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.
Re: World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)
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