World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

Fargan - the one legged orcish barkeep and possibly the suffering orc in the trap on the shingle - is quickly discernable as the man of authority in the moment. He does not seem to be flying into a famous orcish blood rage, but you can intuit in his features the mild agony that any small business owner might feel when their establishment is imperilled. He clocks that Isaera and Jakk'ari are part of Mor'Lag's entourage, along with Marion - though she's out of his line of sight for the moment, and is no concern of his. He grumbles and palms his cheeks in frustration, then engages his clumsy common to reprimand them. "You come to only minutes, before fighting? Before even drunken? Get out! Out of here!" He seems set on evicting your party from the premises, and presumably confiscating your room fee for damages. You're not exactly swimming in gold to pay him off - if you're going to talk him down, it's going to have to be an effort of persuasion.

Spoiler: OOC Rolls!

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Someone's gonna need to roll persuasion to settle this fellow down, or it looks like you're getting turfed out into the mud tonight.

Meanwhile, at Marion's encounter, the orc sits back in his chair, the shift of light revealing predictably pale green skin on his jaw, and a trimmed, silvery-white beard. It comes with a cynical smile. "What lie shall I give you, that best comforts you? Here, then: practitioners of our certain arts need places in the world where they can flee from light-dazzled fanatics. Perhaps your success furthers that dream? Or, here, another: I will seek to extort a returned favor later, leveraging your success for my own gain." The flippancy of his answers tells you more than the answers themselves: he doesn't expect you to be foolish enough to believe any altruistic answer he gives, or to take any more selfish one as the whole story. He intends to use you for his inscrutable ends through this somehow, just as you have the option to use his gifts and information for undisclosed ends of your own. Time will tell if youth, or experience, will command the greater share of benefit at the other's expense. "Go, now. Let an old man dwell, a little, before making his way to rest."

[Feathersnow]

Mor moans about how she was provoked, but her half of the heart isn't in it. The Orc knows already, which is probably the only reason he is just kicking them out.

Not that she even wants to be here...

[WindStruck]

Isaera nods to Jakk'ari, ready to at least go along with whatever plan he might have had to smooth things over, but when she heard the orc bellowing his own common.. and seemingly better than the chief's, whom they met not long ago, she stepped forward and offered,

"Sir, please, it is miserable and pouring outside. I shall roast this two-headed dimwit alive myself if she causes further trouble. But perhaps, there is something we can do to make amends?"

As if capitalizing on the 'mend' in her words, Isaera spots a piece of furniture that seems to have snapped cleanly in two, a chair and its leg, and she tries to work some magic to make it one singular, whole, intact object again.

Spoiler: ooc roll

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persuasion: (1d20+14)[20]

prooobably not getting any special bonuses to this, though aid from Jakk'ari is welcome.

Seeing as 'Mending' is literally a "cantrip" in D&D ... I wonder how much I could actually accomplish here?

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari follows Isaera's lead. Trying to find some reconciliation through disarming discourse. That was a plan he could get behind.
He begins backing Isaera up in common quickly bowing and clasping his hands together hopefully in a manner that would be perceived as pious and sincere.

We be sorry for the mess. One of our own made a mistake. It won't happen again.

Rolling to assist Isaera (1d20)[16]

OOC: If Jakk'ari has any money on him he pulls some in the hopes that cooler head prevail and we don't have to contend with a 4v100 scenario.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis


Marion pursed her lips at the final words before nodding once for withdrawl.

"Good evening," she said quietly, showing a modicum of respectful departure as she stood up from the table and made her leave.

When she turned around, Marion spotted the commotion, as well as the unhappy barkeep who seemed quite cross that a fight had broken out in his barn full of animals. Yes, Marion had to tell herself, an orc, a member of a race once considered the most mindlessly aggressive sentient people in Azeroth, was upset that a fight had broken out.

Marion was shocked. She truly was. A mixture of ogres, orcs, trolls and booze...and a fight broke out?! Next someone would inform her that the Forsaken were unpleasant to be around.

Moving to stand next to the others, particularly Isaera, Marion had an ignorant smile upon her pretty face, as if she barely understood what was

"I am as equally appalled as you are, Master Orc!" Marion said to the orcish barkeep with a nod of her head. By her body language it looked like she was siding with the orc in this matter.

"That a fight should break out in a tavern full of drunken, fierce orc warriors is truly an astonishing turn of events that I did not see coming!" she said, visibly aghast.

"I imagine that they were practicing their poetry, braiding each others hair and singing songs about their love of flowers when my wicked, dreadful friend here," she gestured to Mor'Lagh, "imposed unsightly violence upon them! And with somber reservation, the orcs were forced to defend themselves..."

Marion exhaled, looking over the other patrons, nodding, ostensibly her body language still seeming to agree with the orc barkeep before sighing, shaking her head and craning her neck to look up at Mor'Lagh.

"Come along, Mor'lagh. You are clearly too strong for these frightened orcs to contend with. We must remove you from here to protect them."

ooc:

I'll throw a persuasion roll in to help out: (1D20+4)[9]

I don't think that passes the Assist Other DC, so her words just stand alone then.

[WindStruck]

Isaera looks up from her efforts of trying to magically glue a chair back together, and just glares at Marion momentarily, before deciding to just ignore the sarcasm and continue concentrating on her spell.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC Outcome:

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That's two failed attempts to assist, but neither so awfully that they impose a penalty. Jakk'ari assists successfully even though he's drunk giving Isaera a +2. Isaera hits a 20 on her roll, but gets a -2 for not speaking orcish. So that all washes out to a clean 20 at the stated DC of 20. Behold the power of teamwork!

Fargan remains suspicious of Mor'Lag, who is an ogress like other patrons, but an out-of-towner and therefore suspicious. The sorry-not-sorry tone of their words doesn't help a great deal. And Marion's intercession seems mostly to bewilder the inkeeper. The storm fades from his face to be replaced with slow confusion and darting eyes as he tries vainly to track her sentiment, which seemed to his grasp of common to have the verbiage of peacemaking but the high-strung energy of mockery. Unable to untangle this mess of messaging, he turns to the penitent gesturing of the troll, and the practical reparations of the elf.

Spoiler: OOC: Isaera's Magic Mending

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Using the Transform power with the 2 point per rank variant allows you to transform broken objects into repaired ones. If you were working on fine elven pottery or trying to put together a burned up document, I'd probably require you to make a related roll and possibly push the power using a VP. But with the freedom to take your time, and repairing items such as these, I'm happy to say your cantrip power can create the old 'welding-torch-fingertip' repair power that works just dandy.

The one-legged orc seems a reasonably sanguine fellow, and his tendency is towards acting that way when possible; but it's the practicality of Isaera's offering that wins him over. The elf is no carpenter, and if she'd been repairing the kind of chairs and tables she'd grown up around, she'd be out of her depth. But the advantage of orcish brute craftsmanship is that it's simple to make, and accordingly simple to repair. Once the first chairleg snaps back on to the point it broke off, the orc sees the sense in letting the magic do the heavy lifting; and moments later in a more reasonable spirit, he's enlisting your group to help in this process - holding the tabletop so Isaera can magic out the ogre-impact that broke it, gathering the parts of Mor'Lag's huge tankard that got crushed in the brawl, and so on. After a few minutes work, as the elf is completing the repair on the table, Fargan offers Isaera last wooden leg to repair - oh, that's his wooden leg. Repairing that damage is somewhat outside of her wheelhouse, but Fargan barks a laugh that ripples back into the observing crowd and lifts his hands in a can't-blame-a-guy-for-trying kind of way. Mollified, he backs away from the table, gives the group the old two fingers to his eyes, rotated at the wrist to point at them - I'm watching you - and hobbles back to the bar. By this point, the ogress who lost the fight has been gathered up by her companions and helped out of the tavern to recover some breath and dignity; and the orc who was restraining Mor's arm goes as far as to buy the party a round of drinks, as a kind of liquid apology for his friend's actions. He speaks no common or other shared language, but is able to explain to Mor'Lag who knows the orc tongue:

Spoiler: In Orcish:

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"Sorry for my friend. She used to be respected in the Stonemaul, and picked the wrong side when Rexxar challenged Kor'gall, and took the clan. Exiled after that. Gets fired up and stupid when she thinks she needs to prove her strength, maybe. Or loyalty to the horde, since the Stonemaul don't count her as their own. You're right, she started it. Maybe you knocked some sense into her long term, but I doubt it. Slow learner."

And then leaves the party alone, heading outside to console his pummeled ogre companion.

The one thing Isaera couldn't repair of the mess was the plainstrider leg, which Mor and Lag hadn't gotten more than halfway through before it was knocked off the table and smeared into a stain now being mopped up by one of the orc youths. But Ogg'mar, who was watching the fight from the doorway, comes in long enough to furnish your table with another round of complientary strider-breast slices on little fork-thingies before hustling back out to ply his trade to the paying customers. Free food, free drink, and no longer being threatened with eviction - it's just about the best outcome you could have hoped for out of a situation that looked pretty bad.

Spoiler: OOC: Scene Complete!

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Everyone can have another 2 pp for completing the scene here in Brackenwall village. Now's a fine time to communicate anything you've learned or want to say to the other party members; tomorrow morning, you theoretically get your cadet and you're off to see the Stonemaul.

You have your 'luxury' suite for the party's use; but feel free to narrate your character choosing to go camp in the swamp outside if sleeping under orcish accommodation is genuinely too galling for them to accept! Like I say, don't let me push you around; I'm just a barefoot teller of tales.

[WindStruck]

Sighing, worn out with past stress, but also relief, Isaera says, "I can't say it would have been completely terrible to have simply camped outside the village. Not counting dangers like raptors or murlocs, mind you. But to be forced out in the rain and to attempt making camp while soaking wet, that would have been too much."

Looking at Mor'Lag, she says, "I don't know you well. You stood up to a pack of raptors by yourself, and you seemed to get along in Theramore. But then, there was this fight. Perhaps the only reason you haven't been kicked out of Theramore already is because there was no one strong enough or dumb enough to provoke you. Still, you were blamed for the mess.."

"Maybe that other ogre had it coming. I wasn't here," Isaera says with a shrug. "But the furniture, and the bartender.. I don't think they wronged you." She smiles lightly at the half jest.

"Perhaps next time someone offends you, you can invite them outside before you attempt to crush their skull, yes? Ideally, that's what you should have done. But with this darkness and rain.. who knows? You still might have smashed a window or broken someone's cart, or something or another. At least you might not have been deprived of shelter when it was all over."

After Isaera's lecturing, which was basically saying Mor'Lag should have acted smarter but it still might not have made a difference anyway, she returns her attention to sipping on the free swill. Giving up on that endeavor, she offers her cup to the ogress. Perhaps it was a nice gesture, but seeing as she didn't really like the drink in the first place, perhaps not.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion said nothing as the elf lectured the ogre - a being whose dimension was twice her height and further more in dimensions and mass.

It was an amusing sight to say the least, as Marion - at most - perked a slender eyebrow in curious entertainment at the very image before her. What was even more amusing was the topic itself. Requesting a member of the Horde, or at the least a dim-witted and violence-seeking ogre, to 'step outside' for a diplomatic discussion? It took Marion considerable willpower to not snicker out-load at the very idea.

But once the elf was done, Marion waited until she could get at Mor'lagh when she was alone...or at least, not within the purview of the watchful elf and her scathing tongue.

"Do not be too hard on yourself Mar'logh," she started, her voice soft and reassuring, "I would have done the same thing were I in your position. Your opponent was clearly a total schnitzel if they thought they could talk down to you in public without a response!"

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari avoids drinking any further given how much he had already ingested. Instead he sneakily exchanges his full tankard for an empty to avoid drinking but not snub a gift.
Even while drunk and lagging behind his companions he could pieces together that Mor'Lag had caused a violent scene and placed them at a social precipice.
Such aggression was a boon in combat but unsuited while being guests in a far flung village. Eventually this attitude would have to change. Unfortunately such a change could only be initiated from within.

Noticing Marion and Isaera conversing with Mor'Lag reassuringly left him confident enough to believe no more incidents would happen tonight and hopeful for the future.
Concluding that he didn't have anything to contribute he retires for the night at the Chieftain's den wondering just what to do during the upcoming day.

[MrAbdiel]

The Next Day

A little food, a little drink, and a little rest is well earned and well had, in as much as the party can bring themselves to indulge in any of those things in such an unfamiliar setting. But the upper room proves secure, and the chief's den even more so; and rising at dawn you reconvene to prepare to continue your mission. Your breakfast options are limited: most of the peasantry in Brackenwall begins the day with a wholesome but unappetizing sludge made from macerated wheat fibres, either suspended in water for weak stomachs or in a kind of breakfast lager for stronger ones. This is the staple diet, you surmise, that comes from their trade with the Barrens; the silos full of wheat from that superior farmland, for the exported sacks upon sacks of thickspike wheatgrass better suited for animal grazing, but which happens to be able to grow in the appalling saline conditions of Dustwallow Marsh. But a couple of enterprising vendors are selling individual fruits from their backyard farming efforts, and though supply is limited and quickly exhausted, you're able to snatch some up with a trivial purchase, if you want to. The ranges are again limited to the trees and plants the locals have been successful in growing in this salty interior marshland: rugged little coconuts, sweet pomegranates, and fresh figs all of which are very similar to the same you've sampled from similar village farming near Theramore. More exotic is the jambola, apparently grown from seeds traded from a wandering pandaren cartographer from her much rumored and mysterious home. It strikes you as a kind of primordial citrus fruit; a sort of proto-grapefruit-mandarine as large as a human head. It has a soft enough rind that can apparently be candied, and the fruit within has a familiar citrusy portioning that peels naturally enough by hand into about a dozen wedge shaped segments. It's sweet enough to the taste, though it's no show-stopper like a blueberry or a cherry; and you can't quite shake the feeling that it belongs to some weird class of ur-fruits that modern tongues were not meant to know.

You're waiting by the gate out of town when Targ makes good on his promise, and a couple of grunts bring you your cadet. He's escorted additionally by the taciturn, sharp eyed orc that spectated on your interaction with the chief before. Aside from the perhaps unnecessary vigilance of three warrior orcs, the cadet seems well treated enough; though he had been deprived of food for a couple of days, he had been given water to sustain him and he's had a dinner and breakfast since you've arrived. He's in his dirty gambeson and leggings, the kind one expects under any armored skin; with the rest of his regalia in the care of one of his escorts. A flop of black hair keeps dangling into his eyes, and he keeps brushing or blowing it aside; and the face behind it is wary, but not overtly traumatized. Your arrival in Brackenwall came before the things could happen to him that happen to happen to men thought to be spies, even in nations that are theoretically in a cessation of open war; and you hesitate to entertain a thought about what might have happened to him, and how different your stay in this town might have been, if anything had delayed your coming.

"He's all yours, for now. I'm told we're to take him back and make him comfortable for a few more days, if you ask." One grunt says to Jakk'ari in broken Zandali; handing the cadet a bundle of sackcloth with a crested Theramore helm and sheathed sword on top. It doesn't take a genius to see these horde soldiers would much prefer the cadet appear capable and healthy enough to leave with you, but are obligated to house him longer by your diplomatic efforts if you so demand. "But after that, no return visits from Alliance military without proper announcement and acknowledgement." This is a repeat of the same admonishment Targ had offered in discussion the night before, and is boilerplate military diplomacy that is unlikely to stop small infractions like this anyway, yet is conjured up like a superstition when they occur all the same. The gates close behind you, and once you're out of ear and eyeshot of the orcs, the cadet - the first conscious one you've had the privilege of encountering.

"Bloody savages..." He grumbles, as he begins working his way back into his chainmail, looking back over his shoulder to the guard tower, looking down at him. Soon, though, he's looking at the party, as he plops down on his backside and threads his legs into his chain chaussers. "I don't know how you found me, but I owe you my life. I'm Felix. I stumbled my way to Brackenwall because I thought I was dying, but it turns out I'm just soft as fish paste." He gestures to a rent portion of his chainmail, over the left breast, where some slashing strike has carved through the links and the gambeson beneath, staining both with blood.. but not an awful lot of it. "The orcs stitched me up and locked me up trying to find out what my 'mission' was. I tried telling them we didn't have a mission except trying to keep the swamp free of demon dabblers, and that on our own dumb initiative. But..." He pauses, now armored with his boots on and help in his lap, but hesitating to stand up as he considers the question the answer to which he is afraid to receive. "Did... anyone else make it out alive?"

Spoiler: OOC Options!

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You have your second cadet, alive and well, all things considered. Your primary task remains to forge south, back via the path you came and then following Zachary's ranger-sign to navigate the Quagmire - the muckiest, grossest part of the swamp before it dries out a little and leads to Stonemaul Village, where you have reason to believe you'll find one or both of the last two cadets.

You also need to decide whether you want to bring Cadet Felix with you. He seems like he's healthy enough to not slow you down, and he's an extra set of hands and a sword when things need doing; but it'd be a shame to get him killed when you just secured his life. You can leave him with the horde (if you trust them) to pick him up on the backswing, or try to send him off alone to Northpoint Tower. Or any other solution to this problem you care to propose, I'll entertain.

And naturally, you might want to shake a few answers out of Felix yourself. Feel free to pile up a bunch of questions, and he'll respond to them all in one big hit; since back-and-forth is a bad cadence for play by post games, we'll use a little abstract magic to smooth it.

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari attempts to comfort Felix by telling him how one of his friends was found in Jarl's hut while another returned to Theramore causing the quest to begin with.

He then asks Felix why the group did not alert their commanding officers of the demon sighting which the group now knows of given their own investigation.
Jakk'ari also asks where Felix thinks the remaining cadets went to and whether they were chasing or being chased on their final night together as a group of five.

[MrAbdiel]

Felix is relieved to hear that atleast two friends survived; and eager to help finding the other two!

"Well, I guess we knew we were where we weren't supposed to be. If we'd run home and told Captain Evencane what was going on, we'd be in serious trouble. If we could bring back the little demon's head, or horns or something, then maybe that would balance out our AWOL punishment." He frowns. "Stupid, in retrospect."

When asking about the struggle that scattered the group and where the others might have gone, he shakes his head. "The little demon kept disappearing when we were close to it. We'd track it for a bit, find it, chase it, and then it would slip away again. We'd given up and made camp south of here when it popped up again right in the middle of the fireplace. I think Aeden smashed it with the cooking pan by reflex; but that was the least of it. It turned out we were surrounded by much bigger enemies - robed and muscley and huge, maybe two feet taller than her." He thumbs at Mor'Lag. "Bigger horns, too. There were three I saw, plus they had these little... I don't know. Attack dragons? Little black ones with sharp beaks and teeth; maybe half a dozen of them. They attacked like flying pirahna. As soon as it was obvious we were being jumped, everyone just... Started shouting, and ran. I'm not proud of it, but there was nothing we could do."

[WindStruck]

Isaera thinks a bit and says, "It sounds like maybe those stonemaul ogre were actually the ones summoning demons? Well, perhaps not all of them, but enough of them..."

"It's a good thing we've had another man scouting them out. Hopefully he is alright. Are you well enough to come along with us?" Isaera asks.

[MrAbdiel]

"Ogres?" The cadet looks thoughtful. He's still very young, and so looking thoughtful doesn't work for him yet - the facial expression equivalent of footsteps echoing through an empty warehouse. "I don't think they were ogres. Big, sure, but not.. You know, bulky. Bigger shoulders, and with the horns. But I guess they were robed, like.. huge, violent priests; so it was hard to tell. But yeah, I'm well enough. When do we leave?"

Far back on the road, where the watchtower's watcher watches you, the gates of Brackenwall village open again, and out of it comes the handsome elven form of Balandar Brightstar. He wears his uniform smartly, along with an almost absurdly wide brimmed crimson hat that he takes off to flap a wave to the guards. He rides atop a hawkstrider; one of those large walking birds that may be some far cousin of the plainstrider you ate last night; though bred for beauty, and speed, and a higher degree of hygiene than elves can expect of most conventional mounts. He whistles to the hawkstrider, it whistles back, and off down the road it begins to dash, bound for the alliance tower.

[Plaids]

Upon hearing that the kidnappers of the final recruits caught Jakk'ari's interest. While he would be relieved at not fighting creatures over twice size his and were pugnacious at best and bloodthirsty at worst in his homeland there could always be something worse.

Were they smaller or larger than our ogre companion? How many horns did you see? Did you see any of their magics?

The next likeliest possibility to Jakk'ari were the tauren. While predominantly peaceful they could be provoked and unleash a maelstrom of horns and crushing blows from their substantial frames.

After questioning Felix Jakk'ari considers their accompanying cadet. Though with respectable equipment and sound body he was doubtful of his experience. His recollections of the final night the group was together were opaque while his hair flopped into his field of view despite the attempts to comb it back. It would likely be best to send him back.

Can you walk to the North Watch Post? There are Theramore guards who can escort you back home. We still have two more of your friends to find and time is of the essence.

[MrAbdiel]

He looked at Mor'Lag, then nodded in conviction. "Taller. Not broader. One head each - I mean, that I could see; and two horns each. They had holes in the hoods of the robes so they could stick out. I'm not keen to see them again - but if we that's what's needed to save Xander and Gawin, then I will."

At Jakk'ari's suggestion that he return, he looks crestfallen; and his eyes hunt across the group - the ogre, the troll, the elf - with an expression that suggests he is in search of a good reason to object. But the only human in the group doesn't seem to be throwing her weight around like she's in charge, so he's forced to make an appeal to this whole motley group, to whom he owes his life.

"I could probably make it back. It's a two day hike, but the horde patrols the roads; and since they're happy to get rid of me, I don't think it'll be too dangerous. But those are my friends. We came up through training together. What matters to me is they come back alive. So if I can help, I'm coming; but if you can look me in the eye and tell me you think I'll be more likely to make a rescue harder than easier... Then I'll go." The flicker of fragile defiance is in his eyes. He wants to redeem himself for the group's folly and cowardice, and rejection will damage some part of him in a long term fashion that wants this opportunity. But your job is not the coddling of cadets, but their rescue; and it would be foolish to attempt to safeguard the emotional wellbeing of one by imperilling the physical wellbeing of two more.

Spoiler: OOC Decisions:

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No rolls for this one. It's all gut instinct. Whether you think having moderately trained cadet searching with you will help, or hinder, is up to you.

[WindStruck]

"I think Felix could actually be of some help to us," Isaera says frankly.

"I would be lying if I said this mission was not dangerous, and he would not be of any help. But that said, I would greatly appreciate if you follow our lead and don't do anything rash to throw away your life. We are getting paid for your return, after all. More if you come back alive," she says with a smile that may seem a little forced at her own jest.

She turns and waves to Balandar, either in greeting or farewell. She was the only one that really met and talked to the other elf at length. She said nothing, though of course, her expression did not seem very unwelcoming if he wanted to stroll up and meet the others.

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion had been suspiciously quiet during the conversation, her figure lurking in the background and dwelling on her own thoughts as new information came in.

The Tauren were involved? Tall, muscular, two horns...

As far as Marion knew the tauren were a spiritual people and were surprisingly gently despite their imposing appearance. Much like with human society, the tauren had no overt inclination towards the fel and demonic, and so any members of their race who were involved with this were doing so of their own volition as part of a cult. At least that was Marions current estimation. Her opinion might change if new information was made available.

Now, whether Felix could come along with them...that also had pro's and con's, as far as Marion could tell. It would be nice to have a handsome young male along with them, for both simple appearances sake and in case things went pear-shape and Marion needed a chivalry-pursuing person to place between herself and an incoming spear-thrust. Plus with how ashamed he appeared to be, the chance to redeem his name would drive him to heroic heights that he might not normally pursue under more sober direction. That could be both good and bad.

But on the other hand, his safe return was gold in her purse.

Then again, how could she collect her payment so far if she took a spear to the guts?

Thinking. Thinking. They were better off with Felix out here.

"Your desire to see the safe return of your friends is admirable," Marion smiled, her tone friendly and reassuring.

"I do not mind if you accompany us."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari peaks an eyebrow or where his eyebrows would be if he were human.

The confidence in this young cadet was surprising with Marion's tacit endorsement and Isaera's slightly more insistent support.
Turning to Mor'Lag he scans their two sets of eyes awaiting their appraisal of this young man.

[MrAbdiel]

Mor and Lag seem a little distant; a little more brooding and introverted since the previous night's brawl and follow up. They defer to the judgement of their companions on this matter; her focus taken up mostly by internal reflection, and the a poorly hidden dread of having to go near the ogre village at all.

With that, the 'vote' comes out at two-to-one with one-point-five abstaining; and Felix looks almost overwhelmed with appreciation. "I won't let you down. I won't let anyone down. You just - I'll just follow as you go, and do what I'm told. But I can't go back to the tower and rest on a pillow and mattress while the others are still out here somewhere."

In the distance, Balandar returns Isaera's wave; removing his hat and flapping it in fond farewell before his hawkstrider tears off down the road. You check your belongings, secure yourselves for travel, and begin heading back the way you came to the town, into the brush and onward towards - you hope - towards another cadet.

Spoiler: OOC: Marion's Things

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You have everything you came to Brackenwall with - and something more. As you pat down a pocket that should only contain cold iron filings for spell improvisation, you discover a small lump out of place. Instinctively reaching to retrieve it - and doing so with the good sense to casually turn and body block your party member's sight - you produce what seems at first to be a toughened root vegetable, and then at second to be an unusual clump of trail jerky, and finally at the end of this half second of inspection, resolves in your understanding as something much more alarming - or perhaps, interesting. A dried out old tongue, so withered and hardened it feels tough as wood, is in your palm. Its color has faded almost to black, but even so you can see parts of the extensive, intricate tattoo work that has been done to the muscle: profane sequences of characters that form parts of demonic names, and fragments of fel sorcerous syllables. You cannot tell if this marks the previous owner of the tongue as especially potent and skilled in your dark arts (so as to have found a use for such extreme scribing), or as particularly lowly and servile (so as to accept such oral desecration permanently inked); but what you can tell is that this is a fel focus of exceptional promise - if you can master it. Of course, lesser minds would jump to less imaginative ends for the dark relic. Your own interest in it, if it be more than cursory, will have to wait until you have some time to study it properly in comfortable conditions.

Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Things

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The key has vexed you in your attempts to discover its meaning. You have spoken to some scrappy elemental spirits that inhabit the village and the surrounding thorps, but they have no wisdom for you. The key is worked metal; the product of the refining hands of mortals, and the elementals look on such things with wonderment and curiosity - a piece of earth, touched by fire, that has become neither. But your instincts tell you it is not completely mundane; the light in the shadowhunter Hezlak's eyes was mischief, not just ale. The mystery is just outside your toolkit, for now. Perhaps your wife, Lasha'nah, would have some insight you would not; as a witchdoctor, she has a multidisciplinary approach to spiritual matters that stretches as broadly as yours dives deeply. If Hezlak's key is part of some Loa-game the shadowhunter is part of, Lasha'nah might be able to interpret the rules. Just one more reason, you remind yourself, that you ought to visit home soon. The bittersweet pang of homesickness and the absense of your family twists your heart. It has been quite a while, and you've made worthy - not spellbinding, but worthy - inroads into the graces of Theramore, and Brackenwell. Enough to vindicate your vision of a diplomatic future for a little while at least. Maybe, once you've recovered these cadets, each presumably with families that miss them too.

It's a day's uneventful travel back to the campfire where you discovered the felsteel ring. You ask Felix about what he remembers from that night, hoping more details emerge; and the youngster tries to recall something more until he is sweating and distressed, yielding nothing more. The rain holds off for the night, and between your prepared devices and elemental inroads, sleeping out here is as pleasant as it can be. It's not far into the next day's travel that you start spotting Zachary's ranger-sign. He and Isaera had a conversation about how to interpret it in preparation for this leg of the journey, and the elf's eyes don't miss. And just as well - the mud grades from squelchy, brown, ankle deep marsh to thick, black, waist-deep slop in parts of the Quagmire. You know this because at the second-lowest fork in most every Kalimdor willow tree you pass, there's a mark - sometimes a simple line indicating to keep going, sometimes a route adjustment to avoid hazards, sometimes a more complex series of dashes describing a hazard to come. The human has done his job well - not once are you immersed in mud, or led into a nest of fen-snakes. Aside from the fragrance - about which he could be expected to do nothing - it's no more unpleasant than any other day's travel. The sign leads to a patch of elevated ground with a the remnants of Zachary's campfire, and under log marked for inspection, a waterproof leather scrollcase the size of a man's hand, containing a report from the ranger himself.

"Hostile-free camp zone. Cleared out spider nest; none edible. Grimtotem at Direhorn Post NE in standoff with Stonemaul SSE. Both avoid middleground. No sign that targets are at Direhorn, but suggest we visit on return trip if no luck with Stonemaul. Will be scouting around the ogre mounds keeping out of sight. Will find you when you arrive. - Z"

Another night in the swamp - coming up on the tenth night the remaining cadets have been missing. Felix wants to press on through the night - a lunatic decision, in such terrain - but he has no power to force the move and he's bound to you by his word, so he goes to bed sulkilly. The morning after, he is meek and helpful as a kind of apology; but eager to set out again. Soon, you're out of the Quagmire, and back into somewhat dryer ground that even dares to have small hillocks and tree clusters - the next best thing to being somewhere dry. Grey clouds muster through the day, but offer no serious rain as you close the gap towards Stonemaul Village. You pass another ranger-sign - "Stonemaul patrol tracks stop here. Caution ahead." - and proceed with the recommended caution. But you encounter no such patrols. In fact, aside from old footprints eroded by the weather of the marsh, the first sign you find of the ogres is a broken wooden barrel, smashed against a tree. It seems to have been thrown against it with deliberate force. A little more scouting of the immediate approach may yet reveal more.

Spoiler: Perception DC: 10

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Faintly, carried on the wind, is the sound of drums, and deep voiced revelry.

Spoiler: Perception DC: 15

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It's hard to make out from the rest of the gross swamp, but a considerable amount of vomit is present here, not far from the busted barrel - the regurgitated remnants of a great deal of food (you're guessing some kind of stew) and cheap ale. It's more than even one ogre could produce.

Spoiler: Perception DC 20 or Expertise: Magic DC 20

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Whether by keen natural instincts or a learned sense for arcane things, you notice some distant totem or idol standing on the bluffs that overlook the Stonemaul Village you expect to be just past the next patch of trees and gullies. You cannot make out its details here, but it has roughly ogre proportions, and gives you a sense of unpleasant foreboding.

[Plaids]

Ahh.. The sounds of a public gathering. We must be close to Stonemaul village. Mor'Lag and I will take the lead.

Jakk'ari points in the general direction of the drums towards a hill intent on getting to an elevated vantage point before entering the village.

[WindStruck]

"What about Zachary? Shouldn't we be waiting for him?" Isaera asks.

[Plaids]

Zachary has led us through this swamp masterfully. But something must have changed recently. We have seen no Stonemaul patrols despite the accuracy of all his previous warnings and now we have this.

Jakk'ari gestures the shattered wood on the ground.

I believe Zachary is investigating whomever has destroyed this barrel. Beasts wouldn't do this unless commanded by a master. I think our friend went looking towards the beating drums in the distance.
Jakk'ari listens to what the spunky elf has to say.

OOC: I'm assuming that the broken object is a wooden barrel and not a barren. I don't know what that is.

[MrAbdiel]

Spoiler: OOC: A Barren

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Indeed, it is a barrel; that was a typo. Well spotted, 10 points to Gryffindor.

You wait a little longer, but Zachary doesn't reveal himself. He's not immediately nearby, it seems; but he couldn't possibly be far. He might be on the other side of the village, watching from some vantage. It doesn't seem unlikely that a veteran of the Alliance-Horde wars is apprehensive about wandering alone into an ogre village, regardless of how technically not affiliated with the Horde they are and technically not affiliated with the Alliance he now is.

Felix looks at the smashed barrel, and gives one of the wooden spars a little kick. "Looks like an ale keg. But I can't tell smells out here in the bog. Do ogres even drink ale? And not... Blood, or something?"

Mor'Lag is too cautious and internally drawn to rise and scold him for such a statement. The eyes of both heads look up, and you can trace her eyeline to a set of bluffs overlooking the village; the foothills belonging to the mountains that make up the border to the Southern Barrens. An upright shape - perhaps the size of a small ogre - is visible there; some kind of icon, or graven image. "That's Stonemaul ancestor stone," offers Mor.
"Probably carved from elven runestone in the Second War," appends Lag.
They offer no qualifier, but it seems obvious from the ogress's expressions that something about this icon, despite its typical sounding function, is unsettling Mor'Lag on an instinctive level.

Spoiler: Isaera's Investigation

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You pick through the scene with your critical elven eyes, and it seems to come together for you. The fragments of the barrel have stenciled fragments of ogre lettering that it would take a while to piece together, but you don't need to. On the busted baseplate of the barrel, you see traces of greenish residue that a less keen eye would mistake for mould. It's a yeast growth, stained green by the contents - Gordok Green Grog. You've never tasted the stuff yourself - Light, ugh, perish the thought - but the Brewfest celebrations that happen yearly across Azeroth now feature some ogre offerings prominently, and it's hard to forget the sight of your young cousin Lestavael, dared by his friends to down a pint of the stuff, violently ejecting it from his mouth as it overwhelmed his delicate elven palate.

This is high end grog, for the ogre consumer. And the puke nearby - ugh - is old enough that it must have been ejected from an ogre gullet this morning. Ogres are late risers, so it's unlikely they tied one on at breakfast to the point of sickness. And even though it's probably possible to alchemically examine this unpleasant expectoration to determine if there's poison involved, the more likely answer is that the ogres are having some kind of long celebration that has taken atleast a full day and then some; something worth breaking out the good stuff for. As for why the barrel is smashed - you can only assume an ogre wandered out here - alone, or perhaps in a pair - and made some room, only to begin refilling themselves with the last of that barrel. The smashing must just have been good, honest, destructive fun. What inebriated reveller doesn't enjoy smashing something, needlessly?

[WindStruck]

"They definitely appear to be having a celebration of some sort.." Isaera says. Looking at Felix she says, "Ogres do brew ale. This barrel once had Gordok Green Grog, I think.. supposedly, it is quite high end for their kind."

Peering back up on top of the bluff, she asks,"What does that totem mean?"

[BananaPhone]

Marion Mordis

Marion had observed the dried, tattooed tongue when in private - whenever that was. But, traveling through a swamp was not particularly conducive towards such scrutiny and enquiry, so Marion had ultimately decided to abandon the pursuit until more favorable accommodations could be secured.

So, that left her focusing more on the here and now rather than what 'may be'. Therefore, when the group pushed deeper into the swamp and their surroundings became caked with the fetid expulsions from ogre stomachs, the Alteraci curled her nose and diverted her attention to the large stones upon a bluff...demonically desecrated elven runestones being a more preferable inhalation and object of focus than her current surroundings.

Suppressing a shudder, her face clearly unimpressed, Marion gestured with her forehead towards the engraved rock.

"Our little imp friend has been in proximity to those stones," she stated factually, "I can sense it. I wish to inspect the area when we are able."

[Plaids]

Jakk'ari takes notice of Marion having seen her emote in response to the vomit on the ground.
While the troll's ancestral constitution provided additional protection from being nauseated he would prefer to not mull about the remains of the unruly revelry.

Jakk'ari's discomfort is abated upon hearing Marions blunt proclamation of a suspected demon afoot.
Quickly he begins coaxing two elemental energies, one for each hand. In the left is an energetic mote of light scurrying about his palm while the right is a lethargic sphere of uncoiling mist. He extends both out offering either as an option.

I'll assist. I can illuminate the rocks or obscure us from an incoming patrol.

OOC: Jakk'ari is offering assistance for Marion's appraisal of the runestones.
Rolling assistance (1d20)[9]

[MrAbdiel]

Mor'Lag stirs from her introspection, and makes an obvious effort to get her heads in the game. Picking up on Isaera's question, she answers as best she can. It's an ancestor stone - a relic carved from sacred rock (probably an elven runestone desecrated in the second war) in the abstract likeness of the progenitor of the Stonemaul clan, or some hero of its past, with a view to evoking their mythical virtues in the individual ogres in the settlement below. Additionally, Mor'Lag being as educated an ogress as she is, she understands that the runestones are what the orc warlocks used to radically increase the likelihood of ogres being born bifold, like Mor and Lag; and a town that sets up in the shadow of such an idol, with mothers who make offerings to it and expose themselves to its seeping magics, may indeed have some amount of epigenetic benefit from it, whether the ancestor it depicts really dwells in the stone or not.

It's not remarkable difficult to circle round and ascend the bluff, to inspect the idol. The long grasses make hiding a little easier, and from the elevated ground you can see that Stonemaul Village is an ogre colony in revelry. Hundreds of ogres reel and holler at each other in varying states of inebriation, with ale kegs empty and smashed all through the open, central plaza of the colony. Around that plaza, in a crescent of stony blisters on the landscape, ogre mounds offer housing to families and sub-clans young and immature ogres mingle freely in the revelry, though they are too young to have developed the taste for ale and are pleased to partake instead on the rolling feast that persists below; a truly gluttonous surfeit of meats and vegetables that must represent a year's frugal saving and trading for such a town.

Spoiler: OOC Rolls!

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I'll take stealth rolls for everyone going up the bluffs with the intention not to draw attention to themselves. Have a +2 bonus because of the helpful long grasses.

And for once you're there, I'll take investigation rolls. I assume you're investigating 'to your strength' - so Marion in investigating the fel aspects of this idol, while if Isaera elects to roll Investigation instead of merely assiting, she's looking for more forensic and arcane aspects. Jakk'ari uses his shamanic powers to assist (that roll of a 9 + whichever stat I was likely to suggest beats the 10 you needed!) to shroud the area in light mist so you don't need to confine your investigation to vantages where you're not visible from the ground; which washes out at a +2 for anyone investigating.
Once I've got the rolls, I'll tell you what you've found!

[Plaids]

Surveying the churning crowd of ogres Jakk'ari smiles at the thought of entering the village during a joyous holiday but wrinkles his brow now realizing he is unable to spot anyone who could feasibly be in charge of the village or the festivities.
Considering the group's goal of finding the lost cadets Jakk'ari scans the village high to low for any cages or rough buildings with few entrances or exits that could be a prison.
(1d20+7)[24] Rolling for perception.