World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[Plaids]

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's pitstop

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Jakk'ari provides the key details of his item hoping the additional information will further intrigue the young student
I have an item from a fellow troll. He is a shadow hunter deep within the swamp. The craft is likely not of troll origin though.
Jakk'ari fishes out the lock with both hands initially concealing it. Once brought to chest height he moves his upper hand to allow a full view of the lock.
This is what I received from him. If you can accomplish the tests to appraise this, I will gladly pay for the service.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Siblings On The Roof

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"Well, hey. Worst comes to worst, you just stick it out for sixty years for Proudmoore to die off, and then run for it." He smiles, a little at his own joke; but also, with two more things plain in his features. One is pride for you. Not an addition of it - you get the impression he would have still been proud of you if you'd gone the other way. But it's frontloaded now; exposed to you, in case you ever doubted it. Mingled with that, is an incredibly relief that he feels so keenly he's almost ashamed of it. She is the appropriate instrument for the Arkhanaskrit legacy. He would have been an improvised one.

"We'd better go down. If we wait much longer, all the money will be gone and we'll find the table has been wrapped in gold leaf."

He gives you another hug, rubs his eyes, fortifies himself while you have a moment to do the same, and returns downstairs for the remainder of the discussion about how to spend what has been gained.

Jakk'ari's invitation to the group to have a drink and discussion of the matter came after your departure from the tower - but you know where they'll be anyway. Jakk'ari, Mor'Lag and Marion are all staying there, you're pretty sure: Janene's, where this began.

Spoiler: OOC Stuff!

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I love scenes like this. My RL gaming groups do not appreciate dramatic, non-crunchy scenes as much as I do!

We could extend it a little further - Isaera telling her mother and sister about the opportunity, inviting Aleeana, if you want. You'll be shocked to learn that Aleeana is all for the idea, if a little sassy. If that's the case, we'll carry it on in the spoiler tags. But for the sake of moving the story along, it might be good we move the main out-of-tag timeline along to the party reconvening briefly at Janene's just to get everyone on the same page. I'll start throwing together the guild/hireling stuff!

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop

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[I]"An identification ritual? Well sure, I think I can handle that. Or if it turns out I can't, at least you know it's super exotic."

You present the key you gained for your company and sportsmanship, and with it displayed in your open palm, the young elf lifts her hands over it, mouths some inaudible incantations, and begins fluttering her fingertips in a peculiar rhythm. Each time a digit moves as if playing some strange piano-keyed instrument, a lance of faint blue light emits from the fingertip to the key, along with a distinct and faint chiming sound. The sounds vary, and she repeats some of the digital movements as if provoking and taking note of the particular sounds they make. The whole process is painless, unspectacular, and takes about a minute.

"Well. Sorry to disappoint you, sir; I don't think it's magical. It's been near magic, but the trace is so faint that no practitioner would be able to meaningfully discern its nature. I guess whatever lock it corresponds to is on something magical? Hard to say. It's dwarven, though; I can tell you that much." She repeats a little twitch of her right ring fingertip, provoking a repeated, dull ping. "Definately dwarf make. Probably fifty years old or so. Which only tells you the lock and key have been in use and circulation for a while, since dwarves make stuff like this to last. I'm real sorry. Wish I could tell you more. But if you ever find out what it was for, I'd be curious to know, now. I'm Dalana, by the way. Dalana Sunflare." And then, continuing in her chatty and amiable way, appends the explanation for her friendliness. "Isaera is my cousin. Are you friends, now?"

Spoiler: OOC Stuff!

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Good instinct on the identify, but Hezlak's gift remains a puzzle! If you have more questions (either about Isaera's family through this new vector, or about magic stuff), feel free to keep going in these spoiler tags! But I'm gonna start off the regrouping at Janene's scene soon too!

[Plaids]

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's pitstop

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The additional details on the nature of the key are welcome. The item is not innately magical, instead being paired with a magical lock or a just one in close proximity to a radiant source of magic. The key wouldn't provide any benefit without its lock but it wasn't a liability either. Jakk'ari knew well enough that magical artifacts could act as beacons for dangerous creatures in the world. Unfortunately, since dwarves were most plentiful in the Eastern Kingdoms any further investigation would have to be postponed.

Dalana had performed well, performing well as Jakk'ari had hoped. He addresses Dalana with a polite smile.
I do know Isaera. She is quite the talented arcanist. She even pulled me out from the fire several times. Though she may need to learn some prudence in the future.

Jakk'ari remembers Stonemaul village when Isaera launched volleys of arcane spells to their enemies and eventually the palisade which threatened to corral the ogres into a slaughter. He also remembers the misery Isaera endured from a tropical fever and the unintentional slighting of Mor'Lag. For now, it would be best to omit the details of how much danger the party actually encountered. If Dalana wanted to know she could request the information from Isaera.

She should be home by now. If you see her, please tell her that the offer she received still stands and she can find me and Mor'Lag at Janene's. Oh, and one more thing. For your appraisal of my key.
Jakk'ari offers Dalana a silver piece for her services.

It has been nice meeting you, but I must attend to business of my own. Keep cultivating your craft.

Spoiler: Money and such

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I don't know how much gold, silver, and copper are worth in WOW but I intended to have Jakk'ari offer roughly the amount of money one would spend to buy a modest meal at a decent diner in town.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop

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Later in the day, Dalana will jog home excitedly, gripping the coin tightly in her palm to recount the tale of how she got it. She'll be confused, and a little crestfallen, to discover the table awash in many times that fortunate gain; but Dalana's a good girl, and she'll process it right, and selflessly add her coin to the pile to make it seventy six.

For now, she just smiles, baffled into positivity by this generosity, and holds it in her hand. "Wow, thanks! And I will! Hey, you have a great day!"

Spoiler: OOC: The Value of a Coin

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In Azeroth, one gold piece is worth one hundred silver pieces, and one silver piece is worth one hundred copper.
However, the trimetallic economy is parallel to another system of exchange: favors, and reputation. Any organisation that makes use of the adventuring class - and that's a lot - has their own token system to regular and tariff internal equipment sales and dispersal. The tokens are dispensed as payment for favors done to the organisation, and are accepted by the organisation in batches as payment for their premium goods. This is a countermeasure developed by the groups with meaningful power in a world where the value of the three metals can fluctuate wildly depending on the state of the war or armistice, the capture or loss of mines to one side or the other, the taxes levied to raise armies often at the drop of a hat. Trading in tokens and internal favors makes it hard for any given crown to juice for conventional welath a neutral faction like the Kirin Tor or the Argent Dawn, or even factions within their own diplomatic web. The noble class, merchant class, and working classes all pay their taxes in gold. The adventuring class pays in blood.

But as for the value of gold and silver and copper, there's a reason I didn't want to meticulously track wealth more than vaguely - it frankly doesn't make sense. Why would gold be worth a hundred times what silver is? If it's just fiat currency printed on precious metals, why would a Horde gold piece be honored in Stormwind? And because WoW is a video game which relies on a loot based economy, they have no incentive to have a list of realistic purchase prices for anything anywhere, like most fantasy settings that atleast TRY to make it make sense! So we'll say one silver is appropriate for your purpose. We just won't overthink it.

At Janene's...

The atmosphere is mostly positive, in the tavern. Drinks are poured out for the lost cadets, and a moment of silence is permitted to hold; but the Theramorans seem keen to celebrate the return of three of them more than mourn the loss of the two. Many of the same sailors, laborers, and barflies who shrunk back in their seats when Captain Evencane made his pitch are here now; some are shamefaced about not having contributed, but most seem to have extra respect for your strange crew now, some going as far as to come over and shake hands and tell you how much they appreciate your work. You don't even have to buy your own drinks. And neither does Felix - the only one of the cadets present, and already quite sauced by the time you arrive. "Heyyy! Hey!" He explains, leaning heavily on your table; "Hey, I got sussssspended! But I'm also ALIVE so I'll call that a win ayyy? AYY? Who wants to buy me another drink?!" He wheels away toward the bar without waiting for a response. Janene frowns at him, cautiously. "Another light ale? Careful, lad. You've already had one." But someone furnishes him with his second drink of the night - the third of his life - and he takes the attention of the crowd with him to the other side of the tavern.

Zachary frowns at the display, sipping broodingly at his own much darker ale. "...Lad's not coping right. But atleast he'll have the headache to teach him a lesson tomorrow." Wearing his dark tinted glasses even here inside at night, the ranger asks of no one in particular at the table: "...Has anyone here actually been to Ratchet? Maybe it's... not so bad."

He does not sound like he's convincing himself.

Spoiler: Tavern Palaverin'.

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Feel free to already be at the table or wander in and plop down as you prefer. Drinks are on the house. Now's the time to ask any lingering questions you have with the other characters about the previous adventure, or voice any concerns about the offer. Presently, you've not seen the property or interviewed any staff - it's all very new! BananaPhone, if you have more for the Jaina scene, feel free to spoilertag some activity there; or else feel free to just be here!

On the ridge over Ratchet...

"As you can see, it's been swept of dust and webs, but otherwise there's not much to it." Fibbus Scuttleswipe is a lopsided goblin odd-jobs man who was put in charge of maintaining the empty property owned by the Lady Proudmoore. He capers along with one shoulder higher than the other, probably the result of some injury he does not offer in explanation. He's dressed like most of the goblins in the town - the rough blue fabric pants the goblins call jeans, and a set of overalls holding them up; a white shirt faded to thousand-washes-beige on his upper body. It's a hot day, but the sea breeze cuts away the worst of it; and he stands in the shade cast by the stumpy three floor tower, a set of keys twirling around his index finger, gesturing with the other hand through the open door at the bland, brown brick interior. He does not miss an opportunity to pry about a stranger in town however.

"So you're a... What? Soldier? Agent?" And then gesturing with his free hand at the black white and gold symbol displayed on the stranger's person, "Whassat mean?"

Spoiler: Scene Explanation!

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This scene is a brief one to introduce JoyWonderLove's character to the narrative. I'll merge the rest of the party into it, in due course. For now, you'll all still back at the tavern! :)

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag are only slightly buzzed. Given their physiology, this meant they went through a keg between them. They are so out of sync they are actually talking to themselves...

Mor, for her part, is trying to hide the fact shevhas been slowly gaining magic Prowess for years. Lag would never forgive her.

Lag is despondent at her hopes of a normal life being stripped away by the unlikely advent of dragons, but is slowly growing suspicious of their new-found abilities. Luckily, the drink has distracted her.

They are both aware that the Elf and the Human wonder-workers really only tolerate them, at best. And they were apparently meeting with the Shaman...

Maybe they would come back for her, maybe they wouldn't. It wasn't her place to intrude in the affairs of wizards. Either way, she at least had money, on top of an open bar. Even if the thing with Lady Proudmoor fell through, Mor'Lag's prospects were looking up. And maybe she could move to Ratchet, anyway...

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

At Janene's...

Marion was characteristically quiet during the festivities and drunken revelry of the tavern, her image offering polite and friendly smiles to those who looked in her direction while she clasped a glass of red wine in one hand. Though she was not above "getting plastered" with booze, it would be most unladylike to do so in the company of strangers, for who knew what sort of debauchery lurked within the hearts of men just waiting for the alcohol to remove ones inhibitions. No, best she participate gently, enjoy a glass or two and retain her wits about her.

Felix was intoxicated, which she was not surprised at, nor could she blame him. Marion was sure there was some tavern girl about who could keep him entertained for the night, assuming she did not take the opportunity to lighten his pockets while his mind was caged within a haze of alcohol.

Besides, Marion was distracted. Her mind was elsewhere. No matter how much she tried to yank her brain into the present she always found her train of thought directed back to that prime swampland within the protective sphere of Theramore, and Lady Jaina's lack of a flat refusal. It was a foot in the door, Marion knew it. Th aristocrat didn't think she would have gotten a price there and then along with an approval for what she had planned - why would she? What type of fool would Jaina be to sell all that prime land to someone she barely knew? No no, the fact that she had not outright denied her was a good start, in Marions estimations, for in many ways the Warlock was like water...she had time to wear her opponent down, one molecular layer at a time, until she got what she wanted.

Plus there was that infernal core she still had to study. One wondered what dark secrets would be unlocked from poring over that blackened item! It was going to be an exciting, mental adventure, that much was certain.


On the ridge over Ratchet...

Spoiler: In The Year 2000....

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Marion cast her gaze disapprovingly over the dusted innards of the property that Jaina had so kindly provided them.

It was curious how the Lady of Theramore was remiss to mention the squalid state that it was in...

But, no matter. It was something at least, and Theramore was sponsoring them after all, so hired cleaners would know whom to contact to collect their fee. So it all worked out in the end!

"That means our credit is good," Marion answered with her soft voice.

"What are the dimensions of the property grounds?"

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari enters Janene's letting the remainder of his curiosity run its course for the moment. The key was linked to something magical but not magical in itself.
Hopefully Dalana would be able to convince the reluctant elf back to the party. Regardless now was the time to celebrate being one step closer to his goal and securing a new era for the sand trolls.

He orders two mince meat pies, a plate of sweet shrimp in savory sauce, and large heaping platter of rice and fish mixed with common garden vegetables. Given the appetites' of the party Mor'Lag would probably be eating half the assortment with a pie likely disappearing in two large ogre bites. The rice platter was sure to please everyone's palettes while the shrimp would satisfy the party members with more discriminating tastes. All he would have to do now is keep Mor'Lag from palming the shrimp in one go.

I see you've started the celebrations without me. Sorry for my late arrival. I had business of my own to attend. The food should be coming soon and I'm sure I know all of your tastes better than you know own. Now who wants to share some stories? Felix can't be the only one to tell a gripping story. How about it Marion, Zachary?

Jakk'ari raises an eye ridge to left towards Marion and then lowers it to raise his right one towards Zachary. A simple attempt to goad a story out of the most mysterious party members and hopefully learn a little more about who they are and where they may have come from.
Isaera being an ambitious youth seeking to benefit a struggling family with her fantastical skills and Mor'Lag the outcast who never achieved the power promised by the condition bestowed at birth were obvious enough.
But these two were different and even a folk story from their upbringing would be a good start on learning who Jakk'ari was about to go into business with.

If you two are bereft of stories or inspiration... I'll give you one if you like.
There was a fine line between goading and taunting and Jakk'ari hoped he was still goading.

[WindStruck]

Isaera's house

Isaera reveals the offer to the rest of her family. It seemed.. more well-received than she imagined. Perhaps it was the allure of more stable money, potential for fame, doing good and all that, and the thought that much of the risk could be offloaded to the other members of this 'guild'...

Additionally, Isaera knew her sister was just going to run away eventually, so offers Aleeana a chance to come along as well. This also went over well, with her mother acknowledging the inevitable and just glad to have someone watching over Aleeana.

All it took after this was Isaera getting ready to go out. She desperately needed a good bath and a change of clothes. Her sister was already set, given her constant threats of leaving anyway.

Jenene's

Isaera enters the tavern to find a much bigger occupancy than expected, and revelry. Ah of course, the humans would find an excuse to literally drink to anything. And dwarves? Well, alcohol was just a part of their diet...

Along with the beautiful elf mage, she is accompanied by another figure, her head concealed by a cloak. If Aleeana wasn't trying to ramp up the mysterious edgelord vibes so hard, you'd probably never realize they were sisters.

"Well, here we are," Isaera says, unimpressed, to the other.

She will look around and spot Mor'Lag and Jakk'ari, and everyone else. Approaching them at their table, Isaera says, "Hello, everyone. I've made my decision."

In order to clear up any confusion about who the other person was that was so closely tailing behind her, she adds, "Oh. This is Aleeana," gesturing at the female ranger-to-be. "Aleeana, this is Marion, Mor'Lag, Jakk'ari, and Zachary."

[JoyWonderLove]

=On a Ridge above Rachet=

Emilia pursed her lips when asked the questions, and weighed the goblin groundskeeper carefully with chestnut eyes. But she was unerringly aware that the tabard about her torso now meant being on the front-line dispatch to the skirmish of words that was building alliances, and the noble would not fail or falter. Enough of that had been done up north, and back at home.

“De facto liaison and requisitions officer. My orders were first to rendezvous with the groundskeeper that had diligently kept all in outstanding order for Lady Proudmoore these so many years. One Fibbus Scuttleswipe.”

The paladin extended a mailed hand and forced her smile, as ever she had since leaving Stormwind.

“Emilia, of the Argent Dawn.” The brunette paused, as though name, aspiring rank, and opening mission perimeters were more than sufficient. But the suspicion huddled in her mind like an archer behind bulwark that they were not enough to win this verbal engagement, let alone to her true standards. She had a duty to uphold the silver disk with gold rays covering her breasts, chest, heart. So further into the conversational breech she pressed. “We lead incursions against the Scourge in Lordaeron. Undo monstrosities when they dare the line. Mine is but one of many coordinating with the Opal Collocation - you will hear more of them in time.”

Resting her hand comfortably at the standard issue longsword hilt at her side out of habit, Emilia looked up at the brick structure with grudging approvingly. This before she pointed to it's rooftop, and started tracing an imaginary half crescent line around the area with her other hand, in a slow quarter turn. Throughout she spoke in a manner business like.

“The tower appears sturdy. We could house arcane equipment up top to reveal threats; launch projectiles. Add a few palisades around the perimeter. It would draw trouble away from Ratchet. Elsewise, provide emergency sanctuary. Even in royal gardens, a rose must cultivate thorns.”

Her tone took on a melancholy tinge, all for a saying that stuck from a mentor long lost. Lordaeron fell so spectacularly precisely because the threats had started so subtly, and the preparations been so inadequate. Had a few more holdings been established, a handful more garrisons been raised, and the granaries kept under thicker lock and bolt, the Lightbringer would not be dead, the Traitor would never have turned, and thousands would not have been butchered and raised to torment their neighbours and loved ones. To say nothing of the refugees or those that stayed in the failed kingdom. But it was near enough impossible to explain all that to civilians. Bracing for hidden evils that never rested appeared excessive or even paranoid to those kept safe by those exact same precautions. That little left justice as the only true answer to any of it.

It was the one bitter fruit that kept a society strong enough to break down all the subtle poisons before they accumulated to fatal ends. Lowborn schemers and power hungry monarchs, ancient demons or half-mad shadow priests; justice was the only way to win the war on behalf of those too naïve to know there was one constantly being waged around them. In the all, all things were Light, or Void.

Above them came lilting birdsong to raise Emilia above the ruin of her thoughts, although she couldn’t tell if it was from atop the tower or some nest in its highest room. She took a long drag from her brown leather flask, and was glad for once that she tolerated water in only half of it. The muggy heat would not take well to her habit for steel, wine, and work. A frown verged on Emilia’s lips as she considered the goblin’s limp then, the open doorway to the cooler interior within, and the flights of stairs that doubtlessly awaited beyond. She would have to double check everything to ensure her duty was truly done, and make it thorough that it exceeded standards. But she wasn’t overkeen on punishing the goblin for his injury. An easy mercy to grant.

“I will not demand a tour, if your professional opinion sees no need. As you say, not much to it.” The decision most assuredly in Scuttleswipe’s corner, her eyes held him levelly. It would little do to be seen pitying him for a wretch. He could decide his own lot perfectly well. But as much as the reports had been read on the tower’s rooms and features – that is to say, six and none – it was best to hear from specialists when dabbling in their area. Reports were useful. But however closely matching, maps were still imposters to the realm.

“So said, you know this tower as a prince does his capital. Comparatively. What can you tell me of the holding? Any issues or features to know of before attempting repairs or renovations? How did you end up being entrusted to the property?”

Spoiler: Routine Check/Skill Mastery on Persuasion (15), Well-Informed (20+), and Assessment (24)

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In story order....

Assessment/Evaluate-Insight check: 24. What can I tell about Fibbus as a person? More, with Assessment, can I make any informed guesses on his injury?

Persuasion: 15 (going to guess goblins could not care less about Very Attractive in humans, so no 20 for me). Simply to make a "good" first impression on behalf of the Argent Dawn.

Well-Informed/Investigation: 20 (+minimum+). What have any reports or trustworthy sources Emilia might have been allowed to read / hear from say about the tower itself? If she knows nothing about the tower (full disclosure: Well Informed only says about "When encountering an individual, group, or organization for the first time", so she probably heard about Burningblade warlocks, but the tower itself easily falls between the cracks of none of that.), what about Fibbus?

Spoiler: Equipment/appearance/duty

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I imagine Emilia is wearing exactly whatever passes for standard equipment for the Argent Dawn (recruit...?) when doing almost anything in their name, but I don’t fully know what ‘standard’ equipment is for them? Chainmail, longsword, tabard is my closest guess?

Essentially, she’s trying to do justice to the name and nature of their organisation. Expect her to heavily obscure her drinking (hence the leather flask where it’s only half/half) for the exact same reasons when in uniform or on assignment, and generally to keep herself lucid and capable enough. Outside the uniform and assignments though………

[Plaids]

At Janene's
Jakk'ari waits a short moment to give either of his party members an opportunity but has his attention brought to Isaera entering the tavern.

Good to see you Isaera. Good to see your accompaniment as well. I hope we can get to know one another tonight.
Referring to and greeting the cloaked to cloaked individual beside Isaera.

I was proposing a round of stories between party members, but it seems that some here are skittish. So, I'll go first if you don't mind.
Hopefully this would give a chance to see who Isaera had brought along. You couldn't expect candid answers from an interview or interrogation. But a response to a story laid everything bare.

Here is a story I have come by during travels across Kalimdor...

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Story

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Once long ago even before even the rise of the Empire of Zul. The beasts ruled Azeroth, and their progenitors inhabited the world and led them. The creatures lived within the water, on the land and in the sky. But the most magnificent of them all was the progenitor of bird Chroma. Who was gifted feathers that shined the brightest in every color and who's song ranked the most beautiful.

While surveying his territory Chroma and all the other progenitors saw snow falling during a warm summer day. On the first day the beasts frolicked glad to be spared of the heat. On the second they feasted, in the third they rest, and in the fourth they hungered. As the beasts became dissatisfied, they pleaded for the earth mother to give them guidance and deliver them from the winter. She told them she could not stop the sudden freeze but knew of something that could allow them to endure the winter. With the pit of the highest peak laid fire which could warm everyone. But one of the progenitors would need bring the fire back. Soon the debate became blaming and blaming became quarrelling. So long did they bicker that soon the first rabbit was engulfed, then the ur zevra, and eventually the first crocolisk was frozen solid. Pitying the rest of the beasts Chroma volunteered and swiftly flew to the highest peak. Plucking a branch to carry home the fire he flew back quickly as he could.

But the journey was taxing. Soon the branch grew shorter as the flames consumed it. The smoke was opressive and punishing but continued in his duty regardless. Soon smoke filled Chroma's throat making his voice rough and coarse, next the burned his feather leaving him black as night, finally his eyes turned black as returned to the council of beasts. Chroma had saved his fellow beasts with the flame but he grew despondent seeing his gifts now having disappeared.
The earth mother consoled him telling how his sacrifice had saved the other beasts and his gifts were not truly gone. His descendants would use their voices to counsel chieftains, mages, and druids. His iridescent feathers would shine with color on Azeroth as long the sun travels across the sky.

So take heed when you rebuke a dark crow or raven. Because you just might not have seen its gifts just yet.

Hoping to see candid responses Jakk'ari scans the party.
So, what do you think?

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

At Janene's...

Marion smiled politely and nodded in greeting to the hooded figure that Isaera had brought along with her, the cowl and cloak look something that Marion was all too familiar with having been on the run herself.

Not saying much herself, Marion peered around the bar. Sometimes she'd drag her gaze across her companions, craning her neck even to look up at Mor'lagh and offering her a friendly smile before turning her attention back to the crowd at large.

However, Jakk'ari soon returned, the only being in this room who matched Mor'laghs height when he chose to stand erect instead of hunched. It easy to spot the troll as he moved through the crowd and joined them on their table, but his sudden requests for a story caught the warlock off guard. So much so that a proverbial cat had caught her tongue.

But no matter - because Jakk'ari was more than happy to fill in the silence with his own tale of a giant bird flying around with a burning branch clutched in its talons, the smoke from which forever coated it black, thus allowing it to save its fellow animals at the cost of becoming deformed. It sounded like the type of poppycock tale grown in the backward cultures of the world that were interminably drawn to children's tales in order to fill in the gaps of their knowledge of how the world around them worked.

"His self-sacrificed blackened his image?" Marion asked, a polite tone in her voice and a slender eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"Well, I know a story of how ones actions blackened his soul..." the teenager said with a hushed excitement, leaning forward a little, her green eyes lighting up with a macabre glee at the story she was going to tell.

"When I was a little girl, there was an educated man who lived within a vast, ancient forest that sat upon the border of my homeland - Silverpine Forest. This man, let's call him Arthor, was an erudite and educated gentleman, but was as of yet unwed entering his 4th decade. Loneliness was a constant companion for him.

Nevertheless, he persisted through life. He acquired employment as a tutor far down to the south in the Kingdom of Azeroth. First in Elwynn Forest, and next in Westfall...back when Westfall was a far more prosperous community. Attached to a wealthy family within the area, Arthor developed an excellent relationship with their daughter, who was no more older than I. Out of appreciation for her teachers efforts, granted him a gift of a beautiful bouquet of flowers. For her it was a platonic relationship, you see...but for Arthor? Well, as I said, he was a lonely man...and here was this pretty young woman who was a source of his secret affection, granting him flowers..."

Marion held her hands up, drawing out the drama with some gentle gesticulations.

"But then one day Arthor discovered that this young lady had already been promised to a young gentleman of another family...

'I could not marry you...'" Marion said, placing her hand on her chest and mimicking the voice of the surprised girl within the story - something that was quite easy given the similarity between the two.

"'I think of you more as like my uncle...'"

Once again, a pregnant pause for dramatic effect.

"Arthor was humiliated. He was infuriated. Made a fool of by a girl half his age, visions filled his head of her and her handsome young lover laughing about that 'silly old man' who thought he had a chance with her. The anger consumed him, compelling this educated and once gentle man to approach the family's house where the girls father greeted him...only to be decapitated by a woodsmans axe!"

Marion made a swinging motion with both hands.

"Her mother was not spared, nor her two sisters and younger brother. Nor could her handsome husband-to-be fend off this axe-wielding madman, and by the middle of the night, Arthor finally took the head of the girl whose unwitting actions had driven him insane with fury! By the breaking of dawn, when the bloody horror of the house was witnessed by all the mortified townsfolk, Arthor had vanished into the bleak forests of Darkshire, never to be seen again... Some say he haunts the woods, his evil physically manifesting across his body and granting him a soulless longevity. Others, that he went mad and hung himself from a tree within the cemetery. Or, that he threw himself again and again at the monstrous entities that lurk within that cursed forest until he was finally outmatched, and now his head decorates the belt of a skeleton horseman!"

Marions face wore a bright grin, her voice low and mysterious while both hands had formed claws next to her head for dramatic accentuation of her tale. Soon, she drew her hands back down and recomposed herself, took a sip of her wine and nodded.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag are glad, for different reasons, to be distracted.

"This is the story of how history began."

"On a world whose natives never gave her a name. For it was never ours, it belonged to the Gronn"

"The was a Bifold Ogre. His name was Jo'Bo. He was a mighty wizard and he had many vassals and three wives. "

"Jo'Bo was rich and respected by all Ogres, and the bird-folk and the Plant-folk spoke of him when they came to our lands."

"The savage Orcs new better than the bother his people"

"But they sought to build something great, a great mana well that would make them the greatest wizard in all the Nameless World."

"Great enough to rival the Gronn...'

"Two Gronn saw this. The first, Miloh said "The little ones dare too much. Let us crush them utterly so they can never rise again'"

"The second, Refiz, said that was too much work. And he was weak and soft-hearted."

"He said 'I bet you three pigs that, if I crush his tower, burn down his houses, and destroy the Great Well, none of the Ogres that see it will ever bother us again."

"And so, Refiz laid waste to Jo'Bo's mound with much loss of life and goods, and destroyed utterly his great project."

"His wives were all killed, his children were fostered away, his vassals left him."

"Jo'Bo was alone."

"But they did not give up."

"He went to every Ogre he knew and asked for any help, pledged everything he might make away. For, he knew his cause was glorious and it was not in him to surrender."

"And, after Milho asked for his three pigs, Refiz said "double or nothing!"

"And again, Jo'Bo's works were undone, his vassals fled, and those rich and powerful widows who might have been his wives in time found other men to attend to."

"And Jo'Bo threw his nets wider, he made promises to share the bounty of his great Well with the bird men and the mushroom men. And, with their backing, he was well on his way to finishing, at long last, the great well."

"And then, for the wager of a dozen pigs, Recif, known forever as the Greedy Fool, smashed the works of Jo'Bo the Cursed a third time "

And so, the race of the Gronn were doomed.

"For now Jo'Bo went to everyone he ever asked for aide, and now asked for arms!"

"All had suffered from the Gronn, not least from when Jo'Bo's investments defaulted."

"He even went to the savage orcs, though they offered little besides numbers."

"And so the Firsr Horde rose against the giants and freed the Nameless World, and the great tower of the mighty wizard Jo'Bo stood sentinel until it was toppled when the Light brought their war to us "

[Plaids]

Marion's response was to put it simply, curious. Expecting either an annoyed groan from a cynic believing themselves to be too old for a tale extolling virtue or an appreciative smile from an earnest fellow.
The remark of sacrifice blackening the hero's image was off-putting but wasn't inherently wrong or vindictive.

I guess you could literally say that.

Marion's story on the other hand left him on the edge of his seat. With a story matching her macabre skill set the story was surprising coming from one looking so young and immaculate etiquette.
Hopefully this was simply a frightening campfire tale from her homeland and not from actual experience. But given Marion's skillset who could say.

Lightly palming his chest subconsciously to slow his breathing he responds.
A ghastly tale. I didn't expect that. It seems like you have a talent for telling stories. I hope to hear more from you in the future.

Mor'Lag's tale of a determined bifold overcoming the primal beings was encouraging. It was easy to glean the triumph of an unbreakable individual. Though the primals being the malicious one unnerved Jakk'ari ever so slightly. Mor'Lag had endured much recently but determination shone even more brilliantly to Jakk'ari.

You told a grand tale Mor'Lag. May your conquests be just as great!
Jakk'ari quickly picks up a tankard to honor Mor'Lag.

[WindStruck]

Isaera was a little confused at first, and reluctant to share any stories. The others spoke of mythological animals back in a time pre-dating any history, to mad axe-wielding murderers, and to times when almost incredulously, ogres may have once had a prosperous civilization.

For all that it was worth, it was at the very least an.. entertaining listen. Isaera, was attentive but didn't really offer any emotions, one way or the other.

Then it may have come her time to tell a story, but she had her reservations. Everything seemed either too personal or too relevant in the events of today's world. For now, she looked uncertainly over toward her sister, and she debated if she even wanted to get involved in this little story telling activity. It almost seemed ... silly.

[MrAbdiel]

Aleeana looks back to her sister, and smiles faintly with one corner of her mouth. For all the fire that stirs in her when restricted at all by tradition, or familial dictate, or expectation, she seems perfectly at home here, in a tavern of strange and varied peoples engaging in their strange and varied customs. The vibrant green eyes lock with Isaera's blue ones, instantly receive the communication of the sorceress's undertainty and mild discomfort, and returns a shielding sentiment for her younger sister. "I know a story," the elder Runescribe sister pronounces as she sweeps back her hands through her hair settling the locks back over her shoulders, in a gesture of perfectly unconcious vanity, then leans forward on the table on her elbows, swivelling her gaze about the gathered listeners.

"It's the story of Basilael Rainburn, and the Thousand-Strong Throng. It was back during the Troll wars, two hundred shy of three thousand years ago; when the nations of humans and elves were struggling against their forest troll neighbours. There are many famous battles of that conflict - the Battle for the Alterac Mountains capital among them - but there are smaller stories, too, that bear remembering. Basilael Rainburn was an elven ranger in Tirisfal. He was an excellent shot with the bow, but his technique was slow... and deliberative..." She mimes the slow draw, a little quiver of the string-drawing fingers and release; and another slow draw. "And so he was disliked by other rangers, who felt that in a given battle, they fought twice as hard as he. So he did most of his word in solitude with just his hawkstrider Nero for company - a big, plodding slow bird that suited his temperament just fine. One day, he responded to a cry of distress from a village called Phoenixfoot, for the herbs they grew that could be mashed into flammable slime or - more often - as components in the all important fire spells the elven and human mages used to repel the forest trolls." During this elaboration, she spares a single glance to Jakk'ari - not apologetic exactly, as forest trolls are not precisely his people and of all trolls, the Farakki have the least contact with elves of any kind. But with all the mention of trolls and fighting trolls, it might have been strange not to regard him briefly and imply by that regard that the story is not targeted; and that matter covered with just a look, she continues.

"The village elders were distraught. Far to the south, in the troll-held Hinterlands, there swelled a terrible horde of enemies - the Witherbark troll voodouisant E'tando had collected the war dead from dozens of other battles, and with his dark spells, he animated the bodies of his fellow trolls into a throng one thousand strong. Elven outriders had striven to engage from a distance, but the raised-trolls paid little heed to their arrows. The riders tried to become clever, using Phoenixfoot herbs on their arrows to burn the shambling creatures; but after they burned, E'tando would emerge from the throng and raise them again, and the dark power pushed their troll regeneration to restore even the burned flesh. Without killing E'tando, they could not whittle down the throng with their tactics. Without whittling down the horde, how were they to expose and kill E'tando? So they fled, warning the village of Phoenixfoot that the throng was coming north, slow but unstoppable in their staggering advance; and they had best take their possessions and flee."

"Basilael Rainburn heard this, and came to the village, and told them not to flee - instead, to continue their crucial work, for he had a scheme that would deliver them." She wiggles her fingers, schemefully. "'Only give me ten of your own riders on their hawkstriders, and with them I will deliver you from this threat.'" And the village agreed, and they loaned him their riders. And Basilael rode out to meet the throng, and engaged them from extreme range. Three hundred yards away, he drew... and fired. And drew... and fired." These up-angled, arcing shots are mimed, too. "Until his quivers were all dry; then turned around and rode back north. On the road, he would encounter one of the riders bringing him fresh quivers; and he'd swap them with the empty ones on Nero, and go back an engage again. Three hundred yards, draw, fire, draw, fire, never once killing one of the deathless things, nor flushing E'tando out of the safety of his macabre escort. This he did for three weeks, firing and firing, replenished by riders running arrows to him, until the throng was finally within sight of the village. "'We must run! You scheme has failed! There is the throng, still a thousand strong, now we must abscond, for we don't have long!' But what the villagers did not know is that Basilael had conspired with the ten riders to make great use of the Phoenixfoot herb, bundling clumps on the shaft of each arrow which Basilael had fired unlit in their thousands. And when the throng came within three hundred yards of the village, Basilael lit a single arrow, and drew, and aimed, and waited.. and fired. It struck in the midst of the throng. For a moment, there was nothing; then a flash as one of the earlier fired arrows caught; then a great rushing roar as three weeks of arrows caught and burned at once, turning the throng into a roiling inferno that burned the undead trolls and melted their bones, and incinerated E'tando in their ashy midst. And so, the lesson goes, there is wisdom in the story - valor is the way to glory; but a scheme laid right over many days is a keen thing. Patience is a weapon." And with that, she finishes her first drink's bottom half, and waggles the empty cup at Janene to get a second. "I've always liked that story."

Spoiler: Isaera

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In fact, you're pretty sure she hasn't always liked that story. You remember your father telling it to you, but it fascinated Tarien more than any of you, and Aleeana probably least of all. This Farstrider ambition is a recent fancy - but if it costs a little embellishment like that to furnish Aleeana on a path of purpose to which she can actually stick and apply herself... is that such a bad thing?

Zachary, on the other side of the table, appears to be on his fifth drink. He was here before anyone else, already a cup and a half in; and he might be getting a little out over his skis. But he's a good sport, and he salutes Aleeana's tale with a raised mug as one ranger to another, and then rubs his beard as he considers his own turn. "...Let's see. Do you want a story? Or a song that tells a story?"

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: Emilia's Entrance

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=On a Ridge above Rachet=

Emilia pursed her lips when asked the questions, and weighed the goblin groundskeeper carefully with chestnut eyes. But she was unerringly aware that the tabard about her torso now meant being on the front-line dispatch to the skirmish of words that was building alliances, and the noble would not fail or falter. Enough of that had been done up north, and back at home.

“De facto liaison and requisitions officer. My orders were first to rendezvous with the groundskeeper that had diligently kept all in outstanding order for Lady Proudmoore these so many years. One Fibbus Scuttleswipe.”

The paladin extended a mailed hand and forced her smile, as ever she had since leaving Stormwind.

“Emilia, of the Argent Dawn.” The brunette paused, as though name, aspiring rank, and opening mission perimeters were more than sufficient. But the suspicion huddled in her mind like an archer behind bulwark that they were not enough to win this verbal engagement, let alone to her true standards. She had a duty to uphold the silver disk with gold rays covering her breasts, chest, heart. So further into the conversational breech she pressed. “We lead incursions against the Scourge in Lordaeron. Undo monstrosities when they dare the line. Mine is but one of many coordinating with the Opal Collocation - you will hear more of them in time.”

Resting her hand comfortably at the standard issue longsword hilt at her side out of habit, Emilia looked up at the brick structure with grudging approvingly. This before she pointed to it's rooftop, and started tracing an imaginary half crescent line around the area with her other hand, in a slow quarter turn. Throughout she spoke in a manner business like.

“The tower appears sturdy. We could house arcane equipment up top to reveal threats; launch projectiles. Add a few palisades around the perimeter. It would draw trouble away from Ratchet. Elsewise, provide emergency sanctuary. Even in royal gardens, a rose must cultivate thorns.”

Her tone took on a melancholy tinge, all for a saying that stuck from a mentor long lost. Lordaeron fell so spectacularly precisely because the threats had started so subtly, and the preparations been so inadequate. Had a few more holdings been established, a handful more garrisons been raised, and the granaries kept under thicker lock and bolt, the Lightbringer would not be dead, the Traitor would never have turned, and thousands would not have been butchered and raised to torment their neighbours and loved ones. To say nothing of the refugees or those that stayed in the failed kingdom. But it was near enough impossible to explain all that to civilians. Bracing for hidden evils that never rested appeared excessive or even paranoid to those kept safe by those exact same precautions. That little left justice as the only true answer to any of it.

It was the one bitter fruit that kept a society strong enough to break down all the subtle poisons before they accumulated to fatal ends. Lowborn schemers and power hungry monarchs, ancient demons or half-mad shadow priests; justice was the only way to win the war on behalf of those too naïve to know there was one constantly being waged around them. In the all, all things were Light, or Void.

Above them came lilting birdsong to raise Emilia above the ruin of her thoughts, although she couldn’t tell if it was from atop the tower or some nest in its highest room. She took a long drag from her brown leather flask, and was glad for once that she tolerated water in only half of it. The muggy heat would not take well to her habit for steel, wine, and work. A frown verged on Emilia’s lips as she considered the goblin’s limp then, the open doorway to the cooler interior within, and the flights of stairs that doubtlessly awaited beyond. She would have to double check everything to ensure her duty was truly done, and make it thorough that it exceeded standards. But she wasn’t overkeen on punishing the goblin for his injury. An easy mercy to grant.

“I will not demand a tour, if your professional opinion sees no need. As you say, not much to it.” The decision most assuredly in Scuttleswipe’s corner, her eyes held him levelly. It would little do to be seen pitying him for a wretch. He could decide his own lot perfectly well. But as much as the reports had been read on the tower’s rooms and features – that is to say, six and none – it was best to hear from specialists when dabbling in their area. Reports were useful. But however closely matching, maps were still imposters to the realm.

“So said, you know this tower as a prince does his capital. Comparatively. What can you tell me of the holding? Any issues or features to know of before attempting repairs or renovations? How did you end up being entrusted to the property?”

Spoiler: Routine Check/Skill Mastery on Persuasion (15), Well-Informed (20+), and Assessment (24)

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In story order....

Assessment/Evaluate-Insight check: 24. What can I tell about Fibbus as a person? More, with Assessment, can I make any informed guesses on his injury?

Persuasion: 15 (going to guess goblins could not care less about Very Attractive in humans, so no 20 for me). Simply to make a "good" first impression on behalf of the Argent Dawn.

Well-Informed/Investigation: 20 (+minimum+). What have any reports or trustworthy sources Emilia might have been allowed to read / hear from say about the tower itself? If she knows nothing about the tower (full disclosure: Well Informed only says about "When encountering an individual, group, or organization for the first time", so she probably heard about Burningblade warlocks, but the tower itself easily falls between the cracks of none of that.), what about Fibbus?

Spoiler: Equipment/appearance/duty

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I imagine Emilia is wearing exactly whatever passes for standard equipment for the Argent Dawn (recruit...?) when doing almost anything in their name, but I don’t fully know what ‘standard’ equipment is for them? Chainmail, longsword, tabard is my closest guess?

Essentially, she’s trying to do justice to the name and nature of their organisation. Expect her to heavily obscure her drinking (hence the leather flask where it’s only half/half) for the exact same reasons when in uniform or on assignment, and generally to keep herself lucid and capable enough. Outside the uniform and assignments though………

On the Ridge above Ratchet...

Fibbus listens with a growing fascination in his eyes at Emilia's perspicacity, and highborn pronunciations. He shakes her hand almost dazedly. When she asks him questions, he exposes that not-uncommon feature in older members of many races that requires him to comment fairly bluntly on anything that happens around him, even if it adds nothing. "Holy smokes, lady; I figured they'd send some beef-headed tooth kicker. Ain't you too classy for a dump like this?" He thumbs briefly at Ratchet, then gets on with it. "Yeah, tours, yeah - well, there ain't much to see, but I should show you what there is. I got a contract with Gazlowe to look after abandoned and derelicted structures that are being reclaimed by the town. It's funny, because this ought to have sold well; but I guess something else happened. I don't follow politics. This used to be a false door." He kicks at the main door frame. "Original design was with entry from the upper floor, access by ladders you can pull up when you're under attack. But the quillboars ain't been problem enough for a long time, so the last owner knocked out the bricks and made an actual door of it." He limps through, merrily enough, into the main, plain room and indicates the fireplace. "Fire is fed here on the ground floor; there's rusted up shutters on the chimney on the second and third floors to open and let the heat circulate. There's a hatch over here.." He indicates the only remarkable patch of ground - a beat-up wooden trapdoor in one corner. "Which leads to a big bloody tunnel and then to an cave-dock. Caused quite the ruckus, when it was discovered years back. Standard goblin real estate law includes underground to a depth of ten meters below a deeded structure - y'know, so trade princes can run a mineshaft or oil pipe under your property deep enough you don't have claim, right? But Ratchet law says you own your deeded patch of land all the way to the stars and all the way to the centre of the mudball itself; your own wedge of the world. Which means you'd have about twelve neighours thattaway..." He thumbs over his shoulder again, "...that would own parts of your tunnel, and wouldn't be shy about setting up toll booths. But the land council came down and decided the tunnel was part of the deeded property along with the cave. Just interesting to know, I figure." He sniffs, snaps his suspenders which make an echoing clap in the unfurnished room against his chest, and pivots on the spot. "That's about it. The soil up here is pretty awful; barely holds grass. Too dense; has to be, to be part of the ridgetop, y'know? But there's space to try to grow somethin'. Something tough, maybe. Pumpkins, or somethin'."

Spoiler: Dem Checks

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Assessment/Evaluate-Insight check: Fibbus is an older goblin, and goblins live long enough that he certainly lived through the period in which the Steamwheedle cartel was allied to the Horde back in the second war. So it might well be a war injury that healed badly - a crushed shoulder, maybe, since he seems to prioritize the raised one for most tasks. It's a guess, but a pretty good one; though it's vague as to whether it's a war injury indeed - say, trampled by a knight on horseback- or something more mundane. Say, trampled by a cow. But he seems pleasant enough. The cosmopolitan nature of Ratchet breeds companionability, and he seems to be sincere when talking about a personal connection to Gazlowe, who would not likely entrust much to a less than trustworthy affiliate. He doesn't seem that deep, though - a goblin man well past his prime, long comfortable with his limitations, happy with his small turns of fortune and the little comforts of life.

Persuasion: Fibbus seems amazed at Emilia's curated professionalism, shining amidst Ratchet's deeply rustic vibe.

Well-Informed/Investiation: Emilia has read the deed to the place, which gives a nebulous description of the tower and the circumstances under which it was seized from the warlock coven that occupied it. It uses a puzzling goblin unit of measurement, 'legs' to chart out the exact boundaries of the property; a 'leg' being the length between the heel of the foot and the top of the knee of an ancient goblin merchant progenitor whose name (and crucial shins) have been lost to time. The leader of a given settlement possesses the official 'leg' stick, to which all other measures in that domain are cut. You don't have access to that stick, but with the information you've gathered, the property includes the tower, the twenty feet between the tower and the ridge's right-angled edge, and then a 90 degree pie wedge of land out from that corner that reaches about fifty yards deep into the wispy savannah grass, bordered by the ridge on one side and the road into town on the other. The Burning Blade is a cult formed from the remnants of an orc clan of the same name that imploded under the weight of its own demonic corruption, and is active across Kalimdor vexing the new Horde with their demonic schemes from Orgrimmar as far as Desolace. About Fibbus, you know only what has been confirmed by your eyes - he seems pretty straight up.

Chainmail, longsword, tabard, and medium sized shoulder armor. You have to EARN your giant, insane spaulders like everyone else.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari smiles with a thumbs up to show his approval. Aleeana's story was a good one of the triumph of careful planning and patience.
But the enjoyment was soured by the awkward social tether that threatened to stifle interactions between individuals due to past wars. He takes a swig from a tankard to mask his silence.

Spurred more by the opportunity for further merriment more so than his very slight inebriation Jakk'ari responds to Zachary's offer.
Balling his hands into fists and lights striking the table before him he chants.

Song! Song! Song!

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


A ghastly tale. I didn't expect that. It seems like you have a talent for telling stories. I hope to hear more from you in the future.

Marion smiled. It was a genuine, surprisingly sweet smile, given Marions dark magics and mysterious persona.

"You think?" she asked, perking an eyebrow. "Thank you, that's very sweet."

Then came Mor'Lags story. It was interesting to say the least, something more...mythological than she might have expected.

"A people can only take so much meddling before they over-throw their tormentors?" Marion both asked and stated.

"I have heard from those who traffic in the halls of power, that it is better to be feared than loved, but to never become hated - because hatred can overcome fear. The Gronn might still be upon their thrones today if they followed that..."

And then Aleena spoke. Aleena seemed the sister of Isaera, a pair of elven ladies, one of them with lance the other with spell. Truth be told, Marion wasn't too sure how Aleena would fair as some sort of knight. The elven men were capable. Not as heavily built as humans, they were nevertheless quick and had the strength to make their and precise blows particularly lethal. But Aleena? Marion was cautious.

Never the less, her story was a curious one. Marion didn't know the elf very well, so she took her at face value that this was a story she liked for its revealed moral: a superior and correctly applied strategy would often win out over a seemingly physically superior foe. Marion should know - it's how the humans beat the orcs.

Taking a sip of her red wine, the Warlock remained quiet as she listened to the Trolls demand for a song, a little smile across her lips.

[JoyWonderLove]

=On a Ridge above Rachet=

A thin eyebrow raise was Emilia’s confused reply to the accusation of being too classy, before uncomfortably considering her newly polished chainmail beneath the Argent Dawn tabard. Thankfully, Fibbus continued onwards to admit a connection to the Trade Prince himself, and her eyes narrowed on the suspect note that the property never sold despite its strategic value. She watched the groundskeeper for the many unconscious tells of a liar, but her expression softened as he appeared no more understanding of why than any elder that enjoyed modest pleasures. He knows little of the Burningblade, she realized. Then the door was kicked, and Fibbus spoke of previous defensive measures that were understandably undone, but possibly before their time.

The recruit proper made an annoyed sound. “The quillboars are quelled – but is the area secure? No brigands to speak of? Few poachers?”

Establishing a guild, Emilia assumed, was little different from building a banner house. Political ties needed to be established, claims of land asserted, and duties overwhelmingly fulfilled. All of that would take time and talent. The man merrily hobbled his way into the main room afterwards, only to indicate a fireplace as the only feature. A ringlet glide down between her breasts for having escaped the outdoor heat, and she hoped the winters mild. Whatever hastily torched evidence the previous warlock occupants of yesteryear did when accosted by the forces of Lady Proudmoore, it was wholly gone by now. Even the cobwebs of last week were whipped away.

A little frankincense. Some myrrh. We can finish the job of cleansing the tower easily enough.

Fibbus indicated the beat up wooden trapdoor, and Emilia immediately glared at where the true investigation into the property would begin. Demon summoners rarely conjured in the open. Their kind were reviled, and often rightfully. Any remaining clues to their whereabouts or lingering power from rituals would be found below. The Burningblade still plague Kalimdor. Best we not leave any footholds should those cretins envision revenge. The groundskeeper had started talking about standard goblin real estate law by then, and her attention was honed. Her expression hedged reluctantly near pleased as the groundskeeper elucidated on the many legal ramifications of their property, and the nearby overlords. He answered questions it hadn’t immediately occurred for her to ask as well. Then when Fibbus spoke of the soil, she folded her arms comfortably and waited. There was longer pause than before when he said his last word, ended only by a sound of gentle surprise.

“It would appear one does not need class to know precisely how to teach. You have been nothing short of insightful, Master Scuttleswipe. While I will need to do my own independent investigation of the rooms and tunnel below, I can surely ask no more of you. When we have finally grown these pumpkins you speak of, will you join us for soup?”

Spoiler: Investigation (20+), if I’m allowed

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Investigation: 20 (+minimum+, actually 23). Not being PL5 yet, it’s impossible to get the next rung up (DC 25). But DC 20 should allow her to ‘notice a secret compartment, simple trap, or an obscure clue’.

If Emilia is legally allowed to (she won’t if there’s some sort of legal issue where investigating the grounds before keys are in hand looks bad on her organisation), she looks over the protruding tower first (not expecting to find anything, but basically double checking) before she heads down into the actual tunnel (absolutely expecting to find hints of rituals and other things she doesn’t care for) and out the bay. Unless that all takes time she doesn’t have, in which case just the tunnel area itself.

[MrAbdiel]

At Janene's...

At Jakk'ari's insistence - or perhaps, at the lack of vociferous objection - Zachary stands up with a little sway in his step, and makes his way over to the gnomish bard Durley who has, presumably, been there in the corner where you left him, not quite two weeks ago. He makes a murmured, slurred request to Durley who barks a laugh and nods, rounding off his present tune and shuttling his bow in a few chirping bounces on the string to draw some attention to this man in his heavy gambeson and gloves on even in the warm of the tavern, and dark lenses over his eyes and a woolen bandana pulled down over his ears. But ale has done to him what it does to many private men - it has inverted him, and he clears his throat. It gets attention; songs are part of the primary landscape of entertainment in most of the world, being as it is that new ones are precious commodities to the ears and old ones are powerful binders of groups; and the song he has chosen is lilting spoken word more than boistrous singing, which is good, because he probably wouldn't be that good at it. As it stands, it benefits from his gruffness.

"This song is called... The Bill." And then he sings - or sing-speaks; good enough. It's a song, it seems, about a group of adventurers given what is regarded as an almost apocryphal Ur-quest; and with a simple and memorable tune on Durley's fiddle, it comes together on the favorably pickled ears of the taverners with blurts of laughter at the right moments that range from speculative and graduate into roaring.

Spoiler: The Bill

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(To the tune of the much superior ditty, The Sick Note).

Dear sir, I leave this note for you in hopes it may convey
Why you might find it pinned to what was once your house, today
You hired us to do a job, and the rats have been disposed,
And I'm sure you'll find quite reasonable the bill that is enclosed.

But if you have a question in regards to all the kegs,
They were for ammunition - kindly disregard the dregs.
For a mighty battle thus ensued against your basement rats,
And some of them were large indeed - and thus, the busted slats.

The rats were large and numerous, much more than you construed -
And for only this one reason, you'll find the rubble stripped of food.
They ate the ham, they ate the goose, and they your spices took -
Who knew that rats, this vile and large, had sense in them to cook?

Now naturally we were appalled, and anger was aroused
The rats in awful revelry, and ruining the house -
So we sallied forth with all our might and violent battle calls
And 'twas this noble effort that has knocked out half the walls.

The rats then sprung to action, and their leaders cast a spell
That rendered them invisible like hunting ghosts of hell.
Your neighbours are forgiven then for thinking we were drunks
But we brawled not with each other, but with whirling vermin monks.

They spun and kicked, unseen to us, and the fight shook down your roof,
And I think you will agree that this claim needs no further proof.
The rats are gone, just as you liked, and there's no more to say...
...But send us, kindly, thirty coins, and we'll be on our way.

After this, he makes his way back to table. Apparently, he's quite well known in Janene's, moreso than you'd realized, and he has to work his way through a gauntlet of cordial backslaps to get there. Halfway through another free drink, however, he seems to grow more cautious and focused; damn near sober.

"...So. Just so it's all on the table. Ratchet, atleast for now; and bigger, working our own hours for the unspecific good of the world. Are we in?"

For his part, the ranger seems to be in.

On the Ridge above Ratchet...

"No brigands. Not that come this close to Ratchet. Sometimes a pirate ship will take a swing at a trader coming close to the port, but the Cutters always slap them away. Not that you're close enough to the water here to worry about that anyway! And poachers?" He seems to have to process the word a little longer; Goblin as a language struggling to accommodate the negativity attached to the term. "I mean, there's hunters out there. Just as well, I say. This is the Barrens, ma'am - there's lions and raptors out there, and they're not exactly rare. No, I'd say Venture Co would squeeze them out, anyway. Bloody scrapers." Scrapers, a loan-insult dragged over from Goblin, implying a feverish, even malicious desire to scrape from the bottom of a barrel of opportunity, even at the detriment to others. "But I'm glad to've been of service, then. And hey -" he offers a grin that flashes the conspicuously clean and white teeth that so many goblins bear in great number. "You'll never catch old Scuttleswipe turning down free soup. Haha!" He tosses the keys to Emilia, offers her an amiable parting wave, and begins shuffling his way back down the road toward the town proper.

Spoiler: Investigations!

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The tower offers no surprises with a good once-over. Traversal from one floor to the other is done by rope ladders through hatches, rather than installed stairs; a pain, but a space saver, for sure. You open the hatch, and find another rope ladder leading down into the dark - but after descending some twenty yards, you look up at the shrinking square of light above you and determine that it's only going to get deeper and darker. What you can tell, despite the gloom at this point, is that the tunnel seems to have been dug by something which was vitrifying the ground as it went - the walls of this descent have a crumbly ceramic texture. You cannot imagine a natural creature that could do such a thing.

[MrAbdiel]

At Janene's...

Before anyone can fill the pause, the ranger's brow furrows, and he clarifies: "I'm in, I mean to say. But I'm planning on spending some time going back to Stonemaul village, looking over the scene again.. seeking what I can find about this cult, and those dragons. We all saw that warlock-drakonid in there, right? So there's a link. But it seems so... tenuous. I don't understand any of this. And I don't like things like this going past without understanding."

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

After the exchange of stories, Marion had gone quiet, as she usually was. She held a glass of wine before her and would take periodic sips, while she spent half of her time sweeping her alert eyes across the inhabitants of the inn and the other half seemingly staring off into space as her mind visited distant possibilities.

That spray, the Warlock thought to herself, dwelling on the little hand-held contraption she had devised within the fetid heart of the swamp. That spray had worked splendidly...I wonder how far people could explore and settle within previously inhospitable lands if they were equipped with that spray?

I would need to try and develop a second model, and design it to be produced from the most abundant local resources to keep the cost of construction down...

And so Marions mind wandered, her green eyes glazed over as she worked things out in her head.

[Plaids]

Upon hearing Zachary's intention to return to Dustwallow Marsh.

Returning to the swamp perhaps I could...
No, that would run counter to the mission and after such a big break. Zachary would have to go without him. The others would also likely be taking Lady Proudmoore's offer and they had good reason to.

Perhaps I could help you find some help you find some help. A scraggy group of strangers waiting for an opportunity like us before we met you.
Jakk'ari sweeps his around towards the group of recently united adventurers soon accept Jaina's offer.

How about them or those over?
Jakk'ari points to the most peculiar individuals he can find about the tavern. Partially joking to provide some levity while also hoping to convince the ranger to not go it alone.



Noticing Marion in deep thought Jakk'ari had to wonder, was this introspection? Perhaps a plan forming or some unconcluded business?
Either way this would be the last chance for the party to settle their business in Theramore for a long time. And after seeing Isaera's initial resistance due to prospect of leaving her family behind it would be best help the party handle their affairs before leaving.

So, is everyone ready to leave for our trip early in the morning? If not, then I can help pack away anything. Since we likely won't be able to turn around once we exit the harbor.

[MrAbdiel]

“Well, I wager there’s a little more time than that. But I guess she didn’t say, did she? But the way she said it, it was sort of a … long leash scenario. I intend to take a few days in the city, myself. Maybe… finally get this looked at.”

He reaches back as if to take the gun from the sling on his back, forgetting that he’s taken it off and left it against the wall nearby, and resorts to lazily gesturing at it. “Been with me for a while, but it keeps swinging to the left. I handled it in the big brawl, but hell if it didn’t abandon me with the raptors. Anyway, I got that to do, and some letters to write.” He finishes, circumspectly. “As for companions, well…” He looks at the misfits Jakk’ari points out with a slightly pickled, indulgent smile. “I think I want to walk this one alone. But I’ll come back and see what you’ve made of Ratchet, no doubt about it.”

Spoiler: OOC

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Just a mini post punched out after work to reply to Jakk’ari’s thoughts :) bigger one later tonight.

[WindStruck]

"I think that demonic attack is definitely something that needs to be investigated. With such a coordinated attack, and dragons, I doubt even Theramore could repel it..." Isaeara says with some worry. It seemed pretty clearly that if this shadowy cabal wanted a people's gone, they could do it with ease.

"But I think you need to be extremely careful and need some kind of aid, Zachary. Something that would hide you from demonic presence. Otherwise you may be ambushed in the night like our esteemed group of cadets."

The elf ponders a bit and adds, "On that note, since the Lady Proudmore seems very keen on peace missions, perhaps we should have a word with her on that. I think her supporting your endeavors to investigate the attack, as well as sending aid for eighty or so hungry ogres, would be a good gesture."

[JoyWonderLove]

=On a Ridge above Rachet=:

Up and through the tower hatches Emilia hauled herself, intent on checking around threadbare furnishings as if she had lost her engagement ring. The tower was unsurprisingly innocuous. Once back before the wooden trapdoor again, she scowled at it in anticipation. It wasn’t long before she found herself twenty feet down its rope ladder leading underground, only to confirm the ceramic-like walls lacked any of the illuminating glyphs hoped for, let alone peeps of sunlight.

Growling irritably, the Argent Dawn agent yanked herself out of the gathering gloom before it had ideas of consuming her. “The very first words of our family motto, and you manage neither flint nor torch! A sound plan, Lancel. Bravo!” She slammed the trapdoor down for still clutching its dirty secrets in its bowls, and trudged outside to scrutinize the sky, stewing in her own irritation.

I have guild leaders to meet; interrogations to help conduct. Yet here I stand, squandering time prior as any invalid. What have I actually accomplished?

Choking the neck of the longsword, Emilia raised it up to hear the reassuring susurration of steel on leather, only to bring it down swift. Again and again she repeated the motion, causing a regular interval of soft chopping sounds while chewing on her faults. Letting out a final frustrated sigh, she decided it did not make overmuch sense to sprint to the nearest store, haggle at the equipment required to conduct a candlelight investigation into potential dark rituals done years prior, and dash back before having to meet her new peers. There were always bigger battles to fight in Azeroth, and this one wouldn’t cause harm if defered briefly. Especially as the crime scene below was no doubt heavily disturbed by the marines years ago, if not simply the deterioration of time’s march by.

“Makes it no easier to swallow tripe...” Emilia muttered, before bringing the life-affirming flask to her lips again.

Locking the heavy wooden door behind her, the paladin wandered out about ten feet despite the sunlight. Sliding left leg forward, the longsword was drawn with her right hand. This primary posture so taken, she then cut and hewed and guarded and felt her annoyance fading as she prepared for the malign legions of tomorrow, flowing from one stance into another with a practised ease.

Spoiler: OOC

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I doubt it makes sense to finagle up goodies in ye olde Wholefoods, and return to conduct subpar investigations by candlelight. If there was time, I’d Well Informed my way into knowing exactly who or what department might know exactly why the tower never sold (I have obvious ideas, but those are assumptions) and try to track down an answer.

If there’s time to do nothing ‘important’, I’ll stick around the tower and do basic sword forms (as said) for a few minutes to work off annoyance and not be bored waiting for new arrivals.

Spoiler: Well-Informed/Investigation (20+) on other guild leaders: Do the other PCs write Well Informed about themselves?

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I’ll eventually want info on the guild leaders I’m meeting. Is that something they all write about themselves individually anyway when I ask, or is that yet another DM thing? Or are they still so small-time-ish that it’s hard to know much about any of them?

[MrAbdiel]

Zachary’s expression, as much as can be easily seen with the always-on lenses and less-than-kempt beard, turns melancholy for a second; even fragile. This is the second occasion in as many exchanges within the last minute that someone has expressed a certain amount of caution and, by inference, care if he lives or dies. He seems a little unused to this circumstance, flattens his lips into a line of concession, and loosely gestures with his drink before returning to it. You think that expression translates as something like Well, since you both insist, I guess I’ll think about it, which is probably the most you can wheedle out of him. The meeting henceforth proceeds with an air of mingled trepidation and possibility to come; and Jakk’ari’s purchased dishes are nibbled, snacked upon, and ultimately vanished by the best efforts of those at the table, and a somewhat casual effort from Mor’Lag, who possesses a considerable capacity to indulge. Ogres are expensive dining partners; but at least they remove the guilt of wastefulness. Then comes the late evening, and the walks home, and the deep, almost drowning sleep of the bone-deep weary. And the dreams - dreams of fire, green and red, flashing on beyond the saw tooth silhouette of a palisade wall.


*****

The next day’s discussion with Jaina’s people reveals some freedom about your departure time. There is a groundskeeper keeping an eye on your ‘guildhouse’ in Ratchet until you get there, and your Opal Collocation point of contact - apparently a squire of the Argent Dawn proper - will be there in a little over a week; so you have plenty of time. You prepare, you pack, you say goodbyes, you write letters. You see Zachary off with an aid caravan to Brackenwall, there to deliver supply to the ogre refugees and, secondarily, for the ranger to track down the horde scout that so discreetly tipped he and Jakk’ari off about the raptor ambush, and to enlist him or her in the investigation of the Stonemaul Ruins so he’s not going alone. And then, when the appointed time comes, you board the trade ship Antonidas’ Chagrin, and travel up the coast into Steamwheedle waters.

[MrAbdiel]

RATCHET
"Welcome to Ratchet. Hope you're ready to work." - Monte Gazlowe, Mayor of Ratchet

The Antonidas’ Chagrin is a sleek little two mast schooner; a hybrid design with a narrow, singular human-style hull for neat little turns navigating coral reefs and rocky shoals, and the distinctive triangular sails of high elven design that have crept their way into all the alliance ships that want mastery over perpendicular winds. The sails are purple, with a stylized icon of a bearded man’s face, frowning and rolling his eyes up as if to beseech the heavens. The crew is composed of thirteen sailors, mostly Dalaran natives with a handful from other human kingdoms, who were very early in their magical studies when Archimonde desolated Dalaran’s capital. Refugees before they had acquired any really useful magic skills, they became sailors and found the small prestidigitations and cantrips (the kind of learning the hero Antonidas used to call junk magic) was very useful for distasteful duties like swapping decks, hoisting sails, and tying knots. The lads decided it was very funny that they ended up using junk magic to magically earn a living on a ship that could be mistaken for a junk itself, and named the vessel in the honor of the slain archmage, who had mentored Jaina Proudmoore and generations of other magi before the Traitor Arthas Menethil slew him like so many others. The journey of a day and change is far more pleasant than it has any right to be. At any given time, ten of the thirteen sailors are literally lounging in timber and canvas deck chairs, chatting amiably with their passengers, and rotating in and out the opportunities to flirt with Marion and Isaera, only to be undercut one of the others who chooses a brutal moment to bring up how so and so once polymorphed his own head into that of a ram, or fell asleep when it was their turn to steer the Chagrin and ran the schooner straight into the side of a Theramore Cruiser, scraping up the larger ship and nearly sinking the smaller. The red-haired and clean shaven Captain Cato Schofield, the eldest of the crewmen at the ripe old age of twenty three, is the most responsible, and the one making sure the three active crew are remotely hoisting, or propelling a mop to swab, or telekinetically plucking fish from the passing waves. He immediately likes your party of four (and a half), being very talkative with everyone who will respond about their particular magical tradition and how fascinating he finds it, and how he ought to study such things once they’ve had their fill of sailing and muster the courage to become apprentice magi again.

After a day of sunning yourselves in deckchairs in the thankfully perfect weather of that day (or else doing so below deck, amidst a cargo of textiles brought over from the Eastern Kingdoms, and now being traded off to Kalimdor buyers), you draw into port, dock to one of the long wooden piers, and bid farewell to the crew. “Happy to ferry you up or back whenever the stars align, friends. While you’re in town, try the Frisky Duke - the service beats the Broken Keel by a league, don’t let anyone tell you different!”

The crew help carry your luggage, however much their is, to the pier, and then get to work unloading their primary cargo; big bolts of cloth stacked on pallets which are robbed of their crushing weight by an incorrect articulation of a featherfall spell long enough for them to be easily manhandled from the ramp.

Ratchet stretches out before you; a town of singularly energetic bustle, which is slowly crowding out the room for hustle. From the dock there’s a straight shot up for the eye down the main street, up the gentle curves of the road as it rises out of the cliff-walled valley and terminates at the grassy lip of this near horizon, over which the golden sun rules a bright morning sky, cloudless and fair. Buildings crowd up as close as they can to the border of the dock-road, with huge signs on tarps, timber billboards and swinging shingles advertising wares and services to the eyes of sailors as soon as they step off their ships. There is a good deal of activity with goblin stevedores running the affairs of the loading and unloading with a significant presence of brawnier types to make that same job easier. To your right on the busy dock, a goblin woman vendor is pushing a cart and making a very tidy trade selling some kind of meat-filled pastries to the workers. A younger goblin, hilariously gangly in his as he approaches manhood unevenly, hovers around her with a big wooden stick, jousting purposefully at seagulls who repeatedly attempt to sample the wares without producing the coin. The arc of the swinging stick makes a distinctive if irregular heartbeat of woooh noises, eliciting a shrill complaint from the pestering gulls each time. The smell is... Honestly, not as bad as you thought it would be. Ratchet does less fishing than Theramoore, so the docks here have a less piscean scent to them; just the ubiquitous dock scents of sea, and wood, and labor.

One figure stands out to you immediately: a serious if approachable looking goblin, sweating in a fitted grey suit which is out of place both in the heat and the working class press of the dock. In his big goblin hands, he holds a whitewashed wooden sign, with common words printed on it in clean script: Opal Coll.

Spoiler: OOC

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More post stuff from me soon, but I wanted to get this out rather than missing another day! Emelia's up at the tower doing her sword forms, and soon I'll unite the group properly (JWL, I'll answer your Q's when I get back from my errand!). Everyone else, feel free to describe how well/poorly your character fares on ships, how they liked or didn't the crew, how they spent the week before the journey preparing, and their first impressions of Ratchet, as well as any interactions or questions you might have!

Spoiler: Edit: Answers for Emelia

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Why wasn't this valuable property sold? - The answer is almost disappointingly mundane. After the Theramore marines ran off the Burning Blade, Gazlowe and the land council gifted the property to the captain of that unit in an effort to attract such a competent troubleshooter and leader of soldiers to come to Ratchet. The captain in turn gifted it to Lady Proudmoore so not to permit any question about his loyalty; Lady Proudmoore kept it in her back pocket until deciding to give it to the Opal Collocation as part of her sponsorship of this new group. Gazlowe probably isn't particularly happy about having the property shuffled around outside the grip of his green little fingers, but in the end, it seems to have attracted troubleshooters anyway, so all's well than ends well. Having such a group around is excellent repellent for groups like the Burning Blade trying to worm into the town in any meaningful way.

About the others - Emilia received a message by swift courier - a glowing spectral owl apparently in service of the Collocation. Amongst other less interesting formal considerations, it describes your coming coworkers physical characteristics, and then their characters thusly:

Zachary Black - Human. Formerly Corporal Zachary Black of the Alliance. Lordaeron native veteran of the 2W and 3W. Alliance patriot; reasons for official disassociation unclear. Some kind of sensory disorder requires covering eyes and ears. Skillset: Marksman, Scout, Pathfinder, Alchemist.

Jakk'ari - Farraki 'Sand Troll', no faction affiliation outside of tribe. Shaman. Affiliated primarily with sand trolls beyond Zul'Farrak itself. Very publically seeking opportunity to negotiate for the consideration of Farraki interests. Skillset: Elementalism, Negotiation, Herbalism.

Mor'Lag - Two-Headed Ogre, no faction or tribal affiliation. Actively distrustful of Horde. No obvious attachments. Skillset: Close Quarters Combat, Alchemist.

Marion Mordis - Human. Daughter of Geordan and Geneve Mortis. Granddaughter of Benthan Orlo, Hero of Mercedes' Gap (1W). Family was part of the remnant of Alterac extended clemancy after the rump state was carved up following 2W. Schooled breifly at Dalaran, interrupted by 3W. Demonstrated fel talent; no visible demonstration of corruption. Skillset: Demonology, fel lore, noble etiquette.

Isaera Runescape - High Elf. Daughter of Daeden Runescape, archsorcerer deceased in the defence of Silvermoon (3W). Sister of Kaleneus Runescape, sorcerer deceased in the defence of Hyjal (3W). High level arcane talent. Skillset: Arcane magic, Investigation, social pathfinding.

[Plaids]

Preparations for the trip were easy enough. The rest of party had little to pack or at least they had little that they needed help with packing.
Jakk'ari accompanied the Theramore escort to see Zachary off and returned to city to prepare to leave.

The ocean was comfortable enough. Being a passenger on a transport shipping cloth was far better than the oil tankers leaving Gadgetzan. The crew were nice and amiable as well, displaying carefree attitude suited to young adults in turbulent times and in a transient state. The offer to tutor them on the elements was extended but none of them seemed particularly interested given their preoccupation with Isaera and Marion. Which was fine they were young, and the prestidigitations offered fine-tuned and resilient assistance for navigating the ocean. Though arcane magics likely couldn't inform them of the currently docile water elementals. Nor the excitement of earth elementals from Tanaris to the Barrens being propelled and being sent to fertilize the forests of the Eastern Kingdoms.

Once at port Jakk'ari sees the goblin seeking agents of the Opal Collocation. Bidding Mor'Lag to follow him and greet the goblin together Jakk'ari steps forward. Given his time in Gadgetzan he had often seen goblins become more eager to please fellow goblins who had a "Little Friend" who was most often an ogre. Hopefully this would distinguish themselves and prevent the goblin from thinking the party was just a random group of adventurers who had wandered into town.

Spoiler: Azeroth weather

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I don't know how weather works in Azeroth, but I assume that a weather phenomenon similar to the Sahara dust stream exists in Azeroth. The Sahara stream sends dust from the Sahara which fertilizes South and Central America with fertilizing minerals.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag were bored and thoroughly seasick throughout the trip. They had many bad memories of the sea, and their size made them especially prone to motion sickness. They tried playing boardgames against each other, but the pieces kept getting jostled.

So Mor, cautiously, tried hinting she knew a new trick and went up to the deck and started trying to dispel the "junk magic" cantrips of the crew. Eventually they noticed. Long after that, they figured out it was her. She paid them a few silver to avoid an incident, and convinced one of them to help her learn the same tricks. Mor spent the rest of the trip with a headache as her binocular vision was disrupted by trying to read on a moving vehicle. Eventually, Lag read the pamphlets on cantrips aloud for both of them.

====

Later, they got to the shore. She deferred to the other party members as to who should approach the Goblin first.