World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

Mor'Lag

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

Spoiler: OOC Rolls: Fight fight fight!

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

Isaera

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

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

Jakk'ari

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

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