World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: To Grill A Walking Bird - In the rainy street...

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The cyclopic grillmeister gives Mor'Lag a look like they had descended on wings of glory, outstretching arms to raise him from perdition. With a modicum of teamwork, Mor'Lag is able to the grab a handful of the rags put aside for this purpose, and with one ogre on either end of the spit they each have a free hand to grab one of the rough-wrought spit brackets too. They charge through the rain just as it graduates from summery to torrential and set up the brackets on the veranda, and the bird thereupon; the heat of its slow roast wisping off the raindrops in a vapor that has barely harmed its quality at all. The veranda dwelling orcs and trolls let out a lazy cheer of encouragement at this display, which is at least one third sarcastic amusement. "Bludgers!" The ogre scowls, and hooks his foot under the nearest chair, and then kicks up sending chair and pipe-smoking orc in a tumble into the group of unhelpful looky-loos. There is some baying and grumbling as they topple together like ten pins, some drinks spilled and some skins bruised; but they're not so deep in cups this early in the night that they take the offense personally, and likewise not yet unable to appreciate the the approximate justice that has been visited upon them. Chastened for their sloth, they cackle help each other up, slapping backs and showing off grazes; and their attention vanishes into their own midst again as they begin rapidly going through the traditional drinking-buddy transaction web about who has spare coppers and who owes who from last time to pay for a slice of the plainstrider.

"You saved me great dismay and ridicule, clanless. You have my thanks, and my debt." Producing a large and obviously beloved set of carving knife, fork, and sharpening stele, the ogre begins razoring up the edges of the knife with natural and well practised wrist flicks. As he does, he launches amiably into conversation with his reluctant assistants, displaying that his disdain for their station in the ogre superculture doesn't seem to go much past calling them 'clanless'. "I am Ogg'mar, of Stonemaul. Or Brackenwall, maybe; I am settled. My passion for the fortification of meat with fire and spices was truncated in Stonemaul Village, where there's nought to butcher but crocolisks and other rugged swamp game. You can work them if you know what you're doing, but every part of the preparation you sink into ablating the knotty muscles and settling the overflavor, you're not putting into seasoning or preserving the tenderness or..." He goes on like this for a little while, clearly a creature of singular endeavour. By they time he finds his way back from that culinary sidetrack, he is shearing off big sheets of plainstrider breast meat on to a platter, and transacting off handedly with the tavernflies he had chastened earlier. The going rate seems to be eighty copper for a pie-plate sized slice, which is rolled up and pierced with a 'U' shaped bronze utensil with barbed points and miniature boar-spear lugs halfway down to stop the meat slipping off. The buyer pays his price, then grips the bronze loop with the middle digits of his hand so he can eat the meal spiked a couple of inches above his closed fist, with the other hand free for ale. When the 'U' fork is returned, they get back ten copper like a security deposit.

"...But Brackenwall is the crossroad to the Crossroads, so I can get decent trade from Barrens colonies, the Grimtotem in the Needles, and Durotar sailing down the coast. Or Mulgore, like this pretty bird - my birdherd brought me a train of six two days ago, and I slaughter them myself. I'd think about raising them here, but they don't know how to peck for grubs in the mushy ground. Anyway; I don't see any tattoos on you fresher than a whole war ago. I've never seen a clanless bifold - atleast, not without an exile brand." He shears off one of the huge drumsticks, leaving it hanging by a few succulent strands of flavoursome muscle, and indicates with a flick of fork that Mor'Lag is free to twist it off, as their just reward. The peanut gallery on the veranda sees this favouritism and lets out a wave of mostly artificial grumbling that dissolves into the laughter of tipsy taverners.

"So what's your story?"

Spoiler: Mor'Lag OOC:

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Feel free to abstract how much of Mor'Lag's story she's willing to impart to Ogg'mar (if any); I won't force you to retype or copy-paste what can be easily enough recited in third person summary.

Mor'Lag is entitled to a giant drumstick for herselves, and a U-fork of meat for their companions to be collected at their leisure. But depending on how social Mor'Lag is feeling with this unsolicited and largely unjudgmental commentary from Ogg'mar, they can ditch him and head into the Bloody Dwarf proper or delay to indulge him.

Spoiler: For Whom The B'Elf Trolls - Inside T'zangi's House of Hoodoo...

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"Such radiant flower of our people's glory could never be faulted for being drawn to familiar comforts," the elf says with a bow and playfully florid justification; "indeed, I couldn't fault the glory of Silvermoon for following you across the sea, ma'amselle. I had always wondered why I was drawn to the life of a sailor." He makes a gesture at her with one hand, drawing in a breath as if struggling to compose himself in the face of such a marvel. "I shall sleep soundly tonight, wondering no longer."

T'zangi looks stunned at such a brazen fusillade of flirtation. Trolls, apparently, are subtler when making their overtures. But trolls are creatures close to the land, close to the elements and the grit and heat of the real and present. Elves are creatures balanced on the surface of Azeroth only to push up, extending their grasp towards the moon, and the stars, and the sun, and things cosmic; drama comes naturally to them, and what would be an overwrought cannonade of announced interest to some can be, to a son or daughter of Qual'Thalass, just the whisper of felt on polished wood: pawn to king three; your move, ma'amselle.

Not knowing this, T'zangi pipes up in her clear but obviously academic Thalassian, hoping to distract from what she fears may cost her a potentially lucrative sale. "Ahah! Hah hah. Balandar Brightstar, you are incorrigable. But yes! I am T'zangi, this is my store. I am honored to have a child of Silvermoon in my humble tower; and one whom, I do not doubt, knows her way around arcane things, and not simply the transport of them. I must gather you are not part of Captain Brightstar's crew; is there a delegation in town? I had not dared to hope I'd be entertaining elves of quality for some time, yet. This place is a mess!"

She's not wrong; but the mess is more in the design and clutter in the corners than specific mess.

Spoiler: Investigation Routine Success

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You can rapidly piece together that T'zangi is in the process of retrofitting her store to appeal more to customers from Silvermoon. Does she have reason to expect them, about which you don't know? Does this Captain Balandar Brightstar have news from the Regent back in Silvermoon - or even more hopeful, has Prince Kael'thas returned from obscurity? Many have said he is dead and the house of Sunstrider extinguished with him; but he took a clear fifteen percent of the remaining elves of Quel'Thalas in the train of his army to Northend - including your eldest brother Kaleneus, and four of your younger cousins. Even aside from your personal stake, a host of that size returning to Quel'Thalas would likely be enough to clear it, with the Alliance's help. Perhaps the reconstruction has already begun.

Spoiler: Homage to Kalimdor-ia - Upstairs, with the chief and company...

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The shadow hunter to your right is content to teach you Warstones. It comes out as something like a blend of dominoes and marbles, with a splash of poker. Discs are flicked toward the centre of a board with zones marked to denote their point calculations for being the disc most strongly occupying it. Players attempt to occupy the best spots with their stones, to dislodge each other's stones, and to subtly construct patterns and combinations of stones with different colors and values. Targ is the least effective player, having too much social fun to really strategize and relying mainly on powerful shots to sabotage whoever is beating him by the most. Jevan and Hazlek jockey for the top slot, Jevan having greater precision, but Hezlak having subtler strategies that only manifest when they are nearly complete and a calculation phase is about to award him the points. But with Targ sniping away at whoever is on top, neither can pull away from the competitors for long. You pick up the rules quickly, and begin conjouring your own strategies invariably informed by your own approach to diplomacy and conflict.

Hezlak raises an eyebrow wryly as Jakk'ari mentions the desert keeping his people isolated. "De desert..." He agrees, but modifies. "...and Ukorz is a porcupine. I had quiet hopes that Sasani would have dislodged him by now - that woman is a leader with clear vision." You shouldn't be surprised that a shadow hunter has advanced knowledge of the politics of your people. Their intimate connection to the loa, and to their network of shadowhunters that spans all the tribes, affords them much insight. But it's still a little unsettling to have someone rummaging around in your past like that. But Jevan distracts him when he shoots a warstone that perfectly neuters a string of stones the Darkspear had been lining up. The Tauren speaks up: "I hope the Needles treated you well, good shaman. I doubt they have hazards for you that aren't accustomed to - harpies, and wing-serpents. Perhaps I'll sent the wind to invite you, when we next Entreat the Sky. But you're here seeking the alliance whelp that wandered up to Brackenwall, chewed on and dying. Should I take this to mean your people are... friendly, with Theramore?"

For a shaman outside of the Grimtotem to be invited to their clan ritual, Entreating the Sky, is no small honor. Its' the yearly festival-ritual by which they ally themselves with the wind spirits that howl through the Thousand Needles, ensuring their mesa towns aren't overly buffeted in the coming year and that favorable winds drive flocks of birds close and low enough to be netted in lean seasons. Such rituals contain secret wisdom of the wind known only to the Grimtotem and the few they trust enough to witness these events.

Spoiler: Insight: DC 5

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He's pitching it low so it's hard to miss, but Jevan is offering you a bribe, shaman to shaman - if you're prepared to share a modicum of your influence inside Theramore with him, he is prepared to share a modicum of his influence inside Freewind Post with you.

Spoiler: OOC Rolls!

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Give me two rolls to play Warstones; one against DC 10 to "assist" yourself on the other, which is open. When you're more acquainted with the game, you'll be able to roll just about anything you can justify. But for now, one of the rolls will be your ranged attack (which I think is +4) assisting your investigation (+7). If you succeed on the assist, give your main roll a +2.

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: Nefarious plotting in the unsuspicious tower

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Isaera still could not help but blush a little at Balandar's advances. He was very flirtatious indeed as he piled on the compliments! Still, she makes the most and makes light of it, chuckling airily and responds, "Hah, to think my mere presence would put a pour soul's mind at ease and give him renewed purpose. It must be a gift of mine, because it seems to happen so often." It was at once, happily accepting the praise, but on the other hand, oh-so-politely telling this young rogue that she'd heard it all before, and he had better step up his game.

Pawn to king 4?

She manages a smile at the troll. A polite smile, in any case. It was so hard to be used to orcs, trolls, and the like, but it was slowly becoming a fact of life after moving to Theramore.

"Perhaps an introduction is in order? I am Isaera Runescribe. And no, I am not part of a crew or a delegation. I live in Theramore now after.. many unfortunate, world-sweeping events, as I am sure you have heard. The purpose of my visit to this village was not commerce, nor to socialize. Let's just say, I am conducting an investigation with some other hired hands."

She smiled again, courteously, and continued, "However, I don't mean to brush you off. I do believe discovering your establishment is.. a pleasant surprise. Just know that I am ill-prepared for trade, and in all likelihood, short on time come tomorrow."

Turning her attention back to the other, she says, "So.. Captain Brightstar, is it? Any news from Silvermoon?" Isaera still managed a composed demeanor, but there was still a certain intensity to her inquiry. She was very much interested in news from home.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

So, Marion had a choices to make: where to go?

Behind door number one was an ogre...chef?
completing the spit roast of some enormous teo-legged avian, the scent of which was surprisingly compelling, even for a noble born human such as herself. The odiferous melange of cooked meat and spices reached into Marions essence and conjured a primal, instinctual appreciation that she doubtlessly inherited from her far removed Vrykul ancestors. For a moment it returned her mind to thr mountains of her birth, where the altitude snd cool weather festooned such simple, hearty meals with an earthly quality she remembered fondly.

Behind door number two was a tavern, winsomely labelled the Bloody Dwarf. That charming moniker was most likely a fond memory from one of the wars in which the proprietor happily fought, before spending his ill-gotten monies on this hole in the mud. Wonderful.

Behind door number three was...Marion didn't know precisely. But judging from the cackling that echoed from deep within and the mild scent of the arcane, exotic goods and sordid other gubbins, the warlock ventured to guess that some type of witch was housed within.

Ah, the agony of choice.

Deciding that out of the three options she would most likely at least have a hobby overlap with the witch and her cauldron, Marion set forward and carefully moved through the grim portal of the shop, her dark haired head leading the way as she stepped through.

Immediately spotting Brightstar, Marion blinked in surprise.

"Oh my!"

She had not expected to be greeted by a dashing, handsome elf in the finery of his smart uniform upon entering this place. Instead she had wagered her greeting would come from some the snaggletoothed head of some half-mad crone who -

Oh there she was, Marion thought as she spotted the troll.

[MrAbdiel]

If T'zinga takes Isaera's polite deflection personally, she doesn't let on - while mages might be quick to take offense, small business owners live or die on their ability to take none at all. "I see, I see. That suits me just fine - I'm afraid my wares won't be well suited to your perusal just yet; not for a few more shipments. If you're in the area again in future, I'd be more than happy to do business with you for all your components and apperati. Let me know if you need anything." And with that, she politely detaches from what is clearing a more engaging exchange between the two elves, and busies herself with the maintenance of the store at this late hour.

"Captain Balandar Brightstar indeed, ma'amselle; at your service." He gives a steep bow, though keeps eye contact with her as he descends and, if she deigns to offer her hand into his own, delivers a delicate kiss across her knuckles. He's very focused on her eyes, and after a pause, seems to conclude something. "A great deal of news, I'm glad to report. Most of it good news; and how privileged this humble sailor's lips, to bring joy to such shapely ears."

King's bishop to queen's bishop four.

He transmits the biggest news first: across the sea, Grand Magister Rommath had been dispatched from Prince Kael'thas's entourage along with a number of skilled magisters. It had been known that Kael'thas had led the Sunfury armies through the rift that Archimonde had used to attack Azeroth - by the best guesses of learned minds, to be the one to affect its closure on the other side. And the hopes that he would find his way home with the thousands of elves in his legions have not been in vain. Beyond that now closed portal is a realm Balandar calls Outland - remnants of the desolated orc homeworld Draenor to which Alleria Windrunner and so many other heroes departed to conclude the second war. It is a shattered and broken world, but its affliction is a profusion of untamed magical energies... the kind of magical energy that the high elves have desperately needed to replace the corrupted and capped Sunwell. The remnants of Silvermoon are blooming with new enthusiasm, with a new goal: an exodus to a new world, one that they can sculpt with the magical mastery that is their racial heritage into a fortified paradise... one that does not rely on the strength and constancy of humans to survive.

"New winds are blowing, lovely and noble Isaera Runescribe. And the flexible reeds shall bend where the brittle ones break. The young prince has begun shuttling back mana-cells to Silvermoon even now, to staunch the suffering of our people back home. Of course, there are none here, but the Grand Magister Rommath has taught another way." The handsome young elf's expression adopts a cast of compassion; one that is both genuine, and highlighted by the craft of their game. He steps a little closer, not quite closing the distance as much as inviting Isaera to close it the rest of the way. He speaks softly. "You needn't fall asleep a single more night with that cold knot of emptiness in your soul. I can show you, if-"

"Oh my!"

Naturally, all eyes are drawn to the arriving humaness. T'zinga looks surprised, but then her gaze dances between Isaera and Marion, and she concludes the hired-hand connection between the two - and with it, a reasonable extrapolation that she's not here exactly to shop either. She offers recovering smile, and addresses her in sterile, book-learned common: "Welcome to my shop, human. If you are in the market for something, please let me know; the stock is going through a major update, but is not devoid of high-value purchases."

"Though I dare say the shop - wonderful as it is - is gaining value by leaps and bounds with every set of feet that crosses the threshold, this night." Balandar coolly cuts in, his broad shoulders leading his body in a quarter-turn from Isaera so that he is not abandoning their discussion or flourishing game, so much as sacrificing a portion of the intimacy of it to free up some of his attention for the newly arrived Marion. The warlock is raindusted, having crossed through the downpour to get here without the benefit of effortless elven cantrips; but not so drenched that she does not wear it well - having escaped through the entrance around the point of tropically glamorous before she could be condemned to drowned rodent.

Generalized flirtation aside, Balandar is caught flat footed - flanked by attractive women which his code of honor (not to mention simpler instincts) require him to attend. Allowing the Thalassian discussion to hold for now, he attempts to resolve the pair into a single target for his address. "Ma'amselle Runescribe - shall I assume this is another of the 'hired hands' you are travelling with? Just how many of the world's profound beauties have you confined to your group, I wonder?"

[WindStruck]

Well, that captain was certainly coming on fast, wasn't he? Up until the point where he was interrupted by Marion's arrival.

Isaera switches to common fairly quickly and naturally. "Yes, she's with me. I.. wasn't expecting she'd follow me here, but I suppose it doesn't matter." She smiles smugly, yet warily at the unexpected turn of events.

"Hm. I will say one thing: if the establishment does continue improving, it will be impressive for a small village such as this."

Turning to the warlock to address her fully, Isaera says, "So, Marion.. I don't suppose you've anything to bargain with here?"

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

"The hired help?" Marion asked. Or rather, the Alteraci noble asked. To be fair, Marion had given no indication that she hailed from the landed gentry, even going so far as to slightly diminish her manners. But still. Hired help - bah! How dare he!

But then Isaera joined in, with that smug smile, refusal to correct the assertion and confirming with a 'yes'. Marion felt her rib-cage compress a little beneath the impact of this monstrous betrayal.

"My, madam, a sailor!" Marion returned with a bright smile and cheery disposition.

"Visiting his most recent of many, many ports - I always hoped you would do well for yourself!"

Turning herself slightly to focus on the Captain, Marion continued, her friendly demeanor remaining.

"I am fascinated though, captain, by the ship required to travel hundreds of miles inland through a swamp! I have heard tales of the beautiful craftsmanship and seafaring ingenuity of your people, but I did not think that even they were capable of producing a boat small enough," Marion held up her index finger and thumb just an inch apart, "to navigate the swampy canals of the Horde. But, where there is a will there is a way I suppose!"

Looking over at the troll, Marion gave a 'ohh bother!' self-depreciating look.

"Ohh but do forgive me! I have forgotten to carry the Madams many expensive valuables to the security of the local tavern, similar to the one in which I first found her. Apologies! As a humble and lowly hired. help. I can be forgetful at times! Do excuse me, Madam!" Marion curtsied, withdrawing herself in an obsequious manner out of the den and back into the street, where she muttered an insult under her breath in Demonic whose translation was best left unsaid.

The rain upon her once more, Marion decided to go and see what Mor'lagh was up to.

[WindStruck]

Isaera can't help but notice the sarcasm gushing out of Marion like a geyser. She's rather speechless as Marion rants on and then storms out (quite literally) about as abruptly as she came.

Isaera stares out the door for some moments before turning back and shrugs. "Huh. Perhaps it would be worth mentioning that technically, I am also one of the 'hired help'. Frankly, I don't think I'd be in this backwater village if I was as well-to-do as the surly wench suggests."

She winks at the man, hoping he'd get that she was joking about the 'wench' thing. Oh but who knew at this rate.

[Feathersnow]

Mor mumbles about her father being a "deserter." The word she uses translates that he was only guilty of frailty, not cowardice.

Lag thanks the grill master and points out they should get back to the Vrykul and the Dorei, but please give them a little bird if they ask.

[Plaids]

(1d20)[7] For quickly picking up some of the intricacies of the crokinole like game.
(1d20+7)[21] For performing the game.

War stones was simple enough to understand. Much like the game of marbles he'd seen in Gadgetzan and Theramore predicated on a physical move and countermove but with smooth stones instead of glass beads.

But what was more interesting were the two representatives both engrossed in the game.
Hehe, Ukorz is cantankerous troll living in the citadel of Zul Farak. But he stays since he convinces people that they live free and genuine beneath him.

The mirth from slighting a uncooperative chief while true is dampened unease of being disclosed before even meeting the shadow hunter. But having a shadow hunter to chat was a valuable experience. Perhaps the happenings of other scattered troll tribes could be gleaned from this one who spoke with the Loa.

You hit the hammer on the nail right there Hezlak. Hopefully he hasn't forced the Sasani and Haja'rra to pluck their ears off by now.

The invitation while tempting. The tauren had just given an invitation to a very intimate event but given his time officiating several trade agreements Jakk'ari knew a trade with an "imminently arriving" resource was a risk.

Would be an honor. My party should have the gratitude of Theramore once we return with their lost cadets. We also are grateful for the help we have received on our journey from elements to the hosts who've sheltered us from Theramore to Brackenwall.

But the missions success depended on the cooperation of the party's various hosts as they likely already knew. Plus with Targ being given a commendation his associate being given one as well was not out of step. Even if the tauren's contributions were more by virtue of proximity, association, and coincidence rather than of courage, strength, or wisdom.

Spoiler: OOC Knowledge

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In lore I know Magatha Grim Totem is a minor villain and poisons Khairne so the villainous Garrosh can rule the horde. But Warcraft has some nuance in that villainous characters are sometime in good factions and tribes.
So I don't know what to expect with Jevan.
Anyways Jakk'ari takes the bribe. Hopefully this will incentivize at least one more person to see the party return safely.

Also I'm starting to feel like a politician if that was the goal then good job.

OOC: I don't know how Hezlak initially responds but if he is evasive Jakk'ari will ask more directly if he knows how his tribe is doing. Something along the lines of "I know you can see and speak to people in different zones by using the Loa so please tell me how my tribe is doing."

[MrAbdiel]

Ogg’mar tries and fails to wheedle some more friendly conversation out of Mor’Lag, but will make do with what he is given. Perhaps by virtue of having moved from his own clan to this nearby settlement, he seems unalarmed by the claims of her deficient heritage; but he doesn’t have time to pry. As Mor’Lag pulls away, Ogg’mar calls out a goodbye in the orcish tongue that serves as default in this settlement; though the imperfectly learned language and the vocal range of ogres means the well wishing comes out as an almost juvenile sounding “bye bye!” Like most ogres, Ogg’mar’s eloquence is completely lost when it is forced through the linguistic sluice of a learned language.

Marion returns a little more rainsoaked than before after her brief jaunt to the tower and back just in time to claim her share of the roasted plainstrider as won by Mor’Lag’s good deed, and to accompany the ogress as they seek their accommodation in…

Spoiler: ...the Bloody Dwarf alehouse...

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Spoiler: OOC

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Forgive the copy-paste; but since no one has entered until now, the initial impressions and response of the staff is actually relevant now!

The Bloody Dwarf

Spoiler: Ambience, Visuals

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The alehouse's sign declares (in orcish, of course) that it named The Bloody Dwarf. Failing to read that signage might actually avoid some discomfort, as the language of it sounds more brutal than the icon carved into the shingle: a mischievous dwarf with cartoonishly short legs and trickster's drink running away from an orc grunt whose leg is caught in a bear trap.

The common room is very large, which is just as well; since it's so full of merrymakers and misery-mitigators that a typical establishment would be overcrowded. Some of the occupants stand about on the covered veranda out the front, basking in the ambience of the rain, smoking pipes and watching the unusual visitors with curiousity. Most dwell inside in circles of short stone benches and the occasional table and chairs arrangement. The principle occupants are orcs, with a healthy minority of Darkspear trolls. Tauren and ogres represent strongly in mass even if not in number, and finally the tail end of the demographic splash is occupied by four instances of Forsaken humans; three keeping counsel mostly with each other at a corner table, one in heavy armor engaging a number of orcs and trolls in a lively game of some local card-and-token gambling you are not familiar with. There is no getting around the undead, as an unsettling feature in the room. Even the other hordefolk seem to prefer to give them a wider berth. But they seem capable enough of holding conversation, imbibing alcohol, feeling warmed by friends and slighted by rivals. It's possible that, after a while, the horde around them come to overlook their unnatural state just as one might come to accept a colleague with a disfigurement that is difficult to look at. It's also possible that the horde can accept them more easily because these are human dead; and they do not represent a grisly parody of life they are personally connected to.

A duo of young orc women provide the music at the moment, one tapping away on a set of kodo skin drums, the other plucking rhythmically at an instrument that at its best point of familiarity resembles a Thalassian shamisen. The song they are making is recognizably music, though one's appreciation for it depends on the breadth of their musical taste. Working the bar is an older orc man and woman who bicker lightly as they take orders and attempt to palm the duty of fulfilling them off to each other, or one of the two young and comparatively undermuscled orc male youths in their immediate employ. The older orc gent is first to see someone enter the tavern and first to jump on the chance to shirk his bartending responsibility, if given the opportunity. He hobbles out from the bar, his gait uneven on one sandaled foot and one study wooden peg capped at a stump just below the knee. His attention on your arrival seems to immediately remove much of the fascination the locals have with your presense, as if his welcome is a blessing that absolves you of the crime of being not from around here.

"Hahah! Travellers with the king-coins, yes? Welcome to Bloody Dwarf!" His common is better than the chiefs, and he's certainly confident about it. He makes a show of looking nervous and trying to look around and behind you. "You, ah... not bring any dwarve, yes?"

Spoiler: Insight: DC 10

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Judging by the way they treat each other with casual rudeness and take no offense, and guessing off the directionality of their glances throughout a few minutes of observation, you've come to intuit the older orc male and female are partners, and the two lads serving tables are likely their sons. Infact, you wouldn't be surprised if the musicians were their offspring, too - a family business, then.

Spoiler: For Whom the B’elf Trolls - Continued…

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Captain Balandar Brightstar puffs a stammered laugh as Marion explodes in derision. He can only manage a deflating “I hardly meant…” before the warlock is gone, letting the truncated sentence fall flat. Isaera’s ability to take this in stride and throw him a wink does a lot to permit him to try to forget the awkwardness of the moment, though there’s some color in his cheeks now, and he seems to feel the need to answer Marion’s tacit accusations even in her absence.

“There’s no shame in being hired for decent work. We can’t all be born into the halls of old power. My ship is, ah…” He flaps a hand in the air before settling both rows of knuckles against his hips; a power-pose that seems to happen unconsciously when he discusses the vessel. “The Dawn Runner is a destroyer refitted for trade, actually. Perfectly sized to traverse the great ocean and to navigate the shoals of Dustwallow’s interior. Since our people are technically unaffiliated with Horde or Alliance, we’re one of the few fleets free to skirt so close by Theramore and then drop anchor at the hilt of the peninsula in Horde waters. From there, we row the crates to shore and cart them for two short days to Brackenwall. Or, that’s the plan, for now. Politics being what they are, we can’t say for sure what tomorrow brings.”

Then, having recovered his air of confidence after its sudden puncture, he recalls his earlier thought, and revisits it. “I’m serious about Rommath’s solution, by the way. It’s a… technique to siphon mana from elsewhere, and compose it into a form we can easily tap. I had to learn a minimum of ritual magic to be able to do it, but I imagine you’d master it in a moment. Some of our kin have reservations; but I maintain it’s each elf’s right to choose how they manage their ...needs. The Scourge didn’t leave us wading through options, after all.”

Spoiler: Complications: Seeking Knowledge, and Mana Addiction

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(OOC: I’ll give you a VP if you accept his offer and sample this method of quelling the manathirst. The offer has appealing qualities both immediately as a source of relief and simply as an arcane curiousity; but you’d need to pull the trigger.)

Spoiler: Farewell to Kalimdor-ia - Continued…

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“Ah, Ukorz is all smoke and no fire. Not one to make friends, but there be not nearly enough fighting trolls in Zul’Farrak to force the outer chiefs to do much. The losses he’d take securing the outer regions make the whole move not worthwhile. No, I suspect he’ll sit on his throne and try to imagine ways to get the leverage he needs. But he got no imagination for it.”

Spoiler: Insight DC 5

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That’s as close as you’re going to get to the shadow hunter outright saying that your tribe has held its status quo since your departure; or so his ‘contacts’ must tell him.

“Speaking of securing the outer regions…” Targ begins. Jevan laughs, and then Targ laughs, and then Hezlak sees that you’ve already claimed a critical region of the board his now-obvious plan was counting on being available right now. “Ah! You be giving the game to the tauren, Sandfury! Where’s your Troll-solidarity, mon?” He laments melodramatically, before passing his lackluster turn. You’re doing pretty well, in the game; keeping up with the others, though not quite winning. And Targ’s reserve of ale is a dwarven stout - good stuff, to almost any drinker. With Jevan seeming pleased you’re willing to entertain his subtle offer, Hezlak’s surreptitious suggestion of your tribe’s welfare, and Targ obviously adopting you as a favoured novelty guest if not quite yet a friend, you’d say it’s all going quite well. After refreshing your drink and having his turn, Targ asks you directly:

“Tell me, Jakk’ari. You mentioned adventurers, before, and I’m curious: how do you end up travelling with that crew? An ogre clanless, and two spindly magic women? Are they any good, or are you and the elements doing all the work looking for these lost human children?”

Spoiler

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Roll me a Fortitude save, DC 12, against becoming drunk and vulnerable to making an ass of yourself.

[Feathersnow]

"Three of us for your biggest room, please?" Says Lag
"Two gallons of small beer." Puts in Mor.
"And whatever the Dorei and Vrykul [wonder workers] want."

The word Lag uses translates in Orc as a generic magic user without any implications of judgement or power source. She thought it was worthwhile to explain her companions were dangerous.

Mor realizes that, not speaking Orc, Marion might get the wrong idea, but isn't sure how to respond.

[Plaids]

(1d20+1)[10] To resist inebriation.

Jakk'ari is put at ease with the strong suggestion that the village and his family is overall safe for now.
He continues playing War Stones trying to further ingratiate himself with the group.

Responding to Targ Jakk'ari mentions the members of the group.
Ah, hmm, where to begin. I've played my part, parlayed with the elements and kept the elements off their backs but they all have done their part.

Jakk'ari begins recollecting his time with the group. Though there's little to reminisce about given the short time he has known the party. Though there is plenty to comment on given their varied and different temperaments' and abilities much like many of the groups of of children and adolescents he has had to contend with.

Well there is Mor'Lag our twin headed ogre. Those two are a mighty pair though I've yet to see any of the spells twins headed ogres are purported to have. Unfortunately I have yet to see a more morose being. If you meet them I advise you to be careful with you words. I've seen this before either burdened by the weight of expectations or great disappointment

Jakk'ari pauses remembering the time spent in the tavern beside Mor'Lag seeing another being mulling over their assortment of impediments and then striking up a conversation with ogre.

Hm, then there is the elf Isaera. A great arcanist who I'm glad to have and has given me good fortune. But sometimes I worry. I doubt the girl has been outside of Theramore before and I've seen what happens to young extravagant spell weavers. They get burned and I don't trust arcane mages there's no prudence or guidance from the spirits and land. But if she survives I'm sure she'll be fine.
Jakk'ari remembers mentoring young shamanistic disciples eager to commune with the elements but too focused on the tangible aspects of shamanism much like his first born. He also remembers her fight bravely in combat and her dazzling display of magic in the tavern. No doubt raising everyone's pay.

Jakk'ari remains vague about Marion careful to not incriminate her and the party given her source of power.
Then there's the human Marion. A strong caster but I don't know much else. She knows how to take care of herself but seems to prefer her own company.
Much like a highly independent disciple within a class Jakk'ari struggled to categorize Marion. Was she dispassionate given the subject matter and mission? Participating out of obligation. Or had she dissociated having become disheartened by their own perceived lack of progress. Jakk'ari remembers her frightening display of power, casting a necrotic spell and blighting the land. He also remembers her commanding voice while negotiating pay and politely conversing with the wagon crew.

Then there ...
Jakk'ari stutters remembering that their ranger was best left unmentioned in their current company.

Well there is the group. A mixed bag but good companions who have braved the marsh.

Once a lull occurs in the game from a congested board or the game concludes Jakk'ari wonders how the rest of the party is faring seeing how he is now strangely the mundane one now in a village of trolls, orcs, and tauren.

Spoiler: Short summary of Jakkari's attitude to the party

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Mor'Lag: "You're a good kid, you are just going through some rough patches. Keep your chin up and you'll get through it. I know you can.
Isaera: "You darn kids with your void, arcane, and kung fu magic. Back in my day we had to engage in diplomacy before casting every single spell." See's her about to storm out. "Hey I'm sorry, you're doing great. I just worry about you sometimes."
Marion: "Hm... Is she just to cool to hang out with me or did she join a gang?"

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: The Bloody Dwarf...

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The innkeeper is more than happy to take the ogress' money for the premium room that typically remains unused; a single large suite on the third floor of the Bloody Dwarf that has occasionally been used by visiting dignitaries. But Chief Targ has had the upper floor of the village hall, previously used as storage, into a sort of guest house and game den which usually gets that honor. It's almost an apartment, and the furniture - while predictably barbarian chic - is comfortable, and there is more than sufficient space, furs and pillows to accommodate the four-point-five travellers with even a reasonable amount of privacy, a sturdy locked door, and a small balcony if one wants some fresh marsh air and a view over the muddy little town.

You're treated to this knowledge in a short tour that the excitable one legged orcish innkeeper, whose name is Fargan, is delighted to provide. He commentates in his hilariously bad common, occasionally defaulting to orcish for Mor or Lag to translate for Marion's benefit. Then he leads you back downstairs to the common area to furnish you with your drinks and the keys to the room. You're pleasantly surprised to find that the fee for the room and the drinks is noticeably lighter here in this village than in bustling Theramore. The comparative comfort and affordability makes you dread paying city prices when you return - but then, you're expecting a windfall soon. Tomorrow morning, you will have recovered two of your four targets alive; and if Zachary has had any luck, it's possible you'll atleast be able to report on the demise of the other two. Maybe news of the likely loss of the others to the Stonemaul, and thus the avoidance of a potential direct faction conflict with the horde, will have some value.

Back in the common room, your expenses afford you a complimentary table to yourselves and a couple of clean platters for your food. As you wait for the return of Isaera to, if nothing else, pay her share of the room, it's obvious that your table has captured the attention of the locals, but no one seems particularly keen to harass you or make direct contact with your table.

Then one of the two younger orcs serving the drinks to the tables approaches. He has a slighter frame despite being on the cusp of adulthood, suggesting his development is overdue for its bulky lateral expansion; but more noticably, he seems nervous.

No, not nervous. Afraid?

"To human. Is from this."

He places a wooden tankard on the table in front of Marion, and indicates with one hand toward a corner table.

Spoiler: Insight DC 12

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The youth has made an effort to point with a loosely closed fist, as if not willing to risk pointing a finger in that direction for whatever that may incur.

The table is occupied by a single orcish figure, and though robed and cowled, he has the posture of an older specimen of the species, and one unused to physical contest. Long, lean green fingers drum slowly on the tabletop infront of him.

The youth leaves as suddenly as he had approached nervously, and you are left to ponder the meaning of this. But it doesn't seem wholesome, that's for sure: the tankard contains no drink, but instead at its bottom you see a wet, bloody tongue. It has not been sliced with the blade; and the trailing gory ends of the muscle suggest a much rougher and more brutal extraction mention.

Spoiler: Marion's 'Ritualist' Advantage:

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To almost anyone who received such a gesture, it would be taken as a threat - perhaps a warning of such a fate to those who flap their tongues about things they should not. But to you, this tongue could mean a variety of things, but the most likely is a desire to speak. Human nobles have had a language of flowers they use in courtship and espionage; and you've heard that orc mystics have a language of gore they use to communicate and threaten. You can't say for sure what creature this tongue came from - but it's close enough to humanoid to taint any innocence in the suggestion irrevocably. This orc is a practitioner of strange magics, who has learned them from the tongues of great warlocks - possibly from the Eredar directly - and recognizing a similar fel light in you, is desirous to speak to you.

(OOC: And, pursuant to your Complications: Thrills, and Knowledge accumulation, I'll give you a VP if you entertain his company for a few minutes.)

Spoiler: Jakk'ari at The Warstone Table...

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Your refusal to badmouth your companions, even given a private setting to do so and encouragement from the progressively drunker and rowdier chief Targ, wins friendly scowls from the orc but the quiet respect of the tauren and Darkspear. The cups are creeping up on you though, and with bleary eyes you're glad to see the game is close to wrapping up. Targ uses his last shot of his last stone to demolish Jevan's bulwark, eliminating both in a kamikaze tactic that seems perfectly orcish given the fact that he is clearly the weakest player. Lok'tar Ogar, the orcs often say. Victory or death.

That leaves you and Hezlak, who is holding his stout better than you. Like everyone else, he's impressed at how you've held up in your first game even given the fact that Targ's suicidal belligerence towards his friend's strategies ran interference for you most of the game. "Tribe against tribe, Farraki. And I got you beat in three moves, if it comes that you miss the mark on your shot. Here - you are Targ's guest, so let me make de final moments more memorable." He produces a pouch of silver coins he drops onto the table, spilling their content dramatically - a not inconsiderable sum though no wildman's wager that will permit you to give up your day job. It's again as much as your share of the full reward for the four cadets in the best scenario, with some change to spare. And on top of that little pile of coin, the shadow hunter delicately sets a small, unremarkable brass key. The kind of unremarkable that a superstitious man might find very remarkable indeed. "Here, Farraki. Make your winner's shot, and you get the prize. But miss, and watch me win the match, and you owe me an intercession with the elements some day, when I need it. Barely a wager at all, since we're friends now, and you'd help a friend out anyhow. All the same, Sandfury; take the shot."

You think the wager is mostly there to ramp up your nerves and make you more likely to flub the shot. But you wouldn't mind the money; and it's be the act of a poor sportsman to play it safe when a wager was offered, this late in the game.

Spoiler: OOC: The Final Shot

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Roll Ranged Weapons. DC is 18, but with a -2 penalty for being tipsy, we'll call that a square DC 20 to win the game and the wager. Fail, and you're at Hezlak's mercy; and theoretically owe him a shamanic intercession which you would likely have agreed to offer anyway.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


Marion does not appear impressed with the dwellings so far. Or at least, she wasn't particularly thrilled with having to be here. The 'pristine' accommodation, such as it was, was adequate, as despite her regal birthright the Alteraci noble had gotten used to having to sleep within some less-than-auspicious dwellings while on the road and in flight from the Paladins of Azeroth.

Still...the cooked slice of plains-strider upon her plate was surprisingly delicious in its odour, and after taking a quick bite when no one was looking, very hearty, filling and satisfying. Not bad. Not bad at all!

However, Marion and Mor'lagh were soon seated within the tavern itself, and the teenage Alteraci could feel the eyes upon her. Not only was she a human, she was female, young and in the company of an ogress. This combination of four variables attracted side-ways glances that Marion was able to detect with relative ease as she finished up the last of her heart plainstrider meal, but it wasn't until the flagon was brought to her that her interest was truly piqued.

The bloody tongue at the bottom of the tankard may have been threatening to some, but after just melting some raptors - and enjoying the experience - and having conducted various trial-and-error spells within several Kirin Tor basements while employing such grotesque reagents as this, Marion took it a lot better than one might expect. Indeed, she remained eerily calm, as her steel-grey eyes lifted from the sight to peer across at the cowled orc who had provided the grim, attention-seeking gesture.

Pursing her lips, knowing that she, just a human teenager, was very much venturing close to the attention of a warlock who was decades her senior, and a greenskin at that, Marion leaned her head slightly in Mor'laghs direction and spoke softly.

"I will return shortly..." and with that, she stood up and moved over to the orc as conspicuously as possible.

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: Isaera

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Needless to say, of course Isaera is intrigued, and she clearly seems that way. "You had me at mana," she says, smiling cooly.

"Thankfully, I am not some addicted wretched like.. erm, some people. I can get by many days without. Still, I'm quite curious. You say there's a technique the Grand Magister has devised? And even one unpracticed with arcane can do it?"

She gazes at Balandar, becoming more and more skeptical by the second. "Seems too good to be true."

[Plaids]

(1d20+5)[19] For pitching the final stone.

Whuh... Sure why not. I'll take ya on.
Jakk'ari agrees to the wager while not completely in control of his finer movements and takes his shot.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC:

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I appreciate that I've been inconsistent with the formatting of this little split-venture. I've vacillated on whether I address a particular zone, or particular character; but I'm settling for now on character. It's my CREATIVE PROCESS GIVE ME SOME ROOM TO BREATHE YOU PHILISTINES

Isaera

"Well. I doubt the uninitiated of other races could pull it off. But for a Sin'Dorei with no formal magical training like myself, a simple living's adjacency to mystical practise is enough to learn the ritual. It's a simple realm-tap, and crystallization method. The innovation is the shrouding that keeps the inhabitants of the plundered realm from noticing." Sin'Dorei. A term you've heard in passing, but never from an elf that formally identified so. The term, Balandar explains, was given by Prince Kael'thas to the wounded elven nation as a way memorializing the catastrophic losses to the Scourge and, theoretically, giving a respectful burial to the idea that the elves will ever have again a lasting kingdom in the riven and plagued lands so long watched over by the Sunstrider dynasty. The remnant people - the blood elves - are anchored not to a land, but to a past, and a destiny; both contained in their blood.

T'zinga detects the intimacy of the topic, as she closes up; and interrupts only to pass a set of keys to Balandar. It seems the partnership they've entered extends to trusting him with the shop, and allowing him to lodge there rent free while in town. She bids you a farewell and steps out and into the rain, gesturing with one hand to flare up a pale dome of energy to deflect the droplets in a cantrip nearly identical to Isaera's. Then she's gone, and it's just the two elves, and the required privacy to share this new miraculous cure for the mana-wasting. You watch Balandar mark out a magical circle, the small kind used in summoning small quantities of elements and energies rather than creatures of complex objects; and after augmenting it with a shrouding adjustment of medium complexity, he activates the realm-tap. By now you've anticipated the realm in question, and you're not wrong. This is fel energy being captured and crystalized - but it's not fel magic per se. The process is an arcane handling of fel energy instead of a fel handling of fel energy. There's no way to accidentally overcharge a crystal for catastrophic results, or to somehow capture a fraction of a demon's essence. The ritual dips a ladle into the infinite sea of churning power that is the Twisting Nether, the convulsing mystical barrier realm between what is and what must not be. The final result is a slim green crystal that can fit in your palm and, as Captain Balandar Brightstar demonstrates, can be freely drained of mana with gestures intuitive to elves across the world. Green energy wisps away from the crystal, shrinking it slightly in size and leaving a residue of common table salt; and the captain does not appear possessed, or maddened, or pained. He just wears the flush of good health of an elven countenance furnished with the mystical union it requires. It looks good on him. He relinquishes the crystal to you. "What do you think, fair enchantress? A miracle of our magisters, wouldn't you agree?"

Spoiler: OOC: Ritual: Shrouded Realm-Tap (Twisting Nether)

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You learn a ritual that any elf, or anyone with the Ritual Caster advantage, can replicate once per day. It produces a fel crystal that can be mystically consumed to satisfy your racial need for magical nourishment.

Spoiler: Expertise: Magic - DC 10

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This is an incredible discovery. Limitless consumable mana to sustain your people - and the only parties harmed are the demons who you're stealing it from! Hahaha!

Spoiler: Expertise: Magic - DC 20

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This seems a little risky, but a worthwhile risk. Your people split from the night elves because you were willing to make arcane advancement a priority despite the fact that it tremored the realms, and they preferred to subsist in elegant barbarism on the divine fumes provided by a goddess so long forgotten she might never have really existed. You ought to be careful with other elves you show this technique to. Clumsy usage could be harmful.

Spoiler: Expertise: Magic - DC 30

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There is a small class of elven warlocks who will be legitimized by this practise, and you worry that the development of this technique's greatest risk is that it empowers not fools, but reckless prodigies to delve further and further into those forbidden magics. But then again, if your people don't standardize and formalize the manipulation and containment of fel energies, who will? The humans? The orcs? Any time the fel is in use, there's a demonic angle; but if you're as smart as you think you are, you can keep ahead of it.

Spoiler: Expertise: Magic - DC 35

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It's so subtle and apparently harmless that this can only possibly be a demonic ploy - a 'first taste is free' gambit by whatever demons inherited leadership of the Burning Legion after the battle of Nordrassil killed Archimonde the Desolator. If you're right, this means that those driving this technique are suspect. Probably not Balandar, too far down the chain; but maybe Rommath or, gods help you, Kael'thas himself.

Jakk'ari

"Aha! Taz'Dingo!"

Your shot is good; almost perfect. It slides between two of Jevan's stones left as the rump of his failed construction, banks off one of Targ's suicide stones, and has enough momentum to almost bump Hezlak's final construction out of sequence... almost. Hezlak whoops, Jevan and Targ release melodramatic groans of disappointment, and you feel the bittersweet pang of a gang narrowly lost, but well played.

"Blame de dwarves, mon. They be on me side dis round!" Hezlak, whose accent seems to become less academic and more cousinly as he drinks, flicks over your empty mug and howls in laughter at his point. Then everyone laughs when he falls backwards off his chair, spilling himself, his own drink, and his rush'ka mask from his hip, the sacred wooden carving in the likeness of Kimbul the Doom of Prey skittering almost out of reach before he recovers it with one hand, still shaking with laughter. Once the fit as passed and the game is packing up, the shadow hunter regards you with noe equally inebriated eyes. "Ah, I like you, Farraki. Here: I honor your hunter spirit, even if your prey eludes you tonight. Choose one, or the other." He holds out to you in his hands his wager, now halved. In his left hand is the bag of coin of non-trivial weight. In his right is the brass key of no obvious purpose. The grin on the Darkspear's face tells you he has no intention of letting you know what the key is for - that's part of some other, greater game his is playing with you that is beyond your present reckoning.

Marion

The mysterious orc gestures to the other chair, though he doesn't look up at you. The lack of movement of his head beneath the cowl begins to suggest he either has no intention of looking directly at you, or perhaps he is blind and cannot. But his voice has a dry rumble to it as he speaks to you; a sound that brings to mind the rough fluttering of flames leaping when suddenly given new fuel.

"Your accent. You're from the mountain kingdom, yes? A daughter of those betrayed for having the audacity to survive, instead of the decency to fight, and lose, and die. Dishonored by those who have the privilege of defining honor after the fact. Like young Darbel Montrose, only... Smarter, perhaps. Do you know..."

The orc continues speaking, even as he dispenses something from his sleeve - a folded square of orange cloth. No - orange silk. It is embroidered with a symbol that very few people on Azeroth know - the marque du maniard, the icon of a long lost house of Alterac nobility that vanished in a shameful implosion after discoveries of internal degeneracy and witchcraft. Yet the family's centrality in much of Alterac's political games left a chasm that marked the end of Alterac's strength and integrity, and for a hundred years it slackened and fragmented into princedoms under a purely symbolic crown. Since then, the symbol has been adopted by a supposedly fictional syndicate of Alterac nobles who would pay any price and make any sacrifice to restore their nation to strength and glory. But surely such a group, if they existed, can't be active anymore. Can they?

"Do you know... That just as there are humans who see no value in the Alliance except in as much as it serves their ends... There are orcs, who relate to the Horde just the same? How strange it is, to be enemies of our enemy's enemy - and yet no one's friend."

He withdraws his hand from the cloth, seemingly leaving it for you to claim. Out of the corner of your eye, something seems to be going on with Mor'Lag and some others near the table - but the orc before you is tracing something on the table with his long nails. Some kind of demon symbol - not a casting, just a showing, and one you'll miss if you look away for a moment. There is no doubt in your mind that this orc is offering you something, and that something suggests a modicum of power. You further know that no such creature would offer you something unless he expected to use you to achieve his own purposes through you. But if there's one thing you know above anything, it's that you are not a pawn in a desiccated greenskin's plan; and if he thinks you're some dumb young magelette he can manipulate, he's got another think coming. Orc warlocks are famous for falling short of their goals because they're not as quick as they think they are, after all.

"Tell me, young miss. What do you most seek in this world - and what would you give, to get it?"

Mor'Lag

Marion excuses herself over to a table with hooded orc who strikes you as at least an elder, and possibly some kind of shaman or warlock. You are left alone at the table - or as alone as you ever were - while the two have some discreet exchange that seems important enough to overcome Marion's stated distaste for orcs. But before she can return, you encounter a conversation of your own.

"Oi; clanless..."

Your interlocuter is another female ogre - a single headed, binocular type who is a little taller than you, considerably flabbier than you, and much drunker than you. She has Stonemaul markings on her arms, and exposed midriff; a set of tattoos that describe her as a valued member of her people, on account of her loyalty and personal service to a clan chief who you are sure would be contextually obvious if you were a Stonemaul yourself. She is surly, and angry; and she brings in her wake the moment you worried would come: the moment when someone recognized what you are, and what you lack, and what you bear, and adds those things together to understand like you do that you don't belong here. "Don't I know you? Aren't you two the one that broke ranks and ran when we were poised to take the Gulch from the bloody Kaldorei?"

She has mistaken you for some other clanless ogre who has performed an act of cowardice in service to the horde. But her inability to distinguish between shamed ogresses doing mercenary work as they drift purposelessly through the world is understandable. "You don't deserve this."

With that strident declaration of your worthlessness, she snatches the drumstick you were gifted by Ogg'mar off your platter, and bites an obnoxiously huge chunk out of it, chewing so openly most of it simply falls, wasted, onto the shelf of her chest, and vanishing into her cleavage.

Spoiler: Complication: Hates the Horde

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You can't turn your despair inwards forever; and an insult that is true is as worthy a summons for a fist as one that is false. And to be shamed by another ogre here infront of these horde runts... It's too much. I'll give you a VP right now if you attack this ogress and start a brawl in the Bloody Dwarf, damn the consequences.

[WindStruck]

Isaera comments, "Hmm. That's fascinating. But still... fel energy is fel energy..." Her speech had become more muted, like a whisper, and she thought about it some more.

Finally she says, "...I will say one thing. Though tapping into the twisting nether could be considered an 'infinite' source of energy, I'm not so certain. I imagine, taking a ladle of water from a lake is inconsequential, but if a thousand people do that every day..."

She trails off again, shaking her head, her eyes looking softly upon the captain. "Thank you for showing me, in any case. I'll think on it and study it myself when I get the chance. But my gut is telling me I should avoid it, if at all possible. Perhaps, only to be used sparingly, in an emergency-like situation?"

Changing the subject she asks, "Tell me, Balanar. Do you have crew from your ship here in Brackenwall? Surely you didn't come here all by yourself to transport goods. That would seem highly dangerous and.. not very profitable."

[Feathersnow]

"ABOMINATIONS TAKE YOU! MY FATHERS WERE WEAK, BUT WE ARE NO COWARDS! WE'LL PROVE IT!"

Mor'Lag shoves the Stonemaul [Expletive] down!

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari is whiplashed by the loss of a close and miraculous but is grateful for the shadow hunters mercy.
He ponders which to take. The key seems to be worth nothing and for a lock lost to time or containing nothing. The money was tempting but Jakk'ari was doubtful he could use the money outside the village anytime soon. Plus he had seen plenty of bloodshed all due to a weighted purse in the wilderness. With scent sniffing beasts or magic used to track clattering coins and whoever would be handling it.

He slowly points then fingers the key making his selection. It would be a friendly keepsake from another troll tribe and who knows what else it could be?

[MrAbdiel]

Mor'Lag

You explode to your feat with defiance, and shove the Stonemaul back so hard she almost falls over. She goes for a return shove, and you contest it; and somewhere in that exchange things graduate to fists, and elbows, and savage (if mostly non-lethal) blows. Unsurprisingly, the local color (green) causes the barflies to take the side of the known, regular and horde-affiliated ogress to the foreign, antisocial and unclanned alternative. You think you're more than a match for the instigatrix of this debacle, but somewhere in the brawl someone's drink gets spilled; and then it's on for young and old. Half a dozen orcs, and a couple of Darkspear trolls, are now involved in this. Periodically the scuffle pits them against each other or against your original aggressor, but at all times they're all against you. But you're determined to show that you're not to be trifled with.

Spoiler: OOC Rolls: Fight fight fight!

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In the interest of not turning this into more than the abstract, non-lethal combat it's supposed to be, I'd like Mor'Lag to make 3 Close Combat rolls, and 3 Toughness Rolls. All are at DC 14. That'll give us a broad idea about how well Mor'Lag gave the hits, and how well she handled them incoming.

Isaera

The young captain raises his hands, palms out, to indicate his relinquishing the knowledge to the mage, and her total decision making power over what to do with it now. "Of course. You wouldn't be the first to be hesitant, nor the last. I trust your mind behind those eyes is as fine as the countenance in which they are set." With that operatic concession, he follows her to the next topic; inclining his head, leaning one shoulder against the stone archway that leads to the short entryway and the relentless drumbeat of the rain beyond the open door. "Not here in Brackenwall, no. I take a compliment of my crew ashore with our cargo, cart and the beasts for the journey. It's two days from the elbow of the shoals to Brackenwall or North Point Tower, with the ram pulling the cart; but only one on a swift hawkstrider like my Andronichus. I ride ahead to make the arrangements, and I stay over a day ahead of the crew's arrival and after they leave. My first mate, Ithania Fairshade, is going to start taking her own strider to Northpoint Tower to see if we can't wheedle a supply deal out of the alliance there, and double the value of our little stopover. But this is the primary enterprise." He gives the craft of elven trinkets and magical goods a kick, indicatively. "So once T'zinga's renovation is complete, we'll be free to start expanding our efforts. But right now, my shore team and their cart are getting rained on miserably on the road." He glances out to the downpour, and smiles with just the corner of his mouth; not pitiless about the plight of his crew, but deeply appreciative of his own privileges. "A damn shame. Brackenwall's not to bad, as far as horde villages go. If you're staying at the Bloody Dwarf, I'm sure you'll find it more civilized than you'd expect."

As he says so, your keen elven ears pick the sound of an indistinct, duetted threat from a familiar ogress. The declaration is muffled by the distance across the square and the bashing rain, but the volume of the voices and of the toppling and breaking furniture is such that you can hear it even here.

Jakk'ari

Hezlak grins, vanishes the coin pouch into his cloak, and drops the mysterious key into your palm. "I had a good feeling about you, Jakk'ari of the Farraki. Ya got good destiny, I tink." You shake hands, and pat backs. Jevan has fallen asleep already, sitting against a wall with his head tipped back so his horns brace on the wood. Hezlak totters over and gets comfortable on a bear skin on a corner of the room. Targ, who has the genuinely impressive ability to remain a thoughtful host even when intoxicated, has set aside a couch for you to sleep on near the fireplace. The embers within it are growing cold, but flutter back into life as Targ leads you over; the spirits within them reacting to your shamanic authority as an excitable young raptor might to the return of their handler. "There. Safe and warm, sandfury. There's a salted meat locker just in the next room, if you get hungry; or you can wander down to the Bloody Dwarf and get one of Fargan's boys to run you up something more substantial. You're a good sport, Jakk'ari. You'll get your human tomorrow." He repeats this once as if he's forgotten he said it as he wanders back over to the table where you were playing warstones. One meaty arm sweeps it clean of game pieces and empty mugs, and he crawls up onto the stone surface to fall promptly asleep, facefirst and apparently comfortable enough.

From the open balcony nearby, the rainfall makes its pleasing music; rare to a desert child like yourself, especially in such long and frequent bursts. And behind that rain, your foggy mind is sure you can hear a fight somewhere below; and Mor'Lag's strident voices bellowing something about weakness, and cowards.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


The Alteraci kept her composure as the orc revealed his age and experience by declaring his familiarity with her accent. That was quite a feat. She wasn't even sure most humans could discern such a thing, indicating that this orc had had a long and dubious history that featured her home kingdom. This fact became even more pronounced when he slid forward a piece of cloth for her to take - a piece of cloth that was once part of a banner that displayed her national colors: orange.

The heraldry of her nation was not the most extravagant or striking imagery, but it was warming nonetheless to her. A simple orange background with an eagle in the corner. But to her it carried a long history that met a fork in the road that would decide the destiny of thousands, and her former king had chosen wrong. What the orc said was true, the weakest of the Alliance nations chose survival over a honor-driven death, or at least, what had seemed at such at the time. But outside of trying to butter her up, so to speak, but to Marion it was an incorrect assessment. Alterac made the wrong choice because it trusted the orcs not to go back on their word. The savage greenskins were a threat that Perinholde severely misjudged. Marion knew that had if the Horde had of won the second war, her nation would have been destroyed and enslaved all the same anyway. All Perinholde had done, in his fear, is opt for the snake to eat them last.

With their knowledge of the mountains they could have held the orcs back for all the time the Alliance needed to reform its military. And even if they had of ultimately lost, those same mountains would have been the protection they would need to flee into and from which they could bleed the Horde dry.

But, what was past was past.

Reaching out with her right hand, Marion held the cloth and drew it towards her for consideration. If permitted, she would keep it. A souvenir, almost. Or a reminder, perhaps. Marion wasn't foolish enough not to realise that her studies of fel-magic saw her trafficking with sinister figures, and so perhaps a daily reminder that there are some deals for which the price to pay was too high, was a valuable keepsake. Deals with the devil earned their proverb.

"I seek restoration, elevation and continuation," she answered, her voice softer and more feminine in contrast to the raspy rumblings of the aged greenskin.

"I have given a lot so far: I know not what else fate intends to have me sacrifice."

[WindStruck]

As Isaera peers out into the rain with Balanar, her long brows twitch as she thinks she hears something. Her head swivels in the direction of the aforementioned Bloody Dwarf, and after listening intently for a few more moments she groans, "Oh no..."

Pulling another mystical umbrella up above her head, she begins dashing off into the rain, toward the inn/drinking hall, which was almost certainly getting torn up by her two-headed ogress companion.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari hears the familiar voice which must be booming to reach this far. He teeters over to the balcony due to being drunk and lethargic from a long day and comforting fire.
He knew Mor'Lag could get rough but would be hesitant to do so in the company of the rest of the party.

[MrAbdiel]

At the Corner Table...

"Restoration?" Marion can hear the smile in the old orc's voice. He doubts something about this word, or seems to think its true purpose is euphemistic. But he doesn't go so far as to say what he means; just to be amused.

"That will be a task. You aren't the first daughter of the mountains to seek something like it; though you might be the least self-obsessed. Your enthusiastic peers, each as the come of age in their exile, come together and convince each other their bitterness is a weapon - as if, by drinking poison, one might cause the subject of their hatred to die. Their goals require work their soft hands are not suited for; and a shame, too. All the pieces exist in one place. One man's obstacle is another's exploitable labor force..."

You see the cowl tilt a little toward the scene in the centre of the tavern, just as Mor'Lag suplexes an orc through a table.

"...And there are others whose goals are... parallel to yours, in those mountains; hidden away in the uplands, away from the skirmishes of Stormpike scouts and Frostwolf patrols. I would consider seeking them out, if I were just such an ambitious seeker. But try not to lose that."

You think he's talking about the cloth, which he has conceded to you willingly enough; but his fingers have stopped tracing their symbols now, and you think you've memorized enough of their movements that you can replicate them safely on paper later to figure out what iconagraphy he was subtley, or subconciously, conveying. Given this, you can spare a glance again in the direction of his facing to see the tankard in which you received the gory invitation to speak has been scattered to the floor along with what's left of your meal. The instigating ogress has just been hoisted into the air by your companion and slammed onto her back and is now the honored recipient of both Mor and Lag's punishing fists, hammering her dense skull into the hardwood from a pinning straddle even as an orc and a troll dangle from Mor and Lag's necks, kneeing and punching the muscular flanks to no visible effect. The now likely defeated ogress flails her arms and tries to cover her face, and in doing so, sends the tankard skidding across the ground with a hollow rattling and apparently less mess content than it had when you left it. It comes to rest near the main bar, just as Fargan desperately rallies some of the patrons to start trying to break the fight up before it demolishes too much of his establishment.

In the Bloody Dwarf proper...

Mor'Lag has the upper hand now, and isn't wasting it. Lag copped a meaty fist to the face that is likely to black her eye by the morning, but the damage beyond that isn't worth mentioning. But the Stonemaul ogress who picked the fight is thumped and bruised and mashed, her face bloody and her horn cracked, one cheek caved in and jaw dislocated in the kind of pummeling that most races would consider cause for the summoning of an expert healer, and for hardier races like ogres and trolls is at least an excellent signal that one should rethink their choices. Two of the orc drinkers lie unconcious and sprawled at funny angles in the middle of the room, and the two hangers-on have graded their ambitions from 'choke hold' which seems impossible on such meaty necks, to 'arm hold', which is atleast conceptually possible, and they try to restrain Mor'Lag with limited success.

"Stop, stop! This is why you take fights outside, you lunatics!" Ironically, Fargan's braying in orcish is only comprehensible to Mor'Lag; though Marion at her table and Isaera arriving just now to the scene can glean the general sentiment of panicked frustration from context. Jakk'ari can hear the muffled shouting continuing from the warm, comfortable safety of the chief's den; though his bleary eyes might catch the figure of Isaera running as fast as she dares from the mage tower to the Bloody Dwarf.

Spoiler: OOC Persuasion, Perhaps?

Show

The fight's concluded more or less; though Mor'Lag can decide how willing she is to be restrained by such individuals at all. Fargan is furious; he's suffered a fair bit of furniture damage to his establishment Anyone who wants to calm him down to lessen any coming reprisals can take a Persuasion test at DC 20. Since everyone who isn't Mor'Lag doesn't speak Orcish and the negotiation is being forced through a language barrier, and because Mor'Lag is kind of at the centre of this, I'm going to say all these attempts and efforts to assist each other's attempts are at a -2, either because of language barrier or because of suplexing patrons through tables.

I won't tax Marion an action to go retrieve her gory token, if she wants to; nor Isaera one to assess the situation. But if Jakk'ari wants to stumble in to try to help, he'll be at an extra -2 on his effort, on account of the tipsy-ness.

[Feathersnow]

Mor sags. Lag sullen submits to be held down.
"She started it!"
"She started it!"

[WindStruck]

"Mor! Lag! What--?" Isaera begins, just about sputtering, though perhaps she already knew the answer to this question and it was pointless uttering the rest. What was the ogress doing? Apparently, pummeling the face of another ogre to a bloody pulp, destroying the place, and being grappled by two or three daring patrons. Why? The Fel Legion if she knew! Damn ogres!

If it was at all possible to distance herself from this situation and let the onus of all the blame and responsibility fall upon Mor'lag, Isaera would have done so, but the fact was they were in this job together, and she needed their muscle...

It's too bad that Isaera did not understand orcish though. She looks about frantically trying to assess the situation, and figure out who of the other foreign faces was who. One of them was going to be an angry tavern owner, no doubt.

Regardless, she takes a few steps forward toward Mor'lag, though hesitant to to approach too close, or even within a ten-foot pole's length, given the circumstances, and growls, "You fools! Would you have the hoard kick us out and brand us an an enemy!?"

[Feathersnow]

Lag is about to utter something incandescent about the Horde and what they can do.

Mor, however, is slightly more reasonable.

"That one mistook me for a specific and particularly vile coward. If we let it stand, things might have gotten worse. I regret that we may have acted... rashly."

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion turned her head to watch the blossoming of violence with an unimpressed eye. She did not hold it against Mor'Lagh herself, for though she had only known the ogre for a brief spell the dual-headed creature did not seem the provocative type. So, Marion conjectured, she must have been lured into a fight.

Turning her head back to look at the orc while green bodies and ogres smacked against each other in the background, Marion rose her voice but still kept a hint of quiet discretion.

"And what is your purpose in all of this?" she asked.

"Forgive me for not believing that a orc of your years would be helping some human girl in her goals simply from the goodness of his heart..."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari walks into the inn worried about the party and what trouble they may have gotten into. The sound of Mor'Lag angrily shouting something he didn't understand and Isaera dashing in not caring about the mud in the road.
Upon entering he sees the entirety of the patrons fixating on Mor'Lag alongside a single headed ogre, some restraining trolls and orcs, and destroyed furniture.

Seeing Isaera addressing the situation he tiptoes stealthily, at least in his own mind, near her and says.
"Giv me thu thumb down and I'll put down some cova, giv it up and you cin follow my lead."

Piecing together the scene Jakk'ari offers her the choice to make a break for it or follow his lead in trying to make peace.