World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

[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."