World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[Plaids]

Responding to Zachary Black with an open posture as if attempting to display a prize winning catch Jakk'ari responds.
"I am Jakk'ari I speak with the natural world. Pleasure making you acquaintance."

Jakk'ari responding to Isaera says.
"Either left in warm water or ground and mixed with clay applied to the skin. The later is best when striding through the desert. It's good to have somebody heed my advice. Though with your power I doubt any ailment beyond your regeneration exists."

[hand ax ranger]

Zachary nods as he hears them all introduce themselves. "Well sounds like a good bunch for this mission so far. Not quite a crack team of woodsmen but with this much variety in talent we should be able to handle most for what could reasonably be expected."

When the Troll mentions the herbal insecticide he digs through his bag on the wagon and wanders over, a mortar and pestle in hand. "I could help prepare that. Might even have a few of my own mixes left over." He offers to help her as he gets out the rest of his alchemy set to work the herb into a usable lotion or paste.

[MrAbdiel]

Dustwallow Marsh

The medical team and their drivers share the same air of discomfort with the demographic diversity of the rescue team; but Brother Bright lives up to his name and punctures the membrane of distrust with an open display of it. "Fine to meet you, friends. That's Gustaf, Helaina, and Tamberlyn. Be nice to them; they'll sew your guts back in when the crocolisks get hold of you. Hah! No, I'm kidding, you'll be fine. I'm Brother Allen Bright, I mostly just freeload off their hard work. And these..." He indicates the drivers one at a time, who each make minimalist gestures of acknowledgement. "...Are Carlo, Torian, Oscar and other-Oscar. He lost the coin toss, so now he's other-Oscar."

Other-Oscar objects. "My middle name's Lee, just call me that."
"That's something you should have offered before you called the cointoss, other-Oscar. If we all die because of those three extra syllables breaking down our battle communication, it's on your head. I'm a priest, I decide these things."

The roasting receives snickers of appreciation (especially from Oscar), and other-Oscar grumps in a fashion that seems mostly good natured, and what proceeds as the carts set off is about fifteen minutes of other-Oscar suggesting alternatives and being shut down by others in the group. What does not proceed is an awkward silence, or an extended grumbling discussion about the troll and the ogre. Brother Bright has successfully buried the tension, and none of the medical staff or drivers seem especially invested in digging it up. Brother Bright even manages to wrangle a song out of the travellers. Most of the Theramorans have some nautical adjacency, so he coaxes from them a not-bad rendition of a shanty popular in the alliance during the second war. They even conduct a doubled round, though it soon becomes clear that they don't have the numbers for a triple.

Spoiler: Expertise: Survival, Nature, or similar; DC 15

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There are two ways for travellers to go through wilderness areas: quiet, and loud. Travelling quiet works for small groups who don't want to attract attention and who don't want to be seen travelling. It gives them a chance to hear people coming and get off the road, to hear wildlife moving and prepare for them, and to have a better chance to hear distant events like gunfire or commotion. But with a group this big, a lot of that is barely possible anyway; and so one may as well travel loud, as Brother Bright seems to be encouraging.
Travelling loud projects to potential intercessors that the party is confident enough to 'own' the road, and all but the most obnoxiously predatory wildlife would rather move away from a loud travelling party than toward it. Crocolisks and giant swamp spiders are sometimes too dumb to realise the odds they are engaging when they attack the lead horse of a party travelling quiet; but even animal minds understand that loud equal bad.

Spoiler: Farewell to Elvish Ladies

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Farewell, Shorel'aran, to you fair Elvish ladies,
Farewell, Shorel'aran, to you Silvermoon's dames,
For we’ve received orders for to sail for Lordaeron,
An’ hope very shortly to see you again.

We’ll rant an’ we’ll roar, like Kul Tiran sailors,
We’ll rant an’ we’ll rave across the salt seas,
‘Till mountains give way to the port of great Lordaeron,
Windrunner to Stratholme is thirty-five leagues.

We hove our ship to, with the wind at sou’west, boys,
We hove our ship to for to take bearings clear.
In fifty-five fathoms with a fine sandy bottom,
We'll fill our maintops’l, down coast we shall steer.

Spoiler: {Fluff} Expertise: History, War, Music or similar; DC 11

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The song choice is bitter sweet. Elves and humans have been allies in wars against the Amani 'Forest' trolls since before humans had mastered the wheel, but in recent history during in the Second War after the orcish horde had ravaged the southern kingdom of Stormwind, the northern human kingdom of Lordaeron held the standard to which other kingdoms including dwarves and elves rallied for defence of the known world. This union formed what is called the Alliance still today, and the author of the ditty is plainly celebrating the wonder that human sailors experienced when patrolling the northern coast for Troll Destroyers, and docked in the elven lands to resupply. Whether it is fashionable or not for 'elvish ladies' to have the courtly affections of a human sailor changes in high elf culture according to factors that boggle human minds; but mystery and unattainability has never seriously deterred any kind of courtship anywhere. For the elves who recall that war, even those who dislike humans as crude are forced to appreciate the valor with which such short lived people gamble the winking moment of their lives against death at sea. There a few half-elves as a result of this alignment of events and peoples against the fearsome and romantic backdrop of cannonfire and blood that is known to Alliance history as the "Tides of Darkness".

Yet in the Third War, it was not a threat from beyond roaring across the sea in a beastly armada that was the grand threat; but the hideous and twisted mockery of life itself. The Undead Scourge was seeded in Lordaeron, and ultimately was spearheaded by the paladin-turned-deathknight Prince Arthas who lead a gory army of the dead to destroy Lordaeron and then to shatter the elven kingdom of Quel'Thalas. The port city of Stratholme and Windrunner Village to which the song refers are both now ruins overrun by the living dead. And so, a song that was a warm and beloved shanty about naval pride and the partnership of nations has become a wistful reminiscence to better times - times when they fought a war they were destined to win.

Spoiler: OOC:

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The song is adapted from the shanty Farewell to Spanish Ladies, if you care to know the tune.

The carts make good speed, stopping only a few times to rest horses and stretch legs, and there are no road encounters on the first day. They stop at the final fall of the sun, at the point at which it becomes dangerous for the horses, and pull off to a patch of dry earth to pitch tents. The drivers set shifts of two to watch the night, and preparations are made for the night. A small campfire is made to boil water, but not large enough to cook anything substantial; it's bread and dry rations on the menu tonight. There are five tents, each suitable for one human comfortably or two uncomfortably, put aside for the party to pitch under their own power.

An hour into the night, perhaps predictably, it begins to rain; but just a light enough spritz to cause indecision about whether to cover, or just endure it.

Spoiler: OOC Stuff:

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I know when I join a game, I'm keen to get to a good fight to stretch my powers and roll some dice; but it's also fun fleshing out the contrasts and dynamics of this group. If your character has any questions for anyone else in the party or the NPCs, now would be a fine time to ask them. If your character is the kind who would rather try to coerce someone else into pitching their tent for them rather than enacting that menial labor, it might also be a neat time to display so. If your character has any nightly consultation of spirits profane or natural, or prayers, or some other evening routine that strikes you as interesting, feel free to flex it.

Finally, I'll take a Fortitude Check from everyone with the Disease descriptor. DC is 10; take a +2 if you've partaken in the herbal protections from the shaman or ranger!

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag is miserable. They barely fit under a tarp, let alone a tent. They at least borrowed some of the ungent to repel bugs. That they could have made it themselves was immaterial. The stuff costs money, and offering it allowed Jak'kari to bond with the somewhat racist Vrykuls.

Spoiler: Fortitude

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(1d20+7)[9]

[WindStruck]

Isaera doesn't join in the sea shanties. It would be.. rather unbecoming of her, considering it was a song for male sailors, and one such as her was pretty much.. the glorified subject matter. Alas, the song really does hit home. She was just a child during the Second War, and as for the third, well.. the song which once bittersweetly sung of her homeland now referred to her former home in ruins. Though she imagined that many of her brethren were still there, trying to pick up the pieces.

Regardless, she doesn't try to stop the song at all. She knows what Brother Bright is doing. Instead, she gazes around wistfully, thinking of better days...

Once they pull off the road to camp, Isaera, quite frankly, doesn't really know what she's doing. Sure she could puzzle out analytically how to set up a tent. But in the thirty minutes she might spend trying to figure that out, someone who knew what they were doing could easily just set one up in five.

Still, she's not a total prissy jerk, and does try to help out how she can, even if it's just gathering twigs and tinder to fuel the fire. Perhaps, she would even try some of those herbs in the boiled water...

Isaera may have shyly sat out and tried to make a bit of conversation with some others. But when the rain comes, even a drizzle, she retreats to shelter, not really enthusiastic about slowly getting more and more damp over time, and fearing the rain could pick up in intensity. When push came to shove, she'd rather just be completely dry, or completely soaked because she meant to be.. for instance, when going for a swim, or a bath.

The whole tent situation is troublesome, however. Seemed like there were too few tents between the lot of them. Either that, or the tents were just, simply not big enough. But she supposed, she would feel most comfortable, and it might be most appropriate, to be paired up in a tent with Marion.

[hand ax ranger]

As all the others started setting up their tents Zachary had already doen the mental legwork for building him a more proper shelter using both his own tarps and several bit's of timber he'd been picking up and tossing into the wagon throughout the journey. Using these to build a raised platform, both to maintain body heat and to keep a good deal of the ground bugs off him, he used the trap of the tent to form cloth walls and a roof around it and uses small leafy branches and such to hold the roof part down and the sides not covered by the tarp.

Clearly, he had been in the swamps before. "Right now that done....."

Once done with his own shelter he will go around and assist other with their tents, particularly the Ogre who was having the scrunch up into a ball with their current set up, then inform the leader of the expedition that they way he sees it there was no real way we could get the full caravan of wagons through quietly, therefore he suggest he and a few more move ahead of the caravan to scout out ideal paths and also to maintain some element of surprise against anything that would do them ill out among the trees.

With this he grabs his alchemy set and sits under one of the tarp walls lifted slightly to provide and overhang, working to ready some surprises for their opponents tomorrow. "You ok over there Isarea?" He then sees her head over to Marion's tent and shrugs. He didn't care about getting wet so much himself but the brew he was working on did so dry he did stay to the best of his ability.

[Plaids]

Singing and chanting was always a welcome method for raising spirits. Though the meaning of lyrics and fondness for elvish ladies were a mystery.

Spoiler: Constitution Roll

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(1d20+2)[14]
(1d20+2)[22]

The wilds were hardly a hinderance to Jakk'ari with the trollish resistance to disease the only thing to fear were wild animals who might drag him to their den for a meal. But with a group of this size it was likely not a concern.

After pitching a sufficient tent with rough cloth floor and adorned with herbs to ward against insects and prying eyes he began to prepare for the coming morning. Erecting a small conical tent sealed at the top with a pan from the cart he invoked the heat of the earth beneath the structure. Hopefully by morning there would pristine water and any creatures fancying the water would serve as breakfast. Considering the plight of Mor'Lag he spoke intending to lift their spirits.

"Mor'Lag if you be needing warmer ground to rest upon I can oblige. You can even have half of whatever crawls into the survival pan. I'll probably have some marsh toads instead of sand serpents."

Feeling that his work on the camp was complete Jakk'ari kneeled palms upward offering a prayer in hopes of finding council with any minor elemental in the region.
"Primal spirits nearby please answer me, I seek your wisdom. What role does the horde play here?"

Spoiler: Roll

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[roll]1d20[/roll]

[WindStruck]

"Um, yeah.. fine..." Isaera mumbles.

"Gods these insects are going to eat me alive..!" she says, slapping at the nuisances which always seemed to evade her wrath.

Yeah, this trip was already seeming quite miserable. It probably wasn't even worth five gold pieces...

Those poor men out there, though... Well, they had better have had a good reason to stray so far away from their route, or she would make them sorry! Or, at least, that's what Isaera told herself.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion might be the youngest among the group but she behaved with an older soul. The tune born from the Second War reminded the Warlock of her own little nations betrayal of the Alliance, and the destruction that had been wrought upon her homeland as a result. Her family had gotten off better than most, but then the Scourge came, and, well, the rest is history...

What Marion did listen to, was the Rangers tips for preventing mosquito bites and other handy things for surviving in a swamp. Some of the precautions in regards to clothing, Marion had already taken, but there were some other things in there she had not thought of.

When the tents were being set up, Marion's face soured a little. She wasn't against camping, indeed, her new life as a Warlock had seen her having to stoop to some rather lowly, albeit temporary, living conditions. But a tent within a swamp? The things one did for a paycheque!

Naturally, the Minor Noble would have preferred a tent to herself, but practicality nudged her towards sharing one with the elf, the only other lady among the group. A late teenager though she was, Marion had still been raised with a sense of propriety, and so having to share a tent with some battle-tested young soldier would be most improper.

Thankfully for the elf, Marion had no problem with the tent.

"Use the even ground...the tarp goes onto the swamp floor first...lay the tent out onto the tarp...connect these poles here....stakes go here...raise the tent..."

(Using Knowledge: Engineering)

And then the rain hit - and Marion was happy.

Having taken her cloak off and hung it along a rail within the tent, her rich dark hair hanging down between her shoulders in cylindrical curls, Marion was now seated cross-legged near the opening of the tent with a bowl of steaming rations and a smile on her face as she watched - and smelled - the heavy rain coming down across the swap. The blanket of droplets mashed through the thick canopy of the swamp, hitting peacefully across the face of streams and filling the banks with coils of mist that reminded the Warlock of her mountainous home. She was enjoying this more than she thought she would!

[MrAbdiel]

The party engages with their greatest challenge to date: the first challenge, and between their efforts they manage to assemble their camp competently. Marion's pragmatic efforts make a fine counterbalance to Isaera's helplessness in the face of even mild survivalism, and the elf is able to escape the rain in the secure rear of the small tent while the human enjoys the rain near the threshold. Nearby, a little collaboration yields success to overcome a larger task - getting atleast a modicum of comfort for the ogress. Between Jakk'ari's capacity to warm the earth, Zachary's survivalist talent and Marion and Isaera economizing to one tent leaving a second available, the project yields an adequate result. In the end, Mor'Lag is situated in a kind of improvised pavilion using two of the empty unhitched carts as the left and right walls, and the canopies of the two tents to dome it over. For the first half of the exercise, it's mostly Jakk'ari collaborating with Zachary and brainstorming the outcome. The alliance soldiers and medics just look on from the entrances of their own shelters in curiousity and lingering mistrust for the mixed party. But at some point, the head surgeon Gustaf seems to catch on to what's happening, hustles over through the drizzle, and brings his sewing kit to make rapid, good quality adjustments to the cannibalized tents to better suit the intended frame. And once one of them has broken the unspoken taboo, it's on for young and old: the drivers and medics handle the repurposing of the carts, with the four drivers hauling one between themselves, and Mor'Lag able to lift the other herselves, with Helaina and Tamberlyn trying their best to assist. They end up giggling most of the way as their superfluity to the task became obvious to everyone, and the novelty of trying to assist the ogre in a matter of brawn was not lost on them. The rain escalates in intensity as the work continues, and it's bucketing down by the time it's complete; but the crowd of Theramorans let out a congratulatory cheer as it finally comes together and they are rewarded with the sight of the ogre sat inside the jury-rigged shelter, which actually manages to keep the rain out and stands up to the winds. Then a crack of lightning flashes down somewhere else in the swamp like a primordial reminder that you idiots are getting rained on and the crew disbands with laughter and indistinct chatter about their little victory. It took some instigation, but it's a gesture of unalloyed kindness that may well mark the high point in Mor'Lag's experience with the people of Theramore. And just before he retreats to his own tent, Brother Bright asks Jakk'ari if the earth-warming he's done is something he can do for their whole campsite; because it sure is a welcome talent in such conditions!

The storm upgrades from mind to obnoxious but doesn't go all the way to monsoonal, for which most might be grateful. When Zachary brings his proposition to scout ahead to Brother Bright who seems to be the leader of the operation, he's positive enough about the idea, though given that they need all the drivers for the carts and the medical team are not trained scouts, it would fall to Zachary and the rest of the freebooters. If Zachary wishes to take one or more of his group, wake up a few hours earlier and get a head start to scout the road, he's welcome to do so; and the carts will catch up with them by midday or afternoon. As Bright reminds him: "I guess you can do whatever you want. You're not exactly in our chain of command; just let me know how many I should expect to be missing when I wake up. That way, I'll know how many went on ahead, and how many were carried off by mosquitoes in the night."

Jakk'ari doesn't have too much trouble conversing with the elements, out here. They are restless with the storm moving through; in their own way, they are bunkering down and sheltering for the transient storm spirit much like the mortals shield themselves from the storm. The storm spirit itself is a fairly potent spirit of air, but local to nowhere particular by nature. But the whispers of the earth and water in the region send forth the cohering voices of their representative parts, to speak with the shaman.

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Audience with the Elements.

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The elements speak to Jakk'ari's open heart in voices only he can hear, and he is able to respond to them in whispered portions of Kalimag, the elemental tongue. With the storm as cover, no one is able to overhear - and if they could, they would not understand.

"Your invocation is badly timed, shaman."
"But we honor your voice still."
"Yes, we honor it still."
"What shall you ask us of the Horde, oh troll?"
"But a troll of the burning sand, and not of the island sand."
"All these are unfamiliar sands and trolls."
"But the shaman is not of the Horde - he comes from the southern sands, not the northern sands."
"The orcs hold domain west of here in their camp."
"They do not venture far toward the carved stones of the human-den."
"They fear them."
"Perhaps they respect them?"
"I say fear."
"I say respect."
"Let us agree they keep distance from them?"
"We agree."
"The humans are more brave."
"I say without respect."
"Let us agree they do not keep their distance."
"We agree."
"This ground you stand on is trod by human feet, and not often orc feet - though it has known hooves, and some of them cloven."
"What about the orc scout?"
"Oh yes, the orc scout. We have not felt his tread in many days."
"Respectful."
"The human swamp-fool comes this way often; but he too has not come by in days."
"His shack is just off this road, due north from this place."
"Flee my grandeur, little droplet, little stone! I am the lightning and I will be named!"
"We depart, Shaman."
"We must flee."
"Farewell."

Spoiler: OOC: Scouting Ahead

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Zachary, if you want to scout ahead with an early sub-party, see which of the other players you can wrangle into the extra effort and accommodate your scouting in the next post.

[Plaids]

Satisfied with his council with the elements Jakk'ari bowed before they scampered into dense foliage of the marsh.

The thought of cloven hooves brought deer or Tauren to mind. Optimism at the thought of potential of the ever friendly Tauren being nearby.
What was most worrisome was the recently absent orc and human. Members of two races most likely to quarrel.

Given his recent favor for Brother Bright Jakk'ari felt at ease confiding in brother Bright amidst the Theramore escort.
"Hello brother might you know of any orc scout or any free spirited human living within the swamp just due north off the road?
My friends have told me that such being have been in within this marsh."

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion offers friendly smiles and idle chit-chat to anyone interested, but otherwise remains rather tight-lipped. Her demonology tome is hidden within her knapsack and the bag of 'marbles' (i.e soul shards) was likewise hidden within her robe.

Unless any other event disturbed the trajectory of the night, Marion offered a friendly 'Goodnight!' to the elf before hitting the hay.

[MrAbdiel]

Satisfied with his council with the elements Jakk'ari bowed before they scampered into dense foliage of the marsh.

The thought of cloven hooves brought deer or Tauren to mind. Optimism at the thought of potential of the ever friendly Tauren being nearby.
What was most worrisome was the recently absent orc and human. Members of two races most likely to quarrel.

Given his recent favor for Brother Bright Jakk'ari felt at ease confiding in brother Bright amidst the Theramore escort.
"Hello brother might you know of any orc scout or any free spirited human living within the swamp just due north off the road?
My friends have told me that such being have been in within this marsh."

"Your friends?" He gives a mildly sceptical glance, but chooses not to pry; rubbing his beard as he squints around through the rain at the mouth of his tent. "No orc scouts that I know of. But I suppose if they're any good, I wouldn't know of them! Hah. But mad old Jarl has his hut up north of here, veering into the swamp proper. Built on stilts and hope, I guess. He's harm to no one, but not much use to anyone either. Bad taste in drinks."

Marion offers friendly smiles and idle chit-chat to anyone interested, but otherwise remains rather tight-lipped. Her demonology tome is hidden within her knapsack and the bag of 'marbles' (i.e soul shards) was likewise hidden within her robe.

Unless any other event disturbed the trajectory of the night, Marion offered a friendly 'Goodnight!' to the elf before hitting the hay.

The Theramorans offer the occasional cordial question her way, but there's no interrogation. The guardsman server as a driver for the party's main cart - the one Brother Bright indicated as Torian, with a scruffy (and now wet) mop of brown hair and the kind of beard that a real beard would call stubble - approaches her tent after a considerable engagement in clandestine chatter with his fellows. He greets her, and then immediately seems to forget what he had planned to say, and in a terrific panic asks if he can get her a mug of tea before she turns in. This would indeed be quite the feat, as the rain has murdered the campfire quite permanently and he would have to invent a new way of boiling water to accomplish his offer. In the background, Carlo, Oscar and other-Oscar collapse into their tents in wheezing laughter. They are all quite young - none of them more than 20 years old - and so are all still very much in that warm and generous moment of youth in which watching one's friends crash and burn is a primary bonding experience.

With this he grabs his alchemy set and sits under one of the tarp walls lifted slightly to provide and overhang, working to ready some surprises for their opponents tomorrow...

Working away with his small, portable alchemy kit in these less than ideal conditions, Zachary struggles to get the conceived components to bond in a powdered form. Grinding the black-salt dug up from the Shimmering Flats elsewhere in Kalimdor is fine, and dribbling in a little quicksilver gets a fizz of acrid smoke and what he thinks is the desired substance - but the bond forms small lozenge shaped crystals, which will not stick to the skin and inflict agony but merely bounce off and poison a scrap of ground. Attempting to pulverize those crystals only mashes them flat and encourages them to weld together into even more useless, clunky portions. It's not until he glances up in frustration across the camp and spies Jakk'ari in his shamanic reverie that the inspiration strikes.

Zachary is almost out of the stuff, but a little powdered troll tusk does the trick. The little silvery crystals mash and then are absorbed to the bone pulver, a quirk in the biochemistry of that species used by witchdoctors with their strange tonics and potions more than anyone. Predicting success, Zachary is able to carefully tie up the powder in a thin paper sheet with a length of string binding it closed like a coinpurse, and enough slack on that string for it to be spun around and flung to burst on impact. Some field testing required, but the theory is promising.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion's smile was gentle, that flutter inside herself the warmth of receiving attention and of watching someone go to such effort on her behalf.

"No, no tea thank you!" Marion mercifully offered with a friendly wave of dismissal, "go back to the tent, you'll catch a cold!" she implored.

[MrAbdiel]

"Alright. I'll... see you in the morning then. Goodbye. Night."

With that clumsy extraction, he is indeed the beneficiary of Marion's saintly mercy. One can imagine the fellow applying all his efforts to making some kind of fire that could endure the rain, and all the hours lost to futzing around with wet tinder. Such is the madness of young men, in the presence of of pretty women.

[hand ax ranger]

After pulling together the awkward brick worth of alchemical bu//$#it and forming it into a handy few pieces he finally settles down and rests. When sun starts rising into the sky he begins gathering up his things and preparing to begin the scouting phase of the plan. On his way out he will see if the troll Jakk'ari, who is possibly the only other one here with an affinity for the wilds, and likely greater, would wish to accompany him in moving ahead of the wagon to scout out potential risk

[WindStruck]

Isaera is content to watching the others work, trying to get a massive makeshift pavillion for the ogre to work.. in drizzling rain.

She hasn't really much to do but meditate or keep to her own wandering thoughts. A tent in a swamp was no place to be trying to make alchemical concoctions or magic devices, especially since she had no lab or materials to work with.

When the young man leaves their tent, she comments, "Well that was pretty daft. How would he expect to make tea anyhow?"

[Feathersnow]

"I know, right?' Say Mor and Lag, in unison.
"Thank you for your help." Lag says to each of the many people who assist her in cobbling a working tent for her. And especially Jakkari, who does magic on their behalf.

Even crude shamanism is more than Mor'Lag ever accomplished, and she is respectful of it on that basis.

Mor'Lag starts feeling ill and tries to make something to deal with it, using her own alchemical knowledge.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion smiled to Isaera's comment while she watched the fellow go back to the tent with the others.

"Where there's a will, there's a way," she comments over her shoulder.

"Doubtlessly including having to reside within our tent to keep the fire stable," she chuckles and shakes her head at the implication.

[Plaids]

Interested in meeting a hooved friend or the solitary man Jakk'ari agrees to follow Zachary.
"I'll go I'm sure we might find some friends or the Jarl here. Worst there can be is horde scouts who've made themselves scarce as of late. I'll light the way."

Jakk'ari exciting the air in a small sphere of space at shoulder height illuminating the campsite.

[hand ax ranger]

Zachary nods, readying his rifle-musket for use against whatever might make a move on them. His other weapon was a sword with a saw-back covering 1/4th of the back edge, even in the scabbard it was clear this was a s much used as a tool as a weapon and little bits of rust were seen on the steel. Still, it was a trusted blade and had likely been with him for as long as he had served within the alliance military. Possibly longer.

"Hmm never rule out how many things would profit off your death or injury."



Zachary will motion to the troll as it casts the spell. "I thought your sort had natural low-light vision? If you can see in the night then we will not need any light that might draw attention to us. "

[Plaids]

"Not every legend about trolls is true. I can flay myself to make war drums but darkness obscures impedes my sight just as your human eyes do. But I can navigate with the stars and the wind against my skin"

Jakk'ari begins dimming his light.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

When the sun came up the next day, Marion waited until she was sure she was alone in order to cast a spell. Uttering a few words and making some gestures, a hand of fel energy abruptly materialised, wrapped around her body like armour and then faded from view.

There, protected for the day. And if she needed more physical assistance...the weight of the soul shards hanging within hrr coat reassured her that such was only a summoning spell away.

Finding some place private to have a quick clean, Marion returned to the camp and started to cook her ration breakfast.

[hand ax ranger]

Zachary shrugs and leads Jakk'ari down the path so they could get their scouting done. He will stick to the brush himself using it as concealment while seeing there is to see.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari follows closely behind. Following the occasional minor squelching of saturated ground being displaced and a darkened silhouette.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk’ari and Zachary

With light dimmed to nothing, you proceed through the marsh, keeping close to the edge of the road and the hard-packed, elevated earth that you know you can rely on for footing. The stars are slowly being devoured by the threatening dawnlight, but there is enough starshine and reflection in the swamp for navigation, especially with Zachary’s chemically enhanced talent for tracking and night-work. Twice, your instinct compels you to stop and listen for fear you’re being stalked by something; twice, you discover that it’s nothing to worry about. The first time, a young crocolisk has boldly explored up to the roadside encouraged by the wet of the night’s rain; but it decides better than to try the travellers, and slinks away. The second time, it seems to be nothing at all - just a schlup sound of mud, displaced by their movement, resettling into its own hollow.

Following the information gleaned from the elemental encounter and Brother Bright’s addendum, you veer off the road deeper into the marsh to see if you can find old Jarl’s hut. It’s not terribly difficult, after you’ve skewed into the marsh further. A single hut, built out of the marsh on stilts that look like cannibalized mizzenmasts and a loosely circular exterior wall of packed mud and driftwood planks seems to fit the bill. It’s illuminated in the gloom by a trio of lamps placed equidistantly around the structure. Each lamp has a twisted copper wire frame around it, and each one is drawing in a small cloud of dazzled, buzzing swamp insects ranging from button sized to finger sized. The larger bugs squeeze in through a tunnel in the woven wire, but can’t find their way out; and the smell of the unluckiest bugs caught in the trap and baking against the hot glass of the lamp is truly unpleasant. The door is closed and there is no sound of activity - but who would be up at this hour, anyway?

Spoiler: Rolls!

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I would like Stealth rolls and Perception rolls from each of you - and since Zachary has pre-emptively offered his in the OOC already, just from you Jakk’ari!

Mor’Lag

You dream.

Spoiler: You wonder if you'll ever be so strong.

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On The Deck Of Tuur'Nog's Fist

You wonder if you will ever be so big, and strong, as they. But you doubt it. Like all fathers, yours are titanic figures when you are so young, striding across the world in mere steps, capable of smashing mountains and turning aside mortal blows. In your case, this is less of an exaggeration than it otherwise would be. Tuur’Nog, known amongst the Gordunni ogres as Tuur’Nog Heart-Eater, is mighty even by ogre standards. They were one of those ultimately rare ogres who was born with the Twofold - a one in a thousand mutation, and a sign of great destiny. And one to which he lived up, in most eyes. Tuur’s keen eyes were like those of a hunting Rylak, and his club arm was as strong as any warrior’s. Nog’s cyclopean focus extended into his capacity for the old rune magics, and his capacity to conjure and cast matched descriptions of the heroes of old, from grand days of High-Maul, when the orcs were still young and soft, and their spines had not hardened under their oppression. When the Old Horde began assembling, they led much of the Gordunni host in war against the fickle birdmen, and the blue-skins who had invaded and haunted their world. When Gul’Dan was selecting students, Tuur’Nog was recommended by the grand warlock Cho’Gall himself. Everyone knew they were destined for greatness - perhaps, even more greatness than Cho’Gall. As they stood on the deck of the Juggernaught, the other ogres howled their loyalty to him, and he rewarded it with a display of the power that so inspired them.

The Felguard he had summoned to the deck was taller than they; and had been so bound with muscle that it was not difficult to imagine that if it had caught Tuur’Nog with a swipe of the demonic axe, it might have cut them clean through. Yet they had stepped back from that blow, Tuur’s fist cranking back to deliver a swift, sharp stunning blow to the demon’s face, and Nog’s fingers curling to elicit sparks of green Fel energy to capture and bind the Felguard’s limbs, dragging it to its knees, and folding it roaring into a reverse arch. To glorious approval, they plied the clawed nails of both hands to the demon’s chest, twisted open its black bone ribcage with a gristly snap, wrenched free its spasming, green-lit heart from its wicked carcass and devoured it in one messy bite to each head. They seemed like a god to them, and they gave them their praise.

This, of course, was before the Battle of Hillsbrad, where his legend would be truncated with such brutality as to empty his legacy of value for all time.

“Glory to the Conquerers!”, roared Tuur.
“And shame to them that die here, on alien soil, without the blood of ten warriors on his fists!”, declared Nog.

Thus, the die was cast. Glory to those who conquered. Shame on those who died without reaping their toll of ten.

The crew gets back to sailing, full of vigor and barking brags and promises for the war coming. Your fathers return to the aftcastle, where your mother stands in her veils and twinkling golden ornaments. She is no slouch in combat herself, but for this journey across the span between the human islands, she plays her part as Tuur’Nog’s wife, desirable and prized. Indeed, she is most desirable - for she has bred true to Tuur’Nog’s Twofold, a thousand-in-one chance after another thousand in one, making Mor’Lag one… or rather, two in a million. Henceforth, the birth of such ogres would become far more common - one in ten - but it was their parent’s blood that was strong, not the strange, invasive magics of the orcs.

Your fathers come to you, and kneel beside you; and pointing over your shoulder, indicates the distant, cloudy grey shapes on the horizon. You can hear the grin in their voices, as they egg you on with doting bloodlust.

“Do you see, girls? This is the land of many kings. Here, we will carve a legend in the blood of those kings, and their horses, and their sons and daughters. Tell me, Mor’Lag - when you are older, and you have your magics, and you can fight - what will you do, to make your name even greater than ours?”

Isaera

You dream.

Spoiler: You hear your parents arguing.

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From The Western Staircase Of Your Home Estate

“They’ve called in the ancient pacts, Aunara. The humans remember the promises of Dath’Remar Sunstrider, and they are such brief people. How can we forget our promises to the sons of Thoradin?”

Aunara Starsong doesn’t answer - not right away, atleast. She leans on the windowsill, her raven black hair stirring in the night breeze as her gaze tracks over the ancient spires of Silvermoon. Her long lashes sweep low to her cheeks; and her melancholy does its strange magic of enhancing her loveliness. Her warm contralto voice is cast back over her shoulder, without the benefit of eye contact to back them up.

“And what if you die, Daeden? What if the orcs kill you? Shall I then feed our children to them, one at a time, in service of an ancient pact to people fifty generations past those to whom it was made? It’s absurd. Let the Farstriders go in their numbers, and fletch the trolls and orcs, and come home. Why do you need to go?”

Daeden Runescribe sighs deeply, combatting his wife’s objections with some melodrama of his own. His hair is gold in color, falling straight down his back to just above his waist; and when he glides in behind Aunara and embraces her around the waist to hold her close, his golden locks form a pleasing visual contrast to her black ringlets. She wriggles once as he embraces her, just to emphasize how mad she is, but settles back against him in resignation. They stand together in the kitchen of the estate, with only the hush of the night air, and the whisper of a single animated cleaning cloth discreetly wiping the benches under its own power nearby.

“I’m not going to die. The king will call for one fighter from each family, and Kaleneus isn’t ready. Aleeana has more talent, but not nearly for battle magic. Not yet. And Tarien and Isaera are both just too young. We’ve lived so well for so long, Auna. They’re spoiled by peace. If I don’t set an example for them, how will they know what it means to have loyalty, and honor? Don’t be mad at me.” Craftily, he slides a hand down the length of her slender arm, and weaves his fingers interlocking into her own. “Just be strong for me.”

And then they are dancing, in the starlight in the kitchen. The kitchen island and stools glide to the edges of the room to accommodate this, at a tiny gesture from Daeden who has a great deal of practise seducing his wife with just such craft. It’s a spring waltz, and so it is done most appropriately in this manner, with the woman pressed back to the man’s chest with hands entwined at her shoulder, and hip; both parties facing forward or, in this case, adoringly at each other over the shoulder. For a minute, they’re just dancing; and Daeden hums warmly to a simple, danceable tune the significance of which is lost on you. Your mother still looks angry at him, even as she consents to being wooed; and then she simply looks sad again, which your father has many times said is her most compelling aspect.

“...I will not abide an ugly husband, Daeden. If you come back with a single scar, I shall divorce you on the spot and take a younger, unmarred man.”
“Will you? Then I shall scar him. What then?”
“I shall take another, and another until every knife in Quel’Thalas is dulled from your desecrations.”
“I bet they’d keep coming, too. I would.”

The dance slows, and they abandon their affects - his exaggerated smugness, her exaggerated sullenness - as he begins whispering in her ear, such that you can’t hear it.

From where you sit on the spiralling staircase, with its shadowed perch and view into the kitchen, the scene plays out and you are privy to the information before your parents formally announce it at breakfast tomorrow. Tarien, sitting beside you runs his hands through the ravenblack tresses he inherited from your mother. He’s older than you by a year, but considerably less responsible; and you can’t help but think of him as your little brother.

“So that’s it. Father is going to war for the humans. I don’t understand it at all, but more than that - how can he say you and I are too young? Even if we’re not accomplished magi, we’re still old enough to become archers.” His eyes swivel side to side defensively, as if anticipating someone will leap from the darkness to contradict him. “You know, if we… if we wanted to, and trained for it. Anyway, mother is right. We need to find some way to stop him from being so reckless.” He looks at you with all the paper-thin conviction of a teenager, hoping you’ll back him up, and not crumple him with even a mildly firm contradiction.

Marion

You dream.

Spoiler: You smell the mountain air.

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Upon The High Terrace Of Your Family Spire

The high mountain air is good, and crisp with the promise of a snowfall to come. From the high terrace, you can see clearly for miles and miles through the jousting peaks of the other mountains in the Alterac range. Down below you, the lamp-lit streets are so dark and far they seem to your young eyes almost a second starscape, with tiny dots of firelight amidst an inverted canopy of dark stone. The only obstruction to your vision at all is your Uncle’s tower, to the west of your family’s own; the seat of his baronial privilege. The wind changes, and now you can smell the hint of coalsmoke from the forges below as the ore hauled up from the guts of the mountains is smelted and ingotized around the clock, then to be carted up and shipped down the mountain to one of your father’s clients. The child you are, you have no idea - not yet - that this mineral wealth is not being purchased so much as extorted as war-debt by the long sequence of travelling nobles from Lordaeron, and Gilneas, and Stromgarde, and all sorts of places you’d never been to. On the terrace below, you can see the shape of your father’s fur-collared robe, and the crown of black hair familiar to your eyes, and your hands. He speaks with a man you do not recognize, in a red and grey armor that seems to you quite fancy indeed. Even so young, you find yourself uncomfortable with the relative postures of the men - your father, arms wide, gesturing with the invitation of a party who seeks friendship and cooperation; the stranger, arms folded, pointing down further at the forges and worker’s houses, sometimes shouting and demanding. It is not easy to watch.

With you on this high terrace are two figures; your mother, and a young boy. Your mother is a fantastic beauty who married up, as the daughter of a poor knight who had distinguished himself grandly in the first war. Having expatriated to seek his fortune in Stormwind, he served with honor and assisted the flight of the refugees to the Northern kingdoms, returning to his homeland in turn to restored knighthood from the king of Alterac, and recognition from Anduin Lothar. With his honor, he mustered all his effort as a simple widower proficient only in horse and lance, to drive your mother into the best schooling, the best etiquette classes and a handmaiden who had once served Princess Beve Perenolde. Her natural intellect and drive to excel permitted her to devour all the teaching put her way; and when she attracted the eye of Geordan Mortis, he was able to feel peace for the first time since he lost his wife. Giving your mother away to become Geneve Mortis, she had once told you he announced at the wedding, was the crowning glory of his life - this from Sir Benthan Orlo, the hero of Mercedes’ Gap. She cried a little, when she told you that story. It is the only time you remember this iron pillar of a woman crying at all.

The other figure on the terrace is Randal, the son of the noble below who speaks to your father so harshly. He is rugged up in furs, but looks cold and miserable as he waits for the negotiations to conclude, under the theoretically care of your mother who infact has little time for him. If he had wandered off the terrace to his death, she would hardly have been able to stop him; her focus is on you, and you detect her disdain for the boy. Between your mother’s disdain for him, and your father’s interaction with his father below, a cold seed of hate blooms slowly in your little heart for him: the easy target for projected fantasies of nonspecific vindication.

“Don’t look at him, Marion. Look out over the town. Show me what Tutor Laerden has shown you. Show me what you’ve learned.” She plucks a black feather from her coat’s extravagant collar, and flicks it our into that clean, sweet breeze that promises the snow; and it dances in the air, flitting up and away. The elf woman, Tutor Laerdan, has been teaching you magic since you were five. Now you are eight - practically grown up, honestly - and you have mastered some of the basic tricks which seemed impossible to understand when you were younger. The last time your mother brought you here and did this same gesture with the feather, you tried very hard to summon the mana like you were taught and fling it like a weapon at the target; but your heart became too excited, and the spell buckled. Now she’s asking you to try it again - and with the boy watching, too.

She lays a firm hand on your shoulder, and squeezes. “Quickly now, before it drifts any further. Like Laerdan taught you.”

[Feathersnow]

That same memory. The last good day, before everything went wrong. And now here, cast out by their people, just as their people, admit it or not, were left behind by the Horde. The cursed Horde!

And here was a Dorei and a Vrykul, even a Troll, all blessed with what should be theirs! The Dorei was at least bred to it, a mutant that needed mana the way other people needed water.

They still had themselves, and the day had not dawned that the daughters of Tuur'Nog would waste on self-pity.

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: Isaera's Dream

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I sigh, still rather disappointed and worried even after learning of the news hours before. "It takes years of practice to be a capable archer, Tarien. And there's more to it than that, I'm sure. Survival skills, fieldcraft, scouting, first aid, melee combat, discipline.. ugh..."

If there was anything she knew, despite being so sheltered, it was quite a difficult thing in itself being sent to war as an archer, a ranger. But regardless, Tarien nor her wouldn't even be up to snuff if all they had to do was sit behind a wall all day.

The night before and this conversation had played out in her mind before. She was as worried then in the second war as she was in the third. She wished there was something she could do to change things. If she just knew what would happen, she'd have done everything in her power to stop it. But she didn't know.

Only, oddly enough, she knew now. Somehow, she knew her father wouldn't make it. Only, this was some twenty odd years into the future. Isaera found herself sobbing at the table. "Father won't come back. He's going to die, or worse, come back as one of those things!"

The other family members at the table may have reacted to her strangely, wondering what she was talking about. Or, considering it was a dream, maybe they wouldn't think it's so strange.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk'ari and Zachary

You slink through the marsh with such aplomb that you barely generate any noise approaching the hut. You're able to get right up to it without stepping on a crunchy branch or kicking a barking toad, and that's a feat that gets twice as hard with two sets of feet. Peering through a gap in the boards and doing your best to ignore the hurricane of swamp insects at the traps nearby, you smell the lingering smoke of some insectophobic herb and you see two figures in the shreds of lamplight that are able to make their way through those gaps. An older gentleman, perhaps towards fifty, with an unkempt shaggy brown flop of hair and birdsnest of a beard snoozes quietly in a clearly homemade, bad quality arm chair. His clothes are mud caked rags, and his lips are stained black with the residue of what you assume are the bugs he's been eating. The other figure is a young man - buy the short cropped hair and youthful features, one of the cadets you're looking for - who is bound to a bed with knotted rags at his wrists and ankles. He is sleeping fitfully, shirtless, with big clumps of mashed vegetable matter packed on dollops on his chest and arms.

Spoiler: {Fluff}Jakk'ari's Herbalism (Routine Success)

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Incriminating as the scene seems, you recognise the herbal splotches as masticated leaves from the liferoot plant. It's better rendered and mixed to make genuine healing tonics, but very primitive uses include chewing it up and packing it directly into open wounds to prevent infection. And if this young man has taken that many open wounds, he's messed right the hell up.

[Plaids]

Speaking in a hushed voice Jakk'ari whispers.
"There be one of our quarry. Pointing through the small slats in the house.

The man next to him must be the Jarl Brother Bright told me about. Our young soldier is restrained but thankfully covered in healing herbs. Herbs most likely applied by Jarl. This is a suspect scene but I believe Jarl can be trusted. The herbs have probably prevented several infections already. Zachary I believe we should return in the morning with the others to extract the recruit. We can't move him in this condition without the carts and the medics. But before we leave I believe you should tell him of our quest so he doesn't go running with our recruit once the wagons approach. I'll keep watch since seeing me probably won't help convince him of our quest.