World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

http://img3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20080913184414/wowwiki/images/7/7f/Theramorecomic.JPG
THERAMORE

Prelude

“Each man lives for himself, uses his freedom to achieve his personal goals, and feels with his whole being that right now he can or cannot do such-and-such an action; but as soon as he does it, this action, committed at a certain moment in time, becomes irreversible, and makes itself the property of history, in which is has not a free but a predestined significance. ” ― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

It has been a little over four years since the end of the Third War; and that was four more years than any who saw the battle expected the world to last.

Azeroth has always been a land tormented by the convulsions of kingdoms and powers, invaders and defenders; and for most races, their generations are defined by the manner of the catastrophe whose pall hangs over their youth. For the long lived races, the choice is between falling into a jaded indifference to the sequence of cataclysms and thereby choosing to feel nothing for the world at large, or else to experience the latest great suffering as the most severe because, unlike wars and calamities in the ancient past, the suffering in the present can still do you harm. For most, this choice is no choice at all.

Sansha MacVince was a knight's daughter. She had hoped to become a knight herself, but found the rigor of lugging lance and shield too much for her, so she taught riding to young alliance cavaliers. She sat at a table at 'Janene's', Theramore's premier dockside inn, holding a half-emptied flagon of ale against the plane of her stomach while she slouched back. Across from her, with a similarly appalling posture, was Ysuria Sunstriker. Ysuria taught the fledgling mages of Theramore portalcraft, when they were capable of grasping it. Before that, she was a mage in the alliance magical auxillia; and before that, an academic in Silvermoon's College of the Sixth Spire. The additional before that's scroll backwards in time for a total of two thousand three hundred years, and change. By contrast, Sansha was twenty nine years old. And yet when Sansha looked out the window at the afternoon sky, sighed quietly, and looked back to Ysuria, the elf interpreted the sigh precisely, and raised her half-full wineglass to clink Sansha's flagon. Both grunted a little with the extension of their arms, neither willing to unslouch for the tradition; and the bare skimming of vessels served the point well enough. The thousands of years old elf and the almost-thirty human knew each other's mind precisely, at that moment. Both were thinking: There is no cannon fire. There is no pall of engine smoke. There is no hail of green comets, flooding the land with horrors from the Twisting Nether. Life is good.

And life was good, in Theramore. With the fall of the Burning Legion four years ago, the remnants of Jaina Proudmoore's expedition and their doughty support staff looked back across the ocean to the Eastern Kingdoms, and knew the devastation that waited there. The choice was to build anew, or rebuild; and most chose the later. Lady Proudmoore's positive relations with the Horde meant Theramore, despite being technically an Alliance outpost, had little to fear from their neighbours, even accounting for the one or two grievous incidents in the last few years where blood was shed. But it was safe and it was peaceful and it was... admittedly, surrounded by swamp; but there was plenty of fish and enough arable land on the island itself to grow a little produce. Life was good. But not everyone has such a permissive destiny to long enjoy the comforts of abundant fish, and a warm bed, and an empty sky unmarred by smoke and shell and spellfire. Taverns, inns, and roadstations were lousy with them; and Janene's, quiet as it was at this hour, was no exception.

And just as well. Without such people - adventurers, freebooters, troubleshooters - how would one get all the crap done, that need be done, if life is to remain good?

Welcome to Theramore, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Go ahead and make an introductory paragraph for your character. Janene's is a pretty classic fantasy inn with a lazy minstrel who will play tunes for coin (A gnome, Durley), a bartender (Human, Lillian), a cook (Human, Craig), and whatever smattering of games, furniture, and NPCs you care to manifest as background flavour for your character. You can be heading into the inn to book a room for the night, hanging around enjoying the lazy atmosphere, or whatever excuse you feel best fits why your character would be there. Importantly, you are all low on funds - you have enough to live lean for a couple more days, but if an offer came up for paying work, it'd be hard to turn down. You don't have to know each other at this point - but outsiders and adventurers are often drawn together, so do what seems most natural. Once everyone is situated in the world, I'll get to transpiring some events.

OOC Thread is Here (https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread.php?637151-World-of-Warcraft-Interbellum-(OOC-Thread)&p=25217860#post25217860).

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag sit on a special stool designed for larger fundaments. They each nurse a quart of small beer, that is, re-brewed from the dregs of the good stuff. They can't afford more right now, not without pawning their alchemy supplies.

"This is..." "Dull" "we need?" "Work." They talk amongst themselves.

[Plaids]

"Ya got that right" replies Jakk'ari peeling the underbelly of a fish leaving pearly white bones.
"If we have any more vacant days I'm going to have to shear the entire island to get enough muckweed and bramble fruit to feed ya my friend".

Jakk'ari begins scratching his lower left jaw contemplating what to do next.

[WindStruck]

An elf walks into Janene's. She is only of about average height (so perhaps a little short for an elf) and a slight, willowy thing. She wears a revealing dress, which puts much of her slender and delicate body on display. While it may look lascivious to some, by the way she carries herself it is clear she is not of a lower class or profession. And in fact, with her being an elf.. she was almost certainly a mage.

Then again, with this being Kalimdor, not far from the Barrens, and being surrounded by swamp and then ocean, perhaps more scant attire was appropriate anyway? Isaera did not care, regardless. She was at least comfortable, and that was a blessing in itself, given her limited clothing options. Rent was coming due.

Despite being refugees, and even helping to repel a demonic invasion, damnable things like taxes still existed. And things like food and shelter were not free. No, they were more expensive than ever. Life was good once again, but you had to work hard for it. And right now, it seemed there was a shortage of work...

Isaera sighed. Her mother was too proud to do menial work. Admittedly, the pay was garbage anyway, so she didn't blame her. Her younger brother was an embarrassment. And her cousins, well.. apparently they got some lucrative job and struck it rich. Though she hadn't heard from them in a while.

But still, rent was coming due. She needed to find something to do. The delicate elf carefully walks about the inn, looking around, though it becomes evident that she has no intention of buying anything. She sits down at a small table with a number of game pieces on a patterned board. She sighs again, looking down at the board, contemplating life, and hoping she could figure out what to do.

Who knows? Maybe a golden opportunity would fall right into her lap. Though she doubted it.

[MrAbdiel]

The sound of sailor's bells become more regular over the next few minutes as fishing boats muscle for position at the docks; and the inn begins to fill out with regulars. Humans, mainly; mostly sons and daughters of Lordaeron and Dalaran, after those grand cities were shattered and destroyed by the ravening Scourge. Dwarves take the demographic second, with a handful of high elves in tow. A barrel chested man with a blue bandana and mutton chops for days leads a gregarious group of sailors into the inn, flicks a pair of coppers to Durley, and gives him a friendly wink. The gnome pops up as if springloaded, snatches the money from the air, and begins playing his fiddle with jaunt and gusto sufficient that it provokes a halfhearted effort of folks in the bar clapping along before they attend again their conversations.

And then the mood of the tavern is split apart when an officer of the Theramore regiment comes thumping into the room in his slabby plate make. This is Captain Evencane, known in the city both for the quality of his martial instruction to the soldiers under his command, and for the precision with which he maintains his blond flat-top. The latter seems to be lapsing, a little; fraying at the edges with the weight of sweat and the effort of a long run.

"I need a team of non-enlisted men with good blades for an immediate assignment; there's silver on the other end of it!"

The use of good blades is understood to mean competent fighters just as men in this case means men and women. These are trivial interpretations for the room to hear; but what needs no interpretation is silver. Almost a score of sailors and brawny civilians start to stand up from their chairs with interest.

"There's four cadets wounded or dead, not a mile east of Brackenwall Village. We need rescue or recovery."

At the clarification, three quarters of the willing applicants settle back into their chairs in discomfort.

Brackenwall Village is well away into the swamp; and more importantly, it's Horde affiliated; a watchtower and lightly crewed outpost of orcs, darkspear trolls, and a handful of Stonemaul ogres up from the mount further south in the marsh. An official armistice was one thing; and a thing it was not was the assurance that you wouldn't be clubbed to death by savages for straying into their hunting ground.

Captain Evencane clenches his teeth at the melting valor of the volunteers, and gazes despairingly over those who remain upright.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

The Buxom Lass heaved through the forth-encrusted waves of the Great Sea, its bronze, topless maiden prow bursting through each bank of opaque blue that rose up before it. Being of sturdy and rough build, the Buxom powered through her choppy lane, muscling forward with a rough tenacity that suited the stout trading vessel. Flying no black flag upon its mast, this was a ship that had previously docked in Southshore before it set sail, and tucked away within one of its slowly rocking cabins was a figure that sat upon her bed and pulled her cloak tighter around her body to protect against the ocean cold.

"I hate sailing..." Marion spoke aloud, her smooth voice oppressed beneath the groan of tortured oak as the box she inhabited swayed beneath the impressions of the sea, her simple bed and tiny desk the only provisions of comfort she could afford.

"I really hate sailing!" she hissed, eyes narrowing at her environment as if trying to intimidate away the choppy sea.

'the...ether...is so much more...calm...' a thick, slow voice crawled through the back of her skull: Varghast. Though not apparent in the physical world around her, the demons presence was always felt and its essence never too far away should she need his protection.

'...why...go this far...I...do...not...understand at all...your people are back in...azeroth...very few...where we go.'

"Precisely. It's lawless. The propriety of the 'civilised' world does not apply," Marion uttered, risking a glance to the rune-inscribed tome that was resting atop her little desk. The secrets within that book had only seemed to compound her problems...but Marion knew an opportunity when she saw one. That tome was her key to the long game.

'...many threats...'

"Yes, many threats," Marion spoke once more, bracing her shoulder against the wall to receive one particularly bad dive the ship took before its gyro was corrected.

"But with danger..." she continued, standing up and huddling herself against the sparse furniture within her room so that she could peer through the tiny, fogged over window and at the choppy sea beyond.

"...comes opportunity."


oOo

Having been seated in the corner of the tavern the entire evening, a near empty ale cup before her and hood obscuring her youthful features, the human rose her right hand at the guardsmans words.

"If there's silver in it; I'll help."

[WindStruck]

Isaera was not among the group which hastily jumped at the captain's initial offer.. if anything, she was a bit too cautious and her reflexes were rather slow for this sort of thing. The others would have surely had the job, had speed and initial enthusiasm been the deciding factor. However, as the exact details of the job were revealed, it was apparently a rescue mission. And a dangerous one at that.

Isaera did not cower from this job. Though to be fair, she wasn't one who initially jumped upon it either. This could be the thing she needed to get by for a few more months... but what was the risk? What was the reward?

Slowly, she stood, and she asked, "What was the nature of their mission, captain? And just how much silver is dangling on the other end?"

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari sat back remembering just how easy it was for people to flee from encroaching danger, even whilst family and friends were being engulfed by the maws of an encroaching beast.
He remembered the encroaching influence of the cults disseminating throughout his homeland their inclination for violence and proclivity for chains.

How many of these soldiers had family and friends who relied on them? How easy would it be to do nothing?

Staring intently at his drink Jakk'ari found his answer when a small opaque green bubble silently burst.

Standing to his full height Jakk'ari proclaims. "I’m in I’ll bring your apprentices back home. Their service to the world is still just beginning."

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag was technically women, not men, but were each bright enough to comprehend the vernacular. Their father and grandmother had both fought against these people in the Second War, but, these days, the Ogres were neutrals. Were it otherwise, they would not be here. The Alliance were strong, and the Horde was weak, and, by Ogre reckoning that made neutrality the best their former allies could hope for.

"We will go and rescue your cadets." "We make you deal, we only charge you half again as much as one head"

1d20+3

[MrAbdiel]

Captain Evencane's expression gathers a little despair, as he surveys the group - and he raises and drops one hand in limp surrender when the remainder of the applicants withdraw leaving four (four point five, maybe?) willing and able. The precipitous withdrawal of offers to serve came in two waves - one with the announcement of the territory the quest required them to enter, and then another seemingly in reaction to the troll and ogre committing to the deed. A generous onlooker might sympathise, that many of these sailors had lost friends and family in skirmishes with Thrall's new Horde in the Third War; and plenty had taken part in nautical duels against ogre juggernauts and troll destroyers in the Second War. While the people of Theramore were rarely outright rude or confrontational with these exotic guests, they might be forgiven for having reluctance to work along side them. A less generous onlooker might simply see a rash of the xenophobic reflex practiced by cowards craving a world simple enough to divide into friend-or-foe.

The Captain tracked his eyes across the remaining applicants, and hardened his expression in acceptance. Mor'Lag's bargain draws a furrowed brow from the captain, but no sharp response that might alienate his volunteers. "The recompense goes to your group, and you can divide it however the lot of you see fit when the deed is done; four ways or five, that's your business. But not until the cadets are back safe, or - ... Or back, atleast."

The troubled Captain shoos a card game from one table, callously sweeping empty mugs and gambling chips to the floor. His urgency, or his rank, seemed to abjure any possible reprisal, and he flags the four would-be-rescuers over to join him. He unfurls a map of the Dustwallow Marsh, at the level of abstraction common to standard issue renditions.


https://www.udrop.com/cache/plugins/filepreviewer/428855/885463572617bbcc63772ac5a5618ec2b6058940935f3b31a5 570a4c8a3cd305/1100x800_cropped.jpg


He indicates the icon of a watchtower at the north west most point of the brackish Dustwallow inlet; and looks through the tops of his troubled eyes to Isaera, pursuant to her question earlier. "They didn't have a mission. They shouldn't have been out there at all. They were delivering supply to North Point tower - a two venture down a patrolled road, and two days back. But for reasons I can't bloody fathom, they took it upon themselves to head further south west into Horde patrolled roads." He drags his fingertip left, to a red inked X. "There's a fifth cadet, Lidus, who sped back on a horse the troops at North Point gave him to give the bad news. Rode the horse to death then ran for nine hours before collapsing into the arms of the marines at the front gate. He was barely able to indicate where the other four were located before they got ambushed in the dark and seperated; he's passed out in the infirmary now. Healers have stabilized him, but he won't be awake for atleast six hours, they say; and I'll be damned if I wait that long before dispatching someone to look for the others."

His eyes swivel conspiratorially around the table to the eclectic applicants. "I can't sent marines in uniform, or they might provoke a direct Horde response. I can't send them out of uniform because if they get captured, they'll be considered spies, and hanged or piked. You'll follow the medical team I'll dispatch for the two days up to North Point. Then you'll strike out toward Brackenwall, find those Cadets, and bring them back to the tower. No conflict with the Horde if you can at all avoid it. Be discreet; this doesn't need to be an incident. You'll get twenty for each cadet whose body you recover; fifty if they're still alive. But that'll be going on five days hiding, wounded in the swamp; I'm tempering my expectations. That's a neat two gold pieces if you're smart, fast, and lucky, divided up between you however you want. Payment on completion. If you fail, then we never had this conversation. Understood?"

Ten copper will buy a decent meal and a room for a night in many an inn; and with a hundred copper to a silver and a hundred silver to a gold piece, the reward isn't life changing - but it's breathing room, that's for damn sure.

[WindStruck]

Isaera frowned a bit. The question of what exactly those cadets were doing so far southwest from the watchtower was troubling. It could be that whatever happened, they brought it upon themselves. If they provoked the wrath of the Horde or the locals, what right would they have to come rescue them? They may as well get clubbed in the head themselves...

Not to mention, two of the remaining volunteers: one was a troll, the other was an ogre. They seemed civilized enough to at least not cause trouble here, but still! Her life would be in their hands, and she did not know these people at all.. and much less, had any reason to trust them.

She sighed a bit, thinking this job may just be too risky, for too little pay, and perhaps, perhaps it did not even have a just cause. But still.. we didn't know the circumstances fully, or why they did what they did. There were missing men out there, who perhaps might still be alive.. and perhaps we could give them the benefit of the doubt, and hope they had a good reason?

"Captain.." Isaera begins, hesitantly. "We don't know what these cadets were doing. Perhaps they were justified, perhaps not. But if they were captured by the Horde - or worse - by what leverage can we negotiate their release?"

All Isaera knew was that fighting was dangerous. Especially for her. And if things did come to a conflict, they would disrupt the tenuous balance they were currently in.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion listened as the guardsman explained the situation: some cadets wandered off their route and got themselves into trouble with either hostile locals or the Horde.

And to remedy this, she and a...ogre and troll had to wander into the dank, murky swamp, braving possible Horde patrols, and find them. All for 2 gold.

Two. Gold.

When her family still had its estate nestled within the breathtaking mountain ranges of Alterac, Two Gold wasn't even pocket change - it was a paperweight, at best. Her family's mines had produced iron ore and gems by the tonnage and had enjoyed the vast wealth that this had fetched them on the market. That she would risk her life, or worse, at the hands of some filthy greenskins for a paltry pittance of that did not sit well with the warlock.

"You wish us to venture into the murky swamp, brave the hostile locals, including the fauna, try to steer clear of horde entanglements, then save five souls from the fetid graves that would otherwise await them, all for just two gold?" Marions voice was smooth, diplomatic and sceptical.

"That we have to portion among ourselves?"

Once again, sceptical. Whose to say the Ogre wouldn't just bash their heads in at the last moment to claim it all for themselves? Or the troll spear them in the back?

"That is a lot of risk for very little incentive, Sir," Marion continued, "And this seems to be a buyers market."

Marion couldn't see anyone else lining up to help the guardsman out.

"So, I think that we would deserve greater compensation. I'd wager that is not even a 100th of a percent that Theramore acquires bi-annually via berthing taxes from incoming trading vessels and the Alliance navy. I would think that the lives of five cadets would be worth considerably more..."

_____________________________

OOC:
Action: Persuasion Roll: [roll0]

[WindStruck]

Isaera nodded as the other woman spoke, in full agreement.

"Perhaps you do not have the funds presently, but I am sure there are coffers you can reach into, given your sway and enough time with the.. 'nobles'." Isaera said, trying with as much finesse to refer to politicians, bureaucracy, and the whole establishment which ran this glorified outpost.

"At the very least, if time is truly of the essence, and every hour, or even every minute may mean death or survival, you should grant us provisions for camping out in the wild, and lend us some transportation. Horses, perhaps? Otherwise, travel would be very slow and miserable on foot..."

Persuasion! [roll0]

plus the Very Attractive advantage, which would give Isaera +5 if Captain Evencane finds her attractive. It would really be a shame, if not only did they lose 4 cadets, but a comely elf such as herself, right?? :smalltongue:

She clears her throat. "Ahem, and a word in private, captain?"

If Isaera can speak with the captain away from earshot of others, she quietly confides in him:

"It's no secret there is great discomfort bringing those two along." She did not look toward or even gesture to Mor'Lag or Jakk'ari. The 'two' were quite obvious.
"I myself have no qualms with them here, personally. But I absolutely do not trust them outside of Theramore. I want you to offer them an additional two silver each for my safe return, and the other woman's. That will incentivize them to not betray us, and perhaps, even put some effort in to keeping us alive."

Isaera smiled softly.. it was somewhat smug, but also just sad at the thought, making this captain pay extra to further bribe those he hired to do the job he was already paying them for. And that money could have been going to her, and her family, too.

"And I'm sorry to say, this isn't negotiable, captain. I would like to help, but I cannot go out alone, and I don't feel I can trust the help otherwise. But rest assured, the price may seem high, but you are getting much in return."

After saying her peace, Isaera demonstrated some magic. Flames wreathed her hands as she channeled a powerful fire spell. She launched a fireball straight at the bar, causing the bottles of alcohol to explode in a bright flash of light, a boom, and cacophany of shattering glass!

Expertise (magic): [roll1]

But when it was all over, everything stood exactly as it was before, though several people may have dropped to the floor in fear.

Now the mage really smirked. "Just an illusion. What, do you think I would have really blown the place up? That's just silly."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari stunned by the arcane display wonders if everyone wearing resplendent robes in this port city is a potent font of power. Surmising it prudent to make allies of these two robed figures Jakk'ari composes himself.

"I agree, surely Theramore has more at its disposal to aid in this quest? Perhaps a ship or an arcane portal to speed us along."

[MrAbdiel]

Captain Evencane hated this part of hiring freebooters. The negotiation, the bickering, the need to exaggerate safety or threats on one side or the other. He seemed confident enough to deflect the ogre woman/women's attempt to ratchet up the price, but then smooth-voiced magistrix made a reasonable case that he had trouble deflecting. And just as he seemed to flounder and gather himself to rebuke the effort, a third voice - this the elven mage apprentice, and the most compelling voice of the sequence so far - compounded the case for additional compensation and left Evencane at the bottom of a very tall pile of escalated expectations. Flustered, he concedes to the aside with the Isaera; with an expression creeping into the steel of his eyes that suggests he's almost -grateful- to her, to be pulled out of a moment in which he was feeling outside his expertise. He listens to some quiet petition, and seems to have been bludgeoned into atleast partial submission by the cannonade of the groups' charms. He even goes so far as to raise a steadying hand to the confused and alarmed onlookers tormented by Isaera's display, and then sighs with a deep spirit of concession. Running a hand through his now moreso sweat-messed flat top, he makes a new offer.

"...You can't breathe a word of this away from this table. If other freebooters learn I've bent the pricing for one group, they'll be charging an arm and a leg for every wolf tail or murloc eye they're sent to get. There's obviously power in the four of you. Two of you will seem friendly enough faces to the horde that they won't take you for alliance assets if you run into them; two of you are friendly enough faces that the cadets won't take an offer for help from you as an outright trap. If you do it right, it'll be the easiest coin you've ever made."

He rubs the bridge of his nose.

"As for more help... A boat to take across the inlet won't help; you'd lose the time you'd gained crawling through the hillcountry and ridges heading back inland. And this Theramore has the closest portal anchor to the destination. The roads are the safest and quickest way there, but I can arrange for a cart - "

He pauses, glancing to Mor'Lag.

"Two carts for your group, to make the travel too and from easier. You'll need them to keep up with the medical crew anyway, but you'll have to leave them at Northpoint. At that time, you'll be striking out into the swamp anyway, and there's no sense breaking horse legs. And I'll raise the compensation to... To fifty silver for each cadet whose body isn't lost to the swamp, and a round gold for each back alive. That's me cutting into my own wage for you, so don't ask for more. Is that satisfactory? Because if it's not, I need to get outside and round up a group of marines, and take my chances with the kindness of orcs."

A final look to Isaera - suggesting he hasn't discarded her discreet commentary - before he gestures to the collection of adventurers with an open hand, as if to ask 'what's it gonna be?'

[WindStruck]

Isaera eyes the captain expectantly. She wasn't really expecting such a dramatic increase overall for the whole mission. That, in her opinion, made the risk of betrayal far worse, and more lucrative.

She sighed.

"Well, captain. I hope you - and other free agents - understand the urgency of this mission, and the value of mens' lives is worth far more than a few murloc eyes... But that said, I hate that you have to dig into your own wages."

"For what it's worth, I wouldn't mind if I gave up a bit of my share.." she looked around at the others and continued, "And we put that towards.. what we had discussed, a few moments ago."

"Otherwise, I will accept." She nods.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion watched, perhaps less surprised than the others, as the elf decided to show off with a dazzling display of illusionary pyrotechnics.

How has she survived this long being so reckless? The human wondered to herself, her right hand gripping the demonological tome tucked away within her traveling robe at the thought of being so open about her eldritch abilities back on Azeroth.

"Yes, that seems...tolerably adequate," Marion spoke to the guardsman as he accepted their request for higher compensation.

Though there could be more rewards hidden along the way, the Warlock thought to herself.

[Plaids]

Turning to Mor'Lag Jakk'ari quips.
"Looks like we'll be the diplomats once we enter the swamp. Even if we aren't dressed for the part"
Quickly trying to smooth his scuffed armor.

Turning to Marion Jakk'ari says.
"I'm hopeful that you remain to be the wind our sails."
Taking note of her robes presuming great power accompanied it.

Content with the sweetened negotiations Jakk'ari congratulates Isaera.
"My thanks for being the rising tide elevating all of us. You've earned a totem of good fortune from me when this job is over. I like your mojo."

While happy with the negotiation a trace of doubt still lingered. This caster was no shaman, having no totems or elements come to her call. She was also clearly no druid, clearly lacking any wilderness attire or any unkempt features. The lack of any symbols of the clergy or accompanying fiends left one likely choice, a mage.

Mages wielded their power without the negotiation or mutualistic creeds with the worlds primal denizens that shamans and druids exercised. Lacking symbiotic relationships left ambition and self motivation to guide a caster which could lead to disaster.

Considering the elf's prior conversation with the captain Jakk'ari considered caution would be for the best especially with how quickly the captain acquiesced.


Use insight on Isaera [roll0] With a +3 from AWE mod.

[Feathersnow]

"Mor and Lag are satisfied. We thank the little Vrykul and the Dorei for their wise counsel." Says Mor.
"The honorable Sandfury is likewise sure to be a valuable companion" says Lag.
"We will be the hammer"
"And the shield"

[MrAbdiel]

The Captain nods once, but doesn't look overly pleased. That's what happens when you get talked into paying more for something than you want to - even something virtuous. But lives are on the line, and that's enough to put steel back into his eyes.

"Right. Good. Great. Well, the medical team is mustering, and they'll be moving out in a quarter hour. Be ready by the gate. We can supply travel gear and resupply at North Point, but if you have any special needs, now's the time to sort them out. I'm sending a scout with you - a Mister Black. He's familiar with the terrain, and so he'll be a help ferreting the cadets out from hidey holes they might be shivering in. Light preserve you. And you two - ." He flags back Mor'Lag and Jakk'ari as the group peels away from the table, for a discreet additional exchange...

The Captain lowers his voice significantly, and makes an admirable effort at neutralizing his discomfort for the outsiders. "I know you're not Horde. And you wouldn't be here if there was somewhere better for you to be right now.
But if an elf or a human dies in the swamp, and the ogre and troll come back safe, then less reasonable folks than me will be keen to ask questions. I'm sure you've noticed that Theramore is host to... mixed opinions on exactly how peaceful or neutral things should be here. So to cut to the chase, there's an extra five silver coming each of your palms if you make sure the other two get back alive and in good condition. Even with the primary objective being the rescue of the cadets, I know Lady Proudmoore could do with more printable stories of cooperative heroism. It's good for you, and it's good for me. That's all." And with that, he sharply stands up from his chair, and marches off with a true captain's rigidity to make preparations.

...After which, you are left to exchange words with each other as you wish, and expected to be at the gate in fifteen minutes.


------- FOURTEEN MINUTES HENCE -------

Four carts, each drawn by a pair of brawny draft horses, are waiting at the gates. They're open topped of course, each suitable for hauling a half dozen human sized passengers - or one ogre; and each cart is driven by a single human guard from Theramore. Their light chain armor with flared shoulder plates, along with white tabards featuring the golden anchor symbol of Theramore, suggest they are competent enough in matters of defense. The foremost two carts are packed with bundled supplies, and a pair of passengers in each. Gustaf VanHowzen is Theramore's chief trauma surgeon, and he compulsively rubs his bald scalp and fidgets with his chin beard as he mulls over the journey to come. With him are medics Tamberlyn and Helaina, both young women who look pretty enough to endure the cavalcade of flirtations that come from the mangled young warriors they are trying to save, but made of stern enough stuff to be neither captured nor outraged by it. Allen Bright, a priest of the Light and the medics' trainer and immediate superior, is possessed of just the right kind of gallows humor and temperament that he is able to keep up the spirits of men dying of their wounds and the sanity of those tasked to save them. Presently, he goes to some lengths trying to tease and amuse the cart drivers out of their set expressions of determination. He's doing a pretty good job.

He swings his attention down from the cart in which he sits to the rifleman standing beside it. "What do you think, Zachary? Would you rather work a job you love for next to no pay, or get paid ten gold a day to sit silently in an empty room eight hours a day for the rest of your life? No half-way answers."

Zachary Black, that's you already in the scene awaiting the other characters to arrive.
You know they're coming by a vague description with no attached names (Evencane explicitly didn't want to know their names), and you know your job is to accompany them through the swamp to find the missing four cadets.

Everyone else, feel free to rock up and meet the fifth and final party member, and we'll get this show on the road.

[hand ax ranger]

The man beside him did not even turn his head, having heard him perfectly. The figures eyes were hidden behind the ash colored lenses of the googles he wore, and the cloth worn on his head both held the padding underneath to his ears and also to keep his head cool. Cradling the used rifle of his in preparation for what may yet come he he shakes his head. "That question was answered for me years ago. If all I cared for was easy money I'd of stayed in the first city I crossed, what with my aptitude in alchemy. Instead I joined the fight against the bandits and the Horde. In the Alliance armed forces for a time, then outside of it. My lot is going place to place, camping under the stars and vanquishing vile men and monsters. It's fulfilling...... and also pays well on occasion."

He drinks for a water skin, which in truth was filled with homemade wine from a farm not so far away. He then spies Mor'Lag. "Speaking of that, are we really to travel with a Ogre, or is someone trying to make a fool out of us?"

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag hears this remark.

"Little Vrykul does not wish our help?" Asks Lag.
"Alliance is strong, Horde is weak, so Mor'Lag sides with the right and fights for Alliance." Says Mor.
"But little Vrykuls do not trust Mor'Lag. Mor'Lag's grandmother fought in Second War"
"Our father did "
"But Alliance shamed Orcs."
"So Ogres don't fight for weaklings"
"Mor'Lag never enemy of little Vrykuls or Dorei."
"And Sandfury here never enemy of anyone"

[hand ax ranger]

Zachary scratches his beard. "Well that's an interesting thought process..." He put the water-skin away and stands at the ready. "So the rest of you are going on this rescue mission then as well?"

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion was waiting at the gate and on time, like the tardy arcane academic that she was. She was not dressed particularly 'warlocky', with a pair of sturdy travellers breeches, strong leather boots with wrappings around the ankles to keep the water and bugs out, a top and a cloak around it all. The cloak was fitted in such a way as to make it easy to remove, for its main purpose was to protect against insects and other annoying fauna that could prick her with some sort of thin, small stinger. Overall, Marion looked like a traveller rather than a magic user.

[WindStruck]

Isaera barely had any time to make her way back to her home. She told her mother where she was going, and despite some protests, said her goodbyes. She only managed to grab a bag with a few useful belongings, and a staff - but it was more like just a sturdy stick they had found in the swamps one time. Good for walking, at least.

Even as Isaera tried to hurry, she arrived fashionably late. Perhaps twenty or twenty-five minutes later, mere moments before they were to leave. She climbed into a cart to sit down.

"Good afternoon, everyone. I suppose it's time for introductions. I am Isaera Runescribe, and I will be accompanying you on this rescue mission."

The elf looked from medic, to medic, to warlock, to priest, to ogre, to troll, to ranger expectantly.

[Feathersnow]

"I am Mor" Says the ogre head with two eyes.
"And I am Lag" says the cyclops head.
"We are pleased to meet you, Isaera."
"Do we understand correctly you are a worker of wonders?"
"Our father were a Great Worker during the Second War, but we, alas, have only brawn to rely on."

[Plaids]

Being accustomed to travel Jakk'ari packed quickly grabbing his traveling pack, thanking the innkeeper for their hospitality, and bidding to the elementals residing within the hearth goodbye.

Jakk'ari arrived at the front gate clad in mail armor with bundles of herbs known for their ability to act as an insecticide. Taking notice of the assembled group.

"Good to see everyone assembled. Anyone is welcome to some of the local bounty, it's for keeping the bugs away or a pleasant drink."
Presenting a bundle of fresh herbs.

Taking note and addressing the new hooded figure without a uniform.
"I believe we haven't met. Do we have another resident of the wilderness? "

[hand ax ranger]

The Ranger nods at the elf. He stands at a half-hearted attention and speaks. "Sergent Zachary Black of the 12th Prowlers. Or rather former Sergent....I am technically retired from the Alliance military and now act as a liaison of sorts. Tracker, Ranger and also budding Alchemist. I know how to navigate the wilds and have certain...gifts... with this sort of thing which is why the suggested me for this rescue." He looks over the rest. "I've gathered the Ogre's name is Mor'lag, so who are the rest of you?"

Oh I see as I was typing this the other two responded XD

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion considered the rest of the assembled group, her eyes wary of both the ogre and the troll, the two most physically imposing of the gathered cotorie. She trusted them about as far as she could throw them.

"I am Marion," she said with her smooth voice when her time to speak came about, "Marion Mordis."

[WindStruck]

Isaera nods. At least, the ones she was initially rather suspicious of seemed friendly. Honestly, the one who was the least forthcoming seemed to be the other. Marion Mordis. Hmm...

Looking at Mor'lag, Isaera tilts her head curiously and says, "Worker of wonders? ..do you mean magic?" To that, she can just smile timidly and nod. "Well of course. What you have seen and heard in the tavern from my small display.. it was only but a taste."

She accepts some herbs from Jakk'ari curiously. "How do we use these?" she asked. Honestly, with quite a lot of skin exposed for bugs to bite at, it wouldn't be a terrible idea to keep them away.

A confident, welcoming nod to the former-sergeant. And another, more subtle nod to Marion. Well, this trip was certainly going to be interesting..

[Plaids]

Responding to Zachary Black with an open posture as if attempting to display a prize winning catch Jakk'ari responds.
"I am Jakk'ari I speak with the natural world. Pleasure making you acquaintance."

Jakk'ari responding to Isaera says.
"Either left in warm water or ground and mixed with clay applied to the skin. The later is best when striding through the desert. It's good to have somebody heed my advice. Though with your power I doubt any ailment beyond your regeneration exists."

[hand ax ranger]

Zachary nods as he hears them all introduce themselves. "Well sounds like a good bunch for this mission so far. Not quite a crack team of woodsmen but with this much variety in talent we should be able to handle most for what could reasonably be expected."

When the Troll mentions the herbal insecticide he digs through his bag on the wagon and wanders over, a mortar and pestle in hand. "I could help prepare that. Might even have a few of my own mixes left over." He offers to help her as he gets out the rest of his alchemy set to work the herb into a usable lotion or paste.

[MrAbdiel]

https://64.media.tumblr.com/ab2a92480a8908e0fa41f841f418b8da/tumblr_o3ojx3X99j1vnp8c6o1_1280.jpg
Dustwallow Marsh

The medical team and their drivers share the same air of discomfort with the demographic diversity of the rescue team; but Brother Bright lives up to his name and punctures the membrane of distrust with an open display of it. "Fine to meet you, friends. That's Gustaf, Helaina, and Tamberlyn. Be nice to them; they'll sew your guts back in when the crocolisks get hold of you. Hah! No, I'm kidding, you'll be fine. I'm Brother Allen Bright, I mostly just freeload off their hard work. And these..." He indicates the drivers one at a time, who each make minimalist gestures of acknowledgement. "...Are Carlo, Torian, Oscar and other-Oscar. He lost the coin toss, so now he's other-Oscar."

Other-Oscar objects. "My middle name's Lee, just call me that."
"That's something you should have offered before you called the cointoss, other-Oscar. If we all die because of those three extra syllables breaking down our battle communication, it's on your head. I'm a priest, I decide these things."

The roasting receives snickers of appreciation (especially from Oscar), and other-Oscar grumps in a fashion that seems mostly good natured, and what proceeds as the carts set off is about fifteen minutes of other-Oscar suggesting alternatives and being shut down by others in the group. What does not proceed is an awkward silence, or an extended grumbling discussion about the troll and the ogre. Brother Bright has successfully buried the tension, and none of the medical staff or drivers seem especially invested in digging it up. Brother Bright even manages to wrangle a song out of the travellers. Most of the Theramorans have some nautical adjacency, so he coaxes from them a not-bad rendition of a shanty popular in the alliance during the second war. They even conduct a doubled round, though it soon becomes clear that they don't have the numbers for a triple.

There are two ways for travellers to go through wilderness areas: quiet, and loud. Travelling quiet works for small groups who don't want to attract attention and who don't want to be seen travelling. It gives them a chance to hear people coming and get off the road, to hear wildlife moving and prepare for them, and to have a better chance to hear distant events like gunfire or commotion. But with a group this big, a lot of that is barely possible anyway; and so one may as well travel loud, as Brother Bright seems to be encouraging.
Travelling loud projects to potential intercessors that the party is confident enough to 'own' the road, and all but the most obnoxiously predatory wildlife would rather move away from a loud travelling party than toward it. Crocolisks and giant swamp spiders are sometimes too dumb to realise the odds they are engaging when they attack the lead horse of a party travelling quiet; but even animal minds understand that loud equal bad.


Farewell, Shorel'aran, to you fair Elvish ladies,
Farewell, Shorel'aran, to you Silvermoon's dames,
For we’ve received orders for to sail for Lordaeron,
An’ hope very shortly to see you again.

We’ll rant an’ we’ll roar, like Kul Tiran sailors,
We’ll rant an’ we’ll rave across the salt seas,
‘Till mountains give way to the port of great Lordaeron,
Windrunner to Stratholme is thirty-five leagues.

We hove our ship to, with the wind at sou’west, boys,
We hove our ship to for to take bearings clear.
In fifty-five fathoms with a fine sandy bottom,
We'll fill our maintops’l, down coast we shall steer.


The song choice is bitter sweet. Elves and humans have been allies in wars against the Amani 'Forest' trolls since before humans had mastered the wheel, but in recent history during in the Second War after the orcish horde had ravaged the southern kingdom of Stormwind, the northern human kingdom of Lordaeron held the standard to which other kingdoms including dwarves and elves rallied for defence of the known world. This union formed what is called the Alliance still today, and the author of the ditty is plainly celebrating the wonder that human sailors experienced when patrolling the northern coast for Troll Destroyers, and docked in the elven lands to resupply. Whether it is fashionable or not for 'elvish ladies' to have the courtly affections of a human sailor changes in high elf culture according to factors that boggle human minds; but mystery and unattainability has never seriously deterred any kind of courtship anywhere. For the elves who recall that war, even those who dislike humans as crude are forced to appreciate the valor with which such short lived people gamble the winking moment of their lives against death at sea. There a few half-elves as a result of this alignment of events and peoples against the fearsome and romantic backdrop of cannonfire and blood that is known to Alliance history as the "Tides of Darkness".

Yet in the Third War, it was not a threat from beyond roaring across the sea in a beastly armada that was the grand threat; but the hideous and twisted mockery of life itself. The Undead Scourge was seeded in Lordaeron, and ultimately was spearheaded by the paladin-turned-deathknight Prince Arthas who lead a gory army of the dead to destroy Lordaeron and then to shatter the elven kingdom of Quel'Thalas. The port city of Stratholme and Windrunner Village to which the song refers are both now ruins overrun by the living dead. And so, a song that was a warm and beloved shanty about naval pride and the partnership of nations has become a wistful reminiscence to better times - times when they fought a war they were destined to win.
The song is adapted from the shanty Farewell to Spanish Ladies (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZfYtCLA23s), if you care to know the tune.

The carts make good speed, stopping only a few times to rest horses and stretch legs, and there are no road encounters on the first day. They stop at the final fall of the sun, at the point at which it becomes dangerous for the horses, and pull off to a patch of dry earth to pitch tents. The drivers set shifts of two to watch the night, and preparations are made for the night. A small campfire is made to boil water, but not large enough to cook anything substantial; it's bread and dry rations on the menu tonight. There are five tents, each suitable for one human comfortably or two uncomfortably, put aside for the party to pitch under their own power.

An hour into the night, perhaps predictably, it begins to rain; but just a light enough spritz to cause indecision about whether to cover, or just endure it.

I know when I join a game, I'm keen to get to a good fight to stretch my powers and roll some dice; but it's also fun fleshing out the contrasts and dynamics of this group. If your character has any questions for anyone else in the party or the NPCs, now would be a fine time to ask them. If your character is the kind who would rather try to coerce someone else into pitching their tent for them rather than enacting that menial labor, it might also be a neat time to display so. If your character has any nightly consultation of spirits profane or natural, or prayers, or some other evening routine that strikes you as interesting, feel free to flex it.

Finally, I'll take a Fortitude Check from everyone with the Disease descriptor. DC is 10; take a +2 if you've partaken in the herbal protections from the shaman or ranger!

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag is miserable. They barely fit under a tarp, let alone a tent. They at least borrowed some of the ungent to repel bugs. That they could have made it themselves was immaterial. The stuff costs money, and offering it allowed Jak'kari to bond with the somewhat racist Vrykuls.

[roll0]

[WindStruck]

Isaera doesn't join in the sea shanties. It would be.. rather unbecoming of her, considering it was a song for male sailors, and one such as her was pretty much.. the glorified subject matter. Alas, the song really does hit home. She was just a child during the Second War, and as for the third, well.. the song which once bittersweetly sung of her homeland now referred to her former home in ruins. Though she imagined that many of her brethren were still there, trying to pick up the pieces.

Regardless, she doesn't try to stop the song at all. She knows what Brother Bright is doing. Instead, she gazes around wistfully, thinking of better days...

Once they pull off the road to camp, Isaera, quite frankly, doesn't really know what she's doing. Sure she could puzzle out analytically how to set up a tent. But in the thirty minutes she might spend trying to figure that out, someone who knew what they were doing could easily just set one up in five.

Still, she's not a total prissy jerk, and does try to help out how she can, even if it's just gathering twigs and tinder to fuel the fire. Perhaps, she would even try some of those herbs in the boiled water...

Isaera may have shyly sat out and tried to make a bit of conversation with some others. But when the rain comes, even a drizzle, she retreats to shelter, not really enthusiastic about slowly getting more and more damp over time, and fearing the rain could pick up in intensity. When push came to shove, she'd rather just be completely dry, or completely soaked because she meant to be.. for instance, when going for a swim, or a bath.

The whole tent situation is troublesome, however. Seemed like there were too few tents between the lot of them. Either that, or the tents were just, simply not big enough. But she supposed, she would feel most comfortable, and it might be most appropriate, to be paired up in a tent with Marion.

[hand ax ranger]

As all the others started setting up their tents Zachary had already doen the mental legwork for building him a more proper shelter using both his own tarps and several bit's of timber he'd been picking up and tossing into the wagon throughout the journey. Using these to build a raised platform, both to maintain body heat and to keep a good deal of the ground bugs off him, he used the trap of the tent to form cloth walls and a roof around it and uses small leafy branches and such to hold the roof part down and the sides not covered by the tarp.

Clearly, he had been in the swamps before. "Right now that done....."

Once done with his own shelter he will go around and assist other with their tents, particularly the Ogre who was having the scrunch up into a ball with their current set up, then inform the leader of the expedition that they way he sees it there was no real way we could get the full caravan of wagons through quietly, therefore he suggest he and a few more move ahead of the caravan to scout out ideal paths and also to maintain some element of surprise against anything that would do them ill out among the trees.

With this he grabs his alchemy set and sits under one of the tarp walls lifted slightly to provide and overhang, working to ready some surprises for their opponents tomorrow. "You ok over there Isarea?" He then sees her head over to Marion's tent and shrugs. He didn't care about getting wet so much himself but the brew he was working on did so dry he did stay to the best of his ability.

[Plaids]

Singing and chanting was always a welcome method for raising spirits. Though the meaning of lyrics and fondness for elvish ladies were a mystery.


[roll1]


The wilds were hardly a hinderance to Jakk'ari with the trollish resistance to disease the only thing to fear were wild animals who might drag him to their den for a meal. But with a group of this size it was likely not a concern.

After pitching a sufficient tent with rough cloth floor and adorned with herbs to ward against insects and prying eyes he began to prepare for the coming morning. Erecting a small conical tent sealed at the top with a pan from the cart he invoked the heat of the earth beneath the structure. Hopefully by morning there would pristine water and any creatures fancying the water would serve as breakfast. Considering the plight of Mor'Lag he spoke intending to lift their spirits.

"Mor'Lag if you be needing warmer ground to rest upon I can oblige. You can even have half of whatever crawls into the survival pan. I'll probably have some marsh toads instead of sand serpents."

Feeling that his work on the camp was complete Jakk'ari kneeled palms upward offering a prayer in hopes of finding council with any minor elemental in the region.
"Primal spirits nearby please answer me, I seek your wisdom. What role does the horde play here?"

[roll]1d20

[WindStruck]

"Um, yeah.. fine..." Isaera mumbles.

"Gods these insects are going to eat me alive..!" she says, slapping at the nuisances which always seemed to evade her wrath.

Yeah, this trip was already seeming quite miserable. It probably wasn't even worth five gold pieces...

Those poor men out there, though... Well, they had better have had a good reason to stray so far away from their route, or she would make them sorry! Or, at least, that's what Isaera told herself.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion might be the youngest among the group but she behaved with an older soul. The tune born from the Second War reminded the Warlock of her own little nations betrayal of the Alliance, and the destruction that had been wrought upon her homeland as a result. Her family had gotten off better than most, but then the Scourge came, and, well, the rest is history...

What Marion did listen to, was the Rangers tips for preventing mosquito bites and other handy things for surviving in a swamp. Some of the precautions in regards to clothing, Marion had already taken, but there were some other things in there she had not thought of.

When the tents were being set up, Marion's face soured a little. She wasn't against camping, indeed, her new life as a Warlock had seen her having to stoop to some rather lowly, albeit temporary, living conditions. But a tent within a swamp? The things one did for a paycheque!

Naturally, the Minor Noble would have preferred a tent to herself, but practicality nudged her towards sharing one with the elf, the only other lady among the group. A late teenager though she was, Marion had still been raised with a sense of propriety, and so having to share a tent with some battle-tested young soldier would be most improper.

Thankfully for the elf, Marion had no problem with the tent.

"Use the even ground...the tarp goes onto the swamp floor first...lay the tent out onto the tarp...connect these poles here....stakes go here...raise the tent..."

(Using Knowledge: Engineering)

And then the rain hit - and Marion was happy.

Having taken her cloak off and hung it along a rail within the tent, her rich dark hair hanging down between her shoulders in cylindrical curls, Marion was now seated cross-legged near the opening of the tent with a bowl of steaming rations and a smile on her face as she watched - and smelled - the heavy rain coming down across the swap. The blanket of droplets mashed through the thick canopy of the swamp, hitting peacefully across the face of streams and filling the banks with coils of mist that reminded the Warlock of her mountainous home. She was enjoying this more than she thought she would!

[MrAbdiel]

The party engages with their greatest challenge to date: the first challenge, and between their efforts they manage to assemble their camp competently. Marion's pragmatic efforts make a fine counterbalance to Isaera's helplessness in the face of even mild survivalism, and the elf is able to escape the rain in the secure rear of the small tent while the human enjoys the rain near the threshold. Nearby, a little collaboration yields success to overcome a larger task - getting atleast a modicum of comfort for the ogress. Between Jakk'ari's capacity to warm the earth, Zachary's survivalist talent and Marion and Isaera economizing to one tent leaving a second available, the project yields an adequate result. In the end, Mor'Lag is situated in a kind of improvised pavilion using two of the empty unhitched carts as the left and right walls, and the canopies of the two tents to dome it over. For the first half of the exercise, it's mostly Jakk'ari collaborating with Zachary and brainstorming the outcome. The alliance soldiers and medics just look on from the entrances of their own shelters in curiousity and lingering mistrust for the mixed party. But at some point, the head surgeon Gustaf seems to catch on to what's happening, hustles over through the drizzle, and brings his sewing kit to make rapid, good quality adjustments to the cannibalized tents to better suit the intended frame. And once one of them has broken the unspoken taboo, it's on for young and old: the drivers and medics handle the repurposing of the carts, with the four drivers hauling one between themselves, and Mor'Lag able to lift the other herselves, with Helaina and Tamberlyn trying their best to assist. They end up giggling most of the way as their superfluity to the task became obvious to everyone, and the novelty of trying to assist the ogre in a matter of brawn was not lost on them. The rain escalates in intensity as the work continues, and it's bucketing down by the time it's complete; but the crowd of Theramorans let out a congratulatory cheer as it finally comes together and they are rewarded with the sight of the ogre sat inside the jury-rigged shelter, which actually manages to keep the rain out and stands up to the winds. Then a crack of lightning flashes down somewhere else in the swamp like a primordial reminder that you idiots are getting rained on and the crew disbands with laughter and indistinct chatter about their little victory. It took some instigation, but it's a gesture of unalloyed kindness that may well mark the high point in Mor'Lag's experience with the people of Theramore. And just before he retreats to his own tent, Brother Bright asks Jakk'ari if the earth-warming he's done is something he can do for their whole campsite; because it sure is a welcome talent in such conditions!

The storm upgrades from mind to obnoxious but doesn't go all the way to monsoonal, for which most might be grateful. When Zachary brings his proposition to scout ahead to Brother Bright who seems to be the leader of the operation, he's positive enough about the idea, though given that they need all the drivers for the carts and the medical team are not trained scouts, it would fall to Zachary and the rest of the freebooters. If Zachary wishes to take one or more of his group, wake up a few hours earlier and get a head start to scout the road, he's welcome to do so; and the carts will catch up with them by midday or afternoon. As Bright reminds him: "I guess you can do whatever you want. You're not exactly in our chain of command; just let me know how many I should expect to be missing when I wake up. That way, I'll know how many went on ahead, and how many were carried off by mosquitoes in the night."

Jakk'ari doesn't have too much trouble conversing with the elements, out here. They are restless with the storm moving through; in their own way, they are bunkering down and sheltering for the transient storm spirit much like the mortals shield themselves from the storm. The storm spirit itself is a fairly potent spirit of air, but local to nowhere particular by nature. But the whispers of the earth and water in the region send forth the cohering voices of their representative parts, to speak with the shaman.

The elements speak to Jakk'ari's open heart in voices only he can hear, and he is able to respond to them in whispered portions of Kalimag, the elemental tongue. With the storm as cover, no one is able to overhear - and if they could, they would not understand.

"Your invocation is badly timed, shaman."
"But we honor your voice still."
"Yes, we honor it still."
"What shall you ask us of the Horde, oh troll?"
"But a troll of the burning sand, and not of the island sand."
"All these are unfamiliar sands and trolls."
"But the shaman is not of the Horde - he comes from the southern sands, not the northern sands."
"The orcs hold domain west of here in their camp."
"They do not venture far toward the carved stones of the human-den."
"They fear them."
"Perhaps they respect them?"
"I say fear."
"I say respect."
"Let us agree they keep distance from them?"
"We agree."
"The humans are more brave."
"I say without respect."
"Let us agree they do not keep their distance."
"We agree."
"This ground you stand on is trod by human feet, and not often orc feet - though it has known hooves, and some of them cloven."
"What about the orc scout?"
"Oh yes, the orc scout. We have not felt his tread in many days."
"Respectful."
"The human swamp-fool comes this way often; but he too has not come by in days."
"His shack is just off this road, due north from this place."
"Flee my grandeur, little droplet, little stone! I am the lightning and I will be named!"
"We depart, Shaman."
"We must flee."
"Farewell."

Zachary, if you want to scout ahead with an early sub-party, see which of the other players you can wrangle into the extra effort and accommodate your scouting in the next post.

[Plaids]

Satisfied with his council with the elements Jakk'ari bowed before they scampered into dense foliage of the marsh.

The thought of cloven hooves brought deer or Tauren to mind. Optimism at the thought of potential of the ever friendly Tauren being nearby.
What was most worrisome was the recently absent orc and human. Members of two races most likely to quarrel.

Given his recent favor for Brother Bright Jakk'ari felt at ease confiding in brother Bright amidst the Theramore escort.
"Hello brother might you know of any orc scout or any free spirited human living within the swamp just due north off the road?
My friends have told me that such being have been in within this marsh."

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion offers friendly smiles and idle chit-chat to anyone interested, but otherwise remains rather tight-lipped. Her demonology tome is hidden within her knapsack and the bag of 'marbles' (i.e soul shards) was likewise hidden within her robe.

Unless any other event disturbed the trajectory of the night, Marion offered a friendly 'Goodnight!' to the elf before hitting the hay.

[MrAbdiel]

Satisfied with his council with the elements Jakk'ari bowed before they scampered into dense foliage of the marsh.

The thought of cloven hooves brought deer or Tauren to mind. Optimism at the thought of potential of the ever friendly Tauren being nearby.
What was most worrisome was the recently absent orc and human. Members of two races most likely to quarrel.

Given his recent favor for Brother Bright Jakk'ari felt at ease confiding in brother Bright amidst the Theramore escort.
"Hello brother might you know of any orc scout or any free spirited human living within the swamp just due north off the road?
My friends have told me that such being have been in within this marsh."

"Your friends?" He gives a mildly sceptical glance, but chooses not to pry; rubbing his beard as he squints around through the rain at the mouth of his tent. "No orc scouts that I know of. But I suppose if they're any good, I wouldn't know of them! Hah. But mad old Jarl has his hut up north of here, veering into the swamp proper. Built on stilts and hope, I guess. He's harm to no one, but not much use to anyone either. Bad taste in drinks."


Marion offers friendly smiles and idle chit-chat to anyone interested, but otherwise remains rather tight-lipped. Her demonology tome is hidden within her knapsack and the bag of 'marbles' (i.e soul shards) was likewise hidden within her robe.

Unless any other event disturbed the trajectory of the night, Marion offered a friendly 'Goodnight!' to the elf before hitting the hay.

The Theramorans offer the occasional cordial question her way, but there's no interrogation. The guardsman server as a driver for the party's main cart - the one Brother Bright indicated as Torian, with a scruffy (and now wet) mop of brown hair and the kind of beard that a real beard would call stubble - approaches her tent after a considerable engagement in clandestine chatter with his fellows. He greets her, and then immediately seems to forget what he had planned to say, and in a terrific panic asks if he can get her a mug of tea before she turns in. This would indeed be quite the feat, as the rain has murdered the campfire quite permanently and he would have to invent a new way of boiling water to accomplish his offer. In the background, Carlo, Oscar and other-Oscar collapse into their tents in wheezing laughter. They are all quite young - none of them more than 20 years old - and so are all still very much in that warm and generous moment of youth in which watching one's friends crash and burn is a primary bonding experience.


With this he grabs his alchemy set and sits under one of the tarp walls lifted slightly to provide and overhang, working to ready some surprises for their opponents tomorrow...

Working away with his small, portable alchemy kit in these less than ideal conditions, Zachary struggles to get the conceived components to bond in a powdered form. Grinding the black-salt dug up from the Shimmering Flats elsewhere in Kalimdor is fine, and dribbling in a little quicksilver gets a fizz of acrid smoke and what he thinks is the desired substance - but the bond forms small lozenge shaped crystals, which will not stick to the skin and inflict agony but merely bounce off and poison a scrap of ground. Attempting to pulverize those crystals only mashes them flat and encourages them to weld together into even more useless, clunky portions. It's not until he glances up in frustration across the camp and spies Jakk'ari in his shamanic reverie that the inspiration strikes.

Zachary is almost out of the stuff, but a little powdered troll tusk does the trick. The little silvery crystals mash and then are absorbed to the bone pulver, a quirk in the biochemistry of that species used by witchdoctors with their strange tonics and potions more than anyone. Predicting success, Zachary is able to carefully tie up the powder in a thin paper sheet with a length of string binding it closed like a coinpurse, and enough slack on that string for it to be spun around and flung to burst on impact. Some field testing required, but the theory is promising.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion's smile was gentle, that flutter inside herself the warmth of receiving attention and of watching someone go to such effort on her behalf.

"No, no tea thank you!" Marion mercifully offered with a friendly wave of dismissal, "go back to the tent, you'll catch a cold!" she implored.

[MrAbdiel]

"Alright. I'll... see you in the morning then. Goodbye. Night."

With that clumsy extraction, he is indeed the beneficiary of Marion's saintly mercy. One can imagine the fellow applying all his efforts to making some kind of fire that could endure the rain, and all the hours lost to futzing around with wet tinder. Such is the madness of young men, in the presence of of pretty women.

[hand ax ranger]

After pulling together the awkward brick worth of alchemical bu//$#it and forming it into a handy few pieces he finally settles down and rests. When sun starts rising into the sky he begins gathering up his things and preparing to begin the scouting phase of the plan. On his way out he will see if the troll Jakk'ari, who is possibly the only other one here with an affinity for the wilds, and likely greater, would wish to accompany him in moving ahead of the wagon to scout out potential risk

[WindStruck]

Isaera is content to watching the others work, trying to get a massive makeshift pavillion for the ogre to work.. in drizzling rain.

She hasn't really much to do but meditate or keep to her own wandering thoughts. A tent in a swamp was no place to be trying to make alchemical concoctions or magic devices, especially since she had no lab or materials to work with.

When the young man leaves their tent, she comments, "Well that was pretty daft. How would he expect to make tea anyhow?"

[Feathersnow]

"I know, right?' Say Mor and Lag, in unison.
"Thank you for your help." Lag says to each of the many people who assist her in cobbling a working tent for her. And especially Jakkari, who does magic on their behalf.

Even crude shamanism is more than Mor'Lag ever accomplished, and she is respectful of it on that basis.

Mor'Lag starts feeling ill and tries to make something to deal with it, using her own alchemical knowledge.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion smiled to Isaera's comment while she watched the fellow go back to the tent with the others.

"Where there's a will, there's a way," she comments over her shoulder.

"Doubtlessly including having to reside within our tent to keep the fire stable," she chuckles and shakes her head at the implication.

[Plaids]

Interested in meeting a hooved friend or the solitary man Jakk'ari agrees to follow Zachary.
"I'll go I'm sure we might find some friends or the Jarl here. Worst there can be is horde scouts who've made themselves scarce as of late. I'll light the way."

Jakk'ari exciting the air in a small sphere of space at shoulder height illuminating the campsite.

[hand ax ranger]

Zachary nods, readying his rifle-musket for use against whatever might make a move on them. His other weapon was a sword with a saw-back covering 1/4th of the back edge, even in the scabbard it was clear this was a s much used as a tool as a weapon and little bits of rust were seen on the steel. Still, it was a trusted blade and had likely been with him for as long as he had served within the alliance military. Possibly longer.

"Hmm never rule out how many things would profit off your death or injury."



Zachary will motion to the troll as it casts the spell. "I thought your sort had natural low-light vision? If you can see in the night then we will not need any light that might draw attention to us. "

[Plaids]

"Not every legend about trolls is true. I can flay myself to make war drums but darkness obscures impedes my sight just as your human eyes do. But I can navigate with the stars and the wind against my skin"

Jakk'ari begins dimming his light.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

When the sun came up the next day, Marion waited until she was sure she was alone in order to cast a spell. Uttering a few words and making some gestures, a hand of fel energy abruptly materialised, wrapped around her body like armour and then faded from view.

There, protected for the day. And if she needed more physical assistance...the weight of the soul shards hanging within hrr coat reassured her that such was only a summoning spell away.

Finding some place private to have a quick clean, Marion returned to the camp and started to cook her ration breakfast.

[hand ax ranger]

Zachary shrugs and leads Jakk'ari down the path so they could get their scouting done. He will stick to the brush himself using it as concealment while seeing there is to see.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari follows closely behind. Following the occasional minor squelching of saturated ground being displaced and a darkened silhouette.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk’ari and Zachary

With light dimmed to nothing, you proceed through the marsh, keeping close to the edge of the road and the hard-packed, elevated earth that you know you can rely on for footing. The stars are slowly being devoured by the threatening dawnlight, but there is enough starshine and reflection in the swamp for navigation, especially with Zachary’s chemically enhanced talent for tracking and night-work. Twice, your instinct compels you to stop and listen for fear you’re being stalked by something; twice, you discover that it’s nothing to worry about. The first time, a young crocolisk has boldly explored up to the roadside encouraged by the wet of the night’s rain; but it decides better than to try the travellers, and slinks away. The second time, it seems to be nothing at all - just a schlup sound of mud, displaced by their movement, resettling into its own hollow.

Following the information gleaned from the elemental encounter and Brother Bright’s addendum, you veer off the road deeper into the marsh to see if you can find old Jarl’s hut. It’s not terribly difficult, after you’ve skewed into the marsh further. A single hut, built out of the marsh on stilts that look like cannibalized mizzenmasts and a loosely circular exterior wall of packed mud and driftwood planks seems to fit the bill. It’s illuminated in the gloom by a trio of lamps placed equidistantly around the structure. Each lamp has a twisted copper wire frame around it, and each one is drawing in a small cloud of dazzled, buzzing swamp insects ranging from button sized to finger sized. The larger bugs squeeze in through a tunnel in the woven wire, but can’t find their way out; and the smell of the unluckiest bugs caught in the trap and baking against the hot glass of the lamp is truly unpleasant. The door is closed and there is no sound of activity - but who would be up at this hour, anyway?

I would like Stealth rolls and Perception rolls from each of you - and since Zachary has pre-emptively offered his in the OOC already, just from you Jakk’ari!


Mor’Lag

You dream.



https://gamepedia.cursecdn.com/wowpedia/thumb/5/5b/Horde_fleet_1.png/1200px-Horde_fleet_1.png
On The Deck Of Tuur'Nog's Fist

You wonder if you will ever be so big, and strong, as they. But you doubt it. Like all fathers, yours are titanic figures when you are so young, striding across the world in mere steps, capable of smashing mountains and turning aside mortal blows. In your case, this is less of an exaggeration than it otherwise would be. Tuur’Nog, known amongst the Gordunni ogres as Tuur’Nog Heart-Eater, is mighty even by ogre standards. They were one of those ultimately rare ogres who was born with the Twofold - a one in a thousand mutation, and a sign of great destiny. And one to which he lived up, in most eyes. Tuur’s keen eyes were like those of a hunting Rylak, and his club arm was as strong as any warrior’s. Nog’s cyclopean focus extended into his capacity for the old rune magics, and his capacity to conjure and cast matched descriptions of the heroes of old, from grand days of High-Maul, when the orcs were still young and soft, and their spines had not hardened under their oppression. When the Old Horde began assembling, they led much of the Gordunni host in war against the fickle birdmen, and the blue-skins who had invaded and haunted their world. When Gul’Dan was selecting students, Tuur’Nog was recommended by the grand warlock Cho’Gall himself. Everyone knew they were destined for greatness - perhaps, even more greatness than Cho’Gall. As they stood on the deck of the Juggernaught, the other ogres howled their loyalty to him, and he rewarded it with a display of the power that so inspired them.

The Felguard he had summoned to the deck was taller than they; and had been so bound with muscle that it was not difficult to imagine that if it had caught Tuur’Nog with a swipe of the demonic axe, it might have cut them clean through. Yet they had stepped back from that blow, Tuur’s fist cranking back to deliver a swift, sharp stunning blow to the demon’s face, and Nog’s fingers curling to elicit sparks of green Fel energy to capture and bind the Felguard’s limbs, dragging it to its knees, and folding it roaring into a reverse arch. To glorious approval, they plied the clawed nails of both hands to the demon’s chest, twisted open its black bone ribcage with a gristly snap, wrenched free its spasming, green-lit heart from its wicked carcass and devoured it in one messy bite to each head. They seemed like a god to them, and they gave them their praise.

This, of course, was before the Battle of Hillsbrad, where his legend would be truncated with such brutality as to empty his legacy of value for all time.

“Glory to the Conquerers!”, roared Tuur.
“And shame to them that die here, on alien soil, without the blood of ten warriors on his fists!”, declared Nog.

Thus, the die was cast. Glory to those who conquered. Shame on those who died without reaping their toll of ten.

The crew gets back to sailing, full of vigor and barking brags and promises for the war coming. Your fathers return to the aftcastle, where your mother stands in her veils and twinkling golden ornaments. She is no slouch in combat herself, but for this journey across the span between the human islands, she plays her part as Tuur’Nog’s wife, desirable and prized. Indeed, she is most desirable - for she has bred true to Tuur’Nog’s Twofold, a thousand-in-one chance after another thousand in one, making Mor’Lag one… or rather, two in a million. Henceforth, the birth of such ogres would become far more common - one in ten - but it was their parent’s blood that was strong, not the strange, invasive magics of the orcs.

Your fathers come to you, and kneel beside you; and pointing over your shoulder, indicates the distant, cloudy grey shapes on the horizon. You can hear the grin in their voices, as they egg you on with doting bloodlust.

“Do you see, girls? This is the land of many kings. Here, we will carve a legend in the blood of those kings, and their horses, and their sons and daughters. Tell me, Mor’Lag - when you are older, and you have your magics, and you can fight - what will you do, to make your name even greater than ours?”


Isaera
You dream.


https://i.pinimg.com/736x/a1/00/8a/a1008a376730c4018503226a225c2a96--blood-elf-cityscapes.jpg
From The Western Staircase Of Your Home Estate“They’ve called in the ancient pacts, Aunara. The humans remember the promises of Dath’Remar Sunstrider, and they are such brief people. How can we forget our promises to the sons of Thoradin?”

Aunara Starsong doesn’t answer - not right away, atleast. She leans on the windowsill, her raven black hair stirring in the night breeze as her gaze tracks over the ancient spires of Silvermoon. Her long lashes sweep low to her cheeks; and her melancholy does its strange magic of enhancing her loveliness. Her warm contralto voice is cast back over her shoulder, without the benefit of eye contact to back them up.

“And what if you die, Daeden? What if the orcs kill you? Shall I then feed our children to them, one at a time, in service of an ancient pact to people fifty generations past those to whom it was made? It’s absurd. Let the Farstriders go in their numbers, and fletch the trolls and orcs, and come home. Why do you need to go?”

Daeden Runescribe sighs deeply, combatting his wife’s objections with some melodrama of his own. His hair is gold in color, falling straight down his back to just above his waist; and when he glides in behind Aunara and embraces her around the waist to hold her close, his golden locks form a pleasing visual contrast to her black ringlets. She wriggles once as he embraces her, just to emphasize how mad she is, but settles back against him in resignation. They stand together in the kitchen of the estate, with only the hush of the night air, and the whisper of a single animated cleaning cloth discreetly wiping the benches under its own power nearby.

“I’m not going to die. The king will call for one fighter from each family, and Kaleneus isn’t ready. Aleeana has more talent, but not nearly for battle magic. Not yet. And Tarien and Isaera are both just too young. We’ve lived so well for so long, Auna. They’re spoiled by peace. If I don’t set an example for them, how will they know what it means to have loyalty, and honor? Don’t be mad at me.” Craftily, he slides a hand down the length of her slender arm, and weaves his fingers interlocking into her own. “Just be strong for me.”

And then they are dancing, in the starlight in the kitchen. The kitchen island and stools glide to the edges of the room to accommodate this, at a tiny gesture from Daeden who has a great deal of practise seducing his wife with just such craft. It’s a spring waltz, and so it is done most appropriately in this manner, with the woman pressed back to the man’s chest with hands entwined at her shoulder, and hip; both parties facing forward or, in this case, adoringly at each other over the shoulder. For a minute, they’re just dancing; and Daeden hums warmly to a simple, danceable tune the significance of which is lost on you. Your mother still looks angry at him, even as she consents to being wooed; and then she simply looks sad again, which your father has many times said is her most compelling aspect.

“...I will not abide an ugly husband, Daeden. If you come back with a single scar, I shall divorce you on the spot and take a younger, unmarred man.”
“Will you? Then I shall scar him. What then?”
“I shall take another, and another until every knife in Quel’Thalas is dulled from your desecrations.”
“I bet they’d keep coming, too. I would.”

The dance slows, and they abandon their affects - his exaggerated smugness, her exaggerated sullenness - as he begins whispering in her ear, such that you can’t hear it.

From where you sit on the spiralling staircase, with its shadowed perch and view into the kitchen, the scene plays out and you are privy to the information before your parents formally announce it at breakfast tomorrow. Tarien, sitting beside you runs his hands through the ravenblack tresses he inherited from your mother. He’s older than you by a year, but considerably less responsible; and you can’t help but think of him as your little brother.

“So that’s it. Father is going to war for the humans. I don’t understand it at all, but more than that - how can he say you and I are too young? Even if we’re not accomplished magi, we’re still old enough to become archers.” His eyes swivel side to side defensively, as if anticipating someone will leap from the darkness to contradict him. “You know, if we… if we wanted to, and trained for it. Anyway, mother is right. We need to find some way to stop him from being so reckless.” He looks at you with all the paper-thin conviction of a teenager, hoping you’ll back him up, and not crumple him with even a mildly firm contradiction.



Marion

You dream.


https://i.pinimg.com/originals/83/fb/25/83fb25d14107651bc346d67085cc29e8.jpg
Upon The High Terrace Of Your Family Spire
The high mountain air is good, and crisp with the promise of a snowfall to come. From the high terrace, you can see clearly for miles and miles through the jousting peaks of the other mountains in the Alterac range. Down below you, the lamp-lit streets are so dark and far they seem to your young eyes almost a second starscape, with tiny dots of firelight amidst an inverted canopy of dark stone. The only obstruction to your vision at all is your Uncle’s tower, to the west of your family’s own; the seat of his baronial privilege. The wind changes, and now you can smell the hint of coalsmoke from the forges below as the ore hauled up from the guts of the mountains is smelted and ingotized around the clock, then to be carted up and shipped down the mountain to one of your father’s clients. The child you are, you have no idea - not yet - that this mineral wealth is not being purchased so much as extorted as war-debt by the long sequence of travelling nobles from Lordaeron, and Gilneas, and Stromgarde, and all sorts of places you’d never been to. On the terrace below, you can see the shape of your father’s fur-collared robe, and the crown of black hair familiar to your eyes, and your hands. He speaks with a man you do not recognize, in a red and grey armor that seems to you quite fancy indeed. Even so young, you find yourself uncomfortable with the relative postures of the men - your father, arms wide, gesturing with the invitation of a party who seeks friendship and cooperation; the stranger, arms folded, pointing down further at the forges and worker’s houses, sometimes shouting and demanding. It is not easy to watch.

With you on this high terrace are two figures; your mother, and a young boy. Your mother is a fantastic beauty who married up, as the daughter of a poor knight who had distinguished himself grandly in the first war. Having expatriated to seek his fortune in Stormwind, he served with honor and assisted the flight of the refugees to the Northern kingdoms, returning to his homeland in turn to restored knighthood from the king of Alterac, and recognition from Anduin Lothar. With his honor, he mustered all his effort as a simple widower proficient only in horse and lance, to drive your mother into the best schooling, the best etiquette classes and a handmaiden who had once served Princess Beve Perenolde. Her natural intellect and drive to excel permitted her to devour all the teaching put her way; and when she attracted the eye of Geordan Mortis, he was able to feel peace for the first time since he lost his wife. Giving your mother away to become Geneve Mortis, she had once told you he announced at the wedding, was the crowning glory of his life - this from Sir Benthan Orlo, the hero of Mercedes’ Gap. She cried a little, when she told you that story. It is the only time you remember this iron pillar of a woman crying at all.

The other figure on the terrace is Randal, the son of the noble below who speaks to your father so harshly. He is rugged up in furs, but looks cold and miserable as he waits for the negotiations to conclude, under the theoretically care of your mother who infact has little time for him. If he had wandered off the terrace to his death, she would hardly have been able to stop him; her focus is on you, and you detect her disdain for the boy. Between your mother’s disdain for him, and your father’s interaction with his father below, a cold seed of hate blooms slowly in your little heart for him: the easy target for projected fantasies of nonspecific vindication.

“Don’t look at him, Marion. Look out over the town. Show me what Tutor Laerden has shown you. Show me what you’ve learned.” She plucks a black feather from her coat’s extravagant collar, and flicks it our into that clean, sweet breeze that promises the snow; and it dances in the air, flitting up and away. The elf woman, Tutor Laerdan, has been teaching you magic since you were five. Now you are eight - practically grown up, honestly - and you have mastered some of the basic tricks which seemed impossible to understand when you were younger. The last time your mother brought you here and did this same gesture with the feather, you tried very hard to summon the mana like you were taught and fling it like a weapon at the target; but your heart became too excited, and the spell buckled. Now she’s asking you to try it again - and with the boy watching, too.

She lays a firm hand on your shoulder, and squeezes. “Quickly now, before it drifts any further. Like Laerdan taught you.”

[Feathersnow]

That same memory. The last good day, before everything went wrong. And now here, cast out by their people, just as their people, admit it or not, were left behind by the Horde. The cursed Horde!

And here was a Dorei and a Vrykul, even a Troll, all blessed with what should be theirs! The Dorei was at least bred to it, a mutant that needed mana the way other people needed water.

They still had themselves, and the day had not dawned that the daughters of Tuur'Nog would waste on self-pity.

[WindStruck]

I sigh, still rather disappointed and worried even after learning of the news hours before. "It takes years of practice to be a capable archer, Tarien. And there's more to it than that, I'm sure. Survival skills, fieldcraft, scouting, first aid, melee combat, discipline.. ugh..."

If there was anything she knew, despite being so sheltered, it was quite a difficult thing in itself being sent to war as an archer, a ranger. But regardless, Tarien nor her wouldn't even be up to snuff if all they had to do was sit behind a wall all day.

The night before and this conversation had played out in her mind before. She was as worried then in the second war as she was in the third. She wished there was something she could do to change things. If she just knew what would happen, she'd have done everything in her power to stop it. But she didn't know.

Only, oddly enough, she knew now. Somehow, she knew her father wouldn't make it. Only, this was some twenty odd years into the future. Isaera found herself sobbing at the table. "Father won't come back. He's going to die, or worse, come back as one of those things!"

The other family members at the table may have reacted to her strangely, wondering what she was talking about. Or, considering it was a dream, maybe they wouldn't think it's so strange.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk'ari and Zachary

You slink through the marsh with such aplomb that you barely generate any noise approaching the hut. You're able to get right up to it without stepping on a crunchy branch or kicking a barking toad, and that's a feat that gets twice as hard with two sets of feet. Peering through a gap in the boards and doing your best to ignore the hurricane of swamp insects at the traps nearby, you smell the lingering smoke of some insectophobic herb and you see two figures in the shreds of lamplight that are able to make their way through those gaps. An older gentleman, perhaps towards fifty, with an unkempt shaggy brown flop of hair and birdsnest of a beard snoozes quietly in a clearly homemade, bad quality arm chair. His clothes are mud caked rags, and his lips are stained black with the residue of what you assume are the bugs he's been eating. The other figure is a young man - buy the short cropped hair and youthful features, one of the cadets you're looking for - who is bound to a bed with knotted rags at his wrists and ankles. He is sleeping fitfully, shirtless, with big clumps of mashed vegetable matter packed on dollops on his chest and arms.

Incriminating as the scene seems, you recognise the herbal splotches as masticated leaves from the liferoot plant. It's better rendered and mixed to make genuine healing tonics, but very primitive uses include chewing it up and packing it directly into open wounds to prevent infection. And if this young man has taken that many open wounds, he's messed right the hell up.

[Plaids]

Speaking in a hushed voice Jakk'ari whispers.
"There be one of our quarry. Pointing through the small slats in the house.

The man next to him must be the Jarl Brother Bright told me about. Our young soldier is restrained but thankfully covered in healing herbs. Herbs most likely applied by Jarl. This is a suspect scene but I believe Jarl can be trusted. The herbs have probably prevented several infections already. Zachary I believe we should return in the morning with the others to extract the recruit. We can't move him in this condition without the carts and the medics. But before we leave I believe you should tell him of our quest so he doesn't go running with our recruit once the wagons approach. I'll keep watch since seeing me probably won't help convince him of our quest.

[MrAbdiel]

“Don’t cower, girls! Stand upright, so that ALL can see you and how you do not fear.” These, the words of your grandmother Urahna, you remember more clearly than the cannonfire; though perhaps not as clearly as howls of the maimed and dying.

The crossing had gone badly. There could be no doubt at the strength of the Horde here - their ships were present in great numbers bearing sails daubed with the colors and symbols of the various contributing or clans. Black sails bearing savage, gap toothed smiles flew alongside white sails daubed with a bloody mountain, and still more with the storm-slashed moon and waves. Each of those ships cut low through the water, gravid with the green-skinned killers who had proven their worth in one world by shattering the ogre empire, and had done so in this one by devastating a continent. Yet they were transport ships, poorly armed if armed at all; and orcs were poor sailors. The only teeth the fleet possessed at all were the nine ogre juggernauts escorting them. Each belonged to one of the great ogre clans who were first to seize the ruined shipyards of Stormwind, and the dwarf thanedoms. Your father’s clan is Gordunni, an old and prestigious clan known for its warriors, magi, and - now - for your father’s power as a warlock-general. But your mother’s clan is Wavemaul, and your grandmother a high matriarch within it. Tuur’Nog’s Fist is her ship, named to honor her sons-in-law; and it is the best armed of all the vessels in the armada.

But Doomhammer, Gul’Dan and the other inner-circle leaders had underestimated the human’s command of their own oceans; and with land in sight, the Kul’Tiran fleet had attacked. Strange sorcerer-clerics commanded the winds from the decks of their tall ships, and had rolled a bank of cloud out before them to cover their approach. When they revealed their ambush, the toll they reapt was disastrous. The outnumbered juggernaughts made as strong a broadside line as they could to shield the transports, but Tuur’Nog’s Fist had hammered on through the blasted flinders of dozens of the littler horde vessels now, bashing their drowning orcs to the indifferent depths. Thousands of orcs drowned without ever setting foot on the northern shore; and two juggernaughts - the Highmaul Gor-Horn and the Stonemaul Hammerbeast were gutted and sinking from the sheer disparity in alliance poundage. Only then did the dragons arrive - red beasts of fire and destruction that the Dragonmaw had wrangled into service through their legendary beastcraft. They attacked the alliance ships, forcing them to split their efforts with cannons to the main armada and deck-guns chasing the deadly reptiles. Most of the allied ships dropped their sails and fought from anchor to prevent their sheets from being burned; and under that cover, the remaining orcs made landfall, and your fathers had touched their foreheads to yours for the last time before taking his honor guard in their own transports to the battle to come.

You, your mother and your grandmother stood shoulder to shoulder on the aftcastle while cannonfire raked through the air, killing ogre crew when they found their mark but never finding one of Urahna’s crewmembers ducking, or cowering. Her first mate - Brukk, you remember his name - took a sixteen pounder to the shoulder with a resonant crack of bones breaking, but he retained the limb, and kept the cannonball to fashion into a weapon later. But the battle at sea was just a sideshow now. If the Horde could take the beach, the Kul Tirans would surely break rather than risk an indefinite battle with the dragons while Boralus harbor remained undefended. With death whistling around you and the agony of injured ogres ringing in your ears, you watch the battle on land through your grandmother’s spyglass, trading it between Mor and Lag.

You watched as the first transports made landfall, and three human knights - small creatures in size - surged out to meet and kill them. You watched as the outnumbered human forces began to break when your fathers and their ogre shocktroops bludgeoned aside the failing orcs and begun taking their toll. You watched and counted.

A human spearman rushed at them, but Tuur snatched the spear, broke it in half, and impaled the man with its broken end through his neck.

One.

Two more rushed at the linebreakers, slipping past the foreguards, and tried to flank your fathers; but they could not be flanked, and the the human warriors died when their heads were clapped together between your father’s palms.

Three.

Elves now, raining arrows from well behind the human lines. From Nog’s hand, a lurching arc of green energy zipped through the melee and detonated amidst the elves, scattering the smoking bones of three.

Six.

Then lightning flashed in the blue sky, as clouds obligingly gathered overhead. A great bolt of blue-white power ripped from the sky, down into the upraised palm of a human mage, and then out like a thrown javelin, striking your fathers square in the chest.

Through all this, the battle played out in silence in your vision, drowned out by cannonfire and the voices of ogre sailors. The bolt of lightning, heard for miles, seemed to strike with so much power it overflowed the visual display and rattled your ears, filling your nostrils with the tang of ozone. That is the way your fathers died. Overpowered by an arcane better, falling with only the blood of six enemies on his fists.

“...Forger’s spit,” Urahna growled, “they’ll rout now. Doomhammer thinks his deathknights will turn it; but it’s over. RAISE ALL SAILS! WE LEAVE WHILE THE DRAGONS REMAIN, LEST THEY LEAVE US! RAISE THE SAILS, AND DROP THE OARS, YOU GRONN-TICKS!”

Your grandmother was at least admirable, during this shocking moment. Her shouted commands to wheel the Fist around and break south rings powerfully in your memory.

Your mother says nothing; she just bows her lonely head, closes her eyes, and grieves the loss of her husbands… and laments in silence the burden of their shame upon her.

[hand ax ranger]

"Good thinking Jakk'ari."

He will step out form the shrubbery and slowly approach the camp with his rifle-musket pointed skyward. He will gently knock against a tree to draw the attention of the old man, keeping his weapon pointed away to show he is not threat to him.

"Excuse me sir, sorry to disturb you. However I am part of a rescue effort for a few brave souls lots in this swamp, and I believe the man you have next to you is one of them." He sets the rifle down and moves up with his hands up. He knew he didn't have to in the givne situation but he wanted to defuse any hostilities before they started. Who knows wat this crazy old man might do if he belived he was threatened, and even of he did l;ash out at Zachary.....well he would still likely survive. "It looks like you have been caring for him. My team will appreciate that."

[MrAbdiel]

Zachary and Jakk’ari

It’s a kindness that you decided to knock. The man in the chair starts violently with the sound, eyes flying open, slapping numbly at the table next to him to find the sheathed knife there, and then to clutch it close to his chest. But he calms, and catches sight of you in the light of his bug-lamps, and squints, and blinks, and cautiously emerges to look at you more directly.

He’s not as old as you thought, before; just worn down by hard living packed into a few decades. And he has the unfortunate deformation in which his right eye is noticeably larger than the left, though not comically so. Enough to make onlookers uncomfortable, not so much as to make him seem like an outright mutant.

“Eh? Out from Theramore, eh? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Yeah, got one of your boys here, yeah. Came crawling into my land all beat up and chewed up two day ago, and sleeped ever since, yeah.” His voice is a popping groan, like he has some kind of damage to his throat, but has muscled through it for so long he barely notices even if everyone else has to. “But I seen t’him, yeah. You want him back? I ain’t wanted to keep ‘im.” He chortles at his own joke, and snaps back to seriousness as he approaches Zachary to inspect him more closely with that weird oversized eye. “But when he wakes up, you tell’m… You tell’m he owes old Swamp-Eye Jarl ten - no, twenty eyeballs. And not popped ones, but good and not-popped. That’s all the appreciate I need.”

Through the open door, you can see a number of empty jars with some kind of preservative slime coating them; and one nearly empty jar that is full of spider eyes, which range from the size of marbles to plums.

While Swamp-Eye Jarl talks amiably to Zachary, Jakk’ari hears a ripple in the swamp water that draws his eye. The puddle to which his attention is drawn troubles as if stirred by a fish, but then very quickly flattens out to a still surface.

The spirits of the elements do not usually take a coherent form. Elements have a wide range of personal, semi-personal and impersonal spiritual forces that simply move through their respective elemental matter, as blood moves through the body of a human or troll. When a particular spirit is compelled by magic, or prompted by request, or compelled by need to take a more substantial form to do battle or perform a physical task, they muster their element around themselves and manifest as an elemental. But even disembodied, they are able to make certain measured impacts on the physical world as it please them.

Jakk’ari recognizes this unusual fluid motion as a distortion in the physical created by the act of an elemental spirit - possibly the water spirit he spoke to the night before, returning the favor of his courteous contact. Because of this, the shaman has an instinct to gaze carefully at the puddle to which his attention has been directed. There’s nothing in it - not a fish to have made the disturbance, or any track of a recently passed creature. But the water now stilled so completely makes a reflective surface, in which you can now see the reflection of the treeline from which Zachary and Jakk’ari came just minutes ago, and a stealthily hunkered, undoubtedly orcish figure watching with enduring patience.

Meanwhile...

The strange logic of the dream expressed true things, though in a collision of truths. At that breakfast table, all of your siblings chime in at the announcement of their father’s coming enlistment.

“I think it’s very noble, father.” Of course Kaleneus would say so; eldest and, you have often suspected, most favored of your family, Kaleneus is the spitting image of your father Daeden without the wry wisdom and paternal softness to temper every smile or grimace. Your brother bears the pronouncement that he is considered unready for war with grace and admiration - and absolutely no fear that your father could be among those who will be required to give their lives.

“I’m enlisting whether or not you let me! But if we enlist together, then we can be attached to the same battle groups. I can help you!” Aleeana’s hands grip the edge of the table with such restrained frustration that her usually perfect nails are grooving the wood. She bounds her declaration in words that suggest a virtue of impetuous courage, and a desire to follow your father’s legacy; but knowing Aleeana, it’s hard to discount the possibility that she like so many elves has not understood the gravity of the war, and is angling for the action that will provoke the maximum rancor from your mother. To your young eyes, Aleeana’s purpose in life has been to counterperform every rule or requirement your mother has given her. Only some years later would you reflect and consider that she trod the path trodden by so many middle children before her, defining herself away from the ‘dutiful scion’ pattern so completely fulfilled by Kaleneus, whilst stinging with resentment for how quickly she lost the mantle of youngest and most adored to Tarien, and you. Your mother rebukes Aleeana, and they go back and forth with an expected series of charges about youthful ingratitude and matronly tyranny.

Tarien says nothing. He looks to you, some hope dying in his eyes as he sees that you haven’t miraculously changed your mind about his idea to run off and spontaneously become Farstriders together. But with his foolish hope breached, he can do nothing; and he turns his eyes to the woodgrain of the breakfast table.

Your father performs some of his magic, then; that supreme art of the masterful patriarch, standing up to lean well across the table and to clap one hand over his wife’s, and one over the clenching, wood-grooving grip of his eldest daughter. “No one else is enlisting. It’s my decision, and it’s final.” This, you know, is a half-truth. It was the decision of he and your mother both, if the latter only by convincing; but he frames the matter as unilateral and so disarms Aleeana of her grounds to gripe. Not prepared to attack her father with the same readiness as her mother, Aleeana simmers with disapproval, but holds his hand and accepts his verdict.

You weep, as your recollection drags you back down this road; but your father does not extend his big comforting hands to take yours, and your mother does not enjoin you to calm in soothing tones, and Tarien does not hug you in your distress. Your grief, flung backward in time to this moment, is unable to penetrate the reality of the past. Your father left, that day. You did not see him again for five months.

In his absence, your mother moved your family to Windrunner Village, your mother’s home town and the primary port dealing with the human ships. With so many battle mages being sent to the Alliance, your magical studies lost their consistent teachers. Hiring a rotating series of tutors from those magi on shore leave was a cunning solution, and dovetailed nicely with your mother’s desire to dwell near to her own sisters, Jaana and Reyna, whose families were also struggling with the departure of their patriarchs. Your life in those months found plenty of distraction with exotic visitors from human lands and magical training from magi with tales to tell of orcs, and ogres, and monsters from another world. Not to mention a mess of younger cousins who found you, moreso than your brothers and sister, worthy of their fascination. Kaleneus was your partner in crime to impose some sense of order on the swarm, for much of that time; with Tarien more a follower than leader, and Aleeana more of an obstacle than either.

But the dream blurs through all of that. It takes you not to the happy and peaceful interim, but straight to the day your father returned. He hadn’t shaved in his time away, grooming when he could affort to, and the presence of facial hair made him seem ancient. He had indeed acquired a scar, and not a subtle one; a crescent moon that began just above his right eyebrow, cut through it, and arced around the socket to terminate just on the inside of the cheekbone. He would explain to you, after the war was over, what caused the scar. But on the day he returned, he did not offer stories; only grim tidings.

Your mother seemed almost to know it was him by the manner in which the door opened behind her, and she spun about and flew into his arms, assaulting him with needy kisses. But even these he could barely afford to receive; and he brought much more grief with him than joy. Aunara’s husband had returned; but Jaana and Reyna’s had not, and they never would. The defense of the human lands had gone too well: the Horde, halted at their landing, had been forced not to advance north, but jagged eastward and in doing so found willing help in the ancient enemies of the Quel’Dorei: the Amani forest trolls. Even now, this bolstered horde was surging into the Eversong woods, bringing with them warlocks capable of dismantling the ancient runestones that for countless years kept the trolls at bay. The ships broke from port with all the supply they could take from Windrunner; and you, and your parents, and your now widowed aunts and their swarm of confused and frightened children, and a thousand other desperate elves made their break to the road on all the carts, and hawkstriders they could muster. Most, like your family, made the march to Silvermoon on foot. You remember the sight of the smoke on the horizon behind you, as Windrunner was put to the torch. You remember passing a unit of two dozen Silvermoon guard, marching down the road as you came up it; proud and strong songs and daughters of Silvermoon destined to delay the oncoming trolls by giving blood in combat, and then their bodies to the bloody appetites of those creatures. And you remember the words of your father to you, as your flight to the capital was coming to an end; the grand archway open and in sight as refugees streamed in from the roads all over.

He takes a moment to steer you away from the rest of the caravan, and walks with you alone for a little. He’s quiet at first, like his time away has robbed him of the easy charm with which he commanded his family’s love before; but it starts to come back to him, with a clearing of the throat.

“They tell me you’ve been practically keeping the family together with your own strength. You and Kaleneus. I don’t know if your mother has been saying it, but you’re an example to your siblings, and cousins. We’re very proud of you.”

He means these words as much as he has meant any in his life; but there’s a little trepidation in his eyes, like he is hedging against the slim chance that you might consider throwing his compliment back in his face for abandoning you these five months.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari's blood runs cold his breathing ceasing trying to further affirm what he sees. Frozen in fear realizing the horde scout hiding beneath the swamp canopy intently observing them.
Jakk'ari swiftly dashes from his hiding spot at first panting calling to Zachary intent on truly concealing his party within the cabin.

"We can't stay here we've been found out. The horde scout knows we're here."

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion's eyes widened at the news: the Horde knew they were here, and it was unlikely that they would be hospitable neighbours.

Ducking back into her tent, Marion collected her things into her rucksack. When she believed no one was watching, she hummed softly with her eyes closed while drawing an imaginary glyph with her fingers. The tiny chant only lasted a second before the pattern materialised, wrapped itself around her body and then seemed to fade from view.

OOC

Gathering her things and, when she thinks she's alone, casting Demon Armour.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk'ari's warning is sufficient to get himself, Zachery, and Jarl into the hut with the door closed; and the discussion on how to proceed transpires in hushed tones between the scouts. Jarl is wary, but doesn't kick up a fuss. He has survived this long out here by agitating as few people as possible. He agrees to keep watching over the Theramore cadet until the medical team can come to extract him, and tolerates the pair of newcomers in his little home for as long as they need to speculate on their escape. But after a few minutes, even the best efforts to locate where that hunched figure was hiding in the grasses and trees seem in vain; and a speculative scouting of the area on foot shows that the orc has left them in peace. But not with peace of mind - hanging from a throwing knife pinned into a mangrove tree is a small trinket: a small woven cord of sturdy grass, with beads and feathers tied into its length.

Beneath a carved symbol in the wood in rangersign that suggests threat from a third part (not the carver or intended recipient) and to another third party is a trinket both scouts will recognize as belonging to a raptor. Raptors in Azeroth are only a little less intelligent than people, and even then the line is blurry. They demonstrate high complexity pack tactics, limited tool use, and even a rudimentary religious observation and enshrinement of their dead. Some are skillful enough to braid grasses into cord, and to make these bead-and feather trinkets that are often worn on the arms and tail, with unknown significance. They are a dangerous and deadly enemy; but when bonded, they make excellent mounts and hunting partners for trolls who have the patience to acquire their respect.

If the orc's message here is to be believed, then there is a raptor threat to someone other than Zachary and Jakk'ari. And since the two didn't find any indication of raptors on the way here, they must be approaching that third party from another angle - one that the orc felt compelled to warn them about. The obvious candidate for the potential prey must be on the road by now, expecting to rendezvous with Zachary and Jakk'ari at the appointed time - they'll have to hurry if they're going to get back in time to benefit from the warning!


- - - - - -

There had been a 'green scare', that morning. Other-Oscar had claimed to have spotted an orc watching them, and the cry that the horde was coming had awoken the camp. Closer inspection found no orc at all, and other-Oscar had copped some good natured abuse for his jumpiness. Once everyone had calmed down, breakfast had been devoured and camp deconstructed, the convoy was once again on the road with the added assurance that their scouts were clearing the way ahead of them, and would alert them of any potential threat. Brother Bright hadn't seriously expected they'd find anything worth worrying about. But then a few hours into the second day's travel, with the sun high in the sky making the marsh hellishly humid, the Brother called a halt to the wagon's travelling chorus as Jakk'ari and Zachary break from the marshy treeline with obvious haste towards the group.

"Hold the horses," he says with a demeanor that lurches from friendly to soldierly in a heartbeat, "and take up your arms. It seems like it won't be a straight-shot to the Northpoint tower after all."

Jak N Zac get back just in time to warn the convoy to prepare. They have slunk past atleast eight sleek, reptilian predators with red scales and hunter-killer eyes; partially obscured in the grasses and waters as they wait for their leader's signal to strike. Everyone can roll initiative, and get one free round of preparation before the raptors attack!

The drivers turn the wagons inwards so all the horses are in the centre, and draw spears as they take up positions in the spaces between the wagons to protect the beasts. The medics cluster together in the centre of the wagons with wands drawn, and Brother Bright himself stands up in the seat of the foremost wagon, staff in hand, scanning about for the threat while inclining an ear to whatever the recently returned scouts have to say.

[WindStruck]

Isaera remembered this conversation well, stuck in her mind years afterward for some reason.

She looked at her father, uncertainly. Then she looked down. "I don't know, father. It doesn't seem like I've done anything special. Mother is the one keeping us all together. If she were gone, I.. I don't know....."

Looking back up to her father's eyes, she gets yet another close look at the scar on his face. Kind of unsightly. A grim reminder that he came very close to losing his eye, or even his life. Then that would have been three in their family that lost their father figures.

Isaera loved him, but she hated looking at it, hated looking at what those beasts had done to him, what they were doing to their lands, their home. She turned away to gaze ahead. "So is it true?" she asked. "Mother said she would find another man if you came back with a scar upon your face... I find it hard to believe that anyone could just replace you, though."

In truth, that was all probably just some jest, dark humor at its finest. Still. Those words had bothered her.

Isaera tries to fan herself off in the humidity, but it's so much. Thankfully, lots of skin showing to help cool off. But the downside likely meant more bug bites and some sunburn. She really thinks she should have brought a parasol. Or even an umbrella.

Then Jakk'ari and Zachary returned in a hurry with some grim news. Something was coming! Or...

"Did you lead them to us?!" she cries, though perhaps it couldn't be helped in any case.

With the wagons circling up, Isaera takes up a position closer to the healers in the center and begins to charge up some arcane energy. The magic took but a small amount of time to charge up, but that was time she felt she could not afford. At least, she could hold this magic for a while, ready to unleash some arcane wrath on their would-be assailants.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk'ari and Zachary rejoin the wagons, puffing from their desperate dash to get there on time; the hunter sliding into cover in one of the wagons and scanning the treeline with his musket; the shaman keeping his feet on the sacred earth even as he begins incanting words in Kalimag that first stir and then wildly compel the air around the wagon defenses. A vortex of whipping winds spirals around the group, battering and pushing outward but keeping the central zone calm and clear for the defenders. The escort from Theramore are not at all used to having a shaman on their side - indeed, the element-speakers are seen as the traditional counterpoint to the Alliance's paladins, and therefore usually regarded with disdain. But as the sleek red reptiles emerge from the treeline all around the wagon charging forth only to stumble and stagger at the defensive winds, it's hard to fault the shaman's results.

Marion's fist unclenches as she sees a pack of three of the carnivores rushing towards her position. An almost imperceptible wink of red light flickers in her palm, and then is replicated far across the field in the midst of the raptors. Immediately, the grass around it blackens and dies, and begins to putrify; one of the raptors desiccates on the spot, collapsing with a whispered hiss as a bag of bones and skin, and putrefying meat. A second raptor from the trio perishes similarly, left mewling in craven confusion while its scales slough of its legs even as it carries itself out of the zone of the arcane decay. Only one of the three makes it out intact, hacking a reptile cough and powering forward through the winds.

Three other groups of raptors emerge from three other vectors, through two packs of three seem to be led by slightly larger and fiercer versions of the predators. Both these groups don't fail to notice that one of the prey has isolated itself - and they have no fear of Mor'Lag's size.

Marion's turn. She can maintain the Death and Decay, but the surviving raptor has escaped its zone, and crossed half the distance between its starting point and the warlock.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion couldn't repress the corners of her mouth from arching as she watched her spell rot away a cylindrical swathe of both flora and raptor, the plants withering and curling in upon themselves as blackened char while the beasts disintegrated into putrescent chunks.

"Die..." the Warlock uttered under her breath as she stared in wonder, until the persistence of the lead animal drew her attention away from fantasy and back to reality.

Appreciating one of the men performing his raison d'etre and moving to shield her from the incoming predator, Marion focused her mind again with an utter and a gesture at the bullheaded raptor.

ooc
______________

Ongoing effects: Demon Armour
Standard Action: Casting Corruption against the last Raptor. It's Perception so hits automatically, DC 19 Toughness check and next round a Secondary Effect requires another.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari is surprised by having seen Mor'Lag's brazen lack of caution running towards the raptors with the wind to their back and the putrid cloud of miasma blooming to his flank.
But the enclosing raptors leave no time to remain surprised.

While retaining control of the raging wind surrounding his allies Jakk'ari shouts.
"Leave us!" Seeing the opportunistic hunger amongst the raptors that would never have occupied the eyes of a druid.

Jakk'ari dashes to the flank of the nearest guard.
A streak of lightning coils into a ball within his hands before being released at the closest raptor.


[roll0]
I know that a 3 DEX, 4 Ranged advantage, and Rank 5 Blast will be relevant. Please correct me if I used the wrong attack modifier I am pretty new to Mutants and Masterminds too.
Jak'arri attacks the lead raptor in group 2 and moves closer to the guard by him if possible.

It's no problem, I just assumed Jakk'ari's attacks would occur independently of Marion's and I knew Jakk'ari would be going right after her.

[MrAbdiel]

The final raptor from its hunting trio leaps high, punches through the wind barrier and into the open air, tongue flapping like a salivating war pennant… but when it hits the ground, it’s leg bones crumble, leaning it’s torso and skull to take the impact and splat on the earth as if they had been made of chalk. The wincing, hissing mess makes the pathetic sounds of an animal confronted with an incomprehensible death, and the driver nearby reaches out and pierces its heart with his spear as a mercy, before casting a haunted look over his shoulder at the woman who commands such forces.

Meanwhile, the hunting trio approaching Jakk’ari muscle their way through the wind half the distance to the troll. It’s only a matter of time before they make it all the way.

Corruption kills the third raptor, wiping that group out with fel power! It’s Jakk’ari’s turn!

Edit: just saw your post, plaids! Will resolve your attacks on my next break.

[MrAbdiel]

Snarling, the raptor jukes aside just in town for the lighting to glass the ground where he stood!

The raptors closest to Mor’Lag close to engagement range, but the winds rob them of the pace they would need to charge.

The lightning misses! Alas, those raptors proceed unabated. Group 4 closes to melee with Mor’Lag but it costs them their whole turn to get there. It’s Zachery, Isaera and Mor’Lag’s turns!

[MrAbdiel]

Mor'Lag has caught the attentions of a hunting group now, and the three beasts swarm around them. The ogress reaches out claps a hand around the neck of the largest raptor, hoisting it off the ground and squeezing it until its eyes bulge and its predatory hiss is a frightened squawk. Only desperate flailing, sleek scales, and a little luck manages to permit the raptor to writhe free, and circle around behind its more expendable kin warilly.

Mor'Lag hits with the grab attack, but the raptor managed to overcome the hold check. Zachary and Isaera have their turns!

[WindStruck]

In all the chaos, there's not much time to gawk at Marion's fell power. And to be fair, Isaera wasn't really paying too much attention in that direction; Mor'Lag running out to the open, making herself a very likely target seemed to be holding most of Isaera's attention. But there wasn't really time for admonishment either.

Among the group of raptors that Mor'Lag had grabbed at, Isaera fires her arcane missile to take out one of the smaller ones.

attack: [roll0]

And this thing has homing 3, so it would have another chance to hit for the next 3 rounds...

Toughness save 19

The missile squarely hits the raptor, and Isaera keeps channeling her magic, intent on blasting away the next.

[MrAbdiel]

A twisting spark of raw arcane power leaps from Isaera's palm. When it begins the arc, it's almost a sphere rippling with imperfections in its light-form. But as it lances towards its target, it seems as if the front of the energy is moving twice as fast as the back of it; and the ball distends within that fraction of a second into a spear of arcane light that strikes a raptor square in the middle of its head, then pulls its arcane mass through the injury; snapping its head back, leaving its body twitching in the grass.

Two raptors remain entangled with the ogress in melee; the three north of them begin adjusting their approach to join the pile on, losing their immediate interest in the wagons.

Zach's shot remains for the PC's, this round!

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marions heart thumped within her chest from a surge of adrenaline as she watched the last raptor before her violently twist, contort and sprawl across the ground before it was put out of its misery. Marvellous!

This section of the caravan now clear, Marion withdrew herself, breathing heavy, smile widening as she turned to focus on the other side of the make-shift barricade. Narrowing her eyes and bobbing her head about, the Warlock could see the packs of raptors snaking in and throwing themselves against the towering ogres, the hulking woman-thing swinging her club-like fists at the vicious reptiles.

Pursing her lips and assessing the situation, Marion squeezed herself between two sets of horses and made her way to the centre of the improvised keep. Focusing, glaring at that field and the struggle between ogre and raptor, the warlock drew her hands up to cast another spell - but this time, she had to think on the spot. Pursing her lips, furrowing her brow, the Alteraci exhaled as she uttered some extra words to the formula of the incantation, her efforts manifesting as a strained grimace and perspiration across her brow.

OOC:
___________________

Sustained Spells: Demon Armour.
Move Action: Moving back inside the "fort".
Standard Action: Power-Stunting her Death and Decay spell to add "Feature: Mor'Lag is immune" and casting it with her as the centre to catch most of the raptors.

This'll cause Marion to become Fatigued, as I'm not spending a Hero Point to off-set that.

[hand ax ranger]

The combat was wild and distracting, but Zachary was a natural warrior. He could find the calm in all this fighting and did so as he maintained his aim on one of these Raptors. He was aware of the efforts of his comrades, more so then they might realize, but he could engage only one at a time. So he needed to pick one.

"Focus.....It's only a waste if you don't add to their casualties." He whispers to himself, reminding himself of a principle he came to during his years of asymmetrical warfare. Even if ti did not kill it would wound, and sometimes the wounded were a liability even....

With his target picked he pulls the trigger back 'to the pressure wall', ready to squeeze it home at the exact moment. When certain of his shot he exhales, squeezes the trigger the rest of the way and his musket kicks off as his round seeks it's intend target.


[roll0]
Damage: Not actually sure, don't know if Gm told me yet lol

[MrAbdiel]

With a bark of gunpowder, the weapon discharges; but to the hunter's dismay, what might have been a fine headshot actually chips the horn off the raptor's nose, leaving it angry and confused, but undeterred in its approach!

The medics Helaina and Tamberlyn slash the air with their wands, sending scintillating flickers of divine light whipping across the field that, between them, manage to down one of the raptors in the trio charging towards Jakk'ari, leaving a pair of beasts pushing through the wind towards the wagons. Brother Bright begins incanting in the classical language of the lightbearer texts; but whatever miracle he is trying to produce does not manifest yet. The driver who was guarding the raptor's approach to Marion, now that those beasts have been rendered to paste, moves to the side of the driver north of him. Now both drivers brace for the dual raptors left from that vector, and they do so with the backing of Jakk'ari, and the medics aiming their wrath in the same direction!

On the other side of the battlefield, the tide of scaled killers converges on Mor'Lag who has presented herself for just that reason. The group from the north west veers to join the south western hunting party in assaulting the ogress. Once they punch out of the cyclonic winds, they vault into the fray, all claws and teeth and furious primordial menace. But Marion is working her suspicious magics again, and a field of smoking, foul smelling reddish energy erupts in Mor'Lag's melee. One of the smaller raptors wheezes and dies on the spot, aging and decaying as it falls. One of the larger raptors seems to lose a step as well, its flesh peeling and one eye going milky; and all the other raptors around seem to be experiencing the beginning effects of the same imposed rot and decay. Yet Mor'Lag is unaffected - the energy seems to harmlessly move around them, causing suffering only to her enemies.

And it's now, at the least convenient time, that Mor'Lag and Isaera begin to feel an inexplicable chill, and weakness creeping into their muscles. Activated by the wash of adrenaline in their respective systems, whatever illness had been passed on by the mosquitos the night before starts to take a toll on the party members who bared the most skin, causing them to suffer either for the sake of their beauty, or as just another negative of the inability of ogres to find tailors and armorers willing to work in their sizes!

Two raptors have made it into contact with two drivers near Jakk'ari; and four raptors are swarming around Mor'Lag, with group 4 ready to attack. It's Jakk'ari's Turn!

[Plaids]

Upon hearing the first affliction upon his allies Jakk'ari vaults onto the cart inhabited by Zachary.
Upon seeing Mor'Lag surrounded by raptors he attempts to summon a protective ring of stones.
Making a quick prayer to the steadfast earth he attempts to beat back the threat.


[roll0]
Assuming Mor'Lag is at medium distance resulting in a -2 mod.

After roll: I think the roll get +10 due to it being bellow 10.
Action: Move 1 distance class closer to Mor'Lag. Long->Mid or Mid->Close. Then use Deflect to protect them.

[MrAbdiel]

Two raptors - the large female hunt leader that Mor'Lag almost throttled, and a smaller creature blistering from the corrosive magics in the area - launch a co-ordinated strike on the ogress. The smaller creature moves to flank, and lunges in to bite at Mor'Lag's ankle with the intention of bringing them down to a more fatally accessible level. But in the midst of the lunge, the earth cracks and expresses a vertical plane of stone just three feet high. While no monument in itself, it's the perfect height to cause the raptor to smash its face into the obstruction and stagger back, dazed and missing teeth. But the hunt leader bounces up, strikes with is foreclaws to provoke a block from the ogre's arm, then slashes at her midsection with its large, hooked toe talons!

That'll be a toughness check for Mor'Lag. Raptors have critical 18-20, and that attack was an 18, so the DC to resist will be a muscular 24. Zachary and Isaera can go, now at initiative 8; and then Mor'Lag at initiative 3! Present targets are the 2 minions and 2 non-minion raptors in melee with Mor'Lag (also in a decaying magical field); and the two minion raptors coming from the north east, towards the two drivers, Oscar and other-Oscar. A reminder that for a combat where I have a lot of rolls to make in succession, rather than clutter up this thread with 6 posts in a row, I'm posting rolls here. (https://forums.giantitp.com/showthread.php?637740-Warcraft-Interbellum-Rolls&p=25243734#post25243734)

[hand ax ranger]

Having missed his shot due to the imperfection of his long rifle, he draws his sword, leaps off the wagon and rushes to the nearest raptor. He lunges the saw-backed blade at them while trying to keep these aggressors off the wagon crew.


Attack: [roll0]
Damage DC: 19

[WindStruck]

Isaera is a bit shocked to see such dark magics begin decaying things all around them. What in the hell was going on? A wave of chill and nausea had begun to overtake her as well. Was this a coincidence? On the bright side it seemed Mor'Lag was unaffected by the decay.

That field of death looked extremely damaging. It could potentially wipe out all the raptors surrounding her, so despite the ogre's current predicament, Isaeara checks her surroundings quickly to notice two other raptors closing in behind them.

She turns around, attempting to launch her next arcane missile at one of those raptors, which were about to attack the Oscars.

expertise magic: [roll0] This is for determining what power Marion is using.

attack roll: [roll1] With 3 more chances for homing next round if is misses.

[MrAbdiel]

With his shot going wide and the raptors closing in on the Theramore escort, Zachary launches over the cart's edge, blade in hand, and hacks down with such a ferocious swipe that the target reptile's head is severed almost entirely at the neck, its body skidding to a halt before the wagons and writhing in reflexive, post-mortum spasms.

Isaera's arcane missile snaps just past the cheek of the remaining raptor, and as its fellow is cut down beside it and the projectile arcs around in the air for another pass, it looks as though it is about to run, and veers to turn from the combat. The Oscars, however, are not slouching in their duty; and as the last beast on that side opens its flank, they strike out and spear it, arresting its movement. It lets out a mournful kiss, cut short by the execution blow of the boomeranging arcane missile that neatly penetrates its temple.

On the other side, where the combat carries on, Mor'Lag's grip won't be denied for long, and one great, crushing hand reaches out and snatches up the largest raptor she can see - the one that had so rudely accosted her - and catches it around the neck. Incredibly, she is able to hold the writhing beast at full extension of the arm, strangling it progressively as while laying about defensively with the other arm.

The remaining drivers move up and toss their spears, but with care not to strike the ogre, they overcompensate and their weapons sail wide. Tamberlyn and Helaina begin zinging away with their wands into the melee, but likewise struggle to find targets. But Brother Bright succeeds in his prayer, and with a snap of divine energy manifesting and an aural glimpse of some distant cathedral choir, a gleaming barely visible sphere of energy englobes the ogress, stacking protection on top of protection. Now, they stand in a field if wicked magic that declines to injure them, defended by the intervention of the elements and sheathed in a protective manifestation of the light. This concentration of powers is sufficient to give the surviving raptors the encouragement they need to flee.

Only four raptors of the hunting pack entire remain; all of them are suffering from the fel blight cast upon, and one is locked in Mor'Lag's phenomenal death grip. The three shift their hiss-and-click hunting shatter to distressed trills of retreat, and begin scampering desperately back toward the treeline. One of them doesn't even make it, collapsing and perishing from the decay and heaping itself on the pile of destroyed reptiles. The two survivors stagger off into the treeline, pursued by buzzing wand flashes and any parting shots and spells the part dispenses in their direction.


The last living raptor on the scene struggles breathlessly in Mor'Lag's fist. It scrabbles with its toe claws at the ogre's body, but they glance off the defensive magics now, leaving its situation even more pathetic. It would be a simple matter for Mor'Lag to execute this creature now, if they are not flooded with a sudden onset of mercy.

With the surviving raptors routed, and the one left over entirely within Mor'Lag's mercy, the battle is over and the threat has passed.

That's fel magic, plain and simple. Known in magical parlance as "The Gravedigger" or less dramatically "Death and Decay", the spell dredges up energy from the Twisting Nether, that twilight realm of demons and dark energy, and binds it into the substrate of matter in an area which manifests as a zone of escalating entropic breakdown of creatures and objects in the area. Visually, the damage looks like the target is being shoved through years of decomposition in moments. The spell has ancient origins, but was reintroduced to arcane theory during the second war at the Battle of Hillsbrad Foothills, in which Gul'Dan debuted his death knights (orc warlocks bound into the bodies of dead human knights) for the first time. Since then, the spell has been studied and replicated. Mages, strictly speaking, do not use such spells. They require a great deal of parallel learning about managing Fel-bleed and minimizing demonic attraction, none of which is productive to advance standard arcane magical learning. It is warlock fare; but today, after such dark knowledges proved many times to be invaluable in fighting and banishing the demons of the Legion in the third war, warlocks are tolerated and often respected... But rarely entirely trusted.

[Feathersnow]

"I am tempted to spare this poor, dumb animal..." Says Lag.

"Unfortunately for it, it is made of meat." Argues Mor

"Do we have time to clean the kill?"

"If not, I might as well let it go."

[MrAbdiel]

Mor and Lag debate the benefits of animal butchery on the raptor, now oxygen deprived and hanging slack in their grip. They probably have time to clean the kill - but between their keen three eyes, the signs of scale-shedding, blistering, and mystically induced rot suggest that even if they were to eat this raptor alive, there's a good chance it's already 'bad meat'. That might be a battle for their stomachs to determine; but a glance over the shoulder reveals there are more than a few of the beasts over the other side of the wagons, atleast some of which have not been afflicted so. If one's not averse to gamey meat, they'd be a much better use of meal-prep time.

[Feathersnow]

"Get out!" Shouts Lag as she tosses the creature down
"Teach your chicks to fear that which walks on two legs!" Rejoinders Mor.

[WindStruck]

Most if not all the raptors were dead and fleeing. Just one had remained, flailing in Mor'Lag's hand.

Isaera passes a weary glance toward Marion. "A warlock..? How intriguing..." And, perhaps worrisome.

She may have said more, but wasn't really feeling well. She leans on one of the wagons as a spell of dizziness takes her.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis


And just like that, it was over!

Marions smirk remained, though it was tempered by the visible exhaustion across her features as she drew her hands down and exhaled heavily. Thick beads of sweat had crossed her brow and glistened her forehead while her breathing now came in long, deep intakes as her shoulders visible rose and fell to accommodate the recovery - but that didn't matter. They had won! And not only had she tested one of her new spells upon...disposable subjects, she had even shown enough mastery to alter the procession on the fly in a way that eschewed an ally from the entropic effects. Just wonderful.

With the cessation of Marions directive over her spell, the sheet of blistering, crimson bubbles dissipated into the air, but the blackened, putrescent effects of their passing remained.

Turning her head to look at whomever was her right, Marion flashed a smile across her deceptively friendly face, "well that was exciting!"

[Feathersnow]

Most if not all the raptors were dead and fleeing. Just one had remained, flailing in Mor'Lag's hand.

Isaera passes a weary glance toward Marion. "A warlock..? How intriguing..." And, perhaps worrisome.

She may have said more, but wasn't really feeling well. She leans on one of the wagons as a spell of dizziness takes her.

"Indeed! We are blessed to have such a one among us!"
"But your magic is perfectly good, too, I'm sure!"
"Our fathers were also masters of the Fel."
"Sadly, we have no such aptitudes."

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

"A warlock..? How intriguing..."

"Indeed! We are blessed to have such a one among us!"
"But your magic is perfectly good, too, I'm sure!"
"Our fathers were also masters of the Fel."
"Sadly, we have no such aptitudes."

Instinctive reflex caused Marion's shoulders to purse a little, as if she were about to be discovered by Paladins of the Holy Light back in Azeroth. Her study had prompted her ejection from the Kirin Tor and expulsion from Dalaran, as well as suspicion and mistrust at every port of call she had ended up in afterwards. Not that she could blame them, the fel was so...capricious.

Pursing her lips, turning to look at the elf and ogre, Marion hesitated before giving a shrug.

"I would not be in this fetid swamp were I in the good graces of the Kirin Tor..."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari enjoys the small celebrations occurring between the caravan members after a swift fight without casualties and ample healing remaining.
After providing his compliments to the Oscar's and helping a dazed elf he approaches Zachary.

"You've done well. Striking with the ferocity of a scorpid. Will you join me in informing our our captain?" Offering him a chance to join him to speak with brother Bright.
"Otherwise we'll still have more to discuss regarding our spying guardian." Referring to the horde scout they had only found traces of.
"But before that I have a payment to prepare." Taking a small knife to the nearest fresh raptor's skull to cut the optical nerves. While wondering what could happen with a blight caller in their midst.

[MrAbdiel]

In the aftermath, once everyone is counted and no one has been seriously injured, the atmosphere is quite triumphant. The drivers pull the horses out of their defensive circle, reward their stoicism with old carrots and oats, and chat with one another. The tenor of that discussion is mostly positive and related to the size of the raptors, the value of the hurricane winds keeping them at bay for so long, and how Oscar and other-Oscar had, mostly, killed one in coodination with the Jakk'ari's winds, and Isaera's volleys. Occasionally, their chatter lowers suddenly and dramatically in volume, and is accompanied by glances over the shoulder toward Marion. Oscar, other-Oscar, and Carlo are clearly a little disturbed by the revelation of the dark haired spellstress's power set. Torian, out of the four, looks more deeply conflicted, and ranges between silence in those moments, to dominating the conversation.


https://i.ibb.co/GQc45Jp/Drivers.png...Look like this, typically.

It's obvious that Torian fancies Marion; that much was made plain with his fumbling offer to make tea during the storm the night before. But now he's experiencing a crisis within himself: a natural desire to disapprove of the warlock is predictable and socially compelled here, but doing so would critically endanger the scenario he has built up in his head, in which he wins her affection presumably in some critical moment of sacrifice and valor. The other drivers are recounting the manifold reasons to be suspicious of Fel casters - the demons, the Dark Portal, the frequency with which they are hoist by the green flame of their dark petards - and Torian is playing (almost literal) devil's advocate, talking about how even Lady Proudmoore has her confidante Redia Vaunt, whose dark study is an open secret in Theramore.
He is making some ground, but the others remain unconvinced.

The surgeon, Gustaf, joins Jakk'ari over near the cluster of three raptors that have been slain without the touch of fel magic. As the troll eye-balls them, the surgeon looks over their injuries and, taking a small, sharp knife of his own, begins opening them up and field dressing them to preserve their best cuts for the night's meal. He doesn't strike up conversation with troll; just works alongside him for the moment.


https://i.ibb.co/MZxD43j/Gustaf.png

Gustaf is an older man, perhaps in his fifties; and as head surgeon in Theramore, he's probably been stitching up soldiers and watching them die in at least the last two wars, and long before it. Such a man has more reason to distrust trolls than almost anyone here, since he has likely seen the damage the Amani forest trolls inflict in their berserker hatchet-hurling frenzies. The nuances of the distinction between Jakk'ari's Farraki heritage against the forest trolls Amani descent isn't the kind of thing people tend to appreciate; but it seems like the gesture of just working nearby him with, both plying their careful blades to the slain raptors, is about as close as such a man can come to expressing direct appreciation. He will probably never not look at a troll or orc without instinctive guardedness, but he is recognizing and restraining that reflex as not applicable to the Sandfury shaman-diplomat.

Meanwhile the two medics do what they are here to do, and split off to the suffering parties. Helaina, the slightly younger of the pair with with blonde hair, calming brown eyes and a fearless professionalism when it's 'game time' and the sutures come out, takes the task of looking over Mor'Lag. "Wow. It's barely a scratch on you girls, but it might have opened up anyone else without much trouble. Definitely had the lacerating force to cut through a typical abdominal wall, but..." She places a hand either side of the eight inch gash on Mor'Lag's abdomen, and inspects the wound as she presses it to make the edged match up nicely with only a minimal oozing of blood. "On you, it's just a flesh wound. I can restore it easy enough, with a heal spell; or if you don't care for a divine solution, or you want to keep the scar, I could sew it." She steps back, looking back and forth between Mor and Lag, going through the ritual everyone must go through with a two headed ogre and coming to the decision of which head to look at, and how often to change it up. "I'll admit I don't know much about ogre spiritualism and culture. Do you like picking up scars, like orcs and trolls seem to?"


https://i.ibb.co/yWFrKfP/Helaina.png

Tamberlyn, closer to her mid twenties with darker hair, mischievous green eyes and a Westfall twang to her voice, comes to Isaera's aid. "Alright, honey; you've done just fine today, but let's get you sat down and have a look at you..." She hassles Carlo and Oscar to hoist a provision crate down from one of the wagons for Isaera to sit on, and gives the elf an arm and a shoulder as necessary to bring her over to it. They, too, appear to benefit from the 'honey' designation; another Westfaller habit, it seems. The medic takes the temperature of the mage's forehead with the back of her hand, gazes intently at her eyes to scan for irregular dilation in one or the other; but ultimately finds her diagnosis in the string of four mosquito bites on her left inner arm - four of many, on the poor elf. "Oh, honey; you're alright. It's just the skeeter-fever, from all the damn swamp skeeters. It builds in your system, but takes a toll on you when your blood is up. You'll probably be feeling better by bed time tonight." She steps back a little and, now that she's looking for them, begins to spy the constellation of little bites over Isaera's variously bared planes of elven skin. "They sure like you. You got that sugar-blood."


https://i.ibb.co/7j3znkR/Tamberlyn.png

[WindStruck]

Isaera just manages to groan grudgingly. 'Just the skeeter fever'? Her legs felt like jelly and the world felt like it was tilting sideways! But still, she supposed there wasn't much anyone could do about it...

Maybe some of that tea would be a good idea. Or that ointment or whatever Jakk'ari was talking about, though she didn't really fancy the idea of putting mud on herself.

Or maybe she should have tried to quickly scrounge for some more clothing at her home that covered more skin? Of course, then she would be sweating like a pig! Not that she wasn't already now, but it would be way more uncomfortable. ... traveling through this swamp sucked.

Despite her suffering, Isaera still manages to be rather attentive to the various things going around, though trying to keep the bugs off her is a big distraction. "By the gods, I can't wait for this trip to be over!"

[MrAbdiel]

Tamberlyn laughs, uncruelly. "Honey, you sing it. But honestly..." She lowers her voice to a stage whisper, as she conveys conspiratorial girl-talk. "If I had a dress like that and the figure to pull it off, I'd brave the skeeters too. Beauty is pain, they say." She laughs at her own commentary a little, then takes out a slate and chalk to make a note for herself. "I'll see if we can't mix up something so those bites don't itch like hell tomorrow. But bad as it is out here, thank you for answering the call.
There's worse out here than the skeeters, and even the raptors; and the lost boys out there'll be scared and hungry and happy as hell to see you, when you find them."

You hear a tsk, and a quiet flutter of laughter from him as you deflect the compliment. Your father, who has spent most of your life saturating you and your siblings with compliments and encouragement, is not strongly incentivized to dissuade you from a moment of humility. Without articulating it directly, that little scoff communicates both that he thinks you’re underselling your contribution in this crisis, but that he will honor your desire to downplay it.

But he doesn’t laugh when you invoke that exchange between him and his mother; infact, his attention settles on you quiet intensely, and his composed demeanor flashes through a moment of paternal horror in which he considers that this question may have been tormenting his daughter from the moment the exchange happened, until now. He doesn’t waste a heartbeat’s time in putting it to rest.

“When I met your mother, I was… a little obnoxiously flippant, I think; and a braggart, and a bundle of other petty vices fit the memory also. And she was acid-tongued, and vain, and extremely good at manipulating men’s hearts. And fate arrayed us such that we would collide with one another; and she would wear down my flaws, and I wore down hers. Our courtship filled with…” He smiles in memory, shaking his head a little as if to dislodge some cluster of recollections from a vault of experiences so choked with things worth smiling about that they needed force to be separated. “With smug dismissal, and catty threats, and accusations, and apologies, and big, romantic stunts to restore her favor. I used to pretend to forget her parent’s names, just to make her angry, long past the point when I was good friends with them. And she used to remind me that she could replace me with a younger lover with a snap of her fingers, just to cut me down to size when I took her for granted. I think she meant it, a very long time ago; and she absolutely could replace me in a heartbeat, because she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. But she doesn’t mean that she would. That’s just… It’s part of a cipher she and I have. It means she loves me, in the language of our time spent together. This is nothing.” He touches the little crescent scar with one finger, and smiles with one corner of his mouth. “If anything, I think she likes it. So don’t worry about it Little Sunbean; I’m not going anywhere.”

Little Sunbean, expressed in Common - an affectionate sobriquet for you he sometimes employs, harkening back to days earlier than your memory. The way he tells the story, you were two years old and beginning to learn the human Common tongue along side your Thalassian; and advanced as you were, you struggled to parse the differences in your dental morphemes. ‘Sunbeam’ became ‘Sunbean’ in a faulty pronunciation, and it made your father laugh, so you kept saying it. Your mother swears the story is apocryphal, but your father stakes his sacred honor on its veracity.

“You’ll develop your own little couple-rituals when I marry you off to prince Kael’Thas.”

This is almost certainly a joke. But he is… frightfully good at keeping a straight face, when tormenting his children with fabrications. It is another fatherly quality in which he excels.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis


Once Marion had recovered, she went about re-collecting herself and her things. She ensured her pack was still secured on the wagon before casting a glance here and there to see if anyone needed assistance that she could offer.

She was a slight distance from the quiet circle of testimony that involved her character and intentions, and so Marion had nothing to say on the matter, either in her defense or encouragement to her lone advocator.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag look at Helaina. They consider her first a moment, then come to a conclusion.
"We have no great love of your Light" Says Lag
"But Ogres take no pride in failure." Continue Mor, a little wistfully
"And we thank you for your respect for our ways."
"Please, though, use your magic, whatever its source."

[MrAbdiel]

While folks are tending wounds and fevers, discussing cultural change, and gutting velociraptors for Kalimdor gumbo, Brother Bright is checking over the horses and preparing the wagons to move again. He seems to be fussing over the foremost cart, which sits a little skewed on the road.

It seems like Brother Bright is trying to figure out which axle is bent, but the problem is actually one of the swingles; specifically, the one lashed to the evener in front of the horse left of the wagon’s shaft. It seems like in the haste to circle the wagons earlier, the short length of chain on the swingle got looped around the swingle proper, meaning the leftmost horse is pulling at a differential to the rightmost, rather than parallel. The result is that the wagon is skewing right. It’s just a matter of untangling that bit of chain, but it’s the kind of problem that someone without a modicum of technical skill - everyone except Marion and the drivers, for example - wouldn’t even know to look for. She could easily fix his problem, or show him how.

You can draw up the mana into yourself. That part has come to you like breathing. But forcing it into forms, with the practised movements of your young hands, and using words whose phonemes are ancient and classical and outside of your spoken language… that part isn’t easy. Tutor Laerdan has been teaching you to make frostbolts for over a year now. With her constant correction and eye for detailed caster work, you’ve become pretty alright at it with supervision. But it’s complex, and not internally interesting, and as you curl your fingers and try your best to incant, you can feel your palms getting exceedingly cold exceedingly fast. That, you know, means you are on your way to fouling the spell. The first phrase is to produce motion within the mana, as the elves call it; the second phrase is supposed to always be a containment phrase: the element of the spell that allows the caster to hold it like a physical thing as it builds, and is then dissolved in a fashion and at the time of their choosing to release that energy into the world. You’re already at your fourth phrase in the casting - the flow, and trying to think back to what you said or forgot to say back in the second phrase that collapsed the containment. You double back, repeating the second phrase to try to create containment after the fact; but the flow is already happening, and mana is sublimating out of your will into icy shards growing directly on your hands. It’s all you can do not to cry now, aborting the casting with a premature trough phrase to return the unmanaged flow back to its dormant state, and you brush your hands together to dislodge the accreting ice.

Randal, who is also suffering from the cold but only because he isn’t used to the alpine conditions like you are, watches your fumble without comment; though you notice his eyebrows move with … What? Amusement, perhaps at your expense?

“Don’t look at him. Look at the feather. Try again.”

You feel her hands squeezing your shoulders. You can feel… not precisely disapproval in her voice, but certainly an awareness of the imperfection that has transpired. It’s hard to see the feather now, black against the black of the sky; but you track its motion by the way it blots the stars it passes in front of. Resolving, you try again, and hear Laerdan’s voice in your head, cycling the seven words you have heard so, so many times in the last three years.

Motion. Containment. Frame. Flow. Vector. Breach. Trough.

You cite the opening phrase, and feel the mana stir in you again. And then your attention is drawn away by a gunshot from far below, in the streets.

No, not a gunshot in the streets - just a clap, hard enough to sound like a gunshot for an instant to your ears; and not below in the streets, but below on the terrace. Your eyes cannot help but jag their attention downward, and they capture in your mind a memorable tableaux. Randal’s father, this armored nobleman from another nation, has his right arm across his body, palm open, body slightly twisted at the hips with the preceding motion. Staggering back, not quite falling but unbalanced, is your father. He has been slapped with such force that he has nearly fallen over. With the sound of the blow, your mother’s hands tighten instinctively on your shoulders to the point of bruising; as if the blow has been transmitted in part to her through the bond of matrimony, and she is earthing the charge of it directly into you, by touch.


The feather catches an updraft and begins to spiral higher, and further; too far for you to hit it now, even if you were a very practiced mage. But you won’t flounder the same way twice, and you recite your containment phrase. This time, you feel the scintillation in your fingertips that you expected. Yet you cannot help but glance down, again; and the scene is arguably worse. Now your father is standing upright again, and the two of them continue to speak as if the blow had not happened. As if your father had not been struck in the face in the heights of his own tower in the view of his wife and daughter. You are too young to understand the politics that made it this way; but you are not too young to understand the incredible, galling audacity of such an exchange. The sickening disparity of authority that impresses on you unmistakably that as powerful as your family is, and as your nation is, there is a power possessed by other thrones that could reach in and wipe your world from the face of history.

You feel something welling up in you that you mistake for a desire to be sick - but it’s something else - the mana inside you, sympathetically roiling with motion at your emotional state, too fierce and hostile as a force to be boxed in the containment measure you’ve constructed. But it’s coming up, and out, and with a surge of instinct that races up your spine, down your arms and curls your fingers into locked claws, you look up to the sky and focus your outrage on that vanishing black feather in the night sky.

Ice does not leap from your hands; but a gout of flame originating around the feather itself blooms into being with growl of conflagration and ten foot detonation before it is dispersed enough to wisp away in the air. Now Randal is looking at you with surprise; maybe even fear. That was not like a bolt spell. It needed no containment to protect you, no frame to describe its form to the cosmos. It was all flowing mana, and the intention to destroy. And unlike the intimidating formalism of the magic you have learned… it felt good.

“I think…” Your mother begins, loosening her grip on your shoulders, gazing up at the sky, “We might arrange a more formal scholarship for you, in Dalaran. You have, perhaps, exceeded what lone tutor can offer you, my Marion.”

Below, gazing up at you, are the faces of the men on the terrace. Your father seems at ease, having seen the familiar form of you and your mother and knowing at once that you are not startled by the burst in the sky. But the nobleman, Randal’s father, looks bewildered; hand on the hilt of his sword, his two guards moving in to his sides as they puzzle out what they fear to have been the sound of some assassination attempt.

[MrAbdiel]

Mor and Lag look at Helaina. They consider her first a moment, then come to a conclusion.
"We have no great love of your Light" Says Lag
"But Ogres take no pride in failure." Continue Mor, a little wistfully
"And we thank you for your respect for our ways."
"Please, though, use your magic, whatever its source."

Helaina nods a few times, smiling benignly. She doesn’t understand the ogress’s rejection of the Light; but she understands that she understands; and that’s probably enough. She passes a hand over the wound, speaking words that provoke an ethereal repetition with warm choral melody. The wound seals, leaving a faint white line that will fade to Mor’Lag’s skin tone in a few days.

Mor’Lag is healed!

[hand ax ranger]

Zachary looked to the warlock and shrugged. He didn't seem to hold hostilities and got the impression they did not wish to draw a great deal of attention to the root of their powers. Though she didn't realize it he understood fully.....

"Alright then, let's get this all moving again. We've got a wounded man out in those woods still and even more to find." He begun reloading his long-rifle as he spoke to them. "Have your three figured out anything while me an Jakk'ari were scouting ahead?"

[WindStruck]

Isaera gives Zachary a look. "Figured out anything? Like what??"

She shakes her head and adds, "I'm afraid you know far more than we do."

Looking around wearily she asks, "Is everyone alright?"

[hand ax ranger]

He shrugs at her question. "Well I don't know....hence my asking. you'd be surprised how often important information comes from the least likely source. As for my health I am fine."

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion spotted the problem with the wheels, her eyes widened a little and her grin arching.

"We won't be getting far along through the swamp with you holding us back, will we?"

The warlock swung her legs over the edge of the wagon and descended back onto the ground. Of note was the way Marion moved, as a girl brought up on a more rustic frontier may have simply hopped off, while the Alteraci revealed her higher born roots by careful descending and accepting help from any passing male that offered her a hand with a polite "Thank you!"

Down onto the ground again, Marion moved about to where she spotted the growing fault with the chains and wheels. Once in position, she peered and inspected, her perusal simply confirming what she had spotted from above as she nodded in satisfaction to herself.

"Yes, quite..." she said to no-one in particular. Looking around, craning her head, the Alteraci spotted the fellow attempting to fix the wagon and directed her voice at him.

"Brother Bright?" her voice smooth and polite.

"In our haste to form defensive posturing's, we wrapped one of the chains fully around the swingle," she pointed directly to the problem. Marion deliberately used collective language in a diplomatic effort to eschew any one person from fault or blame.

"The horses, poor dears, will be traveling at different speeds with a right-most skew. It will cause a bit of bother under normal circumstances, and will render retreat under duress a perilous affair."

[WindStruck]

Wait, something was wrong with the wagons?

"Huh?" Isaera asks confused. "Can't you just unwrap the chain?"

She slowly walks over to see what they were talking about.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

"That is precisely how to remedy the problem."

[MrAbdiel]

Naturally, it’s Torian who notices Marion swinging her legs over the edge of the wagon. He and other-Oscar are unlimbering a freshly assembled stretcher from a rear wagon, but Torian sees his moment, drops the stretcher, and blurs over to offer Marion an assisted descent at the speed of chivalry.

Brother Bright looks up at the young noblewoman’s approach and listens to her commentary with a blank expression. His eyes track to the offending wagon, then back to her. He’s about to ask what the heck a swingle is, when Isaera, too, adds her elven grace to the Council of Unlikely Wagonwrights. He takes another look at the snarled chain, and slowly the engineering problem dissolved in his book-smart mind into the comprehensible solution already offered. But before he can act on that, other-Oscar calls over:

“Yeah, just unwrap the chain, Brother. It’s not goblin science.”

First, Marion and Isaera homed in on the solution - both spellweaving women of class and grace from whom he had not expected technical commentary (and certainly not Marion’s detailed tour of the problem); but other-Oscar scoring some points back off him is the icing on the cake. The Brother looks briefly confounded, and perhaps even frustrated - but it’s a brief thing, and he does what most good humoured men do when they are revealed to be as prone to folly as any other. He jokes his way out of the embarrassment.

“Well, I’m sorry, I slept through the day we covered ‘Anointed Wagon Repair’ in seminary. Don’t just stand there, other-Oscar, Torian; get over here and dingle this swingle.”

The lads go to the embarrassingly simple repair with shared snickering, and Brother Bright feigns a kick to Torian’s backside as he goes, further burying his moment of failure in clownish pantomime. But he circles back to own up, to the ladies.

“Yes, you’re both quite right. Mechanisms aren’t quite my element; I suppose when you know what to look for, it’s right obvious. Forgive my ignorance. I hadn’t taken either you for tradesfolk.”

The fact that Isaera’s contribution was less tradecraft and more simple deduction from an attentive mind is lost on the Brother, who is now assuming he can assume nothing about either of them. “Just so I know when to call on you, besides the magic, what other skills does your group possess?”

[MrAbdiel]

There's a little exchange that proceeds, with the group and Brother Bright. When the group was dispatched, the orders were pretty directly to not entangle the groups too much. They are, after all, an explicitly Alliance medical delegation and a deniable non-affiliated asset to safely move through Horde territory. But that seems to have fallen away a little now; the reality of being in the dangerous swamp, Horde or not, encourages a little more sharing. The Theramore escort seem to have processed Marion's dark powerset just as they processed the more exotic Jakk'ari and Mor'Lag: for there are few experiences that can bond people like fighting off a wave of velociraptors side by side.

Other-Oscar and Torian head off with Jakk'ari and Zachery on a retrieval mission, reuniting with the wagon train a little further up the road during a pitstop to eat the last of the raptor-based-stew Jakk'ari had prepared before it has a chance to go bad. Jakk'ari delivers the raptor eyeballs to Jarl, who is tickled pink to receive them, and happy to be relieved of his moral burden over the injured young man in his care.

The recovered cadet's name is Aeden. He doesn't get to introduce himself; he is fighting fever from his wounds, the infections on which would certainly have killed him but for the rudimentary medicine applied to him by the swamp hermit. It seems that whenever this cadet split off from his fellows, he was travelling back toward Theramore, deviated off the road, and was mauled badly by raptors before collapsing near enough to Jarl's hut to benefit from his ministrations.

Upon closer inspection, and with some difficulty because of the severity of the wounds, it seems unlikely that raptors were the sole culprit. Intermingled with the piercing teethmarks are the puncturing chevrons that suggest a beaked attacker, as well.

Apart from that recovery mission, there are no interruptions to the journey; and just as well, because the one delay slowed the wagons enough that they have to travel through the night for a couple of hours to reach Northwatch Tower. A host of tower guards help unload the wagons, take Aeden inside to recover in a modicum of comfort, and provide new rations and some meat from the tower's local hunting teams. They have a predictable unease with Mor'Lag and Jakk'ari, but these guards are Theramoran themselves, and have at least seen them around the city once or twice sufficient to not overreact.

Another night of camping, this time in the comforting safety of the Alliance position; a morning routine, breakfast and resupply, and day three begins for the eclectic party with departure from the wagons, and the escort. Brother Bright has the crew rig up an oversized travel pack containing a pair of stretchers, a medical kit, and enough camping gear for the group. Bulky as it is, it's a trivial carry for Mor'Lag. After that, there's nothing for the Theramorans to do but bid the team good luck.

"We'll be here, of course", Brother Bright promises, "ready to look after the lads you find. West of here is Brackenwall village. The settlement leader, last we knew, is Nazeer Bloodpike; an orc sent from Orgrimmar to establish a counterweight settlement here in Dustwallow Marsh. But since Lady Proudmoore's worked so hard to keep relations peaceable, they've never really needed to escalate to a more robust settlement with watchtowers of their own. Seems like a dead-end assignment to me, but hell if I know if that's a great honor for an orc or not. Hopefully, you'll pick up the trail of the other three cadets before you have to consider speaking to them directly."

Helaina and Tamberlyn offer their farewells early, and head back to the tower to watch over Aeden and attend some of the tower guard's routine injuries. The drivers offer handshakes and aphoristic encouragements as they peel off one at a time to take up their shift guarding the tower and relieve soldiers there to return to Theramore. Torian, perhaps disappointing himself in a later reflection, does not summon sufficient courage to attempt another fumbling flirtation toward Marion; just a professional handshake, and a hasty retreat.

With your stay at the tower, there's time and resources to attempt one use of a profession. A crafting profession to make its expected product, or a gathering profession to produce resources to lower the DC of someone else's crafting profession check now or later! After that, it's time to go get these cadets, though you might feel free to discuss plans IC, if you have them.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion offered a pleasant smile to Torian as he darted over to offer her a hand of assistance in descending the side of the wagon. It was a sweet gesture that she appreciated, and Tarion was rewarded with his efforts with a warm smile and a genuine "Thank you, goodman Torian."

"I know a few things about mining..." Marion admitted, her right hand strokign her jaw as she gazed upwards in idle thought, "but that runs in the family. Or it used to, anyway..."

"I served an engineering apprenticeship at Dalaran while also enrolled as a regular student. That is how I spotted our initial problem," she crooked her right index finger to point towards the wrapped-around chain.


oOo


During the temporary residence at the watchtower, Marion noticed something.

She was watching how the elf and ogre took rather poorly to the humid, fetid and insect-choked environment of the swamp, their constitutions ill-prepared to see off the myriad dangers that sought to lay them low with infirmity. Marion herself had fared much better, and though she may enjoy the idea that her mountainous upbringing had installed within her a heartier fortitude, it was quite a tale to say that one was tougher than an ogre. Thus, the engineer considered the differences between herself, Isaera and Mor'Lag, and the warlock quickly discerned that of the three only she was dressed properly for their surroundings. She wore no thick raiments, but rather she was almost entirely covered. The elf, meanwhile, had paraded herself around in a way that the noble-born Alteraci kept to herself, while the ogre, naturally born and raised within a backwards and savage culture, bedecked herself with only the crudest forms of linen (in Marions opinion anyway).

Why would this matter?

Well, Marion knew well of how a carcass left upon the earth would soon attract a swarm of flies. Likewise, she had seen the mosquitos and other repulsive insects buzzing around their camp, hour after hour, their needles, stingers and injectors helping themselves to their exposed skin where they could.

Naturally, Marion considered just telling the two to wrap up and wear something decent, Isaera in particular, like a traveling lady should and that their illness was the universes way of suggesting that they dress with a better sense of propriety. But between a who-knows-how-old-elf and enormous ogre, Marion did not fancy her chances of getting them to change their minds. So perhaps they needed something else that would keep the insects away?

For a good long while Marion pondered this puzzle on her own, merely seated in a corner with a small bit of food and a writing pad and pen, taking notes, jotting down thoughts and observing the world around her.

Then she spotted the beastly Troll working his primitive alchemy, and an idea suddenly ignited within Marions brain. A 'Eureka!' smile splitting her features, she buried her attention into the note-book before her and started to feverishly write, draw and compute.


ooc:

Marion is using her 'Inventor' advantage to create the following:

Power: Immunity 1: Disease.

Inventing: [roll0] vs TN DC 11.

She's making a Warcraft Bug Repellent.

[Plaids]

There were still three recruits out there. Potentially four battered young soldiers.
The Isaera and Mor'Lag were thankfully recovering quickly thanks to the Theramore medics. After spending some time with Mor'Lag in the tavern Jakk'ari knew the two had withstood their fair share of stress and tragedy.

But the others were a mystery.
Zachary being ex-military was likely hardened by combat and hardship. But Jakk'ari knew how grief could still overwhelm even experienced men. He knew with pain that every timeafter the first time to truly tear a hole in someone would be lesser, more easily managed, and quicker to heal but it would still hurt and tear.

Isaera is young and Jakk'ari's first sighting of here was in the tavern flaunting a fabulous gift for of arcane power. She is likely the most vulnerable and would need to cautiously observed for distress.

Marion was the hardest to decipher. She presented a commanding presence in the tavern and wielded a grim power stoically but her untarnished face and lack of insignias suggested her to be a civilian secluded from combat. Marion is the biggest unknown. Hopefully she was was strong.

Either way the stress and pain could be assuaged with preparation. Failing to see a gardener Jakk'ari headed off to the side of tower to forage for some herbs.

[MrAbdiel]

After availing themselves of the tower's supplies and equipment, the group packs up their kit and gets moving west, and a little south; off the roads the Alliance patrols at all and, passing a shield daubed with a red familiar glyph denoting Horde presence to all those that would pass that point. But pass that point the cadets certainly did. A little ways from that sign, the remnants of a campfire is found. It's washed out, but that means that it's at least as old as the thunderstorm two nights ago. Jakk'ari takes a moment to consult with the earth spirits in the area about the last time they saw a flame spirit and, though it can be hard to decipher strict meaning from an unmanifested spirit's milky concept of the passage of time, it seems that the spirits confirm the investigator's suspicions that this campfire was burning more than five days ago. Additionally, there are three large rocks arranged around the fire, and some drag marks suggest that there were a pair of short logs here that have probably been dragged off by a local peon. Before that reclamation, three rocks and two logs makes for five seats around a campfire: the first night of five young cadets exorcising their spirits of risk and adventure by camping in Horde territory before they would become full Theramore guards and subject to more rigid expectations of behaviour. After this long series of deductions by the team, Isaera manages even to spot with her legendarilly keen elven senses that the boys have helpfully carved their marks into a narrow swamp tree - the letters A, F, G, L, and X in common script scarring its gnarled bark. A for Aeden who they found at Jarl's hut; L for Lidus who made his desperate sprint back to Theramore to raise the alarm and fell into an exhausted coma. The other three letters correspond to the names of the other cadets, as conveyed by Brother Bright during the off-the-record candid exchange of information: Gawin, Felix, and Xander.

From there, Zachary leads the party south off the road and into the scrub and brush. Horde patrols, he reasons, have little incentive to strike out off the roads in numbers for more distance than they need to investigate sounds or motions. Horde scouts might well plunge deep off the roads and just about anywhere in the wild area. But a path beaten through the scrub, with enough broken reeds, crushed nests, and the odd half-print of a boot to suggest a small group of individuals surging off the roads for a long trek? That sounds like the cadets, who would want to avoid the roads at this point and the chance of encountering Horde patrols. What isn't clear is why they chose to strike south instead of heading back to the tower after their little stunt. But it's Marion who is able to supply an answer to this, as the day of searching rounds down and the party is forced to camp for the night. They camp using the stone circled firepit made by the cadets when they pass through, and Mor'Lag spots a glint of silver amidst the ashes as the new campfire is kindled there - three eyes being better than two, it seems. It's a small loop, an ear ring, that might have belonged to one of the cadets; except that Marion knows it could not have. This little ring isn't pure silver at all, but felsteel - and it likely came from the ear of a small demon type known as an imp. As a reasonable conjecture, this imp appeared from within the campfire, and then took a great blow from one of the cadets sufficient to knock the ring free. Once the scenario of a fight happening around the campfire is raised, and the party knows to example this area with a deliberate eye, they are able to assemble a likely scenario.

The cadets had intended to prove their bravery by camping in Horde territory, and did so; but the next morning, before they could turn back, something caught their attention sufficiently that they spent a day diverting south at a careful pace into the brush. When it became dark, they stopped to camp again - then they came under attack. An enemy, with atleast one fel magician sufficient to summon an imp, fell upon the cadets as they were bedding down. It seems that they scattered, at that point; tracks sufficient for one or two strike east; probably Lidus and Aeden who made it all and halfway back to Theramore respectively. One broken branch with a fleck of skin and blood on it suggests a blind rush north east, in the perhaps coincidental direction of Brackenwall. And two don't go very far at all - perhaps they stood and fought, or perhaps they surrendered. But the fact that the leave neither tracks nor bodies and so little combat sign raises suspicions in the group's collection of keen minds. Jakk'ari is disturbed to find the earth spirits in this place disoriented, and sluggish; the air whispers to him that they have been poisoned, and made to forget. And so, the crown on the hypothesis: whoever attacked used some kind of masking magic to cover up their tracks after the conflict, leaving only the tracks of the cadets who escaped east and north. The trackless directions, broadly speaking, are west - leading to the border with the Barrens, and the beginning of the Horde heartland - and south, into the thickest part of Dustwallow's swampy regions called the Quagmire. Thus, the party is left with reason to believe that one of the cadets went in a blind panic towards the nearby Horde settlement, a day's travel north west. And whoever attacked them, using fel magic in their arsenal and with other tricks to bamboozle the earth spirits into hiding the signs of their passage, must have departed with their captives or kills to the Barrens, or the Quagmire. As they spend their third night in the wild, and any living cadets spend their seventh, the party must decide amongst themselves which direction they ought to investigate on the following day.

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag fingers the tiny ring a relic from another world, lost in the great war between the Legion and the Old Gods!! A symbol of power! they flip a coin.
Mor sticks it through the cartilage of her nose. A little blood drops out.
Keen eyes might have seen a green spark...
Lag wills it not to catch, and it is extinguished.

Later, Mor and Lag consider the cadets.

"One went to the Horde."
"Trouble "
"The others..."
"Already dead"
"And won't spark a war if they aren't"

[WindStruck]

"We can't say for certain if they are dead yet.." Isaera says. If she wasn't simply being hopeful, she was just being contrary.

"The identity of the attacker is still unknown, but if they are some type of warlock themselves.. Marion, do you think you may have a way to detect a fel presence, should they try to sneak up on us?"

"My best guess is..and my hope, is that whoever fled to Brackenwall village may be safe for now. If they behaved as cold-blooded savages and merely killed the cadet, they would have done so days ago. We can head to Brackenwall last. As for the other two, it seems hard to say what happened. If magic was used to obscure tracks, that still doesn't mean they didn't get far..."

She suggests, "Perhaps, if we were to head a ways south, we may find evidence of passage again? I think this magic would only have a limited time or scope."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari considers words carefully. Reasoning he would likely need a unified party to survive the marsh and return to Theramore with any more cadets.

I agree. The horde are fierce but have members who can be reasoned with. I believe that our cadet is safe and I can appeal to their honor to return any cadet held in Bracken Wall. Supporting Isaera.
Don't forget our payment comes even with the return of dead cadets. Attempting to appeal to Mor'Lag.

Addressing everyone he mentions. There is a malevolent agent who has been here. One that the horde shamans will be glad to have been defeated.
Attempting to rouse the party he provides his final address for the moment. I've seen what our group has done. I see ambition and power enough to scale mountains and rout rivers. We can find the scouts taken further into the wilderness.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion held up the small, silver ring with an scrutinising hazel eye.

"It is certainly exquisite, isn't it?" she asked no-one-in-particular, her familiarity with metals informing her that this was metal not of this world. That it would end up decorating the nostrils of the ogre didn't seem to bother the warlock, at least until she was asked if she could do anything about it.

Pursing her lips in though, Marion, for the first time, withdrew a leather-wrapped tome from within her backpack and opened it. The parchment within was inscribed with hack-and-slash symbols, patterns of geometry and a myriad of notes, gylphs and drawings that one would best keep from the weak and the timid, but Marion flipped through the pages non-chalantly until stopping upon a section that had sprung up in her memory.

"Aha!" she exlcaimed, nodding her head once before looking up at Mor'Lag.

Considering her auctions with a silent 'Hmmm...', the human stood up, reached up and moved to pluck the silver ring from the ogre's nose.

"May I?" she asked.

If permitted, Marion retrieved the object and placed it upon the ground. With the point of her right index finger, and book splayed open with her left from which she took directions, the warlock started to draw a series of runes into the dirt and chant softly to herself...

ooc:

Marion is using Ritualist to create a ritual.


"Demon Scrying" (Multiple Effects) (3pp)
Senses 8: Detect (Demon), Acute, Accurate, Ranged (sight), Extended 3, Activation, Limited (Requires object belonging to target), Unreliable (5 uses)
Enhanced Trait 5: Perception +10, Concentration, Custom (Requires object belonging to thing being perceived), Increased Action, Sense-dependent (Detect Demon), Unreliable (5 uses).

She'll Take 10 on her Expertise (Magic) roll if she can, otherwise:

Expertise (Magic): [roll0] vs TN 13

Edit: I've just realised that the Senses will also need Counters Concealment (All) and Penetrates Concealment. That will make the total ritual 6pp instead, which she still passes, but I wanted to bring awareness to my adding this here rather than looking shifty and just capitalising upon a great roll to add extra stuff.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag look on, stunned.

"That was a relic of a dead world"
"Collateral damage in the Legion's crusade against the abominations"
"But you made it live again "
"We wish we could be like you"

Lag pulls a glass vial out of a surprisingly clean leather satchel.

"Take this. A tincture of herbs to increase intellect."

Mor sounds sad as she says. "It is little use to us"

[MrAbdiel]

So far, the search for the cadets has relied on mortal senses. Not just the traditional tracking senses, like the keen eyes and ears of the high elf but also the skilled and ingrained wilderness sense of the human huntsman. In these things, Marion can assist, but cannot leverage her full expertise. But there are other senses than even these, for those with the strength in their convictions and steel behind their eyes; senses that reveal things not strictly that are, but instead things that should not be and yet are. It is such illicit sensory power that Marion is forced to draw on now.

Well; perhaps not forced. Afforded, maybe.

The other members of the party watch as Marion gazes down into the ring resting in the palm of her hand. She incants the strange words in the wicked language that causes all who hear it to taste ash in their mouths. The runes she has scratched in the dirt pool up with sourceless smoke, and then a glimmering smoulder of green flame. And the ring in her palm stirs, shifts, stands upright on its edge, and begins spinning. Lazilly at first, then faster and faster until it seems to be a whirling silver ball in the warlock's hand. Her eyes, too, have taken on the same silver sheen, and they flutter and track left and right as they orient to a whole new world of perceptions.

To Marion's eyes, her ritual works, and she partially penetrates the veil of worlds to see an overlay of how the Twisting Nether comes close to Azeroth. Varghast is there, in some splash of a scene on another world drawn close enough to your vision by, you must assume, nothing more than your affinity for that particular demon. In a dark crystal sphere the size of a moon, he swarms in shapeless oneness with millions of others of his kind. The nature of this union is incomprehensible to you; and you force your attention away, and back to the task at hand - targeting not the demon you have bound to your service, but the one to whom this little trinket belonged. Your gaze tracks across distorted miles of the Netherscape, and you cannot find the imp you are looking for. He is gone far away, or perhaps, he is unsummoned in some other Netherplace to which your senses cannot reach with your power. But what you do see is enough to make a difference. The places where the overlay of the Nether you are perceiving and the 'real' world intersect light up the path of this imp's passage in this world as clearly as if it were a story you already knew by heart; an only slightly uncomfortable sense of coming to know that is imparted upon you without a strict understanding of how this information is sluicing into your mind in this phantasmagorical pseudo-sight. It was summoned into being near the road from which you departed a dark before; moving a little south before being unsummoned again only to be resummoned further down the same path. In and out of the world, in and out, like a sewing needle penetrating the fates of these young men and stitching up their graveclothes, the imp was conjured likely to be glimpsed by the young soldiers to lure them further and further from the road. These cadets are too young to have fought in the third war, so they cannot have known the cunning of the legion; but they know the songs of valor and tales of sacrifice in which their fathers and grandfathers die to spurn the conquest sought by these demons. It's not hard ti imagine them being easily enticed by a chance to stomp out even a minor creature of the Fel.

Once they got to this campsite and gave up their chase, the imp was summoned again - this time in the midst of the fire - and immediately was struck with something flat and hard. A cooking skillet, you speculate; enough to nearly kill it and to draw the victorious focus of the cadets while some greater ambush was sprung upon them. In the ensuring combat, the imp was killed and rendered unmanifest; but it has been summoned back into the world just one more time before its trail vanishes from your supernatural sight - far to the south, close to the ogre mound and encampment known as Stonemaul village. If the binder of this imp has taken any of these cadets as prisoner or trophy, they have taken them there.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/P3ZGnKI.jpg Marion Mordis


A smile crossed Marions features as she stood upright and rolled her shoulders. Lifting her right hand and pointing in the direction of the Stonemaul compound, she announced to the group, "the answers we seek are in that direction. Surrounded by ogres."

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag
The Ogres look uncomfortable.

"We must confess"
"We aren't a real Ogre"

"Our Fathers fought in the Second War..."
"They were a great warlock"

"But they died. Without leave."
"Every one of The People was required to take ten enemy before they had permission to die"

"Our Fathers were struck by lightning with only 8 kills "
"He was a deserter."

"His marriage was annulled"
"I became illegitimate. Clanless"

"Do not expect me to be welcomed by these kidnappers "

The Ogres look dejected at admitting their secret. Lag moreso. For she had a darker sin than her shameful parentage. She hated magic.
Power was the only true virtue, and magic was the purest form of power. But she wished not to harness it, but only To make it go away

[MrAbdiel]

Mor'Lag, by virtue of being an interestingly well informed ogress, would know a little about the Stonemaul.

The Stonemaul were one of the largest clans to come through the portal; enough that even after losing the second war, their tribe was large enough to split into two elements with self-sufficient numbers. Half of the clan established themselves in the mountains near Dalaran, and were caught up in a conflict between Sylvannas' early Forsaken and the Scourge splinter force commanded by the Dreadlord Varimathras. The Stonemaul leader, Mug'Thol, was fierce and independant with intentions to profiteer off the battle by hiring forces to each side; but then mysteriously threw in his allegiance entirely with Sylvannas and her forces. This inexplicable spurt of allegiance was not to be longlived, as those ogres eventually travelled into ruins of Alterac and became the tribe known now as the Crushridge.

The other half of the Stonemaul fled the failed war across the sea with the ogre 'survivor armada', and settled in Dustwallow Marsh. After courting the Horde for aide during internal strife then betraying the Horde at the earliest opportunity, the Dustwallow Stonemaul endured a leadership challenge. The Mok'Nathal champion of the Horde Rexxar, along with his companions, slew the corrupt chieftain Kor'gall and took his rightfully won place as leader of the clan. Three years of formal Horde affiliation followed after which Rexxar abdicated leadership to the up and coming leader Mok'Morokk, who began reducing the formal ties to the Horde and carefully steering the remains of the Stonemaul tribe towards independence out from underneath the red banner. The ogres at Stonemaul Village, therefor, might be expected to be somewhat pro-Horde, but not formally integrated.

[WindStruck]

"Ogres? How do you know there are.. oh nevermind..." she sighs.

"Great. That fact alone reduces the chance of the cadet being alive tremendously... Can only hope the ogres didn't find him, or else he'd be stew already..."

"Well, I don't suppose they might be bargained to part with what amounts to used soup bones?" she asks, her attention drifting hopefully toward Mor'Lag, up until she also admits that she, well, probably would not be well-received either.

Another - this time - more long, drawn out, utterly-exasperated sigh.

"I don't know. Just make up some distant clan but also have some believable reason to be along with us or something. Or just don't say you were disowned! Better yet, we may just want to avoid them. I don't mind venturing south, just to be sure, but.. I think it would be a terrible idea to get too close."

[MrAbdiel]

“It’s not promising, I’ll admit.” Zachary chimes in, rubbing his beard pensively. “How about this: we take the bird in the hand before going for the two in the bush? If one cadet has fled up to Brackenwall, we ought to try to recover him sooner since he’s an enemy agent to the Horde, and not just a… well, unfortunate prisoner like one might be with the ogres. I’m nervous about Brackenwall - a good orc spymaster will pick me for alliance military, retired or not. But the rest of you can pass just fine; even Marion’s not exactly got the cut of a soldier.”

“Let me do what I do best. I’ll head south toward Stonemaul Village, leaving ranger sign that the elf’s eyes won’t miss so you can avoid the worst of the terrain on the longer journey. The rest of you head up to Brackenwall. Jakk’ari’s a diplomat. He’ll get you in. Heck, if they do have one of the boys, Jakk’ari might even convince the Horde to keep him safe so we don’t have to run him back to the tower before we regroup to check out the Stonemaul lead when you’re done.”

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis


Marion pursed her lips at the suggestion of the others, and while they talk among themselves the warlock shrugged and said softly to herself: "We could always just kill all the ogres..."

Marion didn't see a problem with that plan. Or at least, any moral problems with attempting it. The warlock was not a heartless girl though. She felt a pang of sympathy for the ogress's explanation of her past, though that was a double-edged blade in her memory that cut open the old wound of the Second War. That '8 kills' the Ogress spoke of were the deaths of Marion's fellow humans, people who had not asked for the brutal war but had had it forced upon them by the savage, invading greenskins whom burned, pillaged and defiled where-ever they went.

"So we're going to barter with the Horde on their turf?" Marion asked.

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag

Mor and Lag become indignant, but not at what Isaera and Marion might have supposed. Lag lashes out verbally at Isaera.

"You, Quel'Dorei, I suppose you could convince any Kal'Dorei we might meet you are the King of Darnassus. You might convince them by sharing details of the harem fights between your wives in your fancy stone palace "

The implication, that every detail of that story was completely backwards, and an Ogre who was not even from the right clan might have equal luck selling a lie... may have been opaque.
Then she turned to Marion. "I suppose humans have never fought humans?"

Mor looks apologetic but doesn't speak .

[WindStruck]

Again, Isaera seems confused at first through responds, "Well, a king or queen would be a stretch, but I'd have no problem at least not seeming like I was an outcast."

Stilll. Harem fights. What??

"Seems so," Isaera says to Marion with a shrug.

Then to Zachary: "Honestly, that's probably not a bad idea, you scouting around near the one lost in the swamp. I'd just rather that you not get caught either, or fall prey to whatever fel magic happened earlier."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari turns to Zachary responding to his proposal nodding pensively. "You make a good point. The horde may be more likely to imprison a spy than an intruder. Plus the demonic presence adds additional risk that our cadets with the ogres won't be alive. If you believe it is best to scout the ogres while we parlay with the horde then I trust you."

Seeing Mor'Lag upset Jakk'ari quickly steps between the two meeting Isaera's gaze standing above her and scoldings. "Hush. What you are expecting would be the same as I passing for a Drakkari. That's just not how it's done."

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion's eyes swivelled back and forth between Mor'Lag and Isaera, their argument becoming surprisingly heated surprisingly quickly. Old rivalries died slowly.

And then the troll stepped forth to loom over the elf and scold her. Trolls weren't that much shorter than ogres when they stood upright, even if they did not have the mass, and with Marion and Isaera the only civilised pair standing before an ogre and a troll whom were both growing indignant...

But from what Marion knew of the Horde, Isaera's suggestion wasn't that crazy to her, at least the core of it. Then greenskins put a lot of stock into clans and reputation, yes? In a way it was a primitive form of the Humans own aristocracy, only with less decorum and more frothing lunacy.

"How about everyone calms down?" Marion's voice cut in from behind.

"Jakk'ari, please inform Isaera and I as to the decorum and hospitality ceremonies that would ingratiate us to our...hosts when we make contact with Brackenwall?"

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari swivels his head caught off guard by the request something rarely given to him by anyone above his position. When once only his tribes chieftain and his deputies gave him courteous orders and suggestions best complied with. He had become accustomed to complying with requests from captains, master druids, viziers, and deacons. But this was different nothing suggested a title but he understood her confidence and knew Marion wasn't pleading.

Taking a deep breath he composes himself and gives a shallow bow. His palms open upwards at hip height. He raises his head and faces Isaera "My apologies Isaera, Mor'Lag has had her fair share of hardship with other Ogres contributing to them."

He begins dispensing advice.
"Now as Marion suggested it is best we accustom ourselves with the ceremonies and practices of the members of the horde. First orcs pride themselves on ferocity in battle, less mentioned is their practice of discretion since most want to return safely to their families.

But most importantly never call for a mak'gora only challenges from a leader respected by orcs will be given the privilege. You wouldn't believe how many pompous sell swords attempt it"
Jakk'ari smiles and chuckles giving the advice and prepares to continue giving advice through the night.

[WindStruck]

Isaera looks to Jakk'ari curiously. "What's a mak'gora?" she asks.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari is caught unaware of his neglect to explain the basics, his enthusiasm for the subject allowing him to neglect the fundamentals."Oh! Well a Mak'gora is a ritual amongst orcs where a leader may challenge another to single combat for the duties of leadership. Each combatant is only allowed one weapon and the battle is often to the death. Too often other races think any challenger will be accepted. Not knowing that the Mak'gora is a privilege and not an obligation amongst orcish clans.

Now is there anything else you wish to know of?"

[MrAbdiel]

BRACKENWALL VILLAGE
It’s toward evening when you cross the marsh back to the west road and arrive in the Horde’s populated zone. And if you’d ever been worried that the Horde had planned to start aggressing on Theramore while you lived there, the sight of Brackenwall Village soothes your fears considerably. Village is not underselling it - where Theramore is a bonafide castle town supporting over five thousand in the surrounding areas, Brackenwall is a crude little hub (by anyone’s standards), with a resident population of perhaps a hundred, and another hundred or so scattered through a few little hamlets nearby. You passed one of these hamlets on your way to Brackenwall, but elected not to stop there. Toiling away within, you exchanged wary stares with the occupants (principally orcs, with a smattering of dark furred tauren) who went about the work of trying to wring some lasting value out of the marshland. Like the humans on the other side of the region, they appear to be building retaining walls and digging drainage ditches to make more of the swampland farmable. A variety of small, nonuniform plots of vegetation suggestion a scattergun approach to farming, though they have enough visible, operable silos to suggest they aren’t starving; and neither are the constantly squealing and grunting pigs they seem to farm everywhere.

These are big, red skinned beasts with fine fur and a nasty temperament, but the capacity to eat just about anything they are fed including decaying swamp matter: a marvellous breed of swine known to the Alliance as rouge hogs. Produced by the efforts of a small cartel of half-orc swineherds after crossing the Draenic felboar with the Azerothian common forest boar, the breeders selecting the least demonic offerings in each generation until arriving at the the final result that retains the felboar’s incredibly omnivoracity with the forest boar’s not poisonousness. They aren’t the tastiest bacon, but you can raise them anywhere and feed them anything even vaguely organic. Just remember to use stone fencing.

As a child of the desert, you know a little about trying to coax some mercy from a harsh land. It seems like these villages are under local direction to experiment agriculturally. You recognize some of the plants in these plots - strains of salt-tolerating tubers and soil enriching grains which speak to a longer term plan of taming the recalcitrant earth here. The silos, you presume, must be topped up with grain shipments from the more productive farms in the Barrens, or the Horde’s bread basket, Mulgore.

The sloppy maintenance on the palisades walls of Brackenwall shows the ravages of peace clearly, while the pair of orc grunts guarding the maingate both appear to be well into the second half of their lives; both the exposed midsections of the male and female guard showing the slow but steady victory of paunch over abs. But they wear their iconic spiked shoulder plates and leather chest harnesses proudly, each leaning lazily on their oversized axes as they wrap up their conversation and turn their attention to your arrival. And getting into the village isn’t as hard as you might have thought, either. There’s a moment of discord when Jakk’ari steps up and the guards try to converse with him in orcish, but the single guard in the village’s only gate tower, a Darkspear troll girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen, calls down from her perch and cheerfully facilitates the exchange.

They want to know if the elf and the human are Alliance. Your group tells them they’re not, just Theramoran civilains. They want to know if you’ve come to trade. Your group tells them you’re not, just looking for information. They want to know what information. Your group tells them you’d rather not say, and would it be possible to speak to the village authority. They let you pass, tell you not to make trouble, and seem to take for granted that you won’t be too much to handle if you do.

Jakk’ari can roll me persuasion here. His routine persuasion is enough to mean that they’ll get into the village no matter what, but the quality of this roll with determine the general mood of the Brackenwall locals to the group.

Inside the village, the streets are flanked by rows of housing of various states of permanency; some ragged huts with linen walls that seem to have been doomed to half construction; some more respectable residences of clay brick, solid wooden frames, and the Horde’s popular red shingle roofing with carved wooden horn ornamentation. It’s only a short walk down the main thoroughfare towards the village hall, and you keep close to your group as you get the side-eye from the locals.

Notably in the village square, you have easy access to all the staple buildings you’d expect. The comforting song of hammer on metal rings out from a nearby blacksmith, in which the towering, hunched figure of a tauren bangs together the chain links of some kind of animal harness. What passes for a stubby wizard tower, wooden and crooked and festooned with tribal fetishes, has its doors open at the bottom floor, and it radiates the same arcane glow you expect from the business level operations of such places. It’s like a troll mage, or perhaps a particularly scholarly witchdoctor is the proprietor, but you hear a peal of elvish laughter come from within before the inaudible, normal conversation resumes. A large open air cooking pit is being used by numerous villagers with pots and grills projected over the coals, though the display is dominated by a huge, brawny ogre who is cooking a plucked and stuffed plainstrider the size of a small horse. He cranks the rotisserie with one thick arm, the one cyclopean eye in is singular head tracking naturally to Mor’Lag with curiosity as you pass by. And a big, bustling building which must be an inn or tavern is just beginning to vibrate with the rhythmic dum-da-da-da-dum-da-da-da recreational drum beats. It’s big enough to rival the village hall nearby, and is probably larger than the taverns back in Theramore; presumably, because it’s the only gig in town for Horde folk passing through from the Barrens. There’s no rain yet; but a grumbling sky suggests it’s going to be another miserably stormy night; and the idea of sleeping in a warm room with a locked door and a belly full of a hot meal and ale enters your mind, weighing itself against a miserable, rainy alternative and another cycle of make-camp-break-camp.

There’s nothing stopping you from shuffling into the city in tactical diamond formation, speaking to the village chief, and then strafing warilly out again to camp in the storm. But it might be more fun to indulge your character’s curiosities in a Horde village that seems not to be hostile to them. To further your primary objective, Jakk’ari probably wants to head into the village hall and look to talk discreetly to the village chief about the cadet. Everyone else can do what they like. I’ve described a couple of locations, but if you want to skulk around looking for some more specific trouble, let me know and give me a roll and I’ll see what you find. I have seeded the scene with things that might be of interest to your characters, but the bait is yours to take, or spurn.

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag looks around warily, avoiding especially the gaze of the other Ogre. It is obvious they arenb't comfortable here, and would just as soon go back in the storm.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk'ari

You don't know it yet, but that night, you'll dream.

“You are mad, Ukorz. Ya drunk on ya father’s wine.”

Drunk on ya father’s wine. When Sasani says this, the entire tone of the summit changes. Here, in the heady and mildly narcotic smoke of the Lodge, the peace smoke hadn’t managed to take the edge off the intensity, and Sasani couldn’t help but kick it up a notch.

There are nine of you here, three to a bench around the smoking coals. Chief Ukorz Sandscalp, high chieftain of the Sandfury tribe, leans forward on his knees. The massive power coiled up in his shoulder muscles makes an impressive frame even hunched, partially blocking your view of the trolls to his advisors left and right of him. On the second bench, shaking her head and rolling her eyes, is Chief Sasani Ut’ongo. While Ukorz has technical superiority over all of the Sandfury, it has been an age since Zul Farrak has projected its power across the whole desert, and while a full half of the remaining sand trolls dwell in the shadow of the ancient monuments under Ukorz’s watch, the rest are scattered in villages throughout Tanaris. Sasani has served for fifteen years as the delegate for the nomad clans and villages along the western interior of Tanaris, and its troubled southern regions in constant threat from the vile insectoid remnants of the unspeakable ancient foe. Those groups make up perhaps a third of the Sandfury. Sitting on your bench, to your immediate right, is Chief Haja’rra Shakar; the leader of your village Sunscar village, and since the old Nonos’ko from Fardune Village died last year, the current delegate and representative of the sixth of Sandfury trolls who dwell in the eastern coastal region in villages from yours, butting up against the mysterious hills in which the bronze drakes do their odd magics, all the way up to Steamwheedle port and Gadgetzan in the interior. Each chief has brought his or her traditional advisors; one who speaks with the loa, and one who speaks with the elements; and though you have travelled to Zul Farrak before to see the ancient structures and recite the ancient tales on festival days, you never expected to be here, in the Lodge, speaking for the elements and advising on the wellbeing of five thousand trolls. You’d be honored, if you weren’t so self conscious. Sasani’s shamanic advisor is the regional legend Sul the Sandcrawler, thirty years your senior and somehow as vigorous and imposing as a troll half your age. Ukorz’s shaman you hadn’t met till today and closer to your peer in power and experience, but Shia’ha Stonecaller is clearly more comfortable in these corridors of authority and responsibility than her age would dictate. Sitting across from these trolls, you feel every bit the dazzled, bumpkin spirit-speaker you feared you would appear to be from the moment Chief Haja’rra tapped you to advise him.

At Sasani’s loaded comment, the lodge goes quiet; and Haja’rra’s witchdoctor leans back from her seat on the other side of him, so she can look past your mutual chief’s shoulders and ritually scarred back to see you. Her expression - one of contained alarm but confidence expressly in you - is one you are well used to, and is probably your favorite. It’s the look she gives you whenever some trouble kicks up which requires the steady hand of your village’s spiritual leaders, and presages a project you will have to work on together. The look is composed of the lofting of one delicate eyebrow, indicating uncertainty; a pursing of her lips between her short and shapely tusks, indicating resolution; and a tilt of her head to one side, suggesting she’s ready to follow your lead and expects you to produce the same level-headed wisdom she relies on to free her up as the more dynamic risktaker of your duo. Together, you and Lasha’nah have helped steer your young chief and small village through border conflicts with the Dunemaul ogres, night raids by roaming Silithid packs, and one bizarre summer in which your people were plagued by dune-dervish elementals, spinning backwards and driven insane by weird magic in the dragon-infested hills. All of those things seem like small victories now that you are sitting in a smoke lodge with the most powerful Sandfury trolls alive, trying to find a solution to the goblin troubles. But with that familiar glance, Witchdoctor Lasha’nah, your partner in crime, shears away your sense of smallness and frees you to think clearly about the problems. She certainly thinks you’re capable of making a different here.

And she’s given you four children and sixteen years of devoted marriage. If anyone knows what you’re capable of, it’s her.

You are mad, Ukorz. Ya drunk on ya father’s wine.

Sasani isn’t wrong, you know for a fact. Ukorz has been a strong leader for his people in an era when they had almost no friends at all. The threats on all sides have come close to shattering the Sandfury beyond repair as a tribe while they’ve been on borrowed time for centuries, but Ukorz’s warrior militantism and unflagging belief in the power of your people’s ancient destiny. The ancient Sandfury stood alone and sacrificed their Empire’s whole might to contain the flow of the hideous Qiraji long before the Elves and their dragon allies mustered their might to join battle. Some essence of that long gone glory still shines in Ukorz’s eyes: the same total confidence in the power of the Sandfury that drove the heroic Archmartyr Theka to sacrifice himself, cursing the Qiraji with his death and saving Zul Farrak from destruction.

That is what Sasani means; Ukorz is so obsessed with ancient glory that he has lost touch with the bitter truth: the Sandfury are a small, weak, scattered tribe with barely enough people to sustain themselves in a land so hostile that neither the Horde nor the Alliance want to colonise it. Only ogres and goblins, both who share the troll’s capacity to thrive in any climate, have made real inroads in the Farraki homeland, but it’s the goblins that are causing your people worry now. And not with guns or their angry machines, but with a weapon the Farraki trolls have almost no knowledge of at all: commerce. Gadgetzan, once a dinky little tradepost established by goblins and decent trade partners for the Farraki villages like yours, the coming of the broken remnants of the Horde after the second war, and the founding of the new Horde and Theramore to the north in other parts of Kalimdor, created an enormous new market the exploitation of which the Steamwheedle cartel was born. No longer were the goblins a good source of goods from distant lands with whom you could barter, but a massive operation piping in resources from all over southern Kalimdor and ships from the Eastern Kingdoms. Their caravans built roads through territories that only made it easier for the ogres to attack. Their ruthless profit seekers were turning over ruins and graves of the old Sandfury, heedless of any sense of respect for the dead or the demands of their living kin. And perhaps most troublesome of all, the goblins competed for hunted game, for wellsprings, for the scarce but present bounty of the desert on which your people rely. Without exclusive access to that bounty, your villages are forced to buy the difference - from the goblins. And with the rich factions up north able to pay considerably more than your poor desert folk, the price of survival is becoming cripplingly high. Some trolls have turned to robbing the graves of their own ancestors for trinkets to sell - a crime of which only goblins and human desert raiders were thought capable.

Ukorz’s solution is simple - mass the tribe, as in the older times, and attack Gadgetzan. With a swift enough strike, Baron Noggenfogger will surrender and with a blade to his throat, he will be forced to make his city into a vassalized client of the Sandfury. This will give the Farraki trading power; they can build and restore Zul Farrak with taxes imposed on the goblins, connect the villages with roads to supply each other more easily, and finally mount a campaign to subjugate the Dunemaul ogres and extinguish the human raiding gangs. Theoretically the plan ends there; but you doubt it.

“Mad?” Ukorz’s voice echoed from his throat in a gravelly croak, breaking the silence. “I been called worse by better, Sasani. But you the one wastin’ ya people’s time, diggin ya grave where ya father died; I’m the one whose not ready to fade.”

Somehow, this measured response is more ominous than the outburst everyone was expecting. Your chief Haja’rra speaks up before Sasani can fire back. “None of us want to fade ‘to the sand. But even if we had the power to smack the little green ones about, what then? Wid respect, High Cheiftain - ya don’t understand the Horde, or Alliance, and the power they got. We fought off the demons that came to our sands, but they fought a war against the demons we never even saw. And they won.”

“So we throw in with the Horde, like the Darkspear.” Sasani declares, prematurely guessing that Haja’rra has come around to her position. He corrects her. “We can’t, Sasani; to start, the Horde won’t take us while there’s still flesh-eatin’ in our villages; but if we go to the Horde we’re just another levy to be raised when they fight the humans and elves again. We can’t lose another thousand young trolls in someone else’s war. That be the end of us, mon.”

The remark about cannibalism is a polite dodge, you know. It’s been Haja’rra’s life’s work to eliminate the tradition of cannibalism from the eastern Farraki villages so they will be able to trade with the big civilized neighbors without stigma, but the capital of Zul Farrak, and the western regions are lagging behind in that regard. Old habits die hard.

“So what, den - go begging to the big dogs? Become slaves of de goblins?” Ukorz rumbles, mockingly. “Empires only respect power, mon. Widout it, we got no voice, and no future.”

Thus, the dilemma. The most powerful Sand troll in the world wants a war that you know, even if successful, only buys a short window before the Cartel brings in a mercenary army and specialist loan troops from the Horde and Alliance to smash your people to bloodsmears on the sand. Ukorz is wrong, and you know it. Tyrants only respect power, but from what you’ve seen of these factions, they aren’t tyrants. Indeed, they’re coalitions of unequal partners, not power hierarchies. And Sasani, the second most powerful Farraki in the world, wants the Sandfury to join the Horde. But the armistice between the big factions can’t last forever; and is breaking down in some places already. Formally joining one side is just a way of getting enlisted to die in someone else’s war, and to forever alienate half the people who could help your ailing tribe. It’s the goblins who are thriving amidst the chaos - signed up to neither side, doing their diplomatic and commercial magic to profit both, and profit from both. The goblins have the right idea - they’re just painfully ignorant of the spirits, and of history, and of all the things that matter. But they know a thing or two about being a little guy, surviving in a battlefield for giants.

Haja’rra looks to you as well, now. Your chief, and your wife beside him, are both laying their expectations on you that you will be able to articulate this vision for the future of your people better than anyone else.

The legacy of your tribe, older than the sands, older than the splitting of the land that made Kalimdor, hangs on the strength of your vision.

Everyone waits for you to speak.

[Plaids]

After surveying the scrappy village Jakk'ari requests the demon forged ring from Marion promising to return it as soon as possible and invites anyone to accompany him to accompany him to the town hall.
After observing everyone's responses Jakk'ari walks to the town hall being careful not to fall into any waterlogged potholes in the road.

[WindStruck]

Isaera does volunteer to tag along, on the off chance that, perhaps one of these village elders might be able to speak with her. Given the trill of what may have sounded like elven laughter coming from one of the buildings, she at least had a hope that she or any languages she spoke wouldn't be completely unknown to everyone.

[MrAbdiel]

The party is permitted into the village hall; a great circular building just now being illuminated by an orc child igniting the torches. They are funny children - their proportions are much the same as human kids, but puberty hits the males like a runaway steamtank and they pack on so much upper body muscle it requires a readjustment of their spinal stack. This child has tiny little tucks, big brown eyes, but distinctive green skin and no possibility of being mistaken for anything other than what he is. He looks back at your group as the door guard waves you in, his eyes widening at the sight of Marion and Isaera, but settling a little with more familiar ogre and troll silhouettes alongside them. But he wastes no time in lighting the final torch from his own torch-staff, and then hustling into the interior chamber where you can hear him reporting in fascinated murmurs.

When you arrive in the interior chamber, it's already firelit and warmed by a large brazier in the centre of the room. There is precious little furniture, tables and chairs mostly backed up against the wall; with the chamber's interior dominated by clusters of laid our bear and kodo hides, and rough sewn cushions. Presently scruffing the hair of the boy with the torchstaff is an older, scarred orc male with greying beard and braids that settle over each shoulder; a cracked tusk on the left side and a gold cap on the right. He looks over your group with a sense of resolved expectation, and crosses the room toward you. The simple forwardness of this action is almost enough to cause you to overlook the fact that there is another figure in the room - a darker green skinned orc, his muscled frame straining studded black leather armor; his hair pulled up above his head in a topknot. He seems perfectly happy to remain across the room, as far from the torches as he can be, watching you with sharp, scrutineer's eyes.

"Travellers." He offers in common, a sort of neutral greeting that assumes nothing, but does not exonerate you of suspicion. You're surprised to hear common come from his lips, but as he continues to talk, there's a clear strain in his brow and a jarring lexical pattern to his words that suggests he is trying hard to dredge up this old, rarely used tool for your benefit. "Come to, you have, this village Brackenwall. Am, I, Chief Targ Frostfang. Told have been, I, the business of you and I." Continuing to speak slowly, and remarkably patiently, he pats his broad chest with both his palms, and raises an eyebrow, hoping he's been communicative. "Have, you, the attention of mine."


The orc on the other side of the room is watching you with suspicious intensity. He obviously doesn't trust you, and his demeanour seems just shy of hostile...
...But his arms are folded, and his stance slowly relaxes; and you get the sense that even though he doesn't trust you, he has decided you aren't a threat.

[WindStruck]

Well, it was nice that this chief could speak some common, though the grammatical errors riddling his speech were distracting. Isaera considered for a moment not only what to say, but how to say it. She decided on speaking.. correctly, if anything, to set as an example and hopefully the old chief would get more used to it. She would also try to speak slowly.. rather awkwardly slowly in her opinion, and see if she could find some smaller words.

With a brief, yet deep nod of her head, in some attempt to show some respect and civility, Isaera begins, "We are glad to have a welcoming reception." Oof. She hoped those words weren't too big, but hopefully she spoke slowly enough.

"Thank you, Chief Targ. My name is Isaera Runescribe. We come from Theramore." She emphasized her identity by placing a hand upon her bosom, and Theramore by pointing in some vague direction, where she may have inaccurately thought it was from here.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari kneels respectively and addresses the chief.
"Thank you for your welcome Chieftan Targ. I am Jakk'ari of the Farraki please take this token of our good faith." Jakkari rises presenting the peacebloom and address the meat of the conversation.

"My companion and I are here by order of Theramore. We are seeking apprentice warriors who have been lost within the marsh and believe one to be within your custody. We wish to see their safe return to their homes."
"We also believe they went missing pursuing a demonic presence and both Brackenwall and Theramore stand to benefit by cooperating with this matter."

Jakk'ari withholds from inquiring about the Stone maul ogres to not overburden the chief in his decision making and risk a hasty and unsatisfactory resolution.

Jakk'ari politely addresses the chief offering him some peace bloom. He asks if the village has the cadet in custody and informs the chief about the demon presence in the marsh and requests cooperation or at least freedom or support in investigating the demons and lost cadets.
[roll0]For persuasion if applicable.


OOC: If I have the demonic ring I'd show it as proof. But I don't know.

[MrAbdiel]

I'm going to say that the team is happy enough to give the ring over to Jakk'ari for this purpose, since it's their primary objective; though Mor'Lag clearly sees something meaningful about it, and would like it back when all is said and done.

Chief Targ Frostfang listens intensely to the introductions as they come, eyes following the projected vector from Isaera's finger, head nodding a little as Jakk'ari lays out the situation in more detail. He looks intensely at whoever is speaking with a countenance that projects focus bordering on constipation, but it's clear the source of this is the orc picking his way through your common about as well as he speaks it himself. There's a couple of repetitions entailed. He asks naturally about the number of cadets that came into the loosely defined Horde boundaries, and seems sceptical when the tale of them following some demon appearance comes up; but presenting the ring seems to be enough to convince him. It is not hard to deduce that this orc is old enough to have lived through the Legion invasion and before that, to have been part of the Horde when they first fell under the spell of the Shadow Council and became the tool of demons to savage Azeroth, to know felsteel when he sees it.

There comes a moment when he is asking about where and how they found this item that he seems to run out of common to use - the most courteous language available to him, as it excludes no one - and shifts to a much more competant rendering of the troll language Zandali. With that tongue, he is able to rapidly clarify matters with Jakk'ari. He switches back to provide his own revelation.

"Is in, your man, Brackenwall. Maybe. Injured; treated. Would not talk, he, about name or mission. Had been, ah..." He pauses to lapse to Zandali to ask Jakk'ari for words that express lesser nuances of torture, and once so equipped... "Coercing, we, he. Water, no food. But... food tonight, he." After a moment of clarification again, he laughs a little, and refines: "Eat tonight, he will. Take tomorrow. Will tell, you, Lady Proudmoore this thing." He offers an almost cheeky, avuncular grin, laughs again, and puts an arm around Jakk'ari's shoulders to give the troll a brisk and apparently vigorous side-hug. "Good neighbours! Good neighbours. Will stay tonight, you, our village Brackenwall, eh?"

And then, in Zandali to Jakk'ari:
"You might as well. Strong storms tonight; no sense sleeping in the marsh. Come, Sandfury. Let your friends take a room or two at the inn across the square; but I have not been to Tanaris nor spoken to one of your tribe, so you and I will drink, and speak, and laugh as good neighbours do!"

He's quite insistent, and seems genuinely interested to wring some questions out of you, and get some libations into you; the sort of ale-drenched diplomacy that rural communities often feature, orc or not.

(OOC: Motivation: Eager to Please. I will give you a VP right now if you indulge your complication by awkwardly ditching your friends in this Horde settlement to go drinking with the village chief, so not to give him a bad impression.)

[WindStruck]

"We should talk to him. He will trust us, and hopefully we get more answers," Isaera says.

"But we have a problem. Two more cadets are missing. One may be south of here, or further west in the Barrens. The other.. still southeast in the swamps."

She looks to their troll companion and says, "Don't know what condition he's in, but probably not good if he hasn't been eating. But we need to find the others, or at least the one that went west, and I don't think we can take the cadet that is here, presently."

"A cadet is like.. a new warrior. Green, new recruit, low ranking. No one your seasoned warriors should be concerned about, in any case."

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis


Marion walked with visible tenseness as she passed through the shabby gates of the Horde "town". But honestly, only a generous man would call this fetid dump a "town". Having little love for the Horde, and definitely none for the orcs for the destruction they had wrought across Azeroth, Marion's dislike for the greenskins combined with her knowledge of engineering to ponder at what the world would look like if their savage, mindless kind had won the Second War. The images conjured in her head were not particularly flattering ones, as she could only imagine a world stuffed with shanty towns, putrid sanitation and the stench of body odour where-ever one went. No beauty, no marvels of engineering, no crafted works of art or touch of civilisation: nothing but a sty.

Keeping such thoughts to herself, however, Marion followed the group and kept an eye out. Unlike the others, Marion would happily prefer a makeshift camp in the swamp than trusting these beasts not to cut her throat in her sleep or enslave her for worse. Being a relatively knowledgeable woman, despite her youthful age, Marion knew of a few half-orcs dotted about Azeroth, and she would rather cut her own wrists than be forced to bring one of those wretched creatures into the world.

Bah! Why had they even come here? Just fel-fire this dungheap from afar and let the Light sort them out.

"Travellers," the "lead" orc spoke with his guttural voice, snapping Marion out from her distracting day-dream.

"Come to, you have, this village Brackenwall. Am, I, Chief Targ Frostfang. Told have been, I, the business of you and I. Have, you, the attention of mine."

Oh how interesting, Marion thought. The beast's application of Common was forced through the sentence structure of orcish which, if she were to make an educated guess, was Verb–subject–object, whereas Common was Subject-Verb-Object. Normally Marion was no linguistics expert, but being bilingual in a forbidden language, Demonic, gave her the knowledge that the sentence structure was different in other languages, and so not only was it unusual to see an orc proficient with some Common, but it was curious to see how he adapted her words to his native dialect.

Then the rest followed. The Cadet was here indeed, and tomorrow he would depart with them, if she understood correctly. The cost of his release would be a good word with Lady Proudmoore, which would no doubt reflect well on this orc in the eyes of Thrall, who valued diplomacy and peaceful relations.

Observing all of this with her perceptive, steely grey eyes, Marion remained quiet.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag look down. The Orc must at least suspect she is shamed. They are thankful they were not asked to speak to this elder. What could they say, and what would they want to?

Mor looks at Marion. She, at least, seems to understand what Orcs are, even if she thinks no better of the people who overthrew the Gronn and built great cities while the Greenskins squatted in tents. If Lag had not thrown her temper tantrum, maybe things might have been better between them, but she doubted it.

If the Horde's weakness had killed her fathers, it was strong enough to intimidate the humans. And humans knew enough to hate that which they fear.

And, goody. They got to stay in this sty under the banner of these scum. She would rather camp outside, but that level of insult couldn't go unremarked.

"Let's get it over with," Mor mutters in Ogrish

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari not used to more boisterous diplomacy due to his time in Theramore hesitates a moment to take stock in his companions. Mor'Lag was grumbling and he knew most accommodations for the ogre were cumbersome, Marion was being inscrutable at the moment, but Isaera seemed enthusiastic enough, joining in the conversation and pondering their future course of action.

While his companions were seemed to mixed who was he to deny an audience with the chief who was so gladly accommodating them? Especially a chief working under the leadership of the exalted shaman Thrall. Plus this would be a chance to discuss other details that had to be skimmed for the sake of brevity.
"It would be an honor Chieftain Targ. No doubt the merriment in the village will overcome the misery of the marsh."
Jakk'ari raises out his hand for a handshake preparing a strong grip for the orc chief.

Jakk'ari returns his gaze to his party speaking in common.
"Good news everyone. We will be staying the night. Isaeara, Mor'Lag, Marion I hope you are ready to meet our cadet when our hosts are ready."

[MrAbdiel]

No sooner has Jakk'ari had time to announce this, than the chief - gregarious enough as he seems to be - leads the shaman off with an arm around his shoulders, jabbering to him conversationally in the troll language.

This, of course, leaves Mor'Lag, Isaera, and Marion standing bereft of their Horde-whisperer; just inside the doorway of the village hall. Cheif Targ and Jakk'ari head up a rear staircase to the hall's second level; but the topknotted orc watching the delegation from the shadowy side of the hall lofts an eyebrow, raises a hand palm down, and makes a flicking, 'run along' motion with the flex of his fingers. It is clear this invitation has been extended to the Sandfury alone; and the others are expected to find their own arrangements in Brackenwall.

Outside, with a tremendous crack of thunder inaugurating the evening weather, it begins to rain.

Time to decide what you're doing this evening, at least initially. Obvious choices are investigating those places and scenes I listed earlier, though if you want to try your luck and look for something else specific, you may do that too. If your character is really set on sleeping in the torrential rain outside the village, then they can certainly head to the gate they entered through. But the local leader has indicated that he intends to give them no access to the mentioned alliance captive until tomorrow; so they must either resolve to force that circumstance in some unusual way, or decide how to spend the intervening time. Ask me in the OOC if any part of the scene is unclear!

[Feathersnow]

"I think we are stuck here with..." starts Lag.

"These lovely people" Mor talks over her.
"The Greenskins"

The Orcs probably can't hear, even if they understand Common, as the Ogres' shared diaphragm was stifled by both of their throats calling on all three lungs to talk at once.

"We probably will be safe if we share a room."

"Four of us"

"Not it for third watch!"

[Plaids]

When Jakk'ari goes to sleep.

The situation of the Farraki had grown dire. The land once unwelcoming to outsiders no longer guaranteed the tribes safety as more inlets sprouted along it's borders.
Ukorz was eager for bloodletting while Sasani wanted confederation with the Horde. Both one would agitate half the world against the Farraki and risk fealty while the other would spell it's doom.

Before this meeting at the behest of his leader Haja'rra and accompanied by Lash'na, he had seen the myriad of people within Gadgetzan. Heard their speeches and seen their many distinctions and denominations.

Jakk'ari spoke to the congregation.

Fighting the Steamwheedle directly won't work. I have seen the port and the peoples within. They are too numerous and can be easily motivated to raise arms against us. We can protect our game and watering holes but
only for so long. Certainly not beyond the next time of scarcity in the desert.

I believe in these times wisdom can be gleaned from our ancient past to lead us forward. Something nobody surpasses us in.

Jakk'ari turns to Ukorz while subtly subduing the flames to halt the emission of smoke and popping of wood. This exchange would require securing a candid conversation

I respect your tenacity and resilience Chief Ukorz. At our zenith, the empire of Zul, nothing could overcome the trolls. So strong was the union of tribes it beat the Qiraji empire chasing them to the most dismal parts of Azeroth when the other races were in their infancy. But what must not be forgotten is that it took a union of all tribes encomapassing the entire world. We are too few and must share our tenacity to overcome this threat.

Next he turned Sasani.

Chief Sasani, I respect your calculus of power the cartel is too powerful for us to fight alone. But it be prudent to remember several of the times our ancestors fell from grace.
Such as when the Zul chose appeasement and fealty to other empires. The storm king led the avaricious emperor into a fight that led to his lineages doom. There also is the tale of the Demon Queen where Zul swore fealty to her leading to the splintering of the world. If we were to have allies they must not only share our interests but our noble values.

Jakk'ari turns to everyone preparing to bring the proposal of Sandscar.
He gives one final look to Chief Haja'rra and Lasha'na meeting their eyes.

We must fight to secure our future but we also need allies. Ones who believe in the sacrosanct principles of Zul. Those who don't squander and deride tradition. The past is our guide but we must adapt. We will need to look beyond routine and comfort. To those such as the dragons, neighboring lands, and beneath the sands. For as it is said in matters of style flow like the sands but in manners of principle stand firm like the stone.

Jakk'ari finishes his speech relinquishing his control of the flame allowing everyone to sit partly obscured and in contemplation.

[WindStruck]

Isaera sighs a bit and grumbles, "Great."

But soon she remembers she actually has the power to change her predicament slightly for the better. Weaving a basic arcane cantrip, she holds one hand up. It appears as though she was holding an invisible tarp, newspaper, or shield. For the most part, the rain was repelling away from her, and elsewhere.

Still, there was probably a bit less she could do about the mud that was inevitably going to be the ground in this backward little village, soon enough.

Since Isaera at least wasn't getting stressed out that she would get drenched she says to the others, "We passed a tower-like building before we came here. I could swear I heard.. the laughter of my kind of people. I really want to see what's going on in there. As for you two - er, three? - do you mind checking out their.. accommodations?"

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

The warlock peered with grim resignation across the fetid collection of huts that composed this "village". Orc architecture...little better than that of the ogres or trolls.

However, Marion noticed that she was not alone in her surly assessment of their situation, and of particular interest to her was the seemingly poor disposition of Mor'lagh, the ogre. Should the orcs attempt anything during the night, Marion hoped that a claustrophobically enraged ogre would make a powerful ally in their flight for freedom. If anything, Mor'laghs considerable dimensions would provide the physical buffer for Marion to affect a hasty retreat, or conjure a spell of some sort to assist them in their plight. Time would tell.

"Yes, I believe a...tavern or some sort of communal domicile resided down this road," Marion spoke, gesturing down the path and towards where they came. As she did so, she pulled her cloak a little tighter around herself and extended her collar to protect her neck from the rain.

"We should make haste."

[MrAbdiel]

As the rain begins to kick into gear, and the unlikely partners make their move to their destinations, the rest of the denizens of Brackenwall are scattering off into their homes and buildings nearby; some dashing down the street through the rain unlikely to avoid a thorough soaking; others jaunting into the ale hall nearby and dodging it almost entirely.

Notable is the figure of the ogre grillmeister, whose spit roasted plainstrider appears to be seasoned and crisped just about to perfection... and is now getting dappled with droplets from the sky. As the hungry onlookers and curious spectators scatter from the rain, the ogre fumbles for a fistful of rags nearby to insulate his palms, and grabs one end of the great iron spit upon which the carcass is mounted. He's big, even by local ogre standards, but not so big he could haul a bird that size and the hot iron spit by leveraging just one end; and not so long of arm span he could reach both ends at once. His options appear to be to drag it (losing some of his effort to the mud and cobbles), leave it (dooming it to saturation in the rain), or get help - and his potential helpers are rapidly vanishing to shelters. "Hey! Hey!" He brays in dismayed orcish that only Mor'Lag can decipher, but any onlooker can intuit - the sentiment comes out to something like won't one of you lousy schmucks give me a hand here? But they do not; and as his options grow narrow, he spies Mor'Lag's frame moving through the rain. He calls to them, in the gutteral Stonemaul patois of the Gorian root-language.

"Hey! Clanless! Help me, would you? I'll give you a share of my bird if you help me rescue it!" His single eye loons to the veranda of the ale house, his likely destination for this desperate culinary extraction operation; nearly panicked as his last hope to save this crisp and plump avian treasure from environmentally enforced mediocrity.


The Bloody Dwarf


https://media.mmo-champion.com/images/news/2014/august/TavernLevel201.jpg
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HrvA2eAHcJ4

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?"

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.

The sign is in Zandali and Orc, though it offers few indicators that are not better delivered by the sight of the interior. The entrance to the tower has the same rustic charm that most horde architecture possesses, but aside from the pair of torches flanking the door, the interior is lit exclusively by the gentle lambency of enchantments, whose secondary effects are their multicolored glows. Its three stories are circular with a central spiral staircase, and each upper floor is rimmed with rough timber shelves visible from all floors. The arcane theme is certainly Trollish: the decoration features plenty of masks, fetishes, carved idols of obscure loa spirits and the kind of ivory-on-ivory jewelry that Darkspear trolls favor. But there's also a wealth of books on the shelves, most of which must have come from human printing presses, elven dancing quills, or at worst their unimaginably crude goblin equivalents. It's a surprisingly well stocked mage tower for such a literal backwater, and you can't help but wonder how it can be so, and for what purpose.

That question is half answered when one lays eyes on the two occupants of the lower floor, decked out principally as a display and research level with a few mostly uncluttered desks and sheaves of scroll parchment heaped upon them. A female Darkspear troll with light blue skin and shockingly bright magenta hair in braids pulled into a high ponytail dominates the room with her species typical height advantage. Her white silk skirt, matching haltertop and gnarled begemmed staff in hand give her the unmistakable air of a mage who has embraced her armorlessness for all it's worth. Her conversation partner is a singular sight, since you left Theramore: a young and dashing Thalassian elf, with long silken locks as thick as a horse's mane, a cleanshaven chin, and radiant green eyes. He wears the gold and teal uniform of a sailor in the elven navy, though his jacket hangs unbuttoned and unpressed in a fashionable level of neglect and distress. Beside him is an open crate of what are certainly elven goods: mops and brooms carved with symbols ready to be animated and bound to a cleaning zone; a cask of Thalassian sunwine, and innumerable magical trinkets and gewgaws that will sell well in a society that is not inundated with them.

The pair are laughing at some unheard bit of humor that probably came from the elf; though as you enter, his supernaturally green gaze tracks onto you immediately and his face lights with surprise and delight. "Oh," he begins in conversational Thalassian, touching his chest over his heart. "T'zangi, you've a customer - and one who has travelled for miles for a share of your rare and fair wares."

Jakk'ari is lead up the stairs to where a lively game of warstones is underway between a black furred Tauren in rough spun robes, and a Darkspear troll with the long lanky limbs and ritual scarring you peg quickly as shadow hunter. They, like the orc chief, are on the second half of their lives and may not have the patience for a lively tavern atmosphere. But the music and cheer from the tavern next door bleeds through the song of rain and thunder outside, and the firepits to either side of this game table are enough to keep the chill from the windows (that is, walls left out in favor of fresh air and a view) at bay.

"Jakk'ari of the Sandfury," Targ begins in Zandali, indicating the other two should follow suit in their lexical choices, "meet Jevan of the Grimtotem, and Hazlek of the Siame-Quashi. Old friends of mine. This is Jakk'ari - a Sandfury shaman, here in little Brackenwall! Hahaha! Have you played Warstones before? Take a seat, let me get you a drink." Targ hustles away to fill a tankard, while the troll and tauren give their unimpassioned but still friendly regard to the Farraki. Jevan asks first: "Desert-clan troll? I thought your people were still hiding away from the world."
"De world is full of demons and dread, mon." Hazlek goes to bat for Jakk'ari, sliding a fistful of colored stone discs to his place at the table. "Plenty to want to hide from."

[Feathersnow]

Against their better judgement, Mor and Lag halt.
"Human, we'll get us dinner."
"Probably safe enough to go ahead"
"But you can stick close, if you like the rain."

[WindStruck]

Isaera steps in, not exactly sure what she was expecting. All the tribal stuff she was wary of, reminding her much of the trolls her brethren fought in the Eastern Kingdoms, but she could not help but take note of the distinctly magical and scholarly nature of the location as well.

Ah, there it was. She knew she heard some good old Thalassian laughter. And the male elf noticed her almost immediately.

Isaera responded just as fluently with Thalassian. "A customer..? I suppose.. potentially. I came to look around, and to get out of the rain. And earlier, I could not help but overhear your laughter as I was walking by. I hope you wouldn't fault me for following the sound of something familiar in this distant and disparate land?"

Looking at the troll cautiously, she says, "So, you are T'zangi? Do you run this place all by yourself?"

Isaera could only assume since the other elf was pretty much speaking to the troll in Thalassian that she understood? Either way, it was apparent that he and the other shared at least one language in common.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari takes a seat at the table finding it unusual being the oldest one in a party for once.
Not wanting to snub the group invitation Jakk'ari inquires.
How do you play War Stones? I have seen the pieces in Gadgetzan but have yet to understand how it is played.

Upon seeing Targ hustle towards the drinks Jakk'ari begins the introductions to a hopefully more lively conversation.

I can't deny my people have been secluded Hazlek. The desert has kept even other troll tribes away from the Sandfury tribes. But I have met your kind Jevan, at the Thousand Needles. A truly majestic place.

The group at least seemed welcoming but would likely need a bit more beyond alcohol to open up. Perhaps an elicited story of a local legend or event the village had a collective sense of ownership of?

So, meet any new restless adventurers lately? I know I have.

[MrAbdiel]

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?"

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.

"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.

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.

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.
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.
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]

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]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg 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]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg 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]

[roll0] For quickly picking up some of the intricacies of the crokinole like game.
[roll1] 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.


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…


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

https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/wHEdpLqgrq7VwDQBUsb80xj17z69iXiY9GkU0T8W8vwgSu3U5c cDglD-fN71wHdIxTJK7Kb4RNRWvgso6w-X-iEhG_9-EneDUQ82Na5pVWdo-q_JOy9J5TFm_1FAtOyIEvLxSrF3
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HrvA2eAHcJ4

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?"

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.


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.”

(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.)

“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.”

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?”

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]

[roll0] 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.


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]

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.

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.

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.)

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.

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]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg 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]

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]

[roll0] 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]

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?"

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg 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.

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]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg 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.

[MrAbdiel]

Fargan - the one legged orcish barkeep and possibly the suffering orc in the trap on the shingle - is quickly discernable as the man of authority in the moment. He does not seem to be flying into a famous orcish blood rage, but you can intuit in his features the mild agony that any small business owner might feel when their establishment is imperilled. He clocks that Isaera and Jakk'ari are part of Mor'Lag's entourage, along with Marion - though she's out of his line of sight for the moment, and is no concern of his. He grumbles and palms his cheeks in frustration, then engages his clumsy common to reprimand them. "You come to only minutes, before fighting? Before even drunken? Get out! Out of here!" He seems set on evicting your party from the premises, and presumably confiscating your room fee for damages. You're not exactly swimming in gold to pay him off - if you're going to talk him down, it's going to have to be an effort of persuasion.

Someone's gonna need to roll persuasion to settle this fellow down, or it looks like you're getting turfed out into the mud tonight.

Meanwhile, at Marion's encounter, the orc sits back in his chair, the shift of light revealing predictably pale green skin on his jaw, and a trimmed, silvery-white beard. It comes with a cynical smile. "What lie shall I give you, that best comforts you? Here, then: practitioners of our certain arts need places in the world where they can flee from light-dazzled fanatics. Perhaps your success furthers that dream? Or, here, another: I will seek to extort a returned favor later, leveraging your success for my own gain." The flippancy of his answers tells you more than the answers themselves: he doesn't expect you to be foolish enough to believe any altruistic answer he gives, or to take any more selfish one as the whole story. He intends to use you for his inscrutable ends through this somehow, just as you have the option to use his gifts and information for undisclosed ends of your own. Time will tell if youth, or experience, will command the greater share of benefit at the other's expense. "Go, now. Let an old man dwell, a little, before making his way to rest."

[Feathersnow]

Mor moans about how she was provoked, but her half of the heart isn't in it. The Orc knows already, which is probably the only reason he is just kicking them out.

Not that she even wants to be here...

[WindStruck]

Isaera nods to Jakk'ari, ready to at least go along with whatever plan he might have had to smooth things over, but when she heard the orc bellowing his own common.. and seemingly better than the chief's, whom they met not long ago, she stepped forward and offered,

"Sir, please, it is miserable and pouring outside. I shall roast this two-headed dimwit alive myself if she causes further trouble. But perhaps, there is something we can do to make amends?"

As if capitalizing on the 'mend' in her words, Isaera spots a piece of furniture that seems to have snapped cleanly in two, a chair and its leg, and she tries to work some magic to make it one singular, whole, intact object again.

persuasion: [roll0]

prooobably not getting any special bonuses to this, though aid from Jakk'ari is welcome.

Seeing as 'Mending' is literally a "cantrip" in D&D ... I wonder how much I could actually accomplish here?

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari follows Isaera's lead. Trying to find some reconciliation through disarming discourse. That was a plan he could get behind.
He begins backing Isaera up in common quickly bowing and clasping his hands together hopefully in a manner that would be perceived as pious and sincere.

We be sorry for the mess. One of our own made a mistake. It won't happen again.

Rolling to assist Isaera [roll0]

OOC: If Jakk'ari has any money on him he pulls some in the hopes that cooler head prevail and we don't have to contend with a 4v100 scenario.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis


Marion pursed her lips at the final words before nodding once for withdrawl.

"Good evening," she said quietly, showing a modicum of respectful departure as she stood up from the table and made her leave.

When she turned around, Marion spotted the commotion, as well as the unhappy barkeep who seemed quite cross that a fight had broken out in his barn full of animals. Yes, Marion had to tell herself, an orc, a member of a race once considered the most mindlessly aggressive sentient people in Azeroth, was upset that a fight had broken out.

Marion was shocked. She truly was. A mixture of ogres, orcs, trolls and booze...and a fight broke out?! Next someone would inform her that the Forsaken were unpleasant to be around.

Moving to stand next to the others, particularly Isaera, Marion had an ignorant smile upon her pretty face, as if she barely understood what was

"I am as equally appalled as you are, Master Orc!" Marion said to the orcish barkeep with a nod of her head. By her body language it looked like she was siding with the orc in this matter.

"That a fight should break out in a tavern full of drunken, fierce orc warriors is truly an astonishing turn of events that I did not see coming!" she said, visibly aghast.

"I imagine that they were practicing their poetry, braiding each others hair and singing songs about their love of flowers when my wicked, dreadful friend here," she gestured to Mor'Lagh, "imposed unsightly violence upon them! And with somber reservation, the orcs were forced to defend themselves..."

Marion exhaled, looking over the other patrons, nodding, ostensibly her body language still seeming to agree with the orc barkeep before sighing, shaking her head and craning her neck to look up at Mor'Lagh.

"Come along, Mor'lagh. You are clearly too strong for these frightened orcs to contend with. We must remove you from here to protect them."

ooc:

I'll throw a persuasion roll in to help out: [roll0]

I don't think that passes the Assist Other DC, so her words just stand alone then.

[WindStruck]

Isaera looks up from her efforts of trying to magically glue a chair back together, and just glares at Marion momentarily, before deciding to just ignore the sarcasm and continue concentrating on her spell.

[MrAbdiel]

That's two failed attempts to assist, but neither so awfully that they impose a penalty. Jakk'ari assists successfully even though he's drunk giving Isaera a +2. Isaera hits a 20 on her roll, but gets a -2 for not speaking orcish. So that all washes out to a clean 20 at the stated DC of 20. Behold the power of teamwork!

Fargan remains suspicious of Mor'Lag, who is an ogress like other patrons, but an out-of-towner and therefore suspicious. The sorry-not-sorry tone of their words doesn't help a great deal. And Marion's intercession seems mostly to bewilder the inkeeper. The storm fades from his face to be replaced with slow confusion and darting eyes as he tries vainly to track her sentiment, which seemed to his grasp of common to have the verbiage of peacemaking but the high-strung energy of mockery. Unable to untangle this mess of messaging, he turns to the penitent gesturing of the troll, and the practical reparations of the elf.

Using the Transform power with the 2 point per rank variant allows you to transform broken objects into repaired ones. If you were working on fine elven pottery or trying to put together a burned up document, I'd probably require you to make a related roll and possibly push the power using a VP. But with the freedom to take your time, and repairing items such as these, I'm happy to say your cantrip power can create the old 'welding-torch-fingertip' repair power that works just dandy.

The one-legged orc seems a reasonably sanguine fellow, and his tendency is towards acting that way when possible; but it's the practicality of Isaera's offering that wins him over. The elf is no carpenter, and if she'd been repairing the kind of chairs and tables she'd grown up around, she'd be out of her depth. But the advantage of orcish brute craftsmanship is that it's simple to make, and accordingly simple to repair. Once the first chairleg snaps back on to the point it broke off, the orc sees the sense in letting the magic do the heavy lifting; and moments later in a more reasonable spirit, he's enlisting your group to help in this process - holding the tabletop so Isaera can magic out the ogre-impact that broke it, gathering the parts of Mor'Lag's huge tankard that got crushed in the brawl, and so on. After a few minutes work, as the elf is completing the repair on the table, Fargan offers Isaera last wooden leg to repair - oh, that's his wooden leg. Repairing that damage is somewhat outside of her wheelhouse, but Fargan barks a laugh that ripples back into the observing crowd and lifts his hands in a can't-blame-a-guy-for-trying kind of way. Mollified, he backs away from the table, gives the group the old two fingers to his eyes, rotated at the wrist to point at them - I'm watching you - and hobbles back to the bar. By this point, the ogress who lost the fight has been gathered up by her companions and helped out of the tavern to recover some breath and dignity; and the orc who was restraining Mor's arm goes as far as to buy the party a round of drinks, as a kind of liquid apology for his friend's actions. He speaks no common or other shared language, but is able to explain to Mor'Lag who knows the orc tongue:

"Sorry for my friend. She used to be respected in the Stonemaul, and picked the wrong side when Rexxar challenged Kor'gall, and took the clan. Exiled after that. Gets fired up and stupid when she thinks she needs to prove her strength, maybe. Or loyalty to the horde, since the Stonemaul don't count her as their own. You're right, she started it. Maybe you knocked some sense into her long term, but I doubt it. Slow learner."

And then leaves the party alone, heading outside to console his pummeled ogre companion.

The one thing Isaera couldn't repair of the mess was the plainstrider leg, which Mor and Lag hadn't gotten more than halfway through before it was knocked off the table and smeared into a stain now being mopped up by one of the orc youths. But Ogg'mar, who was watching the fight from the doorway, comes in long enough to furnish your table with another round of complientary strider-breast slices on little fork-thingies before hustling back out to ply his trade to the paying customers. Free food, free drink, and no longer being threatened with eviction - it's just about the best outcome you could have hoped for out of a situation that looked pretty bad.

Everyone can have another 2 pp for completing the scene here in Brackenwall village. Now's a fine time to communicate anything you've learned or want to say to the other party members; tomorrow morning, you theoretically get your cadet and you're off to see the Stonemaul.

You have your 'luxury' suite for the party's use; but feel free to narrate your character choosing to go camp in the swamp outside if sleeping under orcish accommodation is genuinely too galling for them to accept! Like I say, don't let me push you around; I'm just a barefoot teller of tales.

[WindStruck]

Sighing, worn out with past stress, but also relief, Isaera says, "I can't say it would have been completely terrible to have simply camped outside the village. Not counting dangers like raptors or murlocs, mind you. But to be forced out in the rain and to attempt making camp while soaking wet, that would have been too much."

Looking at Mor'Lag, she says, "I don't know you well. You stood up to a pack of raptors by yourself, and you seemed to get along in Theramore. But then, there was this fight. Perhaps the only reason you haven't been kicked out of Theramore already is because there was no one strong enough or dumb enough to provoke you. Still, you were blamed for the mess.."

"Maybe that other ogre had it coming. I wasn't here," Isaera says with a shrug. "But the furniture, and the bartender.. I don't think they wronged you." She smiles lightly at the half jest.

"Perhaps next time someone offends you, you can invite them outside before you attempt to crush their skull, yes? Ideally, that's what you should have done. But with this darkness and rain.. who knows? You still might have smashed a window or broken someone's cart, or something or another. At least you might not have been deprived of shelter when it was all over."

After Isaera's lecturing, which was basically saying Mor'Lag should have acted smarter but it still might not have made a difference anyway, she returns her attention to sipping on the free swill. Giving up on that endeavor, she offers her cup to the ogress. Perhaps it was a nice gesture, but seeing as she didn't really like the drink in the first place, perhaps not.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion said nothing as the elf lectured the ogre - a being whose dimension was twice her height and further more in dimensions and mass.

It was an amusing sight to say the least, as Marion - at most - perked a slender eyebrow in curious entertainment at the very image before her. What was even more amusing was the topic itself. Requesting a member of the Horde, or at the least a dim-witted and violence-seeking ogre, to 'step outside' for a diplomatic discussion? It took Marion considerable willpower to not snicker out-load at the very idea.

But once the elf was done, Marion waited until she could get at Mor'lagh when she was alone...or at least, not within the purview of the watchful elf and her scathing tongue.

"Do not be too hard on yourself Mar'logh," she started, her voice soft and reassuring, "I would have done the same thing were I in your position. Your opponent was clearly a total schnitzel if they thought they could talk down to you in public without a response!"

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari avoids drinking any further given how much he had already ingested. Instead he sneakily exchanges his full tankard for an empty to avoid drinking but not snub a gift.
Even while drunk and lagging behind his companions he could pieces together that Mor'Lag had caused a violent scene and placed them at a social precipice.
Such aggression was a boon in combat but unsuited while being guests in a far flung village. Eventually this attitude would have to change. Unfortunately such a change could only be initiated from within.

Noticing Marion and Isaera conversing with Mor'Lag reassuringly left him confident enough to believe no more incidents would happen tonight and hopeful for the future.
Concluding that he didn't have anything to contribute he retires for the night at the Chieftain's den wondering just what to do during the upcoming day.

[MrAbdiel]

The Next Day

A little food, a little drink, and a little rest is well earned and well had, in as much as the party can bring themselves to indulge in any of those things in such an unfamiliar setting. But the upper room proves secure, and the chief's den even more so; and rising at dawn you reconvene to prepare to continue your mission. Your breakfast options are limited: most of the peasantry in Brackenwall begins the day with a wholesome but unappetizing sludge made from macerated wheat fibres, either suspended in water for weak stomachs or in a kind of breakfast lager for stronger ones. This is the staple diet, you surmise, that comes from their trade with the Barrens; the silos full of wheat from that superior farmland, for the exported sacks upon sacks of thickspike wheatgrass better suited for animal grazing, but which happens to be able to grow in the appalling saline conditions of Dustwallow Marsh. But a couple of enterprising vendors are selling individual fruits from their backyard farming efforts, and though supply is limited and quickly exhausted, you're able to snatch some up with a trivial purchase, if you want to. The ranges are again limited to the trees and plants the locals have been successful in growing in this salty interior marshland: rugged little coconuts, sweet pomegranates, and fresh figs all of which are very similar to the same you've sampled from similar village farming near Theramore. More exotic is the jambola, apparently grown from seeds traded from a wandering pandaren cartographer from her much rumored and mysterious home. It strikes you as a kind of primordial citrus fruit; a sort of proto-grapefruit-mandarine as large as a human head. It has a soft enough rind that can apparently be candied, and the fruit within has a familiar citrusy portioning that peels naturally enough by hand into about a dozen wedge shaped segments. It's sweet enough to the taste, though it's no show-stopper like a blueberry or a cherry; and you can't quite shake the feeling that it belongs to some weird class of ur-fruits that modern tongues were not meant to know.

You're waiting by the gate out of town when Targ makes good on his promise, and a couple of grunts bring you your cadet. He's escorted additionally by the taciturn, sharp eyed orc that spectated on your interaction with the chief before. Aside from the perhaps unnecessary vigilance of three warrior orcs, the cadet seems well treated enough; though he had been deprived of food for a couple of days, he had been given water to sustain him and he's had a dinner and breakfast since you've arrived. He's in his dirty gambeson and leggings, the kind one expects under any armored skin; with the rest of his regalia in the care of one of his escorts. A flop of black hair keeps dangling into his eyes, and he keeps brushing or blowing it aside; and the face behind it is wary, but not overtly traumatized. Your arrival in Brackenwall came before the things could happen to him that happen to happen to men thought to be spies, even in nations that are theoretically in a cessation of open war; and you hesitate to entertain a thought about what might have happened to him, and how different your stay in this town might have been, if anything had delayed your coming.

"He's all yours, for now. I'm told we're to take him back and make him comfortable for a few more days, if you ask." One grunt says to Jakk'ari in broken Zandali; handing the cadet a bundle of sackcloth with a crested Theramore helm and sheathed sword on top. It doesn't take a genius to see these horde soldiers would much prefer the cadet appear capable and healthy enough to leave with you, but are obligated to house him longer by your diplomatic efforts if you so demand. "But after that, no return visits from Alliance military without proper announcement and acknowledgement." This is a repeat of the same admonishment Targ had offered in discussion the night before, and is boilerplate military diplomacy that is unlikely to stop small infractions like this anyway, yet is conjured up like a superstition when they occur all the same. The gates close behind you, and once you're out of ear and eyeshot of the orcs, the cadet - the first conscious one you've had the privilege of encountering.

"Bloody savages..." He grumbles, as he begins working his way back into his chainmail, looking back over his shoulder to the guard tower, looking down at him. Soon, though, he's looking at the party, as he plops down on his backside and threads his legs into his chain chaussers. "I don't know how you found me, but I owe you my life. I'm Felix. I stumbled my way to Brackenwall because I thought I was dying, but it turns out I'm just soft as fish paste." He gestures to a rent portion of his chainmail, over the left breast, where some slashing strike has carved through the links and the gambeson beneath, staining both with blood.. but not an awful lot of it. "The orcs stitched me up and locked me up trying to find out what my 'mission' was. I tried telling them we didn't have a mission except trying to keep the swamp free of demon dabblers, and that on our own dumb initiative. But..." He pauses, now armored with his boots on and help in his lap, but hesitating to stand up as he considers the question the answer to which he is afraid to receive. "Did... anyone else make it out alive?"

You have your second cadet, alive and well, all things considered. Your primary task remains to forge south, back via the path you came and then following Zachary's ranger-sign to navigate the Quagmire - the muckiest, grossest part of the swamp before it dries out a little and leads to Stonemaul Village, where you have reason to believe you'll find one or both of the last two cadets.

You also need to decide whether you want to bring Cadet Felix with you. He seems like he's healthy enough to not slow you down, and he's an extra set of hands and a sword when things need doing; but it'd be a shame to get him killed when you just secured his life. You can leave him with the horde (if you trust them) to pick him up on the backswing, or try to send him off alone to Northpoint Tower. Or any other solution to this problem you care to propose, I'll entertain.

And naturally, you might want to shake a few answers out of Felix yourself. Feel free to pile up a bunch of questions, and he'll respond to them all in one big hit; since back-and-forth is a bad cadence for play by post games, we'll use a little abstract magic to smooth it.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari attempts to comfort Felix by telling him how one of his friends was found in Jarl's hut while another returned to Theramore causing the quest to begin with.

He then asks Felix why the group did not alert their commanding officers of the demon sighting which the group now knows of given their own investigation.
Jakk'ari also asks where Felix thinks the remaining cadets went to and whether they were chasing or being chased on their final night together as a group of five.

[MrAbdiel]

Felix is relieved to hear that atleast two friends survived; and eager to help finding the other two!

"Well, I guess we knew we were where we weren't supposed to be. If we'd run home and told Captain Evencane what was going on, we'd be in serious trouble. If we could bring back the little demon's head, or horns or something, then maybe that would balance out our AWOL punishment." He frowns. "Stupid, in retrospect."

When asking about the struggle that scattered the group and where the others might have gone, he shakes his head. "The little demon kept disappearing when we were close to it. We'd track it for a bit, find it, chase it, and then it would slip away again. We'd given up and made camp south of here when it popped up again right in the middle of the fireplace. I think Aeden smashed it with the cooking pan by reflex; but that was the least of it. It turned out we were surrounded by much bigger enemies - robed and muscley and huge, maybe two feet taller than her." He thumbs at Mor'Lag. "Bigger horns, too. There were three I saw, plus they had these little... I don't know. Attack dragons? Little black ones with sharp beaks and teeth; maybe half a dozen of them. They attacked like flying pirahna. As soon as it was obvious we were being jumped, everyone just... Started shouting, and ran. I'm not proud of it, but there was nothing we could do."

[WindStruck]

Isaera thinks a bit and says, "It sounds like maybe those stonemaul ogre were actually the ones summoning demons? Well, perhaps not all of them, but enough of them..."

"It's a good thing we've had another man scouting them out. Hopefully he is alright. Are you well enough to come along with us?" Isaera asks.

[MrAbdiel]

"Ogres?" The cadet looks thoughtful. He's still very young, and so looking thoughtful doesn't work for him yet - the facial expression equivalent of footsteps echoing through an empty warehouse. "I don't think they were ogres. Big, sure, but not.. You know, bulky. Bigger shoulders, and with the horns. But I guess they were robed, like.. huge, violent priests; so it was hard to tell. But yeah, I'm well enough. When do we leave?"

Far back on the road, where the watchtower's watcher watches you, the gates of Brackenwall village open again, and out of it comes the handsome elven form of Balandar Brightstar. He wears his uniform smartly, along with an almost absurdly wide brimmed crimson hat that he takes off to flap a wave to the guards. He rides atop a hawkstrider; one of those large walking birds that may be some far cousin of the plainstrider you ate last night; though bred for beauty, and speed, and a higher degree of hygiene than elves can expect of most conventional mounts. He whistles to the hawkstrider, it whistles back, and off down the road it begins to dash, bound for the alliance tower.

[Plaids]

Upon hearing that the kidnappers of the final recruits caught Jakk'ari's interest. While he would be relieved at not fighting creatures over twice size his and were pugnacious at best and bloodthirsty at worst in his homeland there could always be something worse.

Were they smaller or larger than our ogre companion? How many horns did you see? Did you see any of their magics?

The next likeliest possibility to Jakk'ari were the tauren. While predominantly peaceful they could be provoked and unleash a maelstrom of horns and crushing blows from their substantial frames.

After questioning Felix Jakk'ari considers their accompanying cadet. Though with respectable equipment and sound body he was doubtful of his experience. His recollections of the final night the group was together were opaque while his hair flopped into his field of view despite the attempts to comb it back. It would likely be best to send him back.

Can you walk to the North Watch Post? There are Theramore guards who can escort you back home. We still have two more of your friends to find and time is of the essence.

[MrAbdiel]

He looked at Mor'Lag, then nodded in conviction. "Taller. Not broader. One head each - I mean, that I could see; and two horns each. They had holes in the hoods of the robes so they could stick out. I'm not keen to see them again - but if we that's what's needed to save Xander and Gawin, then I will."

At Jakk'ari's suggestion that he return, he looks crestfallen; and his eyes hunt across the group - the ogre, the troll, the elf - with an expression that suggests he is in search of a good reason to object. But the only human in the group doesn't seem to be throwing her weight around like she's in charge, so he's forced to make an appeal to this whole motley group, to whom he owes his life.

"I could probably make it back. It's a two day hike, but the horde patrols the roads; and since they're happy to get rid of me, I don't think it'll be too dangerous. But those are my friends. We came up through training together. What matters to me is they come back alive. So if I can help, I'm coming; but if you can look me in the eye and tell me you think I'll be more likely to make a rescue harder than easier... Then I'll go." The flicker of fragile defiance is in his eyes. He wants to redeem himself for the group's folly and cowardice, and rejection will damage some part of him in a long term fashion that wants this opportunity. But your job is not the coddling of cadets, but their rescue; and it would be foolish to attempt to safeguard the emotional wellbeing of one by imperilling the physical wellbeing of two more.

No rolls for this one. It's all gut instinct. Whether you think having moderately trained cadet searching with you will help, or hinder, is up to you.

[WindStruck]

"I think Felix could actually be of some help to us," Isaera says frankly.

"I would be lying if I said this mission was not dangerous, and he would not be of any help. But that said, I would greatly appreciate if you follow our lead and don't do anything rash to throw away your life. We are getting paid for your return, after all. More if you come back alive," she says with a smile that may seem a little forced at her own jest.

She turns and waves to Balandar, either in greeting or farewell. She was the only one that really met and talked to the other elf at length. She said nothing, though of course, her expression did not seem very unwelcoming if he wanted to stroll up and meet the others.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion had been suspiciously quiet during the conversation, her figure lurking in the background and dwelling on her own thoughts as new information came in.

The Tauren were involved? Tall, muscular, two horns...

As far as Marion knew the tauren were a spiritual people and were surprisingly gently despite their imposing appearance. Much like with human society, the tauren had no overt inclination towards the fel and demonic, and so any members of their race who were involved with this were doing so of their own volition as part of a cult. At least that was Marions current estimation. Her opinion might change if new information was made available.

Now, whether Felix could come along with them...that also had pro's and con's, as far as Marion could tell. It would be nice to have a handsome young male along with them, for both simple appearances sake and in case things went pear-shape and Marion needed a chivalry-pursuing person to place between herself and an incoming spear-thrust. Plus with how ashamed he appeared to be, the chance to redeem his name would drive him to heroic heights that he might not normally pursue under more sober direction. That could be both good and bad.

But on the other hand, his safe return was gold in her purse.

Then again, how could she collect her payment so far if she took a spear to the guts?

Thinking. Thinking. They were better off with Felix out here.

"Your desire to see the safe return of your friends is admirable," Marion smiled, her tone friendly and reassuring.

"I do not mind if you accompany us."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari peaks an eyebrow or where his eyebrows would be if he were human.

The confidence in this young cadet was surprising with Marion's tacit endorsement and Isaera's slightly more insistent support.
Turning to Mor'Lag he scans their two sets of eyes awaiting their appraisal of this young man.

[MrAbdiel]

Mor and Lag seem a little distant; a little more brooding and introverted since the previous night's brawl and follow up. They defer to the judgement of their companions on this matter; her focus taken up mostly by internal reflection, and the a poorly hidden dread of having to go near the ogre village at all.

With that, the 'vote' comes out at two-to-one with one-point-five abstaining; and Felix looks almost overwhelmed with appreciation. "I won't let you down. I won't let anyone down. You just - I'll just follow as you go, and do what I'm told. But I can't go back to the tower and rest on a pillow and mattress while the others are still out here somewhere."

In the distance, Balandar returns Isaera's wave; removing his hat and flapping it in fond farewell before his hawkstrider tears off down the road. You check your belongings, secure yourselves for travel, and begin heading back the way you came to the town, into the brush and onward towards - you hope - towards another cadet.

You have everything you came to Brackenwall with - and something more. As you pat down a pocket that should only contain cold iron filings for spell improvisation, you discover a small lump out of place. Instinctively reaching to retrieve it - and doing so with the good sense to casually turn and body block your party member's sight - you produce what seems at first to be a toughened root vegetable, and then at second to be an unusual clump of trail jerky, and finally at the end of this half second of inspection, resolves in your understanding as something much more alarming - or perhaps, interesting. A dried out old tongue, so withered and hardened it feels tough as wood, is in your palm. Its color has faded almost to black, but even so you can see parts of the extensive, intricate tattoo work that has been done to the muscle: profane sequences of characters that form parts of demonic names, and fragments of fel sorcerous syllables. You cannot tell if this marks the previous owner of the tongue as especially potent and skilled in your dark arts (so as to have found a use for such extreme scribing), or as particularly lowly and servile (so as to accept such oral desecration permanently inked); but what you can tell is that this is a fel focus of exceptional promise - if you can master it. Of course, lesser minds would jump to less imaginative ends for the dark relic. Your own interest in it, if it be more than cursory, will have to wait until you have some time to study it properly in comfortable conditions.

The key has vexed you in your attempts to discover its meaning. You have spoken to some scrappy elemental spirits that inhabit the village and the surrounding thorps, but they have no wisdom for you. The key is worked metal; the product of the refining hands of mortals, and the elementals look on such things with wonderment and curiosity - a piece of earth, touched by fire, that has become neither. But your instincts tell you it is not completely mundane; the light in the shadowhunter Hezlak's eyes was mischief, not just ale. The mystery is just outside your toolkit, for now. Perhaps your wife, Lasha'nah, would have some insight you would not; as a witchdoctor, she has a multidisciplinary approach to spiritual matters that stretches as broadly as yours dives deeply. If Hezlak's key is part of some Loa-game the shadowhunter is part of, Lasha'nah might be able to interpret the rules. Just one more reason, you remind yourself, that you ought to visit home soon. The bittersweet pang of homesickness and the absense of your family twists your heart. It has been quite a while, and you've made worthy - not spellbinding, but worthy - inroads into the graces of Theramore, and Brackenwell. Enough to vindicate your vision of a diplomatic future for a little while at least. Maybe, once you've recovered these cadets, each presumably with families that miss them too.

It's a day's uneventful travel back to the campfire where you discovered the felsteel ring. You ask Felix about what he remembers from that night, hoping more details emerge; and the youngster tries to recall something more until he is sweating and distressed, yielding nothing more. The rain holds off for the night, and between your prepared devices and elemental inroads, sleeping out here is as pleasant as it can be. It's not far into the next day's travel that you start spotting Zachary's ranger-sign. He and Isaera had a conversation about how to interpret it in preparation for this leg of the journey, and the elf's eyes don't miss. And just as well - the mud grades from squelchy, brown, ankle deep marsh to thick, black, waist-deep slop in parts of the Quagmire. You know this because at the second-lowest fork in most every Kalimdor willow tree you pass, there's a mark - sometimes a simple line indicating to keep going, sometimes a route adjustment to avoid hazards, sometimes a more complex series of dashes describing a hazard to come. The human has done his job well - not once are you immersed in mud, or led into a nest of fen-snakes. Aside from the fragrance - about which he could be expected to do nothing - it's no more unpleasant than any other day's travel. The sign leads to a patch of elevated ground with a the remnants of Zachary's campfire, and under log marked for inspection, a waterproof leather scrollcase the size of a man's hand, containing a report from the ranger himself.

"Hostile-free camp zone. Cleared out spider nest; none edible. Grimtotem at Direhorn Post NE in standoff with Stonemaul SSE. Both avoid middleground. No sign that targets are at Direhorn, but suggest we visit on return trip if no luck with Stonemaul. Will be scouting around the ogre mounds keeping out of sight. Will find you when you arrive. - Z"

Another night in the swamp - coming up on the tenth night the remaining cadets have been missing. Felix wants to press on through the night - a lunatic decision, in such terrain - but he has no power to force the move and he's bound to you by his word, so he goes to bed sulkilly. The morning after, he is meek and helpful as a kind of apology; but eager to set out again. Soon, you're out of the Quagmire, and back into somewhat dryer ground that even dares to have small hillocks and tree clusters - the next best thing to being somewhere dry. Grey clouds muster through the day, but offer no serious rain as you close the gap towards Stonemaul Village. You pass another ranger-sign - "Stonemaul patrol tracks stop here. Caution ahead." - and proceed with the recommended caution. But you encounter no such patrols. In fact, aside from old footprints eroded by the weather of the marsh, the first sign you find of the ogres is a broken wooden barrel, smashed against a tree. It seems to have been thrown against it with deliberate force. A little more scouting of the immediate approach may yet reveal more.

Faintly, carried on the wind, is the sound of drums, and deep voiced revelry.

It's hard to make out from the rest of the gross swamp, but a considerable amount of vomit is present here, not far from the busted barrel - the regurgitated remnants of a great deal of food (you're guessing some kind of stew) and cheap ale. It's more than even one ogre could produce.

Whether by keen natural instincts or a learned sense for arcane things, you notice some distant totem or idol standing on the bluffs that overlook the Stonemaul Village you expect to be just past the next patch of trees and gullies. You cannot make out its details here, but it has roughly ogre proportions, and gives you a sense of unpleasant foreboding.

[Plaids]

Ahh.. The sounds of a public gathering. We must be close to Stonemaul village. Mor'Lag and I will take the lead.

Jakk'ari points in the general direction of the drums towards a hill intent on getting to an elevated vantage point before entering the village.

[WindStruck]

"What about Zachary? Shouldn't we be waiting for him?" Isaera asks.

[Plaids]

Zachary has led us through this swamp masterfully. But something must have changed recently. We have seen no Stonemaul patrols despite the accuracy of all his previous warnings and now we have this.

Jakk'ari gestures the shattered wood on the ground.

I believe Zachary is investigating whomever has destroyed this barrel. Beasts wouldn't do this unless commanded by a master. I think our friend went looking towards the beating drums in the distance.
Jakk'ari listens to what the spunky elf has to say.

OOC: I'm assuming that the broken object is a wooden barrel and not a barren. I don't know what that is.

[MrAbdiel]

Indeed, it is a barrel; that was a typo. Well spotted, 10 points to Gryffindor.

You wait a little longer, but Zachary doesn't reveal himself. He's not immediately nearby, it seems; but he couldn't possibly be far. He might be on the other side of the village, watching from some vantage. It doesn't seem unlikely that a veteran of the Alliance-Horde wars is apprehensive about wandering alone into an ogre village, regardless of how technically not affiliated with the Horde they are and technically not affiliated with the Alliance he now is.

Felix looks at the smashed barrel, and gives one of the wooden spars a little kick. "Looks like an ale keg. But I can't tell smells out here in the bog. Do ogres even drink ale? And not... Blood, or something?"

Mor'Lag is too cautious and internally drawn to rise and scold him for such a statement. The eyes of both heads look up, and you can trace her eyeline to a set of bluffs overlooking the village; the foothills belonging to the mountains that make up the border to the Southern Barrens. An upright shape - perhaps the size of a small ogre - is visible there; some kind of icon, or graven image. "That's Stonemaul ancestor stone," offers Mor.
"Probably carved from elven runestone in the Second War," appends Lag.
They offer no qualifier, but it seems obvious from the ogress's expressions that something about this icon, despite its typical sounding function, is unsettling Mor'Lag on an instinctive level.

You pick through the scene with your critical elven eyes, and it seems to come together for you. The fragments of the barrel have stenciled fragments of ogre lettering that it would take a while to piece together, but you don't need to. On the busted baseplate of the barrel, you see traces of greenish residue that a less keen eye would mistake for mould. It's a yeast growth, stained green by the contents - Gordok Green Grog. You've never tasted the stuff yourself - Light, ugh, perish the thought - but the Brewfest celebrations that happen yearly across Azeroth now feature some ogre offerings prominently, and it's hard to forget the sight of your young cousin Lestavael, dared by his friends to down a pint of the stuff, violently ejecting it from his mouth as it overwhelmed his delicate elven palate.

This is high end grog, for the ogre consumer. And the puke nearby - ugh - is old enough that it must have been ejected from an ogre gullet this morning. Ogres are late risers, so it's unlikely they tied one on at breakfast to the point of sickness. And even though it's probably possible to alchemically examine this unpleasant expectoration to determine if there's poison involved, the more likely answer is that the ogres are having some kind of long celebration that has taken atleast a full day and then some; something worth breaking out the good stuff for. As for why the barrel is smashed - you can only assume an ogre wandered out here - alone, or perhaps in a pair - and made some room, only to begin refilling themselves with the last of that barrel. The smashing must just have been good, honest, destructive fun. What inebriated reveller doesn't enjoy smashing something, needlessly?

[WindStruck]

"They definitely appear to be having a celebration of some sort.." Isaera says. Looking at Felix she says, "Ogres do brew ale. This barrel once had Gordok Green Grog, I think.. supposedly, it is quite high end for their kind."

Peering back up on top of the bluff, she asks,"What does that totem mean?"

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion had observed the dried, tattooed tongue when in private - whenever that was. But, traveling through a swamp was not particularly conducive towards such scrutiny and enquiry, so Marion had ultimately decided to abandon the pursuit until more favorable accommodations could be secured.

So, that left her focusing more on the here and now rather than what 'may be'. Therefore, when the group pushed deeper into the swamp and their surroundings became caked with the fetid expulsions from ogre stomachs, the Alteraci curled her nose and diverted her attention to the large stones upon a bluff...demonically desecrated elven runestones being a more preferable inhalation and object of focus than her current surroundings.

Suppressing a shudder, her face clearly unimpressed, Marion gestured with her forehead towards the engraved rock.

"Our little imp friend has been in proximity to those stones," she stated factually, "I can sense it. I wish to inspect the area when we are able."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari takes notice of Marion having seen her emote in response to the vomit on the ground.
While the troll's ancestral constitution provided additional protection from being nauseated he would prefer to not mull about the remains of the unruly revelry.

Jakk'ari's discomfort is abated upon hearing Marions blunt proclamation of a suspected demon afoot.
Quickly he begins coaxing two elemental energies, one for each hand. In the left is an energetic mote of light scurrying about his palm while the right is a lethargic sphere of uncoiling mist. He extends both out offering either as an option.

I'll assist. I can illuminate the rocks or obscure us from an incoming patrol.

OOC: Jakk'ari is offering assistance for Marion's appraisal of the runestones.
Rolling assistance [roll0]

[MrAbdiel]

Mor'Lag stirs from her introspection, and makes an obvious effort to get her heads in the game. Picking up on Isaera's question, she answers as best she can. It's an ancestor stone - a relic carved from sacred rock (probably an elven runestone desecrated in the second war) in the abstract likeness of the progenitor of the Stonemaul clan, or some hero of its past, with a view to evoking their mythical virtues in the individual ogres in the settlement below. Additionally, Mor'Lag being as educated an ogress as she is, she understands that the runestones are what the orc warlocks used to radically increase the likelihood of ogres being born bifold, like Mor and Lag; and a town that sets up in the shadow of such an idol, with mothers who make offerings to it and expose themselves to its seeping magics, may indeed have some amount of epigenetic benefit from it, whether the ancestor it depicts really dwells in the stone or not.

It's not remarkable difficult to circle round and ascend the bluff, to inspect the idol. The long grasses make hiding a little easier, and from the elevated ground you can see that Stonemaul Village is an ogre colony in revelry. Hundreds of ogres reel and holler at each other in varying states of inebriation, with ale kegs empty and smashed all through the open, central plaza of the colony. Around that plaza, in a crescent of stony blisters on the landscape, ogre mounds offer housing to families and sub-clans young and immature ogres mingle freely in the revelry, though they are too young to have developed the taste for ale and are pleased to partake instead on the rolling feast that persists below; a truly gluttonous surfeit of meats and vegetables that must represent a year's frugal saving and trading for such a town.

I'll take stealth rolls for everyone going up the bluffs with the intention not to draw attention to themselves. Have a +2 bonus because of the helpful long grasses.

And for once you're there, I'll take investigation rolls. I assume you're investigating 'to your strength' - so Marion in investigating the fel aspects of this idol, while if Isaera elects to roll Investigation instead of merely assiting, she's looking for more forensic and arcane aspects. Jakk'ari uses his shamanic powers to assist (that roll of a 9 + whichever stat I was likely to suggest beats the 10 you needed!) to shroud the area in light mist so you don't need to confine your investigation to vantages where you're not visible from the ground; which washes out at a +2 for anyone investigating.
Once I've got the rolls, I'll tell you what you've found!

[Plaids]

Surveying the churning crowd of ogres Jakk'ari smiles at the thought of entering the village during a joyous holiday but wrinkles his brow now realizing he is unable to spot anyone who could feasibly be in charge of the village or the festivities.
Considering the group's goal of finding the lost cadets Jakk'ari scans the village high to low for any cages or rough buildings with few entrances or exits that could be a prison.
[roll0] Rolling for perception.

[MrAbdiel]

Everyone beats a 10, so you seem concealed - fortunately, drunken ogres aren't terribly observant, and you manage not to draw attention to yourselves!

Gazing down at the village revelry, you are able to discern some facts, but not the one you're seeking. The ogres are largely, but not impermeably separated by sex, in the celebrations below; through the male circles and female circles are no less rowdy and intoxicated than one or the other. The large number of ogre youth running about, wrestling and chasing each other through the festivities, tells you this is a whole-community event; and the daubing of ochre symbols on the flesh of those youths seems at first decorative, but at second glance, purposeful.
Confirming with Mor'Lag makes the picture clear enough - this is an after-party for a series of marriage arrangements. With some effort, you see pairs of the ogre youths with matching ochre symbols - too young to have much interest in each other yet, but promised to each other by their families and with the stipulations of those marriage contracts spelled out on their skin in temporary glyphs. Occasionally, you spot an ogreling with more complex markings - perhaps with a more complex marriage arrangement, or promised to an other settlement of Stonemaul or even another clan. Arranged marriages are the reality for many societies in Azeroth and beyond, for those who do not occupy the narrow band between "too poor" and "too rich" to consider exclusively romantic marriages, and for those who do not belong to a boldly forward-looking approach to generational continuity. Whether the Stonemaul do this as a welcome cultural extension of an ancient tradition or as a necessary evil to ensure the familial tribes that make up the greater clan are welded together for another desperately surviving generation is not clear; but the children don't seem to care for the moment, and the adults certainly seem to be having fun celebrating the end of this round of negotiations on behalf of their juvenile offspring.

But what passes for ogre architecture thwarts your hunt for an apparent jail. There are some loose surface huts made of tree trunks and thatch, unsuitable for such a purpose; but the majority of the buildings are ogre mounds: hills that have been hollowed out, with multiple entrances reinforced by big slabby stones, decorated with paint and animal hides and containing a potential warren for dozens or hundreds of ogres in their passageways and lacunae. The Stonemaul could have a hundred prisoners tucked away inside those mounds and you'd have no way to know. What's worse, your communion with the earth spirits here detects the same muddled drunkenness that you found in them at the camp site in the swamp. Someone has been here, with power enough over the elements to stupefy the local spirits into amnesia about their passing.

You ascend the bluff, keeping low and avoiding conspicuous movements that would draw the revellers eyes up to the idol. Stonemaul ogres are not especially pious folk, and given the choice of their attentions landing on cavorting comrades and grog, or casting them heavenward to their stone ancestor, the choice is premade in your favor.

Up close, the idol is crude, but not bad stonework. It depicts a masculine ogre with the very rare fatless phenotype; a thick, muscular form chipped from an almost cylindrical menhir. It faces down over the village, arms tucked to its chest. At its base, located behind its facing so to be at the terminus of the path you followed up, there is a bed of offerings left for the idol. You spot the withered remains of flowers and handfuls of predator teeth from crocolisks and raptors; but the majority of the offering is bones, and the decaying remnants of their former owners. Big swamp snakes, marsh deer, crocolisks... and you're quite sure, based on one prominent skull, at least one orc.

Around heap of offerings, carved into the earth within a day or two, are a combination of runic markings - some ogrish, as depicted on the bodies of those celebrating below, and some undeniably demonic, recognizable instinctively to anyone who has encountered demonic language before.

Sifting through the carcasses, you discover exactly what you feared would be the case: the bodies of two alliance cadets, young men that can't be much over sixteen. They are cold, bloodless, and seem to have been dead for days. There's no doubt these poor boys are the remaining cadets you're looking for.

Cadet Felix hasn't seen them yet; he's keeping obediently at the back of the group, crouched in the grass.

You don't speak ogrish, so the runic circle is half unknown to you; but the other half is gibberish. These are demonic runes to be sure, but presented as if copied from half-glimpsed Legion banners and peppered randomly to create the illusion of a genuine demonic ritual. Someone has enough demonology to know basic elements of summoning magic, but wants it to look like these ogres are practising more advanced summoning magic, and that the dead cadets - and orcs - were sacrifices to fuel it. In the middle of the heap, beneath the bodies, is a large, hollow grey stone covered in scorch marks.You've never seen one up close before, but you're certain - this is an infernal core. Typically, the legion summons them charged with fel energy in the upper stratosphere and they plunge like green comets toward signs of life, emerging as the demonic golems that are forever burned into the fear centres of Horde and Alliance veterans across the world. This one looks to have been exposed to fire recently - though you cannot guess why, except possibly a clumsy effort to revive the construct. Conventional fire does not have the magical nature to accomplish that feat, however; so perhaps it's just here to enhance the presentation of this fake 'ritual'.

The idol, sadly, is part of an elven runestone from the second war; beautiful Thalassian alabaster now stained and mistreated. It's still redolent with magical energies, though pooling idly within the stone with no remnant rune to channel it and no leyline connection to fuel it in an ongoing fashion: a piece of elven glory, bashed into the shape of some ancient tyrant. It looks like a summoning circle, but clumsy - and clumsy in a way any spellcaster knows they can't afford to be. Not the kind of clumsy that twists the spell, but the kind that makes it fall apart blandly. The poor cadets have been killed and drained of blood, perhaps for demonic use somewhere else. In the middle of the heap, beneath the bodies, is a large, hollow grey stone covered in scorch marks.The stone's nature is demonic in some way; that much you can tell by the fel power radiating off it. But the scorch marks aren't exclusively felflame - the most recent exposure it's had to flame has the robust, heady arcane tang of dragonfire - and arcane ley energy bleeding slowly into it from the idol's nearness.

Concerning the festival: The ogres are largely, but not impermeably separated by sex, in the celebrations below; through the male circles and female circles are no less rowdy and intoxicated than one or the other. The large number of ogre youth running about, wrestling and chasing each other through the festivities, tells you this is a whole-community event; and the daubing of ochre symbols on the flesh of those youths seems purposeful. This is an after-party for a series of marriage arrangements. With some effort, you see pairs of the ogre youths with matching ochre symbols - too young to have much interest in each other yet, but promised to each other by their families and with the stipulations of those marriage contracts spelled out on their skin in temporary glyphs. Occasionally, you spot an ogreling with more complex markings - perhaps with a more complex marriage arrangement, or promised to an other settlement of Stonemaul or another clan. Arranged marriages are the reality for many societies in Azeroth and beyond, for those who do not occupy the narrow band between "too poor" and "too rich" to consider exclusively romantic marriages, and for those who do not belong to a boldly forward-looking approach to generational continuity. Whether the Stonemaul do this as a welcome cultural extension of an ancient tradition or as a necessary evil to ensure the familial tribes that make up the greater clan are welded together for another desperately surviving generation is not clear; but the children don't seem to care for the moment, and the adults certainly seem to be having fun celebrating the end of this round of negotiations on behalf of their juvenile offspring.

Concerning the Idol: You don't read demonic, so half of the runic circle is impenetrable to you - but the other half is gibberish. They are clumsy ogre pictograms slapped into the circle to give it an 'ogre' flavor, but not one anyone who knew the language would mistake as having been written authentically. The offerings here infront of the ancestor stone are not uncommon tokens of ogre ancestor reverence, so it seems like this was a legitimate enough ancestor idol - but the folk cavorting below would have had no reason to come up herein the last few days because of the ongoing festival. Someone has come here to desecrate this place with demonic runs, but has for some reason wanted it to look like an ogre has done it.

[Feathersnow]

"This is bad"
"Warlocks intend something, and want to make the Ogres get involved "
"Must be either an attack on the Ogres or a true atrocity to not just hire them openly"

[Plaids]

Oh no..
Jakk'ari releases a silent tusked snarl to suppress a retch. The arrangement is reminiscent of the aftermaths of Dunemaul raids to the troll shaman.

He gestures toward Mor'Lag hoping to leverage the ogre's strength.
Grab this one. I'll take the other. We're leaving.

Quickly glancing towards Felix and making eye contact with the boy he extends an arm with a flat palm vertical to the ground to halt him. Before collapsing his palm into a fist with a single extended index finger signaling the cadet to back away. The last of the cadets had been found and the group's mission was almost complete. There was no need to escalate things. Now was the time to leave and recoup what they could.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

Marion's heart sank when they found the corpses of the two cadets, barely a few years younger than herself, strewn about in a macabre decoration to conduit whatever infernal ploy the dark practitioners were conducting.

What was equally disturbing was Marions inability to make sense of the arrangement. She understood Demonic, she knew the language and had read various black rituals that could be employed with living sacrifices. But this? She did not recognize this.

Withdrawing her journal from her pack, an ink pot and her pen, Marion started to quickly scribble down notes and jotted a rough outline of what she saw, so that she could return to this at a later date when experience had expanded her knowledge enough to face this puzzle.

Once that was complete, she sprinkled some sawdust powder over the page to help the ink dry before quietly blowing away, folding her book up and returning it to her backpack.

That done, Marion eyed the pile again, pursing her lips when she thought about retrieving proof of the cadets demise.

"Mor'lagh," the warlock asked, her voice soft and quiet as not to draw attention.

"Can you carry these two?" she asked, gesturing to the downed cadets.

"Returning their remains is our prerogative. Perhaps a priest may even be able to restore the damage done to their souls for the burial."

With her question asked, Marion turned her attention back to the pile...at which point she spotted something. Furrowing her brow, the Alteraci retrieved a stick and brushed aside the charred remains of orcs and ashened refuse to reveal the heart of the ritual - an unusually shaped heart of rock. To the uninitiated onlooker this may seem harmless, but Marion could sense something about it. She knew this was no ordinary masonry.

Putting a cloth over her hand, Marion retrieved the item and wrapped it in linen, before squirrelling it away into her backpack. She would study it later.

ooc:
Spending a VP to boost Investigation, and then retrieving the Infernal core.

[MrAbdiel]

"What?" Felix pushes his whisper; hope metamorphing through confusion into dread in his expression, as Jakk'ari's expression and gesture of warning give him the softest preparation for what is to come that such a precarious moment in such a place can afford. "What is it? Have you..?" But after backing up obligingly, there's no escaping a revelation for the young man. When he sees what remains of Gawin, a discoloured mockery of a man upon whom scavenging beetles and rot from the marsh conditions have set over the last few days, he pales and chokes and lets out a sound of haunting, inarticulate grief. He is struck with bizarre, and completely understandable indecision. A step towards Gawin's almost unrecognizable body, and then a step back from the horror of it; a step towards the bluff and back again when he sees the still, carrion hand he knows must belong to Xander. He reels back, tears streaming, face going from sheet white to tomato red as he seethes through hyperventilating breaths. He draws his sword half from its scabbard, and turns his eyes to the bluff and the sounds of ogrish laughing and dancing and drinking; and murder turns his countenance from frightened boy to avenger of blood; but he takes one step as if to launch himself in a diving stab at the village as a single, monstrous aggregate... and then all his strength empties from him, and the sword slips from his grasp to jab upright into the earth. His knees hit the ground, and with a full body convulsion he topples sideways drawing up into the posture of an infant; his mouth locked wide open as if to accommodate a scream of denial so loud as to shake the sky. But he doesn't release that scream; even in this state, he has the presence of mind to incarcerate it within his heaving chest and let it slowly die there, released in muted particulate as shuddering moans into his cupped hands. All the helplessness of his youth swallows up any soldierly affectation he thought to possess, and dumps him slack and mute into the reality of the dangerous world. Jakk'ari sets aside the body and turns his attention and care to the crumbling cadet Felix, with what seems to be incremental success in calming him down to those watching at a respectful step back.

"Must have let himself believe it was all going to be okay, when he learned the other two survived." The speaker is Zachary, who has arrived in the midst of the party so stealthily it's as if he manifested from smoke. "Damn shame."

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

Contrary to popular belief, Marion wasn't a totally heartless, self-serving conniver. Though she presented a pleasant façade while pondering what suited her best within the privacy of her own mind, she still had the strings within her heart that could be plucked by those who knew either the correct words, stories or demonstrations. And Felix was one such individual, even if he didn't know it.

Though to be fair, his surreptitious agony was similar to that of her own, albeit with different variables. Marion herself had lost a lot in her young life: her position, her family, her holdings, her status, her prestige and her nation. Though she believed the weight of her calamity outstripped that of Felix's, she was not self-absorbed enough to think that it muscled it out for the spotlight of consideration in the present time. The academy had been Felix's world. These cadets, his family. Their actions, his alone to bear in this wretched swamp. Though he had chosen a military life in which he should be prepared for losing comrades to the depredations of malicious outsiders, he was receiving such a lesson at a particularly vulnerable age. This was not some war weary veteran who had seen fellows come and die - it was a teenager now saddled with the belief he had gotten his fellows killed.

"If you want to honour them Felix," Marion spoke, her voice surprisingly soft and soothing as she laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Help us safely return them to Theramore for proper burial. There is no more and no less that you can do for them now."

[WindStruck]

Isaera was both relieved and disappointed that the cadets were dead. Of course, it was a damn shame. It seems they had no chance at all. But at least, they didn't have to bother with the ogres anymore - and if they were lucky, neither demons nor warlocks- and they could just head back now. Felix was alive and well, and that in itself was a blessing. She would only hope he could take the bad news.

The fact that this elven rune stone was here, desecrated and used to some foul purpose bothered her, however. Probably just as much as the death of these cadets.

"Whatever these foul cultists are up to, I'm going to put a stop to it," she declared. Doing what elves like her did best, deprived of mana but always in control, it was a few trivial gestures, combined with a forceful and rather superfluous couple of syllables she used to draw the mana out of the stone completely. She didn't think she had ever felt so satisfied from drawing mana from anything before.

"Now, it will no longer..." she stopped, realizing Marion had taken up the stone herself.

"I hope you know what you're doing with that, Marion. Do you know what it is? All I can tell you is it is demonic, yet it smells like it was burned with dragon fire. I would suggest we find a way to destroy it, or just bury it somewhere in the swamp those cultists will never be able to find.. but something tells me you'd rather not." Isaera gazed at the warlock expectantly of an answer, and one very long eyebrow already raised.

-----

Down below the bluffs, where Felix waited, Isaera's mind was back to how he would take the bad news. And she was dreading it more and more. Sadly, it was Felix's own torment which caused Isaera to begin shedding some tears. She felt this kind of heartbreak when family did not return from war, and her dear friends suffered the same. These cadets must have all been good friends, as far as she could tell. To lose such a close friend.. well, the visible pain spoke for itself.

She was surprised to hear Marion say something that wasn't so flippantly sarcastic. For once, she could not agree more.

Isaera kneeled down to try to gently grasp his hand. She softly spoke, "We have all lost friends and loved ones. For what it's worth.. I'm sorry."

---

Then Zachary suddenly appeared. Good thing too. She slowly stands "Good timing, Zachary.. I know some of us may prefer to mourn.. but we need to go before demons ambush us, too."

[MrAbdiel]

"... but we need to go before demons ambush us, too."

Some time after this awful escapade, the ears that heard this comment may reflect on it as eerily prophetic; or perhaps just painfully ironic.

The party make their way back down the bluff. The infernal stone is secure in Marion's pack; the ogre idol hewn from elven runestone is denuded of its remnant of magical power; the bodies of Gawin and Xander are bundled in sheets to preserve them for the journey, with Jakk'ari's assurance he can offer them a herb-based respite from the rush of decay once they stop to camp for the night. Zachary gives his bland report - the ogres seem to be having some kind of celebration to blow off the steam generated by taxing marriage negotiations, and the festivities have been going since before he arrived. And Mor'Lag's physical power makes the whole operation swifter and less painful than it has any right to be. Halfway down the bluffs, well enough hidden for the bodies to receive their wrapping before they carry on, Felix catches his breath and nods in wet-eyed delirium at the warlock and mage's quiet reassurances. Between Jakk'ari's quiet, solid support in his most hysterical moment, and the words of the Marion and Isaera with hands settled on his shoulder and hand, the youth is able to shove his grief back into its casing; into the well of feeling where all soldiers must place their gentler selves, at the risk of one day being pulled in and lost entirely. "Thank you. Yes... Yes, I'm okay. Let's just go. I want to just-... Let's go."

And you're all ready to go. You're just about to go. And retrospect makes you wonder if timing had been a little different, how easilly it would have been to just go, or to arrive well after the fact. But as history in Azeroth prefers to gravitate towards such moments, you are there when the music stops, and the cheering and singing of the ogres turns to shock, and alarm. This, inevitably, draws your attention to the scene at hand.

Well - that's not quite right. Your first clue is a sudden movement from Marion's backpack; a quiver of its content and an ear-aching, keening hiss of noise just at the edge of mortal detection that suddenly fades and stops, just before the change in sound in the village nearby.

Something magical almost happened, but then didn't. Whatever Marion put in her bag has just missed some trigger it was intended for; like a stick of goblin dynamite whose fuse has been pinched out just before vanishing into the powder.It seems like the physical separation from the idol - or more specifically, the magic trickle from within it - has robbed this fel happening of some final, critical drop of fuel.

Then, glancing over the low edge of the cliff toward the celebration, you bear witness; just as so many others did, four years ago.
https://www.youtube.com/clip/UgkxJiGOR_RJT4gcKiQ5He415snm-KCeYL-b

The sky does not rain green fire, today; but the earth blooms with it. Dozens of blazing beryl craters burst open around the village, amidst their celebrations; some within the primitive structures, some from hard packed earn in the streets, some from the face of the cliff on whose two you previously stood. The largest are upwards of thirty feet tall, looming over the tallest ogres in the settlement; and no sooner have they birthed from the memory of the last war do they fall upon those creatures nearest to them. Ogres are tough creatures by nature; a warrior culture stacked on top of a wrecking machine physiology; but these ogres are drunk, and confused, and well and truly off guard. The bloodshed commences immediately, and with frightful intensity. Nearest to where you are, two hundred feet beyond the foot of the bluffs and past the crude wooden palisades, you see one reveller blinking in shock at the emergence of three such beings - small ones, no more than twenty feet tall. One falls upon him with a battering ram blow from a green-blazing fist that breaks his mighty neck and catches flame to the body even as it topples.

There are not so many of the wicked constructs that it seems like the settlement is in danger of being overrun, even under these conditions - but they will pay a price in the blood of the jubilant, intoxicated adults and the dumbfounded children.

You're not technically in combat time yet; but I will ask you to make a Will Resistance Check against a DC of 14. Failure means you are dazed by the demonic shock of the scene.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari breaths a sigh of relief as the core enclosed in Marion's bag rattles and screeches before anticlimactically petering out. Before being rattled by the emergence of dozens of cruel green flaming giants suddenly bursting from the moist ground. The roars are incomprehensible to the shaman and surely not a product of the elements.

The chorus of deep roars cascades over the frightened cries of a populace scrambling to understand what was happening while mounting a flatfooted defense. Thatched ogre mounds began to burn while gigantic figures lumbered in every direction. This was something he had never seen.

Taking his allies into account Jakk'ari sees the two inquisitive magical adepts who pawed so intently at the likely magical relics transfixed in horror. Felix was shocked but hadn't fallen into the freezing crevice between fight or flight like Marion and Isaera, thankfully a stern command would surely spring him into action. Then he looks to Mor'Lag and Zachary both exemplary fighters who would be irreplaceable in the next few minutes. Though if Mor'Lag's faculties were arrested by fear a full retreat would be nearly impossible given their size.

Seeking answers for what is happening Jakk'ari turns to the trusted ranger who had been at the villages perimeter the longest.
What is happening !? ...

Given how isolated the sand trolls were I'm thinking that they have passed down tales of demon invasions long ago but lost some details to time and can't identify specific species but have an understanding of "I know it when I see it".

[WindStruck]

"By the Gods.. Th-Those can only be..." Isaera says, dumbfounded and just about scared out of her mind. Perhaps the shock would wear off, but needless to say, fighting these monsters would be foolish, if not suicidal.

Her eyes darted around and at the ensuing carnage. Drunk ogres and even ogre children about to get slaughtered, or at the very least, their homes destroyed. But what could they expect to do without adding to the causalities? How would they be received after the fact.. and where did these monsters come from??

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis


"I hope you know what you're doing with that, Marion. Do you know what it is? All I can tell you is it is demonic, yet it smells like it was burned with dragon fire. I would suggest we find a way to destroy it, or just bury it somewhere in the swamp those cultists will never be able to find.. but something tells me you'd rather not."

Marion looks over her shoulder at the elf, a small, but friendly smile crossing her features.

"What kind of lady do you take me for?" she asked with a playful expression.

And then the proverbial dung impacted with the proverbial propeller.

The Alteraci's eyes widened at the very sight before her, the macabre and grotesque spectacle reaching deep within her to clasp her bravery and squeeze it dry with a fiery, masoned fist. Were she observing one of those things in act, from a distance, Marion might have been more content. But this many? And so close? The fiery and violent terrain spread out before her as the titanic forms of the infernals, wreathed in flame, smashed against the meaty, towering stumps of the more numerous ogres in a battle that Marion could feel in her soul and through her feet.

Reaching out to the nearest companion near her, Marions eyes still agape with a primal horror, the teenager rapidly patted at whichever campion was closest.

"We have to leave. Now."

Her expression suggested not just the desire for expedience, but a recognition of what was before her, which lent itself to her wish for an immediate and hasty retreat.

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag was, more than usual, of two minds about all of this. She definitely didn't owe it to the Stonemaul to stop the Dorei desecrating their relic, not least when someone or something had already done far worse. She didn't owe it to them to save them, not least when it was unlikely she could actually help enough to matter

But all of this was wrong. Whatever started here wasn't going to end here. As the twins carried the corpses, she knew that even simple pragmatism would encourage her to at least see what this was

Then... a scene from the third war returned!!

[roll0]

[Plaids]

As the carnage unfolds Jakk'ari can't help but feel a pang of guilt and wonders briefly if the groups excursion has caused this disastrous event. Regardless he would not stand by idly in the grass. Stepping forward to the apex of the hill Jakk'ari pleads to the wind and water spirits found in abundance in the swamps and summons a downpour radiating 120 from him only excluding his allies. All in the hopes of dousing any flaming hulks nearby.

I don't know how far away the infernal cores are but I'm taking some pre-emptive measures if there are any.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk'ari's appeal to the elements is heard, and the spirits of water and wind conspire to darken the sky, and begin the opening salvos of a deluge. It patters and hisses off the infernals, partially muting their grand fires and greatly diminishing the spread of blazes on structures and unfortunate folk.

The spirits require a forceful hand, right now; your invocations must be roared and your gestures must be sweeping and commanding. They are in disarray, here. Water and wind spirits are reacting with convulsive disgust at the fel monstrosities just as mortals do, but they honor the ancient promises when you direct their action. Frustrating are the spirits of fire that are rapidly drawn from the deep furnace of the firelands to the spirit nearness of this place. They vascillate between horror at the demon engines, and their inevitable, euphoric glee at the opportunity to burn things. They are as much obstacle as ally, here, which is very much fire's nature: a troll's most valuable tool, and his most ancient bane.

"...We should..." Zachary begins; green fire flashing in his eyes as the demonic invasion jags into reality to disrupt the otherwise simple search-and-find mission. His attention darts wildly about across the targets, and one hand twitches toward his rifled musket. But he seems stuck in a loop of actions - his hunter mind telling him to run before he becomes prey, his humanity reaching out sympathetically to these creatures who might have been his enemies in past conflicts, but are kin to him in the quality of their suffering right now. "...We should..."

While throughout the once festive town sprawl the same scene unfolds in some awful variety, the drama closest to you carries on. Just over the top of the palisade you can see the shoulders and burning stony skulls of the three lesser constructs, thrashing about with murderous purpose. One hoists a grown ogre, which bellows in pain and defiance, and hurls him blazing into the sloppy pailings of a nearby supply hut. It catches flame at once, the blaze incrementally draining from green to orange as the felfire gives way to its natural counterpart. Another seems to be in a protracted exchange with a defiant enemy, the sound of stony fists pounding into a table improvised as a shield crunching out into the air. The third's form hulks toward the palisade, angled down; and you hear a hysterical chorus from beyond. The sound is strange indeed - the wailing of children, but from throats as large as most race's adults.

"Light save us, there's kids. There's kids in there!"

This assessment, obvious as its conclusion is, comes from Felix. Felix, who seems to not be struck with the bonefreezing grip of fear at this scenario. The cadet's features, glowing in the green flame, are troubled with fear for certain; but they are also puffy and gleaming with the wracking bouts of grief that incapacitated him minutes ago. The party of unlikely allies witnesses a peculiar kind of alchemy happen in the heart of the boy soldier. Some combination of his emotionally exhausted state, catalysed by his disastrous idea of hunting demons in the swamp for the good of all the world, reacts with what an insightful observer would identify as the germinating seed of survivor's guilt and fills him with something so closely analogous to courage the effect is indistinguishable.

The short, straight blade rips from its scabbard, two feet of steel winking with the appealing banality of unenchanted, simple heroism. He lets out a shout that seems to fill the space where a superior's order to charge should be, and serves to release his feet from idleness; and he tears across the field, leaps through a man-sized gap in the sloppy palisade, and throws himself into combat with one of the creatures. You don't see the result of the charge - the permeable palisade nonetheless obscures the exchange - but the sound of the strike, the pitiable, small dink of his sword on the stone of the construct, rings out to your ears like a town bell, calling all hands to arms.

We're in combat! You can move through the sloppy palisade when you get there, if you want to; but there's nothing stopping you from turning and leaving Felix and the ogres to their fate, or hanging back and volleying magic over the wall. That'll provide your enemies with cover, but it means you can keep away! The palisade is about 90ft away, and the closest lesser infernal 20 ft beyond that, with another two distracted by their own destructive pursuits positioned at the other two points of a rough triangle with 40ft sides.

Felix's action is to charge! Normal humans have a move of 0 (30 ft). He has a 'charge' move ability with a move speed of 1 (60ft), so he uses extra effort to pump it to 2 (120ft) so he can make it there in one move action, and swing his sword at the infernal for a mighty dink.

[roll0] to hit! Looking for a 17 to hit in melee.
[roll1] toughness, if it hits.

Fortunately, the sword has a damage rank of 3, which is just enough to beat the Lesser Infernal's Impervious Toughness rating.
Additionally, if he hits, the infernal makes a Reaction Damage attack with his felfire.

[roll2] to hit, looking for a 13. And if it hits, Felix will make a toughness check or be burned!
[roll3] toughness, looking for a 17.

If you're wondering why Felix's toughness is so high, it's because he's getting a +5 against all fire descriptor attacks from Jakk'ari's elemental downpour!

Additionally, Felix's idiot charge into danger to help his historical enemies entitles all who witness to a +2 to their repeated will resistance to shake off the fear. Marion and Isaera are entitled to roll at the 'end' of their idle turns that have just passed, so you can roll before you make your first in combat action turn and then again at the end of that turn, if you are still shaken.

Edit: Dink! No 'hit' from the sword, so merely a cinematic dinking off one big fiery stone leg. Your move, adventurers!

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis


Marion was still feeling the primal fear of these wretched things gripping at her essence, a paralysing gnawing that seeped across her nervous system and halted any movements that were too advanced for finer motor functions to accomplish.

She hated these things.

For a second, however, it seemed like her words might bear fruit and the group of them would turn and use the opportunity to slip away.

But then Felix just had to...

"No!" Marion shouted out, even attempting to grip the cadet before he carried forth with his foolhardy decision. But it was too late. Off he took, charging forward and discovering how little his weapon meant to the infernal siege engines of the Burning Legion.

Damn fool! Marion thought quietly, her lips pursed as she drew her hands up.

Uttering a single syllable of power, Marion pointed her right hand towards the towering infernal as shards of black-green energy leapt from her fingers to strike the thing in the chest...


ooc:

Marion is casting Shadow and Fire.

To Hit: [roll0]
Homing Next Round: [roll1]

As it's Multiattack the Damage gets +2 damage per degree of success for hitting. Going for Shadow descriptor instead of Fire.

So DC 19 + any modifiers.

[WindStruck]

A realization hits Isaera. "These ogres aren't responsible for the demons..."

But then, of course, Felix has to do something rash and stupid. Exactly what he promised he wouldn't be doing.

"Felix, wait! Arghh!" Isaera says, as she makes some half-hearted attempt to run up to and catch the cadet, but he's just too damn fast and foolhardy.

Now a bit closer to the action, Isaera tries to complement the rain by extinguishing the infernal's flame.. with Frost Bolt!

yeaaaah I think it's impervious but whatever. Isaera's never fought one before. Or seen one. I am not sure if afflictions will still work even if its toughness doesn't get phased though.

attack: [roll0]
damage 1
-Affliction 7 (dazed + hindered)
---Limited Degree 2
---Extra Affliction

And affliction is resisted by fortitude DC 17.

[Plaids]

While orchestrating the downpour Jakk'ari's attention is brough to the young cadet dashing past him at an impressive pace.
Seeing Felix's trajectory towards the village Jakk'ari scrambles after him by stumbling down the steep bluff then breaking into a taxing sprint.

Through the pitter patter of rain and squelching rain Jakk'ari can't keep pace with the young man but doesn't lose sight of him for long as the troll hops atop an opening in the battered palisades.
He sees Felix next to a flaming infernal as well as two others engaging their individual own ogres.

Intent on protecting Felix Jakk'ari compels the earth, summoning a coiling cyclone of mud between Felix and the infernal ready to intercept any strike aimed at the cadet.


Jakk'ari uses extra effort to raise his speed to 1. With a movement of 60 Jakk'ari moves to the palisades and uses his Deflect power on Felix.
I'm assuming Jakk'ari was closer to the palisades than the rest of the group since the group was going downhill and away from the village and then went back up to summon the rain.
[roll0] Rolling to use deflect on Felix assuming Jakk'ari is at a medium distance from Felix.

[Feathersnow]

Lag is aware that daemons are there, right there, hurting Ogre children. If she does nothing, she deserves everything she suffered since her fathers' deaths. If she saves anyone important and lives, she might never need suffer those insults again .

Mor, for once, is the less rational. What she thinks cannot be put into words easily, only violent imagery of daemons being sent back forcibly to where they came from across the Nether.

They see where another Ogre is being attacked and attempt to flank the aggressor!

[MrAbdiel]

Long troll legs carry Jakk'ari in big, loping strides up to the palisades, and with a desperately outstretched hand. Sympathetically, the elemental spirits produce a reaching hand of the same shape and arrangement as Jakk'ari's; but an effigy rendered from mud and loose stones, lurching from the soil to intervene between Felix and his towering, flaming adversary. When that infernal spins, it brings a wild, devastating backhand of stone to bear that could smash a mortal body with a direct it. It carves through the muddy apparition; but in the blur of the movement, it may have lost just enough momentum from its strike to save the cadet's life. He raises his sword to parry the strike, and his blade is pushed against his chainmail, his body knocked skidding onto the mud and then, incredibly, the momentum carries him with a weird, accidental elegance tumbling back to his feet again. He pounces forward and slashes at the infernal's legs, with another pitiably brave ring of steel on stone that yields no effect on the monstrosity.

Marion's roiling blast of shadow roars over the palisade, but the angle to avoid a wasteful impact against the wood means the missiles sing overhead of her marauding target, curling back around as they instinctively calibrate their destructive focus on the target of her searing hate. Isaera's casting is more formalized and precise; a spinning spear of ice coalescing in the air above her shoulder at the delicate sculpting of her scintillating fingertips, rattling in its unseen arcane binding as it builds power. The third member of the ranged assault team, Zachary, brings his rifle to his shoulder and squeezes off a shot so swiftly that it should by no rights hit the target; but luck is with the ranger in that moment, and as his shaking hands are moving to reload the musket, keen eyes can see a neat bullet hole in the stony skull of the infernal bearing down on Felix. The injury jets sputtering green flame, which one must hope is a kind of analogy to a bleeding wound. Headshot doesn't seem to notice - it lets out an unearthly roar and redoubles its murderous efforts upon Felix.

The infernal that had flung its ogre prey into a nearby hut stalks purposefully into the building, its bulk smashing the burning, crude structure apart, and delivers a stomp that reverberates through the ground and fills the air with a grisly cracking noise that hearers do well not to imagine mapping to the specific interaction of stone foot and ogre head. Curbstomp, its foe extinguished, cranes its burning, rage-crazed eyes over to the palisades, and the attacks flying over the wall at its companion. From there, its attention wanders slowly, almost thoughtfully, to Zachary, Isaera and Marion.

The ogre facing off against the other infernal is an older male, a cyclops by injury not birth, with the horn in the middle of his forehead broken sideways and healed oddly. He is possessed of a grunting, inarticulate stubbornness that might be considered admirable. Further in the interior of the town, the battle is raging and it seems likely that in due time the ogres will win; but they will win from the inside out, and if this warrior is to survive - and preserve the lives of the cluster of six ogre children pressed back in paralyzed fear into the muddle base of the inside of the palisade - he will have to punch above his weight for some time. He has hoisted the heavy feast table in both hands and deflected one blow; and manages to deflect another. But the second blow catches the improvised shield on green flame, and its usefulness quickly threatens to turn to liability. His one good eye catches the storming approach of Mor and Lag, however; and with an unspoken interaction between the ogres, Brokenhorn roars and makes several feigned assaults on the demon-engine that instinctively shifts its bulk to deflect, before darting out a hand and snatching the table away, smashing it on the ground in a display of mindless, furious dominance. Tablesmasher does, in that way, keep focusing on the older ogre, exposing its back to Mor'Lag's coming blow.

[WindStruck]

Noticing another of those infernals seemed to be lumbering over towards them, this whole situation was going from trying to rescue the cadet from his own stupidity to probably being in danger themselves.

Isaera doesn't want to get closer, but she still immediately begins charging arcane energy in her hands, and soon sends the arcane missile flying at the infernal soon after her frost bolt strikes it.

attack: [roll0] (and then there's palisades)
has homing 3
damage 4

since she hasn't taken a move action, this should go off somewhat faster

"Felix!! Get out of there!! Another one is coming!" Isaera shouted at him, as she tried to concentrate on her spell.

Persuasion: [roll1]

[Plaids]

Seeing Felix in danger Jakk'ari attempts to get closer to Felix while walking through the saturated mud disturbed by his attempts to protect Felix.
Hearing loud boom and sharp metallic crack Jakk'ari sees Zachary's shot crack the infernals faceplate. Following Zachary's example he brings some of his own lightning to bear against the infernal.

roll]1d20+8[/roll]
Jakk'ari moves 15 feet closer to Felix and the infernal to now be 15 feet from both. He then uses blast on the wounded infernal closest to Felix.

[MrAbdiel]

The arcing frostbolt strikes Headshot's blackstone chest, and the sidewinding arcane missiles thread through the palisade and burst one after another in a pock-marking string up its right side. Jakk'ari's lightning scintillates across all six of his fingers, and leaps from his digits at the demon-thing.

And through all this, it bellows and rages on; the accumulation of chips and cracks to its body slowly building, but not yet hindering it noticeably. Its attention does track away from Felix and toward Jakk'ari, however...

Meanwhile, Tablesmasher takes the bait of Brokenhorn's goading and bulls through the display, smashing a fiery stone fist through the improvised wooden shield and square into the ogre's jaw and chest, sending him reeling, singed, and staggering despite a best effort to deflect the blow.

[Plaids]

Startled by the infernal weathering the barrage of magical blasts Jakk'ari pleads to Felix. While shouting over the weather.
You've done all you can. We need to regroup! [roll0]

Seeking to offer Felix a way out Jakk'ari focuses on the ground. Compelling two amiable elements to separate a thin line of bone-dry ground emerges guiding Felix to the palisades. All while the rain continues saturate the ground and form deepening mud.

Jakk'ari is aiding Isaera in her attempt to convince Felix to fall back. He also makes the ground into ground impeding movement by two degrees excluding land surrounding allies and a small strip of land leading Felix back to the palisades. I don't know how big infernal feet are but the strip is meant to be thinner than the width of its hips so it can't move unimpeded on the path.

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis


Marion pursed her lips and shook her head as she watched both magic and blade batter off the rocky body of the towering infernal.

Of course they attacked the infernal despite my warnings, the Alteraci thought sourly to herself, what would I know, I'm only a warlock...


Drawing her hands up, Marion begun to chant and conjure forth her own minion. She doubted she would be able to flee from these things without some sort of meat-shield between herself and the others. Though she didn't fancy her chances of surviving in the swamp for days...

ooc:

Full Round Action: Casting Summon Demon: Expertise (Magic) - [roll0] vs DC 16.


Second To Hit against the Infernal: [roll1]

If that beats the To Hit by 1 degree then the DC is 21, if it beats the To Hit by 3 degrees the DC is 24. So she's already got 1 degree by rolling a successful hit (so DC 21), then if the Infernals Dodge is 14 or less she gets +5 for DC 24.

[MrAbdiel]

The violet lights glimmering off Marion's casting fingertips begin quickly to change form; from light, to smoke; from smoke, to empty fog; from empty fog, to fog with a pair of bright eyes and heavy, jeweled bracers suspended in its rippling depths. The Voidwalker was being slowly hauled into reality with a minumum of reluctance, and radiating a palpable pall of something that tasted, to the soul's instinctive palate, like a sort of bitter, detached homesickness. But while this took place, the combat carried on; and the shadowy blast released by the warlock moments ago completes its orbit and slams into the back of the injured infernal. The impact seems to have the desired effect; its fist, raised to hammer Felix into the ground like a railspike, suddenly drops to support it as it heaves forward with the rocking power of the shadowy detonation. Faint cracks spider out from the point of impact, even curling around to feature with fellish internal luminescence on the right side of its central 'torso' stone. In that moment, as another of Felix's blows clangs ineffectually the infernal's stony back, the dual voices of reason, elf and troll together, penetrate the cadet's fugue of heroism. He takes the moment of the monstrosity's distraction to fall back, straining as he exerts, through the palisade's gappy flank and just out the other side, halfway to where he started. Headshot pushes up and stumbles after him, but only makes it as far as Jakk'ari; the construct's attention transferring swiftly to the shaman with evident malice.

Dropping to one knee as he finishes reloading, Zachary breaths out slowly and takes careful aim at the damaged 'skull' he has hit once before; banking on accumulating a second success when the moment is right.

The second infernal, Curbstomp, sees the young human fleeing across its path and lurches forward in pursuit. As the slim youth slides through the gap in the palisade, the infernal drops a shoulder to plow right through it; and for a moment the observers feel their preserving instincts warning them about the hail of burning, tainted splinters they are about to need to reel from. But the impact against the palisade is a bare thump - the mudslick ground has given way somewhat under the demonic construct's foot, compromising the gravity of its charge into a blow that neither obliterates the wooden wall, nor seriously damages it. Felix has escaped, and the wall has held; and in the distraction of the immediately threatening enemies, the ogre children scrabble away from their trapped corner - though it is their village that is under attack, and at best they can run to a part of it that is less immediately under attack.

Dazed, Brokenhorn attempts to land a punch on the towering engine of fire and stone; but Tablesmasher leans deftly away from the force of the blow, raises both stony arms above its head with a clasping of burning fists, and prepares to bring both down upon the ogre's head.

Your hearts are thumping in their chest. There is something about this encounter - the demons, the ogres, the magic, the physical contest - that rings in your senses with a majesty that belongs in ritual - as if fate had orchestrated a kind of rite-of-passage for them in the absence of a lasting affiliation to tribe. Perhaps that ancestral idol on the bluff really has some mojo to it; perhaps, as some have suggested, the eyes of the ancestors peer out through that stone facade in mute witness to all that transpires beyond. Are your fathers there, watching? Do they watch from Ogri'la, in rest? Or some darker, more anguished place - the price of that rash vow, and the heady pride that caused such an ignoble fall?

You remember that day on the deck of the ship, watching your father dismantle a Felguard with his hands - his hands! - and even as you moving up for a flanking strike on Tablesmasher, these towering stone fiends seem... smaller, now. Held in true perspective. They are mighty, yes; but they are also weak; slave constructs of a race of slaves. They are demons; but you have seen stronger demons crumble beneath the fists of the mighty. Have your fathers given you only a burden of shame to carry for your whole life? Have they not, at the least, given you also your hands, your arms, your dunam, which the small races translate so listlessly as brute power? You will find out, today, if the blood in your veins is all curse - or something more than that. The answers lie, you are certain, inside the breakable husks of these fel-golems.

Mor'Lag, perhaps for reasons she does not understand, understands instinctively the weaknesses of these constructs. Using the smash action will permit you to break the stone trunk of the torso, exposing the infernal core to direct damage; removing 2 points of their toughness with a base success, and 4 of their 7 points of toughness, if the smash completely breaks their 'armor'. Presently, Brokenhorn has paid a price to distract Tablesmasher for you - it's vulnerable, making its parry defence a mere 4 instead of 7 for your coming attack.

[Plaids]

Seeing Felix out harms way and the pursuing elemental failing to find traction in the mud Jakk'ari feels a small but sustaining sense of relief. He's also glad no one was attempting to squeeze through the palisades only to become jellied meat between the wall and the construct.

Unfortunately, it appears the two infernals wouldn't relent in their goal of crushing the most accessible fleshy being.
Attempting to suprise "headshot" Jakk'ari provides him with its namesake. A bolt of lightning arcs through the air before wrapping around Jakk'ari's outstretched arm and being launched through the air like a snake being chucked by its handler at "headshots" face. [roll0]

Taking his chances Jakk'ari dives between headshot's feet and running forwards as fast he can.
Whilst running for his life Jakk'ari compels the earth to churn and grind. The roiling earth unearths a series of boulders no bigger than Jakk'ari's feet evenly spaced in hispath. Bounding on the stones Jakk'ari moves unimpeded above the increasingly deeping mud. Each stone trodded upon sinks back into the earth.

Jakk'ari attacks "headshot" with a blast in the face before running through its legs and behind it to run away from it. This should put distance between him and "headshot" plus the one hitting the palisade. Then with a spent victory point he impedes the movement of all enemies around him in range while trying to not obstruct his own movement or that of his allies.

I'm really enjoying the "selective" part of environment control. If the party somehow ends up in a gnome city that ran out of coal for their steam engine generator Jakk'ari is going to heat the piston chambers of the engine and then cool them repeatedly to generate electricity and possibly worshipped as a "machine speaker".

[MrAbdiel]

Mor'Lag comes charging into the combat with wrecking-ball force, using the momentum of the dash to reel back one mighty fist, and bring it forth into the stony back of the distracted demon-construct. But at the moment of impact, it's not entirely clear what happens. The blow does not translate into physical damage - surely that would leave a cracking of the stone - but instead some other, more mystical collusion of forces. A rush of wind scythes out from the point of the strike in a ring lined up against the plane of the ogress's impacting knuckles. A boom like a thunderclap echoes from the strike, and behind it, mingling with Mor and Lag's own cries of ferocity, is a sound like other ogre voices - this pair masculine and distant but loud and resonant - making some unintelligible declaration in the space of a half second.

Tablesmasher stumbles forward from the strike, huge igneous legs nearly slamming over Brokenhorn as he scrambles out of the way. The infernal rounds on Mor'lag now with a demonic shriek, the felflame in its eyes, its neck socket, and issuring from between all its joints stuttering and guttering like a torch in hurricane wind.

Mor'Lag has gone with an alternate effect for that crit, making it a Banishing Blow and manifesting for the first time a hinted at but undisclosed magical potential. The Infernal won the opposed Nullify roll (despite rolling at a -2 disadvantage!), but Banishing Blow as I've speculatively written it has the Secondary Effect modifier, so Tablesmasher will have to make that roll again at the end of Mor'Lag's next turn, too. Failure means being unsummoned!

Jakk'ari's lightning flashes up into Headshot's stony skull, and it shakes its head with a screaming, sneeze like dismissal as the troll slips between its legs and begins his withdrawal. Regathering its senses, the infernal turns to pursue... just as a black-violet rift appears nearby it, projecting unsettling un-light in a complex geometric pattern on the earth around it. Similarly, in Marion's midst, a matching geometric pattern spiders out from the basic traces her powers have made in the ground and fill in the rest of the magical circle as if the spell desires so much to be cast that it's willing to split the labor. Both circles release a howl of cold, sterile air before Varghast manifests in a sucking truncation of sound, and lets out a mournful, howling groan that seems to agitate and draw the attention of the infernals. Curbstomp seems particularly enraged, backing off the palisade and turning its focus on the Voidwalker.

Tablesmasher, his animating magics warring against the corrosive effect of Mor'Lag's attack, pushes through the disruption to lash out at the bifold ogress; but the attack is clumsy and overweighed, balanced badly against the stagger recovery from the Banishing Blow.

Marion and Isaera are up again! Marion, Varghast can act on your initiative for simplicity's sake. I had him manifest in the midst of the the fight and taunt (it only succeeded on Curbstomp right away, but he can just do it every turn!), but obviously you can do whatever you want with him.

[WindStruck]

Since it seemed the first infernal they were fighting was about to start chasing Jakk'ari, and the other.. seemed to give up its attempts at reaching them for now, Isaera once again conjures up frost in her hands and flings it at Headshot to further hinder its pursuit.

frost bolt
attack: [roll0]
DC 17 fortitude for same afflictions as before

[MrAbdiel]

The frostbolt spirals out to the left as if it's likely to miss by a considerable margin; but the elven fingers know they arcane work. It arcs out to the side and rips back in with greater momentum than the first casting, translating the torquing force of its longer path into a harsher impact that causes the infernal to emit another piercing bellow. A great crystalline growth now exists nested in the nook between shoulder and skull of the thing, growing out and back three full feet in a physical map of the frostbolt's arcane over-penetration. The felflames throughout its body begin dying down as they compete with the arcane fire, and each slogging step of the infernal is an achingly slow plod as frost reaches out to snap-freeze the sloshing mud into grabbing permafrost that needs to be forcefully broken to advance!

First, the magic Marion has just used, you are quiet certain, is a demon summoning ritual. If you had any doubts about how much of a warlock she is, she's a full-blown warlock; but at least she's your warlock right now.

Unrelated but additional, your investigation of the area pays a longterm dividend you weren't expecting. You remember looking over the area to your far right when you were snooping around the broken barrel and ogre expectoration before you climbed up the bluff. But you see a disturbance in the earth that wasn't there before - as if a bucket full of sod had been heaved up and off of the the spot from a projecting force beneath. And inside that depression all the way over there - a detail you wouldn't have noticed, you think, if your senses weren't so fine and charged by the inhalation of ancient Thalassian mana earlier - is the top of another of those bloody stones, like that which you found in the offering pit, like those which you're sure birthed the Lesser Infernals in the ogre village.

The deduction seems inevitable, now: like the other inert stone, the drip-feed of activating mana that was meant to 'fill them' never quite reached critical mass. It can't be a proximity thing, or the one you plucked from the offering pit should have activated first; but something has made the feeding of these infernal seeds uneven enough that when you drained the last reservoir of their activating energy, something or someone has triggered an activation ritual that was meant to happen later. This was supposed to be a summoning large enough to complete the massacre of this settlement without contest, instead of one that will go down as a calamity but one they have the ogre-power (and helpful outside intervention) to overcome. Ironically, your outrage at the ogrish desecration of your people's sacred menhir has probably resulted in the saving of many of their lives. You wonder what kind of enemy, with access to such a wealth of demonic relics and arcane subtlety to set such a trap, you might have made your enemy.

Headshot: -3 Toughness, Dazed (until the end of its next turn), Dazed again (until it passes a DC17 Fort at the end of its turn), and Hindered (until it passes a DC17 Fort at the end of its turn). So its toughness against damage is effectively +4, and atleast for next turn it has only one action or move; and if it's a move, it's at -1 move speed. And because Felix and Jakk'ari withdrew from it, it's gonna be a move!

Tablesmasher: Uninjured, but needing to beat an opposed check (at a net -2 balance) or be unsummoned at the end of Mor'Lag's next turn.

Curbstomb: Taunted (Attack Impaired -4 until it spends a turn attacking the Voidwalker), Movement Impaired -2. And not adjacent to anyone, so it'll have to move.

Go eclectic party, go! The only allied character who's been hurt yet is Brokenhorn who has taken one for the team; but you're winning on points!

[MrAbdiel]

As Jakk'ari clears the infernal's reach, Felix looks back and, with the dough-headed instinct of a man trying to pull a friend from quicksand by diving in and giving him a boost, doubles back to fake another charge. "HEY!" He roars, and flashes his short sword in the air. "HEY!" Before turning again and running alongside the troll, hopping through the gaps in the palisade in time with one another. It's not clear that Headshot took the bait; but with dazed, frost-rimmed steps, it manages to stagger with a complaining bellow up to the palisade, close enough to lay a hand on it, but no further. Atleast from there, the ranged attackers have clear shots - and it doesn't look to be capable of rapid pursuit for a moment or two!

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

Mordis' eyes switched back and forth between the targets, her heart racing as she had wanted them to get the hell out of here before this had even occured.

But, they were here now, and they might stand a chance.

Drawing her hands in to direct her arcane energies against Headshot, Mordis conjured another hailing blast of shadow...


ooc:

Casting Shadow and Flame against Headshot to try and finish it off: [roll0]

[MrAbdiel]

The infernals variously rage and lash out, straining against the constraints of the elements and arcane bombardment; but the soul-chilling howl of the Voidwalker is difficult to ignore, and now Curbstomp and Tablesmasher deviate from their targets to focus their hate on the rogue demon. With his opponent peeling away, Brokenhorn looks briefly at Mor'Lag with superstitious awe... Then wiping the blood from his face with the back of one hand, gives a co-operative nod to them, and charges off after Headshot, presently struggling to climb the palisade and being bombarded by arcane, and fel detonations. As Marion's bolts of shadow rip past and cycle back around for another strike, the old ogre moves into a natural flank approach to set up this one for one of Mor'Lag's attacks, roaring out his competing threat.

Zachary slowly squeezes out half a breath, tracking the same spot he chipped in Headshot's skull with his last round, and squeezes the trigger between his own heartbeats. It hits the same spot, blasting off a fist sized chunk of stone and leaving the guttering green flame pouting in mad sputters from one now manually expanded eyesocket. The pitiable shriek it releases makes no secret of its decaying state - the animating magics that hold those stones together are fleeing it, even as it rages against that inevitability.

Curbstomp slogs the short distance to the voidwalker Varghast, and brings a powerful overhead blow down upon it. It's a colossal blow, driving the voidwalker a full two feel in the muddy earth. But a blow that would have killed a human trivially only staggers and dazes the Voidwalker; the distension of its facial un-flesh already reassembling after the hit.

[Feathersnow]

Lag shouts in exultation and Mor shouts in rage! The power they loathed and lusted for had begun to flow in ernest! Together, they bring what focus they can to push the construct back, putting their angry minds and mighty muscles, their hopes and fears, all yoked to the one goal...

Be no more!

[roll0] attack roll at a penalty for power attack.

I would try to use my attack to make the Infernal more vulnerable to the effect of being banished, but I'm not sure that works under the rules.

For book-keeping, I had currently invested all but three of my XP and the original points re-spent on a different counter-magic power, which cost 6 points and specifically works against spells as they are cast.
I hinted that Mor was developing this power in rebellion of the unfair circumstances of her life, but have only used it once in a minor way. I will definitely purchase the banishment power assuming I am given at least 1 XP after this encounter.

I am willing to rebuild the nullification power or lose it, especially since I only uses it to quench a minor piece of felfire, which is a thing that the new power could probably accomplish.

[roll1] opposed check roll, as requested

[MrAbdiel]

The ogress’s fist slams into the back of Tablesmasher’s torso stone as the demon-construct is slogging through mud to assault Varghast at the beckon of its tormenting challenge. Impossibly, amazingly, the ogre’s digits punch through the dark stone like grey chalk, freezing the construct in its goliath tracks. It emits a demon shriek that becomes a moan, felfire flickering and spasming and then guttering out entirely, its demon spirit banished by the strange, instinctive manifestation of fel command. Its constituent stones tumble in a loose pile, leaving its smoking infernal core cooling in Mor’Lag’s grip. A rune in demon fire hangs in the air for a moment, rising and dissipating into the wind.

The rune means the number “7”.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari sees the broken horn ogre bound after and flank "tablesmasher" to give Mor'Lag a chance defeat the green behemoth.
The giant flaming hulk being reduced to an ephemeral cloud of ash awes Jakk'ari as he surveys the groups new ally.

The scorch marks and cuts sustained from defending the ogre children impede the older ogre's movement.
Running beside the ogre and reaching out Jakk'ari attempts to change that.
[roll0] Attempt to heal

Jakk'ari runs towards "broken horn" and attempts to heal him.
Seeing as the attempt is successful, I think the result is that "broken horn" loses his worst damage condition while Jakk'ari gains it.
I think the worst condition "broken horn" has is a degree of damage out of the four needed to incapacitate him

[MrAbdiel]

The water elemental affinity manifests like a soothing mist, curling out from Jakk’ari’s fingertips and brushing gently across the wounded ogre. Immediately, the Farraki can feel his nose sympathetically snap to once side as he takes on the injury he has healed - though naturally, his trollish healing is already at work setting that right.

[WindStruck]

Though they seemed to be making some progress chipping away at the infernal's structural integrity, it was still nevertheless a threat, and a threat that should not be taken lightly as it was attempting to climb over the palisades to get at them.

Nervously, Isaera watched as it crept forward. For now it was slowed down by frost, but who knew how long that would last? She quickly glanced about at her allies. It's not like she planned to outright abandon them, but... needless to say, if that thing got too close to her, she was a goner.

And so, the elf retreated a ways, and she once again began to gather some arcane energies in her hands...

arcane missiles for 4 damage
attack: [roll0]

I think I would mention with the fight going on longer, maybe low mana would start becoming an issue, but she just did mana tap that defaced runestone, so... mana probably isn't an issue yet.

[MrAbdiel]

With a ripple of arcane detonations, Headshot staggers back a step from the palisade with stone and ice chips flying, and the mournful demon howl of the monstrosities once more in the air. Felix, seeing that Jakk’ari is heading back into the fray, lets out a whoop and charges at the ankles of the construct once more; this strike no more effective than the last, even if none can fault his courage.

Arcane Missiles hits, and knocks Headshot to a -5 on its toughness! The cascade of injury is plain for all those who target it!

[BananaPhone]

https://i.imgur.com/6FyrE4t.jpg Marion Mordis

Watching as her shards of soulless fel energy weave about to crash into Headshots body, Marion stepped away, leaving the other Infernal to Vargheist to handle while she wanted to finish off the original.

Drawing near cover, Marion drew her hands up and send a third blast of shadow energy towards Headshot, seeking to finish the beast off.


ooc:

- Shadow and Fire roll in OOC and already covered.

[i]Shadow and Fire:[/b] [roll0]

[MrAbdiel]

Marion's following blast wheels wide, to spiral in for another destructive pass. Zachary bangs off another shot that strikes home, extinguishing the fel-eye he is targeting entirely to the bellowing dismay of the Infernal as it clambers over the palisade only to fall to its hands and knees on the other side.

"We got it, now; pour it on!" He commends, hands mechanically and swiftly going about the loading of his rifled musket.

Meanwhile, Curbstomp brings down a crushing heelstomp on the Voidwalker an eight of its size, consuming its space entirely and snuffing out its summoned life. Or seeming to - a moment later, a blow that ought to have executed the defending demon is revealed to not have done so; it crawls out of the crater with its shadowy features regenerated already from its mangled state to one more promising.

Zachary hits (because I spent his VP for him), reducing Headshot to -7, completely zeroing his toughness. Brokenhorn forstalls his action, to maintain his feint for Mor'Lag's next strike. Varghast regenerates away his Staggered condition, and actively dodges (unimpressively). Curbstomp boots him, but only reinforces his daze and ads a second -1 to Varghast's profile - the opportunity to kill him outright passes with that regeneration tick.

It's Mor'Lag's go! After which it'll be Jakk'aris, and Isaera's, and Marions! So feel free to queue up your actions, everyone. You've almost got him! And once you're down to one enemy you can easily kite around with all your slows and freezes, we'll round the battle off to its presumable conclusion without requiring those rolls.