World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[MrAbdiel]

In the aftermath, once everyone is counted and no one has been seriously injured, the atmosphere is quite triumphant. The drivers pull the horses out of their defensive circle, reward their stoicism with old carrots and oats, and chat with one another. The tenor of that discussion is mostly positive and related to the size of the raptors, the value of the hurricane winds keeping them at bay for so long, and how Oscar and other-Oscar had, mostly, killed one in coodination with the Jakk'ari's winds, and Isaera's volleys. Occasionally, their chatter lowers suddenly and dramatically in volume, and is accompanied by glances over the shoulder toward Marion. Oscar, other-Oscar, and Carlo are clearly a little disturbed by the revelation of the dark haired spellstress's power set. Torian, out of the four, looks more deeply conflicted, and ranges between silence in those moments, to dominating the conversation.

Spoiler: The Theramore Driver Boys

Show

...Look like this, typically.

Spoiler: Insight DC 8; or Perception DC 12 to eavesdrop without being noticed.

Show

It's obvious that Torian fancies Marion; that much was made plain with his fumbling offer to make tea during the storm the night before. But now he's experiencing a crisis within himself: a natural desire to disapprove of the warlock is predictable and socially compelled here, but doing so would critically endanger the scenario he has built up in his head, in which he wins her affection presumably in some critical moment of sacrifice and valor. The other drivers are recounting the manifold reasons to be suspicious of Fel casters - the demons, the Dark Portal, the frequency with which they are hoist by the green flame of their dark petards - and Torian is playing (almost literal) devil's advocate, talking about how even Lady Proudmoore has her confidante Redia Vaunt, whose dark study is an open secret in Theramore.
He is making some ground, but the others remain unconvinced.

The surgeon, Gustaf, joins Jakk'ari over near the cluster of three raptors that have been slain without the touch of fel magic. As the troll eye-balls them, the surgeon looks over their injuries and, taking a small, sharp knife of his own, begins opening them up and field dressing them to preserve their best cuts for the night's meal. He doesn't strike up conversation with troll; just works alongside him for the moment.

Spoiler: Gustaf Van Houzen

Show

Spoiler: Insight DC 8

Show

Gustaf is an older man, perhaps in his fifties; and as head surgeon in Theramore, he's probably been stitching up soldiers and watching them die in at least the last two wars, and long before it. Such a man has more reason to distrust trolls than almost anyone here, since he has likely seen the damage the Amani forest trolls inflict in their berserker hatchet-hurling frenzies. The nuances of the distinction between Jakk'ari's Farraki heritage against the forest trolls Amani descent isn't the kind of thing people tend to appreciate; but it seems like the gesture of just working nearby him with, both plying their careful blades to the slain raptors, is about as close as such a man can come to expressing direct appreciation. He will probably never not look at a troll or orc without instinctive guardedness, but he is recognizing and restraining that reflex as not applicable to the Sandfury shaman-diplomat.

Meanwhile the two medics do what they are here to do, and split off to the suffering parties. Helaina, the slightly younger of the pair with with blonde hair, calming brown eyes and a fearless professionalism when it's 'game time' and the sutures come out, takes the task of looking over Mor'Lag. "Wow. It's barely a scratch on you girls, but it might have opened up anyone else without much trouble. Definitely had the lacerating force to cut through a typical abdominal wall, but..." She places a hand either side of the eight inch gash on Mor'Lag's abdomen, and inspects the wound as she presses it to make the edged match up nicely with only a minimal oozing of blood. "On you, it's just a flesh wound. I can restore it easy enough, with a heal spell; or if you don't care for a divine solution, or you want to keep the scar, I could sew it." She steps back, looking back and forth between Mor and Lag, going through the ritual everyone must go through with a two headed ogre and coming to the decision of which head to look at, and how often to change it up. "I'll admit I don't know much about ogre spiritualism and culture. Do you like picking up scars, like orcs and trolls seem to?"

Spoiler: Medic Helaina

Show

Tamberlyn, closer to her mid twenties with darker hair, mischievous green eyes and a Westfall twang to her voice, comes to Isaera's aid. "Alright, honey; you've done just fine today, but let's get you sat down and have a look at you..." She hassles Carlo and Oscar to hoist a provision crate down from one of the wagons for Isaera to sit on, and gives the elf an arm and a shoulder as necessary to bring her over to it. They, too, appear to benefit from the 'honey' designation; another Westfaller habit, it seems. The medic takes the temperature of the mage's forehead with the back of her hand, gazes intently at her eyes to scan for irregular dilation in one or the other; but ultimately finds her diagnosis in the string of four mosquito bites on her left inner arm - four of many, on the poor elf. "Oh, honey; you're alright. It's just the skeeter-fever, from all the damn swamp skeeters. It builds in your system, but takes a toll on you when your blood is up. You'll probably be feeling better by bed time tonight." She steps back a little and, now that she's looking for them, begins to spy the constellation of little bites over Isaera's variously bared planes of elven skin. "They sure like you. You got that sugar-blood."

Spoiler: Medic Tamberlyn

Show