World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


Marion pursed her lips at the suggestion of the others, and while they talk among themselves the warlock shrugged and said softly to herself: "We could always just kill all the ogres..."

Marion didn't see a problem with that plan. Or at least, any moral problems with attempting it. The warlock was not a heartless girl though. She felt a pang of sympathy for the ogress's explanation of her past, though that was a double-edged blade in her memory that cut open the old wound of the Second War. That '8 kills' the Ogress spoke of were the deaths of Marion's fellow humans, people who had not asked for the brutal war but had had it forced upon them by the savage, invading greenskins whom burned, pillaged and defiled where-ever they went.

"So we're going to barter with the Horde on their turf?" Marion asked.

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag

Mor and Lag become indignant, but not at what Isaera and Marion might have supposed. Lag lashes out verbally at Isaera.

"You, Quel'Dorei, I suppose you could convince any Kal'Dorei we might meet you are the King of Darnassus. You might convince them by sharing details of the harem fights between your wives in your fancy stone palace "

The implication, that every detail of that story was completely backwards, and an Ogre who was not even from the right clan might have equal luck selling a lie... may have been opaque.
Then she turned to Marion. "I suppose humans have never fought humans?"

Mor looks apologetic but doesn't speak .

[WindStruck]

Again, Isaera seems confused at first through responds, "Well, a king or queen would be a stretch, but I'd have no problem at least not seeming like I was an outcast."

Stilll. Harem fights. What??

"Seems so," Isaera says to Marion with a shrug.

Then to Zachary: "Honestly, that's probably not a bad idea, you scouting around near the one lost in the swamp. I'd just rather that you not get caught either, or fall prey to whatever fel magic happened earlier."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari turns to Zachary responding to his proposal nodding pensively. "You make a good point. The horde may be more likely to imprison a spy than an intruder. Plus the demonic presence adds additional risk that our cadets with the ogres won't be alive. If you believe it is best to scout the ogres while we parlay with the horde then I trust you."

Seeing Mor'Lag upset Jakk'ari quickly steps between the two meeting Isaera's gaze standing above her and scoldings. "Hush. What you are expecting would be the same as I passing for a Drakkari. That's just not how it's done."

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion's eyes swivelled back and forth between Mor'Lag and Isaera, their argument becoming surprisingly heated surprisingly quickly. Old rivalries died slowly.

And then the troll stepped forth to loom over the elf and scold her. Trolls weren't that much shorter than ogres when they stood upright, even if they did not have the mass, and with Marion and Isaera the only civilised pair standing before an ogre and a troll whom were both growing indignant...

But from what Marion knew of the Horde, Isaera's suggestion wasn't that crazy to her, at least the core of it. Then greenskins put a lot of stock into clans and reputation, yes? In a way it was a primitive form of the Humans own aristocracy, only with less decorum and more frothing lunacy.

"How about everyone calms down?" Marion's voice cut in from behind.

"Jakk'ari, please inform Isaera and I as to the decorum and hospitality ceremonies that would ingratiate us to our...hosts when we make contact with Brackenwall?"

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari swivels his head caught off guard by the request something rarely given to him by anyone above his position. When once only his tribes chieftain and his deputies gave him courteous orders and suggestions best complied with. He had become accustomed to complying with requests from captains, master druids, viziers, and deacons. But this was different nothing suggested a title but he understood her confidence and knew Marion wasn't pleading.

Taking a deep breath he composes himself and gives a shallow bow. His palms open upwards at hip height. He raises his head and faces Isaera "My apologies Isaera, Mor'Lag has had her fair share of hardship with other Ogres contributing to them."

He begins dispensing advice.
"Now as Marion suggested it is best we accustom ourselves with the ceremonies and practices of the members of the horde. First orcs pride themselves on ferocity in battle, less mentioned is their practice of discretion since most want to return safely to their families.

But most importantly never call for a mak'gora only challenges from a leader respected by orcs will be given the privilege. You wouldn't believe how many pompous sell swords attempt it"
Jakk'ari smiles and chuckles giving the advice and prepares to continue giving advice through the night.

[WindStruck]

Isaera looks to Jakk'ari curiously. "What's a mak'gora?" she asks.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari is caught unaware of his neglect to explain the basics, his enthusiasm for the subject allowing him to neglect the fundamentals."Oh! Well a Mak'gora is a ritual amongst orcs where a leader may challenge another to single combat for the duties of leadership. Each combatant is only allowed one weapon and the battle is often to the death. Too often other races think any challenger will be accepted. Not knowing that the Mak'gora is a privilege and not an obligation amongst orcish clans.

Now is there anything else you wish to know of?"

[MrAbdiel]

BRACKENWALL VILLAGE

It’s toward evening when you cross the marsh back to the west road and arrive in the Horde’s populated zone. And if you’d ever been worried that the Horde had planned to start aggressing on Theramore while you lived there, the sight of Brackenwall Village soothes your fears considerably. Village is not underselling it - where Theramore is a bonafide castle town supporting over five thousand in the surrounding areas, Brackenwall is a crude little hub (by anyone’s standards), with a resident population of perhaps a hundred, and another hundred or so scattered through a few little hamlets nearby. You passed one of these hamlets on your way to Brackenwall, but elected not to stop there. Toiling away within, you exchanged wary stares with the occupants (principally orcs, with a smattering of dark furred tauren) who went about the work of trying to wring some lasting value out of the marshland. Like the humans on the other side of the region, they appear to be building retaining walls and digging drainage ditches to make more of the swampland farmable. A variety of small, nonuniform plots of vegetation suggestion a scattergun approach to farming, though they have enough visible, operable silos to suggest they aren’t starving; and neither are the constantly squealing and grunting pigs they seem to farm everywhere.

Spoiler: {Fluff} Pigs!

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These are big, red skinned beasts with fine fur and a nasty temperament, but the capacity to eat just about anything they are fed including decaying swamp matter: a marvellous breed of swine known to the Alliance as rouge hogs. Produced by the efforts of a small cartel of half-orc swineherds after crossing the Draenic felboar with the Azerothian common forest boar, the breeders selecting the least demonic offerings in each generation until arriving at the the final result that retains the felboar’s incredibly omnivoracity with the forest boar’s not poisonousness. They aren’t the tastiest bacon, but you can raise them anywhere and feed them anything even vaguely organic. Just remember to use stone fencing.

Spoiler: {Fluff}Jakk’ari’s Herbalism: Routine Success

Show

As a child of the desert, you know a little about trying to coax some mercy from a harsh land. It seems like these villages are under local direction to experiment agriculturally. You recognize some of the plants in these plots - strains of salt-tolerating tubers and soil enriching grains which speak to a longer term plan of taming the recalcitrant earth here. The silos, you presume, must be topped up with grain shipments from the more productive farms in the Barrens, or the Horde’s bread basket, Mulgore.

The sloppy maintenance on the palisades walls of Brackenwall shows the ravages of peace clearly, while the pair of orc grunts guarding the maingate both appear to be well into the second half of their lives; both the exposed midsections of the male and female guard showing the slow but steady victory of paunch over abs. But they wear their iconic spiked shoulder plates and leather chest harnesses proudly, each leaning lazily on their oversized axes as they wrap up their conversation and turn their attention to your arrival. And getting into the village isn’t as hard as you might have thought, either. There’s a moment of discord when Jakk’ari steps up and the guards try to converse with him in orcish, but the single guard in the village’s only gate tower, a Darkspear troll girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen, calls down from her perch and cheerfully facilitates the exchange.

They want to know if the elf and the human are Alliance. Your group tells them they’re not, just Theramoran civilains. They want to know if you’ve come to trade. Your group tells them you’re not, just looking for information. They want to know what information. Your group tells them you’d rather not say, and would it be possible to speak to the village authority. They let you pass, tell you not to make trouble, and seem to take for granted that you won’t be too much to handle if you do.

Spoiler: OOC

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Jakk’ari can roll me persuasion here. His routine persuasion is enough to mean that they’ll get into the village no matter what, but the quality of this roll with determine the general mood of the Brackenwall locals to the group.

Inside the village, the streets are flanked by rows of housing of various states of permanency; some ragged huts with linen walls that seem to have been doomed to half construction; some more respectable residences of clay brick, solid wooden frames, and the Horde’s popular red shingle roofing with carved wooden horn ornamentation. It’s only a short walk down the main thoroughfare towards the village hall, and you keep close to your group as you get the side-eye from the locals.

Notably in the village square, you have easy access to all the staple buildings you’d expect. The comforting song of hammer on metal rings out from a nearby blacksmith, in which the towering, hunched figure of a tauren bangs together the chain links of some kind of animal harness. What passes for a stubby wizard tower, wooden and crooked and festooned with tribal fetishes, has its doors open at the bottom floor, and it radiates the same arcane glow you expect from the business level operations of such places. It’s like a troll mage, or perhaps a particularly scholarly witchdoctor is the proprietor, but you hear a peal of elvish laughter come from within before the inaudible, normal conversation resumes. A large open air cooking pit is being used by numerous villagers with pots and grills projected over the coals, though the display is dominated by a huge, brawny ogre who is cooking a plucked and stuffed plainstrider the size of a small horse. He cranks the rotisserie with one thick arm, the one cyclopean eye in is singular head tracking naturally to Mor’Lag with curiosity as you pass by. And a big, bustling building which must be an inn or tavern is just beginning to vibrate with the rhythmic dum-da-da-da-dum-da-da-da recreational drum beats. It’s big enough to rival the village hall nearby, and is probably larger than the taverns back in Theramore; presumably, because it’s the only gig in town for Horde folk passing through from the Barrens. There’s no rain yet; but a grumbling sky suggests it’s going to be another miserably stormy night; and the idea of sleeping in a warm room with a locked door and a belly full of a hot meal and ale enters your mind, weighing itself against a miserable, rainy alternative and another cycle of make-camp-break-camp.

Spoiler: Your Options!

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There’s nothing stopping you from shuffling into the city in tactical diamond formation, speaking to the village chief, and then strafing warilly out again to camp in the storm. But it might be more fun to indulge your character’s curiosities in a Horde village that seems not to be hostile to them. To further your primary objective, Jakk’ari probably wants to head into the village hall and look to talk discreetly to the village chief about the cadet. Everyone else can do what they like. I’ve described a couple of locations, but if you want to skulk around looking for some more specific trouble, let me know and give me a roll and I’ll see what you find. I have seeded the scene with things that might be of interest to your characters, but the bait is yours to take, or spurn.

[Feathersnow]

Mor'Lag looks around warily, avoiding especially the gaze of the other Ogre. It is obvious they arenb't comfortable here, and would just as soon go back in the storm.

[MrAbdiel]

Jakk'ari

You don't know it yet, but that night, you'll dream.

Spoiler: You can smell the peace-smoke of the lodge...

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“You are mad, Ukorz. Ya drunk on ya father’s wine.”

Drunk on ya father’s wine. When Sasani says this, the entire tone of the summit changes. Here, in the heady and mildly narcotic smoke of the Lodge, the peace smoke hadn’t managed to take the edge off the intensity, and Sasani couldn’t help but kick it up a notch.

There are nine of you here, three to a bench around the smoking coals. Chief Ukorz Sandscalp, high chieftain of the Sandfury tribe, leans forward on his knees. The massive power coiled up in his shoulder muscles makes an impressive frame even hunched, partially blocking your view of the trolls to his advisors left and right of him. On the second bench, shaking her head and rolling her eyes, is Chief Sasani Ut’ongo. While Ukorz has technical superiority over all of the Sandfury, it has been an age since Zul Farrak has projected its power across the whole desert, and while a full half of the remaining sand trolls dwell in the shadow of the ancient monuments under Ukorz’s watch, the rest are scattered in villages throughout Tanaris. Sasani has served for fifteen years as the delegate for the nomad clans and villages along the western interior of Tanaris, and its troubled southern regions in constant threat from the vile insectoid remnants of the unspeakable ancient foe. Those groups make up perhaps a third of the Sandfury. Sitting on your bench, to your immediate right, is Chief Haja’rra Shakar; the leader of your village Sunscar village, and since the old Nonos’ko from Fardune Village died last year, the current delegate and representative of the sixth of Sandfury trolls who dwell in the eastern coastal region in villages from yours, butting up against the mysterious hills in which the bronze drakes do their odd magics, all the way up to Steamwheedle port and Gadgetzan in the interior. Each chief has brought his or her traditional advisors; one who speaks with the loa, and one who speaks with the elements; and though you have travelled to Zul Farrak before to see the ancient structures and recite the ancient tales on festival days, you never expected to be here, in the Lodge, speaking for the elements and advising on the wellbeing of five thousand trolls. You’d be honored, if you weren’t so self conscious. Sasani’s shamanic advisor is the regional legend Sul the Sandcrawler, thirty years your senior and somehow as vigorous and imposing as a troll half your age. Ukorz’s shaman you hadn’t met till today and closer to your peer in power and experience, but Shia’ha Stonecaller is clearly more comfortable in these corridors of authority and responsibility than her age would dictate. Sitting across from these trolls, you feel every bit the dazzled, bumpkin spirit-speaker you feared you would appear to be from the moment Chief Haja’rra tapped you to advise him.

At Sasani’s loaded comment, the lodge goes quiet; and Haja’rra’s witchdoctor leans back from her seat on the other side of him, so she can look past your mutual chief’s shoulders and ritually scarred back to see you. Her expression - one of contained alarm but confidence expressly in you - is one you are well used to, and is probably your favorite. It’s the look she gives you whenever some trouble kicks up which requires the steady hand of your village’s spiritual leaders, and presages a project you will have to work on together. The look is composed of the lofting of one delicate eyebrow, indicating uncertainty; a pursing of her lips between her short and shapely tusks, indicating resolution; and a tilt of her head to one side, suggesting she’s ready to follow your lead and expects you to produce the same level-headed wisdom she relies on to free her up as the more dynamic risktaker of your duo. Together, you and Lasha’nah have helped steer your young chief and small village through border conflicts with the Dunemaul ogres, night raids by roaming Silithid packs, and one bizarre summer in which your people were plagued by dune-dervish elementals, spinning backwards and driven insane by weird magic in the dragon-infested hills. All of those things seem like small victories now that you are sitting in a smoke lodge with the most powerful Sandfury trolls alive, trying to find a solution to the goblin troubles. But with that familiar glance, Witchdoctor Lasha’nah, your partner in crime, shears away your sense of smallness and frees you to think clearly about the problems. She certainly thinks you’re capable of making a different here.

And she’s given you four children and sixteen years of devoted marriage. If anyone knows what you’re capable of, it’s her.

You are mad, Ukorz. Ya drunk on ya father’s wine.

Sasani isn’t wrong, you know for a fact. Ukorz has been a strong leader for his people in an era when they had almost no friends at all. The threats on all sides have come close to shattering the Sandfury beyond repair as a tribe while they’ve been on borrowed time for centuries, but Ukorz’s warrior militantism and unflagging belief in the power of your people’s ancient destiny. The ancient Sandfury stood alone and sacrificed their Empire’s whole might to contain the flow of the hideous Qiraji long before the Elves and their dragon allies mustered their might to join battle. Some essence of that long gone glory still shines in Ukorz’s eyes: the same total confidence in the power of the Sandfury that drove the heroic Archmartyr Theka to sacrifice himself, cursing the Qiraji with his death and saving Zul Farrak from destruction.

That is what Sasani means; Ukorz is so obsessed with ancient glory that he has lost touch with the bitter truth: the Sandfury are a small, weak, scattered tribe with barely enough people to sustain themselves in a land so hostile that neither the Horde nor the Alliance want to colonise it. Only ogres and goblins, both who share the troll’s capacity to thrive in any climate, have made real inroads in the Farraki homeland, but it’s the goblins that are causing your people worry now. And not with guns or their angry machines, but with a weapon the Farraki trolls have almost no knowledge of at all: commerce. Gadgetzan, once a dinky little tradepost established by goblins and decent trade partners for the Farraki villages like yours, the coming of the broken remnants of the Horde after the second war, and the founding of the new Horde and Theramore to the north in other parts of Kalimdor, created an enormous new market the exploitation of which the Steamwheedle cartel was born. No longer were the goblins a good source of goods from distant lands with whom you could barter, but a massive operation piping in resources from all over southern Kalimdor and ships from the Eastern Kingdoms. Their caravans built roads through territories that only made it easier for the ogres to attack. Their ruthless profit seekers were turning over ruins and graves of the old Sandfury, heedless of any sense of respect for the dead or the demands of their living kin. And perhaps most troublesome of all, the goblins competed for hunted game, for wellsprings, for the scarce but present bounty of the desert on which your people rely. Without exclusive access to that bounty, your villages are forced to buy the difference - from the goblins. And with the rich factions up north able to pay considerably more than your poor desert folk, the price of survival is becoming cripplingly high. Some trolls have turned to robbing the graves of their own ancestors for trinkets to sell - a crime of which only goblins and human desert raiders were thought capable.

Ukorz’s solution is simple - mass the tribe, as in the older times, and attack Gadgetzan. With a swift enough strike, Baron Noggenfogger will surrender and with a blade to his throat, he will be forced to make his city into a vassalized client of the Sandfury. This will give the Farraki trading power; they can build and restore Zul Farrak with taxes imposed on the goblins, connect the villages with roads to supply each other more easily, and finally mount a campaign to subjugate the Dunemaul ogres and extinguish the human raiding gangs. Theoretically the plan ends there; but you doubt it.

“Mad?” Ukorz’s voice echoed from his throat in a gravelly croak, breaking the silence. “I been called worse by better, Sasani. But you the one wastin’ ya people’s time, diggin ya grave where ya father died; I’m the one whose not ready to fade.”

Somehow, this measured response is more ominous than the outburst everyone was expecting. Your chief Haja’rra speaks up before Sasani can fire back. “None of us want to fade ‘to the sand. But even if we had the power to smack the little green ones about, what then? Wid respect, High Cheiftain - ya don’t understand the Horde, or Alliance, and the power they got. We fought off the demons that came to our sands, but they fought a war against the demons we never even saw. And they won.”

“So we throw in with the Horde, like the Darkspear.” Sasani declares, prematurely guessing that Haja’rra has come around to her position. He corrects her. “We can’t, Sasani; to start, the Horde won’t take us while there’s still flesh-eatin’ in our villages; but if we go to the Horde we’re just another levy to be raised when they fight the humans and elves again. We can’t lose another thousand young trolls in someone else’s war. That be the end of us, mon.”

The remark about cannibalism is a polite dodge, you know. It’s been Haja’rra’s life’s work to eliminate the tradition of cannibalism from the eastern Farraki villages so they will be able to trade with the big civilized neighbors without stigma, but the capital of Zul Farrak, and the western regions are lagging behind in that regard. Old habits die hard.

“So what, den - go begging to the big dogs? Become slaves of de goblins?” Ukorz rumbles, mockingly. “Empires only respect power, mon. Widout it, we got no voice, and no future.”

Thus, the dilemma. The most powerful Sand troll in the world wants a war that you know, even if successful, only buys a short window before the Cartel brings in a mercenary army and specialist loan troops from the Horde and Alliance to smash your people to bloodsmears on the sand. Ukorz is wrong, and you know it. Tyrants only respect power, but from what you’ve seen of these factions, they aren’t tyrants. Indeed, they’re coalitions of unequal partners, not power hierarchies. And Sasani, the second most powerful Farraki in the world, wants the Sandfury to join the Horde. But the armistice between the big factions can’t last forever; and is breaking down in some places already. Formally joining one side is just a way of getting enlisted to die in someone else’s war, and to forever alienate half the people who could help your ailing tribe. It’s the goblins who are thriving amidst the chaos - signed up to neither side, doing their diplomatic and commercial magic to profit both, and profit from both. The goblins have the right idea - they’re just painfully ignorant of the spirits, and of history, and of all the things that matter. But they know a thing or two about being a little guy, surviving in a battlefield for giants.

Haja’rra looks to you as well, now. Your chief, and your wife beside him, are both laying their expectations on you that you will be able to articulate this vision for the future of your people better than anyone else.

The legacy of your tribe, older than the sands, older than the splitting of the land that made Kalimdor, hangs on the strength of your vision.

Everyone waits for you to speak.

[Plaids]

After surveying the scrappy village Jakk'ari requests the demon forged ring from Marion promising to return it as soon as possible and invites anyone to accompany him to accompany him to the town hall.
After observing everyone's responses Jakk'ari walks to the town hall being careful not to fall into any waterlogged potholes in the road.

[WindStruck]

Isaera does volunteer to tag along, on the off chance that, perhaps one of these village elders might be able to speak with her. Given the trill of what may have sounded like elven laughter coming from one of the buildings, she at least had a hope that she or any languages she spoke wouldn't be completely unknown to everyone.

[MrAbdiel]

The party is permitted into the village hall; a great circular building just now being illuminated by an orc child igniting the torches. They are funny children - their proportions are much the same as human kids, but puberty hits the males like a runaway steamtank and they pack on so much upper body muscle it requires a readjustment of their spinal stack. This child has tiny little tucks, big brown eyes, but distinctive green skin and no possibility of being mistaken for anything other than what he is. He looks back at your group as the door guard waves you in, his eyes widening at the sight of Marion and Isaera, but settling a little with more familiar ogre and troll silhouettes alongside them. But he wastes no time in lighting the final torch from his own torch-staff, and then hustling into the interior chamber where you can hear him reporting in fascinated murmurs.

When you arrive in the interior chamber, it's already firelit and warmed by a large brazier in the centre of the room. There is precious little furniture, tables and chairs mostly backed up against the wall; with the chamber's interior dominated by clusters of laid our bear and kodo hides, and rough sewn cushions. Presently scruffing the hair of the boy with the torchstaff is an older, scarred orc male with greying beard and braids that settle over each shoulder; a cracked tusk on the left side and a gold cap on the right. He looks over your group with a sense of resolved expectation, and crosses the room toward you. The simple forwardness of this action is almost enough to cause you to overlook the fact that there is another figure in the room - a darker green skinned orc, his muscled frame straining studded black leather armor; his hair pulled up above his head in a topknot. He seems perfectly happy to remain across the room, as far from the torches as he can be, watching you with sharp, scrutineer's eyes.

"Travellers." He offers in common, a sort of neutral greeting that assumes nothing, but does not exonerate you of suspicion. You're surprised to hear common come from his lips, but as he continues to talk, there's a clear strain in his brow and a jarring lexical pattern to his words that suggests he is trying hard to dredge up this old, rarely used tool for your benefit. "Come to, you have, this village Brackenwall. Am, I, Chief Targ Frostfang. Told have been, I, the business of you and I." Continuing to speak slowly, and remarkably patiently, he pats his broad chest with both his palms, and raises an eyebrow, hoping he's been communicative. "Have, you, the attention of mine."

Spoiler: Perception DC 8

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The orc on the other side of the room is watching you with suspicious intensity. He obviously doesn't trust you, and his demeanour seems just shy of hostile...

Spoiler: Insight DC 13

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...But his arms are folded, and his stance slowly relaxes; and you get the sense that even though he doesn't trust you, he has decided you aren't a threat.

[WindStruck]

Well, it was nice that this chief could speak some common, though the grammatical errors riddling his speech were distracting. Isaera considered for a moment not only what to say, but how to say it. She decided on speaking.. correctly, if anything, to set as an example and hopefully the old chief would get more used to it. She would also try to speak slowly.. rather awkwardly slowly in her opinion, and see if she could find some smaller words.

With a brief, yet deep nod of her head, in some attempt to show some respect and civility, Isaera begins, "We are glad to have a welcoming reception." Oof. She hoped those words weren't too big, but hopefully she spoke slowly enough.

"Thank you, Chief Targ. My name is Isaera Runescribe. We come from Theramore." She emphasized her identity by placing a hand upon her bosom, and Theramore by pointing in some vague direction, where she may have inaccurately thought it was from here.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari kneels respectively and addresses the chief.
"Thank you for your welcome Chieftan Targ. I am Jakk'ari of the Farraki please take this token of our good faith." Jakkari rises presenting the peacebloom and address the meat of the conversation.

"My companion and I are here by order of Theramore. We are seeking apprentice warriors who have been lost within the marsh and believe one to be within your custody. We wish to see their safe return to their homes."
"We also believe they went missing pursuing a demonic presence and both Brackenwall and Theramore stand to benefit by cooperating with this matter."

Jakk'ari withholds from inquiring about the Stone maul ogres to not overburden the chief in his decision making and risk a hasty and unsatisfactory resolution.

Spoiler: Action Summary

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Jakk'ari politely addresses the chief offering him some peace bloom. He asks if the village has the cadet in custody and informs the chief about the demon presence in the marsh and requests cooperation or at least freedom or support in investigating the demons and lost cadets.
(1d20+8)[15]For persuasion if applicable.

OOC: If I have the demonic ring I'd show it as proof. But I don't know.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC:

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I'm going to say that the team is happy enough to give the ring over to Jakk'ari for this purpose, since it's their primary objective; though Mor'Lag clearly sees something meaningful about it, and would like it back when all is said and done.

Chief Targ Frostfang listens intensely to the introductions as they come, eyes following the projected vector from Isaera's finger, head nodding a little as Jakk'ari lays out the situation in more detail. He looks intensely at whoever is speaking with a countenance that projects focus bordering on constipation, but it's clear the source of this is the orc picking his way through your common about as well as he speaks it himself. There's a couple of repetitions entailed. He asks naturally about the number of cadets that came into the loosely defined Horde boundaries, and seems sceptical when the tale of them following some demon appearance comes up; but presenting the ring seems to be enough to convince him. It is not hard to deduce that this orc is old enough to have lived through the Legion invasion and before that, to have been part of the Horde when they first fell under the spell of the Shadow Council and became the tool of demons to savage Azeroth, to know felsteel when he sees it.

There comes a moment when he is asking about where and how they found this item that he seems to run out of common to use - the most courteous language available to him, as it excludes no one - and shifts to a much more competant rendering of the troll language Zandali. With that tongue, he is able to rapidly clarify matters with Jakk'ari. He switches back to provide his own revelation.

"Is in, your man, Brackenwall. Maybe. Injured; treated. Would not talk, he, about name or mission. Had been, ah..." He pauses to lapse to Zandali to ask Jakk'ari for words that express lesser nuances of torture, and once so equipped... "Coercing, we, he. Water, no food. But... food tonight, he." After a moment of clarification again, he laughs a little, and refines: "Eat tonight, he will. Take tomorrow. Will tell, you, Lady Proudmoore this thing." He offers an almost cheeky, avuncular grin, laughs again, and puts an arm around Jakk'ari's shoulders to give the troll a brisk and apparently vigorous side-hug. "Good neighbours! Good neighbours. Will stay tonight, you, our village Brackenwall, eh?"

And then, in Zandali to Jakk'ari:

Spoiler: Zandali

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"You might as well. Strong storms tonight; no sense sleeping in the marsh. Come, Sandfury. Let your friends take a room or two at the inn across the square; but I have not been to Tanaris nor spoken to one of your tribe, so you and I will drink, and speak, and laugh as good neighbours do!"

He's quite insistent, and seems genuinely interested to wring some questions out of you, and get some libations into you; the sort of ale-drenched diplomacy that rural communities often feature, orc or not.

(OOC: Motivation: Eager to Please. I will give you a VP right now if you indulge your complication by awkwardly ditching your friends in this Horde settlement to go drinking with the village chief, so not to give him a bad impression.)

[WindStruck]

"We should talk to him. He will trust us, and hopefully we get more answers," Isaera says.

"But we have a problem. Two more cadets are missing. One may be south of here, or further west in the Barrens. The other.. still southeast in the swamps."

She looks to their troll companion and says, "Don't know what condition he's in, but probably not good if he hasn't been eating. But we need to find the others, or at least the one that went west, and I don't think we can take the cadet that is here, presently."

Spoiler: What is a cadet?

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"A cadet is like.. a new warrior. Green, new recruit, low ranking. No one your seasoned warriors should be concerned about, in any case."

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


Marion walked with visible tenseness as she passed through the shabby gates of the Horde "town". But honestly, only a generous man would call this fetid dump a "town". Having little love for the Horde, and definitely none for the orcs for the destruction they had wrought across Azeroth, Marion's dislike for the greenskins combined with her knowledge of engineering to ponder at what the world would look like if their savage, mindless kind had won the Second War. The images conjured in her head were not particularly flattering ones, as she could only imagine a world stuffed with shanty towns, putrid sanitation and the stench of body odour where-ever one went. No beauty, no marvels of engineering, no crafted works of art or touch of civilisation: nothing but a sty.

Keeping such thoughts to herself, however, Marion followed the group and kept an eye out. Unlike the others, Marion would happily prefer a makeshift camp in the swamp than trusting these beasts not to cut her throat in her sleep or enslave her for worse. Being a relatively knowledgeable woman, despite her youthful age, Marion knew of a few half-orcs dotted about Azeroth, and she would rather cut her own wrists than be forced to bring one of those wretched creatures into the world.

Bah! Why had they even come here? Just fel-fire this dungheap from afar and let the Light sort them out.

"Travellers," the "lead" orc spoke with his guttural voice, snapping Marion out from her distracting day-dream.

"Come to, you have, this village Brackenwall. Am, I, Chief Targ Frostfang. Told have been, I, the business of you and I. Have, you, the attention of mine."

Oh how interesting, Marion thought. The beast's application of Common was forced through the sentence structure of orcish which, if she were to make an educated guess, was Verb–subject–object, whereas Common was Subject-Verb-Object. Normally Marion was no linguistics expert, but being bilingual in a forbidden language, Demonic, gave her the knowledge that the sentence structure was different in other languages, and so not only was it unusual to see an orc proficient with some Common, but it was curious to see how he adapted her words to his native dialect.

Then the rest followed. The Cadet was here indeed, and tomorrow he would depart with them, if she understood correctly. The cost of his release would be a good word with Lady Proudmoore, which would no doubt reflect well on this orc in the eyes of Thrall, who valued diplomacy and peaceful relations.

Observing all of this with her perceptive, steely grey eyes, Marion remained quiet.

[Feathersnow]

Mor and Lag look down. The Orc must at least suspect she is shamed. They are thankful they were not asked to speak to this elder. What could they say, and what would they want to?

Mor looks at Marion. She, at least, seems to understand what Orcs are, even if she thinks no better of the people who overthrew the Gronn and built great cities while the Greenskins squatted in tents. If Lag had not thrown her temper tantrum, maybe things might have been better between them, but she doubted it.

If the Horde's weakness had killed her fathers, it was strong enough to intimidate the humans. And humans knew enough to hate that which they fear.

And, goody. They got to stay in this sty under the banner of these scum. She would rather camp outside, but that level of insult couldn't go unremarked.

"Let's get it over with," Mor mutters in Ogrish

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari not used to more boisterous diplomacy due to his time in Theramore hesitates a moment to take stock in his companions. Mor'Lag was grumbling and he knew most accommodations for the ogre were cumbersome, Marion was being inscrutable at the moment, but Isaera seemed enthusiastic enough, joining in the conversation and pondering their future course of action.

While his companions were seemed to mixed who was he to deny an audience with the chief who was so gladly accommodating them? Especially a chief working under the leadership of the exalted shaman Thrall. Plus this would be a chance to discuss other details that had to be skimmed for the sake of brevity.
"It would be an honor Chieftain Targ. No doubt the merriment in the village will overcome the misery of the marsh."
Jakk'ari raises out his hand for a handshake preparing a strong grip for the orc chief.

Jakk'ari returns his gaze to his party speaking in common.
"Good news everyone. We will be staying the night. Isaeara, Mor'Lag, Marion I hope you are ready to meet our cadet when our hosts are ready."

[MrAbdiel]

No sooner has Jakk'ari had time to announce this, than the chief - gregarious enough as he seems to be - leads the shaman off with an arm around his shoulders, jabbering to him conversationally in the troll language.

This, of course, leaves Mor'Lag, Isaera, and Marion standing bereft of their Horde-whisperer; just inside the doorway of the village hall. Cheif Targ and Jakk'ari head up a rear staircase to the hall's second level; but the topknotted orc watching the delegation from the shadowy side of the hall lofts an eyebrow, raises a hand palm down, and makes a flicking, 'run along' motion with the flex of his fingers. It is clear this invitation has been extended to the Sandfury alone; and the others are expected to find their own arrangements in Brackenwall.

Outside, with a tremendous crack of thunder inaugurating the evening weather, it begins to rain.

Spoiler: OOC:

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Time to decide what you're doing this evening, at least initially. Obvious choices are investigating those places and scenes I listed earlier, though if you want to try your luck and look for something else specific, you may do that too. If your character is really set on sleeping in the torrential rain outside the village, then they can certainly head to the gate they entered through. But the local leader has indicated that he intends to give them no access to the mentioned alliance captive until tomorrow; so they must either resolve to force that circumstance in some unusual way, or decide how to spend the intervening time. Ask me in the OOC if any part of the scene is unclear!

[Feathersnow]

"I think we are stuck here with..." starts Lag.

"These lovely people" Mor talks over her.
"The Greenskins"

The Orcs probably can't hear, even if they understand Common, as the Ogres' shared diaphragm was stifled by both of their throats calling on all three lungs to talk at once.

"We probably will be safe if we share a room."

"Four of us"

"Not it for third watch!"

[Plaids]

When Jakk'ari goes to sleep.

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's dream

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The situation of the Farraki had grown dire. The land once unwelcoming to outsiders no longer guaranteed the tribes safety as more inlets sprouted along it's borders.
Ukorz was eager for bloodletting while Sasani wanted confederation with the Horde. Both one would agitate half the world against the Farraki and risk fealty while the other would spell it's doom.

Before this meeting at the behest of his leader Haja'rra and accompanied by Lash'na, he had seen the myriad of people within Gadgetzan. Heard their speeches and seen their many distinctions and denominations.

Jakk'ari spoke to the congregation.

Fighting the Steamwheedle directly won't work. I have seen the port and the peoples within. They are too numerous and can be easily motivated to raise arms against us. We can protect our game and watering holes but
only for so long. Certainly not beyond the next time of scarcity in the desert.

I believe in these times wisdom can be gleaned from our ancient past to lead us forward. Something nobody surpasses us in.

Jakk'ari turns to Ukorz while subtly subduing the flames to halt the emission of smoke and popping of wood. This exchange would require securing a candid conversation

I respect your tenacity and resilience Chief Ukorz. At our zenith, the empire of Zul, nothing could overcome the trolls. So strong was the union of tribes it beat the Qiraji empire chasing them to the most dismal parts of Azeroth when the other races were in their infancy. But what must not be forgotten is that it took a union of all tribes encomapassing the entire world. We are too few and must share our tenacity to overcome this threat.

Next he turned Sasani.

Chief Sasani, I respect your calculus of power the cartel is too powerful for us to fight alone. But it be prudent to remember several of the times our ancestors fell from grace.
Such as when the Zul chose appeasement and fealty to other empires. The storm king led the avaricious emperor into a fight that led to his lineages doom. There also is the tale of the Demon Queen where Zul swore fealty to her leading to the splintering of the world. If we were to have allies they must not only share our interests but our noble values.

Jakk'ari turns to everyone preparing to bring the proposal of Sandscar.
He gives one final look to Chief Haja'rra and Lasha'na meeting their eyes.

We must fight to secure our future but we also need allies. Ones who believe in the sacrosanct principles of Zul. Those who don't squander and deride tradition. The past is our guide but we must adapt. We will need to look beyond routine and comfort. To those such as the dragons, neighboring lands, and beneath the sands. For as it is said in matters of style flow like the sands but in manners of principle stand firm like the stone.

Jakk'ari finishes his speech relinquishing his control of the flame allowing everyone to sit partly obscured and in contemplation.

[WindStruck]

Isaera sighs a bit and grumbles, "Great."

But soon she remembers she actually has the power to change her predicament slightly for the better. Weaving a basic arcane cantrip, she holds one hand up. It appears as though she was holding an invisible tarp, newspaper, or shield. For the most part, the rain was repelling away from her, and elsewhere.

Still, there was probably a bit less she could do about the mud that was inevitably going to be the ground in this backward little village, soon enough.

Since Isaera at least wasn't getting stressed out that she would get drenched she says to the others, "We passed a tower-like building before we came here. I could swear I heard.. the laughter of my kind of people. I really want to see what's going on in there. As for you two - er, three? - do you mind checking out their.. accommodations?"

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

The warlock peered with grim resignation across the fetid collection of huts that composed this "village". Orc architecture...little better than that of the ogres or trolls.

However, Marion noticed that she was not alone in her surly assessment of their situation, and of particular interest to her was the seemingly poor disposition of Mor'lagh, the ogre. Should the orcs attempt anything during the night, Marion hoped that a claustrophobically enraged ogre would make a powerful ally in their flight for freedom. If anything, Mor'laghs considerable dimensions would provide the physical buffer for Marion to affect a hasty retreat, or conjure a spell of some sort to assist them in their plight. Time would tell.

"Yes, I believe a...tavern or some sort of communal domicile resided down this road," Marion spoke, gesturing down the path and towards where they came. As she did so, she pulled her cloak a little tighter around herself and extended her collar to protect her neck from the rain.

"We should make haste."

[MrAbdiel]

As the rain begins to kick into gear, and the unlikely partners make their move to their destinations, the rest of the denizens of Brackenwall are scattering off into their homes and buildings nearby; some dashing down the street through the rain unlikely to avoid a thorough soaking; others jaunting into the ale hall nearby and dodging it almost entirely.

Notable is the figure of the ogre grillmeister, whose spit roasted plainstrider appears to be seasoned and crisped just about to perfection... and is now getting dappled with droplets from the sky. As the hungry onlookers and curious spectators scatter from the rain, the ogre fumbles for a fistful of rags nearby to insulate his palms, and grabs one end of the great iron spit upon which the carcass is mounted. He's big, even by local ogre standards, but not so big he could haul a bird that size and the hot iron spit by leveraging just one end; and not so long of arm span he could reach both ends at once. His options appear to be to drag it (losing some of his effort to the mud and cobbles), leave it (dooming it to saturation in the rain), or get help - and his potential helpers are rapidly vanishing to shelters. "Hey! Hey!" He brays in dismayed orcish that only Mor'Lag can decipher, but any onlooker can intuit - the sentiment comes out to something like won't one of you lousy schmucks give me a hand here? But they do not; and as his options grow narrow, he spies Mor'Lag's frame moving through the rain. He calls to them, in the gutteral Stonemaul patois of the Gorian root-language.

Spoiler: {Fluff}Language: Ogre

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"Hey! Clanless! Help me, would you? I'll give you a share of my bird if you help me rescue it!" His single eye loons to the veranda of the ale house, his likely destination for this desperate culinary extraction operation; nearly panicked as his last hope to save this crisp and plump avian treasure from environmentally enforced mediocrity.

Spoiler: {Fluff}If you enter the Bloody Dwarf alehouse...

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The Bloody Dwarf

Spoiler: Ambience, Visuals

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The alehouse's sign declares (in orcish, of course) that it named The Bloody Dwarf. Failing to read that signage might actually avoid some discomfort, as the language of it sounds more brutal than the icon carved into the shingle: a mischievous dwarf with cartoonishly short legs and trickster's drink running away from an orc grunt whose leg is caught in a bear trap.

The common room is very large, which is just as well; since it's so full of merrymakers and misery-mitigators that a typical establishment would be overcrowded. Some of the occupants stand about on the covered veranda out the front, basking in the ambience of the rain, smoking pipes and watching the unusual visitors with curiousity. Most dwell inside in circles of short stone benches and the occasional table and chairs arrangement. The principle occupants are orcs, with a healthy minority of Darkspear trolls. Tauren and ogres represent strongly in mass even if not in number, and finally the tail end of the demographic splash is occupied by four instances of Forsaken humans; three keeping counsel mostly with each other at a corner table, one in heavy armor engaging a number of orcs and trolls in a lively game of some local card-and-token gambling you are not familiar with. There is no getting around the undead, as an unsettling feature in the room. Even the other hordefolk seem to prefer to give them a wider berth. But they seem capable enough of holding conversation, imbibing alcohol, feeling warmed by friends and slighted by rivals. It's possible that, after a while, the horde around them come to overlook their unnatural state just as one might come to accept a colleague with a disfigurement that is difficult to look at. It's also possible that the horde can accept them more easily because these are human dead; and they do not represent a grisly parody of life they are personally connected to.

A duo of young orc women provide the music at the moment, one tapping away on a set of kodo skin drums, the other plucking rhythmically at an instrument that at its best point of familiarity resembles a Thalassian shamisen. The song they are making is recognizably music, though one's appreciation for it depends on the breadth of their musical taste. Working the bar is an older orc man and woman who bicker lightly as they take orders and attempt to palm the duty of fulfilling them off to each other, or one of the two young and comparatively undermuscled orc male youths in their immediate employ. The older orc gent is first to see someone enter the tavern and first to jump on the chance to shirk his bartending responsibility, if given the opportunity. He hobbles out from the bar, his gait uneven on one sandaled foot and one study wooden peg capped at a stump just below the knee. His attention on your arrival seems to immediately remove much of the fascination the locals have with your presense, as if his welcome is a blessing that absolves you of the crime of being not from around here.

"Hahah! Travellers with the king-coins, yes? Welcome to Bloody Dwarf!" His common is better than the chiefs, and he's certainly confident about it. He makes a show of looking nervous and trying to look around and behind you. "You, ah... not bring any dwarve, yes?"

Spoiler: Insight: DC 10

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Judging by the way they treat each other with casual rudeness and take no offense, and guessing off the directionality of their glances throughout a few minutes of observation, you've come to intuit the older orc male and female are partners, and the two lads serving tables are likely their sons. Infact, you wouldn't be surprised if the musicians were their offspring, too - a family business, then.

Spoiler: {Fluff}If you enter T'zangi's House of Hoodoo...

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The sign is in Zandali and Orc, though it offers few indicators that are not better delivered by the sight of the interior. The entrance to the tower has the same rustic charm that most horde architecture possesses, but aside from the pair of torches flanking the door, the interior is lit exclusively by the gentle lambency of enchantments, whose secondary effects are their multicolored glows. Its three stories are circular with a central spiral staircase, and each upper floor is rimmed with rough timber shelves visible from all floors. The arcane theme is certainly Trollish: the decoration features plenty of masks, fetishes, carved idols of obscure loa spirits and the kind of ivory-on-ivory jewelry that Darkspear trolls favor. But there's also a wealth of books on the shelves, most of which must have come from human printing presses, elven dancing quills, or at worst their unimaginably crude goblin equivalents. It's a surprisingly well stocked mage tower for such a literal backwater, and you can't help but wonder how it can be so, and for what purpose.

That question is half answered when one lays eyes on the two occupants of the lower floor, decked out principally as a display and research level with a few mostly uncluttered desks and sheaves of scroll parchment heaped upon them. A female Darkspear troll with light blue skin and shockingly bright magenta hair in braids pulled into a high ponytail dominates the room with her species typical height advantage. Her white silk skirt, matching haltertop and gnarled begemmed staff in hand give her the unmistakable air of a mage who has embraced her armorlessness for all it's worth. Her conversation partner is a singular sight, since you left Theramore: a young and dashing Thalassian elf, with long silken locks as thick as a horse's mane, a cleanshaven chin, and radiant green eyes. He wears the gold and teal uniform of a sailor in the elven navy, though his jacket hangs unbuttoned and unpressed in a fashionable level of neglect and distress. Beside him is an open crate of what are certainly elven goods: mops and brooms carved with symbols ready to be animated and bound to a cleaning zone; a cask of Thalassian sunwine, and innumerable magical trinkets and gewgaws that will sell well in a society that is not inundated with them.

The pair are laughing at some unheard bit of humor that probably came from the elf; though as you enter, his supernaturally green gaze tracks onto you immediately and his face lights with surprise and delight. "Oh," he begins in conversational Thalassian, touching his chest over his heart. "T'zangi, you've a customer - and one who has travelled for miles for a share of your rare and fair wares."

Spoiler: {Fluff}And finally, if you've been invited to join the chief for libations...

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Jakk'ari is lead up the stairs to where a lively game of warstones is underway between a black furred Tauren in rough spun robes, and a Darkspear troll with the long lanky limbs and ritual scarring you peg quickly as shadow hunter. They, like the orc chief, are on the second half of their lives and may not have the patience for a lively tavern atmosphere. But the music and cheer from the tavern next door bleeds through the song of rain and thunder outside, and the firepits to either side of this game table are enough to keep the chill from the windows (that is, walls left out in favor of fresh air and a view) at bay.

"Jakk'ari of the Sandfury," Targ begins in Zandali, indicating the other two should follow suit in their lexical choices, "meet Jevan of the Grimtotem, and Hazlek of the Siame-Quashi. Old friends of mine. This is Jakk'ari - a Sandfury shaman, here in little Brackenwall! Hahaha! Have you played Warstones before? Take a seat, let me get you a drink." Targ hustles away to fill a tankard, while the troll and tauren give their unimpassioned but still friendly regard to the Farraki. Jevan asks first: "Desert-clan troll? I thought your people were still hiding away from the world."
"De world is full of demons and dread, mon." Hazlek goes to bat for Jakk'ari, sliding a fistful of colored stone discs to his place at the table. "Plenty to want to hide from."

[Feathersnow]

Against their better judgement, Mor and Lag halt.
"Human, we'll get us dinner."
"Probably safe enough to go ahead"
"But you can stick close, if you like the rain."

[WindStruck]

Spoiler: T'zangi's House of .. wait, what?

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Isaera steps in, not exactly sure what she was expecting. All the tribal stuff she was wary of, reminding her much of the trolls her brethren fought in the Eastern Kingdoms, but she could not help but take note of the distinctly magical and scholarly nature of the location as well.

Ah, there it was. She knew she heard some good old Thalassian laughter. And the male elf noticed her almost immediately.

Isaera responded just as fluently with Thalassian. "A customer..? I suppose.. potentially. I came to look around, and to get out of the rain. And earlier, I could not help but overhear your laughter as I was walking by. I hope you wouldn't fault me for following the sound of something familiar in this distant and disparate land?"

Looking at the troll cautiously, she says, "So, you are T'zangi? Do you run this place all by yourself?"

Isaera could only assume since the other elf was pretty much speaking to the troll in Thalassian that she understood? Either way, it was apparent that he and the other shared at least one language in common.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari takes a seat at the table finding it unusual being the oldest one in a party for once.
Not wanting to snub the group invitation Jakk'ari inquires.
How do you play War Stones? I have seen the pieces in Gadgetzan but have yet to understand how it is played.

Upon seeing Targ hustle towards the drinks Jakk'ari begins the introductions to a hopefully more lively conversation.

I can't deny my people have been secluded Hazlek. The desert has kept even other troll tribes away from the Sandfury tribes. But I have met your kind Jevan, at the Thousand Needles. A truly majestic place.

The group at least seemed welcoming but would likely need a bit more beyond alcohol to open up. Perhaps an elicited story of a local legend or event the village had a collective sense of ownership of?

So, meet any new restless adventurers lately? I know I have.