World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

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

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

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

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

"So what's your story?"

Spoiler: Mor'Lag OOC:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler: Investigation Routine Success

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

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

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

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

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

Spoiler: Insight: DC 5

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

Spoiler: OOC Rolls!

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