"Small Town" Chapter 1

[boldfont]

The World According to Small Town

Welcome Adventurers! Behold ye small town of Small Town. A quaint little hamlet tucked far away from the empire and the concerns of stuffy city folk. The people of Small Town are a simple and friendly sort. They are accepting of others regardless of their differences, and they enjoy their freedoms and respect the freedom of others in kind. These are a good people, and you are among them.

The world map is here

The Northwest end of Small Town, where our adventure begins, is here.

The Character Repository tread is here.

Take a moment... Breathe it all in... And finish making your characters so we can get started.

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Chapter One
Immigration

Capin Murika and Ferran join their friends, Ivellios, Pock and Harrazd at their usual spot in the Munster Burger Bar and Grill. Mr. Fiss doesn't wait for them to order before bringing them their food and drinks. It has been a long day of chopping trees for Murika. It has been a long dy protesting the chopping of tree for Ferran. But the day is over and it is time to rest.

The Great Harrazd had to put down one if his animals today. The others listen to his troubles with a sympathetic ear. As he does, the owner drops off the drink and victuals for the late comers. He offers Pock another drink. Pock has already had several while waiting for Murika and Ferran to arrive. He probably shouldn't as he has several windows to clean tomorrow early in the morning. Apparently Dusty Pymm, from the Southwest side of town, tried his hand at hunting a goose just outside his restaurant. He hit his mark but in startling the rest of the flock... well, let's just say that Pock has a lot of work to do tomorrow, and that he's about at his limit. One more drink will probably push him from that nebulous zone of merely buzzed to the murky territory of getting drunk.

Come on then! Wots one mahr beer to ya? I ken put eet in a smalla glass far ya if ya please. 'Haps a lill' saucer will do tha trick? I gots one round somewheres.

He's attempting to put the pressure on Pock. Mr. Fiss has been working him all night.

Just then Busby Sheep Farmer bursts into the bar. He looks as if he's been running. The gleen of sweat enhances the wide-eyed look of desperation on his face.

ORCS! he gasps.
The Orcs are coming! Busby puntuates his warning with more heavy breathing. He's making quite the show of it actually. We must defend the town. An army of Orcs! The Orcs are here! Just outside my farm. For real!!! I saw them! Kill them! Please kill them!

Now, when it comes to Busby, the unanimous town opinion, including your own, is that the man is best described as an utter spastic. He is a vacuous moron of the highest caliber. No human being alive has even been so incredibly stupid without actually having some sort of physical brain damage or excusable mental retardation. He once tried to give the ground a bath because he thought it looked dirty. Another time he was convinced that back taxes were taxes for having a back. Truly, Busby is a paragon of mortal idiocy.

Small Town has always had a good relationship with the gobliniod races of the north hills. They trade together frequently, and when the Orcs get a hankering for violence, as an orc is wont to do, they fight amongst themselves. It seems nigh impossible that an army of Orcs has come late in the evening to take over its long standing trading partner and friend. Yet, Busby looks genuinely terrified.

Could this be a legitimate threat?

[theduck]

Pock Merrymock

Cider, Pock had just decided, had to be one the greatest inventions - light, dry, and crisp, with just enough sweetness to make it go down smooth. And Mr. Fiss, that blessed dwarf (or human, Pock had forgotten, and was too embarrassed to ask) and been quite diligent at keeping his mug full. Pock was fairly sure he had a good reason to not want it refilled again, but he couldn't remember why. On the other hand, cider was made from apples, the same thing he had for dinner, and apples were good for you, so it stood to reason that cider was good for you too... right?

It took Pock a couple seconds to process what... whathisname was saying.

"Wait... are you saying the orcs are killing things, or you want us to kill the orcs? I'm not a big fan of killing folk who aren't killing people themselves"

[Barsoom]

Upon hearing of the Orcs, Harrazd smiled and pushed his chair backwards. He didn't believe for a moment that was a hostile army, of course. Busby simply has burned one too many sheep dung bonfires at his farm, and the smoke was getting to his brain. But he was looking forward to a chance to his his cousins, the twins Mork and Gork, and collect the ten silver they owed him on a bet (no, cows do not jump higher nor give more milk when the moon is full). Better step out and see if they're out there with the so-alleged-horde. Mr. Fiss, keep my mug full. I'll be right back. The half-orc stretched all 6'2" of his muscular frame and stepped toward the door.

[Batpope Scott]

O-orcs? Why now? Ivellios wanders out behind Harrazd stumbling slightly. What on earth could they possibly want now of all times? The elf collects himself and readies a bow and quiver for a fight. We should see if these claims hold any ground before we suggest staying in the bar.

[boldfont]

Pock is drinking cider, not beer. Stupid narrator.

Sorry, oh mighty Dungeon Master. It won't happen again.

See that it doesn't! Now, continue with the story.

Ahem! Yes. Of course.
Pock felt the mug of delicious cider going to his head.

Spoiler

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Pock has -2 Wis, -2 Int, -1 Dex, -1 to attk, and +5hp. All temporary.

As Harrazd and Ivellios rise to exit the bar and slate their curiosity, Busby recoils in horror, falling backwards and tripping oven a chair resting behind him. He points to Harrazd stuttering, O-o-ORC!!! Kill it! Kill it good!

Calm yerself bleedin' ijiot! That's Harrazd. You only known tha man all yer life. Don't you recognize him? He safed yer farm that tim ye decided to plant shriekers. Twit! shouted Mr. Fiss.

Harrazd and Ivellios step outside. The sun has set, but the sky stil has a ruddy orange tint to it. Then it occurs to them. These are camp fires. Sure enough, right where the Busby farm would be, is the glow of a few hundred camp fires. But why would orcs (if they are indeed orcs) stop at the Busby farm instead of force marching to the invasion? The town would have been taken completely by surprise. None of this adds up.

It would be a significant half hour hike to reach the farm. Another hour to go home to dawn armour and arm themselves properly. Nevertheless, it might be prudent. Or the S.W.A.G. crew could grab the "light" arms they keep with them. Mr. Fiss keeps a collection of small martial weapons from his old adventuring days on the wall. Harrazd would look ridiculous weilding a pint sized axe, but in a pinch... Ivellios reaches for his bow, but remembers that he left it at the grove. He doesn't ordinarily take it to the bar. Fortunately, Mr. Fiss has an appropriately sized short bow on the wall. It would do. Murika at least would be able to grab his razor shield and lend someone a handaxe.

The situation was troubling. How urgent were they needed? Would the Orcs be hostile? Would the Orcs be Orcs?

[distant quasar]

Ferran sighs animatedly at Busby's "warning." After the fool had mistaken the mooing of a cow for a bellowing demon in the night and run through the sleeping town panicked, Ferran wasn't at all inclined to believe in any Orcs. Still, his friends seemed curious, so he might as well head out with them. He regretfully put down his glass of fine elven wine, taking one last sip before doing so, then heading out after Harrazd and Ivellios.

[Batpope Scott]

Ivellios slaps his forehead in his absent mindedness and then sighs I can't believe I thought I'd brought my bow with me. Something must be getting to my head... Ivellios stares incredulously at busbys reaction to his companion before shaking his head and continuing after Harrazd. Do you think we'll actually need weapons, my friend?

[theduck]

Pock shakes his head, having a strange feeling of deja vu, before carefully getting up and following his friends.

Don't think we will need them, but it might not hurt to have sometime... unless you all wanted to trek around town, gathering our stuff, with... burp him yelling about the orc army

[Barsoom]

Harrazd not parlicularty worried about Orcs. If push comes to shove, can make club or staff out of branches. Harrazd spends the next quarter of an hour wondering why would a push ever want to come to shove.

[boldfont]

After some musing and gallamucking, the party decides to go straight to the Busby Farm. The five S.W.A.G. members swaggger (see what I did there) on down the road. Just a short quarter hour into their journey the camp fire glow has become a visible series of bon fires. The stench of sweat and sour booze hangs in the air.

Roughly a thousand head of Orc are camped at the Busby farm. They are celebrating. Some of them chant and stomp wildly around the fires. An Orcish bard hammers away at a massive set of drums and skillfully wails away a dirge of his people.

(Roughly Translated)
I like pork but I look like a pig
what does that say about I?
I like to pork but my wife is a pig
what does that say about I?
but the RED KING give her to somebody else!!!
Oh what does that say about I???

Spoiler

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Knowledge: Local (Harrazd unskilled, Ivellios, and Murika to assist) DC 15/20
*I messed the thread roll up. Derp! Anyways, you passed.

Harrazd and Ivellios recognize a multitude of different clans. The Gruuk Clan. Harrazd's birth clan. The M'UukGraowl Clan. The Wu Tang Clan. Even the Blood warts Clan. As many of these groups are mortal enemies, this has become a very strange gathering indeed. Moreover, they do not appear amassed for battle. There are Orc young and nursing Orc ladies. The warriors of the group are busy drinking and butting heads. Anything to kill a brain cell apparently.

The party makes their way through the camp to the largest of the bon fires. This one is fueled with sheep. A terrified little bald man known as Sips Brewer is cuddled into a ball against his over turned wagon. No doubt his product was appropriated for the occasion. Harrazd's cousin Mork plops himself next to Sips.

This swill isn't bad human! Once you get used to the foam and the sweetness of it. YOU isn't bad. I like you! Let's be friends. Best friends.

Okay... Sips manages to croak out.

Mork spots Harrazd and lifts his mug in good cheer. Cousin! he says. I've come to live with you. Isn't that great?

[Morbis Meh]

With his faithful beaver, Skippy, Capin surveyed the scene before him whilst picking a stray piece of bacon from his teeth. His plaid breastplate gleaming it the firelight, Capin struts over to the orcs and flexes his mighty beard "Ho there, stenchy denziens of the plains, why have you accosted this half man and his delicious brew? It is not proper to celebrate in the middle of farmer's field without copius amounts of Bacon and Maple syrup! I demand that a group of you comes with me to the local forest to bring said syrup and another group slaughter some said pigs so that we may truly get this shindig started!" Capin strikes a manly pose trying his best to have his back to the sun to make it more potent. Skippy cheers at the suggestion of maple syrup and imitates his master's pose to make it look more dynamic!

[Batpope Scott]

Ivellios is now staring at Capin in confusion You're.... you're encouraging the ransacking of the farms now?

[Morbis Meh]

Capin looks back with an incredulous look "Heavens no, I will cover the cost for the livestock, I just feel it would be a shame to waste an opportunity for a party. Besides I would rather have a massive horde of orcs well fed and content instead of drunk and angry."

[Barsoom]

Mork spots Harrazd and lifts his mug in good cheer. Cousin! he says. I've come to live with you. Isn't that great?

No, cuz, 'tis not great at all. Here among the humans, we have what is called private purperty. You can't just step on someone's land and decide yous lives theres. Yous have to ask permissions and pays rents and stuff. You lot could be in big troubles for tresspassing like that.

Having completed this speech, Harrazd braces himself for accusations that he has become too 'humanized'.

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A few nearby Orc ears perk at the mention of maple syrup and bacon. They know not of these things, but anything that can make their party better is clearly of interest.

Spoiler

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Morbis may grab a group of Orcs and teach them of the mystery of bacon and maple goodness if he so chooses.

As for Mork, he too is baffled by human culture.

Privat Puberty? Rentz? These words appear to have upset him, as he tosses his new "best friend" aside like yesterday's trash. What you mean we cant lives heres?!? I comes all this ways and you no butt heads with me even cousin! We comes to live in human town and you judges and rejects us? So much for humans compression... Or did you think I did'n know wat compression iz? You thinks I am too stoopid to undastand the human way of caring bout others? Hmm?

Spoiler

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Roll Sense Motive for insight (all; Harrazd +2 culture insight bonus. Add Int bonus. Skilled only, except Harrazd. DC 20) Next post at 8pm. Buddy system applies.

[Barsoom]

Mork, I know all 'bout caring 'bout others. Me and mah friends here, we care 'bout town just 'bout all the time between drinkin' binges. Also care 'bout yours, if yous just tells us 'bout what's happen. How come a big horde of big orcs like yous needs caring?

[distant quasar]

Ferran winces slightly at the mangled Common. While his companions hardly spoke gracefully either, the Orcs mangled the language until it was almost unrecognizable.

"I'm curious about that as well," Ferran said, eyeing the Orcs cautiously.

[Morbis Meh]

Noticing the curiousity in the eyes of the orcs as the holy word Bacon is mention "Aha! Come fellow beings, it is time to learn in the holy rite of bacon! First we need to find the propering offering to the Almighty Bacon Lord, Maple Syrup thus we must venture into the realm of the Demi Goddess Aunt Jemima and if we are found wanting the wrath of this goddess is limitless. So those bold and brave enough to endure this quest come with me, valiant SKIPPY lead the way!" Shouting in an overly dramatic voice, Capin points toward the forest as his dire beaver sidekick takes the lead.

[boldfont]

Spoiler

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Four posts already. I'll post now. Needless to say, Harrazd fails his sense motive check horribly. I also rolled for Ivellios (13+11=24) and he passes. React accordingly if you please.

Pock is either with Murika or Harrazd. I shall work him in as he indicates.

Mork hears his cousin entreat him to come forward and tell the truth of their coming to Small Town. Surrounded by the scrutinizing eyes of Harrazd, Ferran and Ivellios, Mork breaks down in tears. Very un-Orc like!

Okay! Okay! I can no hide anyting from you cousin. We run from our clans. We run to escapes...

Dramatic pause

THE RED KING!!!

Anticlimatic pause

You no know the Red King then? A deep RED Orc from the Nort. He start by joining the Blood Boil Clan. He kilt the chief they say wit ONE BLOW of his axe. They sayz he's ten feet tall! An that he be fastr than the wind. He rides a hairless worg and bites the heads offa chickens whole. He'sa savage merciless monsta that kill you in a blink offa eye!"

So of course we tink "We gotta pretty good leader here."
An then all the clan-es starts to join inna one BIG clan! An he starts a callin' himselfa KING! And soma old Orc chiefs starta say "He notta king" But then he proof them wrongs by Killinum dead.

Mork has become quite animated at this point. His story telling was never very good, but this story has him fully engaged. Some of the other Orcs begin to gather. A bard could hardly have held more attention.

BUT THEN he startsa tellin' us ALLS whata do. He takesa Head Head Hunter title from me an Gork an makesa that son of a K'Thalkt Raktos a "General". He says Orcs dont hunt anymohr. We inna army now! But we donna want to be in no army. We like to go where we wants!

Mork's speech is now being punctuated with cries from the small Orc gathering around him. Cries of "YEAH!" and "Thats right!"

We likes to fights who we wants!
"YEAH!"
We likes to partay when we wants!
"Hells YEAH!"
An Listen to musaks that we wants!
YEAH!!!!!
We likes to keeps our wives to ourselfs!
"THATS MY SWEET HONEY POT!"
"cept when nother orc killz the husband an takes her properly"
"Oh yeah thats okay"
"Cept that. He's right."
Well, of COURSE thats okay... But not just to give as prize to new generals!
"YEAAAAAHHHHH!!!!"

The Orc crowd has now reached critical mass. In no time at all it has turned quickly into a drunken angry mob!

So dear cousin! We come to liff here. Wit you... So we can do whats we wants again. I hope you donna haff a problem with that.

"What a load of garbage" thinks Harrazd. "What is he really doing here?"

Fortunately, Ivellios has more insight into the situation. Mork is serious about this. One way or another, 1000 refugee orcs have come to live with the humans.

[boldfont]

- MEANWHILE -

Capin MURIKA follows his stalwart dire beaver companion to the Mill where he keeps an ample supply of salted bacon and maple syrup. Approximately 1 Orc(s) (with a standard deviation of 1) follow him to bacon and syrup heaven.

Spoiler

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Based on Murika's Charisma and circumstance bonus.

[theduck]

Fearing his buzz may be waning, Pock pantomimes the universal sign of drinking to whichever orc looks most in charge on the brew, and listens to Harrazard's cousin.

Y'all got yourselves an army of sorts here already... why don't you just go beat the snot out of the red king - then you can be free and don't need to be here?

[Batpope Scott]

Ivellios makes no attempt to hide the great concern on his face. He's dead serious Harrazd. Whether or not you believe that story of the Red King, they seem genuinely distressed. Something has made them refugees and this is where they thought to come. On another note, this sounds like the start of an orc crusade if that story is worth it's salt and history tells us that never ends well for small towns like.... small town.
After saying this Ivellios looks over the drunken mob and offers You know, if these guys are going to become a drunken angry mob we might have to distract them.

[Morbis Meh]

Capin began instructing he disciple in the holy ways of bacon and how its marriage with Maple Syrup was the holiest of unions. When they had finished with their communion Capin, his new disciple Bubz and Skippy set forth to spread the holy scripture of smoky delight, bringing back every last slab of bacon he had, a total of nine massive slabs.

[boldfont]

When Capin, Skip, and "Bubz" (who has to continually remind the Capin that his name is G'rakth) return to the camp with their nine massive slabs of maple bacon, the Orc's noses begin to sniff. The bacon is quickly distributed and fried. It's a huge success! At least at the edge of the camp, the party begins to pick up again. The celebratory bacon munching is making its way towards Mork's yurt.

In the meanwhile, the angry mob in the centre of camp is coalescing and some Orc is distributing pitchforks and torches.

However, the Capin can't help but feel a tinge of jealously when young G'rakth is hoisted on the shoulders of other orcs and paraded around the camp as the messiah of the maple bacon. Capin Murika is left alone, forgotten, at the edge of camp.

[distant quasar]

Ferran shakes his head in disapproval at the meat-eating barbarians.

[Barsoom]

After listening to Ivellios, the gravity of the situation finally sinks into Harrazd's skull. This land can't support 1,000 orcses. They need to get back to their homes. But ... what we do with dis Red King who killz with one blow? None wishes to become casualty. Maybe we can talk them into staying the night, not doin' nutting stoopid, morning will bring better decision-mekking.

[boldfont]

Mork controls the mob of angry Orcs and commands a moment of silence. With deadly seriousness he answers Pock's suggestion, and Harrazd's inner monologue.

WE CANNA GO BACK LILL HALF MAN! The Red King is too powers. If yous thinks it so easy, then you kills hims.

Snickering at Pock's expense ensues.

Imma ask you one times lill cousin. We needs a homes and new clan. We comes alls this ways to join yous clan of Small Town. Maybe we calls it Big Town now. Or Orcs Town. But we long been friends wit a humans. Will you helps us? Can we joins you Small Town clan?

Mork leans into whisper into his cousin's ear.
Pleeze Cousin. I promiss'd them a new homes. I do anyting. The Red King... He... He kilt a Gork an took a my wife Mindy... Pleezes!

[Morbis Meh]

Capin struts up to the conversation between cousins and strikes a dashing pose "Why yes my good Orc we certainly could merge into a new town... SMORC TOWN! War is hell, there's no need to actively search it, but now is not the time to discuss such things. You and your people have travelled a great and perilous distance, I say that my companions and I head straight away to the town council to begin the formation of a town meeting. HAha!"

Spoiler

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blarg too many characters with purple font... also is it just mean or does this orc sound like a stereotypical Italian? Why did it put edit when I typed blue???

[Batpope Scott]

It seems our best interests lie in dethroning this red king so the orcs can go home. Easier said than done, I'm sure. Why is it that we can never be threatened by something simple like a bread shortage?