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.

Spoiler: OOC Persuasion, Perhaps?
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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.