Draconian Measures (IC)

[Cheesegear]

The town of Lyran isn't very big, it's not even a very wealthy town. But, today is special. Today is the Lyran Market-Faire. A crude stage has been built on one side of the green, and a three-piece band have begun their first song of the day. The first song of the faire. It's too early in the morning for dancing, as the first comers to the faire are browsing the various wares of the craftsmen - and women - who have come a short way to hawk their wares. And - of course - people are still on their first rounds of alcohol. It'll take time for them to get up and dance with their womenfolk.

Some of Lyran's finest, the Watchmen patrol the green, their crossbows resting easily on their shoulders as they march across the green. Today is the faire! They're not expecting too much trouble, maybe the worst that could happen is a Family of orcs take 'My Mate can beat up Your Mate' a little bit too far. Nothing big. In any case, as well as one the green, there are Watchmen on the wall surrounding the green. The men on the wall have their crossbows readied with both hands, ready to shoot at a moment's notice. However, they have their attention outside the walls.

However, one person - or, rather - two people, are of special importance. One guard - infamously known as a 'Handler' - walks at a swift pace, with a truncheon in one hand, and a finely polished breastplate on his chest.
In his other hand, he holds a leash, a finely crafted silver leash. Embedded in the piece are a series of coloured stones. The leash, ends in a collar, attached to a human. A 'Ward'. The man constantly twitches and gawks at the myriad of people who pass him. The people who this man stares at try not to look back.

Another strange looking attraction is a Halfling. For the moment, he seems to be entertaining children. As the adults slowly walk past him, and leave their kids to sit enthralled by the juggler. While he is juggling, he is also singing - much to the children's delight - the song The Boy With A Stick Who Wasn't So Quick.

Across the green, almost directly opposite, is an orc Elder, a patriarch of one of the Families. A finely crafted double-headed axe resting across his kness, he is telling a story for older children. A passer-by can probably guess that it has boys-with-swords in it, and there's a good chance a girl will play a part.

Another attraction, although, specifically for buyers, is the Stock. A group of fenced-in areas forming divisions of agricultural animals. Each one, with their owner vying for a sell, or Best In Show.

Suddenly, a voice booms across the green "Welcome! Friends, families and guests!" The man is just on the portly side, but his face is weathered by the sun and age. Probably a hard-worker in his younger days, but, now that he was older, he was enjoying his time off "If you don't know me by now, I'm the mayor of this'ere town, but you can call me Rusker. Now, I know what you're all thinkin'. Teraph has it's Grand Market is less than two months time, so what're we doing here wasting a perfectly good day, when in two months, we're all just goinna hop in our wagons and go there? Well, I'll tell you!"
"On this day, almost a hundred years ago, my gran'pap - and probably yours too, fought back demons on this very spot. And y'know what happened?" he pauses "We won! And now, more'n a hundred years later, we've got those same people who we fought against, as our neighbours and friends, and we couldn't be better off!"

The orcs in the crowd give a cheer. Some even raising mugs full of alcohol. The portly man continues "So, in honour of our good fortune, we've got twelve pigs cooking right now and ale is free all day! So what're you waiting for?" with the mention of free ale, almost all the men give a cheer, while a significant portion of the women in the crowd roll their eyes.

With his speech finished, the Mayor bends down and kisses a girl next to him - probably no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age - on the cheek. With a smile, he parts from her with a group of older men, while she wanders into the Faire proper on the green.

[Miraqariftsky]

He shuffles along, this walker of the waste
Grey-clad, the cloak smokes morn's mist
The swift-sighing dew shies away
Flees from his footfalls

The glaring sun so roaring calls
The bustling crowds, like a roiling fray
Hard-pressed is he, peace's path to list
Stops and rubs his soul with bloodshot haste

A long-held breath he heaves with great relief
That nostrils' mist be not blood-spray
The ever-flinching fighter
Sits on a stump seat

Stares he at his feet
Snatches an ale from a server
Seeing into the brew
Betwixt blade-elder and passing handler
Shudders
To the Mighty One he does pray
Foam and fluid form not fear and flesh...

Drawn by passion unfathomed
Rhyme ropes him in, riding riven reason
Harks to the valorous tale, roars with the
Victor's
Cry
He smiles and sighs
Forgetting for once
The urge to draw blade, shed blood, devour flesh
Slipping into a moment serene...

Shaken, as he wonders
What darkness drives
What shadows shroud
The walking Ward
Bound by rope and shard and soul...

[Dreamshifter]

Adrienna Silverwing

Standing among the crowds of humans and orcs, Adrienna listened intently to what the Mayor was saying. I wonder if my father fought against the demons. Perhaps that is why I was chosen. But it doesn't really matter. The free ale will likely keep me busy tonight. Always a few people get a bit too drunk, and do a bit too much damage to their friends. Anways good to have a healer handy in those cases.

Her watchful eyes panned across the crowd, looking for some sign of just what it was that had drawn her here, but nothing revealed itself. She did, however, have to hide a look of disgust when her gaze passed upon the collared human. While she understood that her ways were no longer theirs, some ways were just not right. Still, she couldn't act on that. The laws here were clear. Perhaps an oppertunity to fix that situation will arise later.

[TempusCCK]

"Blast Mal! Could you feign to walk a little smoother? I'm hurt you know!"

The man who spoke sat atop a chestnut brown horse. His arm rested gently in a makeshift sling which consisted mostly of a ripped-up sack with a bit of rope to secure it around his neck. With one hand, the rider guided the horse up the road known as Spire's Way, coming to the gate that would lead into the small town of Lyran.

"Hello!" he called to some of the guards on the wall. "I see you have an event today! Could you please guide me to a suitable place to tether my horse and take a meal?"

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Jaron is currently at 19 hitpoints due to an arrow he had taken to the back three days ago. Unable to heal himself or remove the arrow head, he merely broke off of the shaft, covered and cleaned the wound, and stuck his left arm in a sling so as to prevent from moving the muscles along the back and causing anymore damage.

[Cheesegear]

The guard snorts as he stifles off a laugh. "Eat!? Use your eyes man!" he gestures with his halberd towards the green. "Food's over that way. Free ale too. I think you'll find skeleton staff running the show today at most places. Since most have sent their cooks over to the green."

He pauses for a moment, to scratch his beard.

"I can't say so for myself, since I don't have a horse. But you might want to see if Larrick over at the Timid Dragon is still around. Most people go to his place when they're looking like you are." he gives a nod towards Jaron's arm "That arm there looks like it could do some with some work, you might want to check with Till. He's over on the green with everyone else. He's a good hand with a needle, and he's pretty good at setting bones." he waives Jaron and his horse through the gate. Almost as an afterthought, the guard adds "Till doesn't use magic either."

[Miraqariftsky]

Munggo belches loudly then wipes his mouth with the hem of his cowls. Within the shadow of the hood, beady black eyes narrow as the collared human and his handler passes.

A desire arises within him, a perverse curiousity to know why people apparently fear him and why he seems to be so closely guarded. Setting down the tankard, now empty of naught but dregs, he tries to get closer to the bound man but the crowds, that shifting sea of bodies, refuse to part for just another cloaked wanderer.

Seeing that his shuffling has brought him closer to the orcish elder and his audience, he leans back against a nearby tree. He settles in, his right knee bent, the foot resting against the trunk of the tree while the other leg digs into the turf. His thick arms cross over his chest, the heavy grey cloak somewhat parting to reveal hints of battered breastplate glinting beneath a faded green overtunic.

There the once-feral fighter rests, listening to the elder's tale. His breathing becomes heavy and laboured as he becomes immersed in the story and his vision starts to blur with a red haze. One moment he sees several young folk listening, enraptured, to their kindly elder's words... and the next moment he sees them dead and dying, writhing in mortal agony. The elder holds a broken axe-haft which he thrusts desperately at Munggo only to be ruthlessly beheaded...

The vision then fades back to a mundane hue. He blinks furiously, thankful that he had not given in to the dark spirits that plague his heart. He looks about again and realizes that it was indeed only a moment or two that had passed during the hallucination. He gives a savage grin at this small victory, glad for even the smallest triumphs against his former masters.

When the story comes to a close, he stirs once more and strides over to the orcish elder and says to him, "Kar nakh. Ghe kral... tag... d'tagrrak na kassth --- Vhul nag ekhna'ir?"

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Rough translation from Orcish*: Greetings, sir. I have been... away... far away and now I ask--- Why is that man bound so?

*The chief Cheesegear may want to give us non-Common languages. If a "canon" Orcish is released, I shall gladly convert these lines.

[lostsole31]

"Everywhere we go, it is the same," Coatl whispers quietly to Xorkath while nodding to the collared wretch. "They are worse than the Cantichtli tribe. At least then the victims were sacrificed and their spirits released to heaven."

[TempusCCK]

"Thank you kindly." Jaron calls to the man, passing him a casual salute with the good arm.

The horse, Mal, slowly meanders his way into town. Jaron, takes a look about the place, trying to spot the aforementioned Timid Dragon and especially a place where he could tie up Mal and move into the crowd (where there was reportedly free food and drink somewhere about). While doing so, he also takes a second to take a look over the crowd and personages in the fair, looking for something that might draw his attention.

Jaron, while not particularly interested in buying anything, was intrigued by the rather large celebration, not having been privvy to a gathering of this sort ever. He decided quickly that he was at least going to give the party a run through, to see what the commotion was about, maybe he enjoyed festivals?

[Salvonus]

Xorkath:

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Murmurs. Whispers. Rising in frequency and volume. A crescendo now, a choir of a thousand voices, all calling out in unison. For blood, for pain, for suffering. Xorkath could hear their powerful chant, a hypnotic sonata of murderous intent. His heart began to race, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He could feel an urge rising within him, a response to the hypnotic death-song. An urge to dance with the demons, to bathe in gore. Anything to satisfy the voices, anything to get them out of his head.

"Why do you resist, Demon-Child?" A soft, feminine voice spoke, rising above the demonic chant. Xorkath could detect the slightest hint of a smile. It was not a kind smile; no, it was cruel, calculating, unkind. "Come back to us..." it whispered seductively. "Kinslayer, you will always be. Embrace that. Embrace us. Remember the fun? You enjoyed it. You enjoyed making those proud Orcs scream for mercy. You laughed, don't you remember?"

Xorkath had subconsciously closed his eyes to the real world, ignoring the scene before him. A ghostly apparation of his previous self now floated in the dark void of his vision. Kinslayer was smiling, a cruel, bloodthirsty grin. His tattered armor was bloostained and tarnished, as was the head of his cruel greataxe. He waved at Xorkath, mockingly, gesturing towards his axe. His grin turned into a deep, hearty laugh. His face began to morph, rapidly transforming to mimic all those that he had killed. There was the teenage Orc from Xorkath's youth, his friend who he had struck down in anger. There was the elder who had tried to defend his grandson. Xorkath could not make out any more of the faces - the shapeshifting visage of Kinslayer was changing too fast.

"K'akshiar Xorkath Zaviajan. K'akshiar Xorkath Zaviajan. K'akshiar Xorkath Zaviajan." the chant continued.
("Join us, Xorkath Demon-Child. Join us, Xorkath Demon-Child. Join us, Xorkath Demon-Child.")

A small, glowing capsule appeared near the ever-changing visage of Kinslayer. It rapidly began to grow in size and radiance, taking mere moments to grow to the size of a full-grown Orc. From the pod, a different version of Xorkath emerged. A confident smile was on his face, his twin Orc-fangs looking kind, rather than vicious. His armor and axe did not glow, but a subtle radiance seemed to come from within him. His expression turned to sadness and pity, his eyes filled with sorrow as he glanced at Kinslayer. Reaching out his hands in a gesture of embrace, he walked slowly towards his other self. Kinslayer backed away, stumbling, showing, for the first time, an expression akin to fear. The Orc-like apparition began to turn and run, but it seemed as if he was failing to get away. Moments later, the two Orcs met, the two visages merging together. Kinslayer was swallowed up into Xorkath's projection; the voices were cut short, reduced to mere mumbles once more. True silence followed shortly thereafter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Opening his eyes to the world once more, Xorkath smiled at the scene before him. Revelries, laughter, happiness, the unity of races that were once mortal enemies - if the world was always like this, he would happily retire to a monastary, finding atonement in contemplation rather than the battle against Evil.

A small rumbling in his stomach indicated that a good meal was in order. For some reason, the meditative trance that he used to dispel the demonic whispers always seemed to render him hungry. Perhaps it was just the enhanced sense of body awareness? Xorkath wasn't sure.

His good mood was quickly cut short by the sight of the shackled "Ward". At the moment he noticed the wretched human, the whisper of his friend Coatl reached Xorkath's ears. Nodding his agreement, Xorkath responded softly, "Aye, 'tis despicable, the way these humans treat their own like cattle. To be able to change this injustice would be a true blow against illegitimate 'Law', but you and I both know that we cannot do anything just yet. Besides, this is a day of peace and celebration, and to taint it with blood and violence would be truly sad."

"Reminds me of why we travel as we do, though, my 'servant'." Xorkath added as an afterthought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(OOC: For lostsole:

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Coatl would have noticed the closing of the eyes, and perhaps a slight little wince at one point in the above sequence. As I mentioned, he would know what that means - whether or not he brings it up is up to you.

)

[Cheesegear]

The Elder Orc makes a shushing gesture towards Munggo.
"Shh...As much as I'd love to speak my racial tongue, it's best not to, given what these vhul* think of us. Even after a hundred and more years, we still have the demonic appearance of our ancestors."

"In any case, those two" the Orc motions his head towards the Handler and his Ward. "I blame Rusker. He likes to think that this town is more important than it actually is...Don't get me wrong, I like it here though." he adds at the end.

"Anyway, Rusker's been petitioning the Karthese for a troop of Battlemages. Of course, look at this place..." he spreads his arm over the green. It's a backwater-place of no real importance to anyone...So, they sent one. Just to keep Rusker quiet."

The Older Orc then leans in closer "Still, the chained one never really talks. But, his Handler is one mean cuss. To people weaker than himself - of course. I once seen him give his 'friend' there, a beating right in the middle of the street, broke both his wrists and knocked him to the road.

I heard up in the Arcanum, the more powerful you are, the more they beat you. The more they beat you, the crazier you get. The crazier you get, the more powerful you get. The more powerful you get, again, the more they beat you. And the more they beat you, the more you want to blow the whole place into the abyss. Not a wise choice on their part, I think."

"Anyway, with that thing on his neck, that man can't use magic unless the Handler wants him to..."

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*vhul (n): Scum, dirt, mud. Humans.

[lostsole31]

OOC to Salvonus:

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A comforting hand on the shoulder or back, but no more. Coatl would allow Xorkath's subconscious to register that one who loves him (you know what I mean) is present, but beyond that silent presence leaves the paladin to find his own strength to fight the beast within.

"Good and simple pleasures await, my friend," Coatl says to Xorkath. "Shall we eat?"

[TempusCCK]

Gently guiding his mount, Jaron heads down the road, and into the town proper. Up ahead on the main road, a sign, bearing the symbol of a dragon. Jaron guided Mal up to the front of the building, eased himself down from the saddle, and moved for the door, but not without giving his trusty steed a gentle pat on the head.

[Cheesegear]

The door to the Timid Dragon opens with a small squeak of the hinges and a ring of a small bell above the door to alert unattentive workers that somebody has entered their establishment.

The place is rather well-lit, as the place has many windows to let the light in. Seeing as it's barely mid-morning - and there's a faire on - the tavern is completely empty of patrons, except for a man, slightly grubby and weary-eyed, sits with his head in his arms, slouched over one of the tables. Obviously sleeping off...Something.

Startled at the sound of the bell above the door, the man wakes up. Standing quickly and knocking the chair out from beneath him with the back of his kness. A seasoned barfighter's move for clearing the chair from tangling his steps. He reaches out reflesively over the table for something to grab. Coming up with nothing, as the table was empty, he turns a steely gaze towards Jaron.

"I haven't seen you in town before, what're you doing here? Last I checked, there was a faire on the Green? I'll have you know I've fought off bigger fellows than you..."

[Salvonus]

Xorkath

"Good and simple pleasures await, my friend," Coatl says to Xorkath. "Shall we eat?"

"Aye!" Xorkath responded with a hearty grin, fangs bared in a toothy smile. "I'll be happy to eat more than trail rations, for a change. Those pigs certainly smell good."

Making his way towards the spits with Coatl close behind, Xorkath inhaled deeply of the aroma of cooking pigflesh. Could do with a bit more in the way of spices, he thought, chuckling to himself. For the most part, it seemed like the majority of the Faire-goers would hardly care about the flavour of a meal, given the varied states of intoxication already present amongst the revelers. Xorkath couldn't complain - the food smelled decently cooked, and it was, after all, free; besides, he had a small pouch filled with spices to liven his food up a bit. It was a habit he'd picked up in his travels, a strange little quirk of his with delicious side effects.

Refusing a rather drunken man's enthusiastic offer of ale with a smile, Xorkath lined up with the rest waiting for food. His ears perked up at the faint sound of the Orcish tongue - this was not something he commonly heard around humans. Searching for the source of this unusual linguistic occurrence, Xorkath spotted a grey-cloaked frame unmistakably Orcish in nature. Nudging Coatl, Xorkath gestured towards the stranger, "Looks like there's another Orc not from around these parts... I wonder what might have brought him here."

Xorkath strained his ears to see if he could make out any of the Orc's conversation. The din of the Faire was too much for his senses, however, and all he heard was some drunk Orc explaining why one shouldn't stick cheese in gears.

(OOC: @lostsole:

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Sorry, when I saw your post, you hadn't edited in any dialogue yet.

By the way, does Coatl partake of alcohol? Not particularly important, but just one of those things that Xorkath would know by now.

Listen - (1d20+2)[3]. Just a quick listen check for my own purposes, to give me an idea of Xorkath could make out anything of Munggo's conversation with the Elder.
... and that's nothing. Alright.)

[lostsole31]

Coatl breathes in the smell of cooking meat, enjoying the cooked "flavor" to the smell, but as with everything in these lands, it is missing one important ingredient.

Mythology Time! (Adults, please.)

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In the beginning, after Kukulcan created the world and its creatures, he was so ecstatic on what he had done that he danced wildly and orgasmically. Where his seed fell, plants grew that represented the flavor and passion he wished his people to instill in their own lives. And so is the origin of that family of plants known as "peppers". To celebrate life, and Kukulcan's desire for feeling and living strongly, it is rare for any meal to pass by that doesn't include some manner of pepper - scores of kinds, prepared hundreds of ways.
[Yes, btw, this IS based on a thread of Meso-American myth; not a D&D pervert's ridiculous sperm-becomes-food-for-the-masses thread. Still, it is comical enough to us here that someone might appreciate it. ]

"I miss the serrano most," Coatl sighs. "That, and a nice sauce I know would have been wonderful." Still, when hungry, he eats ... and so he does.

OOC @ Salvonus:

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Coatl has mentioned some bizarre foods, though some have sounded delicious. While he will drink - yes he will ("How about some firewater, chief?") - he usually only does so in quiet quarters. He has often mentioned a drink which, like peppers, he misses dearly. You see, there is a type of berry that grows in his land. The elder women take this berry, chew on it heartily, and then spit the juice into a large pot. The berry juice-saliva pot, when full, is sealed and allowed to ferment for a mere two months. The saliva helps the fermentation process advance extremely rapidly, along with some other secret ingredients, and makes for a potent drink.

The priests of the tribe (including himself at one point, albeit a junior member) will on special occasions imbibe a version of this elixir that has been fermenting for six months or more. That, mixed with the infusion of a certain flower and - you guessed it, peppers - make for a very powerful concoction that is used to see things that Kukulcan has hidden away that must be discerned.

A shot of spitberry. Oh, to be home again.

A quick Spot/Listen check ((1d20+4)[23]) to notice anything out of the ordinary beyond the orcs Xorkath noticed.

[Dreamshifter]

Adrienna

Distracted by her own thoughts, a few minutes spent looking at the people here shows her nothing of any real interest, so Adrienna does the same as many other people, and goes to stand in line for the roast pig. The scents made her realize how long she had been eating just rations, or less enjoyable things.

Still, the thought of how greasy the pig would be made her glad for the things she still carried in her backpack. Except that they were, of necessity, back in her room at the Timid Dragon. No sense running around with a backpack full of things, not in town.

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(1d20+4)[9] Spot check, reveling nothing, clearly

[TempusCCK]

"Hold." Jaron calmly lifts his right hand to show that he meant no harm. He also quickly surveys the man before him, noticing that the chair he was sitting in now lays several feet across the floor. Neat trick that, Jaron would have to remember that in the future.

"My name is Jaron, I've just arrived. I was told at the gate that I might be able stable my horse and find some lodging here. Larrick... correct?"

[Paramour Pink]

Cherrina Random NPC Brunette With a Bow # 5

Among the crowd that was listening attentively to the mayor's speech was a brunette with a bow. She seemed to be a neatly unkempt woman. From her frizzy hair to her red tunic flecked with grim it seems as though dirt had painstakingly applied itself to her appearance. Despite the dirt putting her appearance down, she still seemingly stands tall at a few inches into five feet. The bag hoisted across her back is a tell-tale sign of a traveller that had only just arrived, instead of a guest that had already checked into the local inn. As the crowd disperses, her blue eyes looked around the town with an unassuming wonder.

On seeing the disturbing pair, the woman doesn't look away as many others do, as though having fully known about the sight of a man being dragged around by a bejewelled lease. She pouts though, glancing around, taking into consideration her options – and the various witnesses. The sight of a portly man that had given the rousing speech about their ancestors made her smile then. A hopeful smile was hoisted unto her face before the travelling woman took a calming breathe, and skipped over to the mayor and his entourage.

“Your mayorship, sir,” she began meekly, politely waiting for the important man to turn his attention to her. When he finally did, she bite her lip uncertainly. “Can I say that this is the most wonderful place – and I don't want to cause a fuss; I can tell you tried just so awful hard to make everything grand. But,” she paused reluctantly, glancing uncertainly towards where the Handler had just been, “the man that was dragging around another man. He's making everyone real uncomfortable, and I wouldn't want it to upset the children. Could you please tell that handling man to take his unpleasant business to a less public spot?”




Roll results.

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Looking for information about the town and the Handler. In case what I'm requesting requires a diplomacy attempt for the mayor, rolling that too.

Diplomacy: (1d20+17)[29]
Knowledge: Local (1d20+5)[18]
Knowledge: History (1d20+3)[11]

For the Fun of It, Spot Check DC 19 For Anyone:

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You pick up on something point-blank wrong about this woman. Her skipping gait seems exaggerated, instead of carefree or happy, as though it was thrown on for show. Or perhaps that didn't strike you oddly – but her bounding steps that loosened a few strange strands of blue hair did. It's hard not to get the impression of a disguise from the otherwise convincing brown wig. If it's not her odd step, or the slight strands of inhuman hair trying to intermingle inconspicuously with brown, there's something that still tells you this is a manufactured appearance.

[lostsole31]

"Strange," murmurs Coatl to Xorkath. "That short, dirty, well-travelled woman talking to the mayor over there . . . disguise. Blue hair underneath."

[Cheesegear]

Larrick - for Jaron has guessed correctly - drops his guard. But still eyes Jaron cautiously. Larrick snorts. "Yeah, I'm Larrick. And that arm of yours means nothing, I once knew a man a few years back who could win a whole barfight with both hands tied behind his back. And a lot of men around these parts cut wood for a living. Some of 'em were orcs too! They ain't easy to beat." he indicates this by putting a hand about an inch above his arm. The sign for 'big muscles'.

"If you wanted to stable your horse, you should've come in from 'round back. I get all sorts in 'ere. I've even got me a Silver Draco. Err...You wont say I called her that, will you?" He moves across the room to pick up the chair that he'd knocked halfway across the room. Some people preferred the method of standing up, and picking up the chair and breaking it over the man's head in front of them. Still, Larrick wasn't a very strong man, but, he'd been in a few fights in his lifetime, and learned his limits. And he's obviously still alive today.

"I've only got a few rooms left because, y'know-" he waves his hand towards the outside "the Faire. A few people, mostly huntsman have their lodges in the woods. They come here, get a bit drunk and can't get home, so they take up a place here. Make a day of it. That sort of thing. Still, I've got rooms, and a stable out back."

[Cheesegear]

Coatl looks over at the juggling - and singing halfling. The halfling is in typical performer attire; Long, loose yellow trousers, a white long-sleeved shirt and a yellow vest. Typical of most halflings, he is not wearing shoes.

Coatl notices, that often, the halfling's knives (he is juggling five) will pass through his fingers. Not all of them, for he is clearly casting an illusion, but, every other knife is real, as he grabs it and throws it. The halfling is talented, to be sure, as he has not been picked up by anyone. But, then again, to be fair, most of his audience are children.

[lostsole31]

Coatl looks over in the direction of the halfling, smirking at: a) his excellent use of illusory and real objects and real talent to make his "super-juggling" seem even more real, and b) that given some care, there are those with the Gift that know how to thrive even in such conditions.

Would that he [Coatl] possessed a Gift so subtle.

Coatl, as is typical, silent nods casually to Xorkath that he is going off a little bit. The jungle-priest goes over to the halfling, but stands back aways so as not to be too imposing. After the halfling finishes a set, Coatl goes over and says - as he places a gold coin in his hat (or bowl, or shoe, or other collection point) - "Two knives dull. Three knives keen. Your talent is sharpest. A gold crown for your devotion."

Coatl neither says nor intimates anything else, for that is all that can pass between these two - lest the halfling otherwise say anything - for Coatl would not dare wish undesired ears to hear the conversation that both of them probably desperately wish to have but cannot.

Coatl returns to Xorkath's side, and as usual, keeps his eyes and ears open.

[Miraqariftsky]

Munggo

Munggo blinks at the elder's words. His gaze narrows ever so slowly and the cold morning air in front of his face sizzles into steam as he releases a hot sigh. The slightest sign of a snarl escapes his thick lips and more than half his formidable tusks protrude from the cool shadow of his cowls.

Catching himself, he closes his slavering maw and snorts and makes a long, guttural sigh and coughs. His voice, when he dips into the human tongue, is deep and rolls with an outlander's accent. "Rrrrkkhhhhmmm... hock-hock. Ah, so that man's mad and suffering because of nothing he's actually done to deserve it?"

While he speaks, his hand fishes about in a bag beneath the folds of his cloak. After a few moments, it comes out with a wad of newly-jerked strips of rabbit meat. The massive orc from the wastelands then kneels to the elder and leans in close. With the slightest hoarseness creeping into his deep voice, Munggo offers it to the elder with the words, "I... ack... am Munggo of the Twilight-Eyes tribe from far to the west of here. I have traveled far and am nothing but a humble warrior. Please accept this gift on behalf of my people..."

Munggo groans and closes his eyes, huffing and snorting as the beast within his heart growls, thrashing against the cage of his will. His voice then sinks into a whisper and says, "You are the wise man of this place, are you not? Have you... do you know what happens to men such as those who are not... leashed? You say they lose their minds as they gain power in that painful manner... which is evil, the magic in them or the people who hurt others for that magic?"

[TempusCCK]

"Interesting. Well, I can assure you that I mean no harm. I'll take a room and bring Mal around the back. Thank you very kindly."

Jaron, conversation concluded, heads back through the door through which he came. Around the back, he finds an empty stall for Mal and begins the process of unload a most of his valuables, unsaddling and brushing and watering the horse.

Today was going to be a fascinating day, Jaron decided as he worked the brushes through Mal's thin coat. A festival, a gathering of revelry unknown to the cloistered young Jaron. And to top it off, news that a Draconian was in town! Jaron had read much about Dragons and Dragonwrought and the various wars and events of the past. He even spoke and read Draconic fluently, but to actually meet and speak with a Draconian! It was a chance he could not pass up. He resolved that finding this Silver Draconian was on the top of his list of priorities.

After he finishes his work in the Stables, Jaron returns to the Inn proper. Laden with his travel gear, including many of the things he normally kept on Mal. "Excuse me Mr. Larrick, could I be lead to my room now please?"

[Cheesegear]

Rusker looks from the brunette-haired woman to the pair from the Arcanum. Having been pointed out, the mayor, indeed realises that the mage and his guard are disturbing everyone from having a good time. The mayor narrows his eyes, mutters a quick "Thank you." to the woman who told him about the pair, and strides angrily towards the pair.

What the blazes do you think you're doing? You're ruining my faire by standing right out in the open! Keeping a man chained right in plain view! yells Rusker, right in the middle of the celebration.
"Last I heard, you're the one who requested that we be here." the Handler replies.
"Yes. But not like this! Get out of my sight! Go stand under a tree or something! Just...Stop being. In the middle. Of everything! You're ruining everything with your chained man. Gods! Just think about other people. Imagine what they think when they look at him!" the mayor hisses.

The handler narrows his eyes at the mayor, just for a second. But, then nods his acquiesence. And yanks on the chain connecting him to his prisoner.
The 'prisoner' speaks softly, but still loud enough so that those near him can hear; "I could burn this whole place to the ground given the chance...And nobody could stop me..."
"Shut up!" the handler says, fear in his voice.

Not thirty feet away, the Elder speaks to Munggo "Does that answer your question? I'd guess both."

[Dreamshifter]

Adrienna

Her meat in hand, Adrienna spots the mayor yelling at the chain holder, and can't help but grin. It takes her a moment to realize she is grinning, and quickly restores her normal, serene face, hoping no one noticed her somewhat toothy grin. It had been misinterpreted before, so she avoided doing it in public, with some degree of success. Usually.

In a somewhat vain attempt to cover her lapse, she says to herself "My, this pork is quite good. Far better than any field ration could ever hope to be. It is a good day to be here, clearly."

Still watching the crowd, she tries to track the movements of the brown haired woman she thought she saw talking to the mayor, but has no luck. Too many heads that color. People need more colors for their hair. Pink, perhaps, or maybe blue. Purple would be good, too!

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(1d20)[8] Not sure what skill to apply, and it shouldn't really succeed anyway, but I feel I should roll regardless.

[Miraqariftsky]

Munggo, the Shakespearean Savage
((Makes me wish he has a polearm to make the pun worthwhile!))

Munggo bows once more and takes his leave
Of the elder wise, but not without
His name a-asking
That by blood and blade, word and wyrd
Both can on both call
In troubled time

He wanders off into the sea of humanity
His hard feet bearing him thither
But "yon" calls itself a feast

There he comes and tears off a chunk
Grisly, roasted, dripping fresh
Black, brown, red and white
Succulent the meat
With herbs, spice
Sewn therein

Of a sudden, a spirit takes him
Atween savage bites
Regards the porcine leg
As would a list'ning friend
Thereon he speaks
But whispers
In manner unbefitting
A barbarian of the wastes

"To kill or not to kill
That is the question
Whether tis nobler
To mindless suffer
The ravages of infernal
Torment
Or to take arms
Against a sea of perils
And, by opposing
End them
To wander, to fight
Ever on; and by a fight
We mean to struggle...
...for to lie and lay down
'Tis...
Gods, this FEAST IS GOOD!"

[TempusCCK]

After stopping by his room and dropping off his stuff, Jaron walked down to the fair, taking in the atmosphere, sincerely enjoying himself.

It didn't take him long to spot Ardrienna, the Silver Draconian, enjoying her meal among the other fairgoers. He approaches her, in typical straightforward manner, walks right up to her, and begins speaking to her in her native tongue, accompanying it with a wide sweeping bow, throwing his good hand out and keeping the other, injured arm, close.

"Greetings Draconian, my name is Jaron, and it is a pleasure to meet you. Perhaps, if you have nothing further drawing your attention, I would love to hear some more about Okarthel and your kin."


Edit-Need to pay more attention. Bleh.

[Dreamshifter]

Adrienna

The sound of her native language, in a place like this, caught Adrienna off guard. Her nearly finished meal is fumbled, and falls to the ground, promptly forgotten. Her surprise lasts only a second though, changing to delight. She responds in Draconic "Well, this is a rare delight. It a pleasure to meet you, Jaron. I am called Adrienna, and I would be honoured..."

The smile flashes to concern, upon realizing the young human had a poorly bound shoulder. Without asking, she takes a look, and realizing there is still an arrow in the wound, she mutters a string of profanity softly. Returning to common, she asks (rather loudly) "What pothoc malai* made this mess? By the ten dragons, didn't they know anything about healing?"

She then looks him over, her voice going soft. "Wait, you have been to see a healer, haven't you? No, don't answer that, I suppose you haven't. Even someone with basic training could tie the bandage better than that. Unless they had an arrow through one shoulder, anyway. I can fix it, if you want. I am a healer by trade, so got lucky talking to me." She seems oblivious to the possibility that he sought her out because of her dragonwrought heritage.

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*pothoc malai, stupid idiot in draconic, according to a nifty online translator. I'll likely be using that sire for more phrases, and will definitely be turning pothoc malai into a standard part of Adrienna's language.

I guess you could say, the act of an idiot calling other people stupid idiots, amuses me.

[TempusCCK]

Jaron, seeming not at all phased by the sudden concern of the Dragonwrought, and her very upfront shift in demeanor, simply smiles and allows Adrienna to continue her observation.

Still in Draconic, he laughs a bit and replies "The honor of being that stupid idiot falls to me, I thought only to cover the wound and keep it from moving, and could not remove the arrowhead myself... However, I would dearly like it removed, even after three days I find that I did not grow attached in the slightest." He finishes with a chuckle.

All in all, Jaron is quite amused by the situation, seeing the way Adrienna swept from one thing to another. He found that he liked her go-getter attitude, not to mention his insatisable curiousity to learn more about the Dragonwrought.

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Mm, if you could post a link to that translator I'd be pretty interested.