Vengarl's world is a tumbling view of a dim forest.
He rolls and bounces, often at odd angles due to the snout of his helm. Grass and twigs scratch at the small part of his face that is exposed. As he passes through a pile of branches, a sweet smell overcomes him, the scent piercing his mind and sharpening the world around him. Several get caught in the teeth of his helm, overwhelming his senses and sending him into a caughing fit.
The journey down the slope steepens, suddenly giving way to a sheer cliff. Suddenly, Vengarl feels the ground give way, and he falls, twigs and leaves raining down after him. The trip is short, but long; what felt like an eternity couldn't have been more than a few seconds. He comes crashing down, hitting a statue and rolling on the ground at it's feet. The fragrant branches stuck to Vengarl's helm gave way upon impact, and they litter the statue, their scent filling the air. All is quiet, and Vengarl lays silent, wishing the ache in his head would go away.
After a few long moments, the statue begins to twitch, making small puffing noises. Suddenly, the statue jerks and twitches violently, going into a coughing fit.
Small chunks of rock fall off of it-or her, rather, since it is shaped like a female- and the coughing intensifies. The chunks of rock shift and slough off, revealing smooth white skin clad in tattered rags. The woman doubles over, hacking, as Vengarl watches. After a time, her coughing finally subsides, and she kneels, catching her breath. Vengarl clears his throat.
Her head shoots up, looking for the source of the noise. Her eyes finally come to rest on Vengarl. "Hello," he says gruffly. She screeches, falling back on her modest rump and scurrying until her back hits the wall. "W-w-wha-what manner of beast are you?" She stutters.
"The kind that just freed your flat, stony behind, you ungrateful wench," he growls.
She picks a fragrant branch out of her hair, realization dawning on her. "I-I... I thank you, brave... Knight..?"
"Piss to your Knights," Vengarl mutters. "Bunch of sodding fools high on their own fumes. I am- was, rather- a mercenary."
"And now...?"
"Is it not obvious?"
"...You're head of a group of mercenaries?"
Vengarl sighs. "You would get along wonderfully with a Macrophiliac friend of mine."
A.N. A Macrophiliac is a lover of giants. I daresay Sær fits the bill.