World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

Emilia has been sitting to the side all this time, her meagre kit packed into a sling bag at her feet. She watches Isaera as she returns and she and Marion begin sparking off each other again. She had hoped that, over her tenure in Ratchet Chapter, she would see their periodic frictions smoothen into something approaching respect; perhaps even the kind of friendship that comes out of rivalry. But Emilia herself wasn't much of a peacemaker - and she couldn't even reprimand Marion's intoxication without hypocrisy. If the mage and warlock were going to bond, Emilia wouldn't get to see it. Still, she straightens up for a second as if preparing to interject as some kind of distraction, before Jakk'ari gets there first with a more genuinely informative comment.

As far as she could see it, Jakk'ari was ready to take up the task; Mor'Lag would follow Marion's lead, and Marion's assent was, for the moment, dubious with sarcasm. Isaera's input may be enough to push the discussion into action.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion drew her glass up to her lips again and took another deep sip, the amber-gold liquid quickly diminishing. The bottle that the adventuring noble had originally retrieved and from which she dispersed the alcohol, was getting close to half empty, its 40% alcohol content having gone into the system of only one present: Marion.

She remained quiet as Isaera followed up with Jakk'ari whom, ever the diplomatic, acquiesced to the elf's demands for expedition.

But it was another figure that caught the Warlocks attention, as her eyes widened at observance when she was drawing her glass down and spotted Emilia prepping her things, ready to depart. The Paladin and her had...never really gotten along. Surprising! But nevertheless, Emilia hadn't pissed the warlock off, nor gotten in her way, nor made any unreasonable demands of her. Indeed, she had been downright stalwart, and Marion was not so egoistical as to not see the salvation for humankind the paladins had been...even if they'd almost gotten her killed several times during her personal attempts at escape during the Scourging of Lordaeron.

And so, Marion unceremonly lurched forward and walked in in front of Jakk'ari and the furbolg as if they weren't even there, her bare feet slap-slap-slap-slapping on the floor as she walked with the grace of something from Durotar, until she drew herself up alongside the paladin.

"I'm sorry to see - hic! I'm..." Marion blinked, pressing her eye-lids together hard and then opening them, "I'm sorry, to see, you go, Emilia, I really am!" she put one arm around the paladin, clutching her close in a tight hug.

"Look, about the Legion, there's something you should know..."

The warlock then spent the next five minutes, as slurred and drunken as she was, dispensing some...very insightful advice into the demonology of the ether, the legion and devils in general. It was rather astute and learned, suggesting that Marion was a lot more knowledgeable than she might have let on, and it could possibly save Emilia's life or those of her colleagues one day.

Kissing the paladin on the cheek, swaying on her feet, Marion wished her the best, smothering her with a several inebriated affections before turning her half-eye-closed attention back to the troll, furbolg and Her Majesty.

[WindStruck]

Isaera listens to Jakk'ari's translated plea, her eyes shifting a bit from side to side, among her companions and their visitor.

"Well.. I don't think he expects us to leave right now? It's getting late and the weather is quite terrible," she says.

"I suppose we could help, although.. this feels like searching for a needle in a hay stack, doesn't it? Kind of like those marines..."

"Does he even have an idea of what route they might have taken? How long is the journey?"

[Plaids]

Isaera listens to Jakk'ari's translated plea, her eyes shifting a bit from side to side, among her companions and their visitor.

"Well.. I don't think he expects us to leave right now? It's getting late and the weather is quite terrible," she says.

"I suppose we could help, although.. this feels like searching for a needle in a hay stack, doesn't it? Kind of like those marines..."

"Does he even have an idea of what route they might have taken? How long is the journey?"

Jakk'ari

Ahh... well I see, the elements will be most forthcoming with the two of us. But I see your point. We succeeded with ranger skills of Sergent Zachary Black, guidance from the alliance, and hospitality from the horde. Delaying our departure would be prudent with our faculties and conditions.
Jakk'ari notes as his enthusiasm subsides in the midst of his disheveled party.
You may rest while I will see what else Roshorn knows and what he does not.

Turning to Roshorn Jakk'ari renews his questioning.
Roshorn, do you know which route your clan may have taken and what may have prevented them from arriving here? Are there any scouts in Azshara who will come to our aid? My clan and I have saved people lost in the wilderness on multiple occasions but have had scouts or directions while doing so. I also fear the guidance elements will not be available should an arcane adversary be responsible for your clan's dissapearance.

Spoiler: Hopefully Emelia will not be leaving immediately

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Hopefully Emelia and the other the paladins are going to take some time to prepare their campaign to plan out the logistics.

[MrAbdiel]

Roshorn's ursine head tracks between the speakers, tension entering his posture as he loses touch with an exchange beyond his understanding and draining away again as Jakk'ari decodes it for him. In Kalimag, he responds.

"I do - I walked the road with my own paws expecting them to catch up to me on the way. We pass from Winterspring through the hold of the Timbermaw - our opal clan has good relations with them - into Ashzara, south along the escarpment above the ruins of Eldarath, and south to Lake Mennar and the path the orcs have carved in the lower mountains to the Orgimmar canyon. It is not especially dangerous, but there are naga in the bay... The horde soldiers from Valormok keep them in check. But I cannot imagine the Opal clan would stray into danger without some good reason..."

The conditions make it difficult to imagine leaving this evening, though tomorrow morning the roads in all directions are likely to have travellers retreating from the collapsed peace summit. Night elves returning north are likely to go west through Ashenvale, instead, but the druid hub of Moonglade is accessible to the north - for druids, anyway. The road may not be totally lonely. As for Emilia and the rest of the Argent Dawn, she seems to be preparing to depart tomorrow with all haste - if there is no portal available for mere squires, she'll have a ship to catch as soon as possible.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari

That trail narrows our search and what may have detoured them.
We are not in a state to depart, and we need to rest. But you have my promise that I will help find your opal clan.
Jakk'ari reassures Roshorn.

Perhaps the little elemental of snow and wind can help us recover.
Jakk'ari wonders as he sees Marion drunken beside Mor'Lag recently having been hurled by Medivh.

Jakk'ari begins arranging his bedding to rest.

[Feathersnow]

Lag sneaks the bottle away from Marion as she talks to the Lightbound warrior and downs most of it, passing the rest to Mor, who puts it down after finishing it.

She needed to protect her leader from excess, but getting caught wouldn't do at all... with a decent buzz, the twins trundle off to find a place to sleep.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

The bottle was easily whisked away, Mor'lag and others noting it was about 75% empty, the entirety of it having been imbibed in their warlock companion would was now stumbling about. She muttered and grumbled about a few things before being plonked into her cot to sleep everything off.

[MrAbdiel]

Azshara

Precious few remember Zin-Azshari. Precious few remember the Kaldorei Empire at all, let alone the glorious and glamorous capital. The earliest Night Elves built the city of Elun'dris on the shores of the Well of Eternity, but only when it blossomed into an empire did the Kaldorei rename the city Zin-Azshari, the Glory of Azshara. But after the war of the Ancients, after the Legion first came to Azeroth and the gravity of the queen's desecration buckled the land and caused the city's bulk to shear from the tectonic plate and plunge into the endless dark of the ocean, the despairing survivors came to know it more simply. Not a glory, but a reminder of the hollowness of empire, and glory, and arcane obsession.

Now, it's simply Azshara. But even with all its ancient Kaldorei glory sunk into the ocean forever, the land is not devoid of natural beauty. Some quirk of its proximity to the Well of Eternity las locked the flora of the region in perpetual autumn. Tall polyathias, noble oaks, and swooping juniper trees with fabulously curved trunks all sport majestic boughs crowded with leaves of oranges, reds and yellows. Even the grass has an unnatural, but not unlovely fall hue. Supposedly, the region is especially lovely when the sun is rising over the sea in the east, turning the whole realm into fields of burnished and glowing gold.

Walking along the scrappy dirty road down from the mountain pass from Orgimmar, each of you is now as far north in Kalimdor as you have ever been with each step, rather than returning home the way you came as you had planned. Fortunately, you aren't losing time: early in the morning before your departure, one of Lady Proudmoore's apprentices visited your tent to impart to Isaera two things. The first is a ceramic disc fired from a mana-rich clay and engraved with a spell that will create short-lived portal to Theramore. The second is a reiteration of Jaina's assurance that, when Isaera stops by, she will receive the texts and components she needs to start inscribing the chapter's portal anchor at the tower in Ratchet. The upshot of it all is, as long as you aren't delayed by several days here in Azshara, you'll arrive back in Ratchet faster by portal and ship than you would have if you had left immediately and taken a combination of ship, zeppelin, and marching.

Once again, you find yourselves walking into the wilderness looking for lost heroes. These are not freshly minted cadets out to get themselves into trouble; these are adventurers at least somewhere close to parity in expertise to your party. They had somewhere important to be, and were travelling a safe rout. What could have befallen them, or else possessed them to deviate by days and miss what was anticipated to be one of the most important diplomatic events in modern history - and the culmination of the Opal Collocation's noble goals?

You missed today's sunrise by several hours and it's near to noon as you follow Roshorn's ambling bulk off the road to the small lake Mennar. A modest, glistening freshwater lake accruing from a stream from the mountains you just passed, the water is the most obvious place for travellers to water their horses on the way through. A collection of chalk-white marble ruins are scattered around the lake's rim and some in the water itself. Column and stairs broken from their ancient belonging sit tilting half out of the sand. A lone tower, its outer masonry worked and fine beneath the weathering, stands sealed and leaning slightly south west; like a poorly tended gravestone for the ancient glory of the elves.

A small rugged hut sits next to a rough cut timber jetty over the water, suggesting at least one long term occupant; and a gated paddock in the golden grass stands empty beside it.

The bear man growls out in his impenetrable shaman-tongue, relying on Jakk'ari's translation.

"If my Opal clan made it this far, they surely stopped here. Perhaps... there is sign of their passing. Or no sign, to suggest instead they diverted earlier on the road..." He plods along the bank of the beach, sniffing and looking about for confirmation.

Spoiler: OOC:

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You're on the hunt. You can begin your investigation however you like, checking out any of the nearby features and looking for signs of the Winterspring Chapter!

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari

This is the furthest the Winterspring chapter could have traveled. Traces of their presence may remain in the landscape; while an absence would suggest they stopped earlier on their journey to Durotar. Jakk'ari translates for Roshorn.

Be wary amongst the ruins and stay within sight of one another. This be a hexed land, the remains of it's Demon Queen still persist. He warns the party while bristling at the white marble ruins still retaining some of their opulence from ages past.

I will be investigating over there. Jakk'ari points forwards towards the quiet landscape as he resolutely walks forwards towards the pristine pool in the autumnal landscape.
The tranquil waters fail to comfort Jakk'ari. The history of this land overrules any assurances the pristine waters hold. After being desecrated so thoroughly this inviting lake had to be a malignant ruse now latent within this land. It would be more comforting to approach to muddy watering hole in Tanaris, harboring an opportunistic crocolisk. Suppressing his discomfort Jakkari reaches out to the elements within the lake.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


And so the Opal collective pushed north of Orgrimmar, further than most humans had ever been in a small band of canting heroes that strode forth to rescue another group of heroes from their own clumsy stupidity. At least that's how Marion saw it.

The morning was easier on the warlock than most might think, as her teenage youth allowed her to shrug off the half bottle of alcohol she had imbibed with relative ease, and evade the brain-pulverizing curse of a hang-over. Instead, she had had an...awkward morning, at least around Isaera. Indeed, Marion had not forgotten the social wound the elf had inflicted on her and the ensuing salt rubbed within it, and she carried this injury by not talking to or addressing her directly, instead asking whoever was closest to pass on a message, if they were willing.

However, that was forgotten for now, as Marion sat atop Charon, the visibly fel-laced horse she had learned to summon before the trip to Orgrimmar. A relatively simple spell once you got it down, the fel-steed was a beautiful specimen of its kind, with an orange-black mane down its long, broad neck that was hot to the touch. Normal eyes did not reside within its sockets, but instead small pits of fire that somehow managed to convey an animalistic intelligence with its glare, while when it scraped its hooves against the ground it did so with emberous keratin that left soft little dark patches of char where-ever its arched horse-shoe tipped trotters touched the earth.

Marion herself had opted for an arcane casters fieldware: striking, but somewhat practical. Purple was the color of the day, with the silvery, grey lining helping to accentuate the beautiful, polished and cut emerald that sat at the base of her cleavage and at the centre of the satin gorget around her neck, while her crown of yellowed, blonde hair was braided along the side of her head as if to funnel the rest of her mane into a golden waterfall behind her head. If there was any hint one desired as to how deep the young womans coffers had become from the income of her enterprises, she wore them all with aplomb.

Naturally, as befitting a lady, Marion rode side-saddle, the rich purples of her robe draping across one side of Charon's muscular form, the saddle situated upon its back seemingly perfectly sculptured, doubtless by the girls own magic, to suit the warlocks contours with comfortable precision. It also retained space for a large, side-saddle hostler within which was sheathed a firearm rifle that Marion had brought along, as well as a utility belt of useful items and weapon reloads that she could swiftly fasten about her waist in a pinch.

When they came upon their first mystery, the scholar and intellectual curiosity of the Warlock was set to wander as she peered across the ruins of sculptured marble, decaying remnants of a once grand and vast empire forged by beings whom now huddled upon the island of Teldrassil in the nadir of their power. To think that they had once commanded the land from coast to coast, their hands stretching out across a vast continent of unimaginable riches and potential, yet now all that remained was some coastal influence and an island wrapped around a tree. The Kaldorei had grown tall and fallen far, indeed.

However, perhaps it was an individual curiosity, but Marion had always wondered why the Elves had not advanced to the gunpowder stage of their civilization. They clearly had the mental faculties to grasp and understand the principles, yet they had deliberately chosen to apprehend themselves in stasis. Though preserving a beautiful heritage was understandable, Marion felt a tinge of sadness that in doing so they had sacrificed their ability to defend it from outside forces that were mightier than they. Could the world today look very different had the Night Elves of old possessed, maintained and deployed squadrons of steam tanks, cannons, mortars, barrels of gunpowder and riflemen? Marion thought so. Such weapons had been instrumental in humanities efforts to blast to piece the vile orcs in decades past. What would the Kaldorei have done with such firepower, and how would the world be different today? That their empire had been forged with the same weapons they were still using at its fall thousands of years later, was indicative of utter failure, in Marions eyes. Guns were the great equalizer, after all. Marion was no physical match for a brutal orc, but give her a rifle and 50 yards of distance, and she could drop half a dozen in short order.

One could argue, if Marion could play devils advocate against herself, that the Night Elves druidic customs had been their downfall. Though initially productive for both spiritual and defensive means, the pathological strive for 'balance' had driven them into a state of complacency and stagnation, their one nature-infused trick becoming predictable to their enemies to the point it was no longer a reliable shield, but a lead anchor whose weight had made them vulnerable. In the long run, peace had cost them their strength. They were defeated by their own initial victories.

Be wary amongst the ruins and stay within sight of one another. This be a hexed land, the remains of it's Demon Queen still persist. He warns the party while bristling at the white marble ruins still retaining some of their opulence from ages past.

I will investigating over there. Jakk'ari points forwards towards the quiet landscape as he resolutely walks forwards.

Marion nodded to the troll - a member of another species long-fallen from power in Azeroth, but this time for the better - her eyes moving over to the Furbolg whom was shuffling about towards what he believed to be a source of clues as to his companions whereabouts. Now that she was more, ahem, sober, Marion didn't know what to think of the bear-man. He was...odd to look at, after all. Disgusting, ugly, but oddly endearing, perhaps because he was so ghastly, yet possessed of a timid and humble soul. Maybe.

For now, Marion remained atop Charon, and performed just a gentle trot around the perimeter, remaining within sight of the others and not traveling more than 50 to 100 yards, as she cast an inspection about their surroundings.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk'ari wanders cautiously to the banks of the lake. Dried hoofprints in the sandy earthen banks speak to travellers watering horses here.

Spoiler: Investigation: DC 8

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The tracks are more than a day old, you figure. Most importantly, there's a good chance they belong to the Winterspring chapter because Roshorn described them has having horses. Very few people operating in this area would have such beasts - raptors, kodos, wolves, and nightsabers for sure, but horses? They're not tauren hooves, and you're too far north for centaur activity.

The spirits in the lake a flighty little things, offering the shaman their whispers furtively before returning to their bodiless, tentative frollicking.

"The dead elves cling to their loss, here; they wail and moan, but they do not attack except those who take to the water in moonlit hours..."

Meanwhile, Marion's infernal steed conveys her at a greater perimeter, keeping watch over the golden grasses and trees and the narrow road back into the mountains toward Orgrimmar. A delegation of night elf sentinels, eight in total, bound by on their massive battle-cats. Most of them cast no attention at all to the lake, or the adventurers inspecting it. One turns her lambent white eyes briefly to Marion as she passes. She crooks a long turquoise eyebrow, but makes no aggressive move. The Kaldorei entrenched in alliance politics are well used to humans, but most of them have had very little dealing with the children of the kingdoms of man. Humans, dwarves, high-elves and gnomes - the Kaldorei could be forgiven for wondering if there was something in the water in the Eastern Kingdoms that turned people short, and normalized their coloration into an autumnal spectrum. But they were allies now, and the passing sentinel gave the warlock the barest vestige of a nod, and then turned her attention back to the road.

Spoiler: Perception: DC 10

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The sentinels are making good time into the distance, but you notice that some of those who didn't eyeball you had their attention on a thicket of low trees overwatching the lake. Perhaps they spotted something there that isn't obvious to you...

Spoiler: If you hit DC 25...

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... Until it is. A flash of blue scale in the shadow in the boughs there; something biding and watching...

[WindStruck]

Fortunately, an emissary from Lady Proudmoore arrived before the group left on their rescue operation. Not only was a disk that could teleport them back to Theramore very convenient, but this was a good chance to send word of their plans. It would be good if Jaina knew they would be absent from Rachet longer than expected, and no doubt she'd be pleased to know they were helping investigate the whereabouts of the missing Winterspring chapter.

And so, Isaera sets out with the others, packed unfortunately light and without much clothes or gear appropriate for a hike in the north, but on the other hand, at least this meant the journey would impact her stamina less. Only time would tell if lacking supplies would hurt in the long run.

A mount would have been nice. Isaera wished she could have rented out a lovely hawkstrider of some sort, but they were hard to come by around these parts, and the logistics of returning it would be.. complicated, if not extremely inconvenient. This desire was intensified seeing Marion ride around casually with some other fel-blooded steed she got or summoned from somewhere. There was undoubtedly a twinge of jealousy in the elf, and also stoked suspicion. Sure, at this point, why not? Just announce to everyone that you're a freaking warlock in big, tall, neon letters!

Needless to say, the two had a very tenuous relationship. Isaera, having had perhaps one of the most stressful nights of her life previously (not counting loss of home and family in Quel'Thalas), paid little attention to the warlock's small banter and had now inadvertently and unknowingly slighted her. Marion brooded silently to herself, and simply put, Isaera paid attention to more important things.

- - - - -

The beauty of Azshara was enchanting, and although Isaera really was reluctant to traveling all this way at first, soon the natural beauty of the area, and the rich history buried deep in the neglected ruins captured her attention. Almost feeling like a child again, she gazed about, bright eyed and curiously, stopping to touch many things and examine stones of what seemed like very innocuous and unimportant ruins. She of course, had many questions for Jakk'ari. Maybe he wouldn't know seeing as he was a desert troll, but perhaps the spirits or Roshorn could fill her in.

They arrive at Lake Mennar, which was not only a nice spot to rest, but also a place of vital importance. Either the missing party had stopped by here, or they did not. Whichever was the case would help determine where to look next.

"We should ask if anyone has seen them," Isaera says, pointing at the tower and the hut near the jetty. "And if they haven't.. well, I suppose we'll have to investigate here ourselves."

"Just a reminder: what did our missing party look like, and what were their names again?" she asks.

Wearily, Isaera heads over to the indicated structures to see if anyone is there and interrogate ask them nicely.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari

They arrive at Lake Mennar, which was not only a nice spot to rest, but also a place of vital importance. Either the missing party had stopped by here, or they did not. Whichever was the case would help determine where to look next.

"We should ask if anyone has seen them," Isaera says, pointing at the tower and the hut near the jetty. "And if they haven't.. well, I suppose we'll have to investigate here ourselves."

"Just a reminder: what did our missing party look like, and what were their names again?" she asks.

Jakk'ari answers Isaera, gladly engaging with the friendly High Elf instead of the profaned land.
We are looking for four individuals. The Dwarf woman Donova Den-Of-Snow, two Human men Ingaeus and Laydus, and Yara a Drukhari woman. The humans are tough as iron and should have been able to protect their party from the hardships within the surrounding wilderness. Look for evidence of horses if the dwarf, human, or drukhari tracks are absent.

||__//\\_||

Jakk'ari's submerged apprehension erupts to surface with the elementals having further affirmed his fears. His sandy gray hair bristles as cool fear jolts Jakk'ari and heightens his senses. His ears swivel and his bulge as he dashes away from the lake shore.

They were here. Their horses were here by the water! He reflexively exclaims in Kalimag.

His faculties quickly return as he returns to speaking common for Mor'Lag and repeating in Kalimag for Roshorn.
There are horse tracks by the lake. The Winterspring chapter must have arrived here several days ago and rested by the water to allow their horses to drink. The elementals of the lake have also told me the ghosts of ancient elves of the fallen kingdom emerge at night to attack those who take to the waters in the moonlight hours. I knew the land of the Demon Queen be having bad mojo!

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC: Jakkari's Investigate

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You have tracked dune dervishes and lightfooted sandstrider hens across the sands of Tanaris, where the wind changes and the dunes rearrange themselves. Sometimes tracking in such a 'wet' environment with mud and soil throws you off; but on others, it feels like the passing creatures might as well chisel their identity into stone.

A party of four horses was certainly here. One is lighter than the others, smaller, and seems to have been dismounted by a rider with shorter, wider feet - Donova, you assume. The drakkari woman has left no sign - she has had the presence of mind only to dismount her horse on the grasses where there will be no tale of her distinctive, two-toed troll feed. But the boots of two men are there on the others, and there is no doubt in your mind that the Winterspring chapter came this way. They watered their horses, loitered for no more than an hour... and then mounted up and strayed back to the road, at a north-eastern angle suggesting they intended to go back the way they came. They encountered something here that drove them to change their direction...

Isaera wanders through the ancient history of her people as she passes the stony remnants. Strictly, the history books call this the Kaldorei empire; but it is something of a misnomer. The Night Elves may be more physically like the ancients were depicted, but the grand old cities of Suramar and Zin-Azshari were drenched in magic and high culture and arcane mastery - it was the desire to retain that heritage that drove the ancestors of the high elves to sail east. These old Kaldorei, these Highborne, were as much her ancestors as they were the ancestors of the sentinels vanishing down the road. And it was the careless abuse of magic that drew the Legion here - but not without some complicity from the elven nobles.

Spoiler: OOC: Isaera's Magical Craving

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The element of Isaera's soul that is accustomed a richness of ambient mana aches to be so near the site where the Well of Eternity once whirled and swelled and bathed the people in nourishing, uplifting power. It is managable, but pronounced.

Somewhere in the barrens, Aleeana feels a similar ache. She draws a slim green crystal into being with her new cantrip, and lets it dissolve in her palm; and she aches no longer.

Jakk'ari's report about the dangerous spirits is no surprise to Isaera - the wealth of magical items and artifacts that must exist buried in sunken and collapsed ruins here must be astonishing. Surely, all the 'easy' ones have been picked away by opportunists over the years; but the lure of power and wealth for a little risk must certainly command fools to try their luck. Could the Winterspring chapter been deflected from their original course to hunt for some relic? Only if their sponsor badly misread the character of those individuals. Still...

A brisk knock on the door of the hut brings a sound of rummage and coughing from within, an orcish call of 'here, here!' and then an excitable shuffle of feet before the door pulls open. The stooped orc within is just about eye to eye with the elf, though of course height is where similarities end. He has the dull red irises common to aged orcs, the stocky proportions and protrusive underbite common to the orcish underclass formed largely by those who came to Azeroth as part of a peon caste. Strictly, they are no longer indentured to anyone under the new horde; but the set of shoulders, the diminished body size from undernourishment through the years, and the generally humble demeanor of a creature born strong but beaten into weakness marks such orcs apart from their brash, battle-hungry brethren. This one offers what seems to be a friendly smile on his face to Isaera, though he seems unable to maintain her eye contact for long moments and deflects his gaze over and over again past her to the jetty behind.

"Something need doing..?"

[WindStruck]

Isaera flashes a polite smile back. "Hello." She wasn't sure if she preferred speaking to a submissive peon or a brash warrior, but either way, she's glad to not be on the wrong end of violence and, it seemed this orc would be cooperative.

"We were trying to find some people. Two humans, a troll, a dwarf, all as a group.. Perhaps a slightly less eclectic group than mine," she says, glancing behind herself briefly as she wonders what the orc is looking at as he keeps deflecting his gaze.

"I believe they were also riding horses. Did you see people stop by like that, or where they went?"

While Isaera had almost immediately gone over to question the inhabitants of this area, by now the others had probably started to find clues. Turning around again, it certainly seemed Jakk'ari was excited about something.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


Marion sat astride her infernal steed, side-saddle, her purple-silver robes a bastion of allure and her blonde hair pouring down between her shoulders. Not a particularly effective sentinel or scout, the warlock could sometimes be a reliable look-out, and right now was one such time. Charon had brought her to the edge of the lake, the humans figure adorably diminiuative compared to the larger ruins and imperial vestiges that surrounded her, but no less alert as she soon spotted movement within the bushes upon the other side of the lake. Movement, and blue scales.

Marions eyes widened, her mouth parting gently in a soft little gasp. Scales?! On land? Didn't only fish possess such an overlapping form of dermal tissue - aside from dragons?

Saying nothing and closing her mouth so as not to alert anything with particularly keen vision, the human drew the reins on her steed about gently, clicking her tongue and gesturing softly with the back of her boot for Charon to venture forth, as she rode her pet back to where-ever the rest of the group had gathered, her intent clear when she finally shoved herself into the centre of their attention.

"On the other side of the lake - in the bushes, I saw blue scales and movement!" her words would be hushed, but deadly serious.

[MrAbdiel]

The peon is far more polite and well meaning than he seems able to be helpful.

"You need water? Strobu. Good to drink!"

He gestures to the water and offers an indicative nod. On her second try, Isaera gets not much further.

"Horse? Yes, mind horse. Zug zug. Tie up, I mind."

His orcish seems to be worse Isaera's, which is strange on account of the fact that he's an orc. He seems to want to help, but complex words blow right past him, and some simple words he fails to recognize at all...

Spoiler: OOC: 'Glor-Dook'

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I'll let that history check kick in here; especially because as a 'runescribe' there's a linguistic bent in Isaera's background.

Immediately you pick up some of the shaping of words he uses come from the ogrish lexicon you've heard Mor'Lag use when conversing with the Stonemaul, and between the ogres themselves when you helped them escape the ruination of their village. And that clues you in to something you've read before...

"It is something of a misconception that orc peons are universally stupid. This is a misjudgment held not only by other races, but by the warrior and craftsmen classes of orcs themselves, on account of so many of the work gangs that made up the peon class of orcs drawn into the Horde having come from ogre slave drafts that took no part in the violent overthrow of the ogres themselves. They were runty, meek, cowed, and desperate. They spoke only the ogre/orc pidgin known as Glor-Dook, and could barely communicate with the free orc clans and those who had never lost their grasp on their mother-tongue.

But these poor drudges were both needed, and willing, to do the work of the Horde war-machine. There were farms to build and trees to chop; gold to dig and pigs to roast. The bands of slaves gladly oathed themselves to repay their debt to their saviors in vigorous labor - thus, 'peon' came to mean both 'indentured servant' and 'worker' more generally. Their lives were largely separate from the warriors and champions of the Horde.

One can understand that clan-orc overseers, communicating with peon work gang leaders, might have come to regard them as mentally dull. Conversations were dominated by clipped and repeated phrases. 'Something need doing?', 'More work?', 'What you want?', 'Me busy!', with little or no grasp of distinct second and first person grammar. This is likely due to the invasive lexical roots of ogres for whom it was possible to sometimes be, oneself, two people. This was a linguistic barrier, not a mental one; and peons are no more likely to be intellectually stunted than a clan-born orc whose grasp on human common left their human captors with similar prejudices..."

- Thurius Morningcrest, from 'Selected Essays on the Orc, Ogre, and Other Invasive Peoples'

You could spend quite a while blugeoning your way through the dialect barrier for distinct answers; but you suspect that Mor'Lag, who speaks both the parent tongues of this pidgin, would get through faster and clearer.

[WindStruck]

By the end of this exchange, Isaera's warm and polite demeanor has faded away into more confusion and disappointment than anything.

"Uh. Thanks. Maybe.. friend.. talk.. you.." she says slowly.

Recognizing the more ogrish language and bits of history, she figures Mor'Lag would have better luck getting any answers - if this peon even saw anyone here at all. The tower was another mystery, but she wasn't sure who or what she'd find there, and she wasn't going to bother to ask.

Returning to the others, she asks what they found. "Blue scales? The naga?"