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

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

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

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

No, not nervous. Afraid?

"To human. Is from this."

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

Spoiler: Insight DC 12
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The youth has made an effort to point with a loosely closed fist, as if not willing to risk pointing a finger in that direction for whatever that may incur.


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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