But not in "Fenrir," right?

Where are our potions then? :(

Fell into the abyss, along with the other members of the squad.

Illurin went to bed feeling satisfied. It had been the best day in the last couple of months. Although, of course, she was a little sad that the mage had survived. And that orc too. But there would be other opportunities.

determined

Although, it's a bit sad that the wizard survived.

Is she talking about Knighthad?

- Finally, we've arrived, otherwise I was starting to get tired of your songs, - Lysander said bluntly. - I hope they'll make you a new leg here, or at least give you some crutches.

- Finally, we've arrived, otherwise I was starting to get tired of your songs, - Lysander said bluntly. - I hope they'll sew your mouth shut here, or at least put a gag in it.

Fixed.

- Finally, we've arrived; I was starting to get tired of your songs, - Lysander said frankly. - I hope they'll make you a new leg here, or at least give you some crutches.

Returning to the past.
- Thank you for your help, Lizundur; I will never forget it.

Lysander plunges his spear into the old man's head and twists it.

Spending most of his time in the training room or recreation area, Tilen occasionally pondered the recent "adventure" that had befallen his team. No, the deaths of his comrades had long ceased to bother him, nor did his own injuries, but sometimes they stirred up gloomy thoughts about the meaning of this pointless existence with its single, predetermined end.
He remembered his old army buddy. Krin was a couple of years younger than him, short, with short, spiky blond hair and funny, hastily trimmed mustaches. In their unit at the time, it was hard to find a more cheerful prankster, prone to jokes and anecdotes, which he seemed to memorize by the hundreds before going to bed, because no one had ever heard him repeat them. Or maybe he just made them up on the spot?
Krin never doubted for a moment that the Front would win the war, and he made confident plans for the future. At home, a beautiful wife and a little son were waiting for him. He kept a special notebook of expenses, where he calculated the cost of moving to the capital, and, carried away, he received a well-deserved slap from the commander. In victories, Krin was always the main star of any celebration, and his drunken toasts, accompanied by energetic hand gestures, ended with thunderous applause from the soldiers, who were fond of loud words; in defeats, he always had a bottle or two of liquor on hand and could pour out his soul in friendly conversations.
Sometimes Krin liked to cause trouble, and sometimes the poor fellow even had to be tied up to calm him down, but he never crossed the line, never violated his personal ideals and principles. Once, helping an old merchant fight off a gang of raiders, he received strange fruits from the latter as a reward, which, lacking the necessary stability, he immediately swallowed, not bringing them to the camp.
A week later, Krin was already lying in a military hospital, screaming in terrible agony and begging his comrades to bring him peace. No medicine could save the unfortunate man, and soon he breathed his last, asking only "why?" and "for what?", as if the Creator himself could descend from the heavens to answer him on these last questions. Perhaps he will meet Him in the next world and ask himself.
Tilen involuntarily clenched his fists, remembering how, shortly after the capture of the capital, he delivered Krin's last letters to his wife. As it turned out, his son died of a fever, never waiting for his father's return. A disgusting scene. Perhaps it is good that he chose a different path for himself. At least, no plans, no dreams, and no empty promises. And no one will be worse off if he rests in peace. No. When.

Consider my character, Revan, part of the team now. :D

"This place is a real drag," Eldir thought to himself. He was bored sitting in the camp, waiting for the others to arrive. Besides the lack of activity in the camp, the man was also upset that he hadn't participated in any romantic adventures in the last few days.
Finally, the arrival of a small group from "Lumen," consisting of quite diverse individuals, added some contrast. On the one hand, the man was tired of sitting around, but on the other hand, he was annoyed that the events were stagnating due to such a small number of people. However, among them, the elf immediately noticed two attractive girls who might be able to brighten up his "workdays." At the same time, he felt as if he had met the demoness somewhere before, but he couldn't remember where and when. On the one hand, he didn't include demons in his list of lovers, but on the other hand, this girl might have been a human at some point.
"I need to greet everyone and find out the names of these girls."

- Finally, we're here; I was starting to get tired of your songs, - Lysander said bluntly. - I hope they'll give you a new leg here or at least a pair of crutches.

The noble Arandor is playing the role of a jerk so that the players can more easily get rid of his traitorous character, and he can introduce a new character into the game.

that's what any straightforward person would say. what's the big deal about some old man?

It's clear that you are not familiar with the concepts of "politeness" and "respect for elders."