# Forum > Play-by-Post Games > Ongoing Games (In-Character) >  World of Warcraft - Interbellum (IC Thread)

## MrAbdiel

*THERAMORE

Prelude*

_Each man lives for himself, uses his freedom to achieve his personal goals, and feels with his whole being that right now he can or cannot do such-and-such an action; but as soon as he does it, this action, committed at a certain moment in time, becomes irreversible, and makes itself the property of history, in which is has not a free but a predestined significance.  ― Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace_
It has been a little over four years since the end of the Third War; and that was four more years than any who saw the battle expected the world to last.

Azeroth has always been a land tormented by the convulsions of kingdoms and powers, invaders and defenders; and for most races, their generations are defined by the manner of the catastrophe whose pall hangs over their youth.  For the long lived races, the choice is between falling into a jaded indifference to the sequence of cataclysms and thereby choosing to feel nothing for the world at large, or else to experience the latest great suffering as the most severe because, unlike wars and calamities in the ancient past, the suffering in the present can still do you harm.  For most, this choice is no choice at all.

Sansha MacVince was a knight's daughter.  She had hoped to become a knight herself, but found the rigor of lugging lance and shield too much for her, so she taught riding to young alliance cavaliers.  She sat at a table at '_Janene's_', Theramore's premier dockside inn, holding a half-emptied flagon of ale against the plane of her stomach while she slouched back.  Across from her, with a similarly appalling posture, was Ysuria Sunstriker.  Ysuria taught the fledgling mages of Theramore portalcraft, when they were capable of grasping it.  Before that, she was a mage in the alliance magical auxillia; and before that, an academic in Silvermoon's College of the Sixth Spire.  The additional _before that's_ scroll backwards in time for a total of two thousand three hundred years, and change.  By contrast, Sansha was twenty nine years old.  And yet when Sansha looked out the window at the afternoon sky, sighed quietly, and looked back to Ysuria, the elf interpreted the sigh precisely, and raised her half-full wineglass to clink Sansha's flagon.  Both grunted a little with the extension of their arms, neither willing to unslouch for the tradition; and the bare skimming of vessels served the point well enough.  The thousands of years old elf and the almost-thirty human knew each other's mind precisely, at that moment.  Both were thinking:  _There is no cannon fire.  There is no pall of engine smoke.  There is no hail of green comets, flooding the land with horrors from the Twisting Nether.  Life is good._

And life _was_ good, in Theramore.  With the fall of the Burning Legion four years ago, the remnants of Jaina Proudmoore's expedition and their doughty support staff looked back across the ocean to the Eastern Kingdoms, and knew the devastation that waited there.  The choice was to build anew, or rebuild; and most chose the later.  Lady Proudmoore's positive relations with the Horde meant Theramore, despite being technically an Alliance outpost, had little to fear from their neighbours, even accounting for the one or two grievous incidents in the last few years where blood was shed.  But it was _safe_ and it was _peaceful_ and it was... admittedly, surrounded by swamp; but there was plenty of fish and enough arable land on the island itself to grow a little produce.  Life was _good._ But not everyone has such a permissive destiny to long enjoy the comforts of abundant fish, and a warm bed, and an empty sky unmarred by smoke and shell and spellfire.  Taverns, inns, and roadstations were lousy with them; and _Janene's_, quiet as it was at this hour, was no exception.

And just as well.  Without such people - adventurers, freebooters, troubleshooters - how would one get all the crap done, that need be done, if life is to remain good?

*Spoiler: OOC: Introductions*
Show

Welcome to Theramore, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Go ahead and make an introductory paragraph for your character.  _Janene's_ is a pretty classic fantasy inn with a lazy minstrel who will play tunes for coin (A gnome, Durley), a bartender (Human, Lillian), a cook (Human, Craig), and whatever smattering of games, furniture, and NPCs you care to manifest as background flavour for your character.  You can be heading into the inn to book a room for the night, hanging around enjoying the lazy atmosphere, or whatever excuse you feel best fits why your character would be there.  Importantly, you are all low on funds - you have enough to live lean for a couple more days, but if an offer came up for paying work, it'd be hard to turn down.  You don't have to know each other at this point - but outsiders and adventurers are often drawn together, so do what seems most natural.  Once everyone is situated in the world, I'll get to transpiring some events.

OOC Thread is Here.

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## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag sit on a special stool designed for larger fundaments.  They each nurse a quart of small beer, that is, re-brewed from the dregs of the good stuff.  They can't afford more right now,  not without pawning  their alchemy supplies.

"This is..."  "Dull"  "we need?" "Work."  They talk amongst themselves.

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## Plaids

"Ya got that right" replies Jakk'ari peeling the underbelly of a fish leaving pearly white bones.
"If we have any more vacant days I'm going to have to shear the entire island to get enough muckweed and bramble fruit to feed ya my friend".

Jakk'ari begins scratching his lower left jaw contemplating what to do next.

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## WindStruck

An elf walks into Janene's. She is only of about average height (so perhaps a little short for an elf) and a slight, willowy thing. She wears a revealing dress, which puts much of her slender and delicate body on display. While it may look lascivious to some, by the way she carries herself it is clear she is not of a lower class or profession. And in fact, with her being an elf.. she was almost certainly a mage.

Then again, with this being Kalimdor, not far from the Barrens, and being surrounded by swamp and then ocean, perhaps more scant attire was appropriate anyway? Isaera did not care, regardless. She was at least comfortable, and that was a blessing in itself, given her limited clothing options. Rent was coming due.

Despite being refugees, and even helping to repel a demonic invasion, damnable things like taxes still existed. And things like food and shelter were not free. No, they were more expensive than ever. Life was good once again, but you had to work hard for it. And right now, it seemed there was a shortage of work...

Isaera sighed. Her mother was too proud to do menial work. Admittedly, the pay was garbage anyway, so she didn't blame her. Her younger brother was an embarrassment. And her cousins, well.. apparently they got some lucrative job and struck it rich. Though she hadn't heard from them in a while.

But still, rent was coming due. She needed to find something to do. The delicate elf carefully walks about the inn, looking around, though it becomes evident that she has no intention of buying anything. She sits down at a small table with a number of game pieces on a patterned board. She sighs again, looking down at the board, contemplating life, and hoping she could figure out what to do.

Who knows? Maybe a golden opportunity would fall right into her lap. Though she doubted it.

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## MrAbdiel

The sound of sailor's bells become more regular over the next few minutes as fishing boats muscle for position at the docks; and the inn begins to fill out with regulars.  Humans, mainly; mostly sons and daughters of Lordaeron and Dalaran, after those grand cities were shattered and destroyed by the ravening Scourge.  Dwarves take the demographic second, with a handful of high elves in tow.  A barrel chested man with a blue bandana and mutton chops _for days_ leads a gregarious group of sailors into the inn, flicks a pair of coppers to Durley, and gives him a friendly wink.  The gnome pops up as if springloaded, snatches the money from the air, and begins playing his fiddle with jaunt and gusto sufficient that it provokes a halfhearted effort of folks in the bar clapping along before they attend again their conversations.

And then the mood of the tavern is split apart when an officer of the Theramore regiment comes thumping into the room in his slabby plate make.  This is Captain Evencane, known in the city both for the quality of his martial instruction to the soldiers under his command, and for the precision with which he maintains his blond flat-top.  The latter seems to be lapsing, a little; fraying at the edges with the weight of sweat and the effort of a long run.

_"I need a team of non-enlisted men with good blades for an immediate assignment; there's silver on the other end of it!"_

The use of _good blades_ is understood to mean _competent fighters_ just as _men_ in this case means _men and women_.  These are trivial interpretations for the room to hear; but what needs no interpretation is _silver_.  Almost a score of sailors and brawny civilians start to stand up from their chairs with interest.

_"There's four cadets wounded or dead, not a mile east of Brackenwall Village.  We need rescue or recovery."_

At the clarification, three quarters of the willing applicants settle back into their chairs in discomfort.

Brackenwall Village is well away into the swamp; and more importantly, it's Horde affiliated; a watchtower and lightly crewed outpost of orcs, darkspear trolls, and a handful of Stonemaul ogres up from the mount further south in the marsh.  An official armistice was one thing; and a thing it was _not_ was the assurance that you wouldn't be clubbed to death by savages for straying into their hunting ground.

Captain Evencane clenches his teeth at the melting valor of the volunteers, and gazes despairingly over those who remain upright.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

The _Buxom Lass_ heaved through the forth-encrusted waves of the Great Sea, its bronze, topless maiden prow bursting through each bank of opaque blue that rose up before it. Being of sturdy and rough build, the _Buxom_ powered through her choppy lane, muscling forward with a rough tenacity that suited the stout trading vessel. Flying no black flag upon its mast, this was a ship that had previously docked in Southshore before it set sail, and tucked away within one of its slowly rocking cabins was a figure that sat upon her bed and pulled her cloak tighter around her body to protect against the ocean cold. 

"I hate sailing..." Marion spoke aloud, her smooth voice oppressed beneath the groan of tortured oak as the box she inhabited swayed beneath the impressions of the sea, her simple bed and tiny desk the only provisions of comfort she could afford. 

"I really hate sailing!" she hissed, eyes narrowing at her environment as if trying to intimidate away the choppy sea. 

*'the...ether...is so much more...calm...'* a thick, slow voice crawled through the back of her skull: Varghast. Though not apparent in the physical world around her, the demons presence was always felt and its essence never too far away should she need his protection.

*'...why...go this far...I...do...not...understand at all...your people are back in...azeroth...very few...where we go.'*

"Precisely. It's lawless. The propriety of the 'civilised' world does not apply," Marion uttered, risking a glance to the rune-inscribed tome that was resting atop her little desk. The secrets within that book had only seemed to compound her problems...but Marion knew an opportunity when she saw one. That tome was her key to the long game. 

*'...many threats...'*

"Yes, many threats," Marion spoke once more, bracing her shoulder against the wall to receive one particularly bad dive the ship took before its gyro was corrected.

"But with danger..." she continued, standing up and huddling herself against the sparse furniture within her room so that she could peer through the tiny, fogged over window and at the choppy sea beyond. 

"...comes opportunity."

oOo
Having been seated in the corner of the tavern the entire evening, a near empty ale cup before her and hood obscuring her youthful features, the human rose her right hand at the guardsmans words. 

"If there's silver in it; I'll help."

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## WindStruck

Isaera was not among the group which hastily jumped at the captain's initial offer.. if anything, she was a bit too cautious and her reflexes were rather slow for this sort of thing. The others would have surely had the job, had speed and initial enthusiasm been the deciding factor. However, as the exact details of the job were revealed, it was apparently a rescue mission. And a dangerous one at that.

Isaera did not cower from this job. Though to be fair, she wasn't one who initially jumped upon it either. This could be the thing she needed to get by for a few more months...  but what was the risk? What was the reward?

Slowly, she stood, and she asked, "What was the nature of their mission, captain? And just how much silver is dangling on the other end?"

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## Plaids

Jakk'ari sat back remembering just how easy it was for people to flee from encroaching danger, even whilst family and friends were being engulfed by the maws of an encroaching beast.
He remembered the encroaching influence of the cults disseminating throughout his homeland their inclination for violence and proclivity for chains.

How many of these soldiers had family and friends who relied on them? How easy would it be to do nothing? 

Staring intently at his drink Jakk'ari found his answer when a small opaque green bubble silently burst.

Standing to his full height Jakk'ari proclaims.  "Im in Ill bring your apprentices back home. Their service to the world is still just beginning."

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## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag was technically women, not men, but were each bright enough to comprehend the vernacular.   Their father and grandmother had both fought against these people in the Second War, but, these days,  the Ogres were neutrals.  Were it otherwise,  they would not be here.  The Alliance were strong, and the Horde was weak, and, by Ogre reckoning that made neutrality the best their former allies could hope for. 

"We will go and rescue your cadets." "We make you deal, we only charge you half again as much as one head"

*Spoiler: Intimidation*
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[roll]1d20+3 [/roll]

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## MrAbdiel

Captain Evencane's expression gathers a little despair, as he surveys the group - and he raises and drops one hand in limp surrender when the remainder of the applicants withdraw leaving four (four point five, maybe?) willing and able.  The precipitous withdrawal of offers to serve came in two waves - one with the announcement of the territory the quest required them to enter, and then another seemingly in reaction to the troll and ogre committing to the deed.  A generous onlooker might sympathise, that many of these sailors had lost friends and family in skirmishes with Thrall's new Horde in the Third War; and plenty had taken part in nautical duels against ogre juggernauts and troll destroyers in the Second War.  While the people of Theramore were rarely outright rude or confrontational with these exotic guests, they might be forgiven for having reluctance to work along side them.  A less generous onlooker might simply see a rash of the xenophobic reflex practiced by cowards craving a world simple enough to divide into friend-or-foe.

The Captain tracked his eyes across the remaining applicants, and hardened his expression in acceptance.  Mor'Lag's bargain draws a furrowed brow from the captain, but no sharp response that might alienate his volunteers.  _"The recompense goes to your group, and you can divide it however the lot of you see fit when the deed is done; four ways or five, that's your business.  But not until the cadets are back safe, or - ... Or back, atleast."_

The troubled Captain shoos a card game from one table, callously sweeping empty mugs and gambling chips to the floor.  His urgency, or his rank, seemed to abjure any possible reprisal, and he flags the four would-be-rescuers over to join him.  He unfurls a map of the Dustwallow Marsh, at the level of abstraction common to standard issue renditions.

*Spoiler: The Map*
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He indicates the icon of a watchtower at the north west most point of the brackish Dustwallow inlet; and looks through the tops of his troubled eyes to Isaera, pursuant to her question earlier.  _"They didn't have a mission.  They shouldn't have been out there at all.  They were delivering supply to North Point tower - a two venture down a patrolled road, and two days back.  But for reasons I can't bloody fathom, they took it upon themselves to head further south west into Horde patrolled roads."_  He drags his fingertip left, to a red inked X._  "There's a fifth cadet, Lidus, who sped back on a horse the troops at North Point gave him to give the bad news.  Rode the horse to death then ran for nine hours before collapsing into the arms of the marines at the front gate.  He was barely able to indicate where the other four were located before they got ambushed in the dark and seperated; he's passed out in the infirmary now.  Healers have stabilized him, but he won't be awake for atleast six hours, they say; and I'll be damned if I wait that long before dispatching someone to look for the others."_

His eyes swivel conspiratorially around the table to the eclectic applicants.  _"I can't sent marines in uniform, or they might provoke a direct Horde response.  I can't send them out of uniform because if they get captured, they'll be considered spies, and hanged or piked.  You'll follow the medical team I'll dispatch for the two days up to North Point.  Then you'll strike out toward Brackenwall, find those Cadets, and bring them back to the tower.  No conflict with the Horde if you can at all avoid it.  Be discreet; this doesn't need to be an incident.  You'll get twenty for each cadet whose body you recover; fifty if they're still alive.  But that'll be going on five days hiding, wounded in the swamp; I'm tempering my expectations.  That's a neat two gold pieces if you're smart, fast, and lucky, divided up between you however you want.  Payment on completion.  If you fail, then we never had this conversation.  Understood?"_

Ten copper will buy a decent meal and a room for a night in many an inn; and with a hundred copper to a silver and a hundred silver to a gold piece, the reward isn't life changing - but it's breathing room, that's for damn sure.

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## WindStruck

Isaera frowned a bit. The question of what exactly those cadets were doing so far southwest from the watchtower was troubling. It could be that whatever happened, they brought it upon themselves. If they provoked the wrath of the Horde or the locals, what right would they have to come rescue them? They may as well get clubbed in the head themselves...

Not to mention, two of the remaining volunteers: one was a troll, the other was an *ogre*. They seemed civilized enough to at least not cause trouble here, but still! Her life would be in their hands, and she did not know these people at all.. and much less, had any reason to trust them.

She sighed a bit, thinking this job may just be too risky, for too little pay, and perhaps, perhaps it did not even have a just cause. But still.. we didn't know the circumstances fully, or why they did what they did. There were missing men out there, who perhaps might still be alive.. and perhaps we could give them the benefit of the doubt, and hope they had a good reason?

"Captain.." Isaera begins, hesitantly. "We don't know what these cadets were doing. Perhaps they were justified, perhaps not. But if they were captured by the Horde - or worse - by what leverage can we negotiate their release?"

All Isaera knew was that fighting was dangerous. Especially for her. And if things did come to a conflict, they would disrupt the tenuous balance they were currently in.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion listened as the guardsman explained the situation: some cadets wandered off their route and got themselves into trouble with either hostile locals or the Horde. 

And to remedy this, she and a..._ogre_ and _troll_ had to wander into the dank, murky swamp, braving possible Horde patrols, and find them. All for 2 gold. 

Two. Gold. 

When her family still had its estate nestled within the breathtaking mountain ranges of Alterac, Two Gold wasn't even pocket change - it was a paperweight, at best. Her family's mines had produced iron ore and gems by the tonnage and had enjoyed the vast wealth that this had fetched them on the market. That she would risk her life, or worse, at the hands of some filthy greenskins for a paltry pittance of that did not sit well with the warlock.

"You wish us to venture into the murky swamp, brave the hostile locals, including the fauna, try to steer clear of horde entanglements, then save five souls from the fetid graves that would otherwise await them, all for just two gold?" Marions voice was smooth, diplomatic and sceptical. 

"That we have to portion among ourselves?" 

Once again, sceptical. Whose to say the Ogre wouldn't just bash their heads in at the last moment to claim it all for themselves? Or the troll spear them in the back?

"That is a lot of risk for very little incentive, Sir," Marion continued, "And this seems to be a buyers market."

Marion couldn't see anyone else lining up to help the guardsman out. 

"So, I think that we would deserve greater compensation. I'd wager that is not even a 100th of a percent that Theramore acquires bi-annually via berthing taxes from incoming trading vessels and the Alliance navy. I would think that the lives of five cadets would be worth considerably more..."

_____________________________

OOC:
*Action: Persuasion Roll:* (1D20+6)[*19*]

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## WindStruck

Isaera nodded as the other woman spoke, in full agreement.

"Perhaps you do not have the funds presently, but I am sure there are coffers you can reach into, given your sway and enough time with the.. 'nobles'." Isaera said, trying with as much finesse to refer to politicians, bureaucracy, and the whole establishment which ran this glorified outpost. 

"At the very least, if time is truly of the essence, and every hour, or even every minute may mean death or survival, you should grant us provisions for camping out in the wild, and lend us some transportation. Horses, perhaps? Otherwise, travel would be very slow and miserable on foot..."

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Persuasion!  (1d20+14)[*33*]

plus the Very Attractive advantage, which would give Isaera +5 if Captain Evencane finds her attractive.  It would really be a shame, if not only did they lose 4 cadets, but a comely elf such as herself, right??   :Small Tongue: 


She clears her throat. "Ahem, and a word in private, captain?"

*Spoiler: for GM, or perhaps snippets with quite a high perception roll*
Show

If Isaera can speak with the captain away from earshot of others, she quietly confides in him:

"It's no secret there is great discomfort bringing those two along." She did not look toward or even gesture to Mor'Lag or Jakk'ari. The 'two' were quite obvious. 
"I myself have no qualms with them here, personally. But I absolutely do not trust them outside of Theramore. I want you to offer them an additional two silver *each* for my safe return, and the other woman's. That will incentivize them to not betray us, and perhaps, even put some effort in to keeping us alive."

Isaera smiled softly.. it was somewhat smug, but also just sad at the thought, making this captain pay extra to further bribe those he hired to do the job he was already paying them for. And that money could have been going to her, and her family, too.

"And I'm sorry to say, this isn't negotiable, captain. I would like to help, but I cannot go out alone, and I don't feel I can trust the help otherwise. But rest assured, the price may seem high, but you are getting much in return."


After saying her peace, Isaera demonstrated some magic.  Flames wreathed her hands as she channeled a powerful fire spell. She launched a fireball straight at the bar, causing the bottles of alcohol to explode in a bright flash of light, a boom, and cacophany of shattering glass!

Expertise (magic): (1d20+14)[*29*]

But when it was all over, everything stood exactly as it was before, though several people may have dropped to the floor in fear.

Now the mage really smirked. "Just an illusion. What, do you think I would have really blown the place up? That's just silly."

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## Plaids

Jakk'ari stunned by the arcane display wonders if everyone wearing resplendent robes in this port city is a potent font of power. Surmising it prudent to make allies of these two robed figures Jakk'ari composes himself.

 "I agree, surely Theramore has more at its disposal to aid in this quest? Perhaps a ship or an arcane portal to speed us along."

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## MrAbdiel

Captain Evencane hated this part of hiring freebooters.  The negotiation, the bickering, the need to exaggerate safety or threats on one side or the other.  He seemed confident enough to deflect the ogre woman/women's attempt to ratchet up the price, but then smooth-voiced magistrix made a reasonable case that he had trouble deflecting.  And just as he seemed to flounder and gather himself to rebuke the effort, a third voice - this the elven mage apprentice, and the most compelling voice of the sequence so far - compounded the case for additional compensation and left Evencane at the bottom of a very tall pile of escalated expectations.  Flustered, he concedes to the aside with the Isaera; with an expression creeping into the steel of his eyes that suggests he's almost -grateful- to her, to be pulled out of a moment in which he was feeling outside his expertise.  He listens to some quiet petition, and seems to have been bludgeoned into atleast partial submission by the cannonade of the groups' charms.  He even goes so far as to raise a steadying hand to the confused and alarmed onlookers tormented by Isaera's display, and then sighs with a deep spirit of concession.  Running a hand through his now moreso sweat-messed flat top, he makes a new offer.

_"...You can't breathe a word of this away from this table.  If other freebooters learn I've bent the pricing for one group, they'll be charging an arm and a leg for every wolf tail or murloc eye they're sent to get.  There's obviously power in the four of you.  Two of you will seem friendly enough faces to the horde that they won't take you for alliance assets if you run into them; two of you are friendly enough faces that the cadets won't take an offer for help  from you as an outright trap.  If you do it right, it'll be the easiest coin you've ever made."_

He rubs the bridge of his nose.

"As for more help... A boat to take across the inlet won't help; you'd lose the time you'd gained crawling through the hillcountry and ridges heading back inland.  And this Theramore has the closest portal anchor to the destination.  The roads are the safest and quickest way there, but I can arrange for a cart - "

He pauses, glancing to Mor'Lag.

_"Two carts for your group, to make the travel too and from easier.  You'll need them to keep up with the medical crew anyway, but you'll have to leave them at Northpoint.  At that time, you'll be striking out into the swamp anyway, and there's no sense breaking horse legs.  And I'll raise the compensation to... To fifty silver for each cadet whose body isn't lost to the swamp, and a round gold for each back alive.  That's me cutting into my own wage for you, so don't ask for more.  Is that satisfactory?  Because if it's not, I need to get outside and round up a group of marines, and take my chances with the kindness of orcs."_

A final look to Isaera - suggesting he hasn't discarded her discreet commentary - before he gestures to the collection of adventurers with an open hand, as if to ask 'what's it gonna be?'

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## WindStruck

Isaera eyes the captain expectantly.  She wasn't really expecting such a dramatic increase overall for the whole mission.  That, in her opinion, made the risk of betrayal far worse, and more lucrative.

She sighed.

"Well, captain. I hope you - and other free agents - understand the urgency of this mission, and the value of mens' lives is worth far more than a few murloc eyes...  But that said, I hate that you have to dig into your own wages."

"For what it's worth, I wouldn't mind if I gave up a bit of my share.." she looked around at the others and continued, "And we put that towards.. what we had discussed, a few moments ago."

"Otherwise, I will accept."   She nods.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion watched, perhaps less surprised than the others, as the elf decided to show off with a dazzling display of illusionary pyrotechnics. 

How has she survived this long being so reckless? The human wondered to herself, her right hand gripping the demonological tome tucked away within her traveling robe at the thought of being so open about her eldritch abilities back on Azeroth. 

"Yes, that seems...tolerably adequate," Marion spoke to the guardsman as he accepted their request for higher compensation. 

_Though there could be more rewards hidden along the way_, the Warlock thought to herself.

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## Plaids

Turning to Mor'Lag Jakk'ari quips.
 "Looks like we'll be the diplomats once we enter the swamp. Even if we aren't dressed for the part" 
Quickly trying to smooth his scuffed armor. 

Turning to Marion Jakk'ari says.
 "I'm hopeful that you remain to be the wind our sails." 
Taking note of her robes presuming great power accompanied it.

Content with the sweetened negotiations Jakk'ari congratulates Isaera.
 "My thanks for being the rising tide elevating all of us. You've earned a totem of good fortune from me when this job is over. I like your mojo." 

While happy with the negotiation a trace of doubt still lingered. This caster was no shaman, having no totems or elements come to her call. She was also clearly no druid, clearly lacking any wilderness attire or any unkempt features. The lack of any symbols of the clergy or accompanying fiends left one likely choice, a mage.

Mages wielded their power without the negotiation or mutualistic creeds with the worlds primal denizens that shamans and druids exercised. Lacking symbiotic relationships left ambition and self motivation to guide a caster which could lead to disaster.

Considering the elf's prior conversation with the captain Jakk'ari considered caution would be for the best especially with how quickly the captain acquiesced.   

*Spoiler: Mechanical action*
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Use insight on Isaera (1d20)[*18*] With a +3 from AWE mod.

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## Feathersnow

"Mor and Lag are satisfied.  We thank the little Vrykul and the Dorei for their wise counsel."  Says Mor.
"The honorable Sandfury is likewise sure to be a valuable companion" says Lag.
"We will be the hammer"
"And the shield"

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## MrAbdiel

The Captain nods once, but doesn't look overly pleased.  That's what happens when you get talked into paying more for something than you want to - even something virtuous.  But lives are on the line, and that's enough to put steel back into his eyes.

"Right.  Good.  Great.  Well, the medical team is mustering, and they'll be moving out in a quarter hour.  Be ready by the gate.  We can supply travel gear and resupply at North Point, but if you have any special needs, now's the time to sort them out.  I'm sending a scout with you - a Mister Black.  He's familiar with the terrain, and so he'll be a help ferreting the cadets out from hidey holes they might be shivering in.  Light preserve you.  And you two - ."  He flags back Mor'Lag and Jakk'ari as the group peels away from the table, for a discreet additional exchange...

*Spoiler: The discreet, additional exchange for Mor'Lag and Jakk'ari.*
Show

The Captain lowers his voice significantly, and makes an admirable effort at neutralizing his discomfort for the outsiders.  _"I know you're not Horde.  And you wouldn't be here if there was somewhere better for you to be right now. 
 But if an elf or a human dies in the swamp, and the ogre and troll come back safe, then less reasonable folks than me will be keen to ask questions.  I'm sure you've noticed that Theramore is host to... mixed opinions on exactly how peaceful or neutral things should be here.  So to cut to the chase, there's an extra five silver coming each of your palms if you make sure the other two get back alive and in good condition.  Even with the primary objective being the rescue of the cadets, I know Lady Proudmoore could do with more printable stories of cooperative heroism.  It's good for you, and it's good for me.  That's all."_  And with that, he sharply stands up from his chair, and marches off with a true captain's rigidity to make preparations.


...After which, you are left to exchange words with each other as you wish, and expected to be at the gate in fifteen minutes.

------- FOURTEEN MINUTES HENCE -------

Four carts, each drawn by a pair of brawny draft horses, are waiting at the gates.  They're open topped of course, each suitable for hauling a half dozen human sized passengers - or one ogre; and each cart is driven by a single human guard from Theramore.  Their light chain armor with flared shoulder plates, along with white tabards featuring the golden anchor symbol of Theramore, suggest they are competent enough in matters of defense.  The foremost two carts are packed with bundled supplies, and a pair of passengers in each.  Gustaf VanHowzen is Theramore's chief trauma surgeon, and he compulsively rubs his bald scalp and fidgets with his chin beard as he mulls over the journey to come.  With him are medics Tamberlyn and Helaina, both young women who look pretty enough to endure the cavalcade of flirtations that come from the mangled young warriors they are trying to save, but made of stern enough stuff to be neither captured nor outraged by it.  Allen Bright, a priest of the Light and the medics' trainer and immediate superior, is possessed of just the right kind of gallows humor and temperament that he is able to keep up the spirits of men dying of their wounds and the sanity of those tasked to save them.  Presently, he goes to some lengths trying to tease and amuse the cart drivers out of their set expressions of determination.  He's doing a pretty good job.

He swings his attention down from the cart in which he sits to the rifleman standing beside it.  _"What do you think, Zachary?  Would you rather work a job you love for next to no pay, or get paid ten gold a day to sit silently in an empty room eight hours a day for the rest of your life?  No half-way answers."_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Zachary Black, that's you already in the scene awaiting the other characters to arrive. 
 You know they're coming by a vague description with no attached names (Evencane explicitly didn't want to know their names), and you know your job is to accompany them through the swamp to find the missing four cadets.

Everyone else, feel free to rock up and meet the fifth and final party member, and we'll get this show on the road.

----------


## hand ax ranger

_The man beside him did not even turn his head, having heard him perfectly. The figures eyes were hidden behind the ash colored lenses of the googles he wore, and the cloth worn on his head both held the padding underneath to his ears and also to keep his head cool. Cradling the used rifle of his in preparation for what may yet come he he shakes his head._ "That question was answered for me years ago. If all I cared for was easy money I'd of stayed in the first city I crossed, what with my aptitude in alchemy. Instead I joined the fight against the bandits and the Horde. In the Alliance armed forces for a time, then outside of it. My lot is going place to place, camping under the stars and vanquishing vile men and monsters. It's fulfilling...... and also pays well on occasion." 

_He drinks for a water skin, which in truth was filled with homemade wine from a farm not so far away. He then spies Mor'Lag._ "Speaking of that, are we really to travel with a Ogre, or is someone trying to make a fool out of us?"

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag hears this remark.

"Little Vrykul does not wish our help?" Asks Lag.
"Alliance is strong, Horde is weak, so Mor'Lag sides with the right and fights for Alliance." Says Mor.
"But little Vrykuls do not trust Mor'Lag.  Mor'Lag's grandmother fought in Second War"
"Our father did "
"But Alliance shamed Orcs."
"So Ogres don't fight for weaklings"
"Mor'Lag never enemy of little Vrykuls or Dorei."
"And Sandfury here never enemy of anyone"

----------


## hand ax ranger

_Zachary scratches his beard._ "Well that's an interesting thought process..." _He put the water-skin away and stands at the ready._ "So the rest of you are going on this rescue mission  then as well?"

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion was waiting at the gate and on time, like the tardy arcane academic that she was. She was not dressed particularly 'warlocky', with a pair of sturdy travellers breeches, strong leather boots with wrappings around the ankles to keep the water and bugs out, a top and a cloak around it all. The cloak was fitted in such a way as to make it easy to remove, for its main purpose was to protect against insects and other annoying fauna that could prick her with some sort of thin, small stinger. Overall, Marion looked like a traveller rather than a magic user.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera barely had any time to make her way back to her home. She told her mother where she was going, and despite some protests, said her goodbyes. She only managed to grab a bag with a few useful belongings, and a staff - but it was more like just a sturdy stick they had found in the swamps one time. Good for walking, at least.

Even as Isaera tried to hurry, she arrived fashionably late.  Perhaps twenty or twenty-five minutes later, mere moments before they were to leave. She climbed into a cart to sit down.

"Good afternoon, everyone. I suppose it's time for introductions. I am Isaera Runescribe, and I will be accompanying you on this rescue mission."

The elf looked from medic, to medic, to warlock, to priest, to ogre, to troll, to ranger expectantly.

----------


## Feathersnow

"I am Mor" Says the ogre head with two eyes.
"And I am Lag" says the cyclops head.
"We are pleased to meet you, Isaera."
"Do we understand correctly you are a worker of wonders?"
"Our father were a Great Worker during the Second War, but we, alas, have only brawn to rely on."

----------


## Plaids

Being accustomed to travel Jakk'ari packed quickly grabbing his traveling pack, thanking the innkeeper for their hospitality, and bidding to the elementals residing within the hearth goodbye. 

Jakk'ari arrived at the front gate clad in mail armor with bundles of herbs known for their ability to act as an insecticide. Taking notice of the assembled group.  

 "Good to see everyone assembled. Anyone is welcome to some of the local bounty, it's for keeping the bugs away or a pleasant drink." 
Presenting a bundle of fresh herbs.

Taking note and addressing the new hooded figure without a uniform.
 "I believe we haven't met. Do we have another resident of the wilderness? "

----------


## hand ax ranger

The Ranger nods at the elf. He stands at a half-hearted attention and speaks. "Sergent Zachary Black of the 12th Prowlers. Or rather former Sergent....I am technically retired from the Alliance military and now act as a liaison of sorts. Tracker, Ranger and also budding Alchemist. I know how to navigate the wilds and have certain...gifts... with this sort of thing which is why the suggested me for this rescue." He looks over the rest. "I've gathered the Ogre's name is Mor'lag, so who are the rest of you?"

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Oh I see as I was typing this the other two responded XD

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion considered the rest of the assembled group, her eyes wary of both the ogre and the troll, the two most physically imposing of the gathered cotorie. She trusted them about as far as she could throw them. 

"I am Marion," she said with her smooth voice when her time to speak came about, "Marion Mordis."

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera nods. At least, the ones she was initially rather suspicious of seemed friendly. Honestly, the one who was the least forthcoming seemed to be the other. Marion Mordis. Hmm...

Looking at Mor'lag, Isaera tilts her head curiously and says, "Worker of wonders?  ..do you mean magic?" To that, she can just smile timidly and nod. "Well of course. What you have seen and heard in the tavern from my small display.. it was only but a taste."

She accepts some herbs from Jakk'ari curiously. "How do we use these?" she asked. Honestly, with quite a lot of skin exposed for bugs to bite at, it wouldn't be a terrible idea to keep them away.

A confident, welcoming nod to the former-sergeant. And another, more subtle nod to Marion. Well, this trip was certainly going to be interesting..

----------


## Plaids

Responding to Zachary Black with an open posture as if attempting to display a prize winning catch Jakk'ari responds.
 "I am Jakk'ari I speak with the natural world. Pleasure making you acquaintance."  

Jakk'ari responding to Isaera says.
 "Either left in warm water or ground and mixed with clay applied to the skin. The later is best when striding through the desert. It's good to have somebody heed my advice. Though with your power I doubt any ailment beyond your regeneration exists."

----------


## hand ax ranger

Zachary nods as he hears them all introduce themselves. "Well sounds like a good bunch for this mission so far. Not quite a crack team of woodsmen but with this much variety in talent we should be able to handle most for what could reasonably be expected." 

When the Troll mentions the herbal insecticide he digs through his bag on the wagon and wanders over, a mortar and pestle in hand. "I could help prepare that. Might even have a few of my own mixes left over." He offers to help her as he gets out the rest of his alchemy set to work the herb into a usable lotion or paste.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Dustwallow Marsh
The medical team and their drivers share the same air of discomfort with the demographic diversity of the rescue team; but Brother Bright lives up to his name and punctures the membrane of distrust with an open display of it.  *"Fine to meet you, friends.  That's Gustaf, Helaina, and Tamberlyn.  Be nice to them; they'll sew your guts back in when the crocolisks get hold of you.  Hah!  No, I'm kidding, you'll be fine.  I'm Brother Allen Bright, I mostly just freeload off their hard work.  And these..."* He indicates the drivers one at a time, who each make minimalist gestures of acknowledgement.  *"...Are Carlo, Torian, Oscar and other-Oscar.  He lost the coin toss, so now he's other-Oscar."* 

Other-Oscar objects.  _"My middle name's Lee, just call me that."
"That's something you should have offered before you called the cointoss, other-Oscar.  If we all die because of those three extra syllables breaking down our battle communication, it's on your head.  I'm a priest, I decide these things."_ 

The roasting receives snickers of appreciation (especially from Oscar), and other-Oscar grumps in a fashion that seems mostly good natured, and what proceeds as the carts set off is about fifteen minutes of other-Oscar suggesting alternatives and being shut down by others in the group.  What _does not_ proceed is an awkward silence, or an extended grumbling discussion about the troll and the ogre.  Brother Bright has successfully buried the tension, and none of the medical staff or drivers seem especially invested in digging it up.  Brother Bright even manages to wrangle a song out of the travellers.  Most of the Theramorans have some nautical adjacency, so he coaxes from them a not-bad rendition of a shanty popular in the alliance during the second war.  They even conduct a doubled round, though it soon becomes clear that they don't have the numbers for a triple.

*Spoiler: Expertise: Survival, Nature, or similar; DC 15*
Show

There are two ways for travellers to go through wilderness areas: quiet, and loud.  Travelling quiet works for small groups who don't want to attract attention and who don't want to be seen travelling.  It gives them a chance to hear people coming and get off the road, to hear wildlife moving and prepare for them, and to have a better chance to hear distant events like gunfire or commotion.  But with a group this big, a lot of that is barely possible anyway; and so one may as well travel loud, as Brother Bright seems to be encouraging. 
 Travelling loud projects to potential intercessors that the party is confident enough to 'own' the road, and all but the most obnoxiously predatory wildlife would rather move _away_ from a loud travelling party than toward it.  Crocolisks and giant swamp spiders are sometimes too dumb to realise the odds they are engaging when they attack the lead horse of a party travelling quiet; but even animal minds understand that _loud equal bad._


*Spoiler: Farewell to Elvish Ladies*
Show


_Farewell, Shorel'aran, to you fair Elvish ladies,
Farewell, Shorel'aran, to you Silvermoon's dames,
For weve received orders for to sail for Lordaeron,
An hope very shortly to see you again.

Well rant an well roar, like Kul Tiran sailors,
Well rant an well rave across the salt seas,
Till mountains give way to the port of great Lordaeron,
Windrunner to Stratholme is thirty-five leagues.

We hove our ship to, with the wind at souwest, boys,
We hove our ship to for to take bearings clear.
In fifty-five fathoms with a fine sandy bottom,
We'll fill our maintopsl, down coast we shall steer._

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Expertise: History, War, Music or similar; DC 11*
Show


The song choice is bitter sweet.  Elves and humans have been allies in wars against the Amani 'Forest' trolls since before humans had mastered the wheel, but in recent history during in the Second War after the orcish horde had ravaged the southern kingdom of Stormwind, the northern human kingdom of Lordaeron held the standard to which other kingdoms including dwarves and elves rallied for defence of the known world.  This union formed what is called the Alliance still today, and the author of the ditty is plainly celebrating the wonder that human sailors experienced when patrolling the northern coast for Troll Destroyers, and docked in the elven lands to resupply.  Whether it is fashionable or not for 'elvish ladies' to have the courtly affections of a human sailor changes in high elf culture according to factors that boggle human minds; but mystery and unattainability has never seriously deterred any kind of courtship anywhere.  For the elves who recall that war, even those who dislike humans as crude are forced to appreciate the valor with which such short lived people gamble the winking moment of their lives against death at sea.  There a few half-elves as a result of this alignment of events and peoples against the fearsome and romantic backdrop of cannonfire and blood that is known to Alliance history as the "Tides of Darkness".

Yet in the Third War, it was not a threat from beyond roaring across the sea in a beastly armada that was the grand threat; but the hideous and twisted mockery of life itself.  The Undead Scourge was seeded in Lordaeron, and ultimately was spearheaded by the paladin-turned-deathknight Prince Arthas who lead a gory army of the dead to destroy Lordaeron and then to shatter the elven kingdom of Quel'Thalas.  The port city of Stratholme and Windrunner Village to which the song refers are both now ruins overrun by the living dead.  And so, a song that was a warm and beloved shanty about naval pride and the partnership of nations has become a wistful reminiscence to better times - times when they fought a war they were destined to win.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

The song is adapted from the shanty _Farewell to Spanish Ladies_, if you care to know the tune.



The carts make good speed, stopping only a few times to rest horses and stretch legs, and there are no road encounters on the first day.  They stop at the final fall of the sun, at the point at which it becomes dangerous for the horses, and pull off to a patch of dry earth to pitch tents.  The drivers set shifts of two to watch the night, and preparations are made for the night.  A small campfire is made to boil water, but not large enough to cook anything substantial; it's bread and dry rations on the menu tonight.  There are five tents, each suitable for one human comfortably or two uncomfortably, put aside for the party to pitch under their own power.

An hour into the night, perhaps predictably, it begins to rain; but just a light enough spritz to cause indecision about whether to cover, or just endure it.  

*Spoiler: OOC Stuff:*
Show

I know when I join a game, I'm keen to get to a good fight to stretch my powers and roll some dice; but it's also fun fleshing out the contrasts and dynamics of this group.  If your character has any questions for anyone else in the party or the NPCs, now would be a fine time to ask them.  If your character is the kind who would rather try to coerce someone else into pitching their tent for them rather than enacting that menial labor, it might also be a neat time to display so.  If your character has any nightly consultation of spirits profane or natural, or prayers, or some other evening routine that strikes you as interesting, feel free to flex it.

*Finally, I'll take a Fortitude Check from everyone with the Disease descriptor.  DC is 10; take a +2 if you've partaken in the herbal protections from the shaman or ranger!*

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag is miserable.   They barely fit under a tarp, let alone a tent.  They at least borrowed some of the ungent to repel bugs.  That they could have made it themselves was immaterial.   The stuff costs money, and offering it allowed  Jak'kari to bond with the somewhat racist Vrykuls.
*Spoiler: Fortitude* 
Show


(1d20+7)[*9*]

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera doesn't join in the sea shanties. It would be.. rather unbecoming of her, considering it was a song for male sailors, and one such as her was pretty much.. the glorified subject matter. Alas, the song really does hit home. She was just a child during the Second War, and as for the third, well.. the song which once bittersweetly sung of her homeland now referred to her former home in ruins. Though she imagined that many of her brethren were still there, trying to pick up the pieces.

Regardless, she doesn't try to stop the song at all. She knows what Brother Bright is doing. Instead, she gazes around wistfully, thinking of better days...

Once they pull off the road to camp, Isaera, quite frankly, doesn't really know what she's doing. Sure she could puzzle out analytically how to set up a tent. But in the thirty minutes she might spend trying to figure that out, someone who knew what they were doing could easily just set one up in five.

Still, she's not a total prissy jerk, and does try to help out how she can, even if it's just gathering twigs and tinder to fuel the fire. Perhaps, she would even try some of those herbs in the boiled water...

Isaera may have shyly sat out and tried to make a bit of conversation with some others. But when the rain comes, even a drizzle, she retreats to shelter, not really enthusiastic about slowly getting more and more damp over time, and fearing the rain could pick up in intensity. When push came to shove, she'd rather just be completely dry, or completely soaked because she meant to be.. for instance, when going for a swim, or a bath.

The whole tent situation is troublesome, however.  Seemed like there were too few tents between the lot of them. Either that, or the tents were just, simply not big enough. But she supposed, she would feel most comfortable, and it might be most appropriate, to be paired up in a tent with Marion.

----------


## hand ax ranger

As all the others started setting up their tents Zachary had already doen the mental legwork for building him a more proper shelter using both his own tarps and several bit's of timber he'd been picking up and tossing into the wagon throughout the journey. Using these to build a raised platform, both to maintain body heat and to keep a good deal of the ground bugs off him, he used the trap of the tent to form cloth walls and a roof around it and uses small leafy branches and such to hold the roof part down and the sides not covered by the tarp. 

Clearly, he had been in the swamps before. "Right now that done....."

Once done with his own shelter he will go around and assist other with their tents, particularly the Ogre who was having the scrunch up into a ball with their current set up, then inform the leader of the expedition that they way he sees it there was no real way we could get the full caravan of wagons through quietly, therefore he suggest he and a few more move ahead of the caravan to scout out ideal paths and also to maintain some element of surprise against anything that would do them ill out among the trees.

With this he grabs his alchemy set and sits under one of the tarp walls lifted slightly to provide and overhang, working to ready some surprises for their opponents tomorrow. "You ok over there Isarea?" He then sees her head over to Marion's tent and shrugs. He didn't care about getting wet so much himself but the brew he was working on did so dry he did stay to the best of his ability.

----------


## Plaids

Singing and chanting was always a welcome method for raising spirits. Though the meaning of lyrics and fondness for elvish ladies were a mystery.
*Spoiler: Constitution Roll*
Show


(1d20+2)[*14*]
(1d20+2)[*22*]



The wilds were hardly a hinderance to Jakk'ari with the trollish resistance to disease the only thing to fear were wild animals who might drag him to their den for a meal. But with a group of this size it was likely not a concern.

After pitching a sufficient tent with rough cloth floor and adorned with herbs to ward against insects and prying eyes he began to prepare for the coming morning. Erecting a small conical tent sealed at the top with a pan from the cart he invoked the heat of the earth beneath the structure. Hopefully by morning there would pristine water and any creatures fancying the water would serve as breakfast. Considering the plight of Mor'Lag he spoke intending to lift their spirits.

 "Mor'Lag if you be needing warmer ground to rest upon I can oblige. You can even have half of whatever crawls into the survival pan. I'll probably have some marsh toads instead of sand serpents." 

Feeling that his work on the camp was complete Jakk'ari kneeled palms upward offering a prayer in hopes of finding council with any minor elemental in the region.
 "Primal spirits nearby please answer me, I seek your wisdom. What role does the horde play here?" 

*Spoiler: Roll*
Show

[roll]1d20[/roll]

----------


## WindStruck

"Um, yeah..  fine..." Isaera mumbles.

"Gods these insects are going to eat me alive..!" she says, slapping at the nuisances which always seemed to evade her wrath.

Yeah, this trip was already seeming quite miserable.  It probably wasn't even worth five gold pieces...

Those poor men out there, though...  Well, they had better have had a good reason to stray so far away from their route, or she would make them sorry!   Or, at least, that's what Isaera told herself.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion might be the youngest among the group but she behaved with an older soul. The tune born from the Second War reminded the Warlock of her own little nations betrayal of the Alliance, and the destruction that had been wrought upon her homeland as a result. Her family had gotten off better than most, but then the Scourge came, and, well, the rest is history...

What Marion _did_ listen to, was the Rangers tips for preventing mosquito bites and other handy things for surviving in a swamp. Some of the precautions in regards to clothing, Marion had already taken, but there were some other things in there she had not thought of. 

When the tents were being set up, Marion's face soured a little. She wasn't against camping, indeed, her new life as a Warlock had seen her having to stoop to some rather lowly, albeit temporary, living conditions. But a tent within a swamp? The things one did for a paycheque!

Naturally, the Minor Noble would have preferred a tent to herself, but practicality nudged her towards sharing one with the elf, the only other lady among the group. A late teenager though she was, Marion had still been raised with a sense of propriety, and so having to share a tent with some battle-tested young soldier would be most improper.

Thankfully for the elf, Marion had no problem with the tent. 

"Use the even ground...the tarp goes onto the swamp floor first...lay the tent out onto the tarp...connect these poles here....stakes go here...raise the tent..."

(Using Knowledge: Engineering)

And then the rain hit - and Marion was happy. 

Having taken her cloak off and hung it along a rail within the tent, her rich dark hair hanging down between her shoulders in cylindrical curls, Marion was now seated cross-legged near the opening of the tent with a bowl of steaming rations and a smile on her face as she watched - and smelled - the heavy rain coming down across the swap. The blanket of droplets mashed through the thick canopy of the swamp, hitting peacefully across the face of streams and filling the banks with coils of mist that reminded the Warlock of her mountainous home. She was enjoying this more than she thought she would!

----------


## MrAbdiel

The party engages with their _greatest challenge to date_: the first challenge, and between their efforts they manage to assemble their camp competently.  Marion's pragmatic efforts make a fine counterbalance to Isaera's helplessness in the face of even mild survivalism, and the elf is able to escape the rain in the secure rear of the small tent while the human enjoys the rain near the threshold.  Nearby, a little collaboration yields success to overcome a larger task - getting atleast a modicum of comfort for the ogress.  Between Jakk'ari's capacity to warm the earth, Zachary's survivalist talent and Marion and Isaera economizing to one tent leaving a second available, the project yields an adequate result.  In the end, Mor'Lag is situated in a kind of improvised pavilion using two of the empty unhitched carts as the left and right walls, and the canopies of the two tents to dome it over.  For the first half of the exercise, it's mostly Jakk'ari collaborating with Zachary and brainstorming the outcome.  The alliance soldiers and medics just look on from the entrances of their own shelters in curiousity and lingering mistrust for the mixed party.  But at some point, the head surgeon Gustaf seems to catch on to what's happening, hustles over through the drizzle, and brings his sewing kit to make rapid, good quality adjustments to the cannibalized tents to better suit the intended frame.  And once one of them has broken the unspoken taboo, it's on for young and old: the drivers and medics handle the repurposing of the carts, with the four drivers hauling one between themselves, and Mor'Lag able to lift the other herselves, with Helaina and Tamberlyn trying their best to assist.  They end up giggling most of the way as their superfluity to the task became obvious to everyone, and the novelty of trying to assist the ogre in a matter of brawn was not lost on them.  The rain escalates in intensity as the work continues, and it's bucketing down by the time it's complete; but the crowd of Theramorans let out a congratulatory cheer as it finally comes together and they are rewarded with the sight of the ogre sat inside the jury-rigged shelter, which actually manages to keep the rain out and stands up to the winds.  Then a crack of lightning flashes down somewhere else in the swamp like a primordial reminder that _you idiots are getting rained on_ and the crew disbands with laughter and indistinct chatter about their little victory.  It took some instigation, but it's a gesture of unalloyed kindness that may well mark the high point in Mor'Lag's experience with the people of Theramore.  And just before he retreats to his own tent, Brother Bright asks Jakk'ari if the earth-warming he's done is something he can do for their whole campsite; because it sure is a welcome talent in such conditions!

The storm upgrades from _mind_ to _obnoxious_ but doesn't go all the way to _monsoonal_, for which most might be grateful.  When Zachary brings his proposition to scout ahead to Brother Bright who seems to be the leader of the operation, he's positive enough about the idea, though given that they need all the drivers for the carts and the medical team are not trained scouts, it would fall to Zachary and the rest of the freebooters.  If Zachary wishes to take one or more of his group, wake up a few hours earlier and get a head start to scout the road, he's welcome to do so; and the carts will catch up with them by midday or afternoon.  As Bright reminds him: _"I guess you can do whatever you want.  You're not exactly in our chain of command; just let me know how many I should expect to be missing when I wake up.  That way, I'll know how many went on ahead, and how many were carried off by mosquitoes in the night."_

Jakk'ari doesn't have too much trouble conversing with the elements, out here.  They are restless with the storm moving through; in their own way, they are bunkering down and sheltering for the transient storm spirit much like the mortals shield themselves from the storm.  The storm spirit itself is a fairly potent spirit of air, but local to nowhere particular by nature.  But the whispers of the earth and water in the region send forth the cohering voices of their representative parts, to speak with the shaman.

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Audience with the Elements.*
Show

The elements speak to Jakk'ari's open heart in voices only he can hear, and he is able to respond to them in whispered portions of Kalimag, the elemental tongue.  With the storm as cover, no one is able to overhear - and if they could, they would not understand.

*"Your invocation is badly timed, shaman."*
_"But we honor your voice still."_
*"Yes, we honor it still."*
_"What shall you ask us of the Horde, oh troll?"_
*"But a troll of the burning sand, and not of the island sand."*
_"All these are unfamiliar sands and trolls."_
*"But the shaman is not of the Horde - he comes from the southern sands, not the northern sands."*
_"The orcs hold domain west of here in their camp."_
*"They do not venture far toward the carved stones of the human-den."*
_"They fear them."_
*"Perhaps they respect them?"*
_"I say fear."_
*"I say respect."*
_"Let us agree they keep distance from them?"_
*"We agree."*
_"The humans are more brave."_
*"I say without respect."*
_"Let us agree they do not keep their distance."_
*"We agree."*
_"This ground you stand on is trod by human feet, and not often orc feet - though it has known hooves, and some of them cloven."_
*"What about the orc scout?"*
_"Oh yes, the orc scout.  We have not felt his tread in many days."_
*"Respectful."*
_"The human swamp-fool comes this way often; but he too has not come by in days."_
*"His shack is just off this road, due north from this place."*
_"Flee my grandeur, little droplet, little stone!  I am the lightning and I will be named!"_
*"We depart, Shaman."*
_"We must flee."_
*"Farewell."*


*Spoiler: OOC: Scouting Ahead*
Show

Zachary, if you want to scout ahead with an early sub-party, see which of the other players you can wrangle into the extra effort and accommodate your scouting in the next post.

----------


## Plaids

Satisfied with his council with the elements Jakk'ari bowed before they scampered into dense foliage of the marsh.

The thought of cloven hooves brought deer or Tauren to mind. Optimism at the thought of potential of the ever friendly Tauren being nearby.
What was most worrisome was the recently absent orc and human. Members of two races most likely to quarrel. 

Given his recent favor for Brother Bright Jakk'ari felt at ease confiding in brother Bright amidst the Theramore escort. 
 "Hello brother might you know of any orc scout or any free spirited human living within the swamp just due north off the road? 
My friends have told me that such being have been in within this marsh."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion offers friendly smiles and idle chit-chat to anyone interested, but otherwise remains rather tight-lipped. Her demonology tome is hidden within her knapsack and the bag of 'marbles' (i.e soul shards) was likewise hidden within her robe. 

Unless any other event disturbed the trajectory of the night, Marion offered a friendly 'Goodnight!' to the elf before hitting the hay.

----------


## MrAbdiel

> Satisfied with his council with the elements Jakk'ari bowed before they scampered into dense foliage of the marsh.
> 
> The thought of cloven hooves brought deer or Tauren to mind. Optimism at the thought of potential of the ever friendly Tauren being nearby.
> What was most worrisome was the recently absent orc and human. Members of two races most likely to quarrel. 
> 
> Given his recent favor for Brother Bright Jakk'ari felt at ease confiding in brother Bright amidst the Theramore escort. 
>  "Hello brother might you know of any orc scout or any free spirited human living within the swamp just due north off the road? 
> My friends have told me that such being have been in within this marsh."


_"Your friends?"_ He gives a mildly sceptical glance, but chooses not to pry; rubbing his beard as he squints around through the rain at the mouth of his tent.  _"No orc scouts that I know of.  But I suppose if they're any good, I wouldn't know of them!  Hah.  But mad old Jarl has his hut up north of here, veering into the swamp proper.  Built on stilts and hope, I guess.  He's harm to no one, but not much use to anyone either.  Bad taste in drinks."_




> Marion offers friendly smiles and idle chit-chat to anyone interested, but otherwise remains rather tight-lipped. Her demonology tome is hidden within her knapsack and the bag of 'marbles' (i.e soul shards) was likewise hidden within her robe. 
> 
> Unless any other event disturbed the trajectory of the night, Marion offered a friendly 'Goodnight!' to the elf before hitting the hay.


The Theramorans offer the occasional cordial question her way, but there's no interrogation.  The guardsman server as a driver for the party's main cart - the one Brother Bright indicated as Torian, with a scruffy (and now wet) mop of brown hair and the kind of beard that a real beard would call stubble - approaches her tent after a considerable engagement in clandestine chatter with his fellows.  He greets her, and then immediately seems to forget what he had planned to say, and in a terrific panic asks if he can get her a mug of tea before she turns in.  This would indeed be quite the feat, as the rain has murdered the campfire quite permanently and he would have to invent a new way of boiling water to accomplish his offer.  In the background, Carlo, Oscar and other-Oscar collapse into their tents in wheezing laughter.  They are all quite young - none of them more than 20 years old - and so are all still very much in that warm and generous moment of youth in which watching one's friends crash and burn is a primary bonding experience.




> With this he grabs his alchemy set and sits under one of the tarp walls lifted slightly to provide and overhang, working to ready some surprises for their opponents tomorrow...


Working away with his small, portable alchemy kit in these less than ideal conditions, Zachary struggles to get the conceived components to bond in a powdered form.  Grinding the black-salt dug up from the Shimmering Flats elsewhere in Kalimdor is fine, and dribbling in a little quicksilver gets a fizz of acrid smoke and what _he thinks_ is the desired substance - but the bond forms small lozenge shaped crystals, which will not stick to the skin and inflict agony but merely bounce off and poison a scrap of ground.  Attempting to pulverize those crystals only mashes them flat and encourages them to weld together into even more useless, clunky portions.  It's not until he glances up in frustration across the camp and spies Jakk'ari in his shamanic reverie that the inspiration strikes.

Zachary is almost out of the stuff, but a little powdered troll tusk does the trick.  The little silvery crystals mash and then are absorbed to the bone pulver, a quirk in the biochemistry of that species used by witchdoctors with their strange tonics and potions more than anyone.  Predicting success, Zachary is able to carefully tie up the powder in a thin paper sheet with a length of string binding it closed like a coinpurse, and enough slack on that string for it to be spun around and flung to burst on impact.  Some field testing required, but the theory is promising.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion's smile was gentle, that flutter inside herself the warmth of receiving attention and of watching someone go to such effort on her behalf. 

"No, no tea thank you!" Marion mercifully offered with a friendly wave of dismissal, "go back to the tent, you'll catch a cold!" she implored.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"Alright.  I'll... see you in the morning then.  Goodbye.  Night."_

With that clumsy extraction, he is indeed the beneficiary of Marion's saintly mercy.  One can imagine the fellow applying all his efforts to making some kind of fire that could endure the rain, and all the hours lost to futzing around with wet tinder.  Such is the madness of young men, in the presence of of pretty women.

----------


## hand ax ranger

After pulling together the awkward brick worth of alchemical bu//$#it and forming it into a handy few pieces he finally settles down and rests. When sun starts rising into the sky he begins gathering up his things and preparing to begin the scouting phase of the plan. On his way out he will see if the troll Jakk'ari, who is possibly the only other one here with an affinity for the wilds, and likely greater, would wish to accompany him in moving ahead of the wagon to scout out potential risk

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is content to watching the others work, trying to get a massive makeshift pavillion for the ogre to work..  in drizzling rain.

She hasn't really much to do but meditate or keep to her own wandering thoughts. A tent in a swamp was no place to be trying to make alchemical concoctions or magic devices, especially since she had no lab or materials to work with.

When the young man leaves their tent, she comments, "Well that was pretty daft. How would he expect to make tea anyhow?"

----------


## Feathersnow

"I know, right?' Say Mor and Lag, in unison.
"Thank you for your help."  Lag says to each of the many people who assist her in cobbling a working tent for her. And especially Jakkari, who does magic on their behalf.

   Even crude shamanism is more than Mor'Lag ever accomplished, and she is respectful of it on that basis.

Mor'Lag starts feeling ill and tries to make something to deal with it,  using her own alchemical knowledge.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion smiled to Isaera's comment while she watched the fellow go back to the tent with the others. 

"Where there's a will, there's a way," she comments over her shoulder. 

"Doubtlessly including having to reside within our tent to keep the fire stable," she chuckles and shakes her head at the implication.

----------


## Plaids

Interested in meeting a hooved friend or the solitary man Jakk'ari agrees to follow Zachary.
 "I'll go I'm sure we might find some friends or the Jarl here. Worst there can be is horde scouts who've made themselves scarce as of late. I'll light the way." 

Jakk'ari exciting the air in a small sphere of space at shoulder height illuminating the campsite.

----------


## hand ax ranger

Zachary nods, readying his rifle-musket for use against whatever might make a move on them. His other weapon was a sword with a saw-back covering 1/4th of the back edge, even in the scabbard it was clear this was a s much used as a tool as a weapon and little bits of rust were seen on the steel. Still, it was a trusted blade and had likely been with him for as long as he had served within the alliance military. Possibly longer.

"Hmm never rule out how many things would profit off your death or injury."



Zachary will motion to the troll as it casts the spell. "I thought your sort had natural low-light vision? If you can see in the night then we will not need any light that might draw attention to us. "

----------


## Plaids

"Not every legend about trolls is true. I can flay myself to make war drums but darkness obscures impedes my sight just as your human eyes do. But I can navigate with the stars and the wind against my skin" 

Jakk'ari begins dimming his light.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

When the sun came up the next day, Marion waited until she was sure she was alone in order to cast a spell. Uttering a few words and making some gestures, a hand of fel energy abruptly materialised, wrapped around her body like armour and then faded from view.

There, protected for the day. And if she needed more physical assistance...the weight of the soul shards hanging within hrr coat reassured her that such was only a summoning spell away.

Finding some place private to have a quick clean, Marion returned to the camp and started to cook her ration breakfast.

----------


## hand ax ranger

Zachary shrugs and leads Jakk'ari down the path so they could get their scouting done. He will stick to the brush himself using it as concealment while seeing there is to see.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari follows closely behind. Following the occasional minor squelching of saturated ground being displaced and a darkened silhouette.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Jakkari and Zachary*

With light dimmed to nothing, you proceed through the marsh, keeping close to the edge of the road and the hard-packed, elevated earth that you know you can rely on for footing.  The stars are slowly being devoured by the threatening dawnlight, but there is enough starshine and reflection in the swamp for navigation, especially with Zacharys chemically enhanced talent for tracking and night-work.  Twice, your instinct compels you to stop and listen for fear youre being stalked by something; twice, you discover that its nothing to worry about. The first time, a young crocolisk has boldly explored up to the roadside encouraged by the wet of the nights rain; but it decides better than to try the travellers, and slinks away.  The second time, it seems to be nothing at all - just a _schlup_ sound of mud, displaced by their movement, resettling into its own hollow.

Following the information gleaned from the elemental encounter and Brother Brights addendum, you veer off the road deeper into the marsh to see if you can find old Jarls hut.  Its not terribly difficult, after youve skewed into the marsh further.  A single hut, built out of the marsh on stilts that look like cannibalized mizzenmasts and a loosely circular exterior wall of packed mud and driftwood planks seems to fit the bill.  Its illuminated in the gloom by a trio of lamps placed equidistantly around the structure.  Each lamp has a twisted copper wire frame around it, and each one is drawing in a small cloud of dazzled, buzzing swamp insects ranging from button sized to finger sized.  The larger bugs squeeze in through a tunnel in the woven wire, but cant find their way out; and the smell of the unluckiest bugs caught in the trap and baking against the hot glass of the lamp is truly unpleasant.  The door is closed and there is no sound of activity - but who would be up at this hour, anyway?

*Spoiler: Rolls!*
Show

I would like Stealth rolls and Perception rolls from each of you - and since Zachary has pre-emptively offered his in the OOC already, just from you Jakkari!


*MorLag*

You dream.

*Spoiler: You wonder if you'll ever be so strong.*
Show



*On The Deck Of Tuur'Nog's Fist*
You wonder if you will ever be so big, and strong, as they.  But you doubt it.  Like all fathers, yours are titanic figures when you are so young, striding across the world in mere steps, capable of smashing mountains and turning aside mortal blows.  In your case, this is less of an exaggeration than it otherwise would be.  TuurNog, known amongst the Gordunni ogres as TuurNog Heart-Eater, is mighty even by ogre standards.  They were one of those ultimately rare ogres who was born with the Twofold - a one in a thousand mutation, and a sign of great destiny.  And one to which he lived up, in most eyes.  Tuurs keen eyes were like those of a hunting Rylak, and his club arm was as strong as any warriors.  Nogs cyclopean focus extended into his capacity for the old rune magics, and his capacity to conjure and cast matched descriptions of the heroes of old, from grand days of High-Maul, when the orcs were still young and soft, and their spines had not hardened under their oppression.  When the Old Horde began assembling, they led much of the Gordunni host in war against the fickle birdmen, and the blue-skins who had invaded and haunted their world.  When GulDan was selecting students, TuurNog was recommended by the grand warlock ChoGall himself.  Everyone knew they were destined for greatness - perhaps, even more greatness than ChoGall.  As they stood on the deck of the Juggernaught, the other ogres howled their loyalty to him, and he rewarded it with a display of the power that so inspired them.

The Felguard he had summoned to the deck was taller than they; and had been so bound with muscle that it was not difficult to imagine that if it had caught TuurNog with a swipe of the demonic axe, it might have cut them clean through.  Yet they had stepped back from that blow, Tuurs fist cranking back to deliver a swift, sharp stunning blow to the demons face, and Nogs fingers curling to elicit sparks of green Fel energy to capture and bind the Felguards limbs, dragging it to its knees, and folding it roaring into a reverse arch.  To glorious approval, they plied the clawed nails of both hands to the demons chest, twisted open its black bone ribcage with a gristly snap, wrenched free its spasming, green-lit heart from its wicked carcass and devoured it in one messy bite to each head.  They seemed like a god to them, and they gave them their praise.

This, of course, was before the Battle of Hillsbrad, where his legend would be truncated with such brutality as to empty his legacy of value for all time.

*Glory to the Conquerers!*, roared Tuur.
_And shame to them that die here, on alien soil, without the blood of ten warriors on his fists!_, declared Nog.

Thus, the die was cast.  Glory to those who conquered.  Shame on those who died without reaping their toll of ten.

The crew gets back to sailing, full of vigor and barking brags and promises for the war coming.  Your fathers return to the aftcastle, where your mother stands in her veils and twinkling golden ornaments.  She is no slouch in combat herself, but for this journey across the span between the human islands, she plays her part as TuurNogs wife, desirable and prized.  Indeed, she is most desirable - for she has bred true to TuurNogs Twofold, a thousand-in-one chance after another thousand in one, making MorLag one or rather, two in a million.  Henceforth, the birth of such ogres would become far more common - one in ten - but it was their parents blood that was strong, not the strange, invasive magics of the orcs.

Your fathers come to you, and kneel beside you; and pointing over your shoulder, indicates the distant, cloudy grey shapes on the horizon.  You can hear the grin in their voices, as they egg you on with doting bloodlust.  

*Do you see, girls?* _This is the land of many kings_.  *Here, we* _will carve a legend in the blood of those kings_, *and their horses*, _and their sons and daughters_.  *Tell me, MorLag - when you are older, and you have your magics, and you can fight* - _what will you do, to make your name even greater than ours?_


*Isaera*
You dream.

*Spoiler: You hear your parents arguing.*
Show

*
From The Western Staircase Of Your Home Estate**Theyve called in the ancient pacts, Aunara.  The humans remember the promises of DathRemar Sunstrider, and they are such brief people.  How can we forget our promises to the sons of Thoradin?*

Aunara Starsong doesnt answer - not right away, atleast.  She leans on the windowsill, her raven black hair  stirring in the night breeze as her gaze tracks over the ancient spires of Silvermoon.  Her long lashes sweep low to her cheeks; and her melancholy does its strange magic of enhancing her loveliness.  Her warm contralto voice is cast back over her shoulder, without the benefit of eye contact to back them up.

_And what if you die, Daeden?  What if the orcs kill you?  Shall I then feed our children to them, one at a time, in service of an ancient pact to people fifty generations past those to whom it was made?  Its absurd.  Let the Farstriders go in their numbers, and fletch the trolls and orcs, and come home.  Why do you need to go?_

Daeden Runescribe sighs deeply, combatting his wifes objections with some melodrama of his own.  His hair is gold in color, falling straight down his back to just above his waist; and when he glides in behind Aunara and embraces her around the waist to hold her close, his golden locks form a pleasing visual contrast to her black ringlets.  She wriggles once as he embraces her, just to emphasize how mad she is, but settles back against him in resignation.  They stand together in the kitchen of the estate, with only the hush of the night air, and the whisper of a single animated cleaning cloth discreetly wiping the benches under its own power nearby.

*Im not going to die.  The king will call for one fighter from each family, and Kaleneus isnt ready.  Aleeana has more talent, but not nearly for battle magic.  Not yet.  And Tarien and Isaera are both just too young.  Weve lived so well for so long, Auna.  Theyre spoiled by peace.  If I dont set an example for them, how will they know what it means to have loyalty, and honor?  Dont be mad at me. * Craftily, he slides a hand down the length of her slender arm, and weaves his fingers interlocking into her own.  *Just be strong for me.*

And then they are dancing, in the starlight in the kitchen.  The kitchen island and stools glide to the edges of the room to accommodate this, at a tiny gesture from Daeden who has a great deal of practise seducing his wife with just such craft.  Its a spring waltz, and so it is done most appropriately in this manner, with the woman pressed back to the mans chest with hands entwined at her shoulder, and hip; both parties facing forward or, in this case, adoringly at each other over the shoulder.  For a minute, theyre just dancing; and Daeden hums warmly to a simple, danceable tune the significance of which is lost on you.  Your mother still looks angry at him, even as she consents to being wooed; and then she simply looks sad again, which your father has many times said is her most compelling aspect.

_...I will not abide an ugly husband, Daeden.  If you come back with a single scar, I shall divorce you on the spot and take a younger, unmarred man._
*Will you?  Then I shall scar him.  What then?*
_I shall take another, and another until every knife in QuelThalas is dulled from your desecrations._
*I bet theyd keep coming, too. I would.*

The dance slows, and they abandon their affects - his exaggerated smugness, her exaggerated sullenness - as he begins whispering in her ear, such that you cant hear it.

From where you sit on the spiralling staircase, with its shadowed perch and view into the kitchen, the scene plays out and you are privy to the information before your parents formally announce it at breakfast tomorrow.  Tarien, sitting beside you runs his hands through the ravenblack tresses he inherited from your mother.  Hes older than you by a year, but considerably less responsible; and you cant help but think of him as your little brother.

So thats it.  Father is going to war for the humans.  I dont understand it at all, but more than that - how can he say you and I are too young?  Even if were not accomplished magi, were still old enough to become archers.  His eyes swivel side to side defensively, as if anticipating someone will leap from the darkness to contradict him.  You know, if we if we wanted to, and trained for it.  Anyway, mother is right.  We need to find some way to stop him from being so reckless.  He looks at you with all the paper-thin conviction of a teenager, hoping youll back him up, and not crumple him with even a mildly firm contradiction.



*Marion*

You dream.

*Spoiler: You smell the mountain air.*
Show

*
Upon The High Terrace Of Your Family Spire*
The high mountain air is good, and crisp with the promise of a snowfall to come.  From the high terrace, you can see clearly for miles and miles through the jousting peaks of the other mountains in the Alterac range.  Down below you, the lamp-lit streets are so dark and far they seem to your young eyes almost a second starscape, with tiny dots of firelight amidst an inverted canopy of dark stone.  The only obstruction to your vision at all is your Uncles tower, to the west of your familys own; the seat of his baronial privilege.  The wind changes, and now you can smell the hint of coalsmoke from the forges below as the ore hauled up from the guts of the mountains is smelted and ingotized around the clock, then to be carted up and shipped down the mountain to one of your fathers clients.  The child you are, you have no idea - not yet - that this mineral wealth is not being purchased so much as extorted as war-debt by the long sequence of travelling nobles from Lordaeron, and Gilneas, and Stromgarde, and all sorts of places youd never been to.  On the terrace below, you can see the shape of your fathers fur-collared robe, and the crown of black hair familiar to your eyes, and your hands.  He speaks with a man you do not recognize, in a red and grey armor that seems to you quite fancy indeed.  Even so young, you find yourself uncomfortable with the relative postures of the men - your father, arms wide, gesturing with the invitation of a party who seeks friendship and cooperation; the stranger, arms folded, pointing down further at the forges and workers houses, sometimes shouting and demanding.  It is not easy to watch.

With you on this high terrace are two figures; your mother, and a young boy.  Your mother is a fantastic beauty who married up, as the daughter of a poor knight who had distinguished himself grandly in the first war.  Having expatriated to seek his fortune in Stormwind, he served with honor and assisted the flight of the refugees to the Northern kingdoms, returning to his homeland in turn to restored knighthood from the king of Alterac, and recognition from Anduin Lothar.  With his honor, he mustered all his effort as a simple widower proficient only in horse and lance, to drive your mother into the best schooling, the best etiquette classes and a handmaiden who had once served Princess Beve Perenolde.  Her natural intellect and drive to excel permitted her to devour all the teaching put her way; and when she attracted the eye of Geordan Mortis, he was able to feel peace for the first time since he lost his wife.  Giving your mother away to become Geneve Mortis, she had once told you he announced at the wedding, was the crowning glory of his life - this from Sir Benthan Orlo, the hero of Mercedes Gap.  She cried a little, when she told you that story.  It is the only time you remember this iron pillar of a woman crying at all.

The other figure on the terrace is Randal, the son of the noble below who speaks to your father so harshly.  He is rugged up in furs, but looks cold and miserable as he waits for the negotiations to conclude, under the theoretically care of your mother who infact has little time for him.  If he had wandered off the terrace to his death, she would hardly have been able to stop him; her focus is on you, and you detect her disdain for the boy.  Between your mothers disdain for him, and your fathers interaction with his father below, a cold seed of hate blooms slowly in your little heart for him: the easy target for projected fantasies of nonspecific vindication.

_Dont look at him, Marion.  Look out over the town.  Show me what Tutor Laerden has shown you.  Show me what youve learned._  She plucks a black feather from her coats extravagant collar, and flicks it our into that clean, sweet breeze that promises the snow; and it dances in the air, flitting up and away.  The elf woman, Tutor Laerdan, has been teaching you magic since you were five.  Now you are eight - practically grown up, honestly - and you have mastered some of the basic tricks which seemed impossible to understand when you were younger.  The last time your mother brought you here and did this same gesture with the feather, you tried very hard to summon the mana like you were taught and fling it like a weapon at the target; but your heart became too excited, and the spell buckled.  Now shes asking you to try it again - and with the boy watching, too.

She lays a firm hand on your shoulder, and squeezes.  _Quickly now, before it drifts any further.  Like Laerdan taught you._

----------


## Feathersnow

That same memory.   The last good day, before everything went wrong.   And now here, cast out by their people, just as their people, admit it or not, were left behind by the Horde.  The cursed Horde!

And here was a Dorei and a Vrykul, even a Troll, all blessed with what should be theirs! The Dorei was at least bred to it,  a mutant that needed mana the way other people needed water.

They still had themselves,  and the day had not dawned that the daughters of Tuur'Nog would waste on self-pity.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera's Dream*
Show

I sigh, still rather disappointed and worried even after learning of the news hours before. "It takes years of practice to be a capable archer, Tarien. And there's more to it than that, I'm sure. Survival skills, fieldcraft, scouting, first aid, melee combat, discipline.. ugh..."

If there was anything she knew, despite being so sheltered, it was quite a difficult thing in itself being sent to war as an archer, a ranger. But regardless, Tarien nor her wouldn't even be up to snuff if all they had to do was sit behind a wall all day.

The night before and this conversation had played out in her mind before. She was as worried then in the second war as she was in the third. She wished there was something she could do to change things. If she just knew what would happen, she'd have done everything in her power to stop it. But she didn't know.

Only, oddly enough, she knew now. Somehow, she knew her father wouldn't make it. Only, this was some twenty odd years into the future. Isaera found herself sobbing at the table. "Father won't come back. He's going to die, or worse, come back as one of those things!"

The other family members at the table may have reacted to her strangely, wondering what she was talking about. Or, considering it was a dream, maybe they wouldn't think it's so strange.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Jakk'ari and Zachary*

You slink through the marsh with such aplomb that you barely generate any noise approaching the hut.  You're able to get _right_ up to it without stepping on a crunchy branch or kicking a barking toad, and that's a feat that gets twice as hard with two sets of feet.  Peering through a gap in the boards and doing your best to ignore the hurricane of swamp insects at the traps nearby, you smell the lingering smoke of some insectophobic herb and you see two figures in the shreds of lamplight that are able to make their way through those gaps.  An older gentleman, perhaps towards fifty, with an unkempt shaggy brown flop of hair and birdsnest of a beard snoozes quietly in a clearly homemade, bad quality arm chair.  His clothes are mud caked rags, and his lips are stained black with the residue of what you assume are the bugs he's been eating.  The other figure is a young man - buy the short cropped hair and youthful features, one of the cadets you're looking for - who is bound to a bed with knotted rags at his wrists and ankles.  He is sleeping fitfully, shirtless, with big clumps of mashed vegetable matter packed on dollops on his chest and arms.

*Spoiler: {Fluff}Jakk'ari's Herbalism (Routine Success)*
Show

Incriminating as the scene seems, you recognise the herbal splotches as masticated leaves from the liferoot plant.  It's better rendered and mixed to make genuine healing tonics, but very primitive uses include chewing it up and packing it directly into open wounds to prevent infection.  And if this young man has taken that many open wounds, he's messed right _the hell_ up.

----------


## Plaids

Speaking in a hushed voice Jakk'ari whispers.
 "There be one of our quarry.  Pointing through the small slats in the house. 

The man next to him must be the Jarl Brother Bright told me about. Our young soldier is restrained but thankfully covered in healing herbs. Herbs most likely applied by Jarl. This is a suspect scene but I believe Jarl can be trusted. The herbs have probably prevented several infections already. Zachary I believe we should return in the morning with the others to extract the recruit. We can't move him in this condition without the carts and the medics. But before we leave I believe you should tell him of our quest so he doesn't go running with our recruit once the wagons approach. I'll keep watch since seeing me probably won't help convince him of our quest.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Mor'Lag's Dream, Continued.*
Show

_Dont cower, girls!  Stand upright, so that ALL can see you and how you do not fear._  These, the words of your grandmother Urahna, you remember more clearly than the cannonfire; though perhaps not as clearly as howls of the maimed and dying.

The crossing had gone badly.  There could be no doubt at the strength of the Horde here - their ships were present in great numbers bearing sails daubed with the colors and symbols of the various contributing or clans.  Black sails bearing savage, gap toothed smiles flew alongside white sails daubed with a bloody mountain, and still more with the storm-slashed moon and waves.  Each of those ships cut low through the water, gravid with the green-skinned killers who had proven their worth in one world by shattering the ogre empire, and had done so in this one by devastating a continent.  Yet they were transport ships, poorly armed if armed at all; and orcs were poor sailors.  The only teeth the fleet possessed at all were the nine ogre juggernauts escorting them.  Each belonged to one of the great ogre clans who were first to seize the ruined shipyards of Stormwind, and the dwarf thanedoms.  Your fathers clan is Gordunni, an old and prestigious clan known for its warriors, magi, and - now - for your fathers power as a warlock-general.  But your mothers clan is Wavemaul, and your grandmother a high matriarch within it.  _TuurNogs Fist_ is her ship, named to honor her sons-in-law; and it is the best armed of all the vessels in the armada.

But Doomhammer, GulDan and the other inner-circle leaders had underestimated the humans command of their own oceans; and with land in sight, the KulTiran fleet had attacked.  Strange sorcerer-clerics commanded the winds from the decks of their tall ships, and had rolled a bank of cloud out before them to cover their approach.  When they revealed their ambush, the toll they reapt was disastrous.  The outnumbered juggernaughts made as strong a broadside line as they could to shield the transports, but _TuurNogs Fist_ had hammered on through the blasted flinders of dozens of the littler horde vessels now, bashing their drowning orcs to the indifferent depths.  Thousands of orcs drowned without ever setting foot on the northern shore; and two juggernaughts - the Highmaul _Gor-Horn_ and the Stonemaul _Hammerbeast_ were gutted and sinking from the sheer disparity in alliance poundage.  Only then did the dragons arrive - red beasts of fire and destruction that the Dragonmaw had wrangled into service through their legendary beastcraft.  They attacked the alliance ships, forcing them to split their efforts with cannons to the main armada and deck-guns chasing the deadly reptiles.  Most of the allied ships dropped their sails and fought from anchor to prevent their sheets from being burned; and under that cover, the remaining orcs made landfall, and your fathers had touched their foreheads to yours for the last time before taking his honor guard in their own transports to the battle to come.

You, your mother and your grandmother stood shoulder to shoulder on the aftcastle while cannonfire raked through the air, killing ogre crew when they found their mark but never finding one of Urahnas crewmembers ducking, or cowering.  Her first mate - Brukk, you remember his name - took a sixteen pounder to the shoulder with a resonant crack of bones breaking, but he retained the limb, and kept the cannonball to fashion into a weapon later.  But the battle at sea was just a sideshow now.  If the Horde could take the beach, the Kul Tirans would surely break rather than risk an indefinite battle with the dragons while Boralus harbor remained undefended.  With death whistling around you and the agony of injured ogres ringing in your ears, you watch the battle on land through your grandmothers spyglass, trading it between Mor and Lag.

You watched as the first transports made landfall, and three human knights - small creatures in size - surged out to meet and kill them.  You watched as the outnumbered human forces began to break when your fathers and their ogre shocktroops bludgeoned aside the failing orcs and begun taking their toll.  You watched and counted.

A human spearman rushed at them, but Tuur snatched the spear, broke it in half, and impaled the man with its broken end through his neck.

*One.*

Two more rushed at the linebreakers, slipping past the foreguards, and tried to flank your fathers; but they could not be flanked, and the the human warriors died when their heads were clapped together between your fathers palms.

*Three.*

Elves now, raining arrows from well behind the human lines.  From Nogs hand, a lurching arc of green energy zipped through the melee and detonated amidst the elves, scattering the smoking bones of three.

*Six.*

Then lightning flashed in the blue sky, as clouds obligingly gathered overhead.  A great bolt of blue-white power ripped from the sky, down into the upraised palm of a human mage, and then out like a thrown javelin, striking your fathers square in the chest.

Through all this, the battle played out in silence in your vision, drowned out by cannonfire and the voices of ogre sailors.  The bolt of lightning, heard for miles, seemed to strike with so much power it overflowed the visual display and rattled your ears, filling your nostrils with the tang of ozone.  That is the way your fathers died.  Overpowered by an arcane better, falling with only the blood of six enemies on his fists.

_...Forgers spit,_ Urahna growled, _theyll rout now.  Doomhammer thinks his deathknights will turn it; but its over.  RAISE ALL SAILS!  WE LEAVE WHILE THE DRAGONS REMAIN, LEST THEY LEAVE US!  RAISE THE SAILS, AND DROP THE OARS, YOU GRONN-TICKS!_

Your grandmother was at least admirable, during this shocking moment.  Her shouted commands to wheel the _Fist_ around and break south rings powerfully in your memory.

Your mother says nothing; she just bows her lonely head, closes her eyes, and grieves the loss of her husbands and laments in silence the burden of their shame upon her.

----------


## hand ax ranger

"Good thinking Jakk'ari."

He will step out form the shrubbery and slowly approach the camp with his rifle-musket pointed skyward. He will gently knock against a tree to draw the attention of the old man, keeping his weapon pointed away to show he is not threat to him.

"Excuse me sir, sorry to disturb you. However I am part of a rescue effort for a few brave souls lots in this swamp, and I believe the man you have next to you is one of them." He sets the rifle down and moves up with his hands up. He knew he didn't have to in the givne situation but he wanted to defuse any hostilities before they started. Who knows wat this crazy old man might do if he belived he was threatened, and even of he did l;ash out at Zachary.....well he would still likely survive. "It looks like you have been caring for him. My team will appreciate that."

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Zachary and Jakkari*

Its a kindness that you decided to knock.  The man in the chair starts violently with the sound, eyes flying open, slapping numbly at the table next to him to find the sheathed knife there, and then to clutch it close to his chest.  But he calms, and catches sight of you in the light of his bug-lamps, and squints, and blinks, and cautiously emerges to look at you more directly.

Hes not as old as you thought, before; just worn down by hard living packed into a few decades.  And he has the unfortunate deformation in which his right eye is noticeably larger than the left, though not comically so.  Enough to make onlookers uncomfortable, not so much as to make him seem like an outright mutant.

_Eh?  Out from Theramore, eh?  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Yeah, got one of your boys here, yeah.   Came crawling into my land all beat up and chewed up two day ago, and sleeped ever since, yeah._  His voice is a popping groan, like he has some kind of damage to his throat, but has muscled through it for so long he barely notices even if everyone else has to.  _But I seen thim, yeah.  You want him back?  I aint wanted to keep im._  He chortles at his own joke, and snaps back to seriousness as he approaches Zachary to inspect him more closely with that weird oversized eye.  _But when he wakes up, you tellm You tellm he owes old Swamp-Eye Jarl ten - no, twenty eyeballs.  And not popped ones, but good and not-popped.  Thats all the appreciate I need._

*Spoiler: Expertise: Nature or similar, DC 8:*
Show

Through the open door, you can see a number of empty jars with some kind of preservative slime coating them; and one nearly empty jar that is full of spider eyes, which range from the size of marbles to plums.


While Swamp-Eye Jarl talks amiably to Zachary, Jakkari hears a ripple in the swamp water that draws his eye.  The puddle to which his attention is drawn troubles as if stirred by a fish, but then very quickly flattens out to a still surface.

*Spoiler: Comprehend Elements {Fluff}:*
Show

The spirits of the elements do not usually take a coherent form.  Elements have a wide range of personal, semi-personal and impersonal spiritual forces that simply move through their respective elemental matter, as blood moves through the body of a human or troll.  When a particular spirit is compelled by magic, or prompted by request, or compelled by need to take a more substantial form to do battle or perform a physical task, they muster their element around themselves and manifest as an elemental.  But even disembodied, they are able to make certain measured impacts on the physical world as it please them.

Jakkari recognizes this unusual fluid motion as a distortion in the physical created by the act of an elemental spirit - possibly the water spirit he spoke to the night before, returning the favor of his courteous contact.  Because of this, the shaman has an instinct to gaze carefully at the puddle to which his attention has been directed.  Theres nothing in it - not a fish to have made the disturbance, or any track of a recently passed creature.  But the water now stilled so completely makes a reflective surface, in which you can now see the reflection of the treeline from which Zachary and Jakkari came just minutes ago, and a stealthily hunkered, undoubtedly orcish figure watching with enduring patience.


*Meanwhile...*

*Spoiler: Isaeras Dream, Continued.*
Show

The strange logic of the dream expressed true things, though in a collision of truths.  At that breakfast table, all of your siblings chime in at the announcement of their fathers coming enlistment.

_I think its very noble, father._  Of course Kaleneus would say so; eldest and, you have often suspected, most favored of your family, Kaleneus is the spitting image of your father Daeden without the wry wisdom and paternal softness to temper every smile or grimace.  Your brother bears the pronouncement that he is considered unready for war with grace and admiration - and absolutely no fear that your father could be among those who will be required to give their lives.

_Im enlisting whether or not you let me!  But if we enlist together, then we can be attached to the same battle groups.  I can help you!_  Aleeanas hands grip the edge of the table with such restrained frustration that her usually perfect nails are grooving the wood.  She bounds her declaration in words that suggest a virtue of impetuous courage, and a desire to follow your fathers legacy; but knowing Aleeana, its hard to discount the possibility that she like so many elves has not understood the gravity of the war, and is angling for the action that will provoke the maximum rancor from your mother.  To your young eyes, Aleeanas purpose in life has been to counterperform every rule or requirement your mother has given her.  Only some years later would you reflect and consider that she trod the path trodden by so many middle children before her, defining herself away from the dutiful scion pattern so completely fulfilled by Kaleneus, whilst stinging with resentment for how quickly she lost the mantle of youngest and most adored to Tarien, and you.  Your mother rebukes Aleeana, and they go back and forth with an expected series of charges about youthful ingratitude and matronly tyranny. 

Tarien says nothing.  He looks to you, some hope dying in his eyes as he sees that you havent miraculously changed your mind about his idea to run off and spontaneously become Farstriders together.  But with his foolish hope breached, he can do nothing; and he turns his eyes to the woodgrain of the breakfast table.

Your father performs some of his magic, then; that supreme art of the masterful patriarch, standing up to lean well across the table and to clap one hand over his wifes, and one over the clenching, wood-grooving grip of his eldest daughter.  *No one else is enlisting.  Its my decision, and its final.*  This, you know, is a half-truth.  It was the decision of he and your mother both, if the latter only by convincing; but he frames the matter as unilateral and so disarms Aleeana of her grounds to gripe.  Not prepared to attack her father with the same readiness as her mother, Aleeana simmers with disapproval, but holds his hand and accepts his verdict.

You weep, as your recollection drags you back down this road; but your father does not extend his big comforting hands to take yours, and your mother does not enjoin you to calm in soothing tones, and Tarien does not hug you in your distress.  Your grief, flung backward in time to this moment, is unable to penetrate the reality of the past.  Your father left, that day.  You did not see him again for five months.

In his absence, your mother moved your family to Windrunner Village, your mothers home town and the primary port dealing with the human ships.  With so many battle mages being sent to the Alliance, your magical studies lost their consistent teachers.  Hiring a rotating series of tutors from those magi on shore leave was a cunning solution, and dovetailed nicely with your mothers desire to dwell near to her own sisters, Jaana and Reyna, whose families were also struggling with the departure of their patriarchs.  Your life in those months found plenty of distraction with exotic visitors from human lands and magical training from magi with tales to tell of orcs, and ogres, and monsters from another world.  Not to mention a mess of younger cousins who found you, moreso than your brothers and sister, worthy of their fascination.  Kaleneus was your partner in crime to impose some sense of order on the swarm, for much of that time; with Tarien more a follower than leader, and Aleeana more of an obstacle than either.

But the dream blurs through all of that.  It takes you not to the happy and peaceful interim, but straight to the day your father returned.  He hadnt shaved in his time away, grooming when he could affort to, and the presence of facial hair made him seem ancient.  He had indeed acquired a scar, and not a subtle one; a crescent moon that began just above his right eyebrow, cut through it, and arced around the socket to terminate just on the inside of the cheekbone.  He would explain to you, after the war was over, what caused the scar.  But on the day he returned, he did not offer stories; only grim tidings.

Your mother seemed almost to know it was him by the manner in which the door opened behind her, and she spun about and flew into his arms, assaulting him with needy kisses.  But even these he could barely afford to receive; and he brought much more grief with him than joy.  Aunaras husband had returned; but Jaana and Reynas had not, and they never would.  The defense of the human lands had gone too well: the Horde, halted at their landing, had been forced not to advance north, but jagged eastward and in doing so found willing help in the ancient enemies of the QuelDorei: the Amani forest trolls.  Even now, this bolstered horde was surging into the Eversong woods, bringing with them warlocks capable of dismantling the ancient runestones that for countless years kept the trolls at bay.  The ships broke from port with all the supply they could take from Windrunner; and you, and your parents, and your now widowed aunts and their swarm of confused and frightened children, and a thousand other desperate elves made their break to the road on all the carts, and hawkstriders they could muster.  Most, like your family, made the march to Silvermoon on foot.  You remember the sight of the smoke on the horizon behind you, as Windrunner was put to the torch.  You remember passing a unit of two dozen Silvermoon guard, marching down the road as you came up it; proud and strong songs and daughters of Silvermoon destined to delay the oncoming trolls by giving blood in combat, and then their bodies to the bloody appetites of those creatures.  And you remember the words of your father to you,  as your flight to the capital was coming to an end; the grand archway open and in sight as refugees streamed in from the roads all over.

He takes a moment to steer you away from the rest of the caravan, and walks with you alone for a little.  Hes quiet at first, like his time away has robbed him of the easy charm with which he commanded his familys love before; but it starts to come back to him, with a clearing of the throat.

*They tell me youve been practically keeping the family together with your own strength.  You and Kaleneus.  I dont know if your mother has been saying it, but youre an example to your siblings, and cousins.  Were very proud of you.*

He means these words as much as he has meant any in his life; but theres a little trepidation in his eyes, like he is hedging against the slim chance that you might consider throwing his compliment back in his face for abandoning you these five months.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari's blood runs cold his breathing ceasing trying to further affirm what he sees. Frozen in fear realizing the horde scout hiding beneath the swamp canopy intently observing them. 
Jakk'ari swiftly dashes from his hiding spot at first panting  calling to Zachary intent on truly concealing his party within the cabin. 

 "We can't stay here we've been found out. The horde scout knows we're here."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion's eyes widened at the news: the Horde knew they were here, and it was unlikely that they would be hospitable neighbours.

Ducking back into her tent, Marion collected her things into her rucksack. When she believed no one was watching, she hummed softly with her eyes closed while drawing an imaginary glyph with her fingers. The tiny chant only lasted a second before the pattern materialised, wrapped itself around her body and then seemed to fade from view.

OOC

Gathering her things and, when she thinks she's alone, casting Demon Armour.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jakk'ari's warning is sufficient to get himself, Zachery, and Jarl into the hut with the door closed; and the discussion on how to proceed transpires in hushed tones between the scouts.  Jarl is wary, but doesn't kick up a fuss.  He has survived this long out here by agitating as few people as possible.  He agrees to keep watching over the Theramore cadet until the medical team can come to extract him, and tolerates the pair of newcomers in his little home for as long as they need to speculate on their escape.  But after a few minutes, even the best efforts to locate where that hunched figure was hiding in the grasses and trees seem in vain; and a speculative scouting of the area on foot shows that the orc has left them in peace.  But not with peace of mind - hanging from a throwing knife pinned into a mangrove tree is a small trinket: a small woven cord of sturdy grass, with beads and feathers tied into its length.

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Being a Troll (Automatic Success); Being a Hunter (Automatic Success)*
Show

Beneath a carved symbol in the wood in rangersign that suggests threat from a third part (not the carver or intended recipient) and to another third party is a trinket both scouts will recognize as belonging to a raptor.  Raptors in Azeroth are only a little less intelligent than people, and even then the line is blurry.  They demonstrate high complexity pack tactics, limited tool use, and even a rudimentary religious observation and enshrinement of their dead.  Some are skillful enough to braid grasses into cord, and to make these bead-and feather trinkets that are often worn on the arms and tail, with unknown significance.  They are a dangerous and deadly enemy; but when bonded, they make excellent mounts and hunting partners for trolls who have the patience to acquire their respect.

If the orc's message here is to be believed, then there is a raptor threat to someone other than Zachary and Jakk'ari.  And since the two didn't find any indication of raptors on the way here, they must be approaching that third party from another angle - one that the orc felt compelled to warn them about.  The obvious candidate for the potential prey must be on the road by now, expecting to rendezvous with Zachary and Jakk'ari at the appointed time - they'll have to hurry if they're going to get back in time to benefit from the warning!


- - - - - - 
There had been a 'green scare', that morning.  Other-Oscar had claimed to have spotted an orc watching them, and the cry that the horde was coming had awoken the camp.  Closer inspection found no orc at all, and other-Oscar had copped some good natured abuse for his jumpiness.  Once everyone had calmed down, breakfast had been devoured and camp deconstructed, the convoy was once again on the road with the added assurance that their scouts were clearing the way ahead of them, and would alert them of any potential threat.  Brother Bright hadn't seriously expected they'd find anything worth worrying about.  But then a few hours into the second day's travel, with the sun high in the sky making the marsh hellishly humid, the Brother called a halt to the wagon's travelling chorus as Jakk'ari and Zachary break from the marshy treeline with obvious haste towards the group.

_"Hold the horses,"_ he says with a demeanor that lurches from friendly to soldierly in a heartbeat,_ "and take up your arms.  It seems like it won't be a straight-shot to the Northpoint tower after all."_

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Jak N Zac get back just in time to warn the convoy to prepare.  They have slunk past atleast eight sleek, reptilian predators with red scales and hunter-killer eyes; partially obscured in the grasses and waters as they wait for their leader's signal to strike.  Everyone can roll initiative, and get one free round of preparation before the raptors attack!

The drivers turn the wagons inwards so all the horses are in the centre, and draw spears as they take up positions in the spaces between the wagons to protect the beasts.  The medics cluster together in the centre of the wagons with wands drawn, and Brother Bright himself stands up in the seat of the foremost wagon, staff in hand, scanning about for the threat while inclining an ear to whatever the recently returned scouts have to say.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera's Dream*
Show

Isaera remembered this conversation well, stuck in her mind years afterward for some reason.

She looked at her father, uncertainly. Then she looked down. "I don't know, father. It doesn't seem like I've done anything special. Mother is the one keeping us all together. If she were gone, I.. I don't know....."

Looking back up to her father's eyes, she gets yet another close look at the scar on his face. Kind of unsightly. A grim reminder that he came very close to losing his eye, or even his life. Then that would have been three in their family that lost their father figures.

Isaera loved him, but she hated looking at it, hated looking at what those beasts had done to him, what they were doing to their lands, their home. She turned away to gaze ahead. "So is it true?" she asked. "Mother said she would find another man if you came back with a scar upon your face... I find it hard to believe that anyone could just replace you, though."

In truth, that was all probably just some jest, dark humor at its finest. Still. Those words had bothered her.


Isaera tries to fan herself off in the humidity, but it's so much. Thankfully, lots of skin showing to help cool off. But the downside likely meant more bug bites and some sunburn. She really thinks she should have brought a parasol. Or even an umbrella.

Then Jakk'ari and Zachary returned in a hurry with some grim news. Something was coming! Or...

"Did you lead them to us?!" she cries, though perhaps it couldn't be helped in any case.

With the wagons circling up, Isaera takes up a position closer to the healers in the center and begins to charge up some arcane energy. The magic took but a small amount of time to charge up, but that was time she felt she could not afford. At least, she could hold this magic for a while, ready to unleash some arcane wrath on their would-be assailants.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jakk'ari and Zachary rejoin the wagons, puffing from their desperate dash to get there on time; the hunter sliding into cover in one of the wagons and scanning the treeline with his musket; the shaman keeping his feet on the sacred earth even as he begins incanting words in Kalimag that first stir and then wildly compel the air around the wagon defenses.  A vortex of whipping winds spirals around the group, battering and pushing outward but keeping the central zone calm and clear for the defenders.  The escort from Theramore are not at all used to having a shaman on their side - indeed, the element-speakers are seen as the traditional counterpoint to the Alliance's paladins, and therefore usually regarded with disdain.  But as the sleek red reptiles emerge from the treeline all around the wagon charging forth only to stumble and stagger at the defensive winds, it's hard to fault the shaman's results.

Marion's fist unclenches as she sees a pack of three of the carnivores rushing towards her position.  An almost imperceptible wink of red light flickers in her palm, and then is replicated far across the field in the midst of the raptors.  Immediately, the grass around it blackens and dies, and begins to putrify; one of the raptors desiccates on the spot, collapsing with a whispered hiss as a bag of bones and skin, and putrefying meat.  A second raptor from the trio perishes similarly, left mewling in craven confusion while its scales slough of its legs even as it carries itself out of the zone of the arcane decay.  Only one of the three makes it out intact, hacking a reptile cough and powering forward through the winds.

Three other groups of raptors emerge from three other vectors, through two packs of three seem to be led by slightly larger and fiercer versions of the predators.  Both these groups don't fail to notice that one of the prey has isolated itself - and they have no fear of Mor'Lag's size.

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Marion's turn.  She can maintain the Death and Decay, but the surviving raptor has escaped its zone, and crossed half the distance between its starting point and the warlock.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion couldn't repress the corners of her mouth from arching as she watched her spell rot away a cylindrical swathe of both flora and raptor, the plants withering and curling in upon themselves as blackened char while the beasts disintegrated into putrescent chunks. 

"Die..." the Warlock uttered under her breath as she stared in wonder, until the persistence of the lead animal drew her attention away from fantasy and back to reality. 

Appreciating one of the men performing his raison d'etre and moving to shield her from the incoming predator, Marion focused her mind again with an utter and a gesture at the bullheaded raptor.

ooc
______________

*Ongoing effects:* Demon Armour
*Standard Action:* Casting *Corruption* against the last Raptor. It's Perception so hits automatically, DC 19 Toughness check and next round a _Secondary Effect_ requires another.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari is surprised by having seen Mor'Lag's brazen lack of caution running towards the raptors with the wind to their back and the putrid cloud of miasma blooming to his flank.
But the enclosing raptors leave no time to remain surprised. 

While retaining control of the raging wind surrounding his allies Jakk'ari shouts. 
 "Leave us!"   Seeing the opportunistic hunger amongst the raptors that would never have occupied the eyes of a druid.

Jakk'ari dashes to the flank of the nearest guard.
A streak of lightning coils into a ball within his hands before being released at the closest raptor. 

*Spoiler: Attack roll*
Show


(1d20+7)[*11*] 
I know that a 3 DEX, 4 Ranged advantage, and Rank 5 Blast will be relevant. Please correct me if I used the wrong attack modifier I am pretty new to Mutants and Masterminds too.  
Jak'arri attacks the lead raptor in group 2 and moves closer to the guard by him if possible.

It's no problem, I just assumed Jakk'ari's attacks would occur independently of Marion's and I knew Jakk'ari would be going right after her.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The final raptor from its hunting trio leaps high, punches through the wind barrier and into the open air, tongue flapping like a salivating war pennant but when it hits the ground, its leg bones crumble, leaning its torso and skull to take the impact and splat on the earth as if they had been made of chalk.  The wincing, hissing mess makes the pathetic sounds of an animal confronted with an incomprehensible death, and the driver nearby reaches out and pierces its heart with his spear as a mercy, before casting a haunted look over his shoulder at the woman who commands such forces.

Meanwhile, the hunting trio approaching Jakkari muscle their way through the wind half the distance to the troll.  Its only a matter of time before they make it all the way.

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Corruption kills the third raptor, wiping that group out with fel power!  Its Jakkaris turn!  

Edit:  just saw your post, plaids!  Will resolve your attacks on my next break.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Snarling, the raptor jukes aside just in town for the lighting to glass the ground where he stood!

The raptors closest to MorLag close to engagement range, but the winds rob them of the pace they would need to charge.

*Spoiler*
Show

The lightning misses! Alas, those raptors proceed unabated.  Group 4 closes to melee with MorLag but it costs them their whole turn to get there.  Its Zachery, Isaera and MorLags turns!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Mor'Lag has caught the attentions of a hunting group now, and the three beasts swarm around them.  The ogress reaches out claps a hand around the neck of the largest raptor, hoisting it off the ground and squeezing it until its eyes bulge and its predatory hiss is a frightened squawk.  Only desperate flailing, sleek scales, and a little luck manages to permit the raptor to writhe free, and circle around behind its more expendable kin warilly.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Mor'Lag hits with the grab attack, but the raptor managed to overcome the hold check.  Zachary and Isaera have their turns!

----------


## WindStruck

In all the chaos, there's not much time to gawk at Marion's fell power. And to be fair, Isaera wasn't really paying too much attention in that direction; Mor'Lag running out to the open, making herself a very likely target seemed to be holding most of Isaera's attention. But there wasn't really time for admonishment either.

Among the group of raptors that Mor'Lag had grabbed at, Isaera fires her arcane missile to take out one of the smaller ones.

*Spoiler: rolls*
Show

attack: (1d20+3)[*19*]

And this thing has homing 3, so it would have another chance to hit for the next 3 rounds...

Toughness save 19


The missile squarely hits the raptor, and Isaera keeps channeling her magic, intent on blasting away the next.

----------


## MrAbdiel

A twisting spark of raw arcane power leaps from Isaera's palm. When it begins the arc, it's almost a sphere rippling with imperfections in its light-form.  But as it lances towards its target, it seems as if the front of the energy is moving twice as fast as the back of it; and the ball distends within that fraction of a second into a spear of arcane light that strikes a raptor square in the middle of its head, then pulls its arcane mass through the injury; snapping its head back, leaving its body twitching in the grass.

Two raptors remain entangled with the ogress in melee; the three north of them begin adjusting their approach to join the pile on, losing their immediate interest in the wagons.

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Zach's shot remains for the PC's, this round!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marions heart thumped within her chest from a surge of adrenaline as she watched the last raptor before her violently twist, contort and sprawl across the ground before it was put out of its misery. Marvellous! 

This section of the caravan now clear, Marion withdrew herself, breathing heavy, smile widening as she turned to focus on the other side of the make-shift barricade. Narrowing her eyes and bobbing her head about, the Warlock could see the packs of raptors snaking in and throwing themselves against the towering ogres, the hulking woman-thing swinging her club-like fists at the vicious reptiles. 

Pursing her lips and assessing the situation, Marion squeezed herself between two sets of horses and made her way to the centre of the improvised keep. Focusing, glaring at that field and the struggle between ogre and raptor, the warlock drew her hands up to cast another spell - but this time, she had to think on the spot. Pursing her lips, furrowing her brow, the Alteraci exhaled as she uttered some extra words to the formula of the incantation, her efforts manifesting as a strained grimace and perspiration across her brow.

OOC:
___________________

*Sustained Spells:* Demon Armour.
*Move Action:* Moving back inside the "fort".
*Standard Action:* Power-Stunting her Death and Decay spell to add "Feature: Mor'Lag is immune" and casting it with her as the centre to catch most of the raptors.

This'll cause Marion to become Fatigued, as I'm not spending a Hero Point to off-set that.

----------


## hand ax ranger

The combat was wild and distracting, but Zachary was a natural warrior. He could find the calm in all this fighting and did so as he maintained his aim on one of these Raptors. He was aware of the efforts of his comrades, more so then they might realize, but he could engage only one at a time. So he needed to pick one.

"Focus.....It's only a waste if you don't add to their casualties." He whispers to himself, reminding himself of a principle he came to during his years of asymmetrical warfare. Even if ti did not kill it would wound, and sometimes the wounded were a liability even....

With his target picked he pulls the trigger back 'to the pressure wall', ready to squeeze it home at the exact moment. When certain of his shot he exhales, squeezes the trigger the rest of the way and his musket kicks off as his round seeks it's intend target.

*Spoiler: Blam!*
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(1d20+6)[*8*]
Damage: Not actually sure, don't know if Gm told me yet lol

----------


## MrAbdiel

With a bark of gunpowder, the weapon discharges; but to the hunter's dismay, what might have been a fine headshot actually chips the horn off the raptor's nose, leaving it angry and confused, but undeterred in its approach!

The medics Helaina and Tamberlyn slash the air with their wands, sending scintillating flickers of divine light whipping across the field that, between them, manage to down one of the raptors in the trio charging towards Jakk'ari, leaving a pair of beasts pushing through the wind towards the wagons.  Brother Bright begins incanting in the classical language of the lightbearer texts; but whatever miracle he is trying to produce does not manifest yet.  The driver who was guarding the raptor's approach to Marion, now that those beasts have been rendered to paste, moves to the side of the driver north of him.  Now both drivers brace for the dual raptors left from that vector, and they do so with the backing of Jakk'ari, and the medics aiming their wrath in the same direction!

On the other side of the battlefield, the tide of scaled killers converges on Mor'Lag who has presented herself for just that reason.  The group from the north west veers to join the south western hunting party in assaulting the ogress. Once they punch out of the cyclonic winds, they vault into the fray, all claws and teeth and furious primordial menace.  But Marion is working her suspicious magics again, and a field of smoking, foul smelling reddish energy erupts in Mor'Lag's melee.  One of the smaller raptors wheezes and dies on the spot, aging and decaying as it falls.  One of the larger raptors seems to lose a step as well, its flesh peeling and one eye going milky; and all the other raptors around seem to be experiencing the beginning effects of the same imposed rot and decay.  Yet Mor'Lag is unaffected -  the energy seems to harmlessly move around them, causing suffering only to her enemies.

And it's now, at the least convenient time, that Mor'Lag and Isaera begin to feel an inexplicable chill, and weakness creeping into their muscles.  Activated by the wash of adrenaline in their respective systems, whatever illness had been passed on by the mosquitos the night before starts to take a toll on the party members who bared the most skin, causing them to suffer either for the sake of their beauty, or as just another negative of the inability of ogres to find tailors and armorers willing to work in their sizes!

*Spoiler: OOC Update:*
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Two raptors have made it into contact with two drivers near Jakk'ari; and four raptors are swarming around Mor'Lag, with group 4 ready to attack.  *It's Jakk'ari's Turn!*

----------


## Plaids

Upon hearing the first affliction upon his allies Jakk'ari vaults onto the cart inhabited by Zachary. 
Upon seeing Mor'Lag surrounded by raptors he attempts to summon a protective ring of stones.
Making a quick prayer to the steadfast earth he attempts to beat back the threat.

*Spoiler: Deflect roll on Mor'Lag*
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(1d20+1)[*6*]
Assuming Mor'Lag is at medium distance resulting in a -2 mod.

After roll: I think the roll get +10 due to it being bellow 10.
Action: Move 1 distance class closer to Mor'Lag. Long->Mid or Mid->Close. Then use Deflect to protect them.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Two raptors - the large female hunt leader that Mor'Lag almost throttled, and a smaller creature blistering from the corrosive magics in the area - launch a co-ordinated strike on the ogress.  The smaller creature moves to flank, and lunges in to bite at Mor'Lag's ankle with the intention of bringing them down to a more fatally accessible level.  But in the midst of the lunge, the earth cracks and expresses a vertical plane of stone just three feet high.  While no monument in itself, it's the perfect height to cause the raptor to smash its face into the obstruction and stagger back, dazed and missing teeth.  But the hunt leader bounces up, strikes with is foreclaws to provoke a block from the ogre's arm, then slashes at her midsection with its large, hooked toe talons!

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

That'll be a toughness check for Mor'Lag.  Raptors have critical 18-20, and that attack was an 18, so the DC to resist will be a muscular 24.  Zachary and Isaera can go, now at initiative 8; and then Mor'Lag at initiative 3!  Present targets are the 2 minions and 2 non-minion raptors in melee with Mor'Lag (also in a decaying magical field); and the two minion raptors coming from the north east, towards the two drivers, Oscar and other-Oscar.  A reminder that for a combat where I have a lot of rolls to make in succession, rather than clutter up this thread with 6 posts in a row, I'm posting rolls here.

----------


## hand ax ranger

Having missed his shot due to the imperfection of his long rifle, he draws his sword, leaps off the wagon and rushes to the nearest raptor. He lunges the saw-backed blade at them while trying to keep these aggressors off the wagon crew.

*Spoiler: Rolls*
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Attack: (1d20+7)[*17*]
Damage DC: 19

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is a bit shocked to see such dark magics begin decaying things all around them. What in the hell was going on? A wave of chill and nausea had begun to overtake her as well. Was this a coincidence? On the bright side it seemed Mor'Lag was unaffected by the decay.

That field of death looked extremely damaging. It could potentially wipe out all the raptors surrounding her, so despite the ogre's current predicament, Isaeara checks her surroundings quickly to notice two other raptors closing in behind them.

She turns around, attempting to launch her next arcane missile at one of those raptors, which were about to attack the Oscars.

*Spoiler: rolls*
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expertise magic: (1d20+12)[*30*]   This is for determining what power Marion is using.

attack roll: (1d20+1)[*10*]   With 3 more chances for homing next round if is misses.

----------


## MrAbdiel

With his shot going wide and the raptors closing in on the Theramore escort, Zachary launches over the cart's edge, blade in hand, and hacks down with such a ferocious swipe that the target reptile's head is severed almost entirely at the neck, its body skidding to a halt before the wagons and writhing in reflexive, post-mortum spasms.

Isaera's arcane missile snaps just past the cheek of the remaining raptor, and as its fellow is cut down beside it and the projectile arcs around in the air for another pass, it looks as though it is about to run, and veers to turn from the combat.  The Oscars, however, are not slouching in their duty; and as the last beast on that side opens its flank, they strike out and spear it, arresting its movement.  It lets out a mournful kiss, cut short by the execution blow of the boomeranging arcane missile that neatly penetrates its temple.

On the other side, where the combat carries on, Mor'Lag's grip won't be denied for long, and one great, crushing hand reaches out and snatches up the largest raptor she can see - the one that had so rudely accosted her - and catches it around the neck.  Incredibly, she is able to hold the writhing beast at full extension of the arm, strangling it progressively as while laying about defensively with the other arm.

The remaining drivers move up and toss their spears, but with care not to strike the ogre, they overcompensate and their weapons sail wide.  Tamberlyn and Helaina begin zinging away with their wands into the melee, but likewise struggle to find targets.  But Brother Bright succeeds in his prayer, and with a snap of divine energy manifesting and an aural glimpse of some distant cathedral choir, a gleaming barely visible sphere of energy englobes the ogress, stacking protection on top of protection.  Now, they stand in a field if wicked magic that declines to injure them, defended by the intervention of the elements and sheathed in a protective manifestation of the light.  This concentration of powers is sufficient to give the surviving raptors the encouragement they need to flee.

Only four raptors of the hunting pack entire remain; all of them are suffering from the fel blight cast upon, and one is locked in Mor'Lag's phenomenal death grip.  The three shift their hiss-and-click hunting shatter to distressed trills of retreat, and begin scampering desperately back toward the treeline.  One of them doesn't even make it, collapsing and perishing from the decay and heaping itself on the pile of destroyed reptiles.  The two survivors stagger off into the treeline, pursued by buzzing wand flashes and any parting shots and spells the part dispenses in their direction.


The last living raptor on the scene struggles breathlessly in Mor'Lag's fist.  It scrabbles with its toe claws at the ogre's body, but they glance off the defensive magics now, leaving its situation even more pathetic.  It would be a simple matter for Mor'Lag to execute this creature now, if they are not flooded with a sudden onset of mercy.

*Spoiler: Victory!*
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With the surviving raptors routed, and the one left over entirely within Mor'Lag's mercy, the battle is over and the threat has passed.


*Spoiler: Isaera's Expertise Roll:*
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That's fel magic, plain and simple.  Known in magical parlance as "The Gravedigger" or less dramatically "Death and Decay", the spell dredges up energy from the Twisting Nether, that twilight realm of demons and dark energy, and binds it into the substrate of matter in an area which manifests as a zone of escalating entropic breakdown of creatures and objects in the area.  Visually, the damage looks like the target is being shoved through years of decomposition in moments.  The spell has ancient origins, but was reintroduced to arcane theory during the second war at the Battle of Hillsbrad Foothills, in which Gul'Dan debuted his death knights (orc warlocks bound into the bodies of dead human knights) for the first time.  Since then, the spell has been studied and replicated.  Mages, strictly speaking, do not use such spells. They require a great deal of parallel learning about managing Fel-bleed and minimizing demonic attraction, none of which is productive to advance standard arcane magical learning.  It is warlock fare; but today, after such dark knowledges proved many times to be invaluable in fighting and banishing the demons of the Legion in the third war, warlocks are tolerated and often respected... But rarely entirely trusted.

----------


## Feathersnow

"I am tempted to spare this poor, dumb animal..." Says Lag.

"Unfortunately for it, it is made of meat."  Argues Mor

"Do we have time to clean the kill?"

"If not, I might as well let it go."

----------


## MrAbdiel

Mor and Lag debate the benefits of animal butchery on the raptor, now oxygen deprived and hanging slack in their grip.  They probably have time to clean the kill - but between their keen three eyes, the signs of scale-shedding, blistering, and mystically induced rot suggest that even if they were to eat this raptor alive, there's a good chance it's already 'bad meat'.  That might be a battle for their stomachs to determine; but a glance over the shoulder reveals there are more than a few of the beasts over the other side of the wagons, atleast some of which have not been afflicted so.  If one's not averse to gamey meat, they'd be a much better use of meal-prep time.

----------


## Feathersnow

"Get out!" Shouts Lag as she tosses the creature down  
"Teach your chicks to fear that which walks on two legs!" Rejoinders Mor.

----------


## WindStruck

Most if not all the raptors were dead and fleeing.  Just one had remained, flailing in Mor'Lag's hand.

Isaera passes a weary glance toward Marion. "A warlock..?  How intriguing..."  And, perhaps worrisome.

She may have said more, but wasn't really feeling well. She leans on one of the wagons as a spell of dizziness takes her.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


And just like that, it was over!

Marions smirk remained, though it was tempered by the visible exhaustion across her features as she drew her hands down and exhaled heavily. Thick beads of sweat had crossed her brow and glistened her forehead while her breathing now came in long, deep intakes as her shoulders visible rose and fell to accommodate the recovery - but that didn't matter. They had won! _And_ not only had she tested one of her new spells upon...disposable subjects, she had even shown enough mastery to alter the procession on the fly in a way that eschewed an ally from the entropic effects. Just wonderful. 

With the cessation of Marions directive over her spell, the sheet of blistering, crimson bubbles dissipated into the air, but the blackened, putrescent effects of their passing remained. 

Turning her head to look at whomever was her right, Marion flashed a smile across her deceptively friendly face, "well that was exciting!"

----------


## Feathersnow

*Spoiler: MISUNDERSTANDING HER POINT*
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> Most if not all the raptors were dead and fleeing.  Just one had remained, flailing in Mor'Lag's hand.
> 
> Isaera passes a weary glance toward Marion. "A warlock..?  How intriguing..."  And, perhaps worrisome.
> 
> She may have said more, but wasn't really feeling well. She leans on one of the wagons as a spell of dizziness takes her.




"Indeed! We are blessed to have such a one among us!"
"But your magic is perfectly good, too, I'm sure!"
"Our fathers were also masters of the Fel."
"Sadly, we have no such aptitudes."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

"A warlock..? How intriguing..."

"Indeed! We are blessed to have such a one among us!"
"But your magic is perfectly good, too, I'm sure!"
"Our fathers were also masters of the Fel."
"Sadly, we have no such aptitudes."

Instinctive reflex caused Marion's shoulders to purse a little, as if she were about to be discovered by Paladins of the Holy Light back in Azeroth. Her study had prompted her ejection from the Kirin Tor and expulsion from Dalaran, as well as suspicion and mistrust at every port of call she had ended up in afterwards. Not that she could blame them, the fel was so...capricious. 

Pursing her lips, turning to look at the elf and ogre, Marion hesitated before giving a shrug. 

"I would not be in this fetid swamp were I in the good graces of the Kirin Tor..."

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari enjoys the small celebrations occurring between the caravan members after a swift fight without casualties and ample healing remaining.
After providing his compliments to the Oscar's and helping a dazed elf he approaches Zachary.

 "You've done well. Striking with the ferocity of a scorpid. Will you join me in informing our our captain?"  Offering him a chance to join him to speak with brother Bright.
 "Otherwise we'll still have more to discuss regarding our spying guardian."  Referring to the horde scout they had only found traces of.
 "But before that I have a payment to prepare."  Taking a small knife to the nearest fresh raptor's skull to cut the optical nerves. While wondering what could happen with a blight caller in their midst.

----------


## 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*
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*Spoiler: Insight DC 8*
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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*
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----------


## WindStruck

Isaera just manages to groan grudgingly. _'Just the skeeter fever'?_  Her legs felt like jelly and the world felt like it was tilting sideways!  But still, she supposed there wasn't much anyone could do about it...

Maybe some of that tea would be a good idea.  Or that ointment or whatever Jakk'ari was talking about, though she didn't really fancy the idea of putting mud on herself.

Or maybe she should have tried to quickly scrounge for some more clothing at her home that covered more skin? Of course, then she would be sweating like a pig! Not that she wasn't already now, but it would be way more uncomfortable.   ... traveling through this swamp _sucked_.

Despite her suffering, Isaera still manages to be rather attentive to the various things going around, though trying to keep the bugs off her is a big distraction. "By the gods, I can't wait for this trip to be over!"

----------


## MrAbdiel

Tamberlyn laughs, uncruelly.  "Honey, you sing it.  But honestly..." She lowers her voice to a stage whisper, as she conveys conspiratorial girl-talk.  "If I had a dress like that and the figure to pull it off, I'd brave the skeeters too.  Beauty is pain, they say."  She laughs at her own commentary a little, then takes out a slate and chalk to make a note for herself.  "I'll see if we can't mix up something so those bites don't itch like hell tomorrow.  But bad as it is out here, thank you for answering the call. 
 There's worse out here than the skeeters, and even the raptors; and the lost boys out there'll be scared and hungry and happy as hell to see you, when you find them."

*Spoiler: Isaera's Dream, Continued*
Show

You hear a tsk, and a quiet flutter of laughter from him as you deflect the compliment.  Your father, who has spent most of your life saturating you and your siblings with compliments and encouragement, is not strongly incentivized to dissuade you from a moment of humility.  Without articulating it directly, that little scoff communicates both that he thinks youre underselling your contribution in this crisis, but that he will honor your desire to downplay it.

But he doesnt laugh when you invoke that exchange between him and his mother; infact, his attention settles on you quiet intensely, and his composed demeanor flashes through a moment of paternal horror in which he considers that this question may have been tormenting his daughter from the moment the exchange happened, until now.  He doesnt waste a heartbeats time in putting it to rest.

*When I met your mother, I was a little obnoxiously flippant, I think; and a braggart, and a bundle of other petty vices fit the memory also.  And she was acid-tongued, and vain, and extremely good at manipulating mens hearts.  And fate arrayed us such that we would collide with one another; and she would wear down my flaws, and I wore down hers.  Our courtship filled with*  He smiles in memory, shaking his head a little as if to dislodge some cluster of recollections from a vault of experiences so choked with things worth smiling about that they needed force to be separated. * With smug dismissal, and catty threats, and accusations, and apologies, and big, romantic stunts to restore her favor.  I used to pretend to forget her parents names, just to make her angry, long past the point when I was good friends with them.  And she used to remind me that she could replace me with a younger lover with a snap of her fingers, just to cut me down to size when I took her for granted.  I think she meant it, a very long time ago; and she absolutely could replace me in a heartbeat, because shes the most beautiful woman in the world.  But she doesnt mean that she would.  Thats just Its part of a cipher she and I have.  It means she loves me, in the language of our time spent together.  This is nothing.  He touches the little crescent scar with one finger, and smiles with one corner of his mouth.  If anything, I think she likes it.  So dont worry about it Little Sunbean; Im not going anywhere.*

Little Sunbean, expressed in Common - an affectionate sobriquet for you he sometimes employs, harkening back to days earlier than your memory.  The way he tells the story, you were two years old and beginning to learn the human Common tongue along side your Thalassian; and advanced as you were, you struggled to parse the differences in your dental morphemes.  Sunbeam became Sunbean in a faulty pronunciation, and it made your father laugh, so you kept saying it.  Your mother swears the story is apocryphal, but your father stakes his sacred honor on its veracity.

*Youll develop your own little couple-rituals when I marry you off to prince KaelThas.*

This is almost certainly a joke.  But he is frightfully good at keeping a straight face, when tormenting his children with fabrications.  It is another fatherly quality in which he excels.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Once Marion had recovered, she went about re-collecting herself and her things. She ensured her pack was still secured on the wagon before casting a glance here and there to see if anyone needed assistance that she could offer. 

She was a slight distance from the quiet circle of testimony that involved her character and intentions, and so Marion had nothing to say on the matter, either in her defense or encouragement to her lone advocator.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag look at Helaina. They consider her first a moment, then come to a conclusion.
"We have no great love of your Light" Says Lag
"But Ogres take no pride in failure." Continue Mor, a little wistfully 
"And we thank you for your respect for our ways."
"Please, though, use your magic, whatever its source."

----------


## MrAbdiel

While folks are tending wounds and fevers, discussing cultural change, and gutting velociraptors for Kalimdor gumbo, Brother Bright is checking over the horses and preparing the wagons to move again.  He seems to be fussing over the foremost cart, which sits a little skewed on the road.

*Spoiler: Marion's Technology Skill {Routine Success}*
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It seems like Brother Bright is trying to figure out which axle is bent, but the problem is actually one of the swingles; specifically, the one lashed to the evener in front of the horse left of the wagons shaft.  It seems like in the haste to circle the wagons earlier, the short length of chain on the swingle got looped around the swingle proper, meaning the leftmost horse is pulling at a differential to the rightmost, rather than parallel.  The result is that the wagon is skewing right.  Its just a matter of untangling that bit of chain, but its the kind of problem that someone without a modicum of technical skill - everyone except Marion and the drivers, for example - wouldnt even know to look for.  She could easily fix his problem, or show him how.


*Spoiler: Marion's Dream Continued.*
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You can draw up the mana into yourself. That part has come to you like breathing.  But forcing it into forms, with the practised movements of your young hands, and using words whose phonemes are ancient and classical and outside of your spoken language that part isnt easy.  Tutor Laerdan has been teaching you to make frostbolts for over a year now.  With her constant correction and eye for detailed caster work, youve become pretty alright at it with supervision.  But its complex, and not internally interesting, and as you curl your fingers and try your best to incant, you can feel your palms getting exceedingly cold exceedingly fast.  That, you know, means you are on your way to fouling the spell.  The first phrase is to produce *motion* within the mana, as the elves call it; the second phrase is supposed to always be a *containment* phrase: the element of the spell that allows the caster to hold it like a physical thing as it builds, and is then dissolved in a fashion and at the time of their choosing to release that energy into the world.  Youre already at your fourth phrase in the casting - the *flow*, and trying to think back to what you said or forgot to say back in the second phrase that collapsed the containment.  You double back, repeating the second phrase to try to create containment after the fact; but the flow is already happening, and mana is sublimating out of your will into icy shards growing directly on your hands.  Its all you can do not to cry now, aborting the casting with a premature *trough* phrase to return the unmanaged flow back to its dormant state, and you brush your hands together to dislodge the accreting ice.

Randal, who is also suffering from the cold but only because he isnt used to the alpine conditions like you are, watches your fumble without comment; though you notice his eyebrows move with  What?  Amusement, perhaps at your expense?

_Dont look at him.  Look at the feather.  Try again._

You feel her hands squeezing your shoulders.  You can feel not precisely disapproval in her voice, but certainly an awareness of the imperfection that has transpired.  Its hard to see the feather now, black against the black of the sky; but you track its motion by the way it blots the stars it passes in front of.  Resolving, you try again, and hear Laerdans voice in your head, cycling the seven words you have heard so, so many times in the last three years.

_Motion.  Containment.  Frame.  Flow.  Vector.  Breach.  Trough._

You cite the opening phrase, and feel the mana stir in you again.  And then your attention is drawn away by a gunshot from far below, in the streets.

No, not a gunshot in the streets - just a clap, hard enough to sound like a gunshot for an instant to your ears; and not below in the streets, but below on the terrace.  Your eyes cannot help but jag their attention downward, and they capture in your mind a memorable tableaux.  Randals father, this armored nobleman from another nation, has his right arm across his body, palm open, body slightly twisted at the hips with the preceding motion.  Staggering back, not quite falling but unbalanced, is your father.  He has been slapped with such force that he has nearly fallen over.  With the sound of the blow, your mothers hands tighten instinctively on your shoulders to the point of bruising; as if the blow has been transmitted in part to her through the bond of matrimony, and she is earthing the charge of it directly into you, by touch.


The feather catches an updraft and begins to spiral higher, and further; too far for you to hit it now, even if you were a very practiced mage.  But you wont flounder the same way twice, and you recite your containment phrase.  This time, you feel the scintillation in your fingertips that you expected.  Yet you cannot help but glance down, again; and the scene is arguably worse.  Now your father is standing upright again, and the two of them continue to speak as if the blow had not happened.  As if your father had not been struck in the face in the heights of his own tower in the view of his wife and daughter.  You are too young to understand the politics that made it this way; but you are not too young to understand the incredible, galling audacity of such an exchange.  The sickening disparity of authority that impresses on you unmistakably that as powerful as your family is, and as your nation is, there is a power possessed by other thrones that could reach in and wipe your world from the face of history.

You feel something welling up in you that you mistake for a desire to be sick - but its something else - the mana inside you, sympathetically roiling with motion at your emotional state, too fierce and hostile as a force to be boxed in the containment measure youve constructed.  But its coming up, and out, and with a surge of instinct that races up your spine, down your arms and curls your fingers into locked claws, you look up to the sky and focus your outrage on that vanishing black feather in the night sky.

Ice does not leap from your hands; but a gout of flame originating around the feather itself blooms into being with growl of conflagration and ten foot detonation before it is dispersed enough to wisp away in the air.  Now Randal is looking at you with surprise; maybe even _fear_.  That was not like a bolt spell.  It needed no containment to protect you, no frame to describe its form to the cosmos.  It was all flowing mana, and the intention to destroy.  And unlike the intimidating formalism of the magic you have learned it felt good.

_I think_ Your mother begins, loosening her grip on your shoulders, gazing up at the sky, _We might arrange a more formal scholarship for you, in Dalaran.  You have, perhaps, exceeded what lone tutor can offer you, my Marion._

Below, gazing up at you, are the faces of the men on the terrace.  Your father seems at ease, having seen the familiar form of you and your mother and knowing at once that you are not startled by the burst in the sky.  But the nobleman, Randals father, looks bewildered; hand on the hilt of his sword, his two guards moving in to his sides as they puzzle out what they fear to have been the sound of some assassination attempt.

----------


## MrAbdiel

> Mor and Lag look at Helaina. They consider her first a moment, then come to a conclusion.
> "We have no great love of your Light" Says Lag
> "But Ogres take no pride in failure." Continue Mor, a little wistfully 
> "And we thank you for your respect for our ways."
> "Please, though, use your magic, whatever its source."


Helaina nods a few times, smiling benignly.  She doesnt understand the ogresss rejection of the Light; but she understands that she understands; and thats probably enough.  She passes a hand over the wound, speaking words that provoke an ethereal repetition with warm choral melody.  The wound seals, leaving a faint white line that will fade to MorLags skin tone in a few days.

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

MorLag is healed!

----------


## hand ax ranger

Zachary looked to the warlock and shrugged. He didn't seem to hold hostilities and got the impression they did not wish to draw a great deal of attention to the root of their powers. Though she didn't realize it he understood fully.....

"Alright then, let's get this all moving again. We've got a wounded man out in those woods still and even more to find." He begun reloading his long-rifle as he spoke to them. "Have your three figured out anything while me an Jakk'ari were scouting ahead?"

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera gives Zachary a look. "Figured out anything?  Like what??"

She shakes her head and adds, "I'm afraid you know far more than we do."

Looking around wearily she asks, "Is everyone alright?"

----------


## hand ax ranger

He shrugs at her question. "Well I don't know....hence my asking. you'd be surprised how often important information comes from the least likely source. As for my health I am fine."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion spotted the problem with the wheels, her eyes widened a little and her grin arching. 

"We won't be getting far along through the swamp with _you_ holding us back, will we?"

The warlock swung her legs over the edge of the wagon and descended back onto the ground. Of note was the way Marion moved, as a girl brought up on a more rustic frontier may have simply hopped off, while the Alteraci revealed her higher born roots by careful descending and accepting help from any passing male that offered her a hand with a polite "Thank you!"

Down onto the ground again, Marion moved about to where she spotted the growing fault with the chains and wheels. Once in position, she peered and inspected, her perusal simply confirming what she had spotted from above as she nodded in satisfaction to herself. 

"Yes, quite..." she said to no-one in particular. Looking around, craning her head, the Alteraci spotted the fellow attempting to fix the wagon and directed her voice at him. 

"Brother Bright?" her voice smooth and polite. 

"In our haste to form defensive posturing's, we wrapped one of the chains fully around the swingle," she pointed directly to the problem. Marion deliberately used collective language in a diplomatic effort to eschew any one person from fault or blame.

"The horses, poor dears, will be traveling at different speeds with a right-most skew. It will cause a bit of bother under normal circumstances, and will render retreat under duress a perilous affair."

----------


## WindStruck

Wait, something was wrong with the wagons?

"Huh?" Isaera asks confused. "Can't you just unwrap the chain?"

She slowly walks over to see what they were talking about.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

"That is precisely how to remedy the problem."

----------


## MrAbdiel

Naturally, its Torian who notices Marion swinging her legs over the edge of the wagon.  He and other-Oscar are unlimbering a freshly assembled stretcher from a rear wagon, but Torian sees his moment, drops the stretcher, and blurs over to offer Marion an assisted descent at the speed of chivalry.

Brother Bright looks up at the young noblewomans approach and listens to her commentary with a blank expression.  His eyes track to the offending wagon, then back to her.  Hes about to ask what the heck a swingle is, when Isaera, too, adds her elven grace to the Council of Unlikely Wagonwrights.  He takes another look at the snarled chain, and slowly the engineering problem dissolved in his book-smart mind into the comprehensible solution already offered.  But before he can act on that, other-Oscar calls over:

_Yeah, just unwrap the chain, Brother.  Its not goblin science._

First, Marion and Isaera homed in on the solution - both spellweaving women of class and grace from whom he had not expected technical commentary (and certainly not Marions detailed tour of the problem); but other-Oscar scoring some points back off him is the icing on the cake.  The Brother looks briefly confounded, and perhaps even frustrated - but its a brief thing, and he does what most good humoured men do when they are revealed to be as prone to folly as any other.  He jokes his way out of the embarrassment.

_Well, Im sorry, I slept through the day we covered Anointed Wagon Repair in seminary.  Dont just stand there, other-Oscar, Torian; get over here and dingle this swingle._

The lads go to the embarrassingly simple repair with shared snickering, and Brother Bright feigns a kick to Torians backside as he goes, further burying his moment of failure in clownish pantomime.  But he circles back to own up, to the ladies.

_Yes, youre both quite right.  Mechanisms arent quite my element; I suppose when you know what to look for, its right obvious.  Forgive my ignorance.  I hadnt taken either you for tradesfolk._

The fact that Isaeras contribution was less tradecraft and more simple deduction from an attentive mind is lost on the Brother, who is now assuming he can assume nothing about either of them. _ Just so I know when to call on you, besides the magic, what other skills does your group possess?_

----------


## MrAbdiel

There's a little exchange that proceeds, with the group and Brother Bright.  When the group was dispatched, the orders were pretty directly to not entangle the groups too much.  They are, after all, an explicitly Alliance medical delegation and a deniable non-affiliated asset to safely move through Horde territory.  But that seems to have fallen away a little now; the reality of being in the dangerous swamp, Horde or not, encourages a little more sharing.  The Theramore escort seem to have processed Marion's dark powerset just as they processed the more exotic Jakk'ari and Mor'Lag: for there are few experiences that can bond people like fighting off a wave of velociraptors side by side.

Other-Oscar and Torian head off with Jakk'ari and Zachery on a retrieval mission, reuniting with the wagon train a little further up the road during a pitstop to eat the last of the raptor-based-stew Jakk'ari had prepared before it has a chance to go bad.  Jakk'ari delivers the raptor eyeballs to Jarl, who is tickled pink to receive them, and happy to be relieved of his moral burden over the injured young man in his care.  

The recovered cadet's name is Aeden.  He doesn't get to introduce himself; he is fighting fever from his wounds, the infections on which would certainly have killed him but for the rudimentary medicine applied to him by the swamp hermit.  It seems that whenever this cadet split off from his fellows, he was travelling back toward Theramore, deviated off the road, and was mauled badly by raptors before collapsing near enough to Jarl's hut to benefit from his ministrations.

*Spoiler: Treatment, Expertise: Medicine, or similar, DC 25.*
Show

Upon closer inspection, and with some difficulty because of the severity of the wounds, it seems unlikely that raptors were the sole culprit.  Intermingled with the piercing teethmarks are the puncturing chevrons that suggest a beaked attacker, as well.


Apart from that recovery mission, there are no interruptions to the journey; and just as well, because the one delay slowed the wagons enough that they have to travel through the night for a couple of hours to reach Northwatch Tower.  A host of tower guards help unload the wagons, take Aeden inside to recover in a modicum of comfort, and provide new rations and some meat from the tower's local hunting teams.  They have a predictable unease with Mor'Lag and Jakk'ari, but these guards are Theramoran themselves, and have at least seen them around the city once or twice sufficient to not overreact.

Another night of camping, this time in the comforting safety of the Alliance position; a morning routine, breakfast and resupply, and day three begins for the eclectic party with departure from the wagons, and the escort.  Brother Bright has the crew rig up an oversized travel pack containing a pair of stretchers, a medical kit, and enough camping gear for the group.  Bulky as it is, it's a trivial carry for Mor'Lag.  After that, there's nothing for the Theramorans to do but bid the team good luck.

_"We'll be here, of course"_, Brother Bright promises, _"ready to look after the lads you find.  West of here is Brackenwall village.  The settlement leader, last we knew, is Nazeer Bloodpike; an orc sent from Orgrimmar to establish a counterweight settlement here in Dustwallow Marsh.  But since Lady Proudmoore's worked so hard to keep relations peaceable, they've never really needed to escalate to a more robust settlement with watchtowers of their own.  Seems like a dead-end assignment to me, but hell if I know if that's a great honor for an orc or not.  Hopefully, you'll pick up the trail of the other three cadets before you have to consider speaking to them directly."_

Helaina and Tamberlyn offer their farewells early, and head back to the tower to watch over Aeden and attend some of the tower guard's routine injuries.  The drivers offer handshakes and aphoristic encouragements as they peel off one at a time to take up their shift guarding the tower and relieve soldiers there to return to Theramore.  Torian, perhaps disappointing himself in a later reflection, does not summon sufficient courage to attempt another fumbling flirtation toward Marion; just a professional handshake, and a hasty retreat.

*Spoiler: Professions, OOC*
Show

With your stay at the tower, there's time and resources to attempt one use of a profession.  A crafting profession to make its expected product, or a gathering profession to produce resources to lower the DC of someone else's crafting profession check now or later!  After that, it's time to go get these cadets, though you might feel free to discuss plans IC, if you have them.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion offered a pleasant smile to Torian as he darted over to offer her a hand of assistance in descending the side of the wagon. It was a sweet gesture that she appreciated, and Tarion was rewarded with his efforts with a warm smile and a genuine "Thank you, goodman Torian."

"I know a few things about mining..." Marion admitted, her right hand strokign her jaw as she gazed upwards in idle thought, "but that runs in the family. Or it used to, anyway..."

"I served an engineering apprenticeship at Dalaran while also enrolled as a regular student. That is how I spotted our initial problem," she crooked her right index finger to point towards the wrapped-around chain. 

oOo

During the temporary residence at the watchtower, Marion noticed something. 

She was watching how the elf and ogre took rather poorly to the humid, fetid and insect-choked environment of the swamp, their constitutions ill-prepared to see off the myriad dangers that sought to lay them low with infirmity. Marion herself had fared much better, and though she may enjoy the idea that her mountainous upbringing had installed within her a heartier fortitude, it was quite a tale to say that one was tougher than an ogre. Thus, the engineer considered the differences between herself, Isaera  and Mor'Lag, and the warlock quickly discerned that of the three only she was dressed properly for their surroundings. She wore no thick raiments, but rather she was almost entirely covered. The elf, meanwhile, had paraded herself around in a way that the noble-born Alteraci kept to herself, while the ogre, naturally born and raised within a backwards and savage culture, bedecked herself with only the crudest forms of linen (in Marions opinion anyway). 

Why would this matter? 

Well, Marion knew well of how a carcass left upon the earth would soon attract a swarm of flies. Likewise, she had seen the mosquitos and other repulsive insects buzzing around their camp, hour after hour, their needles, stingers and injectors helping themselves to their exposed skin where they could. 

Naturally, Marion considered just telling the two to wrap up and wear something decent, Isaera in particular, like a traveling lady should and that their illness was the universes way of suggesting that they dress with a better sense of propriety. But between a who-knows-how-old-elf and enormous ogre, Marion did not fancy her chances of getting them to change their minds. So perhaps they needed something else that would keep the insects away?

For a good long while Marion pondered this puzzle on her own, merely seated in a corner with a small bit of food and a writing pad and pen, taking notes, jotting down thoughts and observing the world around her. 

Then she spotted the beastly Troll working his primitive alchemy, and an idea suddenly ignited within Marions brain. A 'Eureka!' smile splitting her features, she buried her attention into the note-book before her and started to feverishly write, draw and compute. 


ooc:

Marion is using her 'Inventor' advantage to create the following:

*Power:* Immunity 1: Disease.

Inventing: (1D20+6)[*24*] vs TN DC 11.

She's making a Warcraft Bug Repellent.

----------


## Plaids

There were still three recruits out there. Potentially four battered young soldiers. 
The Isaera and Mor'Lag were thankfully recovering quickly thanks to the Theramore medics. After spending some time with Mor'Lag in the tavern Jakk'ari knew the two had withstood their fair share of stress and tragedy. 

But the others were a mystery.
Zachary being ex-military was likely hardened by combat and hardship. But Jakk'ari knew how grief could still overwhelm even experienced men. He knew with pain that every timeafter the first time to truly tear a hole in someone would be lesser, more easily managed, and quicker to heal but it would still hurt and tear.  

Isaera is young and Jakk'ari's first sighting of here was in the tavern flaunting a fabulous gift for of arcane power. She is likely the most vulnerable and would need to cautiously observed for distress. 

Marion was the hardest to decipher. She presented a commanding presence in the tavern and wielded a grim power stoically but her untarnished face and lack of insignias suggested her to be a civilian secluded from combat. Marion is the biggest unknown. Hopefully she was was strong.  

Either way the stress and pain could be assuaged with preparation. Failing to see a gardener Jakk'ari headed off to the side of tower to forage for some herbs.

----------


## MrAbdiel

After availing themselves of the tower's supplies and equipment, the group packs up their kit and gets moving west, and a little south; off the roads the Alliance patrols at all and, passing a shield daubed with a red familiar glyph denoting Horde presence to all those that would pass that point.  But pass that point the cadets certainly did.  A little ways from that sign, the remnants of a campfire is found.  It's washed out, but that means that it's at least as old as the thunderstorm two nights ago.  Jakk'ari takes a moment to consult with the earth spirits in the area about the last time they saw a flame spirit and, though it can be hard to decipher strict meaning from an unmanifested spirit's milky concept of the passage of time, it seems that the spirits confirm the investigator's suspicions that this campfire was burning more than five days ago.  Additionally, there are three large rocks arranged around the fire, and some drag marks suggest that there were a pair of short logs here that have probably been dragged off by a local peon.  Before that reclamation, three rocks and two logs makes for five seats around a campfire: the first night of five young cadets exorcising their spirits of risk and adventure by camping in Horde territory before they would become full Theramore guards and subject to more rigid expectations of behaviour.  After this long series of deductions by the team, Isaera manages even to spot with her legendarilly keen elven senses that the boys have helpfully carved their marks into a narrow swamp tree - the letters A, F, G, L, and X in common script scarring its gnarled bark.  A for Aeden who they found at Jarl's hut; L for Lidus who made his desperate sprint back to Theramore to raise the alarm and fell into an exhausted coma.  The other three letters correspond to the names of the other cadets, as conveyed by Brother Bright during the off-the-record candid exchange of information: Gawin, Felix, and Xander.

From there, Zachary leads the party south off the road and into the scrub and brush.  Horde patrols, he reasons, have little incentive to strike out off the roads in numbers for more distance than they need to investigate sounds or motions.  Horde scouts might well plunge deep off the roads and just about anywhere in the wild area.  But a path beaten through the scrub, with enough broken reeds, crushed nests, and the odd half-print of a boot to suggest a small group of individuals surging off the roads for a long trek?  That sounds like the cadets, who would want to avoid the roads at this point and the chance of encountering Horde patrols.  What isn't clear is why they chose to strike south instead of heading back to the tower after their little stunt.  But it's Marion who is able to supply an answer to this, as the day of searching rounds down and the party is forced to camp for the night.  They camp using the stone circled firepit made by the cadets when they pass through, and Mor'Lag spots a glint of silver amidst the ashes as the new campfire is kindled there - three eyes being better than two, it seems.  It's a small loop, an ear ring, that might have belonged to one of the cadets; except that Marion knows it could not have.  This little ring isn't pure silver at all, but felsteel - and it likely came from the ear of a small demon type known as an imp.  As a reasonable conjecture, this imp appeared from within the campfire, and then took a great blow from one of the cadets sufficient to knock the ring free.  Once the scenario of a fight happening around the campfire is raised, and the party knows to example this area with a deliberate eye, they are able to assemble a likely scenario.

_The cadets had intended to prove their bravery by camping in Horde territory, and did so; but the next morning, before they could turn back, something caught their attention sufficiently that they spent a day diverting south at a careful pace into the brush.  When it became dark, they stopped to camp again - then they came under attack.  An enemy, with atleast one fel magician sufficient to summon an imp, fell upon the cadets as they were bedding down.  It seems that they scattered, at that point; tracks sufficient for one or two strike east; probably Lidus and Aeden who made it all and halfway back to Theramore respectively.   One broken branch with a fleck of skin and blood on it suggests a blind rush north east, in the perhaps coincidental direction of Brackenwall.  And two don't go very far at all - perhaps they stood and fought, or perhaps they surrendered.  But the fact that the leave neither tracks nor bodies and so little combat sign raises suspicions in the group's collection of keen minds.  Jakk'ari is disturbed to find the earth spirits in this place disoriented, and sluggish; the air whispers to him that they have been poisoned, and made to forget.  And so, the crown on the hypothesis: whoever attacked used some kind of masking magic to cover up their tracks after the conflict, leaving only the tracks of the cadets who escaped east and north.  The trackless directions, broadly speaking, are west - leading to the border with the Barrens, and the beginning of the Horde heartland - and south, into the thickest part of Dustwallow's swampy regions called the Quagmire.  Thus, the party is left with reason to believe that one of the cadets went in a blind panic towards the nearby Horde settlement, a day's travel north west.  And whoever attacked them, using fel magic in their arsenal and with other tricks to bamboozle the earth spirits into hiding the signs of their passage, must have departed with their captives or kills to the Barrens, or the Quagmire.  As they spend their third night in the wild, and any living cadets spend their seventh, the party must decide amongst themselves which direction they ought to investigate on the following day._

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag fingers the tiny ring _a relic from another world, lost in the great war between the Legion and the Old Gods!! A symbol of power!_  they flip a coin.
Mor sticks it through the cartilage of her nose. A little blood drops out. 
Keen eyes might have seen a green spark...
Lag wills it not to catch, and it is extinguished. 

Later, Mor and Lag consider the cadets.

"One went to the Horde."
"Trouble "
"The others..."
"Already dead"
"And won't spark a war if they aren't"

----------


## WindStruck

"We can't say for certain if they are dead yet.." Isaera says.  If she wasn't simply being hopeful, she was just being contrary.

"The identity of the attacker is still unknown, but if they are some type of warlock themselves.. Marion, do you think you may have a way to detect a fel presence, should they try to sneak up on us?"

"My best guess is..and my hope, is that whoever fled to Brackenwall village may be safe for now. If they behaved as cold-blooded savages and merely killed the cadet, they would have done so days ago. We can head to Brackenwall last. As for the other two, it seems hard to say what happened. If magic was used to obscure tracks, that still doesn't mean they didn't get far..."

She suggests, "Perhaps, if we were to head a ways south, we may find evidence of passage again? I think this magic would only have a limited time or scope."

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari considers words carefully. Reasoning he would likely need a unified party to survive the marsh and return to Theramore with any more cadets.

 I agree. The horde are fierce but have members who can be reasoned with. I believe that our cadet is safe and I can appeal to their honor to return any cadet held in Bracken Wall. Supporting Isaera.
 Don't forget our payment comes even with the return of dead cadets. Attempting to appeal to Mor'Lag.

Addressing everyone he mentions. There is a malevolent agent who has been here. One that the horde shamans will be glad to have been defeated.  
Attempting to rouse the party he provides his final address for the moment. I've seen what our group has done. I see ambition and power enough to scale mountains and rout rivers. We can find the scouts taken further into the wilderness.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion held up the small, silver ring with an scrutinising hazel eye. 

"It is certainly exquisite, isn't it?" she asked no-one-in-particular, her familiarity with metals informing her that this was metal not of this world. That it would end up decorating the nostrils of the ogre didn't seem to bother the warlock, at least until she was asked if she could do anything about it. 

Pursing her lips in though, Marion, for the first time, withdrew a leather-wrapped tome from within her backpack and opened it. The parchment within was inscribed with hack-and-slash symbols, patterns of geometry and a myriad of notes, gylphs and drawings that one would best keep from the weak and the timid, but Marion flipped through the pages non-chalantly until stopping upon a section that had sprung up in her memory. 

"Aha!" she exlcaimed, nodding her head once before looking up at Mor'Lag. 

Considering her auctions with a silent 'Hmmm...', the human stood up, reached up and moved to pluck the silver ring from the ogre's nose. 

"May I?" she asked.

If permitted, Marion retrieved the object and placed it upon the ground. With the point of her right index finger, and book splayed open with her left from which she took directions, the warlock started to draw a series of runes into the dirt and chant softly to herself...

ooc:

*Spoiler*
Show

Marion is using *Ritualist* to create a ritual. 


"Demon Scrying" (Multiple Effects) (3pp)
*Senses 8:* Detect (Demon), Acute, Accurate, Ranged (sight), Extended 3, Activation, Limited (Requires object belonging to target), Unreliable (5 uses)
*Enhanced Trait 5:* Perception +10, Concentration, Custom (Requires object belonging to thing being perceived), Increased Action, Sense-dependent (Detect Demon), Unreliable (5 uses).

She'll Take 10 on her Expertise (Magic) roll if she can, otherwise:

*Expertise (Magic):* (1D20+10)[*26*] vs TN 13

*Edit:* I've just realised that the Senses will also need Counters Concealment (All) and Penetrates Concealment. That will make the total ritual 6pp instead, which she still passes, but I wanted to bring awareness to my adding this here rather than looking shifty and just capitalising upon a great roll to add extra stuff.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag look on, stunned.

"That was a relic of a dead world"
"Collateral damage in the Legion's crusade against the abominations"
"But you made it live again "
"We wish we could be like you"

Lag pulls a glass vial out of a surprisingly clean leather satchel.

"Take this.  A tincture of herbs to increase intellect."

Mor sounds sad as she says. "It is little use to us"

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Marion's Ritual - Untwisting the Nether*
Show

So far, the search for the cadets has relied on mortal senses.  Not just the traditional tracking senses, like the keen eyes and ears of the high elf but also the skilled and ingrained wilderness sense of the human huntsman.  In these things, Marion can assist, but cannot leverage her full expertise.  But there are other senses than even these, for those with the strength in their convictions and steel behind their eyes; senses that reveal things not strictly that _are_, but instead things that _should not be and yet are_.  It is such illicit sensory power that Marion is forced to draw on now.

Well; perhaps not forced.  Afforded, maybe.

The other members of the party watch as Marion gazes down into the ring resting in the palm of her hand.  She incants the strange words in the wicked language that causes all who hear it to taste ash in their mouths.  The runes she has scratched in the dirt pool up with sourceless smoke, and then a glimmering smoulder of green flame.  And the ring in her palm stirs, shifts, stands upright on its edge, and begins spinning.  Lazilly at first, then faster and faster until it seems to be a whirling silver ball in the warlock's hand.  Her eyes, too, have taken on the same silver sheen, and they flutter and track left and right as they orient to a whole new world of perceptions.

To Marion's eyes, her ritual works, and she partially penetrates the veil of worlds to see an overlay of how the Twisting Nether comes close to Azeroth.  Varghast is there, in some splash of a scene on another world drawn close enough to your vision by, you must assume, nothing more than your affinity for that particular demon.  In a dark crystal sphere the size of a moon, he swarms in shapeless oneness with millions of others of his kind.  The nature of this union is incomprehensible to you; and you force your attention away, and back to the task at hand - targeting not the demon you have bound to your service, but the one to whom this little trinket belonged.  Your gaze tracks across distorted miles of the Netherscape, and you cannot find the imp you are looking for.  He is gone far away, or perhaps, he is unsummoned in some other Netherplace to which your senses cannot reach with your power.  But what you _do_ see is enough to make a difference.  The places where the overlay of the Nether you are perceiving and the 'real' world intersect light up the path of this imp's passage in this world as clearly as if it were a story you already knew by heart; an only slightly uncomfortable sense of coming to know that is imparted upon you without a strict understanding of how this information is sluicing into your mind in this phantasmagorical pseudo-sight.  It was summoned into being near the road from which you departed a dark before; moving a little south before being unsummoned again only to be resummoned further down the same path.  In and out of the world, in and out, like a sewing needle penetrating the fates of these young men and stitching up their graveclothes, the imp was conjured likely to be glimpsed by the young soldiers to lure them further and further from the road.  These cadets are too young to have fought in the third war, so they cannot have known the cunning of the legion; but they know the songs of valor and tales of sacrifice in which their fathers and grandfathers die to spurn the conquest sought by these demons.  It's not hard ti imagine them being easily enticed by a chance to stomp out even a minor creature of the Fel.

Once they got to this campsite and gave up their chase, the imp was summoned again - this time in the midst of the fire - and immediately was struck with something flat and hard.  A cooking skillet, you speculate; enough to nearly kill it and to draw the victorious focus of the cadets while some greater ambush was sprung upon them.  In the ensuring combat, the imp was killed and rendered unmanifest; but it has been summoned back into the world just one more time before its trail vanishes from your supernatural sight - far to the south, close to the ogre mound and encampment known as Stonemaul village.  If the binder of this imp has taken any of these cadets as prisoner or trophy, they have taken them there.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


A smile crossed Marions features as she stood upright and rolled her shoulders. Lifting her right hand and pointing in the direction of the Stonemaul compound, she announced to the group, "the answers we seek are in that direction. Surrounded by ogres."

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag 
The Ogres look uncomfortable. 

"We must confess"
"We aren't a real Ogre" 

"Our Fathers fought in the Second War..."
"They were a great warlock" 

"But they died. Without leave."
"Every one of The People was required to take ten enemy before they had permission to die" 

"Our Fathers were struck by lightning with only 8 kills "
"He was a deserter." 

"His marriage was annulled"
"I became illegitimate. Clanless" 

"Do not expect me to be welcomed by these kidnappers " 

The Ogres look dejected at admitting their secret. Lag moreso.  For she had a darker sin than her shameful parentage.  _She hated magic._ 
Power was the only true virtue, and magic was the purest form of power.  But she wished not to harness it, but only _To make it go away_

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: #JustOgreThings*
Show

Mor'Lag, by virtue of being an interestingly well informed ogress, would know a little about the Stonemaul.

The Stonemaul were one of the largest clans to come through the portal; enough that even after losing the second war, their tribe was large enough to split into two elements with self-sufficient numbers.  Half of the clan established themselves in the mountains near Dalaran, and were caught up in a conflict between Sylvannas' early Forsaken and the Scourge splinter force commanded by the Dreadlord Varimathras.  The Stonemaul leader, Mug'Thol, was fierce and independant with intentions to profiteer off the battle by hiring forces to each side; but then mysteriously threw in his allegiance entirely with Sylvannas and her forces.  This inexplicable spurt of allegiance was not to be longlived, as those ogres eventually travelled into ruins of Alterac and became the tribe known now as the Crushridge.

The other half of the Stonemaul fled the failed war across the sea with the ogre 'survivor armada', and settled in Dustwallow Marsh.  After courting the Horde for aide during internal strife then betraying the Horde at the earliest opportunity, the Dustwallow Stonemaul endured a leadership challenge.  The Mok'Nathal champion of the Horde Rexxar, along with his companions, slew the corrupt chieftain Kor'gall and took his rightfully won place as leader of the clan.  Three years of formal Horde affiliation followed after which Rexxar abdicated leadership to the up and coming leader Mok'Morokk, who began reducing the formal ties to the Horde and carefully steering the remains of the Stonemaul tribe towards independence out from underneath the red banner.  The ogres at Stonemaul Village, therefor, might be expected to be somewhat pro-Horde, but not formally integrated.

----------


## WindStruck

"Ogres? How do you know there are..  oh nevermind..." she sighs.

"Great. That fact alone reduces the chance of the cadet being alive tremendously...  Can only hope the ogres didn't find him, or else he'd be stew already..."

"Well, I don't suppose they might be bargained to part with what amounts to used soup bones?" she asks, her attention drifting hopefully toward Mor'Lag, up until she also admits that she, well, probably would not be well-received either.

Another - this time - more long, drawn out, utterly-exasperated sigh.

"I don't know. Just make up some distant clan but also have some believable reason to be along with us or something. Or just don't say you were disowned! Better yet, we may just want to avoid them. I don't mind venturing south, just to be sure, but.. I think it would be a terrible idea to get too close."

----------


## MrAbdiel

Its not promising, Ill admit.  Zachary chimes in, rubbing his beard pensively.  How about this: we take the bird in the hand before going for the two in the bush?  If one cadet has fled up to Brackenwall, we ought to try to recover him sooner since hes an enemy agent to the Horde, and not just a well, unfortunate prisoner like one might be with the ogres.  Im nervous about Brackenwall - a good orc spymaster will pick me for alliance military, retired or not.  But the rest of you can pass just fine; even Marions not exactly got the cut of a soldier.

Let me do what I do best.  Ill head south toward Stonemaul Village, leaving ranger sign that the elfs eyes wont miss so you can avoid the worst of the terrain on the longer journey.  The rest of you head up to Brackenwall.  Jakkaris a diplomat.  Hell get you in.  Heck, if they do have one of the boys, Jakkari might even convince the Horde to keep him safe so we dont have to run him back to the tower before we regroup to check out the Stonemaul lead when youre done.

----------


## 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 VILLAGEIt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!*
Show

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*
Show

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!*
Show

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...*
Show

_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*
Show

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*
Show

...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*
Show

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:*
Show

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*
Show

_"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?*
Show

"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:*
Show

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*
Show


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*
Show

"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...*
Show


The Bloody Dwarf

*Spoiler: Ambience, Visuals*
Show






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*
Show

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...*
Show

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...*
Show

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?*
Show

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.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: To Grill A Walking Bird - In the rainy street...*
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The cyclopic grillmeister gives Mor'Lag a look like they had descended on wings of glory, outstretching arms to raise him from perdition.  With a modicum of teamwork, Mor'Lag is able to the grab a handful of the rags put aside for this purpose, and with one ogre on either end of the spit they each have a free hand to grab one of the rough-wrought spit brackets too.  They charge through the rain just as it graduates from _summery_ to _torrential_ and set up the brackets on the veranda, and the bird thereupon; the heat of its slow roast wisping off the raindrops in a vapor that has barely harmed its quality at all.  The veranda dwelling orcs and trolls let out a lazy cheer of encouragement at this display, which is at least one third sarcastic amusement.  "Bludgers!"  The ogre scowls, and hooks his foot under the nearest chair, and then kicks up sending chair and pipe-smoking orc in a tumble into the group of unhelpful looky-loos.  There is some baying and grumbling as they topple together like ten pins, some drinks spilled and some skins bruised; but they're not so deep in cups this early in the night that they take the offense personally, and likewise not yet unable to appreciate the the approximate justice that has been visited upon them.  Chastened for their sloth, they cackle help each other up, slapping backs and showing off grazes; and their attention vanishes into their own midst again as they begin rapidly going through the traditional drinking-buddy transaction web about who has spare coppers and who owes who from last time to pay for a slice of the plainstrider.

 "You saved me great dismay and ridicule, clanless.  You have my thanks, and my debt."  Producing a large and obviously beloved set of carving knife, fork, and sharpening stele, the ogre begins razoring up the edges of the knife with natural and well practised wrist flicks.  As he does, he launches amiably into conversation with his reluctant assistants, displaying that his disdain for their station in the ogre superculture doesn't seem to go much past calling them 'clanless'.  _"I am Ogg'mar, of Stonemaul.  Or Brackenwall, maybe; I am settled.  My passion for the fortification of meat with fire and spices was truncated in Stonemaul Village, where there's nought to butcher but crocolisks and other rugged swamp game.  You can work them if you know what you're doing, but every part of the preparation you sink into ablating the knotty muscles and settling the_ overflavor, _you're not putting into seasoning or preserving the tenderness or..."_  He goes on like this for a little while, clearly a creature of singular endeavour.  By they time he finds his way back from that culinary sidetrack, he is shearing off big sheets of plainstrider breast meat on to a platter, and transacting off handedly with the tavernflies he had chastened earlier.  The going rate seems to be eighty copper for a pie-plate sized slice, which is rolled up and pierced with a 'U' shaped bronze utensil with barbed points and miniature boar-spear lugs halfway down to stop the meat slipping off.  The buyer pays his price, then grips the bronze loop with the middle digits of his hand so he can eat the meal spiked a couple of inches above his closed fist, with the other hand free for ale.  When the 'U' fork is returned, they get back ten copper like a security deposit.

_"...But Brackenwall is the crossroad to the Crossroads, so I can get decent trade from Barrens colonies, the Grimtotem in the Needles, and Durotar sailing down the coast.  Or Mulgore, like this pretty bird - my birdherd brought me a train of six two days ago, and I slaughter them myself.  I'd think about raising them here, but they don't know how to peck for grubs in the mushy ground.  Anyway; I don't see any tattoos on you fresher than a whole war ago.  I've never seen a clanless bifold - atleast, not without an exile brand."_  He shears off one of the huge drumsticks, leaving it hanging by a few succulent strands of flavoursome muscle, and indicates with a flick of fork that Mor'Lag is free to twist it off, as their just reward.  The peanut gallery on the veranda sees this favouritism and lets out a wave of mostly artificial grumbling that dissolves into the laughter of tipsy taverners.

_"So what's your story?"_

*Spoiler: Mor'Lag OOC:*
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Feel free to abstract how much of Mor'Lag's story she's willing to impart to Ogg'mar (if any); I won't force you to retype or copy-paste what can be easily enough recited in third person summary.

Mor'Lag is entitled to a giant drumstick for herselves, and a U-fork of meat for their companions to be collected at their leisure.  But depending on how social Mor'Lag is feeling with this unsolicited and largely unjudgmental commentary from Ogg'mar, they can ditch him and head into the _Bloody Dwarf_ proper or delay to indulge him.



*Spoiler: For Whom The B'Elf Trolls - Inside T'zangi's House of Hoodoo...*
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"Such radiant flower of our people's glory could never be faulted for being drawn to familiar comforts," the elf says with a bow and playfully florid justification; "indeed, I couldn't fault the glory of Silvermoon for following you across the sea, ma'amselle.  I had always wondered why I was drawn to the life of a sailor."  He makes a gesture at her with one hand, drawing in a breath as if struggling to compose himself in the face of such a marvel.  "I shall sleep soundly tonight, wondering no longer."

T'zangi looks stunned at such a brazen fusillade of flirtation.  Trolls, apparently, are subtler when making their overtures.  But trolls are creatures close to the land, close to the elements and the grit and heat of the real and present.  Elves are creatures balanced on the surface of Azeroth only to push up, extending their grasp towards the moon, and the stars, and the sun, and things cosmic; drama comes naturally to them, and what would be an overwrought cannonade of announced interest to some can be, to a son or daughter of Qual'Thalass, just the whisper of felt on polished wood: _pawn to king three; your move, ma'amselle.

_Not knowing this, T'zangi pipes up in her clear but obviously academic Thalassian, hoping to distract from what she fears may cost her a potentially lucrative sale.  _"Ahah!  Hah hah.  Balandar Brightstar, you are incorrigable.  But yes!  I am T'zangi, this is my store.  I am honored to have a child of Silvermoon in my humble tower; and one whom, I do not doubt, knows her way around arcane things, and not simply the transport of them.  I must gather you are not part of Captain Brightstar's crew; is there a delegation in town?  I had not dared to hope I'd be entertaining elves of quality for some time, yet.  This place is a mess!"

_She's not wrong; but the mess is more in the design and clutter in the corners than specific mess.

*Spoiler: Investigation Routine Success*
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You can rapidly piece together that T'zangi is in the process of retrofitting her store to appeal more to customers from Silvermoon.  Does she have reason to expect them, about which you don't know?  Does this Captain Balandar Brightstar have news from the Regent back in Silvermoon - or even more hopeful, has Prince Kael'thas returned from obscurity?  Many have said he is dead and the house of Sunstrider extinguished with him; but he took a clear fifteen percent of the remaining elves of Quel'Thalas in the train of his army to Northend - including your eldest brother Kaleneus, and four of your younger cousins.  Even aside from your personal stake, a host of that size returning to Quel'Thalas would likely be enough to clear it, with the Alliance's help.  Perhaps the reconstruction has already begun.



*Spoiler: Homage to Kalimdor-ia - Upstairs, with the chief and company...*
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The shadow hunter to your right is content to teach you Warstones.  It comes out as something like a blend of dominoes and marbles, with a splash of poker.  Discs are flicked toward the centre of a board with zones marked to denote their point calculations for being the disc most strongly occupying it.  Players attempt to occupy the best spots with their stones, to dislodge each other's stones, and to subtly construct patterns and combinations of stones with different colors and values.  Targ is the least effective player, having too much social fun to really strategize and relying mainly on powerful shots to sabotage whoever is beating him by the most.  Jevan and Hazlek jockey for the top slot, Jevan having greater precision, but Hezlak having subtler strategies that only manifest when they are nearly complete and a calculation phase is about to award him the points.  But with Targ sniping away at whoever is on top, neither can pull away from the competitors for long.  You pick up the rules quickly, and begin conjouring your own strategies invariably informed by your own approach to diplomacy and conflict.

Hezlak raises an eyebrow wryly as Jakk'ari mentions the desert keeping his people isolated.  _"De desert..."_  He agrees, but modifies. _ "...and Ukorz is a porcupine.  I had quiet hopes that Sasani would have dislodged him by now - that woman is a leader with clear vision."_  You shouldn't be surprised that a shadow hunter has advanced knowledge of the politics of your people.  Their intimate connection to the loa, and to their network of shadowhunters that spans all the tribes, affords them much insight.  But it's still a little unsettling to have someone rummaging around in your past like that.  But Jevan distracts him when he shoots a warstone that perfectly neuters a string of stones the Darkspear had been lining up.  The Tauren speaks up: _"I hope the Needles treated you well, good shaman.  I doubt they have hazards for you that aren't accustomed to - harpies, and wing-serpents.  Perhaps I'll sent the wind to invite you, when we next_ Entreat the Sky_.  But you're here seeking the alliance whelp that wandered up to Brackenwall, chewed on and dying.  Should I take this to mean your people are... friendly, with Theramore?"_

For a shaman outside of the Grimtotem to be invited to their clan ritual, _Entreating the Sky_, is no small honor.  Its' the yearly festival-ritual by which they ally themselves with the wind spirits that howl through the Thousand Needles, ensuring their mesa towns aren't overly buffeted in the coming year and that favorable winds drive flocks of birds close and low enough to be netted in lean seasons.  Such rituals contain secret wisdom of the wind known only to the Grimtotem and the few they trust enough to witness these events.
*Spoiler: Insight: DC 5*
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He's pitching it low so it's hard to miss, but Jevan is offering you a bribe, shaman to shaman - if you're prepared to share a modicum of your influence inside Theramore with him, he is prepared to share a modicum of his influence inside Freewind Post with you.

*Spoiler: OOC Rolls!*
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Give me two rolls to play Warstones; one against DC 10 to "assist" yourself on the other, which is open.  When you're more acquainted with the game, you'll be able to roll just about anything you can justify.  But for now, one of the rolls will be your ranged attack (which I think is +4) assisting  your investigation (+7).  If you succeed  on the assist, give your main roll a +2.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Nefarious plotting in the unsuspicious tower*
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Isaera still could not help but blush a little at Balandar's advances. He was very flirtatious indeed as he piled on the compliments! Still, she makes the most and makes light of it, chuckling airily and responds, "Hah, to think my mere presence would put a pour soul's mind at ease and give him renewed purpose. It must be a gift of mine, because it seems to happen so often."  It was at once, happily accepting the praise, but on the other hand, oh-so-politely telling this young rogue that she'd heard it all before, and he had better step up his game.

_Pawn to king 4?_

She manages a smile at the troll. A polite smile, in any case. It was so hard to be used to orcs, trolls, and the like, but it was slowly becoming a fact of life after moving to Theramore.

"Perhaps an introduction is in order? I am Isaera Runescribe. And no, I am not part of a crew or a delegation. I live in Theramore now after.. many unfortunate, world-sweeping events, as I am sure you have heard. The purpose of my visit to this village was not commerce, nor to socialize. Let's just say, I am conducting an investigation with some other hired hands."

She smiled again, courteously, and continued, "However, I don't mean to brush you off. I do believe discovering your establishment is..  a pleasant surprise. Just know that I am ill-prepared for trade, and in all likelihood, short on time come tomorrow."

Turning her attention back to the other, she says, "So.. _Captain_ Brightstar, is it? Any news from Silvermoon?"  Isaera still managed a composed demeanor, but there was still a certain intensity to her inquiry. She was very much interested in news from home.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

So, Marion had a choices to make: where to go?

Behind door number one was an ogre..._chef_? 
 completing the spit roast of some enormous teo-legged avian, the scent of which was surprisingly compelling, even for a noble born human such as herself. The odiferous melange of cooked meat and spices reached into Marions essence and conjured a primal, instinctual appreciation that she doubtlessly inherited from her far removed Vrykul ancestors. For a moment it returned her mind to thr mountains of her birth, where the altitude snd cool weather festooned such simple, hearty meals with an earthly quality she remembered fondly.

Behind door number two was a tavern, winsomely labelled the _Bloody Dwarf_. That charming moniker was most likely a fond memory from one of the wars in which the proprietor happily fought, before spending his ill-gotten monies on this hole in the mud. Wonderful. 

Behind door number three was...Marion didn't know precisely. But judging from the cackling that echoed from deep within and the mild scent of the arcane,  exotic goods and sordid other gubbins, the warlock ventured to guess that some type of witch was housed within.

Ah, the agony of choice.

Deciding that out of the three options she would most likely at least have a hobby overlap with the witch and her cauldron, Marion set forward and carefully moved through the grim portal of the shop, her dark haired head leading the way as she stepped through.

Immediately spotting Brightstar, Marion blinked in surprise.

"Oh my!"

She had not expected to be greeted by a dashing, handsome elf in the finery of his smart uniform upon entering this place. Instead she had wagered her greeting would come from some the snaggletoothed head of some half-mad crone who -

Oh there she was, Marion thought as she spotted the troll.

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## MrAbdiel

If T'zinga takes Isaera's polite deflection personally, she doesn't let on - while mages might be quick to take offense, small business owners live or die on their ability to take none at all. _ "I see, I see.  That suits me just fine - I'm afraid my wares won't be well suited to your perusal just yet; not for a few more shipments.  If you're in the area again in future, I'd be more than happy to do business with you for all your components and apperati.  Let me know if you need anything."_  And with that, she politely detaches from what is clearing a more engaging exchange between the two elves, and busies herself with the maintenance of the store at this late hour.

_"Captain Balandar Brightstar indeed, ma'amselle; at your service."_  He gives a steep bow, though keeps eye contact with her as he descends and, if she deigns to offer her hand into his own, delivers a delicate kiss across her knuckles.  He's very focused on her eyes, and after a pause, seems to conclude something. _ "A great deal of news, I'm glad to report.  Most of it good news; and how privileged this humble sailor's lips, to bring joy to such shapely ears."_

King's bishop to queen's bishop four.

He transmits the biggest news first: across the sea, Grand Magister Rommath had been dispatched from Prince Kael'thas's entourage along with a number of skilled magisters.  It had been known that Kael'thas had led the Sunfury armies through the rift that Archimonde had used to attack Azeroth - by the best guesses of learned minds, to be the one to affect its closure on the other side.  And the hopes that he would find his way home with the thousands of elves in his legions have not been in vain.  Beyond that now closed portal is a realm Balandar calls Outland - remnants of the desolated orc homeworld Draenor to which Alleria Windrunner and so many other heroes departed to conclude the second war.  It is a shattered and broken world, but its affliction is a profusion of untamed magical energies... the kind of magical energy that the high elves have desperately needed to replace the corrupted and capped Sunwell.  The remnants of Silvermoon are blooming with new enthusiasm, with a new goal: an exodus to a new world, one that they can sculpt with the magical mastery that is their racial heritage into a fortified paradise... one that does not rely on the strength and constancy of humans to survive.

_"New winds are blowing, lovely and noble Isaera Runescribe.  And the flexible reeds shall bend where the brittle ones break.  The young prince has begun shuttling back mana-cells to Silvermoon even now, to staunch the suffering of our people back home.  Of course, there are none here, but the Grand Magister Rommath has taught another way."_  The handsome young elf's expression adopts a cast of compassion; one that is both genuine, and highlighted by the craft of their game.  He steps a little closer, not quite closing the distance as much as inviting Isaera to close it the rest of the way.  He speaks softly.  _"You needn't fall asleep a single more night with that cold knot of emptiness in your soul.  I can show you, if-"

_


> "Oh my!"


Naturally, all eyes are drawn to the arriving humaness.  T'zinga looks surprised, but then her gaze dances between Isaera and Marion, and she concludes the hired-hand connection between the two - and with it, a reasonable extrapolation that she's not here exactly to shop either.  She offers recovering smile, and addresses her in sterile, book-learned common: _"Welcome to my shop, human.  If you are in the market for something, please let me know; the stock is going through a major update, but is not devoid of high-value purchases."
_
_"Though I dare say the shop - wonderful as it is - is gaining value by leaps and bounds with every set of feet that crosses the threshold, this night."_  Balandar coolly cuts in, his broad shoulders leading his body in a quarter-turn from Isaera so that he is not abandoning their discussion or flourishing game, so much as sacrificing a portion of the intimacy of it to free up some of his attention for the newly arrived Marion.  The warlock is raindusted, having crossed through the downpour to get here without the benefit of effortless elven cantrips; but not so drenched that she does not wear it well - having escaped through the entrance around the point of _tropically glamorous_ before she could be condemned to _drowned rodent.

_Generalized flirtation aside, Balandar is caught flat footed - flanked by attractive women which his code of honor (not to mention simpler instincts) require him to attend.  Allowing the Thalassian discussion to hold for now, he attempts to resolve the pair into a single target for his address. _"Ma'amselle Runescribe - shall I assume this is another of the 'hired hands' you are travelling with?  Just how many of the world's profound beauties have you confined to your group, I wonder?"_

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## WindStruck

Well, that captain was certainly coming on fast, wasn't he? Up until the point where he was interrupted by Marion's arrival.

Isaera switches to common fairly quickly and naturally. "Yes, she's with me. I.. wasn't expecting she'd follow me here, but I suppose it doesn't matter." She smiles smugly, yet warily at the unexpected turn of events.

"Hm. I will say one thing: if the establishment does continue improving, it will be impressive for a small village such as this."

Turning to the warlock to address her fully, Isaera says, "So, Marion.. I don't suppose you've anything to bargain with here?"

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

"The hired help?" Marion asked. Or rather, the Alteraci _noble_ asked. To be fair, Marion had given no indication that she hailed from the landed gentry, even going so far as to slightly diminish her manners. But still. _Hired help_ - bah! How _dare_ he!

But then Isaera joined in, with that smug smile, refusal to correct the assertion and confirming with a 'yes'. Marion felt her rib-cage compress a little beneath the impact of this monstrous betrayal. 

"My, madam, a _sailor_!" Marion returned with a bright smile and cheery disposition. 

"Visiting his most recent of many, many ports - I always hoped you would do well for yourself!"

Turning herself slightly to focus on the Captain, Marion continued, her friendly demeanor remaining. 

"I am fascinated though, captain, by the ship required to travel hundreds of miles inland through a swamp! I have heard tales of the beautiful craftsmanship and seafaring ingenuity of your people, but I did not think that even they were capable of producing a boat _small enough_," Marion held up her index finger and thumb just an inch apart, "to navigate the swampy canals of the Horde. But, where there is a will there is a way I suppose!"

Looking over at the troll, Marion gave a 'ohh bother!' self-depreciating look. 

"Ohh but do forgive me! I have forgotten to carry the Madams many expensive valuables to the security of the local tavern, similar to the one in which I first found her. Apologies! As a humble and lowly _hired. help._ I can be forgetful at times! Do excuse me, Madam!" Marion curtsied, withdrawing herself in an obsequious manner out of the den and back into the street, where she muttered an insult under her breath in Demonic whose translation was best left unsaid. 

The rain upon her once more, Marion decided to go and see what Mor'lagh was up to.

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## WindStruck

Isaera can't help but notice the sarcasm gushing out of Marion like a geyser.  She's rather speechless as Marion rants on and then storms out (quite literally) about as abruptly as she came.

Isaera stares out the door for some moments before turning back and shrugs. "Huh. Perhaps it would be worth mentioning that technically, I am also one of the 'hired help'. Frankly, I don't think I'd be in this backwater village if I was as well-to-do as the surly wench suggests."

She winks at the man, hoping he'd get that she was joking about the 'wench' thing.  Oh but who knew at this rate.

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## Feathersnow

Mor mumbles about her father being a "deserter."  The word she uses translates that he was only guilty of frailty,  not cowardice. 

Lag thanks the grill master and points out they should get back to the Vrykul and the Dorei, but please give them a little bird if they ask.

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## Plaids

(1d20)[*7*] For quickly picking up some of the intricacies of the crokinole like game.
(1d20+7)[*21*] For performing the game. 

War stones was simple enough to understand. Much like the game of marbles he'd seen in Gadgetzan and Theramore predicated on a physical move and countermove but with smooth stones instead of glass beads.

But what was more interesting were the two representatives both engrossed in the game.
Hehe, Ukorz is cantankerous troll living in the citadel of Zul Farak. But he stays since he convinces people that they live free and genuine beneath him.

The mirth from slighting a uncooperative chief while true is dampened unease of being disclosed before even meeting the shadow hunter. But having a shadow hunter to chat was a valuable experience. Perhaps the happenings of other scattered troll tribes could be gleaned from this one who spoke with the Loa.

You hit the hammer on the nail right there Hezlak. Hopefully he hasn't forced the Sasani and Haja'rra to pluck their ears off by now.

The invitation while tempting. The tauren had just given an invitation to a very intimate event but given his time officiating several trade agreements Jakk'ari knew a trade with an "imminently arriving" resource was a risk.

 Would be an honor. My party should have the gratitude of Theramore once we return with their lost cadets. We also are grateful for the help we have received on our journey from elements to the hosts who've sheltered us from Theramore to Brackenwall. 

But the missions success depended on the cooperation of the party's various hosts as they likely already knew. Plus with Targ being given a commendation his associate being given one as well was not out of step. Even if the tauren's contributions were more by virtue of proximity, association, and coincidence rather than of courage, strength, or wisdom.

*Spoiler: OOC Knowledge*
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In lore I know Magatha Grim Totem is a minor villain and poisons Khairne so the villainous Garrosh can rule the horde. But Warcraft has some nuance in that villainous characters are sometime in good factions and tribes.
So I don't know what to expect with Jevan.
Anyways Jakk'ari takes the bribe. Hopefully this will incentivize at least one more person to see the party return safely.

Also I'm starting to feel like a politician if that was the goal then good job.  



OOC: I don't know how Hezlak initially responds but if he is evasive Jakk'ari will ask more directly if he knows how his tribe is doing. Something along the lines of "I know you can see and speak to people in different zones by using the Loa so please tell me how my tribe is doing."

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## MrAbdiel

Oggmar tries and fails to wheedle some more friendly conversation out of MorLag, but will make do with what he is given.  Perhaps by virtue of having moved from his own clan to this nearby settlement, he seems unalarmed by the claims of her deficient heritage; but he doesnt have time to pry.  As MorLag pulls away, Oggmar calls out a goodbye in the orcish tongue that serves as default in this settlement; though the imperfectly learned language and the vocal range of ogres means the well wishing comes out as an almost juvenile sounding _bye bye!_  Like most ogres, Oggmars eloquence is completely lost when it is forced through the linguistic sluice of a learned language.

Marion returns a little more rainsoaked than before after her brief jaunt to the tower and back just in time to claim her share of the roasted plainstrider as won by MorLags good deed, and to accompany the ogress as they seek their accommodation in

*Spoiler: ...the Bloody Dwarf alehouse...*
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*Spoiler: OOC*
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Forgive the copy-paste; but since no one has entered until now, the initial impressions and response of the staff is actually relevant now!


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: For Whom the Belf Trolls - Continued*
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Captain Balandar Brightstar puffs a stammered laugh as Marion explodes in derision.  He can only manage a deflating I hardly meant before the warlock is gone, letting the truncated sentence fall flat.  Isaeras ability to take this in stride and throw him a wink does a lot to permit him to try to forget the awkwardness of the moment, though theres some color in his cheeks now, and he seems to feel the need to answer Marions tacit accusations even in her absence.

_Theres no shame in being hired for decent work.  We cant all be born into the halls of old power.  My ship is, ah_  He flaps a hand in the air before settling both rows of knuckles against his hips; a power-pose that seems to happen unconsciously when he discusses the vessel.  _The Dawn Runner is a destroyer refitted for trade, actually.  Perfectly sized to traverse the great ocean and to navigate the shoals of Dustwallows interior.  Since our people are technically unaffiliated with Horde or Alliance, were one of the few fleets free to skirt so close by Theramore and then drop anchor at the hilt of the peninsula in Horde waters.  From there, we row the crates to shore and cart them for two short days to Brackenwall.  Or, thats the plan, for now.  Politics being what they are, we cant say for sure what tomorrow brings._

Then, having recovered his air of confidence after its sudden puncture, he recalls his earlier thought, and revisits it.  _Im serious about Rommaths solution, by the way.  Its a technique to siphon mana from elsewhere, and compose it into a form we can easily tap.  I had to learn a minimum of ritual magic to be able to do it, but I imagine youd master it in a moment.  Some of our kin have reservations; but I maintain its each elfs right to choose how they manage their ...needs.  The Scourge didnt leave us wading through options, after all._

*Spoiler: Complications: Seeking Knowledge, and Mana Addiction*
Show

(OOC: Ill give you a VP if you accept his offer and sample this method of quelling the manathirst.  The offer has appealing qualities both immediately as a source of relief and simply as an arcane curiousity; but youd need to pull the trigger.)



*Spoiler: Farewell to Kalimdor-ia - Continued*
Show

_Ah, Ukorz is all smoke and no fire.  Not one to make friends, but there be not nearly enough fighting trolls in ZulFarrak to force the outer chiefs to do much.  The losses hed take securing the outer regions make the whole move not worthwhile.  No, I suspect hell sit on his throne and try to imagine ways to get the leverage he needs.  But he got no imagination for it._

*Spoiler: Insight DC 5*
Show

Thats as close as youre going to get to the shadow hunter outright saying that your tribe has held its status quo since your departure; or so his contacts must tell him.


_Speaking of securing the outer regions_ Targ begins.  Jevan laughs, and then Targ laughs, and then Hezlak sees that youve already claimed a critical region of the board his now-obvious plan was counting on being available right now.  _Ah!  You be giving the game to the tauren, Sandfury!  Wheres your Troll-solidarity, mon?_  He laments melodramatically, before passing his lackluster turn.  Youre doing pretty well, in the game; keeping up with the others, though not quite winning.  And Targs reserve of ale is a dwarven stout - good stuff, to almost any drinker.  With Jevan seeming pleased youre willing to entertain his subtle offer, Hezlaks surreptitious suggestion of your tribes welfare, and Targ obviously adopting you as a favoured novelty guest if not quite yet a friend, youd say its all going quite well.  After refreshing your drink and having his turn, Targ asks you directly:

_Tell me, Jakkari.  You mentioned adventurers,  before, and Im curious: how do you end up travelling with that crew?  An ogre clanless, and two spindly magic women?  Are they any good, or are you and the elements doing all the work looking for these lost human children?_

*Spoiler*
Show

Roll me a Fortitude save, DC 12, against becoming drunk and vulnerable to making an ass of yourself.

----------


## Feathersnow

"Three of us for your biggest room, please?" Says Lag
"Two gallons of small beer." Puts in Mor.
"And whatever the Dorei and Vrykul [wonder workers] want."

The word Lag uses translates in Orc as a generic magic user without any implications of judgement or power source.  She thought it was worthwhile to explain her companions were dangerous. 

Mor realizes that, not speaking Orc, Marion might get the wrong idea, but isn't sure how to respond.

----------


## Plaids

(1d20+1)[*10*] To resist inebriation.

Jakk'ari is put at ease with the strong suggestion that the village and his family is overall safe for now.
He continues playing War Stones trying to further ingratiate himself with the group.

Responding to Targ Jakk'ari mentions the members of the group. 
 Ah, hmm, where to begin. I've played my part, parlayed with the elements and kept the elements off their backs but they all have done their part.

Jakk'ari begins recollecting his time with the group. Though there's little to reminisce about given the short time he has known the party. Though there is plenty to comment on given their varied and different temperaments' and abilities much like many of the groups of of children and adolescents he has had to contend with.

Well there is Mor'Lag our twin headed ogre. Those two are a mighty pair though I've yet to see any of the spells twins headed ogres are purported to have. Unfortunately I have yet to see a more morose being. If you meet them I advise you to be careful with you words. I've seen this before either burdened by the weight of expectations or great disappointment

Jakk'ari pauses remembering the time spent in the tavern beside Mor'Lag seeing another being mulling over their assortment of impediments and then striking up a conversation with ogre.

Hm, then there is the elf Isaera. A great arcanist who I'm glad to have and has given me good fortune. But sometimes I worry. I doubt the girl has been outside of Theramore before and I've seen what happens to young extravagant spell weavers. They get burned and I don't trust arcane mages there's no prudence or guidance from the spirits and land. But if she survives I'm sure she'll be fine.
Jakk'ari remembers mentoring young shamanistic disciples eager to commune with the elements but too focused on the tangible aspects of shamanism much like his first born. He also remembers her fight bravely in combat and her dazzling display of magic in the tavern. No doubt raising everyone's pay.

Jakk'ari remains vague about Marion careful to not incriminate her and the party given her source of power.
Then there's the human Marion. A strong caster but I don't know much else. She knows how to take care of herself but seems to prefer her own company. 
Much like a highly independent disciple within a class Jakk'ari struggled to categorize Marion. Was she dispassionate given the subject matter and mission? Participating out of obligation. Or had she dissociated having become disheartened by their own perceived lack of progress. Jakk'ari remembers her frightening display of power, casting a necrotic spell and blighting the land. He also remembers her commanding voice while negotiating pay and politely conversing with the wagon crew.

Then there ...
Jakk'ari stutters remembering that their ranger was best left unmentioned in their current company.

Well there is the group. A mixed bag but good companions who have braved the marsh.

Once a lull occurs in the game from a congested board or the game concludes Jakk'ari wonders how the rest of the party is faring seeing how he is now strangely the mundane one now in a village of trolls, orcs, and tauren.

*Spoiler: Short summary of Jakkari's attitude to the party*
Show


Mor'Lag: "You're a good kid, you are just going through some rough patches. Keep your chin up and you'll get through it. I know you can.
Isaera: "You darn kids with your void, arcane, and kung fu magic. Back in my day we had to engage in diplomacy before casting every single spell." See's her about to storm out. "Hey I'm sorry, you're doing great. I just worry about you sometimes."
Marion: "Hm... Is she just to cool to hang out with me or did she join a gang?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: The Bloody Dwarf...*
Show

The innkeeper is more than happy to take the ogress' money for the premium room that typically remains unused; a single large suite on the third floor of the _Bloody Dwarf_ that has occasionally been used by visiting dignitaries.  But Chief Targ has had the upper floor of the village hall, previously used as storage, into a sort of guest house and game den which usually gets that honor.  It's almost an apartment, and the furniture - while predictably _barbarian chic_ - is comfortable, and there is more than sufficient space, furs and pillows to accommodate the four-point-five travellers with even a reasonable amount of privacy, a sturdy locked door, and a small balcony if one wants some fresh marsh air and a view over the muddy little town.

You're treated to this knowledge in a short tour that the excitable one legged orcish innkeeper, whose name is Fargan, is delighted to provide.  He commentates in his hilariously bad common, occasionally defaulting to orcish for Mor or Lag to translate for Marion's benefit.  Then he leads you back downstairs to the common area to furnish you with your drinks and the keys to the room.  You're pleasantly surprised to find that the fee for the room and the drinks is noticeably lighter here in this village than in bustling Theramore.  The comparative comfort and affordability makes you dread paying city prices when you return - but then, you're expecting a windfall soon.  Tomorrow morning, you will have recovered two of your four targets alive; and if Zachary has had any luck, it's possible you'll atleast be able to report on the demise of the other two.  Maybe news of the likely loss of the others to the Stonemaul, and thus the avoidance of a potential direct faction conflict with the horde, will have some value.

Back in the common room, your expenses afford you a complimentary table to yourselves and a couple of clean platters for your food.  As you wait for the return of Isaera to, if nothing else, pay her share of the room, it's obvious that your table has captured the attention of the locals, but no one seems particularly keen to harass you or make direct contact with your table.

Then one of the two younger orcs serving the drinks to the tables approaches.  He has a slighter frame despite being on the cusp of adulthood, suggesting his development is overdue for its bulky lateral expansion; but more noticably, he seems nervous.

No, not nervous.  Afraid?

_"To human.  Is from this."_

He places a wooden tankard on the table in front of Marion, and indicates with one hand toward a corner table.

*Spoiler: Insight DC 12*
Show

The youth has made an effort to point with a loosely closed fist, as if not willing to risk pointing a finger in that direction for whatever that may incur.


The table is occupied by a single orcish figure, and though robed and cowled, he has the posture of an older specimen of the species, and one unused to physical contest.  Long, lean green fingers drum slowly on the tabletop infront of him.

The youth leaves as suddenly as he had approached nervously, and you are left to ponder the meaning of this.  But it doesn't seem wholesome, that's for sure: the tankard contains no drink, but instead at its bottom you see a wet, bloody tongue.  It has not been sliced with the blade; and the trailing gory ends of the muscle suggest a much rougher and more brutal extraction mention.

*Spoiler: Marion's 'Ritualist' Advantage:*
Show

To almost anyone who received such a gesture, it would be taken as a threat - perhaps a warning of such a fate to those who flap their tongues about things they should not.  But to you, this tongue could mean a variety of things, but the most likely is a desire to speak.  Human nobles have had a language of flowers they use in courtship and espionage; and you've heard that orc mystics have a language of gore they use to communicate and threaten.  You can't say for sure what creature this tongue came from - but it's close enough to humanoid to taint any innocence in the suggestion irrevocably.  This orc is a practitioner of strange magics, who has learned them from the tongues of great warlocks - possibly from the Eredar directly - and recognizing a similar fel light in you, is desirous to speak to you.

(OOC: And, pursuant to your Complications: Thrills, and Knowledge accumulation, I'll give you a VP if you entertain his company for a few minutes.)



*Spoiler: Jakk'ari at The Warstone Table...*
Show

Your refusal to badmouth your companions, even given a private setting to do so and encouragement from the progressively drunker and rowdier chief Targ, wins friendly scowls from the orc but the quiet respect of the tauren and Darkspear.  The cups are creeping up on you though, and with bleary eyes you're glad to see the game is close to wrapping up.  Targ uses his last shot of his last stone to demolish Jevan's bulwark, eliminating both in a kamikaze tactic that seems perfectly orcish given the fact that he is clearly the weakest player.  _Lok'tar Ogar,_ the orcs often say.  _Victory or death._

That leaves you and Hezlak, who is holding his stout better than you.  Like everyone else, he's impressed at how you've held up in your first game even given the fact that Targ's suicidal belligerence towards his friend's strategies ran interference for you most of the game.  "Tribe against tribe, Farraki.  And I got you beat in three moves, if it comes that you miss the mark on your shot.  Here - you are Targ's guest, so let me make de final moments more memorable."  He produces a pouch of silver coins he drops onto the table, spilling their content dramatically - a not inconsiderable sum though no wildman's wager that will permit you to give up your day job.  It's again as much as your share of the full reward for the four cadets in the best scenario, with some change to spare.  And on top of that little pile of coin, the shadow hunter delicately sets a small, unremarkable brass key.  The kind of unremarkable that a superstitious man might find very remarkable indeed.  "Here, Farraki.  Make your winner's shot, and you get the prize.  But miss, and watch me win the match, and you owe me an intercession with the elements some day, when I need it.  Barely a wager at all, since we're friends now, and you'd help a friend out anyhow.  All the same, Sandfury; take the shot."

You think the wager is mostly there to ramp up your nerves and make you more likely to flub the shot.  But you wouldn't mind the money; and it's be the act of a poor sportsman to play it safe when a wager was offered, this late in the game.

*Spoiler: OOC: The Final Shot*
Show

Roll Ranged Weapons.  DC is 18, but with a -2 penalty for being tipsy, we'll call that a square DC 20 to win the game and the wager.  Fail, and you're at Hezlak's mercy; and theoretically owe him a shamanic intercession which you would likely have agreed to offer anyway.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion does not appear impressed with the dwellings so far. Or at least, she wasn't particularly thrilled with having to be here. The 'pristine' accommodation, such as it was, was adequate, as despite her regal birthright the Alteraci noble had gotten used to having to sleep within some less-than-auspicious dwellings while on the road and in flight from the Paladins of Azeroth.

Still...the cooked slice of plains-strider upon her plate was surprisingly delicious in its odour, and after taking a quick bite when no one was looking, very hearty, filling and satisfying. Not bad. Not bad at all!

However, Marion and Mor'lagh were soon seated within the tavern itself, and the teenage Alteraci could feel the eyes upon her. Not only was she a human, she was female, young and in the company of an ogress. This combination of four variables attracted side-ways glances that Marion was able to detect with relative ease as she finished up the last of her heart plainstrider meal, but it wasn't until the flagon was brought to her that her interest was truly piqued. 

The bloody tongue at the bottom of the tankard may have been threatening to some, but after just melting some raptors - and enjoying the experience - and having conducted various trial-and-error spells within several Kirin Tor basements while employing such grotesque reagents as this, Marion took it a lot better than one might expect. Indeed, she remained eerily calm, as her steel-grey eyes lifted from the sight to peer across at the cowled orc who had provided the grim, attention-seeking gesture. 

Pursing her lips, knowing that she, just a human teenager, was very much venturing close to the attention of a warlock who was decades her senior, and a greenskin at that, Marion leaned her head slightly in Mor'laghs direction and spoke softly. 

"I will return shortly..." and with that, she stood up and moved over to the orc as conspicuously as possible.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera*
Show

Needless to say, of course Isaera is intrigued, and she clearly seems that way. "You had me at mana," she says, smiling cooly.

"Thankfully, I am not some addicted wretched like.. erm, some people. I can get by many days without. Still, I'm quite curious. You say there's a technique the Grand Magister has devised? And even one unpracticed with arcane can do it?"

She gazes at Balandar, becoming more and more skeptical by the second. "Seems too good to be true."

----------


## Plaids

(1d20+5)[*19*] For pitching the final stone. 

Whuh... Sure why not. I'll take ya on.
Jakk'ari agrees to the wager while not completely in control of his finer movements and takes his shot.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

I appreciate that I've been inconsistent with the formatting of this little split-venture. I've vacillated on whether I address a particular zone, or particular character; but I'm settling for now on character. It's my CREATIVE PROCESS GIVE ME SOME ROOM TO BREATHE YOU PHILISTINES

Isaera
"Well. I doubt the uninitiated of other races could pull it off. But for a Sin'Dorei with no formal magical training like myself, a simple living's adjacency to mystical practise is enough to learn the ritual. It's a simple realm-tap, and crystallization method. The innovation is the shrouding that keeps the inhabitants of the plundered realm from noticing." Sin'Dorei. A term you've heard in passing, but never from an elf that formally identified so. The term, Balandar explains, was given by Prince Kael'thas to the wounded elven nation as a way memorializing the catastrophic losses to the Scourge and, theoretically, giving a respectful burial to the idea that the elves will ever have again a lasting kingdom in the riven and plagued lands so long watched over by the Sunstrider dynasty. The remnant people - the blood elves - are anchored not to a land, but to a past, and a destiny; both contained in their blood.

T'zinga detects the intimacy of the topic, as she closes up; and interrupts only to pass a set of keys to Balandar. It seems the partnership they've entered extends to trusting him with the shop, and allowing him to lodge there rent free while in town. She bids you a farewell and steps out and into the rain, gesturing with one hand to flare up a pale dome of energy to deflect the droplets in a cantrip nearly identical to Isaera's. Then she's gone, and it's just the two elves, and the required privacy to share this new miraculous cure for the mana-wasting. You watch Balandar mark out a magical circle, the small kind used in summoning small quantities of elements and energies rather than creatures of complex objects; and after augmenting it with a shrouding adjustment of medium complexity, he activates the realm-tap. By now you've anticipated the realm in question, and you're not wrong. This is fel energy being captured and crystalized - but it's not fel magic per se. The process is an arcane handling of fel energy instead of a fel handling of fel energy. There's no way to accidentally overcharge a crystal for catastrophic results, or to somehow capture a fraction of a demon's essence. The ritual dips a ladle into the infinite sea of churning power that is the Twisting Nether, the convulsing mystical barrier realm between what is and what must not be. The final result is a slim green crystal that can fit in your palm and, as Captain Balandar Brightstar demonstrates, can be freely drained of mana with gestures intuitive to elves across the world. Green energy wisps away from the crystal, shrinking it slightly in size and leaving a residue of common table salt; and the captain does not appear possessed, or maddened, or pained. He just wears the flush of good health of an elven countenance furnished with the mystical union it requires. It looks good on him. He relinquishes the crystal to you. "What do you think, fair enchantress? A miracle of our magisters, wouldn't you agree?"

*Spoiler: OOC: Ritual: Shrouded Realm-Tap (Twisting Nether)*
Show

You learn a ritual that any elf, or anyone with the Ritual Caster advantage, can replicate once per day. It produces a fel crystal that can be mystically consumed to satisfy your racial need for magical nourishment.

*Spoiler: Expertise: Magic - DC 10*
Show

This is an incredible discovery. Limitless consumable mana to sustain your people - and the only parties harmed are the demons who you're stealing it from! Hahaha!

*Spoiler: Expertise: Magic - DC 20*
Show

This seems a little risky, but a worthwhile risk. Your people split from the night elves because you were willing to make arcane advancement a priority despite the fact that it tremored the realms, and they preferred to subsist in elegant barbarism on the divine fumes provided by a goddess so long forgotten she might never have really existed. You ought to be careful with other elves you show this technique to. Clumsy usage could be harmful.

*Spoiler: Expertise: Magic - DC 30*
Show

There is a small class of elven warlocks who will be legitimized by this practise, and you worry that the development of this technique's greatest risk is that it empowers not fools, but reckless prodigies to delve further and further into those forbidden magics. But then again, if your people don't standardize and formalize the manipulation and containment of fel energies, who will? The humans? The orcs? Any time the fel is in use, there's a demonic angle; but if you're as smart as you think you are, you can keep ahead of it.

*Spoiler: Expertise: Magic - DC 35*
Show

It's so subtle and apparently harmless that this can only possibly be a demonic ploy - a 'first taste is free' gambit by whatever demons inherited leadership of the Burning Legion after the battle of Nordrassil killed Archimonde the Desolator. If you're right, this means that those driving this technique are suspect. Probably not Balandar, too far down the chain; but maybe Rommath or, gods help you, Kael'thas himself.







Jakk'ari
_"Aha!  Taz'Dingo!"_

Your shot is good; almost perfect.  It slides between two of Jevan's stones left as the rump of his failed construction, banks off one of Targ's suicide stones, and has enough momentum to almost bump Hezlak's final construction out of sequence... almost.  Hezlak whoops, Jevan and Targ release melodramatic groans of disappointment, and you feel the bittersweet pang of a gang narrowly lost, but well played.

_"Blame de dwarves, mon.  They be on me side dis round!"_  Hezlak, whose accent seems to become less academic and more cousinly as he drinks, flicks over your empty mug and howls in laughter at his point.  Then everyone laughs when he falls backwards off his chair, spilling himself, his own drink, and his rush'ka mask from his hip, the sacred wooden carving in the likeness of _Kimbul the Doom of Prey_ skittering almost out of reach before he recovers it with one hand, still shaking with laughter.  Once the fit as passed and the game is packing up, the shadow hunter regards you with noe equally inebriated eyes. _ "Ah, I like you, Farraki.  Here: I honor your hunter spirit, even if your prey eludes you tonight.  Choose one, or the other."_  He holds out to you in his hands his wager, now halved.  In his left hand is the bag of coin of non-trivial weight.  In his right is the brass key of no obvious purpose.  The grin on the Darkspear's face tells you he has no intention of letting you know what the key is for - that's part of some other, greater game his is playing with you that is beyond your present reckoning.

Marion
The mysterious orc gestures to the other chair, though he doesn't look up at you.  The lack of movement of his head beneath the cowl begins to suggest he either has no intention of looking directly at you, or perhaps he is blind and cannot.  But his voice has a dry rumble to it as he speaks to you; a sound that brings to mind the rough fluttering of flames leaping when suddenly given new fuel.

_"Your accent.  You're from the mountain kingdom, yes?  A daughter of those betrayed for having the audacity to survive, instead of the decency to fight, and lose, and die.  Dishonored by those who have the privilege of defining honor after the fact.  Like young Darbel Montrose, only... Smarter, perhaps.  Do you know..."_

The orc continues speaking, even as he dispenses something from his sleeve - a folded square of orange cloth.  No - orange silk.  It is embroidered with a symbol that very few people on Azeroth know - the _marque du maniard_, the icon of a long lost house of Alterac nobility that vanished in a shameful implosion after discoveries of internal degeneracy and witchcraft.  Yet the family's centrality in much of Alterac's political games left a chasm that marked the end of Alterac's strength and integrity, and for a hundred years it slackened and fragmented into princedoms under a purely symbolic crown.  Since then, the symbol has been adopted by a supposedly fictional syndicate of Alterac nobles who would pay any price and make any sacrifice to restore their nation to strength and glory.  But surely such a group, if they existed, can't be active anymore.  Can they?

_"Do you know... That just as there are humans who see no value in the Alliance except in as much as it serves their ends... There are orcs, who relate to the Horde just the same?  How strange it is, to be enemies of our enemy's enemy - and yet no one's friend."_

He withdraws his hand from the cloth, seemingly leaving it for you to claim.  Out of the corner of your eye, something seems to be going on with Mor'Lag and some others near the table - but the orc before you is tracing something on the table with his long nails.  Some kind of demon symbol - not a casting, just a showing, and one you'll miss if you look away for a moment.  There is no doubt in your mind that this orc is offering you something, and that something suggests a modicum of power.  You further know that no such creature would offer you something unless he expected to use you to achieve his own purposes through you.  But if there's one thing you know above anything, it's that you are not a pawn in a desiccated greenskin's plan; and if he thinks you're some dumb young magelette he can manipulate, he's got another think coming.  Orc warlocks are famous for falling short of their goals because they're not as quick as they think they are, after all.

_"Tell me, young miss.  What do you most seek in this world - and what would you give, to get it?"_

Mor'Lag
Marion excuses herself over to a table with hooded orc who strikes you as at least an elder, and possibly some kind of shaman or warlock.  You are left alone at the table - or as alone as you ever were - while the two have some discreet exchange that seems important enough to overcome Marion's stated distaste for orcs.  But before she can return, you encounter a conversation of your own.

_"Oi; clanless..."_

Your interlocuter is another female ogre - a single headed, binocular type who is a little taller than you, considerably flabbier than you, and much drunker than you.  She has Stonemaul markings on her arms, and exposed midriff; a set of tattoos that describe her as a valued member of her people, on account of her loyalty and personal service to a clan chief who you are sure would be contextually obvious if you were a Stonemaul yourself.  She is surly, and angry; and she brings in her wake the moment you worried would come: the moment when someone recognized what you are, and what you lack, and what you bear, and adds those things together to understand like you do that you don't belong here.  _"Don't I know you?  Aren't you two the one that broke ranks and ran when we were poised to take the Gulch from the bloody Kaldorei?"_

She has mistaken you for some other clanless ogre who has performed an act of cowardice in service to the horde.  But her inability to distinguish between shamed ogresses doing mercenary work as they drift purposelessly through the world is understandable.  _"You don't deserve this."_

With that strident declaration of your worthlessness, she snatches the drumstick you were gifted by Ogg'mar off your platter, and bites an obnoxiously huge chunk out of it, chewing so openly most of it simply falls, wasted, onto the shelf of her chest, and vanishing into her cleavage.

*Spoiler: Complication: Hates the Horde*
Show

You can't turn your despair inwards forever; and an insult that is true is as worthy a summons for a fist as one that is false.  And to be shamed by another ogre here infront of these horde runts... It's too much.  I'll give you a VP right now if you attack this ogress and start a brawl in the _Bloody Dwarf_, damn the consequences.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera comments, "Hmm. That's fascinating. But still... fel energy is fel energy..."  Her speech had become more muted, like a whisper, and she thought about it some more.

Finally she says, "...I will say one thing. Though tapping into the twisting nether could be considered an 'infinite' source of energy, I'm not so certain. I imagine, taking a ladle of water from a lake is inconsequential, but if a thousand people do that every day..."

She trails off again, shaking her head, her eyes looking softly upon the captain. "Thank you for showing me, in any case. I'll think on it and study it myself when I get the chance. But my gut is telling me I should avoid it, if at all possible. Perhaps, only to be used sparingly, in an emergency-like situation?"

Changing the subject she asks, "Tell me, Balanar. Do you have crew from your ship here in Brackenwall? Surely you didn't come here all by yourself to transport goods. That would seem highly dangerous and.. not very profitable."

----------


## Feathersnow

"ABOMINATIONS TAKE YOU! MY FATHERS WERE WEAK, BUT WE ARE NO COWARDS!  WE'LL PROVE IT!"

Mor'Lag shoves the Stonemaul [Expletive] down!

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari is whiplashed by the loss of a close and miraculous but is grateful for the shadow hunters mercy. 
He ponders which to take. The key seems to be worth nothing and for a lock lost to time or containing nothing. The money was tempting but Jakk'ari was doubtful he could use the money outside the village anytime soon. Plus he had seen plenty of bloodshed all due to a weighted purse in the wilderness. With scent sniffing beasts or magic used to track clattering coins and whoever would be handling it. 

He slowly points then fingers the key making his selection. It would be a friendly keepsake from another troll tribe and who knows what else it could be?

----------


## MrAbdiel

Mor'Lag
You explode to your feat with defiance, and shove the Stonemaul back so hard she almost falls over.   She goes for a return shove, and you contest it; and somewhere in that exchange things graduate to fists, and elbows, and savage (if mostly non-lethal) blows.  Unsurprisingly, the local color (green) causes the barflies to take the side of the known, regular and horde-affiliated ogress to the foreign, antisocial and unclanned alternative.  You think you're more than a match for the instigatrix of this debacle, but somewhere in the brawl someone's drink gets spilled; and then it's on for young and old.  Half a dozen orcs, and a couple of Darkspear trolls, are now involved in this.  Periodically the scuffle pits them against each other or against your original aggressor, but at all times they're all against you.  But you're determined to show that you're not to be trifled with.

*Spoiler: OOC Rolls: Fight fight fight!*
Show

In the interest of not turning this into more than the abstract, non-lethal combat it's supposed to be, I'd like Mor'Lag to make 3 Close Combat rolls, and 3 Toughness Rolls.  All are at DC 14.  That'll give us a broad idea about how well Mor'Lag gave the hits, and how well she handled them incoming.


Isaera
The young captain raises his hands, palms out, to indicate his relinquishing the knowledge to the mage, and her total decision making power over what to do with it now.  _"Of course.  You wouldn't be the first to be hesitant, nor the last.  I trust your mind behind those eyes is as fine as the countenance in which they are set."_  With that operatic concession, he follows her to the next topic; inclining his head, leaning one shoulder against the stone archway  that leads to the short entryway and the relentless drumbeat of the rain beyond the open door.  _"Not here in Brackenwall, no.  I take a compliment of my crew ashore with our cargo, cart and the beasts for the journey.  It's two days from the elbow of the shoals to Brackenwall or North Point Tower, with the ram pulling the cart; but only one on a swift hawkstrider like my Andronichus.  I ride ahead to make the arrangements, and I stay over a day ahead of the crew's arrival and after they leave.  My first mate, Ithania Fairshade, is going to start taking her own strider to Northpoint Tower to see if we can't wheedle a supply deal out of the alliance there, and double the value of our little stopover.  But this is the primary enterprise."_  He gives the craft of elven trinkets and magical goods a kick, indicatively. _ "So once T'zinga's renovation is complete, we'll be free to start expanding our efforts.  But right now, my shore team and their cart are getting rained on miserably on the road."_  He glances out to the downpour, and smiles with just the corner of his mouth; not pitiless about the plight of his crew, but deeply appreciative of his own privileges.   _"A damn shame.  Brackenwall's not to bad, as far as horde villages go.  If you're staying at the Bloody Dwarf, I'm sure you'll find it more civilized than you'd expect."_

As he says so, your keen elven ears pick the sound of an indistinct, duetted threat from a familiar ogress.  The declaration is muffled by the distance across the square and the bashing rain, but the volume of the voices and of the toppling and breaking furniture is such that you can hear it even here.

Jakk'ari
Hezlak grins, vanishes the coin pouch into his cloak, and drops the mysterious key into your palm.  _"I had a good feeling about you, Jakk'ari of the Farraki.  Ya got good destiny, I tink."_  You shake hands, and pat backs.  Jevan has fallen asleep already, sitting against a wall with his head tipped back so his horns brace on the wood.  Hezlak totters over and gets comfortable on a bear skin on a corner of the room.  Targ, who has the genuinely impressive ability to remain a thoughtful host even when intoxicated, has set aside a couch for you to sleep on near the fireplace.  The embers within it are growing cold, but flutter back into life as Targ leads you over; the spirits within them reacting to your shamanic authority as an excitable young raptor might to the return of their handler.  _"There.  Safe and warm, sandfury.  There's a salted meat locker just in the next room, if you get hungry; or you can wander down to the Bloody Dwarf and get one of Fargan's boys to run you up something more substantial.  You're a good sport, Jakk'ari.  You'll get your human tomorrow."_  He repeats this once as if he's forgotten he said it as he wanders back over to the table where you were playing warstones.  One meaty arm sweeps it clean of game pieces and empty mugs, and he crawls up onto the stone surface to fall promptly asleep, facefirst and apparently comfortable enough.

From the open balcony nearby, the rainfall makes its pleasing music; rare to a desert child like yourself, especially in such long and frequent bursts.  And behind that rain, your foggy mind is sure you can hear a fight somewhere below; and Mor'Lag's strident voices bellowing something about weakness, and cowards.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


The Alteraci kept her composure as the orc revealed his age and experience by declaring his familiarity with her accent. That was quite a feat. She wasn't even sure most humans could discern such a thing, indicating that this orc had had a long and dubious history that featured her home kingdom. This fact became even more pronounced when he slid forward a piece of cloth for her to take - a piece of cloth that was once part of a banner that displayed her national colors: orange. 

The heraldry of her nation was not the most extravagant or striking imagery, but it was warming nonetheless to her. A simple orange background with an eagle in the corner. But to her it carried a long history that met a fork in the road that would decide the destiny of thousands, and her former king had chosen wrong. What the orc said was true, the weakest of the Alliance nations chose survival over a honor-driven death, or at least, what had seemed at such at the time. But outside of trying to butter her up, so to speak, but to Marion it was an incorrect assessment. Alterac made the wrong choice because it trusted the orcs not to go back on their word. The savage greenskins were a threat that Perinholde _severely_ misjudged. Marion _knew_ that had if the Horde had of won the second war, her nation would have been destroyed and enslaved all the same anyway. All Perinholde had done, in his fear, is opt for the snake to eat them last. 

With their knowledge of the mountains they could have held the orcs back for all the time the Alliance needed to reform its military. And even if they had of ultimately lost, those same mountains would have been the protection they would need to flee into and from which they could bleed the Horde dry. 

But, what was past was past. 

Reaching out with her right hand, Marion held the cloth and drew it towards her for consideration. If permitted, she would keep it. A souvenir, almost. Or a reminder, perhaps. Marion wasn't foolish enough not to realise that her studies of fel-magic saw her trafficking with sinister figures, and so perhaps a daily reminder that there are some deals for which the price to pay was too high, was a valuable keepsake. Deals with the devil earned their proverb. 

"I seek restoration, elevation and continuation," she answered, her voice softer and more feminine in contrast to the raspy rumblings of the aged greenskin.

"I have given a lot so far: I know not what else fate intends to have me sacrifice."

----------


## WindStruck

As Isaera peers out into the rain with Balanar, her long brows twitch as she thinks she hears something. Her head swivels in the direction of the aforementioned Bloody Dwarf, and after listening intently for a few more moments she groans, "Oh no..."

Pulling another mystical umbrella up above her head, she begins dashing off into the rain, toward the inn/drinking hall, which was almost certainly getting torn up by her two-headed ogress companion.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari hears the familiar voice which must be booming to reach this far. He teeters over to the balcony due to being drunk and lethargic from a long day and comforting fire.
He knew Mor'Lag could get rough but would be hesitant to do so in the company of the rest of the party.

----------


## MrAbdiel

At the Corner Table...

_"Restoration?"_  Marion can hear the smile in the old orc's voice.  He doubts something about this word, or seems to think its true purpose is euphemistic.  But he doesn't go so far as to say what he means; just to be amused.

_"That will be a task.  You aren't the first daughter of the mountains to seek something like it; though you might be the least self-obsessed.  Your enthusiastic peers, each as the come of age in their exile, come together and convince each other their bitterness is a weapon - as if, by drinking poison, one might cause the subject of their hatred to die.  Their goals require work their soft hands are not suited for; and a shame, too.  All the pieces exist in one place.  One man's obstacle is another's exploitable labor force..."_

You see the cowl tilt a little toward the scene in the centre of the tavern, just as Mor'Lag suplexes an orc through a table.

_"...And there are others whose goals are... parallel to yours, in those mountains; hidden away in the uplands, away from the skirmishes of Stormpike scouts and Frostwolf patrols.  I would consider seeking them out, if I were just such an ambitious seeker.  But try not to lose that."_

You think he's talking about the cloth, which he has conceded to you willingly enough; but his fingers have stopped tracing their symbols now, and you think you've memorized enough of their movements that you can replicate them safely on paper later to figure out what iconagraphy he was subtley, or subconciously, conveying.  Given this, you can spare a glance again in the direction of his facing to see the tankard in which you received the gory invitation to speak has been scattered to the floor along with what's left of your meal.  The instigating ogress has just been hoisted into the air by your companion and slammed onto her back and is now the honored recipient of both Mor and Lag's punishing fists, hammering her dense skull into the hardwood from a pinning straddle even as an orc and a troll dangle from Mor and Lag's necks, kneeing and punching the muscular flanks to no visible effect.  The now likely defeated ogress flails her arms and tries to cover her face, and in doing so, sends the tankard skidding across the ground with a hollow rattling and apparently less mess content than it had when you left it.  It comes to rest near the main bar, just as Fargan desperately rallies some of the patrons to start trying to break the fight up before it demolishes too much of his establishment.



In the _Bloody Dwarf_ proper...

Mor'Lag has the upper hand now, and isn't wasting it.  Lag copped a meaty fist to the face that is likely to black her eye by the morning, but the damage beyond that isn't worth mentioning.  But the Stonemaul ogress who picked the fight is thumped and bruised and mashed, her face bloody and her horn cracked, one cheek caved in and jaw dislocated in the kind of pummeling that most races would consider cause for the summoning of an expert healer, and for hardier races like ogres and trolls is at least an excellent signal that one should rethink their choices.  Two of the orc drinkers lie unconcious and sprawled at funny angles in the middle of the room, and the two hangers-on have graded their ambitions from 'choke hold' which seems impossible on such meaty necks, to 'arm hold', which is atleast conceptually possible, and they try to restrain Mor'Lag with limited success.

"Stop, stop!  This is why you take fights outside, you lunatics!"  Ironically, Fargan's braying in orcish is only comprehensible to Mor'Lag; though Marion at her table and Isaera arriving just now to the scene can glean the general sentiment of panicked frustration from context.  Jakk'ari can hear the muffled shouting continuing from the warm, comfortable safety of the chief's den; though his bleary eyes might catch the figure of Isaera running as fast as she dares from the mage tower to the _Bloody Dwarf._

*Spoiler: OOC Persuasion, Perhaps?*
Show

The fight's concluded more or less; though Mor'Lag can decide how willing she is to be restrained by such individuals at all.  Fargan is furious; he's suffered a fair bit of furniture damage to his establishment  Anyone who wants to calm him down to lessen any coming reprisals can take a Persuasion test at DC 20.  Since everyone who isn't Mor'Lag doesn't speak Orcish and the negotiation is being forced through a language barrier, and because Mor'Lag is kind of at the centre of this, I'm going to say all these attempts and efforts to assist each other's attempts are at a -2, either because of language barrier or because of suplexing patrons through tables.

I won't tax Marion an action to go retrieve her gory token, if she wants to; nor Isaera one to assess the situation.  But if Jakk'ari wants to stumble in to try to help, he'll be at an extra -2 on his effort, on account of the tipsy-ness.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor sags.  Lag sullen submits to be held down.  
"She started it!"
"She started it!"

----------


## WindStruck

"Mor! Lag! What--?" Isaera begins, just about sputtering, though perhaps she already knew the answer to this question and it was pointless uttering the rest. What was the ogress doing? Apparently, pummeling the face of another ogre to a bloody pulp, destroying the place, and being grappled by two or three daring patrons. _Why?_ The Fel Legion if she knew! Damn ogres!

If it was at all possible to distance herself from this situation and let the onus of all the blame and responsibility fall upon Mor'lag, Isaera would have done so, but the fact was they were in this job together, and she needed their muscle...

It's too bad that Isaera did not understand orcish though. She looks about frantically trying to assess the situation, and figure out who of the other foreign faces was who. One of them was going to be an angry tavern owner, no doubt.

Regardless, she takes a few steps forward toward Mor'lag, though hesitant to to approach _too_ close, or even within a ten-foot pole's length, given the circumstances, and growls, "You fools! Would you have the hoard kick us out and brand us an an enemy!?"

----------


## Feathersnow

Lag is about to utter something incandescent about the Horde and what they can do.

Mor, however, is slightly more reasonable.

"That one mistook me for a specific and particularly vile coward.  If we let it stand,  things might have gotten worse.  I regret that we may have acted... rashly."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion turned her head to watch the blossoming of violence with an unimpressed eye. She did not hold it against Mor'Lagh herself, for though she had only known the ogre for a brief spell the dual-headed creature did not seem the provocative type. So, Marion conjectured, she must have been lured into a fight. 

Turning her head back to look at the orc while green bodies and ogres smacked against each other in the background, Marion rose her voice but still kept a hint of quiet discretion. 

"And what is your purpose in all of this?" she asked. 

"Forgive me for not believing that a orc of your years would be helping some human girl in her goals simply from the goodness of his heart..."

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari walks into the inn worried about the party and what trouble they may have gotten into. The sound of Mor'Lag angrily shouting something he didn't understand and Isaera dashing in not caring about the mud in the road.
Upon entering he sees the entirety of the patrons fixating on Mor'Lag alongside a single headed ogre, some restraining trolls and orcs, and destroyed furniture. 

Seeing Isaera addressing the situation he tiptoes stealthily, at least in his own mind, near her and says.
"Giv me thu thumb down and I'll put down some cova, giv it up and you cin follow my lead."

Piecing together the scene Jakk'ari offers her the choice to make a break for it or follow his lead in trying to make peace.

----------


## 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!*
Show

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*
Show

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:*
Show

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*
Show

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:*
Show

"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!*
Show

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!*
Show

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:*
Show

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*
Show

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*
Show

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*
Show

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


*Spoiler: Perception DC: 15*
Show

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*
Show

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*
Show

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*
Show

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!*
Show

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.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: OOC: Stealth*
Show

Everyone beats a 10, so you seem concealed - fortunately, drunken ogres aren't terribly observant, and you manage not to draw attention to yourselves!


*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Perception*
Show

Gazing down at the village revelry, you are able to discern some facts, but not the one you're seeking.  The ogres are largely, but not impermeably separated by sex, in the celebrations below; through the male circles and female circles are no less rowdy and intoxicated than one or the other.  The large number of ogre youth running about, wrestling and chasing each other through the festivities, tells you this is a whole-community event; and the daubing of ochre symbols on the flesh of those youths seems at first decorative, but at second glance, purposeful. 
 Confirming with Mor'Lag makes the picture clear enough - this is an after-party for a series of marriage arrangements.  With some effort, you see pairs of the ogre youths with matching ochre symbols - too young to have much interest in each other yet, but promised to each other by their families and with the stipulations of those marriage contracts spelled out on their skin in temporary glyphs.  Occasionally, you spot an ogreling with more complex markings - perhaps with a more complex marriage arrangement, or promised to an other settlement of Stonemaul or even another clan.  Arranged marriages are the reality for many societies in Azeroth and beyond, for those who do not occupy the narrow band between "too poor" and "too rich" to consider exclusively romantic marriages, and for those who do not belong to a boldly forward-looking approach to generational continuity.  Whether the Stonemaul do this as a welcome cultural extension of an ancient tradition or as a necessary evil to ensure the familial tribes that make up the greater clan are welded together for another desperately surviving generation is not clear; but the children don't seem to care for the moment, and the adults certainly seem to be having fun celebrating the end of this round of negotiations on behalf of their juvenile offspring.

But what passes for ogre architecture thwarts your hunt for an apparent jail.  There are some loose surface huts made of tree trunks and thatch, unsuitable for such a purpose; but the majority of the buildings are ogre mounds: hills that have been hollowed out, with multiple entrances reinforced by big slabby stones, decorated with paint and animal hides and containing a potential warren for dozens or hundreds of ogres in their passageways and lacunae.  The Stonemaul could have a hundred prisoners tucked away inside those mounds and you'd have no way to know.  What's worse, your communion with the earth spirits here detects the same muddled drunkenness that you found in them at the camp site in the swamp.  Someone has been here, with power enough over the elements to stupefy the local spirits into amnesia about their passing.


You ascend the bluff, keeping low and avoiding conspicuous movements that would draw the revellers eyes up to the idol.  Stonemaul ogres are not especially pious folk, and given the choice of their attentions landing on cavorting comrades and grog, or casting them heavenward to their stone ancestor, the choice is premade in your favor.

Up close, the idol is crude, but not _bad_ stonework.  It depicts a masculine ogre with the very rare fatless phenotype; a thick, muscular form chipped from an almost cylindrical menhir.  It faces down over the village, arms tucked to its chest.  At its base, located behind its facing so to be at the terminus of the path you followed up, there is a bed of offerings left for the idol.  You spot the withered remains of flowers and handfuls of predator teeth from crocolisks and raptors; but the majority of the offering is bones, and the decaying remnants of their former owners.  Big swamp snakes, marsh deer, crocolisks... and you're quite sure, based on one prominent skull, at least one orc.

Around heap of offerings,  carved into the earth within a day or two, are a combination of runic markings - some ogrish, as depicted on the bodies of those celebrating below, and some undeniably demonic, recognizable instinctively to anyone who has encountered demonic language before.

*Spoiler: Investigation: DC 10*
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Sifting through the carcasses, you discover exactly what you feared would be the case: the bodies of two alliance cadets, young men that can't be much over sixteen.  They are cold, bloodless, and seem to have been dead for days.  There's no doubt these poor boys are the remaining cadets you're looking for.

Cadet Felix hasn't seen them yet; he's keeping obediently at the back of the group, crouched in the grass.

*Spoiler: Investigation: DC 15 (Marion, with +2 from Jakk'ari's Assist)*
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You don't speak ogrish, so the runic circle is half unknown to you; but the other half is gibberish.  These are demonic runes to be sure, but presented as if copied from half-glimpsed Legion banners and peppered randomly to create the illusion of a genuine demonic ritual.  Someone has enough demonology to know basic elements of summoning magic, but wants it to look like these ogres are practising more advanced summoning magic, and that the dead cadets - and orcs - were sacrifices to fuel it.  In the middle of the heap, beneath the bodies, is a large, hollow grey stone covered in scorch marks.*Spoiler: Investigation: DC 20 (Marion, with +2 from Jakk'ari's Assist)*
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You've never seen one up close before, but you're certain - this is an infernal core.  Typically, the legion summons them charged with fel energy in the upper stratosphere and they plunge like green comets toward signs of life, emerging as the demonic golems that are forever burned into the fear centres of Horde and Alliance veterans across the world.  This one looks to have been exposed to fire recently - though you cannot guess why, except possibly a clumsy effort to revive the construct.  Conventional fire does not have the magical nature to accomplish that feat, however; so perhaps it's just here to enhance the presentation of this fake 'ritual'.

 

*Spoiler: Investigation: DC 15 (Isaera)*
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  The idol, sadly, is part of an elven runestone from the second war; beautiful Thalassian alabaster now stained and mistreated.  It's still redolent with magical energies, though pooling idly within the stone with no remnant rune to channel it and no leyline connection to fuel it in an ongoing fashion: a piece of elven glory, bashed into the shape of some ancient tyrant.  It looks like a summoning circle, but clumsy - and clumsy in a way any spellcaster knows they can't afford to be.  Not the kind of clumsy that twists the spell, but the kind that makes it fall apart blandly.  The poor cadets have been killed and drained of blood, perhaps for demonic use somewhere else.  In the middle of the heap, beneath the bodies, is a large, hollow grey stone covered in scorch marks.*Spoiler: Investigation: DC 20 (Isaera)*
Show

The stone's nature is demonic in some way; that much you can tell by the fel power radiating off it.  But the scorch marks aren't exclusively felflame - the most recent exposure it's had to flame has the robust, heady arcane tang of dragonfire - and arcane ley energy bleeding slowly into it from the idol's nearness.




*Spoiler: Mor'Lag's Ogre Insights*
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Concerning the festival: The ogres are largely, but not impermeably separated by sex, in the celebrations below; through the male circles and female circles are no less rowdy and intoxicated than one or the other.  The large number of ogre youth running about, wrestling and chasing each other through the festivities, tells you this is a whole-community event; and the daubing of ochre symbols on the flesh of those youths seems purposeful.  This is an after-party for a series of marriage arrangements.  With some effort, you see pairs of the ogre youths with matching ochre symbols - too young to have much interest in each other yet, but promised to each other by their families and with the stipulations of those marriage contracts spelled out on their skin in temporary glyphs.  Occasionally, you spot an ogreling with more complex markings - perhaps with a more complex marriage arrangement, or promised to an other settlement of Stonemaul or another clan.  Arranged marriages are the reality for many societies in Azeroth and beyond, for those who do not occupy the narrow band between "too poor" and "too rich" to consider exclusively romantic marriages, and for those who do not belong to a boldly forward-looking approach to generational continuity.  Whether the Stonemaul do this as a welcome cultural extension of an ancient tradition or as a necessary evil to ensure the familial tribes that make up the greater clan are welded together for another desperately surviving generation is not clear; but the children don't seem to care for the moment, and the adults certainly seem to be having fun celebrating the end of this round of negotiations on behalf of their juvenile offspring.

Concerning the Idol: You don't read demonic, so half of the runic circle is impenetrable to you - but the other half is gibberish.  They are clumsy ogre pictograms slapped into the circle to give it an 'ogre' flavor, but not one anyone who knew the language would mistake as having been written authentically.  The offerings here infront of the ancestor stone are not uncommon tokens of ogre ancestor reverence, so it seems like this was a legitimate enough ancestor idol - but the folk cavorting below would have had no reason to come up herein the last few days because of the ongoing festival.  Someone has come here to desecrate this place with demonic runs, but has for some reason wanted it to look like an ogre has done it.

----------


## Feathersnow

"This is bad"  
"Warlocks intend something,  and want to make the Ogres get involved "
"Must be either an attack on the Ogres or a true atrocity to not just hire them openly"

----------


## Plaids

Oh no..
Jakk'ari releases a silent tusked snarl to suppress a retch. The arrangement is reminiscent of the aftermaths of Dunemaul raids to the troll shaman.

He gestures toward Mor'Lag hoping to leverage the ogre's strength. 
Grab this one. I'll take the other. We're leaving. 

Quickly glancing towards Felix and making eye contact with the boy he extends an arm with a flat palm vertical to the ground to halt him. Before collapsing his palm into a fist with a single extended index finger signaling the cadet to back away. The last of the cadets had been found and the group's mission was almost complete. There was no need to escalate things. Now was the time to leave and recoup what they could.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion's heart sank when they found the corpses of the two cadets, barely a few years younger than herself, strewn about in a macabre decoration to conduit whatever infernal ploy the dark practitioners were conducting. 

What was equally disturbing was Marions inability to make sense of the arrangement. She understood Demonic, she knew the language and had read various black rituals that could be employed with living sacrifices. But this? She did not recognize this. 

Withdrawing her journal from her pack, an ink pot and her pen, Marion started to quickly scribble down notes and jotted a rough outline of what she saw, so that she could return to this at a later date when experience had expanded her knowledge enough to face this puzzle.

Once that was complete, she sprinkled some sawdust powder over the page to help the ink dry before quietly blowing away, folding her book up and returning it to her backpack.

That done, Marion eyed the pile again, pursing her lips when she thought about retrieving proof of the cadets demise. 

"Mor'lagh," the warlock asked, her voice soft and quiet as not to draw attention. 

"Can you carry these two?" she asked, gesturing to the downed cadets.

"Returning their remains is our prerogative. Perhaps a priest may even be able to restore the damage done to their souls for the burial."

With her question asked, Marion turned her attention back to the pile...at which point she spotted _something_. Furrowing her brow, the Alteraci retrieved a stick and brushed aside the charred remains of orcs and ashened refuse to reveal the heart of the ritual - an unusually shaped heart of rock. To the uninitiated onlooker this may seem harmless, but Marion could _sense_ something about it. She knew this was no ordinary masonry. 

Putting a cloth over her hand, Marion retrieved the item and wrapped it in linen, before squirrelling it away into her backpack. She would study it later.

ooc:
Spending a VP to boost Investigation, and then retrieving the Infernal core.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"What?"_  Felix pushes his whisper; hope metamorphing through confusion into dread in his expression, as Jakk'ari's expression and gesture of warning give him the softest preparation for what is to come that such a precarious moment in such a place can afford.  _"What is it?  Have you..?"_  But after backing up obligingly, there's no escaping a revelation for the young man.  When he sees what remains of Gawin, a discoloured mockery of a man upon whom scavenging beetles and rot from the marsh conditions have set over the last few days, he pales and chokes and lets out a sound of haunting, inarticulate grief.  He is struck with bizarre, and completely understandable indecision.  A step towards Gawin's almost unrecognizable body, and then a step back from the horror of it; a step towards the bluff and back again when he sees the still, carrion hand he knows must belong to Xander.  He reels back, tears streaming, face going from sheet white to tomato red as he seethes through hyperventilating breaths.  He draws his sword half from its scabbard, and turns his eyes to the bluff and the sounds of ogrish laughing and dancing and drinking; and murder turns his countenance from frightened boy to avenger of blood; but he takes one step as if to launch himself in a diving stab at the village as a single, monstrous aggregate... and then all his strength empties from him, and the sword slips from his grasp to jab upright into the earth.  His knees hit the ground, and with a full body convulsion he topples sideways drawing up into the posture of an infant; his mouth locked wide open as if to accommodate a scream of denial so loud as to shake the sky.  But he doesn't release that scream; even in this state, he has the presence of mind to incarcerate it within his heaving chest and let it slowly die there, released in muted particulate as shuddering moans into his cupped hands.  All the helplessness of his youth swallows up any soldierly affectation he thought to possess, and dumps him slack and mute into the reality of the dangerous world.  Jakk'ari sets aside the body and turns his attention and care to the crumbling cadet Felix, with what seems to be incremental success in calming him down to those watching at a respectful step back.

_"Must have let himself believe it was all going to be okay, when he learned the other two survived."_  The speaker is Zachary, who has arrived in the midst of the party so stealthily it's as if he manifested from smoke.  _"Damn shame."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Contrary to popular belief, Marion wasn't a totally heartless, self-serving conniver. Though she presented a pleasant façade while pondering what suited her best within the privacy of her own mind, she still had the strings within her heart that could be plucked by those who knew either the correct words, stories or demonstrations. And Felix was one such individual, even if he didn't know it. 

Though to be fair, his surreptitious agony was similar to that of her own, albeit with different variables. Marion herself had lost a lot in her young life: her position, her family, her holdings, her status, her prestige and her nation. Though she believed the weight of her calamity outstripped that of Felix's, she was not self-absorbed enough to think that it muscled it out for the spotlight of consideration in the present time. The academy had been Felix's world. These cadets, his family. Their actions, his alone to bear in this wretched swamp. Though he had chosen a military life in which he should be prepared for losing comrades to the depredations of malicious outsiders, he was receiving such a lesson at a particularly vulnerable age. This was not some war weary veteran who had seen fellows come and die - it was a teenager now saddled with the belief he had gotten his fellows killed.

"If you want to honour them Felix," Marion spoke, her voice surprisingly soft and soothing as she laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Help us safely return them to Theramore for proper burial. There is no more and no less that you can do for them now."

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera was both relieved and disappointed that the cadets were dead. Of course, it was a damn shame. It seems they had no chance at all. But at least, they didn't have to bother with the ogres anymore - and if they were lucky, neither demons nor warlocks- and they could just head back now. Felix was alive and well, and that in itself was a blessing. She would only hope he could take the bad news.

The fact that this elven rune stone was here, desecrated and used to some foul purpose bothered her, however. Probably just as much as the death of these cadets.

"Whatever these foul cultists are up to, I'm going to put a stop to it," she declared. Doing what elves like her did best, deprived of mana but always in control, it was a few trivial gestures, combined with a forceful and rather superfluous couple of syllables she used to draw the mana out of the stone completely. She didn't think she had ever felt so satisfied from drawing mana from anything before.

"Now, it will no longer..." she stopped, realizing Marion had taken up the stone herself.

"I hope you know what you're doing with that, Marion. Do you know what it is? All I can tell you is it is demonic, yet it smells like it was burned with dragon fire. I would suggest we find a way to destroy it, or just bury it somewhere in the swamp those cultists will never be able to find..  but something tells me you'd rather not." Isaera gazed at the warlock expectantly of an answer, and one very long eyebrow already raised.

-----

Down below the bluffs, where Felix waited, Isaera's mind was back to how he would take the bad news. And she was dreading it more and more. Sadly, it was Felix's own torment which caused Isaera to begin shedding some tears. She felt this kind of heartbreak when family did not return from war, and her dear friends suffered the same. These cadets must have all been good friends, as far as she could tell. To lose such a close friend.. well, the visible pain spoke for itself.

She was surprised to hear Marion say something that wasn't so flippantly sarcastic. For once, she could not agree more.

Isaera kneeled down to try to gently grasp his hand. She softly spoke, "We have all lost friends and loved ones. For what it's worth.. I'm sorry."

---

Then Zachary suddenly appeared. Good thing too. She slowly stands "Good timing, Zachary.. I know some of us may prefer to mourn.. but we need to go before demons ambush us, too."

----------


## MrAbdiel

> "... but we need to go before demons ambush us, too."


Some time after this awful escapade, the ears that heard this comment may reflect on it as eerily prophetic; or perhaps just painfully ironic.

The party make their way back down the bluff.  The infernal stone is secure in Marion's pack; the ogre idol hewn from elven runestone is denuded of its remnant of magical power; the bodies of Gawin and Xander are bundled in sheets to preserve them for the journey, with Jakk'ari's assurance he can offer them a herb-based respite from the rush of decay once they stop to camp for the night.  Zachary gives his bland report - the ogres seem to be having some kind of celebration to blow off the steam generated by taxing marriage negotiations, and the festivities have been going since before he arrived.  And Mor'Lag's physical power makes the whole operation swifter and less painful than it has any right to be.  Halfway down the bluffs, well enough hidden for the bodies to receive their wrapping before they carry on, Felix catches his breath and nods in wet-eyed delirium at the warlock and mage's quiet reassurances.  Between Jakk'ari's quiet, solid support in his most hysterical moment, and the words of the Marion and Isaera with hands settled on his shoulder and hand, the youth is able to shove his grief back into its casing; into the well of feeling where all soldiers must place their gentler selves, at the risk of one day being pulled in and lost entirely. _ "Thank you.  Yes... Yes, I'm okay.  Let's just go.  I want to just-... Let's go."_

And you're all _ready_ to go.  You're _just about_ to go.  And retrospect makes you wonder if timing had been a little different, how easilly it would have been to just _go_, or to arrive well after the fact.  But as history in Azeroth prefers to gravitate towards such moments, you are there when the music stops, and the cheering and singing of the ogres turns to shock, and alarm.  This, inevitably, draws your attention to the scene at hand.

Well - that's not quite right.  Your first clue is a sudden movement from Marion's backpack; a quiver of its content and an ear-aching, keening hiss of noise just at the edge of mortal detection that suddenly fades and stops, just before the change in sound in the village nearby.

*Spoiler: Perception DC 10*
Show

Something magical almost happened, but then didn't.  Whatever Marion put in her bag has just missed some trigger it was intended for; like a stick of goblin dynamite whose fuse has been pinched out just before vanishing into the powder.*Spoiler: Expertise: Magic DC 10*
Show

It seems like the physical separation from the idol - or more specifically, the magic trickle from within it - has robbed this fel happening of some final, critical drop of fuel.



Then, glancing over the low edge of the cliff toward the celebration, you bear witness; just as so many others did, four years ago.*Spoiler: Witness me.*
Show

https://www.youtube.com/clip/UgkxJiG...415snm-KCeYL-b


The sky does not rain green fire, today; but the earth blooms with it.  Dozens of blazing beryl craters burst open around the village, amidst their celebrations; some within the primitive structures, some from hard packed earn in the streets, some from the face of the cliff on whose two you previously stood.  The largest are upwards of thirty feet tall, looming over the tallest ogres in the settlement; and no sooner have they birthed from the memory of the last war do they fall upon those creatures nearest to them.  Ogres are tough creatures by nature; a warrior culture stacked on top of a wrecking machine physiology; but these ogres are drunk, and confused, and well and truly off guard.  The bloodshed commences immediately, and with frightful intensity.  Nearest to where you are, two hundred feet beyond the foot of the bluffs and past the crude wooden palisades, you see one reveller blinking in shock at the emergence of three such beings - small ones, no more than twenty feet tall.  One falls upon him with a battering ram blow from a green-blazing fist that breaks his mighty neck and catches flame to the body even as it topples.

There are not so many of the wicked constructs that it seems like the settlement is in danger of being overrun, even under these conditions - but they will pay a price in the blood of the jubilant, intoxicated adults and the dumbfounded children.

*Spoiler: OOC Rolls!*
Show

You're not technically in combat time yet; but I will ask you to make a Will Resistance Check against a DC of 14.  Failure means you are dazed by the demonic shock of the scene.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari breaths a sigh of relief as the core enclosed in Marion's bag rattles and screeches before anticlimactically petering out. Before being rattled by the emergence of dozens of cruel green flaming giants suddenly bursting from the moist ground. The roars are incomprehensible to the shaman and surely not a product of the elements.

The chorus of deep roars cascades over the frightened cries of a populace scrambling to understand what was happening while mounting a flatfooted defense. Thatched ogre mounds began to burn while gigantic figures lumbered in every direction. This was something he had never seen.

Taking his allies into account Jakk'ari sees the two inquisitive magical adepts who pawed so intently at the likely magical relics transfixed in horror. Felix was shocked but hadn't fallen into the freezing crevice between fight or flight like Marion and Isaera, thankfully a stern command would surely spring him into action. Then he looks to Mor'Lag and Zachary both exemplary fighters who would be irreplaceable in the next few minutes. Though if Mor'Lag's faculties were arrested by fear a full retreat would be nearly impossible given their size.

Seeking answers for what is happening Jakk'ari turns to the trusted ranger who had been at the villages perimeter the longest.
What is happening !? ... 

*Spoiler: OOC Backstory knowlege*
Show

Given how isolated the sand trolls were I'm thinking that they have passed down tales of demon invasions long ago but lost some details to time and can't identify specific species but have an understanding of "I know it when I see it".

----------


## WindStruck

"By the Gods..  Th-Those can only be..."  Isaera says, dumbfounded and just about scared out of her mind. Perhaps the shock would wear off, but needless to say, fighting these monsters would be foolish, if not suicidal.

Her eyes darted around and at the ensuing carnage. Drunk ogres and even ogre children about to get slaughtered, or at the very least, their homes destroyed. But what could they expect to do without adding to the causalities? How would they be received after the fact..  and where did these monsters come from??

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


"I hope you know what you're doing with that, Marion. Do you know what it is? All I can tell you is it is demonic, yet it smells like it was burned with dragon fire. I would suggest we find a way to destroy it, or just bury it somewhere in the swamp those cultists will never be able to find..  but something tells me you'd rather not."

Marion looks over her shoulder at the elf, a small, but friendly smile crossing her features. 

"What kind of lady do you take me for?" she asked with a playful expression. 

And then the proverbial dung impacted with the proverbial propeller. 

The Alteraci's eyes widened at the very sight before her, the macabre and grotesque spectacle reaching deep within her to clasp her bravery and squeeze it dry with a fiery, masoned fist. Were she observing _one_ of those things in act, from a distance, Marion might have been more content. But _this many_? And so close? The fiery and violent terrain spread out before her as the titanic forms of the infernals, wreathed in flame, smashed against the meaty, towering stumps of the more numerous ogres in a battle that Marion could feel in her soul and through her feet. 

Reaching out to the nearest companion near her, Marions eyes still agape with a primal horror, the teenager rapidly patted at whichever campion was closest. 

"We have to leave. _Now_."

Her expression suggested not just the desire for expedience, but a _recognition_ of what was before her, which lent itself to her wish for an immediate and hasty retreat.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag was, more than usual,  of two minds about all of this.  She definitely didn't owe it to the Stonemaul to stop the Dorei desecrating their relic, not least when someone or something had already done far worse.  She didn't owe it to them to save them, not least when it was unlikely she could actually help enough to matter 

But all of this was wrong.  Whatever started here wasn't going to end here. As the twins carried the corpses, she knew that even simple pragmatism would encourage her to at least see what this was 

Then... a scene from the third war returned!!

*Spoiler*
Show

(1d20+3)[*22*]

----------


## Plaids

As the carnage unfolds Jakk'ari can't help but feel a pang of guilt and wonders briefly if the groups excursion has caused this disastrous event. Regardless he would not stand by idly in the grass. Stepping forward to the apex of the hill Jakk'ari pleads to the wind and water spirits found in abundance in the swamps and summons a downpour radiating 120 from him only excluding his allies. All in the hopes of dousing any flaming hulks nearby.

*Spoiler: OOC:Distances*
Show

I don't know how far away the infernal cores are but I'm taking some pre-emptive measures if there are any.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jakk'ari's appeal to the elements is heard, and the spirits of water and wind conspire to darken the sky, and begin the opening salvos of a deluge.  It patters and hisses off the infernals, partially muting their grand fires and greatly diminishing the spread of blazes on structures and unfortunate folk.

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Jakk'ari's Call to the Elements* 
Show

The spirits require a forceful hand, right now; your invocations must be roared and your gestures must be sweeping and commanding.  They are in disarray, here.  Water and wind spirits are reacting with convulsive disgust at the fel monstrosities just as mortals do, but they honor the ancient promises when you direct their action.  Frustrating are the spirits of fire that are rapidly drawn from the deep furnace of the firelands to the spirit nearness of this place.  They vascillate between horror at the demon engines, and their inevitable, euphoric glee at the opportunity to burn things.  They are as much obstacle as ally, here, which is very much fire's nature: a troll's most valuable tool, and his most ancient bane.


_"...We should..."_ Zachary begins; green fire flashing in his eyes as the demonic invasion jags into reality to disrupt the otherwise simple search-and-find mission.  His attention darts wildly about across the targets, and one hand twitches toward his rifled musket.  But he seems stuck in a loop of actions - his hunter mind telling him to run before he becomes prey, his humanity reaching out sympathetically to these creatures who might have been his enemies in past conflicts, but are kin to him in the quality of their suffering right now.  _"...We should..."_

While throughout the once festive town sprawl the same scene unfolds in some awful variety, the drama closest to you carries on.  Just over the top of the palisade you can see the shoulders and burning stony skulls of the three lesser constructs, thrashing about with murderous purpose.  One hoists a grown ogre, which bellows in pain and defiance, and hurls him blazing into the sloppy pailings of a nearby supply hut.  It catches flame at once, the blaze incrementally draining from green to orange as the felfire gives way to its natural counterpart.  Another seems to be in a protracted exchange with a defiant enemy, the sound of stony fists pounding into a table improvised as a shield crunching out into the air.  The third's form hulks toward the palisade, angled down; and you hear a hysterical chorus from beyond.  The sound is strange indeed - the wailing of children, but from throats as large as most race's adults.

"Light save us, there's kids.  There's kids in there!"

This assessment, obvious as its conclusion is, comes from Felix.  Felix, who seems to not be struck with the bonefreezing grip of fear at this scenario.  The cadet's features, glowing in the green flame, are troubled with fear for certain; but they are also puffy and gleaming with the wracking bouts of grief that incapacitated him minutes ago.  The party of unlikely allies witnesses a peculiar kind of alchemy happen in the heart of the boy soldier.  Some combination of his emotionally exhausted state, catalysed by his disastrous idea of hunting demons in the swamp for the good of all the world, reacts with what an insightful observer would identify as the germinating seed of survivor's guilt and fills him with something so closely analogous to courage the effect is indistinguishable.

The short, straight blade rips from its scabbard, two feet of steel winking with the appealing banality of unenchanted, simple heroism.  He lets out a shout that seems to fill the space where a superior's order to charge should be, and serves to release his feet from idleness; and he tears across the field, leaps through a man-sized gap in the sloppy palisade, and throws himself into combat with one of the creatures.  You don't see the result of the charge - the permeable palisade nonetheless obscures the exchange - but the sound of the strike, the pitiable, small _dink_ of his sword on the stone of the construct, rings out to your ears like a town bell, calling all hands to arms.

*Spoiler: OOC Rolls And More!*
Show

We're in combat!  You can move through the sloppy palisade when you get there, if you want to; but there's nothing stopping you from turning and leaving Felix and the ogres to their fate, or hanging back and volleying magic over the wall.  That'll provide your enemies with cover, but it means you can keep away!  The palisade is about 90ft away, and the closest lesser infernal 20 ft beyond that, with another two distracted by their own destructive pursuits positioned at the other two points of a rough triangle with 40ft sides.

Felix's action is to charge!  Normal humans have a move of 0 (30 ft).  He has a 'charge' move ability with a move speed of 1 (60ft), so he uses _extra effort_ to pump it to 2 (120ft) so he can make it there in one move action, and swing his sword at the infernal for a mighty _dink._

(1d20+2)[*16*] to hit!  Looking for a 17 to hit in melee.
(1d20+7)[*22*] toughness, if it hits.

Fortunately, the sword has a damage rank of 3, which is just enough to beat the Lesser Infernal's_ Impervious Toughness_ rating.
Additionally, if he hits, the infernal makes a Reaction Damage attack with his felfire.

(1d20+2)[*6*] to hit, looking for a 13.  And if it hits, Felix will make a toughness check or be burned!
(1d20+8)[*25*] toughness, looking for a 17.

If you're wondering why Felix's toughness is so high, it's because he's getting a +5 against all fire descriptor attacks from Jakk'ari's elemental downpour!

Additionally, Felix's idiot charge into danger to help his historical enemies entitles all who witness to a +2 to their repeated will resistance to shake off the fear.  Marion and Isaera are entitled to roll at the 'end' of their idle turns that have just passed, so you can roll before you make your first in combat action turn and then again at the end of that turn, if you are still shaken.

Edit:  _Dink!_  No 'hit' from the sword, so merely a cinematic dinking off one big fiery stone leg.  Your move, adventurers!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion was _still_ feeling the primal fear of these wretched things gripping at her essence, a paralysing gnawing that seeped across her nervous system and halted any movements that were too advanced for finer motor functions to accomplish. 

She _hated_ these things. 

For a second, however, it seemed like her words might bear fruit and the group of them would turn and use the opportunity to slip away. 

But then Felix just had to...

"No!" Marion shouted out, even attempting to grip the cadet before he carried forth with his foolhardy decision. But it was too late. Off he took, charging forward and discovering how little his weapon meant to the infernal siege engines of the Burning Legion. 

Damn fool! Marion thought quietly, her lips pursed as she drew her hands up. 

Uttering a single syllable of power, Marion pointed her right hand towards the towering infernal as shards of black-green energy leapt from her fingers to strike the thing in the chest...


ooc:

Marion is casting Shadow and Fire.

*To Hit:* (1D20+4)[*17*]
*Homing Next Round:* (1D20+4)[*13*]

As it's _Multiattack_ the Damage gets +2 damage per degree of success for hitting. Going for Shadow descriptor instead of Fire.

So DC 19 + any modifiers.

----------


## WindStruck

A realization hits Isaera. "These ogres aren't responsible for the demons..."

But then, of course, Felix has to do something rash and stupid.  Exactly what he promised he _wouldn't_ be doing.

"Felix, wait!  Arghh!"  Isaera says, as she makes some half-hearted attempt to run up to and catch the cadet, but he's just too damn fast and foolhardy.

Now a bit closer to the action, Isaera tries to complement the rain by extinguishing the infernal's flame.. with Frost Bolt!

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

yeaaaah I think it's impervious but whatever. Isaera's never fought one before. Or seen one.  I am not sure if afflictions will still work even if its toughness doesn't get phased though.

attack: (1d20+1)[*20*]
damage 1
-Affliction 7 (dazed + hindered)
---Limited Degree 2
---Extra Affliction

And affliction is resisted by fortitude DC 17.

----------


## Plaids

While orchestrating the downpour Jakk'ari's attention is brough to the young cadet dashing past him at an impressive pace.
Seeing Felix's trajectory towards the village Jakk'ari scrambles after him by stumbling down the steep bluff then breaking into a taxing sprint.

Through the pitter patter of rain and squelching rain Jakk'ari can't keep pace with the young man but doesn't lose sight of him for long as the troll hops atop an opening in the battered palisades.
He sees Felix next to a flaming infernal as well as two others engaging their individual own ogres.

Intent on protecting Felix Jakk'ari compels the earth, summoning a coiling cyclone of mud between Felix and the infernal ready to intercept any strike aimed at the cadet.

*Spoiler: ooc mechanical actions*
Show


Jakk'ari uses extra effort to raise his speed to 1. With a movement of 60 Jakk'ari moves to the palisades and uses his Deflect power on Felix. 
I'm assuming Jakk'ari was closer to the palisades than the rest of the group since the group was going downhill and away from the village and then went back up to summon the rain.
(1d20+1)[*11*] Rolling to use deflect on Felix assuming Jakk'ari is at a medium distance from Felix.

----------


## Feathersnow

Lag is aware that daemons are there, right there, hurting Ogre children.   If she does nothing,  she deserves everything she suffered since her fathers' deaths.  If she saves anyone important and lives, she might never need suffer those insults again .

Mor, for once, is the less rational.  What she thinks cannot be put into words easily, only violent imagery of daemons being sent back forcibly to where they came from across the Nether.

They see where another Ogre is being attacked and attempt to flank the aggressor!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Long troll legs carry Jakk'ari in big, loping strides up to the palisades, and with a desperately outstretched hand.  Sympathetically, the elemental spirits produce a reaching hand of the same shape and arrangement as Jakk'ari's; but an effigy rendered from mud and loose stones, lurching from the soil to intervene between Felix and his towering, flaming adversary.  When that infernal spins, it brings a wild, devastating backhand of stone to bear that could smash a mortal body with a direct it.  It carves through the muddy apparition; but in the blur of the movement, it may have lost just enough momentum from its strike to save the cadet's life.  He raises his sword to parry the strike, and his blade is pushed against his chainmail, his body knocked skidding onto the mud and then, incredibly, the momentum carries him with a weird, accidental elegance tumbling back to his feet again.  He pounces forward and slashes at the infernal's legs, with another pitiably brave ring of steel on stone that yields no effect on the monstrosity.

Marion's roiling blast of shadow roars over the palisade, but the angle to avoid a wasteful impact against the wood means the missiles sing overhead of her marauding target, curling back around as they instinctively calibrate their destructive focus on the target of her searing hate.  Isaera's casting is more formalized and precise; a spinning spear of ice coalescing in the air above her shoulder at the delicate sculpting of her scintillating fingertips, rattling in its unseen arcane binding as it builds power.  The third member of the ranged assault team, Zachary, brings his rifle to his shoulder and squeezes off a shot so swiftly that it should by no rights hit the target; but luck is with the ranger in that moment, and as his shaking hands are moving to reload the musket, keen eyes can see a neat bullet hole in the stony skull of the infernal bearing down on Felix.  The injury jets sputtering green flame, which one must hope is a kind of analogy to a bleeding wound.  _Headshot_ doesn't seem to notice - it lets out an unearthly roar and redoubles its murderous efforts upon Felix.

The infernal that had flung its ogre prey into a nearby hut stalks purposefully into the building, its bulk smashing the burning, crude structure apart, and delivers a stomp that reverberates through the ground and fills the air with a grisly cracking noise that hearers do well not to imagine mapping to the specific interaction of stone foot and ogre head.  _Curbstomp_, its foe extinguished, cranes its burning, rage-crazed eyes over to the palisades, and the attacks flying over the wall at its companion.  From there, its attention wanders slowly, almost thoughtfully, to Zachary, Isaera and Marion.

The ogre facing off against the other infernal is an older male, a cyclops by injury not birth, with the horn in the middle of his forehead broken sideways and healed oddly.  He is possessed of a grunting, inarticulate stubbornness that might be considered admirable.  Further in the interior of the town, the battle is raging and it seems likely that in due time the ogres will win; but they will win from the inside out, and if this warrior is to survive - and preserve the lives of the cluster of six ogre children pressed back in paralyzed fear into the muddle base of the inside of the palisade - he will have to punch above his weight for some time.  He has hoisted the heavy feast table in both hands and deflected one blow; and manages to deflect another.  But the second blow catches the improvised shield on green flame, and its usefulness quickly threatens to turn to liability.  His one good eye catches the storming approach of Mor and Lag, however; and with an unspoken interaction between the ogres, _Brokenhorn_ roars and makes several feigned assaults on the demon-engine that instinctively shifts its bulk to deflect, before darting out a hand and snatching the table away, smashing it on the ground in a display of mindless, furious dominance.  _Tablesmasher_ does, in that way, keep focusing on the older ogre, exposing its back to Mor'Lag's coming blow.

----------


## WindStruck

Noticing another of those infernals seemed to be lumbering over towards them, this whole situation was going from trying to rescue the cadet from his own stupidity to probably being in danger themselves.

Isaera doesn't want to get closer, but she still immediately begins charging arcane energy in her hands, and soon sends the arcane missile flying at the infernal soon after her frost bolt strikes it.

*Spoiler: arcane missiles*
Show

attack: (1d20+3)[*20*]  (and then there's palisades)
has homing 3
damage 4

since she hasn't taken a move action, this should go off somewhat faster


"Felix!! Get out of there!! Another one is coming!" Isaera shouted at him, as she tried to concentrate on her spell.

Persuasion: (1d20+14)[*15*]

----------


## Plaids

Seeing Felix in danger Jakk'ari attempts to get closer to Felix while walking through the saturated mud disturbed by his attempts to protect Felix. 
Hearing loud boom and sharp metallic crack Jakk'ari sees Zachary's shot crack the infernals faceplate. Following Zachary's example he brings some of his own lightning to bear against the infernal. 

roll]1d20+8[/roll] 
*Spoiler: Mechanics*
Show

Jakk'ari moves 15 feet closer to Felix and the infernal to now be 15 feet from both. He then uses blast on the wounded infernal closest to Felix.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The arcing frostbolt strikes _Headshot_'s blackstone chest, and the sidewinding arcane missiles thread through the palisade and burst one after another in a pock-marking string up its right side.  Jakk'ari's lightning scintillates across all six of his fingers, and leaps from his digits at the demon-thing.

And through all this, it bellows and rages on; the accumulation of chips and cracks to its body slowly building, but not yet hindering it noticeably.  Its attention does track away from Felix and toward Jakk'ari, however...

Meanwhile, _Tablesmasher_ takes the bait of Brokenhorn's goading and bulls through the display, smashing a fiery stone fist through the improvised wooden shield and square into the ogre's jaw and chest, sending him reeling, singed, and staggering despite a best effort to deflect the blow.

----------


## Plaids

Startled by the infernal weathering the barrage of magical blasts Jakk'ari pleads to Felix. While shouting over the weather.
 You've done all you can. We need to regroup!  (1d20)[*18*]

Seeking to offer Felix a way out Jakk'ari focuses on the ground. Compelling two amiable elements to separate a thin line of bone-dry ground emerges guiding Felix to the palisades. All while the rain continues saturate the ground and form deepening mud.

*Spoiler: Mechanics*
Show

Jakk'ari is aiding Isaera in her attempt to convince Felix to fall back. He also makes the ground into ground impeding movement by two degrees excluding land surrounding allies and a small strip of land leading Felix back to the palisades. I don't know how big infernal feet are but the strip is meant to be thinner than the width of its hips so it can't move unimpeded on the path.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion pursed her lips and shook her head as she watched both magic and blade batter off the rocky body of the towering infernal. 

_Of course they attacked the infernal despite my warnings_, the Alteraci thought sourly to herself, _what would I know, I'm only a warlock...
_

Drawing her hands up, Marion begun to chant and conjure forth her own minion. She doubted she would be able to flee from these things without some sort of meat-shield between herself and the others. Though she didn't fancy her chances of surviving in the swamp for days...

ooc:

*Full Round Action: Casting Summon Demon:* Expertise (Magic) - (1D20+10)[*19*] vs DC 16.


*Second To Hit against the Infernal:* (1D20+4)[*23*]

If that beats the To Hit by 1 degree then the DC is 21, if it beats the To Hit by 3 degrees the DC is 24. So she's already got 1 degree by rolling a successful hit (so DC 21), then if the Infernals Dodge is 14 or less she gets +5 for DC 24.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The violet lights glimmering off Marion's casting fingertips begin quickly to change form; from light, to smoke; from smoke, to empty fog; from empty fog, to fog with a pair of bright eyes and heavy, jeweled bracers suspended in its rippling depths.  The Voidwalker was being slowly hauled into reality with a minumum of reluctance, and radiating a palpable pall of something that tasted, to the soul's instinctive palate, like a sort of bitter, detached homesickness.  But while this took place, the combat carried on; and the shadowy blast released by the warlock moments ago completes its orbit and slams into the back of the injured infernal.  The impact seems to have the desired effect; its fist, raised to hammer Felix into the ground like a railspike, suddenly drops to support it as it heaves forward with the rocking power of the shadowy detonation.  Faint cracks spider out from the point of impact, even curling around to feature with fellish internal luminescence on the right side of its central 'torso' stone.  In that moment, as another of Felix's blows clangs ineffectually the infernal's stony back, the dual voices of reason, elf and troll together, penetrate the cadet's fugue of heroism.  He takes the moment of the monstrosity's distraction to fall back, straining as he exerts, through the palisade's gappy flank and just out the other side, halfway to where he started.  _Headshot_ pushes up and stumbles after him, but only makes it as far as Jakk'ari; the construct's attention transferring swiftly to the shaman with evident malice.

Dropping to one knee as he finishes reloading, Zachary breaths out slowly and takes careful aim at the damaged 'skull' he has hit once before; banking on accumulating a second success when the moment is right.

The second infernal, _Curbstomp_, sees the young human fleeing across its path and lurches forward in pursuit.  As the slim youth slides through the gap in the palisade, the infernal drops a shoulder to plow right through it; and for a moment the observers feel their preserving instincts warning them about the hail of burning, tainted splinters they are about to need to reel from.  But the impact against the palisade is a bare _thump_ - the mudslick ground has given way somewhat under the demonic construct's foot, compromising the gravity of its charge into a blow that neither obliterates the wooden wall, nor seriously damages it.  Felix has escaped, and the wall has held; and in the distraction of the immediately threatening enemies, the ogre children scrabble away from their trapped corner - though it is their village that is under attack, and at best they can run to a part of it that is less immediately under attack.

Dazed, _Brokenhorn_ attempts to land a punch on the towering engine of fire and stone; but _Tablesmasher_ leans deftly away from the force of the blow, raises both stony arms above its head with a clasping of burning fists, and prepares to bring both down upon the ogre's head.

*Spoiler: Mor'Lag's Insights*
Show

Your hearts are thumping in their chest.  There is something about this encounter - the demons, the ogres, the magic, the physical contest - that rings in your senses with a majesty that belongs in ritual - as if fate had orchestrated a kind of rite-of-passage for them in the absence of a lasting affiliation to tribe.  Perhaps that ancestral idol on the bluff really has some _mojo_ to it; perhaps, as some have suggested, the eyes of the ancestors peer out through that stone facade in mute witness to all that transpires beyond.  Are your fathers there, watching?  Do they watch from Ogri'la, in rest?  Or some darker, more anguished place - the price of that rash vow, and the heady pride that caused such an ignoble fall?

You remember that day on the deck of the ship, watching your father dismantle a Felguard with his hands - _his hands! -_ and even as you moving up for a flanking strike on _Tablesmasher_, these towering stone fiends seem... smaller, now.  Held in true perspective.  They are mighty, yes; but they are also weak; slave constructs of a race of slaves.  They are demons; but you have seen stronger demons crumble beneath the fists of the mighty.  Have your fathers given you only a burden of shame to carry for your whole life?  Have they not, at the least, given you also your hands, your arms, your _dunam_, which the small races translate so listlessly as _brute power_?  You will find out, today, if the blood in your veins is all curse - or something more than that.  The answers lie, you are certain, inside the breakable husks of these fel-golems.

*Spoiler: OOC Mor'Lag Stuff:*
Show

Mor'Lag, perhaps for reasons she does not understand, understands instinctively the weaknesses of these constructs.  Using the _smash_ action will permit you to break the stone trunk of the torso, exposing the infernal core to direct damage; removing 2 points of their toughness with a base success, and 4 of their 7 points of toughness, if the _smash_ completely breaks their 'armor'.  Presently, _Brokenhorn_ has paid a price to distract _Tablesmasher_ for you - it's _vulnerable_, making its parry defence a mere 4 instead of 7 for your coming attack.

----------


## Plaids

Seeing Felix out harms way and the pursuing elemental failing to find traction in the mud Jakk'ari feels a small but sustaining sense of relief. He's also glad no one was attempting to squeeze through the palisades only to become jellied meat between the wall and the construct.

Unfortunately, it appears the two infernals wouldn't relent in their goal of crushing the most accessible fleshy being.
Attempting to suprise "headshot" Jakk'ari provides him with its namesake. A bolt of lightning arcs through the air before wrapping around Jakk'ari's outstretched arm and being launched through the air like a snake being chucked by its handler at "headshots" face. (1d20+8)[*13*]

Taking his chances Jakk'ari dives between headshot's feet and running forwards as fast he can.
Whilst running for his life Jakk'ari compels the earth to churn and grind. The roiling earth unearths a series of boulders no bigger than Jakk'ari's feet evenly spaced in hispath. Bounding on the stones Jakk'ari moves unimpeded above the increasingly deeping mud. Each stone trodded upon sinks back into the earth.

*Spoiler: Mechanics*
Show

Jakk'ari attacks "headshot" with a blast in the face before running through its legs and behind it to run away from it. This should put distance between him and "headshot" plus the one hitting the palisade.  Then with a spent victory point he impedes the movement of all enemies around him in range while trying to not obstruct his own movement or that of his allies. 

I'm really enjoying the "selective" part of environment control. If the party somehow ends up in a gnome city that ran out of coal for their steam engine generator Jakk'ari is going to heat the piston chambers of the engine and then cool them repeatedly to generate electricity and possibly worshipped as a "machine speaker".

----------


## MrAbdiel

Mor'Lag comes charging into the combat with wrecking-ball force, using the momentum of the dash to reel back one mighty fist, and bring it forth into the stony back of the distracted demon-construct.  But at the moment of impact, it's not entirely clear what happens.  The blow does not translate into physical damage - surely that would leave a cracking of the stone - but instead some other, more mystical collusion of forces.  A rush of wind scythes out from the point of the strike in a ring lined up against the plane of the ogress's impacting knuckles.  A _boom_ like a thunderclap echoes from the strike, and behind it, mingling with Mor and Lag's own cries of ferocity, is a sound like _other_ ogre voices - this pair masculine and distant but loud and resonant - making some unintelligible declaration in the space of a half second.

_Tablesmasher_ stumbles forward from the strike, huge igneous legs nearly slamming over _Brokenhorn_ as he scrambles out of the way.  The infernal rounds on Mor'lag now with a demonic shriek, the felflame in its eyes, its neck socket, and issuring from between all its joints stuttering and guttering like a torch in hurricane wind.

*Spoiler: OOC Action Resolution!*
Show

Mor'Lag has gone with an alternate effect for that crit, making it a _Banishing Blow_ and manifesting for the first time a hinted at but undisclosed magical potential.  The Infernal won the opposed Nullify roll (despite rolling at a -2 disadvantage!), but Banishing Blow as I've speculatively written it has the _Secondary Effect_ modifier, so _Tablesmasher_ will have to make that roll again at the end of Mor'Lag's next turn, too.  Failure means being unsummoned!


Jakk'ari's lightning flashes up into _Headshot's_ stony skull, and it shakes its head with a screaming, sneeze like dismissal as the troll slips between its legs and begins his withdrawal.  Regathering its senses, the infernal turns to pursue... just as a black-violet rift appears nearby it, projecting unsettling un-light in a complex geometric pattern on the earth around it.  Similarly, in Marion's midst, a matching geometric pattern spiders out from the basic traces her powers have made in the ground and fill in the rest of the magical circle as if the spell _desires_ so much to be cast that it's willing to split the labor.  Both circles release a howl of cold, sterile air before Varghast manifests in a sucking truncation of sound, and lets out a mournful, howling groan that seems to agitate and draw the attention of the infernals.  _Curbstomp_ seems particularly enraged, backing off the palisade and turning its focus on the Voidwalker.

_Tablesmasher_, his animating magics warring against the corrosive effect of Mor'Lag's attack, pushes through the disruption to lash out at the bifold ogress; but the attack is clumsy and overweighed, balanced badly against the stagger recovery from the Banishing Blow.

*Spoiler: OOC Turns!*
Show

Marion and Isaera are up again!  Marion, Varghast can act on your initiative for simplicity's sake.  I had him manifest in the midst of the the fight and taunt (it only succeeded on Curbstomp right away, but he can just do it every turn!), but obviously you can do whatever you want with him.

----------


## WindStruck

Since it seemed the first infernal they were fighting was about to start chasing Jakk'ari, and the other.. seemed to give up its attempts at reaching them for now, Isaera once again conjures up frost in her hands and flings it at Headshot to further hinder its pursuit.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

frost bolt
attack: (1d20+1)[*20*]
DC 17 fortitude for same afflictions as before

----------


## MrAbdiel

The frostbolt spirals out to the left as if it's likely to miss by a considerable margin; but the elven fingers know they arcane work.  It arcs out to the side and rips back in with greater momentum than the first casting, translating the torquing force of its longer path into a harsher impact that causes the infernal to emit another piercing bellow.  A great crystalline growth now exists nested in the nook between shoulder and skull of the thing, growing out and back three full feet in a physical map of the frostbolt's arcane over-penetration.  The felflames throughout its body begin dying down as they compete with the arcane fire, and each slogging step of the infernal is an achingly slow plod as frost reaches out to snap-freeze the sloshing mud into grabbing permafrost that needs to be forcefully broken to advance!

*Spoiler: Isaera Notices...*
Show

First, the magic Marion has just used, you are quiet certain, is a demon summoning ritual.  If you had any doubts about how much of a warlock she is, she's a full-blown warlock; but at least she's _your_ warlock right now.

Unrelated but additional, your investigation of the area pays a longterm dividend you weren't expecting.  You remember looking over the area to your far right when you were snooping around the broken barrel and ogre expectoration before you climbed up the bluff.  But you see a disturbance in the earth that wasn't there before - as if a bucket full of sod had been heaved up and off of the the spot from a projecting force beneath.  And inside that depression all the way over there - a detail you wouldn't have noticed, you think, if your senses weren't so fine and charged by the inhalation of ancient Thalassian mana earlier - is the top of another of those bloody stones, like that which you found in the offering pit, like those which you're sure birthed the Lesser Infernals in the ogre village.

The deduction seems inevitable, now: like the other inert stone, the drip-feed of activating mana that was meant to 'fill them' never quite reached critical mass.  It can't be a proximity thing, or the one you plucked from the offering pit should have activated first; but something has made the feeding of these infernal seeds uneven enough that when you drained the last reservoir of their activating energy, something or someone has triggered an activation ritual that was meant to happen later.  This was _supposed_ to be a summoning large enough to complete the massacre of this settlement without contest, instead of one that will go down as a calamity but one they have the ogre-power (and helpful outside intervention) to overcome.  Ironically, your outrage at the ogrish desecration of your people's sacred menhir has probably resulted in the saving of many of their lives.  You wonder what kind of enemy, with access to such a wealth of demonic relics and arcane subtlety to set such a trap, you might have made your enemy.


*Spoiler: OOC Infernal Status!*
Show

Headshot: -3 Toughness, Dazed (until the end of its next turn), Dazed _again_ (until it passes a DC17 Fort at the end of its turn), and Hindered (until it passes a DC17 Fort at the end of its turn).  So its toughness against damage is effectively +4, and atleast for next turn it has only one action or move; and if it's a move, it's at -1 move speed.  And because Felix and Jakk'ari withdrew from it, it's gonna be a move!

Tablesmasher: Uninjured, but needing to beat an opposed check (at a net -2 balance) or be unsummoned at the end of Mor'Lag's next turn.

Curbstomb: Taunted (Attack Impaired -4 until it spends a turn attacking the Voidwalker), Movement Impaired -2.  And not adjacent to anyone, so it'll have to move.

Go eclectic party, go!  The only allied character who's been hurt yet is _Brokenhorn_ who has taken one for the team; but you're winning on points!

----------


## MrAbdiel

As Jakk'ari clears the infernal's reach, Felix looks back and, with the dough-headed instinct of a man trying to pull a friend from quicksand by diving in and giving him a boost, doubles back to fake another charge.  "HEY!"  He roars, and flashes his short sword in the air.  "HEY!"  Before turning again and running alongside the troll, hopping through the gaps in the palisade in time with one another.  It's not clear that _Headshot_ took the bait; but with dazed, frost-rimmed steps, it manages to stagger with a complaining bellow up to the palisade, close enough to lay a hand on it, but no further.  Atleast from there, the ranged attackers have clear shots - and it doesn't look to be capable of rapid pursuit for a moment or two!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Mordis' eyes switched back and forth between the targets, her heart racing as she had wanted them to get the hell out of here before this had even occured. 

But, they were here now, and they might stand a chance. 

Drawing her hands in to direct her arcane energies against _Headshot_, Mordis conjured another hailing blast of shadow...


ooc:

Casting _Shadow and Flame_ against Headshot to try and finish it off: (1D20+4)[*8*]

----------


## MrAbdiel

The infernals variously rage and lash out, straining against the constraints of the elements and arcane bombardment; but the soul-chilling howl of the Voidwalker is difficult to ignore, and now _Curbstomp_ and _Tablesmasher_ deviate from their targets to focus their hate on the rogue demon.  With his opponent peeling away, _Brokenhorn_ looks briefly at Mor'Lag with superstitious awe... Then wiping the blood from his face with the back of one hand, gives a co-operative nod to them, and charges off after _Headshot_, presently struggling to climb the palisade and being bombarded by arcane, and fel detonations.  As Marion's bolts of shadow rip past and cycle back around for another strike, the old ogre moves into a natural flank approach to set up this one for one of Mor'Lag's attacks, roaring out his competing threat.

Zachary slowly squeezes out half a breath, tracking the same spot he chipped in _Headshot's_ skull with his last round, and squeezes the trigger between his own heartbeats.  It hits the same spot, blasting off a fist sized chunk of stone and leaving the guttering green flame pouting in mad sputters from one now manually expanded eyesocket.  The pitiable shriek it releases makes no secret of its decaying state - the animating magics that hold those stones together are fleeing it, even as it rages against that inevitability.

_Curbstomp_ slogs the short distance to the voidwalker Varghast, and brings a powerful overhead blow down upon it.  It's a colossal blow, driving the voidwalker a full two feel in the muddy earth.  But a blow that would have killed a human trivially only staggers and dazes the Voidwalker; the distension of its facial un-flesh already reassembling after the hit.

----------


## Feathersnow

Lag shouts in exultation and Mor shouts in rage! The power they loathed and lusted for had begun to flow in ernest!  Together, they bring what focus they can to _push_ the construct back, putting their angry minds and mighty muscles, their hopes and fears, all yoked to the one goal...

_Be no more!_

*Spoiler*
Show

 (1d20+3)[*10*] attack roll at a penalty for power attack.

I would try to use my attack to make the Infernal more vulnerable to the effect of being banished,  but I'm not sure that works under the rules.

For book-keeping, I had currently invested all but three of my XP and the original points re-spent on a different counter-magic power, which cost 6 points and specifically works against spells as they are cast.
 I hinted that Mor was developing this power in rebellion of the unfair circumstances of her life, but have only used it once in a minor way.  I will definitely purchase the banishment power assuming I am given at least 1 XP after this encounter. 

 I am willing to rebuild the nullification power or lose it, especially since I only uses it to quench a minor piece of felfire, which is a thing that the new power could probably accomplish.

(1d20+6)[*23*] opposed check roll, as requested

----------


## MrAbdiel

The ogresss fist slams into the back of _Tablesmasher_s torso stone as the demon-construct is slogging through mud to assault Varghast at the beckon of its tormenting challenge.  Impossibly, amazingly, the ogres digits punch through the dark stone like grey chalk, freezing the construct in its goliath tracks.  It emits a demon shriek that becomes a moan, felfire flickering and spasming and then guttering out entirely, its demon spirit banished by the strange, instinctive manifestation of fel command.  Its constituent stones tumble in a loose pile, leaving its smoking infernal core cooling in MorLags grip.  A rune in demon fire hangs in the air for a moment, rising and dissipating into the wind.

*Spoiler: Language: Demonic*
Show

The rune means the number 7.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari sees the broken horn ogre bound after and flank "tablesmasher" to give Mor'Lag a chance defeat the green behemoth.
The giant flaming hulk being reduced to an ephemeral cloud of ash awes Jakk'ari as he surveys the groups new ally.

The scorch marks and cuts sustained from defending the ogre children impede the older ogre's movement.
Running beside the ogre and reaching out Jakk'ari attempts to change that.
(1d20+4)[*16*] Attempt to heal

*Spoiler: Mechanics*
Show

Jakk'ari runs towards "broken horn" and attempts to heal him.
Seeing as the attempt is successful, I think the result is that "broken horn" loses his worst damage condition while Jakk'ari gains it. 
I think the worst condition "broken horn" has is a degree of damage out of the four needed to incapacitate him

----------


## MrAbdiel

The water elemental affinity manifests like a soothing mist, curling out from Jakkaris fingertips and brushing gently across the wounded ogre.  Immediately, the Farraki can feel his nose sympathetically snap to once side as he takes on the injury he has healed - though naturally, his trollish healing is already at work setting that right.

----------


## WindStruck

Though they seemed to be making some progress chipping away at the infernal's structural integrity, it was still nevertheless a threat, and a threat that should not be taken lightly as it was attempting to climb over the palisades to get at them.

Nervously, Isaera watched as it crept forward. For now it was slowed down by frost, but who knew how long that would last? She quickly glanced about at her allies. It's not like she planned to outright abandon them, but... needless to say, if that thing got too close to her, she was a goner.

And so, the elf retreated a ways, and she once again began to gather some arcane energies in her hands...

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

arcane missiles for 4 damage
attack: (1d20+3)[*19*]

I think I would mention with the fight going on longer, maybe low mana would start becoming an issue, but she just did mana tap that defaced runestone, so...  mana probably isn't an issue yet.

----------


## MrAbdiel

With a ripple of arcane detonations, _Headshot_ staggers back a step from the palisade with stone and ice chips flying, and the mournful demon howl of the monstrosities once more in the air.  Felix, seeing that Jakkari is heading back into the fray, lets out a whoop and charges at the ankles of the construct once more; this strike no more effective than the last, even if none can fault his courage.

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

Arcane Missiles hits, and knocks Headshot to a -5 on its toughness!  The cascade of injury is plain for all those who target it!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Watching as her shards of soulless fel energy weave about to crash into _Headshots_ body, Marion stepped away, leaving the other Infernal to Vargheist to handle while she wanted to finish off the original. 

Drawing near cover, Marion drew her hands up and send a third blast of shadow energy towards _Headshot_, seeking to finish the beast off.


ooc:

- _Shadow and Fire_ roll in OOC and already covered.

[i]Shadow and Fire:[/b] (1D20+4)[*7*]

----------


## MrAbdiel

Marion's following blast wheels wide, to spiral in for another destructive pass.  Zachary bangs off another shot that strikes home, extinguishing  the fel-eye he is targeting entirely to the bellowing dismay of the Infernal as it clambers over the palisade only to fall to its hands and knees on the other side.

"We got it, now; pour it on!"  He commends, hands mechanically and swiftly going about the loading of his rifled musket.

Meanwhile, Curbstomp brings down a crushing heelstomp on the Voidwalker an eight of its size, consuming its space entirely and snuffing out its summoned life.  Or seeming to - a moment later, a blow that ought to have executed the defending demon is revealed to not have done so; it crawls out of the crater with its shadowy features regenerated already from its mangled state to one more promising.

*Spoiler: OOC Actions!*
Show

Zachary hits (because I spent his VP for him), reducing _Headshot_ to -7, completely zeroing his toughness.  _Brokenhorn_ forstalls his action, to maintain his feint for Mor'Lag's next strike.  Varghast regenerates away his _Staggered_ condition, and actively dodges (unimpressively).  Curbstomp boots him, but only reinforces his daze and ads a second -1 to Varghast's profile - the opportunity to kill him outright passes with that regeneration tick.

It's Mor'Lag's go!  After which it'll be Jakk'aris, and Isaera's, and Marions!  So feel free to queue up your actions, everyone.  You've almost got him!  And once you're down to one enemy you can easily kite around with all your slows and freezes, we'll round the battle off to its presumable conclusion without requiring those rolls.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag scream as one and charge _Curbstomp_

"Be no more!"
"Back where you came from!"

*Spoiler:  OoC*
Show


Applying extra effort for increased effect and a circumstance bonus to negate the power attack penalty, as per my additional effort advantage

(1d20+5)[*10*]

I know the GM suggested I concentrate on the Infernal that is actually  hurt, but Lag wants to be a hero, Mor wants to fight, and they both are astounded by suddenly having magic powers and want to test them. 

Neither are thinking clearly, but convincing the Stonemaul they are awesome will lead to being acknowledged as a legitimate Ogre, so they should go all out is the closet thing to a rational thought in either of her heads.

----------


## WindStruck

With an opportunity presenting itself, Isaera stays in place (she had already retreated a bit prior anyway) and now flames are conjured up in her hands: flames which might expand cracked and frozen stone and shatter them entirely.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Fire bolt! And I will probably use a VP or some extra effort.

attack: (1d20+1)[*8*] for 6 damage

Yeah, use the last VP to make that +18.  That should work.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Throwing a glance over at the Felwalker and seeing that he's doing just fine, Marion turns her attention back to Headshot and aligns her mind...


ooc:

*Homing 1 - Fire and Shadow:* (1D20+4)[*10*]
*This round:* Using Aim this time, so next round +9 instead of just +4.

----------


## Plaids

With group rallying to vanquish the two remaining constructs Jakk'ari joins the onslaught.
Ignoring about the burns on his arms and torso he runs forwards summoning another savage lightning bolt aimed at "headshot".
(1d20+8)[*20*]
*Spoiler: Mechanics*
Show

Jakk'ari gets walks into close range of "headshot" and attacks while spending a victory point to augment the attack.

----------


## MrAbdiel

As the Sandfury calls on the elements, whose sacred voltage has so far been frustrated by the demon hulks, there is a grumbling crack of thunder in the sky.  From the shamans hands, a white jagged arc snaps out to strike the flame, frost and flechette flecked fiend - and in the same moment, the cloudy, raining sky disgorges a huge spear of its own sympathetic rage in twin with the trolls.  The pair meet in the infernals core, and with a diminishing, hollow wail it bursts to pieces sending blacked stone shard tumbling about it in a desecrated nova.

At moment later, behind the palisade, MorLags stereo roar is heard and the third creatures has its fel essence hammered from its corpus, leaving a muddy ogre echo and a rising, fading fel fire rune in its wake.

[spoiler=Language: Demonic]It is the demonic rune for the number eight, this time.[/spoilerl]

Three of the infernal rose here, and now three are disposed of; and the heroes of the moment earn a reprieve to catch their breath.

Across the village, it seems the scenario is playing out in a broadly positive if painful manner; only a few of the demon constructs remaining in sight, and the supernatural downpour having quenched the arsonist ambitions on many of the structures.  On top of the largest ogre mound, the silhouette of an enormous, powerful ogre patriarch is laying into his toppling opponent with an ace the size of a smaller ogre; and most eyes are on this demonstration of victory.  But more than a dozen near this end of the palisade are keeping astonished watch on this group of travellers, or as many as are close enough to see; the ogre with the broken horn foremost among them, feeling his healed face in astonishment.

Yeah!

Felix imprints the lull with his exuberance.  He waves in celebration at the mage, warlock and ranger, as if to signal the immediate danger has past and they should approach and bask in the glory together.

EDIT: (Oh no, I ruined my spoiler tag!  My mystery!  It's penetrated!)

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is relieved that it's all over. Only, it's not over.  With the three infernals vanquished, there was another issue at hand: their "debut". Their activities, whether heroic or not, had drawn the attention of the ogres. And while, perhaps, they seemed appreciative of the aid, they were still ogres...

Wouldn't it seem suspicious that these demonic beings appeared right as these strangers did? Maybe it would take a little while for some of them to catch on, but once they latched onto that idea, the same stupidity which made them oblivious to that possibility would ensure that no amount of reasoning or evidence would persuade them otherwise, when it was a perfectly valid excuse to be cruel.

"Marion, get rid of that thing!" Isaera hisses at the warlock, a demonic egg (or more accurately, fel core) in their possession would certainly be incriminating.

----------


## Feathersnow

"Hail!  I am[we are] Mor'Lag Voidfist!  Witness me!  I [we] have come from nowhere and nothing and brought with me [us] proof of my [our] worth!  I [we] would accept annointment as my [our] due, would you have me [us]!?"  

They intone the ritual petition in archaic Ogrish, not used in sincerity since before the fall of the Gronn, when the clans were formalized and the first Horde changed the nature of Ogre society.

This was the rite to be accepted as a merit adoptive into a Clan, something the new laws did not make room for. Clans were something you were born into until you died or were shunned. Only now,  years later, was there any clanless population worth mentioning,  and one _earning_ a place was the stuff of legend. But so was killing a daemon with a single punch.

Dropping into Orcish,  so at least Jakkari could understand, "the Other Folk would Parley with the Clan.  We have intelligence regarding this attack."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion felt her heat still aflutter from the violent mayhem that had gone by so quickly, yet in reality had been quite a long time. 

With the infernals now simple rocks scattered about the town and the rain gently kissing them from the sky, the Warlock looked over at her Voidwalker minion and nodded once in his direction - then snapped her fingers, his image dematerializing on the spot. 

Rolling her shoulders against the straps of her backpack, Marion approached cautiously with the others. 

"I think we should leave..." she says quietly. 

"Tell them of Theramore's goodwill in our assistance here, and simply leave.."

----------


## Plaids

Seeing the demonic fiends defeated and banished Jakk'ari joins in the exultations alongside Felix and Mor'Lag. Releasing a guttural howl long denied to his people he allows himself to be released from the anxiety and terror that had nearly swallowed him.
The victorious howling ends once he hears Mor'Lag's proposal. He considers the risks as well as Marion's disapproval at being in the village. The situation could be seen as incriminating. The group had saved lives, but the group's assistance was conveniently timed and Jakk'ari had seen villages go either way when help arrived on travels.

The large ogre felling a construct as a normal human would fall a young tree intrigues Jakk'ari. Tempted by maybe another chance to ingratiate himself with another community and perhaps find allies for his people back home he quietly addresses the group in common. 

 Perhaps we should explain our situation. We our mission may be almost complete, but we are also representatives of Theramore now aren't we. You have observed them the longest what do you think Zachary?

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari thoughts*
Show

 He thinks diplomacy with the village could go either way but is intrigued by the prospects of developing a working relationship with these ogres. So votes to stay at least for at least a little bit. 

Also Jakk'ari does not know anything about the connection between the infernals, their dying runes, and the infernal core. Jakk'ari's knowledge of demons is limited to stories and artwork akin to an adult human in the real world only recognizing animals from having seen neolithic cave paintings of animals. Kind of accurate but abstracted and not useful for a veterinarian. 

Being a political advisor Jakk'ari will absolutely defer to a large majority with everyone getting a vote. But Zachary gets two votes since Jakk'ari considers him his closest friend in the party. So convincing Zachary will sway Jakk'ari. Just to let the GM know in advance.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Zachary puffs, and scratches the back of his neck as he considers their situation.  He is out of breath, even though his feet have not moved from their locked upright firing stance for the entire combat; the sheer jackhammer relentlessness of the mortal threat has robbed him of his now slowly recovering cool.  He looks over their party - miraculously, they have taken no injuries except the one transposed upon Jakk'ari as a mercy to the broken horned ogre; and even that seems to have come right by dint of the troll healing factor, now.  Ultimately, his eyes rest on Felix, whose back is straight and shoulders back with the thrill of genuine battle for the right reasons.  Before the combat broke out, he was a shattered crater of boy; and as they make their way home with the corpses of his friends in tow, he is likely to descend into that darkness again.  But now, for this short aftermath, the cadet gets to rise above the butcher's bill and experience at least a partial vindication of his valorous instincts.  He had gone into the swamp with his friends to do battle with the demons - the enemies of life, and peace.  The cost was high, but he had run _toward_ that battle instead of away from it, when the moment arose.  He had struck at the demons with allies at his back, and the demons were scattered and broken, and he was standing; and perhaps when the face of his departed friends visit him in dreams with questions about what, exactly, their death had _bought_, he would have an answer that partially satisfied.

It's clear the veteran does not want to truncate the experience of the boy's victory.  As a soldier, Felix is destined to lose a great deal - there is a sacred value to the countervailing celebration of victory.  Zachary tempers his gut response, with this judgement.

_"...We shouldn't linger, I think.  Many of these ogres are still drunk, if they're not wounded or grieving.  They're not in the best frame of mind to judge fairly why we tampered with their holy place, and shortly after showed up to join the battle.  Something for diplomats to do, I think - and skilled as you are, Jakk'ari, our mission is to get Felix - and these others - back to Theramore.  Mor'Lag is having a ... meaningful moment over there, I think.  We should let them have that moment, and they've put in a good word for us to parlay with their leadership, since we still don't know exactly how all this happened - but after that I think we should get moving.  The ogres need some time to recover.  This could have been much worse."_

Felix, who is _invincible_, hops neatly back through the palisade to stand near enough to overhear Mor'Lag and their conversation with the ogres.  Zachary remains furtive and vigilant, but stays back with the party outside of the wall.

In the distance, the towering ogre clan leader has dispatched his opponent, and is now making his way toward the edge of the village from which the mystical blasts had emitted, and to which now a certain amount of ogrish commotion - Brokenhorn and six or seven others (depending on if you count heads or bodies) regarding Mor'Lag with interest, and fascination, and a slowly dissolving mistrust of the outsider.

_"I am Oro Manflinger,"_ intones the broken horned ogre in response; the citing of this name in the ogre tongue immediately conjouring images of projectilized footmen, presumably in the second war. _ "And I witness you, Mor'Lag Voidfist.  I have seen your strength, and will speak to its truth.  The other elders will certainly wish to know what happened here - and I dare to suspect they will recognise your bid.  What a horror, to befall us in such an hour - and what fortune, that you and your small companions might have been here.  I, and others, would be dead, if you had not.  As for the others, and the parlay - well.  Call them forth, if you will.  I have seen the troll, and the child of man; but the others, my eyes are too old to make out."_

*Spoiler: Perception, DC:10*
Show

A ripple of concern seems to be rolling through the ogres; some of them are growing alarmed at something...*Spoiler: Perception, DC:15*
Show

...Something in the sky.  They're hard to see, against the now diminishing storm cloud and the smoke from the infernal's arson, but dark shapes, huge and small, are flitting across the sky.  You are struck with the gut-freezing instinct that the danger has not passed after all - and you have seconds to prepare for whatever is about to happen.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera was, perhaps reluctantly inching her way forwards, towards the rising voices, along with the others. She couldn't understand what Jakk'ari and Mor'Lag were saying, perhaps an explanation or introduction of their companions, she assumed.  But still, she wholeheartedly agreed with Zachary.  They shouldn't linger.

Just then, something seemed to catch her eyes. If you happened to be looking at the ogres, many of them were beginning to look to the sky with dread.

Isaera quickly taps a hand on both Marion and Zachary and points up at the new happenings. (Think you could at least open all the spoilers now)

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

The Warlock was apprehensive about approaching the ogre town any closer than she already was. Violent brutes as they were, their intelligence was negatively correlated with their size and strength, and that made them dangerously unpredictable in situations like this. But then something _else_ caught Marions eye. 

Tilting her head back and drawing her eyes to the sky above, Marion narrowed her lids as she spotted the trailing, jagged shadows that seemed to be deliberately sailing in planned directions. 

Now, call Marion skeptical, but unless those were a bunch of Wilderhammer dwarves atop their gryphons who just got lost on their way to Theramore...that wasn't a good sign.

_Why didn't I stay in Azeroth, marry some artisan and have some babies instead..._the Warlock pondered gingerly to herself as her lips pursed and her shoulders heaved in a sigh.

Marion clicked the fingers on her right hand, as a green-and-purple encasemnt seemed to surround her torso before dematerialising into her body.

ooc:

*Casting:* _Demon Armour._
*Rolling:* Expertise (Magic) to try and identify what those things are: (1D20+10)[*16*]

----------


## Plaids

Eager to make a good first impression Jakk'ari busies himself with his appearance. Trying to show enough of his injuries to hopefully garner some mutual respect but not too much as to appear weak and pathetic.
With Oro already impressed by the group Jakk'ari prepares to oblige the request and wave his companions over. 

But the changing mood of the crowd from fascination to worry and anxiety sends him back on the defensive. 
With instincts seizing control Jakk'ari salvages a large piece of the palisade large enough to easily shield his head and shoulders. Grabbing a gnarl on the wood to wield it as a makeshift shield he soon raps Felix's armor signaling him to get behind him and Mor'Lag. 

 Stay on guard. We may not be safe yet.

----------


## MrAbdiel

It is early afternoon, after the time travelling to this place, waiting for Zachary to show, and the protraction of the disaster and combat.  But the sun is hidden behind stormclouds and smoke.  In those places where the clouds are thinnest, yielding a medium grey canvas for the day sky, the dark flying shapes arrow through the air in northward flight, and begin to swoop and curve with the beating of great, powerful wings.

_"Dara'Goni!"_

The first ogre to voice that alarm is far toward the centre of the village, but it's quickly picked up and repeated.  _Dara'Goni!  Dara'Goni!_  It takes no linguist to unravel the term: An ogrish loan-word from the orcish _Dar'Harkon_, nativised from the word tormented out of human captives during the first war.  Dara'Goni, Dar'Harkon, Dragon.

They are young dragons, mostly; as they swoop low, with mouths full of surging flame, you see can make out dozens of drakes with night-black scales, thirty feet long from thorned-club tail to snub-beaked tip.  Each of these has between three and eight hatchlings in tow, gliding in the slipstream of the greater beasts and adding their higher, chirping calls to a chorus of emerging growls.  It's a full grown dragon that swoops into full view first - atleast sixty feet long, horns huge and curled, powerful, ripping limbs held loosely close to its scaled body as it dives.  The gout of yellow-white flame that rushes from its mouth might have easily vaporized anyone it fell upon; but it targets no individual.  Instead, it splashes down over the top of the palisade wall and ignites it in a great blazing line, as elsewhere its kindred do the same to complete the roaring inferno ring around the entire settlement.  Isaera, Marion, and Zachary are still on the outside of the wall, when this fire falls; Mor'Lag and Jakk'ari close to it on the inside, and Felix has to hurl himself desperately away from the gap he has been taking for granted to not to be turned to ash.  The flame is so hot, and so high, that approaching the palisade at all becomes painful within a dozen strides, and risks searing flesh from bone for anyone foolish enough to throw themselves closer unprotected.

The infernals did not rain from the sky, today; but death seems madly determined to find the Stonemaul from any vector, and the village is once again thrown into abject chaos.

From outside the village, beyond the worst of the smoke and blinding flashes of dragonfire, it's easier to observe the entire obscene picture - a sky full of dragons seemingly attacking out of nowhere, first turning the villages wooden defensive wall into burning picket keeping the ogres in, and then raining fire down upon the structures, and lives within.

From within, the scene is blinding, and choking, and as awful as the emergence of the demons had been.  Drakes and whelps fly above the reach of the ogres who might well pose combative threats to them, and pour the conflagration upon them.  Hooded, robed figures emerge to stalk the streets; occasionally doing battle with the beleaguered natives, but mostly busying themselves with picking up the infernal cores left by the defeated monstrosities.

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Expertise: Magic 15*
Show

The fact that these are dragons, particularly _black_ dragons, requires only eyeballs.  With a little knowledge on such creatures, you can tell that the supporting creatures with them are _dragonkin_; strange, dragonlike mortal servants of the dragonflights.  The two principle varieties are _dragonspawn_ and _drakonid_.  A dragonspawn is a centauresque assembly of a draco-reptilian humanoid torso that terminates at the waist into what might be thought of as the neck of a four-legged, draconic lower body; some even with semi-functional wings.  A drakonid is a bipedal, muscular hulk; tall, horned, and ideal soldiers for their dragon masters.






The prime among these creatures is visible to all.  It stands on the bluff, near the drained and forsaken stone idol; a figure in a robe almost completely conceals the short tail, but wearing a hood with holes cut to accommodate a pair of tall, ribbed horns.  Atop the stone, just to its side, a fel-flaming imp hops and capers impatiently.  Its master pays it little mind.  It must be twelve feet all, judging against the size of the stone; in one hand holding a tall, straight polearm of black metal, as the digits of the other hand smoothly stroke down the side of the idol as if interrogating it with some sense that was as close a kin to _touch_ as any other mortal capacity to reckon.  Its head slowly cranes to look in the direction of the party.  Felix, from the ground as he coughs on fresh smoke, is gazing up at that silhouette in mute terror.

All of this is many times _too much_ horror and destruction for the moment; but a single, additional event punctuates the holocaust of Stonemaul village with deeper dread.  Toward the back of the village, large enough to be in clear enough sight, the cheiftain of this village had done battle with a large infernal and won.  Now, those unfortunate enough to have their attention drawn to that same site of defiance witness a new and terrible conflict - a massive dragon form descending, wreathed in smoke, that with one landing blow smashes the ogre down through the roof of its mound without contest, then breathes flame through the hole it has made with such volume and intensity that fire jets out the half-dozen or so large exits to the mound, and the entire stone structure begins melting into magma-slag.  The flash of terrible brilliance lights up this creature of desolation like a lightning bolt in the night.

*Spoiler: A Beast Of Fire And Ruin*
Show



^Mood Music.


The adrenaline floods back into your bloodstream, chasing away tiredness with the blazing clarity of shock.

*Spoiler: {Fluff}Isaera*
Show

The dragonfire on the infernal core - this brood of black dragons are weaponizing the remnants of the demons from the third war, somehow using their own flame to _partially_ infuse the constructs and setting this elaborate plan in motion to fill in the remainder, to activate the old magic tied to those accursed rocks and summon them back from the Nether.  And the one on the bluff - the one with the imp - you are certain he is looking directly at _you_; as if he knows that _you_ specifically are responsible for the draining of that idol's magical reservoir that left so many of the infernal cores unactivated.  You weren't sure you could beat the infernals, and it's a testimony to your group's resourcefulness and vigour that you did... But there's no beating a force like this!  These creatures are destruction incarnate.  

This, you are sure, is a battle you cannot win.

*Spoiler: {Fluff}Mor'Lag*
Show

In the moment of triumph, when so much of your misery was set to be replaced by glory, your three eyes bear witness to this scene of abject desolation.  You _knew_ it was unlikely the ogres were behind the demons - but this revelation has only presented a new mystery.  These dragons are weaponizing demon-relics of the third war, against this village.  But why?  Why, when they are obviously so equipped to cause this destruction themselves?  You have seen dragons in action before - burning alliance ships while your grandmother sailed you away from the massacre at Hillsbrad.  Those were reds, but these blacks seem to have much the same power.  It is painful to see such calamity fall on these ogres - ogres whom you have dared to imagine might adopt you as one of their own - and your blood is burning with the need to flex your new power and attack... but you are not idiots.  The only Stonemaul who will survive today are those who are able to get _out_ of the village in the next few minutes.

This, you are sure, is a battle you cannot win.

*Spoiler: {Fluff}Jakk'ari*
Show

You reel back, your ears filled with screams. 
 Screams of the ogres being put to the flame, yes, but also the screams of the elements.  Fire is here, as before - spirits of _blaze_, and _raze_, and _immolate_ all running delirious and riot as their elemental supremacy does what it is meant to do, in the grand wheeling cycles of nature.  You hear their shrieks in Kalimag, _Reth!  Reth!  Reth!_, as they exult in the burning happening on the material flipside of their existence.  But the screams are not from the fire - the screams are from the earth.  The earth spirits are hysterical, now; befuddled and dazed by the arcane shadow of the black dragons - the fallen guardians of stone, and mountain, and deep places - and that confusion is turned into bewilderment and fear by the sudden rush of fire spirit into the scene. 
 This, then - the power of agents of the Black Dragonflight - is what struck the earth spirits dumb, and covered the tracks of the attackers back at the campfire of the cadets.  You're sure of it.  But you're also sure that for all the risk and valor you and your companions have taken on to fight the demons besetting this place, there is nothing you can do to save it from the dragons - only, perhaps, to save some fraction of the inhabitants.

This, you are sure, is a battle you cannot win.

*Spoiler: {Fluff}Marion*
Show

The feeling of vindication about your instinct to leave vanishes into dismay at the power on display here.  It was the right decision to dismiss Varghast before the ogres made judgements about it, and you - but now, as the dragons descend in terrible fury on the village of ogres you helped to save, you immediately miss his cold, laconic, expendable companionship.  The drakonid on the bluff seems to be the only warlock among them - and that's definitely the imp you've been tracking, hanging in his orbit.  It seems likely that this is the architect of this whole farce - but that doesn't explain why the demonic runes at the offering pit of the idol were so... sloppy, and ineffective.  Such a splash of demonic text could only serve to give the impression of a ritual, and not actually serve as one.  Therefore the cadets in the pit couldn't actually have been part of an effective sacrifice.  Was it a botched one?  Was this warlock so bad?  Or are you missing something?  But you can afford to ask those questions when you're safe.  Right now, the sudden appearance of this force of black dragons is accomplishing with alacrity what the infernal ambush had failed to do.  And half of your party - including one of the cadets you came all this way to rescue - is on the other side of the palisade-turned-firewall.

This, you are sure, is a battle you cannot win.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag are exhausted.  Their shared body is exhausted.   But, they know,  even at their best they wouldn't be able to stand against... this!  They fear they will be viewed as a coward again, but there is only one sane response. 

"RUN!!" shouts Lag

"SCATTER!!" Interrupts Mor, out of sequence. 

"AWAY!!"

"FIND COVER!!"


Not caring that it separates her from the elf and humans, she runs away from the fire.

----------


## WindStruck

The sheer terror and danger of the situation needed no explanation.  And of course, Isaera was terrified...

*Spoiler: Isaera*
Show

She seems to feel the robed figure at the top is looking right at _her_.

_He's looking right at me!_


There was no question about this.  We needed to go. And NOW! Isaera may have just bolted into the swamps like the young cadets did so many nights ago, but she did know there was safety in numbers and her 'charge', Felix, was on the other side of those flames.  So was Mor'Lag as well, and she held the bodies of the other two cadets!

"We need to put out the fire in this gap!" is all she says, with much urgency and rising panic.

Both from a sense of some duty and the feeling that she might be marginally safer if she could rescue her allies, Isaera stays in place for a bit and tries to put out the fires where the hole in the palisades once were.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Well, Isaera does know the frost bolt spell and can channel frost.  So this is a matter of trying to channel that energy in a more utilitarian way, perhaps as a stream, to slowly try to cool and put out bits of the fire at a time, and hopefully it's safer to cross..

To erect some kind of ritual, if necessary, like a magic circle:  (1d20+14)[*15*]

Otherwise, I guess the equivalent of spamming frost bolts will have to suffice.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari was unprepared for the full assault. He is glad to have positioned Felix between himself and Mor'Lag. But the shield was more valuable in how it obscured the carnage unfolding in front of him than the protection it offered errant embers. He knew if the dragons had targeted him his shield would have no better than a comforting wicker doll made from the desert sage of his homeland.  

Seeing Mor'Lag lumber towards the village and Isaera blasting the wall with frost to abate the flames a quick plan is formed.
Turning to his companions he attempts to inform each of them.
Mor'Lag! We need to regroup. Follow me.

Felix we must get to cover of the forest. Follow my lead and push the wall with me. 

Jakk'ari grips his makeshift shield preparing to charge the wall hoping Isaera's frost blast and the insulation from his shield will allow him to push through the wall unscathed.

Addressing anyone still near him Jakk'ari attempts to rally anyone within earshot to safety.
 This way! Follow me if you want to live!  (1d20+3)[*12*] To convince anyone else to follow Jakk'ari and maybe break down the wall.

(1d20)[*14*] To break down or push aside some wooden trunks composing the wall with a shield used as a battering ram. Hopefully with Felix's help.

*Spoiler: Mechanics*
Show

Jakk'ari will attempt to rally some other ogres to follow him in an attempt to leave the village. This seems like more of an intimidation than persuasion scenario since everyone is terrified and instinct is in charge at the moment. 

Jakk'ari will also attempt to smash the frost blasted section of the wall with the use of a shield with a charge attack that is hopefully assisted by Felix.
The shield, the wall already being likely successfully attacked, Felix's possible assistance, and the negative modifier from charging makes the cumulative modifier hard to figure out so I'm just rolling without a modifier.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Much of Marion's combat repertoire is fire-based - but not all of it.  Expelling a leveling breath, the Alteraci noblewoman flicks out both hands flat facing up, and mutters a quiet fel invocation with the clenching of her fingers.  A great wicked rune, thirty feet across, flashes briefly into life beneath the palisade section suffering Isaera's bombardment, and then vanishes as the corrupting _death and decay_ influence begins unravelling the matter in the area.  Most of the rune overhangs the external side of the palisade - meaning a smaller part of the wall is effected, but none of the allies on the other side is caught in the awful spell - and four of the great upright logs begin not only to burn, and freeze, but also to rot.

Isaera's barrage taxes her mana reserve severely.  Altering the manifestation of the frostbolts on the fly to burst their icy chill instead of penetrate deeply with it helps with the process, but the slim elf must apply the spell over and over to gain the desired effect.  Wheeling bolt after both with left and right hands, she feels pleasant swell of mana refreshment bleed away, then hollow out, and then soon it's the soul-dry, headache-in-the-temples feeling of  _overdraw_ making it harder and harder to assemble the spells without fingers trembling out of the correct  articulation.  Yet ultimately, this persistence wins through - the barrage does not destroy the wall, but it does bleed off its hideous, stone-melting heat to make that section of the palisade at all approachable for attack.

And attack is what Jakk'ari does, moving in to thump his shield against the now brittle, rotted out and half-burned wall.  Flames still lick at him, scorching his hair in places and blistering his skin; and for a moment it seems like it will be all for nought as the fire's heat begins to overpower the diminishingly rapid arrival of the frostbolts.  Then Felix is there too, flames curling and nipping at his tabard and eyebrows, coughing as he puts his shoulder to the wall and the trunks begun a quiet _cric-cric-crack..._

And then, looming over both of them, Mor and Lag's respective fists at their power to the effort once they've regrouped, and with an audible _snap_, that section of wall falls flat outward like a drawbridge hinged at its rotten, frostscoured base.  And not at all too soon - Marion drops her spell, and then the way is clear; the broken horned Oro out first, coughing up giant lungfuls of smoke, before hustling back into to shout and direct survivors to the escape from the hellfire trap.  Jakk'ari, Felix and Mor'Lag are all clear to escape; and so too is a long, almost contiguous stream of ogres fleeing the flames beyond.

What follows is grim extraction.  Many of the survivors are reluctant to flee far beyond the burning walls, either in the rapidly vanishing hope someone precious to them will also escape, or simply for bewildered fear of having nowhere else to go.  But Oro and the party from Theramore are each wise enough to know that the window to wait in the open before the dragons feel the destruction of the city is complete enough to look for such escapees is narrow indeed, and the survivors are encouraged, led, and in some places literally kicked and dragged into the tree-cover of the swamp, set on the path north in a loose caravan of huge, desperate brutes in shellshocked orbit of each other.  Most have some amount of burns on them.  Some are carrying smaller children, or bundles of possessions.  One, a biclopic single headed ogre, is carrying a large wooden chair, for some reason - likely the thing his hands grabbed when he commanded them to grab what he could, the piece of furniture now clutched to the big humanoid's gut like a talisman of hope and fortune.  Some are still drunk, staggering and confused, even crying as they process a backlog of demonic and draconic traumas with the wheezing power of a pickled brain.  Ogres are not accustomed to being overpowered by their enemies; outflanked by more cunning opponents, certainly; but there are no dragons in Outland.  The great tyrant beasts of that world, the Gronn and Ogron giants, they broke and overthrew long ago.  This is a novel apocalytic event, for them; and their physical power offers no particular protection from the world-crumbling reality of how vulnerable people really can be, against enemies they have not known.

At some point, the even the party's most desperately compassionate members know they must head north through the swamp and escape before the dragons turn in pursuit; and full of bone-deep wearyness and the emotionally numbing awareness of how quickly things went from bad, to good, to worse, they head north the way they came, their mission accomplished.

Between Jakk'ari's elemental influence prompting the earth spirits to harden the swamp where they can be persuaded to, and Zachary's knowledge and guidance back through the Quagmire's least bad paths, the trip is less difficult than it might have been; and the tromping of all the ogre refugees through the swamp completely negates the fear of attack by wildlife or any malefactors who would dwell in such a place.  That night's camping is safer, but not more restful than camping on the way in; the swamp is littered with small campfires of the refugees, the ambient muttering of their deep voices whispering, complaining, weeping, comforting.  The worst is the singing.  The ogres are not fine singers, though that isn't the problem; that number of voices blurring together into a choral crowd can access a quality that exists in crowds just like it alone. It's a mourning song - and the resonance of so many deep voices striking their deepest notes is one part uncanny to most mortal ears, and two parts unbearably tragic, for anyone who can muster sympathy for them at all.  Which is not difficult - it is the kind of song that was sung by elves as they fled the smoke of Silvermoon; humans, the smoke of Lordaeron and Alterac; trolls, in ancient antiquity, the great empire of Zul, and a thousand small kingdoms that reached for the sky and never matched that ancient glory.

At the end of the second day's travel, the refugee caravan encounters a party coming the other way - village chief Targ, along with a party of twenty grunts, and a dozen kodos laden down with supply.  It doesn't stretch very far - there are ninety four ogres in loose tow now, all hungry; and a cold decision is made to send the kodos back ahead of them so they are not  seized upon for food themselves.  Ninety four, when their might have been seven hundred or more in the village to begin with.  T'Zinga, the troll mage, walks through the  crowd conjouring up bland, but sufficiently nourishing magebread until she is sweating and spent, and the refugees have a moment of relief here.

Targ, naturally, engages Jakk'ari in Zandali, though he is appropriately less jocular than during their previous encounters.  "The smoke could be seen from all over the Marsh.  I imagine when you get back to Theramore, they'll have questions about it for you.  Hell.  Stonemaul wasn't the only ogre settlement in the marsh, but it's the major centre for a number of smaller, satellite mounds that - I hope - are evacuating now, too.  Unless the dragons targeted them.  And black dragons, you say - that whole flight was supposed to be next to wiped out.  Where the hell did this brood come from?  And why?"  The orc sighs, and rubs his temple with the heel of his palm.  _"We'll take them in at Brackenwall, of course.  Though the sudden addition of this many ogres will.. change the landscape some.  Change some our priorities.  But they're Horde, or near enough.  And you - you have your mission.  I hope it went better than you'd hoped."_

Another familiar figure has linked up with the Horde delegation - Balandar Brightstar, on his fair (if now tired from double-timing it) hawkstrider, whose fine riding boots need never even tough the swamp.  He is not so crass as to be so flamboyant and flashy in such a scene; but he is not without graces to extend to the other elf.  _"You've been through quite an ordeal, I think.  Here - you oughtn't slog through the swamp while the alternative exists.  I'll keep pace with your friends - atleast back to the road, where it's not so insufferable."_

Felix has become very quiet.  The adventure is over, and the sweet thrill of victory has turned to ash after such carnage.  Zachary, standing between Mor'Lag and Marion, scratches his beard.  _"When it was two friends he had lost, I thought... well, that's something he's going to have to get used to.  But all that back there wasn't the kind of thing some folks get over seeing.  Maybe we ought to.. make sure he's not left alone, on the way back."_

----------


## WindStruck

To Isaera's relief, it didn't seem like these ogres were being pursued... even though there was nearly a hundred of them, and that's what was apparently the whole point of this massacre.

With all the mana she once had exhausted, she trudges on listlessly, and as the hours pass, she is both physically and mentally exhausted. The sad ogre songs were distracting and unpleasant to say the least, but in her impaired state, they may as well have been muffled and blocked out.

Isaera was adamant about not stopping - or would have been, anyway - but she wasn't in any state to be arguing.  And there were just too many other ogres that wanted to hunker down as well. At least she got a little, albeit deficient, rest.

The next day was more of the same.  Thankfully they were not ambushed in the night, and they all met up with the village chief and others! Balandar is a sight for sore eyes, and when he graciously offers Isaera a ride on his hawkstrider, she doesn't think twice to accept.

_"Thank you...   I think the word ordeal may even fall short. Such destruction, power, and death I have witnessed.. I feel Theramore would not even be safe, but I have nowhere else to go."_

And in truth, she wouldn't just abandon Theramore. Unless, you know..  there was literally nothing but smoldering ash left. It was just about the only place she could remotely consider home now..  and what few kin she had left were there.

As Isaera rode upon the hawkstrider, her eyes drooped and she nodded off, clinging to the beautiful, if not colorful, oversized bird. Perhaps these events would scar her. Perhaps not. They would certainly not be forgotten, however. Facts, ideas, motives, hypotheses, plans, reasoning, attempted to shuffle around the elf's mind, trying to make sense of it all. But in the end, the subconsciousness of dreams took over.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag is exhausted, physically and mentally.  Everything that happened had amounted to one saved cadet and witness to a perplexing atrocity.  They could barely think through the haze, but, if they had a purpose, it was to return to Theramore...  there was nowhere else to go.

----------


## Plaids

For once Jakk'ari was grateful to be within the overgrown swamp. The foliage that had obscured the trails and given opportunities for land-dwelling predators to ambush the party had obscured the procession of refugees from the dragons. The stymieing mud was now a mercy on Jakk'ari's blistered feet. 

Jakk'ari only knew the dragons as bronzed, reclusive, and dispassionate creatures. The ferocity of these black ones was evident at night with the distant fires tinting the sky orange with towers of smoke reminding everyone how far they had traveled from Stonemaul. While the marsh offered plenty of water foraging for food was an impossible task. The few goose berries, toads, and swamp apples that could have sustained the party could never have fed the ogre refugees.  
The sorrowful ogre song around subdued campfires made Jakk'ari weep. The song of the dispossessed reminding him of his ultimate mission and the consequences of failure.  

Targ's arrival the next day was well met. The promise to protect and shelter the ogres along with the friendlier disposition rekindles some hope within Jakk'ari as he begins conversing with Targ.
"I do not know where the black dragons came from or why they came. They simply flew in after we finished fighting the demons at Stonemaul.
Thank you for sheltering the people of Stonemaul. You're saving lives well after the battle and I believe you can handle the change in a village's composition. News of your deeds will be brought to Theramore."

Thanking Targ once more before the orc returns to leading his own grunts Jakk'ari takes stock of his own party.
Marion and Zachary are unreadable as usual to him. A dejected Mor'Lag is in tow along with a sullen Felix who Jakk'ari tried to keep busy with a few rounds of foraging. It would seem the attempt had failed. Isaera can be seen falling asleep on a bird larger than any plane-strider he had seen while a flamboyant elf guides the creature on foot. Given Isaera's flair for the dramatic it wouldn't surprise Jakk'ari in the least if the two elves had some form of kinship between them.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Exhausted, emotionally gutted, mentally trained, the party prepares to return to North Point Tower.  Targ bids them farewell, and seems to have grown somewhat in affection for the crew with the manifest tales of their heroism for as much the sake of ogres as their own.  And Oro, the broken-horned ogre and the defacto leader of the refugee train takes MorLag aside before the parting.

*Spoiler: {Fluff}Language: Ogre*
Show

There was no time to honor your call, MorLag Voidfist.  And the Stonemaul clan has suffered such a blow to its strength now you might reconsider - perhaps, it is better to be clanless than anchored to us as it stands.  But hear me: if, once we are resettled and have chosen our new chief, you would still wish to be recognized among us, then Oro Manflinger will pledge for your induction.  And if you choose to remain clanless then you will always be a friend to the Stonemaul, and we will not forget your valor, or power.


Zachary keeps his distance from the Horde delegation - suspicion haunts his eyes when he is drawn to shake Targs hand at the parting.  Felix has to be pried away, though, distracted as he is.  The ogre children are as tall as he, and thicker of build; keen even displaced and frightened to compete when given the offer, and madly keen to wrestle when they can.  But Felix has a (barely) grown mans cunning, and is fleet of foot; and at the time the party is set to peel off from the refugee column, he is leading the dozen ogre youths - the same whom the partys intervention saved from death at the hands of demons, and then again at the breath of dragons - on a merry chase, slaloming between trees and using his pace and turning to remain uncaptured quarry.  Just like the ogre voices are not sonorous, the laughter of their children is not melodious; a chortling, shorting guffawing rumbles from the hunting pack as they chase their elusive human friend.  But it is laughter; and it is that sound, not the grieving song, that is the final note the ogres leave for the adventurers as they part back to the road to Theramore.

* * * * *

The journey back to Theramore is uneventful - a small mercy, perhaps.  Once the party arrives at North Point, they are reunited with Brother Bright, the driver-marines and the medical team who rode up with them, and they prepare the wagons to take them back down the road home.  The soldiers at the tower greet Felix with mingled relief and muted care; and as he explains to them the mitigations of the success of the mission, and gestures to the wrapped and herbally embalmed figures MorLag and Jakkari are loading into a cart, a pall of sadness rolls out through the towers occupants.  The tragedy of the two dead is sufficient it almost entirely eclipses the miracle of two alive.

As Balandar helps Isaera down from the back of his avian steed and bids her farewell, he speaks quietly to her in the elven tongue

*Spoiler: {Fluff}Language: Thalassian*
Show

Al diel shala, Isaera Runescribe.  And a word of advice from a simple merchant, if you care for it - you ought to consider learning Orcish now.  The tides of fate shift, and our people consider the best course to chart for the SinDorei people, and the future we may yet have.  Just a thought.


 and then he is off, heading back towards the inlet where his neutral ship the Dawnrunner is supposedly docked, from whose deck he had come a-striding when smoke rose up from the deep swamp.
The party, now on wagons to spare their feet, take the road back.  These days of travel are less jovial and musical than those first couple on the way up; and they pass unremarkably.

* * * * *

Until finally, you stand once again within the white stone embrace of Theramore; the saline breeze strong enough to cut out the marsh fragrance; the voices all speaking languages you understand; the idiosyncrasies of the culture old, familiar knowledge if not entirely native.  The people go about their fishing, their training, their trading, like there are no demons at all; and no dragons to come haring in raking the land with fire.

The whole city feels smaller, somehow, than when you left.

The five of you stand on the swept hardwood floors of Captain Evencanes office.  The flat-topped military man sits in his crisp, polished mail with the familiar gold-on-white anchor crest of Theramore on his tabard, behind a wide, clean desk whose orderly disposition of stationary speaks to an orderly mind of the operator.   Having heard your tale hours earlier, he had invited you to take time to wash up and get changed as you might prefer, after which you made your way to the barracks with understandable eagerness to have the ordeal finally pay back a little of what it has taxed from you.

He opens the top left drawer, and takes a handful of coins from a petty cash chest within.  He holds the mess of clinking discs in one big, gloved palm and counts them out on the table in front of you.

He takes three gold coins.  The first makes a clear, neat thok as it snaps to the table top under the flat of his thumb.  The next two, clik, click, are piled on top of it.  _The agreed rate - one gold for each cadet you brought back alive; fifty silver for recovering the bodies of the fallen.  Three gold, square._

The five (or six) of you look down at the table and the stack - a very charitable description, but even so, stack - of three coins there.  Three coins, representing the last twelve days of mud and mosquitos and raptors and fire and demons and rotten bodies and fire roaring high as black wings cut through smoke and even the Captain shifts uncomfortably in the ensuring silence.  Zachary breaks the quiet, after some eight seconds.

_Do you have that in silver?  We cant_  He gestures loosely down the line at Jakkari, MorLag, Marion and Isaera.  The mathematical difficulty of dividing three gold coins between four adventurers makes the moment even more absurd. _ Oh, of course.  Certainly._

A few minutes later, and the three ridiculous gold pieces are replaced by four small complementary cloth draw-string bags, each containing seventy five silver pieces.  A fifth bag is matched for Zachary, who joined the group after price negotiations and so whose cut is generously added gratis to the pot.  Jakkari and MorLags bags are just a little heavier - each furnished with five additional silver, pursuant to the agreement that Isaera had incepted in the captain to give them bodyguard wages for herself, and Marion.  Thus, the total spoils: three hundred and ten silver pieces.  Not a small amount of money; not when compared to the amounts of money one got for selling baskets of haddock for coppers a head, scraping out a whole silver as a fee for some trivial alchemical fix for a horses rash.  But a small amount of money compared to well.  The size of the experience, perhaps?  Its something like that, and though you take the money (Evencane is intractable in post facto negotiations, it turns out), it feels too light in your hand.  Fortunately, its not all that comes from the meeting.

_Now, before you go - Ive, ah.  Well.  Just wait here a minute, will you?_  Never the most socially smooth man in your observations, the Captain locks his desk, gets up from his chair, regards each of you with a skeptical but appreciative eye, and strides out of the room through the door you came through.  The guards on the exterior open and shut the doors as he goes, their smooth click and muted slam sealing you in the room for another minute of quietude, in each others company.  Then you hear the click and slam again, and turn to see its not the captain returning to the office, but a new figure - and one you all know, even if just from gossip, and the occasional glimpse in the Theramore streets.

Purple, gold, and white are her colors; a projection of regal bearing that is both true to her bloodright and fitting to the manner in which she conducts herself.  Her attire is called robes by the magi, but not by tailors; the layered Dalaran purples of her skirts terminating at a gilded belt , a few inches below the lower rim of an ornate piece of armor that is called breastplate by magi, but not by armorsmiths.  Armor inhibits almost all arcane operations, and what little the Kirin Tor wear tends to be  for the dual purposes of style and sometimes craftsmanship capable of carrying enchantments.  Thus, a bare midriff and a breastplate that is more corset than cuirass, along with a patterned cloak with its broad, integrated shoulder guards, constitute her robe.  It is a fashion sense the mages of Dalaran inherited from influence of the High Elves who taught humans magic in ancient days; though it is a modest arrangement compared to Isaeras silk and gossamer regalia.  She wears no crown, but there is no mistaking her authority in this realm.  Marion, Isaera, and now for the first time MorLag can all feel the arcane potentia vibrating on the other side of reality around her, coaxed into readiness as an almost gluttonous mana reserve by discipline, and talent, and the synergy those things produce as mastery.  Jakkari immediately feels the presence of two distinct, powerful water elemental spirit presences that move with her every step, swelling and receding at her left and right within the dislocated space of the elemental substrate of the world.

*Spoiler: Shh, I'm trying to think here.*
Show




This is Jaina Proodmore; exiled princess of KulTiras across the sea, prodigy student of the great Archmage Antonidas, Magus-General of the refugee fleet from Lordaeron and Dalaran to Kalimdor during the third War, and the woman who could easily have called herself Queen but contentedly requested to be instead merely the Lady of Theramore.  Also, not to put to finer point on it, probably the most magically powerful human on the face of Azeroth, and on the short list for the unqualified category, with names like KaelThas Sunstrider, and KelThuzard.

_Youll have to forgive me for ambushing you like this.  Id only just gotten word of your exploits, and I feared youd be ready to go your separate ways.  I wanted to thank you personally for rescuing Aeden, and Felix.  I know your mission wasnt the unmitigated success we all would have liked - but we had no right to expect any of them back alive, even before the additional threats you faced came into play.  Youve brought these boys back to life, at great risk to yourselves, not to mention the Stonemaul survivors who will know your names forever - and above and beyond that, demonstrated collective skill both martial and diplomatic.  So you have my thanks.  And, I hope, youll indulge me if I saddle you with a new proposal, weary as you are._

She looks to the window, barred to prevent climbing invaders access but still open to the breeze and the evening western sky. _ I want to sponsor you.  Im part of a group that is invested in promoting the activities of heroes who do not exclusively fly red or blue banners.  Members of the Kirin Tor, Earthen Ring, Cenarion Circle, and many wealthy individuals on both sides of the great conflict are part of this group, united by a painful awareness of the truth.  The day is coming when we shall all be required to link arms and stand against greater foes again; and before that time comes, the people of Kalimdor, and the Eastern Kingdoms, need to know by tale and witness that people who were once enemies can accomplish good together - and perhaps, after enough time, even live with a shared world.  You wouldnt be working for me; that would make you an alliance affiliate.  Youd merely be receiving a non-trivial stipend to establish yourselves as a neutral guild in neutral territory.  Youll be acting autonomously on the operations you choose, and as long as enough of those operations present a profile of ecumenicism and good will to both Horde and Alliance, youll continue to be paid well.  Enough to buttress your own projects and personal goals, training, so forth._  She looks back from the window to you and, as if remembering that she ought to smile, replaces a the somewhat melancholy profile she presented with one of weary good cheer.

_How does it all sound, so far?_

----------


## Feathersnow

It is bittersweet, to assume a Trial-nane and have it confirmed.  To be offered,  even without consummation, a place in a Clan.

But it was not to be. Like so much in their lives 

There was one thing different now.   They had unlocked a trick of the _Magi_.  One earned through effort and skill and will, not merely taken by the Rite of Connsumption.


--Later--


Mor'Lag ponders this great mage.  One very like her had killed her father's, but that was war.  These things happened.  

"For us, This is good."
"No great love of the Horde,"
"But no great love from the Alliance"

"We have one project"
"To learn the arcane"

"As our ancestors used in glittering cities'
"Before the Crusade was brought to Draenor"

Mor'Lag knew enough to be politic.  The extermination of the Eredar who refused to join the Crusade, and their religion based on the cowardly consul of the Naaru...was something lightwielders saw differently.

For Mor'Lag, it was enough to know that Sargeras, the last True God saw it meet to destroy the multiverse and begin again,  cleansed of the mistakes of old.  As a God, it was defintionally his place to do so, a d enlist whomever he chose in his great task.  It was not a happy thought,  but the truth seldom was.

But... Draenor was only targeted as soon as it was as collateral damage from the absconsion of the blue-skins. A Fact that the hypocrites of the Light cared not a whit about.

----------


## Plaids

The payout was fine though the hardship the party had endured reminded Jakk'ari why so many chose to remain in mundane jobs where one could regularly return to their family.

Jakk'ari knew of Jaina Proudmoore. The exiled princess of a faraway land who had paid a great personal price to secure peace. By aiding Thrall and the fledgling Horde she confronted her father and capsized the human fleet meant to kickstart a war and annihilate any trace of the Horde. 

Judging by her light and vibrant clothing it was easy to deduce she was a mage. But what surprised Jakk'ari were the unseen elementals ready to aid their eminent. 

Stepping forward and dropping to a knee to bow, Jakk'ari attempts to provide enough decorum and respect for the entire party. 
Raising his head he proceeds to recount the journey and give his answer.

"Thank you, Lady Proudmoore.  We have seen the seen demons and dragons on our journey to recover the recruits. A journey that would have been even more treacherous without chiefs Targ, Jevan, and Hazlek who now shelter the Stonemaul ogres. I am honored by your invitation and will gladly join your peacekeeping collective. Tell me where I must be and I will go. But if no assignment exists yet then I know of an opportune place at the crossroads of Horde and Alliance activity."

Jakk'ari grasps his knee with one arm to control the emerging trembles he feels arising. The immense opportunity to occupy a place amongst so many influential organizations and leaders is exhilarating and just the breakthrough he had been seeking all this time. After so many territories traveled and sympathetic but noncommittal responses to his pleas and petitions, he had a lead. He now relies on his political experience to contain his excitement. 

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari thoughts and plans*
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Jakk'ari is absolutely going to accept the deal regardless of what the rest of the party says. 
Since accepting would further his goals of meeting faction leaders who will ally themselves with his people. Plus, this specific deal will keep his people out of the conflict between the Alliance and the Horde. Additionally, Jaina is a leader well-respected leader by everyone except the Kul Tirans as far as I and Jakk'ari knows so Jakk'ari wants to foster a positive relationship between himself and Jaina. 

Also while Jakk'ari would be willing to go just about anywhere he would prefer to be sent to Gadgetzan. Either to do missions or maybe set up an embassy of sorts so he can get some influence and help his people. If Jaina doesn't have a mission in mind at the moment Jakk'ari will try to convince Jaina that Gadgetzan is an important foothold in Tanaris. Reason being that the Steam wheedles supply both the Horde and Alliance and might inflame the region.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is mainly silent for the trip, her thoughts embroiled in the events of the days past, searching for clues. Though it may be heartwarming to see Felix playing with the ogre children, a measure of life and cheer despite the horrible events that transpired, it was still a distraction.

She is thankful for the ride, to rest her legs, and when it's time to pass control of the steed back over to the sailor, Isaera bids Balandar farewell.

*Spoiler: Thalassian*
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_Sound advice. I was considering it myself. If, on the off chance, I find myself venturing out again, it would be foolish not to. Al diel shala to you as well. I hope we may meet again..._


- - - - - - -

Theramore was a welcome sight indeed. It wasn't Quel'Thalas, and the sultry climate hammered upon that fact constantly, but it was still.. the one place that may still be safe, at least for now, and one place they may yet call home. Isaera's family, or what was left of it await. But first, there was the matter of collecting their much-deserved payment.

Seventy-five silver pieces in a little over a week's time was fairly lucrative - almost ten times what she could expect to eke out with alchemy jobs she may be lucky enough to find, the same with menial mage work which was quite safe, yet usually tedious. It was a nice purse of silver to bring home, but the potential risk was so.. almost not worth it.

Perhaps Isaera should have known the trouble she was getting into, and the danger. And if she ever told her mother the full details of what transpired, she would never hear the end of it. And yet, by the smoke billowing in the horizon and with rumors spreading around, it was already probably too late. Who could have possibly expected a demonic cult and black dragons to be involved?? Absolutely no one, that's who. But this was the rub when it came to venturing outside the cushy confines of civilization. And in a mostly-unknown continent, in a world that had recently been ravaged by a demonic invasion, no less. Weird stuff was just more likely to happen.

Regardless, a deal was a deal, and while Isaera was not going to ask for more based on the described job alone, she certainly wasn't planning on doing something similar any time soon..

- - - - - -

It was odd how the captain kept them held in his office, but it made sense when _Jaina Proudmore_ herself entered the room. Her presence was, to say the least, quite palpable, and for many would be awe-inspiring. And while Isaera could certainly appreciate basking in her arcane aura, her biased elf opinion would suggest that she had known many mages who were just as talented, and a few that were better.

The Lady gave her pitch and Isaera was caught off guard, for starters.

"Sooo... you want to give us free money..?" 

The confusion and skepticism was beginning to drip from her speech. Well, okay, it honestly sounded like Jaina did want _something_ in return for these payments, but what they were expected to do wasn't clear at all.

"When it is discovered that you are lining our pockets, wouldn't that cause everyone to think that we - er, this 'guild' - is just part of the Alliance, seeing as it is _funded_ by the Alliance?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

The Lady of Theramore does not laugh, exactly; but she does smile a little, and that smile contains discernibly the implication that this is where a less burdened soul might have offered a good natured little laugh. _ "You're not wrong, Miss Runescribe; but fortunately, it's a matter obviated by the pleasant truth that I am not the only one intending to finance you.  The group of benefactors of which I am but one part is called the Opal Collocation.  Many major groups with interfaction interest - the Earthen Ring and Cenarion Circle, for example - contribute.  Cairne Bloodhoof is a greater contributer than I - one could make the arguement that I'm setting you up as a Horde instrument, which..."_  A flicker of quiet melancholy passes over her features like a shadow, and saps just a little of the stateswomanly authority from her voice for a moment.  _"...Which is the kind of accusation I've come to terms with.  But the all of the Collocation's investiture is channelled through the Argent Dawn.  Since the Argent Dawn's work corralling elements of Horde and Alliance to oppose the Scourge in the Plaguelands has garnered them untarnished respect, they're a willing partner.  It means that they'll embed a member of their organisation in your guild - not to lead you, but as a kind of check specifically against using the invested resources for partisan activity - and that agent will requisition the donated resources through the Argent Dawn as a kind of escrow procedure.  Thus, a benefactrix such as myself, and a benefactor like Cairne Bloodhood, might both put up groups like yours for sponsorship in this project, but neither can succeed in smuggling genuine partisans through the process unless one believes the Argent Dawn itself to be compromised or incompetent.  Which they are not."_

She offers a palm face up as a contained gesture towards Isaera, as if suggesting this last fact is likely to be as evident to the elf as the palm of the open hand.  Since the departure of the Traitor Arthas Menethil to Northend to become the Lich King, the desperate remnant of the Qual'Dorei had been fighting a defensive action against a less organized but still wildly threatening host of the Scourge, roughly securing the area around the unrazed half of Silvermoon and the Eversong Woods, and confining the enemy beyond the banks of the Elrendar river.  This region, now mournfully called the Ghostlands, is a mess of discrete Farstrider outposts, desperately defended arcane sanctums, and roving packs of the reanimated, ghoulized elves and Amani trolls who dwelled there.  Importantly, the Ghostlands is the third region of Scourge-conceded territory in the Eastern Kingdoms, along with the Eastern and Western Plaguelands.  The living dead are contained on four sizes.  To the North, the exhausted and hard-working Farstrider rangers harry and cunctate the pressing Scourge.  To the east, the mountains and ocean beyond provide no avenue for the predatory carrion.  To the West, the Forsaken who occupy the lands of desolated lands of Lordaeron _~Farewell, Shorel'aran, to you fair Elvish ladies~_ have cobbled together a mighty if hasty bulwark to contain the Scourge, and from there the dark Lady Sylvannas Windrunner, who once gave her life fighting the Scourge in defense of Qual'Thalas, dispatches her cadres of Dark Rangers to mirror the efforts of the living Farstriders in the north.  But south, where the Scourge presense is concentrated and issues in teeming waves from the carcass city of Stratholme, the Argent Dawn do the unenviable work of breaking these waves into smaller packs which Farstriders and Dark Rangers can effectively dismantle.  They Argent Dawn has, at is core, the most respected fragment from the schism of the Silver Hand, fortified by champions of all Azerothian and Draenic races who have suffered at the hands of the Scourge and Legion; and this dedicated and nonpartisan centre is the fist that fills out a mailed gauntlet of mercenaries, adventurers, and roving heroes who come to them seeking the remunerative power of their coffers and the psychicly pleasing act of earning that pay by destroying an absolutely indefensible, uncomplicated evil like mindless zombies and their deranged necromancer shepherds.  On the day Qual'Thalas is free, it will be because Argent Dawn agents, Farstriders, and Dark Rangers converge on Stratholme and find that they have, cup by bitter cup, finally depleted the deep, wide well of wrath the Traitor Arthas Menethil left for them.  They are, in short, one of the few factions in the world with the track record and skilled people to make a project like the _Opal Collocation_ credible.

The compelling sapphire eyes swing to Jakk'ari, then.  Her expression had become briefly more thoughtful as he made good on his promise to report the Horde's cooperative spirit, and she gives this information a tight little nod and files it away in her memory.  _"I'm glad to hear it, Jakk'ari of the Farraki.  I must admit, when you arrived in Theramore and began poking around for opportunities to establish credibility, I was sceptical.  Your people have been mysterious and insular as long as I've been casting my eyes to our neighbours in caution and hope.  I hope your spirit of cooperation is contagious among your people... And I hope we give them deeds that validate that spirit.  As for the_ where_, well.  I'd secured your starting point before your group manifested so impressively.  It's in Ratchet..."_ She says, unable to keep a little apology out of her tone, _"for a few reasons.   The Steamwheedle Cartel is about as neutral a territory holder as one could ask for.  But more than that, even if it's surrounded by Horde territory, it's quite centralized.  As far from Theramore by ship as it is to the port east of Orgimmar.  About as far on foot inland west to Mulgore as it is north to the border of Night Elf patrolled Ashenvale.  And the Cartel runs both ships and zeppelins across the Great Sea to Booty Bay, which means - as you grow in success and influence - it will be easier for you to send agents or resources or yourselves directly from one neutral zone to the other.  It's slower than a portal, certainly; but at the rates the Kirin Tor have begun tariffing reagents, it's considerably cheaper.  That said, if you take the offer and begin establishing yourselves with the guildhouse in Ratchet's dominion, at that point you're out of my influence and operating under your own instincts and goals.  If you wanted to move that base of operations or establish secondary operating bases in other places, that would be up to you, with the only additional consideration that the Argent Dawn would need to believe it was not an effort to abscond with the gifted resources and fly a new flag.  You'd begin with enough to see a modest guildhouse constructed for your use and, I should suggest, taking on a some salaried staff.  Guilds that do well frequently end up able to support multiple teams of junior members, and a presence of salaried guild soldiers in non-trivial volumes.  The possibilities are quite broad."

"As for arcane studies..."_ the Lady continues, tilting her countenance up to trade her gaze conversationally back and forth between Mor and Lag, _"That's something I'm sure you could find the resources to arrange.  There's plenty of older Kirin Tor who are at the point that they do not care to travel and troubleshoot anymore, but are more than pleased to take tutorship contracts and operate as house-magi.  That is, if those aren't things your group would prefer to do internally."_  She gestures loosely to Isaera, and Marion.  _"But with the point being that spell components do not come cheaply and spell components sufficient to burn through as one masters the early forms, well... those tend to be confined to access by wealthy nobles, or those directly sponsored by magical societies. But it would be within your means, as a sponsored guild of the Collocation, I expect."_

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera seemed to be acquiescing to the idea, up until the point Ratchet was mentioned.

"Wait, you want us to..." she begins, trying to summon words but only adds a flustered, "_Ratchet?_" at the end.

Collecting herself, she sighs and says, "Lady Proudmore, your offer is very generous, and your goals are noble, but.. but I think you may be asking too much of people you know nothing about."

She uneasily gazed back at Mor'Lag, whom she still felt somewhat uneasy around, even though she had to admit the ogress had begun to prove her worth. But earning trust was something which took a long time. The same could be said for Jakk'ari, though through not only the troll's deeds, but also his slightly more refined speech and the outlook Isaera could glean, she felt Jakk'ari could be trusted a little more. Zachary, she didn't really know either, as he seemed to speak the least out of everyone, but at least she had no reason to distrust him. And Marion.. well..  needless to say, she had some fel connections that could not simply be glossed over.

The eclectic group had ventured out together, and due to a miraculous stroke of luck, they managed to accomplish something great. But if Lady Proudmore were to blindly throw money at them all and sponsor them, it could spell disaster. Not counting these troubling details, the fact was, it seemed she did not know Isaera either. Because the whole reason Isaera even took up this risky job which so many other drunkards had declined, or at least the reason she told herself, was to allow her family to make ends meet. And if enough cadets survived, more than that.

But what would be the point of a more sustained income if she were to relocate into the middle of nowhere?

"I have a family here, Lady Proudmore.. a family which would sorely miss me should I be permanently relocated halfway across the continent, gallivanting around doing who-knows-what. A family who could desperately use this silver, but would nonetheless chide me for my foolishness. Now if you would excuse me..  I should be going..."

----------


## MrAbdiel

The sapphire eyes of the Lady of Theramore narrow just a little, as Isaera hedges away from the offer; not an accusing look, but one striving to discern.  Her follow up comments are spoken carefully, as though she is making an effort not to lay them heavily and be mistaken for throwing clout, rather than striving for connection.

_I know your family, Ms Runescribe.  Or, Ive met some of them, at least.  Im aware of most of the magical talent that exists within the walls of Theramore; and I fought with your brother Kaleneus, at the battle for Mount Hyjal.  I know that power runs in your family; but duty in equal measure.  And if its your best judgement that duty to your family is best served by remaining with them, then I will not level a grudge on you, over it._  She raises one slim finger after that concession, trading her understanding for a moments indulgence.  _But if it changes the matter for you in any way, Ratchet is not so far away.  Not much more than a hundred and twenty nautical miles, with trade vessels moving up and down the coast regularly.  You could board one at our dock on a Wednesday afternoon and be in Ratchet by Thursday evening.  And, mage that you are, it might interest you to know that my tower has recently been approved for teleport atunement by the Kirin Tor.  Id happily expedite your access to a key-rune so you could teleport back here as often as you like, even if you are forced to sail back to Ratchet the slow way.  I wont be monitoring the hours you log on-site, or wagging my finger at you if you split your time in a proportion you approve of between here, and there.  That would be up to you, and your guild mates to decide; and as long as that guild continues to demonstrate the capacities of varied peoples to accomplish good together, Im happy to take that risk on you all, even knowing you so superficially.  You neednt secure an answer now.  Im sure youre exhausted from all youve been through.  But do give it a second thought, when you can._  And with that, she delays the elf no longer; allowing Isaera to make her exit and journey home.

*Spoiler: Isaera's Journey Home*
Show

Past the tavern, Janenes, where this jagged opportunity fell into your lap; past the rows of short, squat houses that smell like fish affable poverty; past the tower district, where the houses grade up into respectable and even luxurious by human standards; past the mage tower, in which the Lady Proudmoore and her cadre of Kirin Tor affiliate wizards did their research, and gazed from its high windows over the city.  Its almost embarrassing to call it a tower.  Like their revealing garb, human wizard towers typically ape elven precedence even if they miss much of the architectural subtlety; but this tower is build in the alliance military format: taller than most buildings, but not so tall it could be broken with cannon fire at the middle of its shaft too easily.  Pudgy, almost.  Past the tower, past the fine houses as they slope back down into unimpressiveness and finally, at the border of where real estate can be considered respectable and where respect becomes an unaffordable commodity, you come to the Runescribe residence.  Its a one-and-a half story house, wedged between a two story house on the north side towards the tower, and a one story house on the south towards the southern city wall.  One and a half, because much, even most, of the upper story is completed.  The shingles carefully removed, frame for the second story layer and timbered and the new roof frame constructed from the old.  But a full third of it is just the bare frame; the fullness of the project abandoned at a time when funds ran particularly dry and the family elected to sell off the remaining building supplies _just for now_.  Canvas sheets have been nailed over the frame to prevent rain from getting too freely into the structure, but its a haphazard solution at best.  But the completed sections of the upper floor, like every other other room, are needed for storage, and bedrooms; and weather penetrable though they may be, they serve their rough purpose.

You remember the day you and your family fled from Windrunner Village, with your aunts Jaana and Reyna and their young children in tow.  There had been a full ten of those young cousins, then; none of them older than fifteen, still shy of physical maturity and well shy of being considered an elven adult.  That was the second war; but it was the third, and the coming of the scourge, that put its scythe most deeply in your family.  Your father and your aunt Reyna were both killed in the failed defence of Silvermoon.  Your oldest brother Kaleneus survived and carried on in service before setting off to the battle of Mount Hyjal against the Archdemon Archimonde, from which he never returned.  And your aunt Jaana took her five children to flee with a different group, tearfully reasoning with your mother that, splitting up, they had a better chance of survival.  This was darkly prophetic advice: while your mother and family broke off from with a splinter group of refugees taking their chances in the troll-filled forests,  Jaana and her children fled under the cover of a defence from the Farstriders - the battle in which, distant observers would later report, the undead brutally overran defenders and refugees alike, their terrible leader striking the soul of the ranger general Sylvannas Windrunner clear from her body, raising her then and there as a wailing spirit.  Your family does not talk about Jaana and her children, these days; though their names are all carved into the wall by the blackened pot-belly stove that serves as a fireplace for your home.

All in all, you are considered lucky by elven standards.  For every ten high elves, nine were killed by the Traitor Arthas Menethils hordes, and the calamitous circumstances through which the refugees were forced to strive.  To have only lost half your family is, by that standard, enviable; but you do not often feel flushed with fortune.  Of your cousins, the three girls - Dalana, Eira and Jasylla - are all apprenticing magecraft at the tower, in the grand tradition of your family.  The boys - Aerdithane, and Rayadel - have taken labour work, to finance the petty supplies their sisters need for their studies, expecting some day to learn the arcane craft as well.  This arrangement, like so many others, is _just for now_.  Aerdithane and Rayadel are responsible for the partial construction of the second floor of the house, a decent enough job before it ran out of resource.  Theyre good lads, as close as brothers can be; and you almost never detect in them a trace of resentment that they are performing work with their hands that elves for so many generations before have done by gesturing at enchanted implements.

Your cousins are at work, and at study, when you arrive home; though you know your sister and brother and mother are all home before you reach the door.  You can hear them from the stoop outside.

_...-how everyone is coping now, mother!  Its not a big deal._  Your brother, Tarien, his voice raised with a tone of reluctance to for having done so.
_What is big deal?  Why do you always talk in these human expressions?  We dont do that in this house!_  Your mother Aunara, less retrained, going a notch above Tariens volume to browbeat him, which usually works.
_Dont yell at him!  Its not about him.  Its about you refusing to accept where we are now, and what life is like now!_  Your sister Aleeana, by the sounds of it as much defending Tarien as taking an opening to antagonize your mother.

As you approach the door, it cracks open before you.  Aleisha, the young daughter - perhaps ten years old - of the humans who live next to you in the two story house sneaks out, dustpan and brush in her hands, looking up at you with a faint smile but awkward apology glancing up from the tops of her eyes.  Your mother pays her coppers to do jobs around the house; a vice that your family cant afford but everyone tolerates, because it is silently agreed upon that the day Aunara Runescribe does housework is the day her spirit just abandons her body in final, mortal disgust.  The ability to compel someone else to do the dusting and mopping may well comprise a significant part of her remaining pride as an elven woman of the last generation of elves to live the QuelThalassian dream, for as long as she did.

Aleisha is hard working, and uncomplaining, and she knows when to make an excuse and go home and come back tomorrow to finish working, and this is one of those times; so she hustles past you back to her house.

Inside, the fight is happening in the kitchen - or rather, the kitchen and living room, with the potbelly stove in one corner that warms the house in winter, and the two tables and ten chairs that get pushed to the side of the room in the evening so Aerdithane and Rayadel can lay out their fold up cots, _just for now_, until the upstairs is complete.  Your mother is pacing, one hand raking back through her raven black locks in frustration, the other squeezing the stem of a carved wooden goblet, thankfully empty and in no danger of spilling in her angry motions.  On the other side of the table, Tarien leans against the wall with his arms tightly folded like a bunker for his impressionable heart.  But Aleeana stands on that side too, close enough to the table to be leaning over it, as if almost ready to jump over it, both hands before her clenching in the air like shes trying to physically  capture her point which her mother obviously cannot grasp herself.  Unlike Tarien, Aleeana looks packed, and ready to leave.  A cloak rests well on her shoulders, the hood back and tucked beneath her quiver and bow.

Aleeana might have been the most gifted of all your siblings, but she suffered from a lack of discipline that undercuts so many talents.  Yet she learned easily enough magic to excel as a Farstrider Spellbow, and this is not the first time she has dressed up and threatened to be running off to become just that.  That, your insight suggests, was the start of this conflict; but its migrated to a new topic which seems to have developed in your absence:

Both Tariens and Aleeanas eyes are a bright, Fel-fire green.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is silent as Jaina speaks. A more wise part of her keeps it that way, refraining from asking, _'If you knew my brother so well, why can't you nor anyone else say what happened to him?'_ It almost felt unfair throwing him out there like a chip on the gaming table, adding more weight to the player's bluff. But Isaera wasn't biting today.

With barely-contained contempt, Isaera says in an even tone, "Well then. I suppose it is fortunate for us that the Great Lady of Theramore fought alongside my brother. Otherwise, the Alliance may have simply forgotten his sacrifice altogether."

...she probably shouldn't have said that either. But off she went, practically scurrying at first and trudging the long walk to her dilapidated, half-renovated home.

*Spoiler: Isaera's home*
Show

She was walking into another argument again.. and things were probably only going to get more heated and focused on her..

Isaera smiled softly at Aleisha and continued on. Thankfully they would have much money to spare for paying neighbors' children to clean the house....

Isaera walked in, expecting to either get sucked into this latest dispute and forced to take sides, or having all the attention turned on her and her absence. But her siblings' eyes caught her off guard.

"Hello, everyone! I'm - " Isaera stopped, gaping at their eyes. "Aleeana. Tarien. Your eyes..."

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Isaera's House*
Show

_"Isaera, oh thank the Light!"_  Your mother snaps around in her pacing, fixing her pale blue eyes on you as relief fills her features, and crosses the intervening space at speed to embrace you tightly.  _"I worried so much.  I worried so much.  Can you believe these two?"_  The speed at which she transitions from gushing gratitude to recruitment drive would make her sentiment seem inauthentic to someone who didn't know her.  But she means it at every level, and that much you do not doubt.  Indeed, over her shoulder in the hug, you can see both Aleeana and Tarien have turned their eyes to you, green as they are, with matching expressions of personal relief and affection for you.  Whatever your family's trouble, they love each other dearly.  Even your mother and sister, who so often seem to be one measure of escalation short of throttling each other, love each other despite the complex matrix of grief and house-pride and parental-disappointment and absolute-blindness-to-a-mutual-flair-for-drama through which they relate to each other.  The only reason they aren't moving to hug you is that Aunara got there first, and the bristling field of familial static prevents them from approaching just now.

_"They're tapping demon crystals.  They're buying this lunatic craze about consuming fel energy!"_  It doesn't help her case that she, of everyone in the house now and most often, is the most prone to escalating moods and behaviour closest to what one might call lunatic.  She held her family desperately together while the world ended, but she did so with a hope that when it was over, the world would rebuild as fast as it fell apart.  Some might call having that kind of hope crazy.  But she's not crazy - just working her way through an incredible backlog of grief, like everyone else.

_"Fel energy is just energy.  They're not demon crystals.  And it's better than sucking the arcane dust out of every broom and rag in the house - not that we have that option anymore." _ This causes your mother to uncurl from the embrace, though she keeps one arm around you and leans on you some as she renews her facing at Aleeana's biteback.  For the first couple of years after your family's flight from Silvermoon, you had indeed benefited from some of the luxuries of home including brooms and cloths that cleaned the house and themselves with intuitive ease, as well as a whole set of pots and pans and utensils that could make a meal out of food placed in their midst - as well as dance in a merry performance on the tabletop, delighting your youngest cousins.  But over the last two years, all of these items began disanimating and losing function.  While the surface possibility that they, like you, were suffering from the destruction of the sunwell, the obvious truth was that someone - perhaps everyone - had at some point felt so desperately ached with that knot in their soul that they raised a hand to whatever ladle or brush they could smuggle to their room, and absorbed the glimmering motes that drifted off it, rendering it inert.

_"Have some self control, girl!  You come from one of the greatest families in the greatest people that have walked on this world.  Why taint that with this..."_  Aunara gestures loosely mournfully, to Aleeana's vibrant green eyes; but the gesture contains within it a spectre of a greater accusation - one that Aleeana feels, and it tightens her expression into venomous anger.

Tarien doesn't interject.  He just watches you, like he usually does; bright green eyes full of expectation, and reverence.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera's house*
Show

Iseara hugs her mother back. The hug was just as genuine and intense as her mother's, though she did want to hug her siblings too, and that was being made a little hard right now. And of course, her mother was trying to get her to side with her. Not that she didn't agree, but she was escalating things.

"Alright, alright, everyone calm down.." She looked reassuringly at her mother, and more appraisingly at her siblings.

"I mean, I guess I could believe it. I met a captain of a ship not long ago on my journey who showed me such a technique. It seems _Prince KaelThas_ has been spreading this knowledge to everyone," Isaera said, first fluffing it up as something more befitting a high elf.

"But.. as you can see, there are clearly some side-effects. I was afraid of something like this, and I fear there may be even more dire consequences later. Did you buy these crystals or make them yourselves? How long ago? How many?" she asks, beginning a very concerned interrogation.

(ooc: we've been speaking in Thalassian, right?)

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Isaeras House*
Show

The interrogation buys a pause in the hostilities; Aleeana confident you will see her side, Aunara confident that you will not.  Aleeana explains that one of KaelThass magisters dispatched an acolyte all the way to Theramore, arriving from a southbound ship about a week ago, a few days after your departure.  He taught her the technique, and she mastered it quickly; and more than a few within the elven diaspora have received it as a miracle - mana from heaven.  She made the ones that she and Tarien tapped, she had here a few days ago, Tarien earlier today.

And it costs functionally nothing.  Which is about as much as we can afford!, your sister punctuates.

OOC: Oh yeah, all Thalassian.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion had been rather quiet on the travel home, suspiciously so even. The warlock had just bore witness to the impact of a small infernal invasion against a village of ogres, followed by a brood of black dragons finishing what those infernals could not. 

Furthermore, she had a piece of one of the demonic engines still wrapped up in her backpack, along with her book on demonology, and she fully intended to learn the most she could from the seemingly inactive piece of granite before disposing of it safely (probably).

The initial reward was...adequate, Marion supposed. After all, she had grown up within the halls of opulence of her homestead which had been bought by the riches of mountains, and so to compare a pouch of a few hundred silver to that...well. The Alteracci noble gave a polite smile and a curtsy as thank you. There wasn't any need to be rude.

And then _she_ arrived. The head honcho. The big cheese of Theramore. The one whose actions this entire towns existence had to thank: Jaina Proudmoore. 

Marion had mixed feelings about the mage. She was a hero of the third war, a skilled and knowledgeable practitioner of the arcane, and her actions and rescued much of their race by delivering them from demons and undead ravaging Lordaeron to the relative safety of Theramore. But, she had also betrayed her own father. The Horde, for all its animalistic might, would have been unable to resist Admiral Proudmoore's fleet and they would have been neutralised as any threat now or in the future, if Jaina had not of knifed her own father, her own people, in the back. 

Did Marion hate Jaina for her actions? Or were they almost a too-close-for-comfort reminder of her own nations similar machinations? Maybe. Jaina was simply just an Alterac that had been successful. 

Nevertheless, her offer was an intriguing one. But _Ratchet_? Really? Is this how far she had fallen? The daughter of a nation of traitors having to dwell among the goblins on a sponsorship from an actual traitor. 

After Jaina and Isaera hit it off swimmingly, Marion allowed a pregnant pause to linger in the environment before she stepped forth from the shadows. 

"I would be interested in accepting your proposal," Marion spoke, that practiced talk back in her words and her speech lined with the educated accent a human highborn would have, "traveling through the swamps beyond these walls has allowed me to observe first-hand the potential for development to be had within this region of Dustwallow. Lady Proudmoore, the lands immediately outside the walls of Theramore, between here and the watch tower perimeter dozens of miles over yonder...what are your current plans for this wild region?"

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera's home*
Show

The fact that Kael'thas and his magisters had delivered this news and technique was in itself something that was difficult to combat. And honestly, if she had the utmost respect for him and their leaders, maybe she would swallow it all hook line and sinker. But her cautious nature (_usually_, anyway) and study of the arcane left her with many nagging doubts.

Raising her hands in a placatory manner, she says, "There is no such thing as free. That energy comes from somewhere. I fear it may only be a matter of time before a demonic presence realizes its mana is slowly being siphoned.. And besides, we don't know the long-term side effects of this, alright? For all we know, prolonged exposure could make you grow horns, claws, or subtly twist your mind in some way. It would be better to just wait and see what comes of others who try this technique, wouldn't it?"

She looked from sibling, to sibling, to parent, family members who were seemingly underwhelmed by her attempts at reasonableness. It was hard to argue against Prince Sunstrider himself, and the fact that they were pretty much broke. And then on the other hand, for not outright condemning Tarien and Aleeana as demon-spawn, she wasn't really winning favor with her mother either.

After an awkward pause, Isaera remembers her trump card. "Wait. You are wrong about one thing. We are not broke." She stomps up to the table and overturns her pouch of coins, unloading the entire seventy-five pieces of silver onto the table.

Taking advantage of this moment, in which she had hoped the din of seventy-five much-needed shiny silver coins would literally purchase her some clout, she declares, "With this, we can easily pay a whole year's levy. We can finish the second floor of our house. I could reanimate our brooms, the cloths, and the cookware again." Then looking directly into Aleeana's eyes, she delivers the coup de grace. "And you could afford something a little safer than fel energy."

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Should I roll? I guess I'll roll...

persuasion: (1d20+14)[*25*]   And I probably have massive penalties against my own family members, who knows?

By the way.  Might Isaera get any VP for mouthing off to Jaina a bit?  It's part of the complication: Bad Blood.  Maybe not.. unless there's actually a consequence or setback due to that though.

----------


## Plaids

Seeing Isaera's mud speckled robes waving farewell Jakk'ari can't help but sympathize with her motivations. 
The thought of being away from family and the constancy one provided was burdensome and the reality unpleasant. 

The young arcanist was an eager participant who pulled her weight in their journey with an admirable magical arsenal and a gift for placating people of different cultures. There was no clue if Isaera would reconsider Lady Proudmoore's offer after the generous amount of leniency she was prepared. But right now, Lady Proudmoore would need to be assured of the parties' unwavering enthusiasm and dedication to the mission provided. 

Mor'Lag continued to ponder the benefits of the proposal with banter between two heads that shared the same life together. Zachary stood resolute seeming to not give much away with his eyes out of sight but likely scanning the environment. 

Thankfully Marion also seemed enthused, stating her interest in the mission. But the enthusiasm sublimated to a subtle but insistent probing. The line of questioning indicated a keen interest with additional ancillary reward. While veiled interests were used by savvy leaders to further entice a partner, sincere ones chafed at the prospect of debating a cascading list of conditions and precedents. While there was no clue which on Lady Proudmoore is it is best to mitigate the risk. 

*After hearing Jaina's response to Marion*

Rising to his feet and attempting his most sincere smile Jakk'ari offers his own request. A small gesture to hopefully endear Jaina with the party.
 Lady Proudmoore, we are grateful for your offer. As of now it is growing late, and my party has neglected several meals. Would you care to take a rest from your duties join us?

(1d20+3)[*17*] Rolling if needed with +3 from presence.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The Lady of Theramore raises one blonde eyebrow, and her gaze instinctively moves to the wall behind the group, beyond which the marsh landscape unrolls down the path the party has just travelled; before she looks to Marion again.  _I have hopes that the land can be developed over time.  Its a long process - these kinds of tidal wetlands have a high salt content, and it will take some time to attract enough engineering talent that isnt afraid that one day the Horde is just going to wipe us off the map._  She shakes her head a little, lips pressed pensively together. _ Obviously, I dont think that is going to happen.  And I think that kind of hysterical over-caution is self-replicating, and leads to rash action; so Im willing to wait for the talent to show.  At the same time, Im in no rush.  Dustwallow is bad land.  Theres a reason its seen so little colonization by the Kalimdor peoples.  Most of our wealth, such that it is, in Theramore comes from two things: skilled and productive fishing fleets, and the industrious attitude of our people.  Everyone here is working hard because they know theyre building a new life for themself, and those who come after them; not just running in place.  I figure we have about twenty years before we need to have expanded out capacities enough to keep a new generation interested in staying, and not sailing back East.  Were going to lose a lot of the next generation to Stormwind, I think, now that its rebuilt._  She seems to realize shes wandered a little, and offers Marion a mild apology in her smile.  _So Id like to see some satellite villages cultivating the land, like you might have seen around Brackenwall.    But not so quickly that its cheap work; and not so hastily that the Night Elves end up breathing down my neck for deforming the natural state of the land.  Druids are the best friends a fledgling settlement can have - I hope to get them on side.  Those are my plans, for now.  That timetable could move up, if there is a sudden emergence of, for example, individuals with technical talent and a known and performed pedigree of non-hostility to our Horde and Steamwheedle neighbors._  This is said with a little humor in her expression; enough to offer Marion two assurances - that she has detected at least some framing of her ambition, and that she is not hostile to it, despite Marions Alterac accent and known study of the fel powers.  The Ladys mind is broad enough to imagine that orcs, who came into this world rampaging in front of the whip of warlocks and demons, can become fine friends and honorable countrymen.  There is certainly room to imagine that someone like Marion can afford to have some questionable marks on her record and still turn out to be perhaps a respectable regional administrator and fellow shaper of the new world.

When Jakkari offers his very professional and well spoken appreciation, she smiles at him again and then seems almost amused at the offer to dine with them.  Not an insulting humor, as if it is humorous that such people would think she would dine with them; but more a humorous appreciation that the troll possessed the audacity to push past the presumption that she would not.  _If only I could, good Jakkari.  Im afraid the next few days will allow very little respite for me, however.  A demonic attack on this scale, and the atrocity at the hand of the dragons, both propel me to alert my peers in the Kirin Tor.  An investigation will have to take place, to try to untangle the mess of it.  Its hard to imagine dragons striking like that unless the Stonemaul were threatening their deepest interests.  And their deepest interests are secrecy and survival, both of which are undermined by such a flagrant attack on what is for all intents and purposes a Horde outpost.  Not to mention our cadets, geographically inconvenient as they might have been.  Someone must answer for these things.  But I thank you, all the same.  Perhaps, another time._  The raincheck sounds more genuine that one might expect, and the Lady takes the offer in the spirit it is intended.  _I ought to get to those matters now.  Do consider my offer.  Id like your whole group for this project, if I can get it.  Take a few days to rest and speak among yourselves; and if Im not available in my tower, you can leave a message with Ysuria.  Shes also the one who will instruct Isaera on the use of the teleport key-rune._  With that, she seems ready to finish the audience; though not so ready she would cut off a chance to respond.

*Spoiler: Isaera's House*
Show

The reactions to the splash of cash are ostensibly positive, but also mixed.  Your mother is stunned for a moment, and then so overwhelmed by the surge of extra relief she didnt expect to feel that she actually reaches out and puts her hand on the coin pile as if to make sure theyre real. _ Oh, Isaera!  Thats amazing!  What did you have to do for all this?  Are you alright?_  One genuine question, one rhetorical, both on a voice suddenly blooming with maternal pride, untethered to the lodestone of present destitution.

Aleeanas expression ranges in sequence from astonishment, to avarice, to sisterly jealousy, to a flash of self-reproach for that jealousy, to a directed faint smile of appreciation, and finally a thoughtful frown as she digests the cocktail of feelings that just rushed through her.  Some part of her, youre sure, is also disappointed that the conflict has been defused.  There remains in potentia a conflict between your sister and mother in which your sister actually follows through with her threats and walks out, vanishing to join the reclamation project back in QuelThalas, hunting the flesh eating parodies of your deceased elven countrymen and women; maybe dying in the attempt; maybe worse.  The tragedy that befell your family quelled her rebellious spirit for a while, and drew her into the family effort for a while; but wanderlust, and the need to strike out and define herself as something other than a scion of greatness or a refugee statistic has been back in her heart in force.

Tariens face is the most complex, in that moment.  Hes relieved to see the money, but shortly after worried again.  His eyes skip over the the coins as they spill over the table, and your eyes catch him quietly mouthing a count, seventy, seventy four A very impressive display of numeracy you havent seen in him before.  But after that, he catches your eyes while your sister and mother are still processing the display, and gives you a very faint worried look, and an almost imperceptible shake of the head - a look that turns to back to his neutral, henpecked countenance once the other two are aware of their surroundings again.

Aleeanas primary argument solidly undercut by this display of liquidity, she can mount no reasonable counter argument against Isaeras suggested slow-and-steady approach.  She does, however, mount a defense of the physical alteration:  _I like the green eyes.  I think they make me look more mysterious._  This provokes a roll of more conventionally blue eyes from your mother, but she seems to respect the peace youve bought and doesnt bite on that particular bait.  Discussion on how to prioritize spending this money immediately breaks out between your mother and sister.  Construction supply for the upper floor.  Beds for Aerdithane and Rayadel.  The actual wands and reagents the girls require to practise at home so they dont have to spend so much time using the loan-items at the mage tower.  The reenchantment of some of the cleaning equipment.  Paint for the house, when the top floor is completed.  Some decent food - maybe not like they used to have in QuelThalas, but surely they can afford better than fish and hard bread.  A little wine, obviously.  And enough vision dust to keep the nine of them in the house clear-headed and focused, just for now.  Maybe a small stash of dream dust?  Just for emergencies?

Rapidly, the ideas balloon from purchasing essentials and frugally smoothing the remainder out over a long time, to blowing it all now in a well-earned and long-awaited splurge on things that the family has wanted for a long time.  And when you think about it, occasionally getting things you merely want is a kind of need, isnt it?  And back and forth the negotiations go.  Tarien remains on the periphery, but he opens his mouth as if hes going to say something; but then simply doesnt.  He does, however, take the opportunity to come over to your side, and give you the delayed hug.  Tariens magical talent is pedestrian, and now mostly lapsed.  His other talents, if they exist, have not really emerged.  He contributes to the house by absorbing the blows to elven pride that many others in the house cannot accept - the cooking, the cleaning that cannot be done by a ten year old borrowed from next door, the walking the hand-cart borrowed from the other neighbour to buy food, late on the market day when the folk were closing up and prone to selling their remnant stock cheap.  A thousand other small duties that might cause a conflict if someone else had to do it, which he simply does quietly, impervious to the wrinkled pride of others.  And right now, ignoring whatever complex thing he is feeling about this burst of material relief, he wraps you in his arms and squeezes you like he has been suspecting, for the last ten days, that he had lost you.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Excellent. 

Marion's social attenae were attuned enough to recognise a tentative opportunity when she saw one. The lack of flat denial was promising, and the absence of even a subtle or hinted rejection only further cemented the Warlocks animation towards fostering her ambitious idea. 

After being addressed, Marion waited until Lady Proudmoore had finished speaking to the troll, as was simple etiquette. Jakkari deserved the respect to not have his audience interrupted, after all. 

Once Lady Proudmoore had ceased this wave of discussion, Marion waited several seconds before continuing, her tone a probing and curious one. 

"Lady Proudmoore," she started, "if you would be so kind as to indulge my curiosity...but per say, what sum have you valuated the wetlands that exist between the exterior of Theramore's walls and the watch-tower perimeter?"

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Iseara's house*
Show

"I'll find a way to make your eyes glow pink and gold, if it will only stop you from this foolishness," Isaera says, playfully hugging her sister, and eventually getting a hug from Tarien as well.

But discussion of the money seemed to take a turn for the worse pretty quickly. "Please, this doesn't mean we are rich and can just waste it all on frivolous things! We.. we still need to keep working. Do you know what I had to do? Oh, it was awful, traveling through the swamps, and making niceties with orcs and ogres!"

Isaera recounts her tale, or at least most important parts anyway. Out to find and rescue four cadets. One found in the swamps, another in the orc village, two dead under a desecrated elven runestone, and a surprise, freak demonic/dragon attack.

----------


## Plaids

Jaina's response to both his and Marion's probing ease the shaman's spirit. The Lady was clearly savvy enough to comfortably wade into minutia while tactful enough to entertain or rebuff offers without condescension. With a contact of this caliber this was surely a mutualistic relationship. Not the risky but enticing pump and dumping of mercenaries to leapfrog into power seen in Gadgetzan. While such ambition from Marion had not been observed prior the young woman could be trusted to negotiate with Jaina. The small kindnesses towards the Theramore escort were proof enough.

Before the appraisal of land and marginal benefits can fully begin Jakk'ari bids Jaina and the remainder of the party farewell after once more receiving the time and place to meet the group's contact to the Opal Collocation.
Inviting the rest of the party to join at Janene's if they have the time Jakk'ari makes his exit.

Walking into the street Jakk'ari prepares to warm a seat for most likely Mor'Lag and Marion given their status as newcomers like himself. Feeling the rigid shape of a lock reminds Jakk'ari of the artifact he held. The decision to choose the lock as his consolation prize was influenced by his inebriation and bedazzlement of Hezlak's insider knowledge. Though the money now is preferrable the lack of a heavy jingling sack within the swamp was a minor blessing.

Deciding to take a detour Jakk'ari spins around towards the tallest mage tower to hopefully to appraise his trinket.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_The monetary value?_  She puffs the front half of a truncated laugh; again, in a reasonably positive spirit.  _Invaluable.  Theres fifty miles between here and Northpoint tower; the full extent of where Theramore projects authority on land.  There is no amount of money in the world that would cause me to cede it to someone else as their domain, even if the political ramifications of such an exchange were more easily navigable.  But if youre talking about the value I would place on that land or part thereof, as a way of asking what would cause me to set someone in delegated authority over a parcel of that land?   Thats something I could only do for someone who had proven trustworthy personally, and not a political liability publicly.  Does that answer your inquiry for now, Ms Mordis?_  She leans forward a little as she asks this; a noticeable but gentle suggestion that the rearrangement of land title is neither out of the picture entirely, nor available to be effected in this conversation itself.  The Lady Proudmore is _Friendly_ to Marion; but would need to have _Honored_ her more substantially for such plans to manifest.

*Spoiler: Jakkaris Pitstop*
Show

You depart in good grace, and head off from the barracks towards the Tower district, and its eponymous magical hub.  As you wander through the streets, you receive the same kinds of looks youre used to in Theramore, at this point.  Some outright shock to see a troll on a stroll, some too innocent to imagine a threat and simply curious, some educated enough to know you are not a denizen of the Echo Isles or ZulAman, but interested as to what relationship a sand troll might have to their city.  Others, either because of an overflow of good nature or recognizing you as the novelty you are in the city, offer wary smiles.  Youre used to all these reactions - but you are gratified to see that the proportions are changing.  It used to be all veiled hostility of bewilderment.  Then there was a little larger share of tolerant dismissal.  Now theres a non-trivial element of cautious benevolence.  You had no expectation it would be fast or easy, but this is the result youve always wanted: incremental improvement, on a long, patient arc.

You stop by at the mage tower, and enter into the open door of the lower level which accepts all comers.  Walled with bookcases around a central spiral staircase up to a second floor forty feet up, the room features just enough of the scattered accoutrements - wall mounted staves, sconceless magical torches, the occasional flickering mote of mana forced into manifestation and then popping out of it again - that you associate with such a building.  There appears to be some manner of class in session.  There are eight students of different ages, all elves and humans, sitting on chairs manifested from pinkish arcane constructum and receiving instruction on how to maintain those constructs by their tutors - a high elven woman, and an elderly male gnome with a hat as tall as his whole person.  Its one of the students who gives you their attention first - one of the elves, at the borderline of maturity for such a creature, with hair so bright red it almost becomes magenta, tied back in two tail nodding just behind her extravagant ears.  She seems bored waiting for her instruction, and so rises from the vanishing chair to cross to you.

_Hey!  Hey, youre the troll who went with the wagons looking for the cadets.  Does that mean youre back?  And then, a flicker of worry crossing her features.  Does that mean everyone is back?  Safe?_


*Spoiler: Isaeras House*
Show

Your brother, mother, and sister take seats around the table and listen with appropriate rapture as you regale them.  Your mothers expression is usually vicarious worry, complete with flinching when you describe obvious threats like an orc village, and demons, and dragons.  Your sister Aleeana by contrast dips back and forth between surface level jealousy, and vicarious thrill.  The part where you bombarded the burning palisade for your allies to break out of the dragonfire inferno makes her smile with pride at you, just long enough for you to know that such pride is there, in her, before she simply enjoys the telling; and in doing so, perhaps misses the point of your telling it.  Your brother Tarien listens with that same thoughtful, almost neutral look.  With one hand he is arraying and stacking the coins absently while you lay down the dynamic details of the outing.

_Well.  Your father would be so proud of you.  He always had a softness for the sons of Thoradin, and the ancient bonds of men and elves.  And its good to really flex your combat magic on live targets - though Id wished it wasnt so dangerous, so soon._  This from your mother, whose magic has never been particularly combative.  Back in Silvermoon, she knew the boilerplate levels of battle magic expected of a talent of her level, but her profession was more spectacular: an _anarcadian_, something that could be crudely described to humans as a blend of prima ballerina and pyrotechnician, responsible for both astonishing physical performance and simultaneously projected illusory phantasmagorias of sensory wonder.  Productions on that scale, naturally, have been out of demand since the fall of Silvermoon.  Still, she knows enough about combat magic to not be speaking out her ear when she says such things.

_So what happens now?  Back to sweat-rash cures for portly human sailors?_  Aleeana asks, obviously angling for a negative response.  Tarien remains quiet, internally focused; almost brooding.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera's house*
Show

Isaera smiles softly at her mother and looks down. Yes, she hoped he would be proud of her. If only he was here...

"Perhaps it wasn't all heroism. If I hadn't helped them break through the burning walls, and they all died trapped in an inferno.. we might have just been picked off in the night. Or at the very least, it would mean only 1 gold piece split up among three..."  She may have been downplaying her accomplishments to her family again, but nonetheless, the weight of the story was still gripping.

Eying her younger sister and her .. sarcasm? Isaera sighs. "Well, maybe? If we use this money wisely, we may even be able to start expanding. There's lots of things that still need doing around this city, many little problems that need to be solved, things that people will pay good money for. With the right ingenuity, and if we know where to look..." she trails off and shrugs.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Isaera's House*
Show

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

First things first, I forgot to say:




> By the way. Might Isaera get any VP for mouthing off to Jaina a bit? It's part of the complication: Bad Blood. Maybe not.. unless there's actually a consequence or setback due to that though.


  I'll definitely give you my personal approval for it, since I like the way you play Isaera!  But VP are more metaresources for the crunchy parts of the game where I'm demanding you roll a bunch, and this is sort of an "in between sessions" scene, so not this time.  On the other hand, I'm not going to require you to do anything in this scene that would require a VP!  So it all balances out.

I assume a small move of scene for you here, rather than require an extra back-and-forth post; but if Isaera wouldn't have followed, let me know and I can change stuff.[/I]


With Aunara and Aleeana concurring with the general sentiment that this is just a beginning place to be wisely expanded upon, they restart (more moderated this time) their interwar period of dreamcasting.  _If they invest in a decent set of alchemical tools, not just the travel kit, then perhaps they can indeed maximise Isaera's ability there and make a small business out of potion dealing.  They'd need to advertise, of course.  Hire someone to stitch together a nice eye catching marquee to set up near the market..._

Tarien finally breaks, and takes the opportunity to push up from the chair.  "Can we...?"  The obvious third word, _talk_, is left as unformed vapor, as though even a three word sentence was too much imposition for the unintrusive Tarien to impose on you at once.  Something about the scene has obviously made him uncomfortable, and rubbing the back of his neck, he hears to the nearby staircase up to the partly formed second floor, pushing past a canvas sheet and stepping over the line of L shaped apex tiles that have been layed upside down nesting in a line to run storm water away from the doorway, _just for now._

Upstairs, Tarien goes to sit on the edge of the roof, with his legs hanging over while his now-green eyes scan the street.  Up the street, houses grading up into respectable and even fancy; down the street, grading down to unassuming shacks.  As your closest sibling in age, Tarien and yourself have often had cause to perch together for long conversations on a high limb of a slender Eversong Elm, or the balcony of your old estate home, or halfway down the stairs on the westward case of that home, while your parents hashed out their fears and promises about the wars to come.

_"I worried about you while you were gone.  But I guess I was... sort of hoping that being out in the world would get your blood up for spellcraft, again.  Do you mean it, when you're talking about going into... odd-job magical solutions, instead of real, combat-assisted formal study?" _ He looks incredulous, maybe even mildly disappointed; a strange look on Tarien, whose first wish is usually to make sure no one is disappointed in anyone.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: siblings on the roof*
Show

Isaera looked at Tarien, studying him, trying to figure out what was wrong. He seemed to have a lot on his mind, and in these recent times had been much more thoughtful.

She can't help but answer the question as honestly as she can. They've always been open with one another. Isaera lets out a long breath before speaking. "Well.. that's the only sensible thing to do. And I have to admit, I do not think I should have taken that job. It was pretty miserable and dangerous. We're all fortunate the ogre and troll didn't turn on us. Though after fighting along side them, perhaps they may be honorable..." she says, letting on that hint of camaraderie from their time working together.

"Given what I went through, it didn't seem worth that silver, nor the risk.  And that was before those demons and dragons appeared..." 

Isaera points at the evening sky, the faintly diluted billows of smoke still lingering from the smoldering ruins of the ogre encampment, and the surrounding swamps. "You can still see it, can't you? The smoke? And I bet it was as discernible as the Sunwell some days ago. That could have been me in there..." she says, morosely.

"I shouldn't have left you all in the first place. You lot are all I have. And I'm sorry to have worried you." Isaera leans over and wraps an arm around her brother in a hug, bare, a bit mud-flecked, and riddled with bug bites as it was. A reminder of just how much _crap_ she went through and survived just to secure her family's well-being. At least, for now..

"So what is wrong? You've been awfully quiet. And.. you look disappointed. Why?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Siblings on the Roof*
Show

_"It does sound dangerous.  I'm glad you're okay.  So don't take this as ingratitude or anything like it, it's just..."_  He gives her a final squeeze before terminating the hug just a little prematurely, freeing his hands to grind the heels of his palms against his eyesockets as if physically requiring a moment to cork the thoughts that would otherwise stream out of his head that way.  His lips move to speak, and he stops; then his lips move again, and they stop; and then with a little shake of his head, he gets around to it.

_"So, this is something I've been trying to find the words to say for a while.  And it's taken me a while, because I'm not as... articulate as you, or Aleeana, or the rest of out family. But you just... you need to_ tell me_ if you're going to do what it takes to become an archsorceress.  Because we're all_ pretty good_, but father was just..."_  He lifts an arm straight up, the fingers of the hand held flat horizontal; trying to contain the prodigious stature of a lost father's greatness in that physical gesture.  _"And so was his mother, and all the way back to the making of the Sunwell.  And it was important to him that the tradition of excellence just kept going.  That's what Arkhana'skrit means, right?  Not someone who copies out the runes; someone who conceives them and makes them real things with shape, and power, that enriches our people.  And all four of us were going that way, for a while, before... everything."_

_Everything._  Such an insufficient word for the reality of the Scourge, and the Legion, and all they wrought.  He looks away up the street, toward the stubby human mage tower, and you wonder what about it is drawing his attention; but the quaver in his voice when he begins again tells you that his gaze is not toward the tower as much as away from you, tactically shifted in case words he would prefer stand with strength are softened by tears.  He seems to be holding it in; but not without effort.

_"Kalenaus was great, and he would have followed that path to the end if he'd had a chance.  But he didn't.  Aleeana is..."_  He flaps a hand, loosely.  _"She's already out the door.  We all know it.  It might take her two hundred years to grow up into the kind of woman who can focus herself like you can.  And I just don't have it.  I don't know what I'm meant for, but it's not excellence at the level that requires real world combat experience and expensive components and runecloth robes.  I know.  I've tried.  I'm pretty good.  I could be_ very_ good.  But I'll never be excellent."_  This, you do not relish, is probably true.  If you permit yourself to look past the gauzy veil of loving encouragement a good sibling has for another, Tarien does not have the makings of an excellent mage.  He's too much introspection, not enough instinct.  Too much indecision, not enough confidence.  Too much heart; not enough brain.  Not to run him down as less than clever; he's clever and insightful in equal measure.  But he's not a weapon of intellect.  Not like Aleeana.  Not like Kalenaus.  Not like you.

_"So you need to tell me if you're going to do what it takes to be the next loop in the chain of our family dynasty, at the level our father wanted when would give you that look like he had no fear at all you were going to make it there.  Because if you're not going to, tthen I need to just..."_

He glances to you for a moment, and you catch a flash of something like mortal fear in his eyes; like he is contemplating the vastness of something too heavy for him to hold, too precious and fragile to let slip from his grasp, upon which all the world depends.  But he cannot stand your gaze for very long; it's too accepting, and good, and forgiving for him in a moment when he has decided he needs to regard himself and his limitations in the cold light of day.  So his eyes, felfire green with the light of bad decisions, stare down at his own hands, resting now on his knees.

_"Then I need to just figure out what I have to do, or find, or gain to become_ strong_ enough to bend my own life to it."_

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: siblings on the roof*
Show

Oh.. so that's what it was. It was like a nagging concern Isaera had as well, but more like an afterthought in the back of her mind. But they were in survival mode, had been for quite some time. Even with this silver she brought, it was a small start, and may only be a reprieve, depending on luck and how thriftily they spent it.

But now Tarien had brought up a point that no one else had yet. Their family, their people had a great lineage. And now, the thought of losing it, and losing everyone...

"I'm scared," Isaera quietly said. It was impulsive. She had almost not said it out loud at all.

"I'm afraid I might never live up to our name, either. That if I go out there like Kalenaus, and father, I'll just.. I'll just be another casualty. And the thought of you all mourning..."

Her eyes watered as she looked at her brother, but she turned to look more vacantly at the sky. "We're lucky, compared to many other of our kin, to still have each other. I don't want to lose anyone else. Including me."

She gazed at her brother again, let down by her resignation to defeat. She didn't like the look of his disappointment. "Tarien, you aren't.."  bad? excellent? How would she finish that sentence?

"You don't have to.."  she sighed once again, unable to complete her sentence.

She sighed. "Listen, Tarien. Don't let my success keep you down, away from greatness. And don't let my failures push you beyond your limits. You- You are talented. Maybe not excellent. Not yet. You have _centuries_ to improve. But _combat-magic_, hurling spells amidst a battlefield with.. I don't know.. orcs swarming at the shield wall and axes flying past you, and your dead kin all around.. that  is _not_ the singular way we measure you. You've more talent and heart than you realize. And the truth is.. this family would have fallen apart without you."

It was almost certain that the house wouldn't be in the process of a renovation, all the manual work wouldn't get done, her sister would have ran off, her mother would be wasting away, her cousins would be completely out of control...  and Isaera would have no one to really talk to.

----------


## Plaids

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop*
Show


Being hailed by the young elf woman is a small relief. Being approached as helper and not an oddity or opportunity for a rebellious youth to get a rise out of their parents. 

Taking stock of the young elf it would certainly be possible she is a friend with one of the cadets.  Hoping to not have to deliver any bad news Jakk'ari reports the good news which luckily outweighed bad in this case. 

 
Yes indeed. My companions and I have returned with our escort led by Brother Bright. Oscar will have quite the story to tell. If you wish you can meet Felix and Aedan at the medical center. Now if I may I require the aid of a skilled mage who can help me in a magical matter.  

Jakk'ari  takes a step towards the dwarf and high elf. He crosses his fingers hoping the elf will be elated by the news of a friend returned safely and recuperating or indulge in her curiosity and offer her arcane skills. Assuming that her boredom earlier was evidence of her prowess outpacing her instructors' lessons.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Siblings On The Roof*
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Tarien listens, offers a minimal nodding of receipt; but doesn't reply right away.  A short, comfortable silence follows; side by side with those scraping by on the left and those not quite scraping by on the right; straddling the poverty line in the quiet evening air. 
 Somewhere down the road, a dog starts barking.  It's annoying at first, but then you get used to it; and pretty soon, it's just another feature of the ambience: another little feature of life that wasn't okay, and then was.

_"...I don't know.  I don't know if I'm going to bother with magic at all.  I think I might be the only person in this family who doesn't even mind being poor."_  Light, it's an ugly expression said out loud - _being poor._  Tarien chooses this moment to abandon the plump quiver of euphemisms that he has available: _hard times_, _difficulty_, and so on.  _"But... Thank you.  You're right, I think I_ can_ hold the family together.  Some day mother is going to need to accept the new reality and decide how she's going to support herself, but... She's lost more than all of us, with her sisters; so I don't want to push that on her.  Not for a long time yet.  And Isa... I don't want you to feel like this is an ultimatum, because it's not, it's just... Someone has to carry the name.  And if it's me, then I have to start figuring some things out real soon because I'm going to need those spare centuries. 
 Much as a part of me just wants to... wrap us all up and hide indoors.  But I remember him saying - I can't recall when - that we were being... I think,_ spoiled by peace_, and he wanted to set an example.  He knew the dangers, and he knew he was better equipped to deal with them if he was better at spellcraft; and he knew that one day that might not be enough and it was_ still_ the right thing to do.  I don't want to wait until there's another war to find out if our family has power left to give to the good fight, or if all we have to give is our lives, one at a time."_

Insanely, the dog chooses that moment to stop barking.  You only notice because its absence is so heavy in contrast; like it heard the conversation and detected now, quite late, how serious the discussion was.

_"So... Are you going to carry his name while I stay here... or am I going to carry it, while you stay here?  I need to know, Isa. I need to know."_


*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop*
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_"Well, that's good.  I worr- hey, wait!"_  The young elven student jogs around in front of him.  He has correctly pegged her as bored, and ready to offer magical assistance as an alternative to the numbing basic of her studies.  Her eyes, big and pale blue, are almost pleasing for him to take her seriously.  _"What kind of magical matter?  If it's complex, I can at least point you to the right person.  If it's not overly so, maybe I can help."_

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: siblings on the roof*
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Isaera took a good, hard, long look at Tarien. Then she sighed.

"Oh come now, you aren't being very reasonable...  I'd think it's only fair that if I become an archmage, then you have to as well. Or if I stay, so do you," she said with a slight tease in her voice. Then she grows more serious again, exhaling.

"I should tell you something. I met Jaina Proudmore earlier today, just before I came home. She made me an offer to.. oh that's the trouble. No specific task stated. It's sort of like.. a peacekeeping mission. Being a part of a sponsored 'guild' as she called it. This could bring us some more money, and.. help accomplish what you're aiming for, I suppose. But it is going to be situated in Ratchet." She lets out a disappointed huff.

"I'm.. really not fond of the idea..  What do you think?  Maybe, if anything, I could take Aleeana along. It's only a matter of time before she just disappears into the nether. Perhaps it would be best if I could.. at least try to steer her away from certain death every now and then..."

Isaera chuckled dryly to herself, just imagining all the trouble her younger sister would get into with that rash, bullheaded personality of hers.

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## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Siblings on the Roof*
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_You met the Lady of Theramore?  And she what does that mean, exactly?_. This news is interesting and exciting for Tarien - especially since it feels like fate taking a hand and advocating, like he is, for Isaeras training and greatness.  You furnish him with the sparse details you have, and he thinks on it with obvious fascination.

_Isa, it sounds almost too good to be true.  If you can take jobs like the one you just did - fewer dragons, maybe - you can make money on top of whatever Lady Proudmoore is securing for you.  Thats enough to buy you proper elven goods - books, and orbs, and rare tutelage.  And you dont have to wander off into risk alone; you can do it with people who have already faced the worst the world has to offer and stuck around for it.  And if you can bring Aleeana, shell either find something to do roe come back home with her tail between her legs.  Both good for her.  And Ratchet is_

He trails off, purses his lips, and begins again.  _Well, you dont have to live in the town square, right?  You get your own hall?  Maybe you can be there and here, week on, week off.  If you can survive demons and dragons, you can survive little green men trying to sell you things.  Thats what I think._

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## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Siblings on the roof*
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"That is what I was thinking. Too good to be true. At least, how it was presented..."

Isaera sighs again. "I guess I'll have to tell the others about this...  And maybe I'll go, if they're willing."

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## Plaids

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's pitstop*
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Jakk'ari provides the key details of his item hoping the additional information will further intrigue the young student
 I have an item from a fellow troll. He is a shadow hunter deep within the swamp. The craft is likely not of troll origin though. 
Jakk'ari fishes out the lock with both hands initially concealing it. Once brought to chest height he moves his upper hand to allow a full view of the lock.
 This is what I received from him. If you can accomplish the tests to appraise this, I will gladly pay for the service.

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## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Siblings On The Roof*
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_"Well, hey.  Worst comes to worst, you just stick it out for sixty years for Proudmoore to die off, and then run for it."_  He smiles, a little at his own joke; but also, with two more things plain in his features.  One is pride for you.  Not an addition of it - you get the impression he would have still been proud of you if you'd gone the other way.  But it's frontloaded now; exposed to you, in case you ever doubted it.  Mingled with that, is an incredibly relief that he feels so keenly he's almost ashamed of it.  She is the appropriate instrument for the Arkhanaskrit legacy.  He would have been an improvised one.

_"We'd better go down.  If we wait much longer, all the money will be gone and we'll find the table has been wrapped in gold leaf."_

He gives you another hug, rubs his eyes, fortifies himself while you have a moment to do the same, and returns downstairs for the remainder of the discussion about how to spend what has been gained.

Jakk'ari's invitation to the group to have a drink and discussion of the matter came after your departure from the tower - but you know where they'll be anyway.  Jakk'ari, Mor'Lag and Marion are all staying there, you're pretty sure: _Janene's_, where this began.

*Spoiler: OOC Stuff!*
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I love scenes like this.  My RL gaming groups do not appreciate dramatic, non-crunchy scenes as much as I do!

We could extend it a little further - Isaera telling her mother and sister about the opportunity, inviting Aleeana, if you want.  You'll be shocked to learn that Aleeana is all for the idea, if a little sassy.  If that's the case, we'll carry it on in the spoiler tags.  But for the sake of moving the story along, it might be good we move the main out-of-tag timeline along to the party reconvening briefly at _Janene's_ just to get everyone on the same page.  I'll start throwing together the guild/hireling stuff!



*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop*
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_"An identification ritual?  Well sure, I think I can handle that.  Or if it turns out I can't, at least you know it's super exotic."

You present the key you gained for your company and sportsmanship, and with it displayed in your open palm, the young elf lifts her hands over it, mouths some inaudible incantations, and begins fluttering her fingertips in a peculiar rhythm.  Each time a digit moves as if playing some strange piano-keyed instrument, a lance of faint blue light emits from the fingertip to the key, along with a distinct and faint chiming sound.  The sounds vary, and she repeats some of the digital movements as if provoking and taking note of the particular sounds they make.  The whole process is painless, unspectacular, and takes about a minute.

"Well.  Sorry to disappoint you, sir; I don't think it's magical.  It's been near magic, but the trace is so faint that no practitioner would be able to meaningfully discern its nature.  I guess whatever lock it corresponds to is on something magical?  Hard to say.  It's dwarven, though; I can tell you that much."_  She repeats a little twitch of her right ring fingertip, provoking a repeated, dull _ping_.  "Definately dwarf make.  Probably fifty years old or so.  Which only tells you the lock and key have been in use and circulation for a while, since dwarves make stuff like this to last.  I'm real sorry.  Wish I could tell you more.  But if you ever find out what it was for, I'd be curious to know, now.  I'm Dalana, by the way.  Dalana Sunflare."  And then, continuing in her chatty and amiable way, appends the explanation for her friendliness.  _"Isaera is my cousin.  Are you friends, now?"_*Spoiler: OOC Stuff!*
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Good instinct on the identify, but Hezlak's gift remains a puzzle!  If you have more questions (either about Isaera's family through this new vector, or about magic stuff), feel free to keep going in these spoiler tags!  But I'm gonna start off the regrouping at Janene's scene soon too!

----------


## Plaids

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's pitstop*
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The additional details on the nature of the key are welcome. The item is not innately magical, instead being paired with a magical lock or a just one in close proximity to a radiant source of magic. The key wouldn't provide any benefit without its lock but it wasn't a liability either. Jakk'ari knew well enough that magical artifacts could act as beacons for dangerous creatures in the world. Unfortunately, since dwarves were most plentiful in the Eastern Kingdoms any further investigation would have to be postponed.

Dalana had performed well, performing well as Jakk'ari had hoped. He addresses Dalana with a polite smile. 
 I do know Isaera. She is quite the talented arcanist. She even pulled me out from the fire several times. Though she may need to learn some prudence in the future. 

Jakk'ari remembers Stonemaul village when Isaera launched volleys of arcane spells to their enemies and eventually the palisade which threatened to corral the ogres into a slaughter. He also remembers the misery Isaera endured from a tropical fever and the unintentional slighting of Mor'Lag. For now, it would be best to omit the details of how much danger the party actually encountered. If Dalana wanted to know she could request the information from Isaera.

 She should be home by now. If you see her, please tell her that the offer she received still stands and she can find me and Mor'Lag at Janene's. Oh, and one more thing. For your appraisal of my key. 
Jakk'ari offers Dalana a silver piece for her services. 

 It has been nice meeting you, but I must attend to business of my own. Keep cultivating your craft. 



*Spoiler: Money and such*
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I don't know how much gold, silver, and copper are worth in WOW but I intended to have Jakk'ari offer roughly the amount of money one would spend to buy a modest meal at a decent diner in town.

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## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop*
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Later in the day, Dalana will jog home excitedly, gripping the coin tightly in her palm to recount the tale of how she got it.  She'll be confused, and a little crestfallen, to discover the table awash in many times that fortunate gain; but Dalana's a good girl, and she'll process it right, and selflessly add her coin to the pile to make it seventy six.

For now, she just smiles, baffled into positivity by this generosity, and holds it in her hand.  "Wow, thanks!  And I will!  Hey, you have a great day!"*Spoiler: OOC: The Value of a Coin*
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In Azeroth, one gold piece is worth one hundred silver pieces, and one silver piece is worth one hundred copper. 
 However, the trimetallic economy is parallel to another system of exchange: favors, and reputation.  Any organisation that makes use of the adventuring class - and that's a lot - has their own token system to regular and tariff internal equipment sales and dispersal.  The tokens are dispensed as payment for favors done to the organisation, and are accepted by the organisation in batches as payment for their premium goods.  This is a countermeasure developed by the groups with meaningful power in a world where the value of the three metals can fluctuate wildly depending on the state of the war or armistice, the capture or loss of mines to one side or the other, the taxes levied to raise armies often at the drop of a hat.  Trading in tokens and internal favors makes it hard for any given crown to juice for conventional welath a neutral faction like the Kirin Tor or the Argent Dawn, or even factions within their own diplomatic web.  The noble class, merchant class, and working classes all pay their taxes in gold. The adventuring class pays in blood.

But as for the value of gold and silver and copper, there's a reason I didn't want to meticulously track wealth more than vaguely - it frankly doesn't make sense.  Why would gold be worth a hundred times what silver is?  If it's just fiat currency printed on precious metals, why would a Horde gold piece be honored in Stormwind?  And because WoW is a video game which relies on a loot based economy, they have no incentive to have a list of realistic purchase prices for anything anywhere, like most fantasy settings that atleast TRY to make it make sense!  So we'll say one silver is appropriate for your purpose.  We just won't overthink it.



*At Janene's...*

The atmosphere is mostly positive, in the tavern.  Drinks are poured out for the lost cadets, and a moment of silence is permitted to hold; but the Theramorans seem keen to celebrate the return of three of them more than mourn the loss of the two.  Many of the same sailors, laborers, and barflies who shrunk back in their seats when Captain Evencane made his pitch are here now; some are shamefaced about not having contributed, but most seem to have extra respect for your strange crew now, some going as far as to come over and shake hands and tell you how much they appreciate your work.  You don't even have to buy your own drinks.  And neither does Felix - the only one of the cadets present, and already quite sauced by the time you arrive. _ "Heyyy!  Hey!" He explains, leaning heavily on your table; "Hey, I got sussssspended!  But I'm also ALIVE so I'll call that a win ayyy?  AYY?  Who wants to buy me another drink?!"_  He wheels away toward the bar without waiting for a response.  Janene frowns at him, cautiously.  _"Another light ale?  Careful, lad. You've already had one."_  But someone furnishes him with his second drink of the night - the third of his life - and he takes the attention of the crowd with him to the other side of the tavern.

Zachary frowns at the display, sipping broodingly at his own much darker ale. _"...Lad's not coping right.  But atleast he'll have the headache to teach him a lesson tomorrow."_  Wearing his dark tinted glasses even here inside at night, the ranger asks of no one in particular at the table: _"...Has anyone here actually been to Ratchet?  Maybe it's... not so bad."_

He does not sound like he's convincing himself.

*Spoiler: Tavern Palaverin'.*
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Feel free to already be at the table or wander in and plop down as you prefer.  Drinks are on the house.  Now's the time to ask any lingering questions you have with the other characters about the previous adventure, or voice any concerns about the offer.  Presently, you've not seen the property or interviewed any staff - it's all very new!  BananaPhone, if you have more for the Jaina scene, feel free to spoilertag some activity there; or else feel free to just be here!



*On the ridge over Ratchet...*

_"As you can see, it's been swept of dust and webs, but otherwise there's not much to it."_  Fibbus Scuttleswipe is a lopsided goblin odd-jobs man who was put in charge of maintaining the empty property owned by the Lady Proudmoore.   He capers along with one shoulder higher than the other, probably the result of some injury he does not offer in explanation.  He's dressed like most of the goblins in the town - the rough blue fabric pants the goblins call _jeans_, and a set of overalls holding them up; a white shirt faded to thousand-washes-beige on his upper body.  It's a hot day, but the sea breeze cuts away the worst of it; and he stands in the shade cast by the stumpy three floor tower, a set of keys twirling around his index finger, gesturing with the other hand through the open door at the bland, brown brick interior.  He does not miss an opportunity to pry about a stranger in town however.

_"So you're a... What?  Soldier?  Agent?"_  And then gesturing with his free hand at the black white and gold symbol displayed on the stranger's person, _"Whassat mean?"_

*Spoiler: Scene Explanation!*
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This scene is a brief one to introduce JoyWonderLove's character to the narrative.  I'll merge the rest of the party into it, in due course. For now, you'll all still back at the tavern! :)

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## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag are only slightly buzzed.   Given their physiology, this meant they went through a keg between them.  They are so out of sync they are actually talking to themselves...

Mor, for her part, is trying to hide the fact shevhas been slowly gaining magic Prowess for years.  Lag would never forgive her.

Lag is despondent at her hopes of a normal life being stripped away by the unlikely advent of dragons, but is slowly growing suspicious of their new-found abilities.  Luckily, the drink has distracted her.

They are both aware that the Elf and the Human wonder-workers really only tolerate them, at best.  And they were apparently meeting with the Shaman...

Maybe they would come back for her,  maybe they wouldn't.   It wasn't her place to intrude in the affairs of wizards.  Either way,  she at least had money, on top of an open bar.  Even if the thing with Lady Proudmoor fell through, Mor'Lag's prospects were looking up. And maybe she could move to Ratchet, anyway...

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

*At Janene's...*

Marion was characteristically quiet during the festivities and drunken revelry of the tavern, her image offering polite and friendly smiles to those who looked in her direction while she clasped a glass of red wine in one hand. Though she was not above "getting plastered" with booze, it would be most unladylike to do so in the company of strangers, for who knew what sort of debauchery lurked within the hearts of men just waiting for the alcohol to remove ones inhibitions. No, best she participate gently, enjoy a glass or two and retain her wits about her. 

Felix was intoxicated, which she was not surprised at, nor could she blame him. Marion was sure there was some tavern girl about who could keep him entertained for the night, assuming she did not take the opportunity to lighten his pockets while his mind was caged within a haze of alcohol. 

Besides, Marion was distracted. Her mind was elsewhere. No matter how much she tried to yank her brain into the present she always found her train of thought directed back to that prime swampland within the protective sphere of Theramore, and Lady Jaina's lack of a flat refusal. It was a foot in the door, Marion knew it. Th aristocrat didn't think she would have gotten a price there and then along with an approval for what she had planned - why would she? What type of fool would Jaina be to sell all that prime land to someone she barely knew? No no, the fact that she had not outright denied her was a good start, in Marions estimations, for in many ways the Warlock was like water...she had time to wear her opponent down, one molecular layer at a time, until she got what she wanted. 

Plus there was that infernal core she still had to study. One wondered what dark secrets would be unlocked from poring over that blackened item! It was going to be an exciting, mental adventure, that much was certain. 


*On the ridge over Ratchet...*
*Spoiler: In The Year 2000....*
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Marion cast her gaze disapprovingly over the dusted innards of the property that Jaina had so kindly provided them. 

It was curious how the Lady of Theramore was remiss to mention the squalid state that it was in...

But, no matter. It was something at least, and Theramore was sponsoring them after all, so hired cleaners would know whom to contact to collect their fee. So it all worked out in the end!

"That means our credit is good," Marion answered with her soft voice. 

"What are the dimensions of the property grounds?"

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## Plaids

Jakk'ari enters Janene's letting the remainder of his curiosity run its course for the moment. The key was linked to something magical but not magical in itself. 
Hopefully Dalana would be able to convince the reluctant elf back to the party. Regardless now was the time to celebrate being one step closer to his goal and securing a new era for the sand trolls.

He orders two mince meat pies, a plate of sweet shrimp in savory sauce, and large heaping platter of rice and fish mixed with common garden vegetables. Given the appetites' of the party Mor'Lag would probably be eating half the assortment with a pie likely disappearing in two large ogre bites. The rice platter was sure to please everyone's palettes while the shrimp would satisfy the party members with more discriminating tastes. All he would have to do now is keep Mor'Lag from palming the shrimp in one go.

 I see you've started the celebrations without me. Sorry for my late arrival. I had business of my own to attend. The food should be coming soon and I'm sure I know all of your tastes better than you know own. Now who wants to share some stories? Felix can't be the only one to tell a gripping story. How about it Marion, Zachary?  

Jakk'ari raises an eye ridge to left towards Marion and then lowers it to raise his right one towards Zachary. A simple attempt to goad a story out of the most mysterious party members and hopefully learn a little more about who they are and where they may have come from.
Isaera being an ambitious youth seeking to benefit a struggling family with her fantastical skills and Mor'Lag the outcast who never achieved the power promised by the condition bestowed at birth were obvious enough.
But these two were different and even a folk story from their upbringing would be a good start on learning who Jakk'ari was about to go into business with.

If you two are bereft of stories or inspiration... I'll give you one if you like.
There was a fine line between goading and taunting and Jakk'ari hoped he was still goading.

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## WindStruck

*Isaera's house*

Isaera reveals the offer to the rest of her family. It seemed.. more well-received than she imagined. Perhaps it was the allure of more stable money, potential for fame, doing good and all that, and the thought that much of the risk could be offloaded to the other members of this 'guild'...

Additionally, Isaera knew her sister was just going to run away eventually, so offers Aleeana a chance to come along as well. This also went over well, with her mother acknowledging the inevitable and just glad to have _someone_ watching over Aleeana.

All it took after this was Isaera getting ready to go out. She desperately needed a good bath and a change of clothes. Her sister was already set, given her constant threats of leaving anyway.

*Jenene's*

Isaera enters the tavern to find a much bigger occupancy than expected, and revelry. Ah of course, the humans would find an excuse to literally drink to _anything_. And dwarves? Well, alcohol was just a part of their diet...

Along with the beautiful elf mage, she is accompanied by another figure, her head concealed by a cloak. If Aleeana wasn't trying to ramp up the mysterious edgelord vibes so hard, you'd probably never realize they were sisters.

"Well, here we are," Isaera says, unimpressed, to the other.

She will look around and spot Mor'Lag and Jakk'ari, and everyone else. Approaching them at their table, Isaera says, "Hello, everyone. I've made my decision."

In order to clear up any confusion about who the other person was that was so closely tailing behind her, she adds, "Oh. This is Aleeana," gesturing at the female ranger-to-be. "Aleeana, this is Marion, Mor'Lag, Jakk'ari, and Zachary."

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## JoyWonderLove

*=On a Ridge above Rachet=*

Emilia pursed her lips when asked the questions, and weighed the goblin groundskeeper carefully with chestnut eyes. But she was unerringly aware that the tabard about her torso now meant being on the front-line dispatch to the skirmish of words that was building alliances, and the noble would not fail or falter. Enough of that had been done up north, and back at home. 

De facto liaison and requisitions officer. My orders were first to rendezvous with the groundskeeper that had diligently kept all in outstanding order for Lady Proudmoore these so many years. One Fibbus Scuttleswipe. 

The paladin extended a mailed hand and forced her smile, as ever she had since leaving Stormwind. 

Emilia, of the Argent Dawn. The brunette paused, as though name, aspiring rank, and opening mission perimeters were more than sufficient. But the suspicion huddled in her mind like an archer behind bulwark that they were not enough to win this verbal engagement, let alone to her true standards. She had a duty to uphold the silver disk with gold rays covering her breasts, chest, heart. So further into the conversational breech she pressed. We lead incursions against the Scourge in Lordaeron. Undo monstrosities when they dare the line. Mine is but one of many coordinating with the Opal Collocation - you will hear more of them in time.

Resting her hand comfortably at the standard issue longsword hilt at her side out of habit, Emilia looked up at the brick structure with grudging approvingly. This before she pointed to it's rooftop, and started tracing an imaginary half crescent line around the area with her other hand, in a slow quarter turn. Throughout she spoke in a manner business like.

The tower appears sturdy. We could house arcane equipment up top to reveal threats; launch projectiles. Add a few palisades around the perimeter. It would draw trouble away from Ratchet. Elsewise, provide emergency sanctuary. Even in royal gardens, a rose must cultivate thorns. 

Her tone took on a melancholy tinge, all for a saying that stuck from a mentor long lost. Lordaeron fell so spectacularly precisely because the threats had started so subtly, and the preparations been so inadequate. Had a few more holdings been established, a handful more garrisons been raised, and the granaries kept under thicker lock and bolt, the Lightbringer would not be dead, the Traitor would never have turned, and thousands would not have been butchered and raised to torment their neighbours and loved ones. To say nothing of the refugees or those that stayed in the failed kingdom. But it was near enough impossible to explain all that to civilians. Bracing for hidden evils that never rested appeared excessive or even paranoid to those kept safe by those exact same precautions. That little left justice as the only true answer to any of it. 

It was the one bitter fruit that kept a society strong enough to break down all the subtle poisons before they accumulated to fatal ends. Lowborn schemers and power hungry monarchs, ancient demons or half-mad shadow priests; justice was the only way to win the war on behalf of those too naïve to know there was one constantly being waged around them. In the all, all things were Light, or Void. 

Above them came lilting birdsong to raise Emilia above the ruin of her thoughts, although she couldnt tell if it was from atop the tower or some nest in its highest room. She took a long drag from her brown leather flask, and was glad for once that she tolerated water in only half of it. The muggy heat would not take well to her habit for steel, wine, and work. A frown verged on Emilias lips as she considered the goblins limp then, the open doorway to the cooler interior within, and the flights of stairs that doubtlessly awaited beyond. She would have to double check everything to ensure her duty was truly done, and make it thorough that it exceeded standards. But she wasnt overkeen on punishing the goblin for his injury. An easy mercy to grant.  

I will not demand a tour, if your professional opinion sees no need. As you say, not much to it. The decision most assuredly in Scuttleswipes corner, her eyes held him levelly. It would little do to be seen pitying him for a wretch. He could decide his own lot perfectly well. But as much as the reports had been read on the towers rooms and features  that is to say, six and none  it was best to hear from specialists when dabbling in their area. Reports were useful. But however closely matching, maps were still imposters to the realm. 

So said, you know this tower as a prince does his capital. Comparatively. What can you tell me of the holding? Any issues or features to know of before attempting repairs or renovations? How did you end up being entrusted to the property? 

*Spoiler: Routine Check/Skill Mastery on Persuasion (15), Well-Informed (20+), and Assessment (24)*
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In story order....

Assessment/Evaluate-Insight check: 24. What can I tell about Fibbus as a person? More, with Assessment, can I make any informed guesses on his injury?

Persuasion: 15 (going to guess goblins could not care less about Very Attractive in humans, so no 20 for me). Simply to make a "good" first impression on behalf of the Argent Dawn. 

Well-Informed/Investigation: 20 (+minimum+). What have any reports or trustworthy sources Emilia might have been allowed to read / hear from say about the tower itself? If she knows nothing about the tower (full disclosure: Well Informed only says about "When encountering an individual, group, or organization for the first time", so she probably heard about Burningblade warlocks, but the tower itself easily falls between the cracks of none of that.), what about Fibbus? 

 

*Spoiler: Equipment/appearance/duty*
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I imagine Emilia is wearing exactly whatever passes for standard equipment for the Argent Dawn (recruit...?) when doing almost anything in their name, but I dont fully know what standard equipment is for them? Chainmail, longsword, tabard is my closest guess?

Essentially, shes trying to do justice to the name and nature of their organisation. Expect her to heavily obscure her drinking (hence the leather flask where its only half/half) for the exact same reasons when in uniform or on assignment, and generally to keep herself lucid and capable enough. Outside the uniform and assignments though

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## Plaids

*At Janene's
*Jakk'ari waits a short moment to give either of his party members an opportunity but has his attention brought to Isaera entering the tavern.

 Good to see you Isaera. Good to see your accompaniment as well. I hope we can get to know one another tonight. 
Referring to and greeting the cloaked to cloaked individual beside Isaera.

 I was proposing a round of stories between party members, but it seems that some here are skittish. So, I'll go first if you don't mind. 
Hopefully this would give a chance to see who Isaera had brought along. You couldn't expect candid answers from an interview or interrogation. But a response to a story laid everything bare.

 Here is a story I have come by during travels across Kalimdor... 
*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Story*
Show

 Once long ago even before even the rise of the Empire of Zul. The beasts ruled Azeroth, and their progenitors inhabited the world and led them. The creatures lived within the water, on the land and in the sky. But the most magnificent of them all was the progenitor of bird Chroma. Who was gifted feathers that shined the brightest in every color and who's song ranked the most beautiful. 

While surveying his territory Chroma and all the other progenitors saw snow falling during a warm summer day. On the first day the beasts frolicked glad to be spared of the heat. On the second they feasted, in the third they rest, and in the fourth they hungered. As the beasts became dissatisfied, they pleaded for the earth mother to give them guidance and deliver them from the winter. She told them she could not stop the sudden freeze but knew of something that could allow them to endure the winter. With the pit of the highest peak laid fire which could warm everyone. But one of the progenitors would need bring the fire back. Soon the debate became blaming and blaming became quarrelling. So long did they bicker that soon the first rabbit was engulfed, then the ur zevra, and eventually the first crocolisk was frozen solid. Pitying the rest of the beasts Chroma volunteered and swiftly flew to the highest peak. Plucking a branch to carry home the fire he flew back quickly as he could.

But the journey was taxing. Soon the branch grew shorter as the flames consumed it. The smoke was opressive and punishing but continued in his duty regardless. Soon smoke filled Chroma's throat making his voice rough and coarse, next the burned his feather leaving him black as night, finally his eyes turned black as returned to the council of beasts. Chroma had saved his fellow beasts with the flame but he grew despondent seeing his gifts now having disappeared. 
The earth mother consoled him telling how his sacrifice had saved the other beasts and his gifts were not truly gone. His descendants would use their voices to counsel chieftains, mages, and druids. His iridescent feathers would shine with color on Azeroth as long the sun travels across the sky.

So take heed when you rebuke a dark crow or raven. Because you just might not have seen its gifts just yet.


Hoping to see candid responses Jakk'ari scans the party.
 So, what do you think?

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

*At Janene's...*

Marion smiled politely and nodded in greeting to the hooded figure that Isaera had brought along with her, the cowl and cloak look something that Marion was all too familiar with having been on the run herself. 

Not saying much herself, Marion peered around the bar. Sometimes she'd drag her gaze across her companions, craning her neck even to look up at Mor'lagh and offering her a friendly smile before turning her attention back to the crowd at large.

However, Jakk'ari soon returned, the only being in this room who matched Mor'laghs height when he chose to stand erect instead of hunched. It easy to spot the troll as he moved through the crowd and joined them on their table, but his sudden requests for a story caught the warlock off guard. So much so that a proverbial cat had caught her tongue.

But no matter - because Jakk'ari was more than happy to fill in the silence with his own tale of a giant bird flying around with a burning branch clutched in its talons, the smoke from which forever coated it black, thus allowing it to save its fellow animals at the cost of becoming deformed. It sounded like the type of poppycock tale grown in the backward cultures of the world that were interminably drawn to children's tales in order to fill in the gaps of their knowledge of how the world around them worked. 

"His self-sacrificed blackened his image?" Marion asked, a polite tone in her voice and a slender eyebrow raised in curiosity. 

"Well, I know a story of how ones actions blackened his soul..." the teenager said with a hushed excitement, leaning forward a little, her green eyes lighting up with a macabre glee at the story she was going to tell. 

"When I was a little girl, there was an educated man who lived within a vast, ancient forest that sat upon the border of my homeland - Silverpine Forest. This man, let's call him Arthor, was an erudite and educated gentleman, but was as of yet unwed entering his 4th decade. Loneliness was a constant companion for him. 

Nevertheless, he persisted through life. He acquired employment as a tutor far down to the south in the Kingdom of Azeroth. First in Elwynn Forest, and next in Westfall...back when Westfall was a far more prosperous community. Attached to a wealthy family within the area, Arthor developed an excellent relationship with their daughter, who was no more older than I. Out of appreciation for her teachers efforts, granted him a gift of a beautiful bouquet of flowers. For her it was a platonic relationship, you see...but for Arthor? Well, as I said, he was a lonely man...and here was this pretty young woman who was a source of his secret affection, granting him flowers..."

Marion held her hands up, drawing out the drama with some gentle gesticulations. 

"But then one day Arthor discovered that this young lady had already been promised to a young gentleman of another family...

'I could not marry you...'" Marion said, placing her hand on her chest and mimicking the voice of the surprised girl within the story - something that was quite easy given the similarity between the two. 

"'I think of you more as like my uncle...'"

Once again, a pregnant pause for dramatic effect. 

"Arthor was _humiliated_. He was _infuriated._ Made a fool of by a girl half his age, visions filled his head of her and her handsome young lover laughing about that 'silly old man' who thought he had a chance with her. The anger consumed him, compelling this educated and once gentle man to approach the family's house where the girls father greeted him...only to be decapitated by a woodsmans axe!"

Marion made a swinging motion with both hands.

"Her mother was not spared, nor her two sisters and younger brother. Nor could her handsome husband-to-be fend off this axe-wielding madman, and by the middle of the night, Arthor finally took the head of the girl whose unwitting actions had driven him insane with fury! By the breaking of dawn, when the bloody horror of the house was witnessed by all the mortified townsfolk, Arthor had vanished into the bleak forests of Darkshire, never to be seen again... Some say he haunts the woods, his evil physically manifesting across his body and granting him a soulless longevity. Others, that he went mad and hung himself from a tree within the cemetery. Or, that he threw himself again and again at the monstrous entities that lurk within that cursed forest until he was finally outmatched, and now his head decorates the belt of a skeleton horseman!"

Marions face wore a bright grin, her voice low and mysterious while both hands had formed claws next to her head for dramatic accentuation of her tale. Soon, she drew her hands back down and recomposed herself, took a sip of her wine and nodded.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag are glad, for different reasons, to be distracted. 

"This is the story of how history began." 

"On a world whose natives never gave her a name.   For it was never ours, it belonged to the Gronn" 

"The was a Bifold Ogre.  His name was Jo'Bo.  He was a mighty wizard and he had many vassals and three wives. " 

"Jo'Bo was rich and respected by all Ogres, and the bird-folk and the Plant-folk spoke of him when they came to our lands."  

"The savage Orcs new better than the bother his people" 

"But they sought to build something great,  a great mana well that would make them the greatest wizard in all the Nameless World." 

"Great enough to rival the Gronn...' 

"Two Gronn saw this.  The first, Miloh said "The little ones dare too much.  Let us crush them utterly so they can never rise again'" 

"The second, Refiz, said that was too much work.  And he was weak and soft-hearted." 

"He said 'I bet you three pigs that, if I crush his tower, burn down his houses, and destroy the Great Well, none of the Ogres that see it will ever bother us again." 

"And so, Refiz laid waste to Jo'Bo's  mound with much loss of life and goods, and destroyed utterly his great project." 

"His wives were all killed, his children were fostered away, his vassals left him." 

"Jo'Bo was alone." 

"But they did not give up." 

"He went to every Ogre he knew and asked for any help, pledged everything he might make away.  For,  he knew his cause was glorious and it was not in him to surrender." 

"And, after Milho asked for his three pigs, Refiz said "double or nothing!" 

"And again, Jo'Bo's works were undone,  his vassals fled,  and those rich and powerful widows who might have been his wives in time found other men to attend to." 

"And Jo'Bo threw his nets wider, he made promises to share the bounty of his great Well with the bird men and the mushroom men.  And, with their backing, he was well on his way to finishing, at long last, the great well." 

"And then, for the wager of a dozen pigs, Recif, known forever as the Greedy Fool, smashed the works of Jo'Bo the Cursed a third time " 

And so, the race of the Gronn were doomed. 

"For now Jo'Bo went to everyone he ever asked for aide, and now asked for arms!" 

"All had suffered from the Gronn,  not least from when Jo'Bo's investments defaulted." 

"He even went to the savage orcs,  though they offered little besides numbers." 

"And so the Firsr Horde rose against the giants and freed the Nameless World, and the great tower of the mighty wizard Jo'Bo stood sentinel until it was toppled when the Light brought their war to us "

----------


## Plaids

Marion's response was to put it simply, curious. Expecting either an annoyed groan from a cynic believing themselves to be too old for a tale extolling virtue or an appreciative smile from an earnest fellow.
The remark of sacrifice blackening the hero's image was off-putting but wasn't inherently wrong or vindictive.

 I guess you could literally say that. 

Marion's story on the other hand left him on the edge of his seat. With a story matching her macabre skill set the story was surprising coming from one looking so young and immaculate etiquette.
Hopefully this was simply a frightening campfire tale from her homeland and not from actual experience. But given Marion's skillset who could say.

Lightly palming his chest subconsciously to slow his breathing he responds.
 A ghastly tale. I didn't expect that. It seems like you have a talent for telling stories. I hope to hear more from you in the future. 

Mor'Lag's tale of a determined bifold overcoming the primal beings was encouraging. It was easy to glean the triumph of an unbreakable individual. Though the primals being the malicious one unnerved Jakk'ari ever so slightly. Mor'Lag had endured much recently but determination shone even more brilliantly to Jakk'ari.

 You told a grand tale Mor'Lag. May your conquests be just as great! 
Jakk'ari quickly picks up a tankard to honor Mor'Lag.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera was a little confused at first, and reluctant to share any stories. The others spoke of mythological animals back in a time pre-dating any history, to mad axe-wielding murderers, and to times when almost incredulously, ogres may have once had a prosperous civilization.

For all that it was worth, it was at the very least an..  entertaining listen. Isaera, was attentive but didn't really offer any emotions, one way or the other.

Then it may have come her time to tell a story, but she had her reservations. Everything seemed either too personal or too relevant in the events of today's world. For now, she looked uncertainly over toward her sister, and she debated if she even wanted to get involved in this little story telling activity. It almost seemed ... silly.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Aleeana looks back to her sister, and smiles faintly with one corner of her mouth.  For all the fire that stirs in her when restricted at all by tradition, or familial dictate, or expectation, she seems perfectly at home here, in a tavern of strange and varied peoples engaging in their strange and varied customs.  The vibrant green eyes lock with Isaera's blue ones, instantly receive the communication of the sorceress's undertainty and mild discomfort, and returns a shielding sentiment for her younger sister.  _"I know a story,"_ the elder Runescribe sister pronounces as she sweeps back her hands through her hair settling the locks back over her shoulders, in a gesture of perfectly unconcious vanity, then leans forward on the table on her elbows, swivelling her gaze about the gathered listeners.

_"It's the story of Basilael Rainburn, and the Thousand-Strong Throng.  It was back during the Troll wars, two hundred shy of three thousand years ago; when the nations of humans and elves were struggling against their forest troll neighbours.  There are many famous battles of that conflict - the Battle for the Alterac Mountains capital among them - but there are smaller stories, too, that bear remembering.  Basilael Rainburn was an elven ranger in Tirisfal.  He was an excellent shot with the bow, but his technique was slow... and deliberative..."_  She mimes the slow draw, a little quiver of the string-drawing fingers and release; and another slow draw.  _"And so he was disliked by other rangers, who felt that in a given battle, they fought twice as hard as he.  So he did most of his word in solitude with just his hawkstrider Nero for company - a big, plodding slow bird that suited his temperament just fine.  One day, he responded to a cry of distress from a village called Phoenixfoot, for the herbs they grew that could be mashed into flammable slime or - more often - as components in the all important fire spells the elven and human mages used to repel the forest trolls."_  During this elaboration, she spares a single glance to Jakk'ari - not apologetic exactly, as forest trolls are not precisely his people and of all trolls, the Farakki have the least contact with elves of any kind. But with all the mention of trolls and fighting trolls, it might have been strange not to regard him briefly and imply by that regard that the story is not targeted; and that matter covered with just a look, she continues.

_"The village elders were distraught.  Far to the south, in the troll-held Hinterlands, there swelled a terrible horde of enemies - the Witherbark troll voodouisant E'tando had collected the war dead from dozens of other battles, and with his dark spells, he animated the bodies of his fellow trolls into a throng one thousand strong.  Elven outriders had striven to engage from a distance, but the raised-trolls paid little heed to their arrows.  The riders tried to become clever, using Phoenixfoot herbs on their arrows to burn the shambling creatures; but after they burned, E'tando would emerge from the throng and raise them again, and the dark power pushed their troll regeneration to restore even the burned flesh.  Without killing E'tando, they could not whittle down the throng with their tactics.  Without whittling down the horde, how were they to expose and kill E'tando?  So they fled, warning the village of Phoenixfoot that the throng was coming north, slow but unstoppable in their staggering advance; and they had best take their possessions and flee."_

_"Basilael Rainburn heard this, and came to the village, and told them not to flee - instead, to continue their crucial work, for he had a scheme that would deliver them."  She wiggles her fingers, schemefully.  "'Only give me ten of your own riders on their hawkstriders, and with them I will deliver you from this threat.'"  And the village agreed, and they loaned him their riders.  And Basilael rode out to meet the throng, and engaged them from extreme range.  Three hundred yards away, he drew... and fired.  And drew... and fired."_  These up-angled, arcing shots are mimed, too.  _"Until his quivers were all dry; then turned around and rode back north.  On the road, he would encounter one of the riders bringing him fresh quivers; and he'd swap them with the empty ones on Nero, and go back an engage again.  Three hundred yards, draw, fire, draw, fire, never once killing one of the deathless things, nor flushing E'tando out of the safety of his macabre escort.  This he did for three weeks, firing and firing, replenished by riders running arrows to him, until the throng was finally within sight of the village.  "'We must run!  You scheme has failed!  There is the throng, still a thousand strong, now we must abscond, for we don't have long!'  But what the villagers did not know is that Basilael had conspired with the ten riders to make great use of the Phoenixfoot herb, bundling clumps on the shaft of each arrow which Basilael had fired unlit in their thousands.  And when the throng came within three hundred yards of the village, Basilael lit a single arrow, and drew, and aimed, and waited.. and fired.  It struck in the midst of the throng.  For a moment, there was nothing; then a flash as one of the earlier fired arrows caught; then a great rushing roar as three weeks of arrows caught and burned at once, turning the throng into a roiling inferno that burned the undead trolls and melted their bones, and incinerated E'tando in their ashy midst.  And so, the lesson goes, there is wisdom in the story - valor is the way to glory; but a scheme laid right over many days is a keen thing.  Patience is a weapon."_  And with that, she finishes her first drink's bottom half, and waggles the empty cup at Janene to get a second.  _"I've always liked that story."_

*Spoiler: Isaera*
Show

In fact, you're pretty sure she _hasn't_ always liked that story.  You remember your father telling it to you, but it fascinated Tarien more than any of you, and Aleeana probably least of all.  This Farstrider ambition is a recent fancy - but if it costs a little embellishment like that to furnish Aleeana on a path of purpose to which she can actually stick and apply herself... is that such a bad thing?


Zachary, on the other side of the table, appears to be on his fifth drink.  He was here before anyone else, already a cup and a half in; and he might be getting a little out over his skis.  But he's a good sport, and he salutes Aleeana's tale with a raised mug as one ranger to another, and then rubs his beard as he considers his own turn.  *"...Let's see.  Do you want a story?  Or a song that tells a story?"*

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Emilia's Entrance*
Show




> *=On a Ridge above Rachet=*
> 
> Emilia pursed her lips when asked the questions, and weighed the goblin groundskeeper carefully with chestnut eyes. But she was unerringly aware that the tabard about her torso now meant being on the front-line dispatch to the skirmish of words that was building alliances, and the noble would not fail or falter. Enough of that had been done up north, and back at home. 
> 
> De facto liaison and requisitions officer. My orders were first to rendezvous with the groundskeeper that had diligently kept all in outstanding order for Lady Proudmoore these so many years. One Fibbus Scuttleswipe. 
> 
> The paladin extended a mailed hand and forced her smile, as ever she had since leaving Stormwind. 
> 
> Emilia, of the Argent Dawn. The brunette paused, as though name, aspiring rank, and opening mission perimeters were more than sufficient. But the suspicion huddled in her mind like an archer behind bulwark that they were not enough to win this verbal engagement, let alone to her true standards. She had a duty to uphold the silver disk with gold rays covering her breasts, chest, heart. So further into the conversational breech she pressed. We lead incursions against the Scourge in Lordaeron. Undo monstrosities when they dare the line. Mine is but one of many coordinating with the Opal Collocation - you will hear more of them in time.
> ...





_On the Ridge above Ratchet..._

Fibbus listens with a growing fascination in his eyes at Emilia's perspicacity, and highborn pronunciations.  He shakes her hand almost dazedly.  When she asks him questions, he exposes that not-uncommon feature in older members of many races that requires him to comment fairly bluntly on anything that happens around him, even if it adds nothing.  "Holy smokes, lady; I figured they'd send some beef-headed tooth kicker.  Ain't you too _classy_ for a dump like this?"  He thumbs briefly at Ratchet, then gets on with it.  "Yeah, tours, yeah - well, there ain't much to see, but I should show you what there is.  I got a contract with Gazlowe to look after abandoned and derelicted structures that are being reclaimed by the town.  It's funny, because this ought to have sold well; but I guess something else happened.  I don't follow politics.  This used to be a false door."  He kicks at the main door frame.  "Original design was with entry from the upper floor, access by ladders you can pull up when you're under attack.  But the quillboars ain't been problem enough for a long time, so the last owner knocked out the bricks and made an actual door of it."  He limps through, merrily enough, into the main, plain room and indicates the fireplace.  "Fire is fed here on the ground floor; there's rusted up shutters on the chimney on the second and third floors to open and let the heat circulate.  There's a hatch over here.." He indicates the only remarkable patch of ground - a beat-up wooden trapdoor in one corner.  "Which leads to a big bloody tunnel and then to an cave-dock.  Caused quite the ruckus, when it was discovered years back.  Standard goblin real estate law includes underground to a depth of ten meters below a deeded structure - y'know, so trade princes can run a mineshaft or oil pipe under your property deep enough you don't have claim, right?  But Ratchet law says you own your deeded patch of land all the way to the stars and all the way to the centre of the mudball itself; your own wedge of the world.  Which means you'd have about twelve neighours thattaway..." He thumbs over his shoulder again, "...that would own parts of your tunnel, and wouldn't be shy about setting up toll booths.  But the land council came down and decided the tunnel was part of the deeded property along with the cave.  Just interesting to know, I figure."  He sniffs, snaps his suspenders which make an echoing clap in the unfurnished room against his chest, and pivots on the spot.  "That's about it.  The soil up here is pretty awful; barely holds grass.  Too dense; has to be, to be part of the ridgetop, y'know?  But there's space to try to grow somethin'.  Something tough, maybe.  Pumpkins, or somethin'."

*Spoiler: Dem Checks*
Show

Assessment/Evaluate-Insight check: Fibbus is an older goblin, and goblins live long enough that he certainly lived through the period in which the Steamwheedle cartel was allied to the Horde back in the second war.  So it might well be a war injury that healed badly - a crushed shoulder, maybe, since he seems to prioritize the raised one for most tasks.  It's a guess, but a pretty good one; though it's vague as to whether it's a war injury indeed - say, trampled by a knight on horseback- or something more mundane.  Say, trampled by a cow.  But he seems pleasant enough.  The cosmopolitan nature of Ratchet breeds companionability, and he seems to be sincere when talking about a personal connection to Gazlowe, who would not likely entrust much to a less than trustworthy affiliate.  He doesn't seem that deep, though - a goblin man well past his prime, long comfortable with his limitations, happy with his small turns of fortune and the little comforts of life.

Persuasion: Fibbus seems amazed at Emilia's curated professionalism, shining amidst Ratchet's deeply rustic vibe.

Well-Informed/Investiation:  Emilia has read the deed to the place, which gives a nebulous description of the tower and the circumstances under which it was seized from the warlock coven that occupied it.  It uses a puzzling goblin unit of measurement, 'legs' to chart out the exact boundaries of the property; a 'leg' being the length between the heel of the foot and the top of the knee of an ancient goblin merchant progenitor whose name (and crucial shins) have been lost to time.  The leader of a given settlement possesses the official 'leg' stick, to which all other measures in that domain are cut.  You don't have access to that stick, but with the information you've gathered, the property includes the tower, the twenty feet between the tower and the ridge's right-angled edge, and then a 90 degree pie wedge of land out from that corner that reaches about fifty yards deep into the wispy savannah grass, bordered by the ridge on one side and the road into town on the other.  The Burning Blade is a cult formed from the remnants of an orc clan of the same name that imploded under the weight of its own demonic corruption, and is active across Kalimdor vexing the new Horde with their demonic schemes from Orgrimmar as far as Desolace.  About Fibbus, you know only what has been confirmed by your eyes - he seems pretty straight up.

Chainmail, longsword, tabard, and medium sized shoulder armor.  You have to EARN your giant, insane spaulders like everyone else.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari smiles with a thumbs up to show his approval. Aleeana's story was a good one of the triumph of careful planning and patience. 
But the enjoyment was soured by the awkward social tether that threatened to stifle interactions between individuals due to past wars. He takes a swig from a tankard to mask his silence.

Spurred more by the opportunity for further merriment more so than his very slight inebriation Jakk'ari responds to Zachary's offer.
Balling his hands into fists and lights striking the table before him he chants.

 Song! Song! Song!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


A ghastly tale. I didn't expect that. It seems like you have a talent for telling stories. I hope to hear more from you in the future.

Marion smiled. It was a genuine, surprisingly sweet smile, given Marions dark magics and mysterious persona. 

"You think?" she asked, perking an eyebrow. "Thank you, that's very sweet."

Then came Mor'Lags story. It was interesting to say the least, something more...mythological than she might have expected. 

"A people can only take so much meddling before they over-throw their tormentors?" Marion both asked and stated. 

"I have heard from those who traffic in the halls of power, that it is better to be feared than loved, but to never become hated - because hatred can overcome fear. The Gronn might still be upon their thrones today if they followed that..."

And then Aleena spoke. Aleena seemed the sister of Isaera, a pair of elven ladies, one of them with lance the other with spell. Truth be told, Marion wasn't too sure how Aleena would fair as some sort of knight. The elven men were capable. Not as heavily built as humans, they were nevertheless quick and had the strength to make their and precise blows particularly lethal. But Aleena? Marion was cautious. 

Never the less, her story was a curious one. Marion didn't know the elf very well, so she took her at face value that this was a story she liked for its revealed moral: a superior and correctly applied strategy would often win out over a seemingly physically superior foe. Marion should know - it's how the humans beat the orcs. 

Taking a sip of her red wine, the Warlock remained quiet as she listened to the Trolls demand for a song, a little smile across her lips.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

*=On a Ridge above Rachet=*

A thin eyebrow raise was Emilias confused reply to the accusation of being too classy, before uncomfortably considering her newly polished chainmail beneath the Argent Dawn tabard. Thankfully, Fibbus continued onwards to admit a connection to the Trade Prince himself, and her eyes narrowed on the suspect note that the property never sold despite its strategic value. She watched the groundskeeper for the many unconscious tells of a liar, but her expression softened as he appeared no more understanding of why than any elder that enjoyed modest pleasures. _He knows little of the Burningblade_, she realized. Then the door was kicked, and Fibbus spoke of previous defensive measures that were understandably undone, but possibly before their time. 

The recruit proper made an annoyed sound. The quillboars are quelled  but is the area secure? No brigands to speak of? Few poachers? 

Establishing a guild, Emilia assumed, was little different from building a banner house. Political ties needed to be established, claims of land asserted, and duties overwhelmingly fulfilled. All of that would take time and talent. The man merrily hobbled his way into the main room afterwards, only to indicate a fireplace as the only feature. A ringlet glide down between her breasts for having escaped the outdoor heat, and she hoped the winters mild. Whatever hastily torched evidence the previous warlock occupants of yesteryear did when accosted by the forces of Lady Proudmoore, it was wholly gone by now. Even the cobwebs of last week were whipped away. 

_A little frankincense. Some myrrh. We can finish the job of cleansing the tower easily enough._

Fibbus indicated the beat up wooden trapdoor, and Emilia immediately glared at where the true investigation into the property would begin. Demon summoners rarely conjured in the open.  Their kind were reviled, and often rightfully. Any remaining clues to their whereabouts or lingering power from rituals would be found below. _The Burningblade still plague Kalimdor. Best we not leave any footholds should those cretins envision revenge._ The groundskeeper had started talking about standard goblin real estate law by then, and her attention was honed. Her expression hedged reluctantly near pleased as the groundskeeper elucidated on the many legal ramifications of their property, and the nearby overlords. He answered questions it hadnt immediately occurred for her to ask as well. Then when Fibbus spoke of the soil, she folded her arms comfortably and waited. There was longer pause than before when he said his last word, ended only by a sound of gentle surprise. 

It would appear one does not need _class_ to know precisely how to teach. You have been nothing short of insightful, Master Scuttleswipe. While I will need to do my own independent investigation of the rooms and tunnel below, I can surely ask no more of you. When we have finally grown these pumpkins you speak of, will you join us for soup?

*Spoiler: Investigation (20+), if Im allowed*
Show

 

Investigation: 20 (+minimum+, actually 23). Not being PL5 yet, its impossible to get the next rung up (DC 25). But DC 20 should allow her to notice a secret compartment, simple trap, or an obscure clue. 

If Emilia is legally allowed to (she wont if theres some sort of legal issue where investigating the grounds before keys are in hand looks bad on her organisation), she looks over the protruding tower first (not expecting to find anything, but basically double checking) before she heads down into the actual tunnel (absolutely expecting to find hints of rituals and other things she doesnt care for) and out the bay. Unless that all takes time she doesnt have, in which case just the tunnel area itself.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_At Janene's..._

At Jakk'ari's insistence - or perhaps, at the lack of vociferous objection - Zachary stands up with a little sway in his step, and makes his way over to the gnomish bard Durley who has, presumably, been there in the corner where you left him, not quite two weeks ago.  He makes a murmured, slurred request to Durley who barks a laugh and nods, rounding off his present tune and shuttling his bow in a few chirping bounces on the string to draw some attention to this man in his heavy gambeson and gloves on even in the warm of the tavern, and dark lenses over his eyes and a woolen bandana pulled down over his ears.  But ale has done to him what it does to many private men - it has inverted him, and he clears his throat.  It gets attention; songs are part of the primary landscape of entertainment in most of the world, being as it is that new ones are precious commodities to the ears and old ones are powerful binders of groups; and the song he has chosen is lilting spoken word more than boistrous singing, which is good, because he probably wouldn't be that good at it.  As it stands, it benefits from his gruffness.

*"This song is called... The Bill."*  And then he sings - or sing-speaks; good enough.  It's a song, it seems, about a group of adventurers given what is regarded as an almost apocryphal Ur-quest; and with a simple and memorable tune on Durley's fiddle, it comes together on the favorably pickled ears of the taverners with blurts of laughter at the right moments that range from speculative and graduate into roaring.

*Spoiler: The Bill*
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(To the tune of the much superior ditty, The Sick Note).

_Dear sir, I leave this note for you in hopes it may convey
Why you might find it pinned to what was once your house, today
You hired us to do a job, and the rats have been disposed,
And I'm sure you'll find quite reasonable the bill that is enclosed.

But if you have a question in regards to all the kegs,
They were for ammunition - kindly disregard the dregs.
For a mighty battle thus ensued against your basement rats,
And some of them were large indeed - and thus, the busted slats.

The rats were large and numerous, much more than you construed -
And for only this one reason, you'll find the rubble stripped of food.
They ate the ham, they ate the goose, and they your spices took -
Who knew that rats, this vile and large, had sense in them to cook?

Now naturally we were appalled, and anger was aroused
The rats in awful revelry, and ruining the house -
So we sallied forth with all our might and violent battle calls
And 'twas this noble effort that has knocked out half the walls.

The rats then sprung to action, and their leaders cast a spell
That rendered them invisible like hunting ghosts of hell.
Your neighbours are forgiven then for thinking we were drunks
But we brawled not with each other, but with whirling vermin monks.

They spun and kicked, unseen to us, and the fight shook down your roof,
And I think you will agree that this claim needs no further proof.
The rats are gone, just as you liked, and there's no more to say...
...But send us, kindly, thirty coins, and we'll be on our way._


After this, he makes his way back to table.  Apparently, he's quite well known in _Janene's_, moreso than you'd realized, and he has to work his way through a gauntlet of cordial backslaps to get there.  Halfway through another free drink, however, he seems to grow more cautious and focused; damn near sober.

*"...So.  Just so it's all on the table.  Ratchet, atleast for now; and bigger, working our own hours for the unspecific good of the world.  Are we in?"*

For his part, the ranger seems to be _in._

_On the Ridge above Ratchet..._

_"No brigands.  Not that come this close to Ratchet.  Sometimes a pirate ship will take a swing at a trader coming close to the port, but the Cutters always slap them away.  Not that you're close enough to the water here to worry about that anyway!  And poachers?"_  He seems to have to process the word a little longer; Goblin as a language struggling to accommodate the negativity attached to the term.  _"I mean, there's hunters out there.  Just as well, I say.  This is the Barrens, ma'am - there's lions and raptors out there, and they're not exactly rare.  No, I'd say Venture Co would squeeze them out, anyway.  Bloody scrapers."_  Scrapers, a loan-insult dragged over from Goblin, implying a feverish, even malicious desire to scrape from the bottom of a barrel of opportunity, even at the detriment to others.  _"But I'm glad to've been of service, then.  And hey -"_ he offers a grin that flashes the conspicuously clean and white teeth that so many goblins bear in great number. _ "You'll never catch old Scuttleswipe turning down free soup.  Haha!" _ He tosses the keys to Emilia, offers her an amiable parting wave, and begins shuffling his way back down the road toward the town proper.

*Spoiler: Investigations!*
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The tower offers no surprises with a good once-over.  Traversal from one floor to the other is done by rope ladders through hatches, rather than installed stairs; a pain, but a space saver, for sure.  You open the hatch, and find another rope ladder leading down into the dark - but after descending some twenty yards, you look up at the shrinking square of light above you and determine that it's only going to get deeper and darker.  What you can tell, despite the gloom at this point, is that the tunnel seems to have been dug by something which was vitrifying the ground as it went - the walls of this descent have a crumbly ceramic texture.  You cannot imagine a natural creature that could do such a thing.

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## MrAbdiel

_At Janene's..._

Before anyone can fill the pause, the ranger's brow furrows, and he clarifies: _ "I'm in, I mean to say.  But I'm planning on spending some time going back to Stonemaul village, looking over the scene again.. seeking what I can find about this cult, and those dragons.  We all saw that warlock-drakonid in there, right?  So there's a link.  But it seems so... tenuous.   I don't understand any of this.  And I don't like things like this going past without understanding."_

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

After the exchange of stories, Marion had gone quiet, as she usually was. She held a glass of wine before her and would take periodic sips, while she spent half of her time sweeping her alert eyes across the inhabitants of the inn and the other half seemingly staring off into space as her mind visited distant possibilities. 

_That spray_, the Warlock thought to herself, dwelling on the little hand-held contraption she had devised within the fetid heart of the swamp. _That spray had worked splendidly...I wonder how far people could explore and settle within previously inhospitable lands if they were equipped with that spray?

I would need to try and develop a second model, and design it to be produced from the most abundant local resources to keep the cost of construction down..._

And so Marions mind wandered, her green eyes glazed over as she worked things out in her head.

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## Plaids

Upon hearing Zachary's intention to return to Dustwallow Marsh.

 Returning to the swamp perhaps I could... 
No, that would run counter to the mission and after such a big break. Zachary would have to go without him. The others would also likely be taking Lady Proudmoore's offer and they had good reason to. 

 Perhaps I could help you find some help you find some help. A scraggy group of strangers waiting for an opportunity like us before we met you. 
Jakk'ari sweeps his around towards the group of recently united adventurers soon accept Jaina's offer. 

 How about them or those over? 
Jakk'ari points to the most peculiar individuals he can find about the tavern. Partially joking to provide some levity while also hoping to convince the ranger to not go it alone.



Noticing Marion in deep thought Jakk'ari had to wonder, was this introspection? Perhaps a plan forming or some unconcluded business?
Either way this would be the last chance for the party to settle their business in Theramore for a long time. And after seeing Isaera's initial resistance due to prospect of leaving her family behind it would be best help the party handle their affairs before leaving. 

 So, is everyone ready to leave for our trip early in the morning? If not, then I can help pack away anything. Since we likely won't be able to turn around once we exit the harbor.

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## MrAbdiel

Well, I wager theres a little more time than that.  But I guess she didnt say, did she?  But the way she said it, it was sort of a  long leash scenario.  I intend to take a few days in the city, myself.  Maybe finally get this looked at.

He reaches back as if to take the gun from the sling on his back, forgetting that hes taken it off and left it against the wall nearby, and resorts to lazily gesturing at it.  Been with me for a while, but it keeps swinging to the left.  I handled it in the big brawl, but hell if it didnt abandon me with the raptors.  Anyway, I got that to do, and some letters to write. He finishes, circumspectly.  As for companions, well He looks at the misfits Jakkari points out with a slightly pickled, indulgent smile.  I think I want to walk this one alone.  But Ill come back and see what youve made of Ratchet, no doubt about it.

*Spoiler: OOC*
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Just a mini post punched out after work to reply to Jakkaris thoughts :) bigger one later tonight.

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## WindStruck

"I think that demonic attack is definitely something that needs to be investigated. With such a coordinated attack, and dragons, I doubt even Theramore could repel it..." Isaeara says with some worry.  It seemed pretty clearly that if this shadowy cabal wanted a people's gone, they could do it with ease.

"But I think you need to be extremely careful and need some kind of aid, Zachary. Something that would hide you from demonic presence. Otherwise you may be ambushed in the night like our esteemed group of cadets."

The elf ponders a bit and adds, "On that note, since the Lady Proudmore seems very keen on peace missions, perhaps we should have a word with her on that. I think her supporting your endeavors to investigate the attack, as well as sending aid for eighty or so hungry ogres, would be a good gesture."

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## JoyWonderLove

*=On a Ridge above Rachet=*:

Up and through the tower hatches Emilia hauled herself, intent on checking around threadbare furnishings as if she had lost her engagement ring. The tower was unsurprisingly innocuous. Once back before the wooden trapdoor again, she scowled at it in anticipation. It wasnt long before she found herself twenty feet down its rope ladder leading underground, only to confirm the ceramic-like walls lacked any of the illuminating glyphs hoped for, let alone peeps of sunlight. 

Growling irritably, the Argent Dawn agent yanked herself out of the gathering gloom before it had ideas of consuming her. The very first words of our family motto, and you manage neither flint nor torch! A sound plan, Lancel. Bravo! She slammed the trapdoor down for still clutching its dirty secrets in its bowls, and trudged outside to scrutinize the sky, stewing in her own irritation. 

_I have guild leaders to meet; interrogations to help conduct. Yet here I stand, squandering time prior as any invalid. What have I actually accomplished?_

Choking the neck of the longsword, Emilia raised it up to hear the reassuring susurration of steel on leather, only to bring it down swift. Again and again she repeated the motion, causing a regular interval of soft chopping sounds while chewing on her faults. Letting out a final frustrated sigh, she decided it did not make overmuch sense to sprint to the nearest store, haggle at the equipment required to conduct a candlelight investigation into potential dark rituals done years prior, and dash back before having to meet her new peers. There were always bigger battles to fight in Azeroth, and this one wouldnt cause harm if defered briefly. Especially as the crime scene below was no doubt heavily disturbed by the marines years ago, if not simply the deterioration of times march by. 

Makes it no easier to swallow tripe... Emilia muttered, before bringing the life-affirming flask to her lips again. 

Locking the heavy wooden door behind her, the paladin wandered out about ten feet despite the sunlight. Sliding left leg forward, the longsword was drawn with her right hand. This primary posture so taken, she then cut and hewed and guarded and felt her annoyance fading as she prepared for the malign legions of tomorrow, flowing from one stance into another with a practised ease. 

*Spoiler: OOC*
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I doubt it makes sense to finagle up goodies in ye olde Wholefoods, and return to conduct subpar investigations by candlelight. If there was time, Id Well Informed my way into knowing exactly who or what department might know exactly why the tower never sold (I have obvious ideas, but those are assumptions) and try to track down an answer. 

If theres time to do nothing important, Ill stick around the tower and do basic sword forms (as said) for a few minutes to work off annoyance and not be bored waiting for new arrivals.


 

*Spoiler: Well-Informed/Investigation (20+) on other guild leaders: Do the other PCs write Well Informed about themselves?*
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Ill eventually want info on the guild leaders Im meeting. Is that something they all write about themselves individually anyway when I ask, or is that yet another DM thing? Or are they still so small-time-ish that its hard to know much about any of them?

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## MrAbdiel

Zacharys expression, as much as can be easily seen with the always-on lenses and less-than-kempt beard, turns melancholy for a second; even fragile.  This is the second occasion in as many exchanges within the last minute that someone has expressed a certain amount of caution and, by inference, care if he lives or dies.  He seems a little unused to this circumstance, flattens his lips into a line of concession, and loosely gestures with his drink before returning to it.  You think that expression translates as something like _Well, since you both insist, I guess Ill think about it_, which is probably the most you can wheedle out of him.  The meeting henceforth proceeds with an air of mingled trepidation and possibility to come; and Jakkaris purchased dishes are nibbled, snacked upon, and ultimately vanished by the best efforts of those at the table, and a somewhat casual effort from MorLag, who possesses a considerable capacity to indulge.  Ogres are expensive dining partners; but at least they remove the guilt of wastefulness.  Then comes the late evening, and the walks home, and the deep, almost drowning sleep of the bone-deep weary.  And the dreams - dreams of fire, green and red, flashing on beyond the saw tooth silhouette of a palisade wall.


*****

The next days discussion with Jainas people reveals some freedom about your departure time.  There is a groundskeeper keeping an eye on your guildhouse in Ratchet until you get there, and your Opal Collocation point of contact - apparently a squire of the Argent Dawn proper - will be there in a little over a week; so you have plenty of time.  You prepare, you pack, you say goodbyes, you write letters.  You see Zachary off with an aid caravan to Brackenwall, there to deliver supply to the ogre refugees and, secondarily, for the ranger to track down the horde scout that so discreetly tipped he and Jakkari off about the raptor ambush, and to enlist him or her in the investigation of the Stonemaul Ruins so hes not going alone.  And then, when the appointed time comes, you board the trade ship _Antonidas Chagrin_, and travel up the coast into Steamwheedle waters.

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## MrAbdiel

RATCHET
_"Welcome to Ratchet.  Hope you're ready to work." - Monte Gazlowe, Mayor of Ratchet_

The _Antonidas Chagrin_ is a sleek little two mast schooner; a hybrid design with a narrow, singular human-style hull for neat little turns navigating coral reefs and rocky shoals, and the distinctive triangular sails of high elven design that have crept their way into all the alliance ships that want mastery over perpendicular winds.  The sails are purple, with a stylized icon of a bearded mans face, frowning and rolling his eyes up as if to beseech the heavens.  The crew is composed of thirteen sailors, mostly Dalaran natives with a handful from other human kingdoms, who were very early in their magical studies when Archimonde desolated Dalarans capital.  Refugees before they had acquired any really useful magic skills, they became sailors and found the small prestidigitations and cantrips (the kind of learning the hero Antonidas used to call_ junk magic_) was very useful for distasteful duties like swapping decks, hoisting sails, and tying knots.  The lads decided it was very funny that they ended up using_ junk magic_ to magically earn a living on a ship that could be mistaken for a junk itself, and named the vessel in the honor of the slain archmage, who had mentored Jaina Proudmoore and generations of other magi before the Traitor Arthas Menethil slew him like so many others.  The journey of a day and change is far more pleasant than it has any right to be.  At any given time, ten of the thirteen sailors are literally lounging in timber and canvas deck chairs, chatting amiably with their passengers, and rotating in and out the opportunities to flirt with Marion and Isaera, only to be undercut one of the others who chooses a brutal moment to bring up how _so and so_ once polymorphed his own head into that of a ram, or fell asleep when it was their turn to steer the _Chagrin_ and ran the schooner straight into the side of a Theramore Cruiser, scraping up the larger ship and nearly sinking the smaller.  The red-haired and clean shaven Captain Cato Schofield, the eldest of the crewmen at the ripe old age of twenty three, is the most responsible, and the one making sure the three active crew are remotely hoisting, or propelling a mop to swab, or telekinetically plucking fish from the passing waves.  He immediately likes your party of four (and a half), being very talkative with everyone who will respond about their particular magical tradition and how _fascinating_ he finds it, and how he ought to study such things once theyve had their fill of sailing and muster the courage to become apprentice magi again.

After a day of sunning yourselves in deckchairs in the thankfully perfect weather of that day (or else doing so below deck, amidst a cargo of textiles brought over from the Eastern Kingdoms, and now being traded off to Kalimdor buyers), you draw into port, dock to one of the long wooden piers, and bid farewell to the crew.  *Happy to ferry you up or back whenever the stars align, friends.  While youre in town, try the Frisky Duke - the service beats the Broken Keel by a league, dont let anyone tell you different!*

The crew help carry your luggage, however much their is, to the pier, and then get to work unloading their primary cargo; big bolts of cloth stacked on pallets which are robbed of their crushing weight by an incorrect articulation of a featherfall spell long enough for them to be easily manhandled from the ramp.

Ratchet stretches out before you; a town of singularly energetic bustle, which is slowly crowding out the room for hustle.  From the dock theres a straight shot up for the eye down the main street, up the gentle curves of the road as it rises out of the cliff-walled valley and terminates at the grassy lip of this near horizon, over which the golden sun rules a bright morning sky, cloudless and fair.  Buildings crowd up as close as they can to the border of the dock-road, with huge signs on tarps, timber billboards and swinging shingles advertising wares and services to the eyes of sailors as soon as they step off their ships.  There is a good deal of activity with goblin stevedores running the affairs of the loading and unloading with a significant presence of brawnier types to make that same job easier.  To your right on the busy dock, a goblin woman vendor is pushing a cart and making a very tidy trade selling some kind of meat-filled pastries to the workers.  A younger goblin, hilariously gangly in his as he approaches manhood unevenly,  hovers around her with a big wooden stick, jousting purposefully at seagulls who repeatedly attempt to sample the wares without producing the coin.  The arc of the swinging stick makes a distinctive if irregular heartbeat of _woooh_ noises, eliciting a shrill complaint from the pestering gulls each time.  The smell is... Honestly, not as bad as you thought it would be.  Ratchet does less fishing than Theramoore, so the docks here have a less piscean scent to them; just the ubiquitous dock scents of sea, and wood, and labor.

One figure stands out to you immediately: a serious if approachable looking goblin, sweating in a fitted grey suit   which is out of place both in the heat and the working class press of the dock.  In his big goblin hands, he holds a whitewashed wooden sign, with common words printed on it in clean script: _Opal Coll._

*Spoiler: OOC*
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More post stuff from me soon, but I wanted to get this out rather than missing another day!  Emelia's up at the tower doing her sword forms, and soon I'll unite the group properly (JWL, I'll answer your Q's when I get back from my errand!).  Everyone else, feel free to describe how well/poorly your character fares on ships, how they liked or didn't the crew, how they spent the week before the journey preparing, and their first impressions of Ratchet, as well as any interactions or questions you might have!

*Spoiler: Edit: Answers for Emelia*
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*Why wasn't this valuable property sold? -*  The answer is almost disappointingly mundane.  After the Theramore marines ran off the Burning Blade, Gazlowe and the land council gifted the property to the captain of that unit in an effort to attract such a competent troubleshooter and leader of soldiers to come to Ratchet.  The captain in turn gifted it to Lady Proudmoore so not to permit any question about his loyalty; Lady Proudmoore kept it in her back pocket until deciding to give it to the Opal Collocation as part of her sponsorship of this new group.  Gazlowe probably isn't particularly happy about having the property shuffled around outside the grip of his green little fingers, but in the end, it seems to have attracted troubleshooters anyway, so all's well than ends well.  Having such a group around is excellent repellent for groups like the Burning Blade trying to worm into the town in any meaningful way.

*About the others -* Emilia received a message by swift courier - a glowing spectral owl apparently in service of the Collocation.  Amongst other less interesting formal considerations, it describes your coming coworkers physical characteristics, and then their characters thusly:

*Zachary Black* - Human. Formerly Corporal Zachary Black of the Alliance.  Lordaeron native veteran of the 2W and 3W.  Alliance patriot; reasons for official disassociation unclear.  Some kind of sensory disorder requires covering eyes and ears.  Skillset: Marksman, Scout, Pathfinder, Alchemist.

*Jakk'ari* - Farraki 'Sand Troll', no faction affiliation outside of tribe.  Shaman.  Affiliated primarily with sand trolls beyond Zul'Farrak itself.  Very publically seeking opportunity to negotiate for the consideration of Farraki interests.  Skillset: Elementalism, Negotiation, Herbalism.

*Mor'Lag* - Two-Headed Ogre, no faction or tribal affiliation.  Actively distrustful of Horde.  No obvious attachments.  Skillset: Close Quarters Combat, Alchemist.

*Marion Mordis* - Human. Daughter of Geordan and Geneve Mortis.  Granddaughter of Benthan Orlo, Hero of Mercedes' Gap (1W).  Family was part of the remnant of Alterac extended clemancy after the rump state was carved up following 2W.  Schooled breifly at Dalaran, interrupted by 3W.  Demonstrated fel talent; no visible demonstration of corruption.  Skillset: Demonology, fel lore, noble etiquette.

*Isaera Runescape* - High Elf.  Daughter of Daeden Runescape, archsorcerer deceased in the defence of Silvermoon (3W).  Sister of Kaleneus Runescape, sorcerer deceased in the defence of Hyjal (3W).  High level arcane talent.  Skillset: Arcane magic, Investigation, social pathfinding.

----------


## Plaids

Preparations for the trip were easy enough. The rest of party had little to pack or at least they had little that they needed help with packing.
Jakk'ari accompanied the Theramore escort to see Zachary off and returned to city to prepare to leave.

The ocean was comfortable enough. Being a passenger on a transport shipping cloth was far better than the oil tankers leaving Gadgetzan. The crew were nice and amiable as well, displaying carefree attitude suited to young adults in turbulent times and in a transient state. The offer to tutor them on the elements was extended but none of them seemed particularly interested given their preoccupation with Isaera and Marion. Which was fine they were young, and the prestidigitations offered fine-tuned and resilient assistance for navigating the ocean. Though arcane magics likely couldn't inform them of the currently docile water elementals. Nor the excitement of earth elementals from Tanaris to the Barrens being propelled and being sent to fertilize the forests of the Eastern Kingdoms.

Once at port Jakk'ari sees the goblin seeking agents of the Opal Collocation. Bidding Mor'Lag to follow him and greet the goblin together Jakk'ari steps forward. Given his time in Gadgetzan he had often seen goblins become more eager to please fellow goblins who had a "Little Friend" who was most often an ogre. Hopefully this would distinguish themselves and prevent the goblin from thinking the party was just a random group of adventurers who had wandered into town.

*Spoiler: Azeroth weather*
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 I don't know how weather works in Azeroth, but I assume that a weather phenomenon similar to the Sahara dust stream exists in Azeroth. The Sahara stream sends dust from the Sahara which fertilizes South and Central America with fertilizing minerals.

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## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag were bored and thoroughly seasick throughout the trip.   They had many bad memories of the sea, and their size made them especially prone to motion sickness.  They tried playing boardgames against each other, but the pieces kept getting jostled. 

So Mor, cautiously,  tried hinting she knew a new trick and went up to the deck and started trying to dispel the "junk magic" cantrips of the crew.  Eventually they noticed.  Long after that, they figured out it was her.  She paid them a few silver to avoid an incident,  and convinced one of them to help her learn the same tricks.  Mor spent the rest of the trip with a headache as her binocular vision was disrupted by trying to read on a moving vehicle.   Eventually, Lag read the pamphlets on cantrips aloud for both of them. 

====

Later, they got to the shore.  She deferred to the other party members as to who should approach the Goblin first.

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## WindStruck

The rest of the evening is a little awkward at Janene's. There's not much of a good way to describe Isaera's relation with the others, aside from her sister. Coworkers, colleagues, and perhaps even the words like 'companions' and 'friends' wouldn't seem to fit. Not yet anyway...

Isaera is mostly silent and reserved. If not just attentively listening and observing her surroundings, deep in thought.

On the way home she snarks, "You know, I thought you always complained the tale of Basilael Rainburn was boring..." Though she 100% knew this as a fact, not just a fuzzy recollection. Perhaps it really fit the farstrider shoes Aleeana was going to try to fill. Or perhaps, not many stories had come to her sister's mind, either.

*****

So they would be leaving for Ratchet in about a week. It was plenty of time to laze about, enjoy some of that hard earned silver, and prepare for the journey. Isaera certainly slept a lot for the first few days she returned from her harrowing trip. It was also good to know supplies would be sent to Brackenwall, and Zachary was leaving with the caravan as well. She at the very least, had to see him off.

Her family in turn was quite abuzz with the funds they had acquired, and the excitement of the journey and being backed by Jaina Proudmore herself (though technically not exactly true)! Aleeana couldn't be more ready to get out into the world and do her thing, and Tarien couldn't be more supportive. Her mother was in a constant rollcoaster of pride, excitement, and worry all throughout the days, but ultimately supportive as well.

This time, Isaera packed a number of things..  maybe too much, considering her sister was coming as well. She brought pretty much _all_ her clothes, toiletries, magic tools, books, the portable alchemy lab, even a swimsuit, as ill advised as it may be to sunbathe or take a swim remotely near the goblin town. It was "everything but the bed and bookshelves" her brother joked.

In the days leading up to this, she also brewed up several doses of a medicine that would alleviate the effects of motion and seasickness. Isaera usually didn't get too sick, except when trying to read writing, but nevertheless, such a remedy could be handy for the benefit of others as well.

*****

Finally the day came, and the two girls combined had so many bags and luggage that they needed to call a carriage to pick them up. Hugging her mother, and brother, and cousins, she gave them a final farewell before embarking with her sister.

It may have seemed like they brought a lot of stuff, but the sailors who were very used to handling cargo had no problems loading or unloading bags. Maybe storage space in the hull was the problem though...

The crew in question was a unique bunch: people who were respectable in that they had studied - or attempted to study, anyway - magic and their rudimentary knowledge funnily enough helped them sail. On the other hand, they were perhaps at one point considered pupils, then rivals, but ultimately, the scourge united them through destruction and sorrow, like so many others.

So anyway, if Isaera could get along with trolls, orcs, and ogres somewhat decently.. and probably goblins in the future, these guys wouldn't give her a problem. Especially considering how she had them practically wrapped around her finger. It became obvious that the crew liked the company of the pretty girls, taking every opportunity to flirt as the majority of them lazed about the deck. While the subject of magic may have been more productive and fulfilling, it was far more fun just to mess with them.

After only about an hour of banal small talk, the whole situation aboard the schooner was crystal clear. The sailors had _far_ too much free time on their hands. And so, after she'd been complimented in the cheesiest way possible for the dozenth time, Isaera politely excused herself to 'check something' in her luggage, before emerging on the decks in said packed swimsuit. Smiling smugly at the guys as a cheerful hello, whose trite chatter swiftly transformed into incoherent babbling, she acts perfectly innocent as if nothing is wrong, stretching, sunbathing, and lazing on the canvas chairs along with them, and making it a game to keep on a straight face.

She continues like this well into the afternoon, continuing with the small talk and merely smiling politely and nodding the next time they work up the nerve to flirt with her. And of course, their brutal attempts to undercut the others' credibility are met with feigned looks of shock and horror (not much unlike Marion's sarcasm) and sometimes accompanied by the occasional pun when appropriate. For example, when it was revealed one sailor accidentally turned his head into that of a ram's she commented, "Oh my! I bet you felt so sheepish after that!"

In addition to attracting attention to herself just by her scant attire, Isaera also made some quite silly requests like: asking if one of the guys could stand up and put their hand in a certain place because the sun was in her eyes, randomly switching chairs with another for barely justifiable reasons, or if someone could go and get some ale from the ship holds for her to sip only to change her mind because she was no longer thirsty. She also had, occasionally, gone on completely tangential full-scale lectures on magic theorem when a crew member happened cast a spell or bring up the subject of magic. Funnily enough, no matter how boring and dry Isaera tried to make the subject, it seemed that the Captain Schofield was the one who seemed to be absorbing her every word. To be fair, at least Isaera wasn't making up lies and nonsense on the subject matter.

As annoying and tantalizing as Isaera was trying to be, however, it all just about backfired when they had pulled into port and she still wasn't dressed. When the port of Ratchet came into view, she had decided she'd make it a point to take it a step further and delay the men as much as humanly possible without outright being a saboteur. While half the crew was beginning to unload cargo, she had the other half taking a crash course on how to _properly_ cast the Featherfall spell, and then going on a wild goose for an earring that she 'lost'. It was perhaps not much time wasted in the grand scheme of things, but still some karma to realize that while she was so distracted by her own attempts at distraction - or simply having way too much fun toying with the men - her luggage had already been unloaded onto the pier...

_dun dun dun_

*Spoiler: ooc*
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Somewhere in all this mess, should Mor'Lag have ever openly complained about seasickness, Isaera would at least offer the remedy that she brought. It might still take one dose, or maybe all three, not sure...   :Small Smile: 

Chances are, she'd have one of the guys fetch it though.   :Small Tongue:

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## Plaids

Jakk'ari never quite understood the intricacies of displaying one's body in cultures outside of the inland desserts of Tanaris.
Being scantily clad could be used for displays of intimacy, aggression, confidence, or pride depending on context and attitude. Typically, the dessert encouraged loose clothing exposed to the air.

What was puzzling about this scenario was the arcane adept of the party who had faced down demons and raptors was now quivering behind cover due to her attire. 
Such attire would have been preferred by Farraki attempting to hunt stealthily in the desert whose skin was the best camouflage in the dessert and needed as much skin as possible exposed to the air to cool them while they chased prey to exhaustion and heat stroke. Though they would prefer a more sensible brown than a vibrant red. 

Luckily there were some members of the party who could identify with Isaera's plight better than Jakk'ari.

 Marion, Aleana, we're heading out to the keep soon. Get Isaera to come out while Mor'Lag and I get some directions. 
Marion would surely resolve this scenario. Given her lack of clear weakness when compared to Mor'Lag's temperamental episodes in the company of other ogres or Isaera's theatricality and lack adventuring experience.

Turning towards the squat green figure perspirating in the humid heat Jakk'ari and Morlag's shadows envelope the goblin hopefully providing relief from the heat instead of intimidation.
 Good to see you sir. We are the ones sent by the Opal Collocation. We'll be ready to leave in just a few minutes. Don't worry about our luggage we pack light and can more than we need. 

Jakk'ari gestures towards Mor'Lag to bring attention to Mor'Lag's asset of strength and size.

*Spoiler: Jakkari's perception of the weaknesses amongst the rest of the party*
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 Jakk'ari remembers Mor'Lag getting angry at the tavern in Brackenwall or saddened by not being able to join the StoneMaul ogres. So he kind of sees Mor'Lag as the kid who got held back a few grades due to trouble at home but is a good deep down. He also remembers Isaera showing off at Janene's and on the boat as well as her bug bites from the first stretch of Duskwallow marsh. So he sees Isaera as kind of the youngest sibling of the group. He doesn't really know Marion's yet. Hopefully he will soon learn.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

The sailing trip had been rather easy for Marion. Surprisingly. One might expect a mountain-born girl like herself to find the seas to be rough, intrusive and irritating. But after having fled Azeroth and travelled for months upon a ship to the arcane lands of Kalimdor, Marion had well and truly found her sea legs by now. And so within the relatively casual atmosphere of the vessels hierarchy, the Warlock would tend to some minor studies and brainstorming within her allotted sleeping quarters - doubtless she shared a small room with the two elven sisters - and walking about the decks where she enjoyed the banter with the sailors. 

Sometimes it was easy to forget that Marion was only nineteen years old. Physiologically her brain had not yet fully developed, yet her experience with magic at Dalarn, delving into demonology at Southshore and Alterac, her tragic family history, her flight through the mountains from the Scourge, her status of persona no grata upon the discovery of her fel studies, her exile across the sea...all within the past six or seven summers during her most formative years. And so times like this where she could simply stand upon the deck of a ship, hands upon the railing and the primordial beauty of Kalimdors coastline stretching out before her were a welcome reprieve. 

The flirtations of the sailors as well was not unwelcome. Whereas Isaera seemed to string them along, drawing out what services she could in exchange for a pleasant smile or a thank you, Marions interaction was very different. She did not indulge them too far, naturally, as she was a lady after all and not a tavern girl. But Marion still showed an impish, playful sense of humour and good sport about it all, returning quips here and jabs there when the words were risqué, but declaring the man a scallywag when he became too vulgar - much to the amusement of said sailor and his laughing comrades. If they wanted to dream and hope, they went to Isaera. If they wanted to trade back and forth borderline vulgar witticisms, they went to Marion. She kept her dignity, they had an outlet, and they both had fun. No harm done and a few happy memories.

With her companions Marion was characteristically tight-lipped, but not overtly so. She would speak little of her past, only allowing bits and pieces through here and there about where she had come from and why a teenage human female would come travel alone to such a dangerous place where she was just as likely to end up as lunch for some great beast as she was a slave to some brutal people. "I had some talent for the arcane, but I was no longer welcome in Dalarn," would be a curt explanation. "Parts of my homeland were ravaged by the Scourge, as were many others of Lordaeron. I can still remember being among the throngs of terrified, desperate refugees, fleeing through the dark woods of the Alterac mountains, the surrounding forest alive with the undead nightmares and horrors that pursued us doggedly..." would be another.



Upon arrival at Ratchet, Marion is...not so much "less than impressed" as she is impartial. It was a goblin town. Remiss was the splendor of tall, well-built human walls and fortifications. In their place was the cobbled together, techno-gizmogery that passed for both decoration and urbane construction, but which was, honestly, with its whirring gears and lack of grace and coordination, an eyesore to one with both a taste for classic architecture and a mind for mathematical order. Who knew the Goblins, really? Minds as bizzare and twisted as the faces that they hid behind. Thank the Light for the gnomes at least. Little though they were, pleasant companions they be with a general logic whose thread one could understand if they were so educated. 

Wishing the crew a farewell and safe travels, Marion departed the vessel alongside the others. A traveling girl so far, Marion carried everything she owned within a sack and a backpack that was slung across her shoulders. The Scion of the Mordis name, a familial lineage once firmly entrenched within the riches of well defended mountain towns reduced to one girl with a backpack. These were dark times indeed. 

Unfortunately for Isaera, Marion only had two sets of clothing...and she was wearing one already, while the other was due for the services of a laundry very, very soon. It was doubtful that the elf, steeped in her pride and whose self-image would not stoop so low as to sully her elevated beauty with something as loathsome as 'used' clothing from a human, would accept such an offer. What a ghastly idea!

In such a case, Marion would shrug, her travel-ready figure moving down onto the deck, her eyes peering out around the new town that was going to be the next pit-stop of life.

"I can purchase some temporary garments in town for you, if you would like?" Marion spoke quietly to the elf.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_Boring?  No - well, yes.  I mean -_  What Aleeana means, a mystery even to herself, is apparently written in the stars; for she glances up as they walk, purses her lips with a navigators scrutiny, then lowers her gaze again once she has denuded the heavens of their insight.  I didnt understand it, previously.  The value of it.  Weve all been exposed to no shortage of tragedy, but quite sheltered from a lot of [/i]challenge_, I think.   Dont you think?  I quite like the idea that I should become quite so resourceful in the face of doom.  Do you think I could tame a strider?_

With that sharp segue, Aleeana pushes the conversation away from her recently adopted dreams and into more immediate speculation - such as whether or not she could take a beast to be her companion in the field.  Isaera has never seen her tame something or show much interest in animals at all.  This doesnt seem to matter to Aleeana, who is more interested in if her sister thinks she is the kind of person who could do that, aside from any information that could deduce such a thing.  The fact that there are no wild hawkstriders in Kalimdor, only the big, goofy walking birds the locals call plainstriders (and heavens, are they plain) does not seem to factor much into Aleeanas burgeoning speculations on what she - no, [/i]they[i], two bold Runescribe girls together - might accomplish, stepping into the land that the elves (the real elves) hadnt occupied in six thousand years, to find adventure and legacy in its now alien soil.

*****

Aleeana might be just as pretty an elf as Isaera; but she doesnt luxuriate in her loveliness like her sister does.  The elder Runescribe sister receives her share of the seamens interest, but she has less time for them than Isaera or even Marion.  After the first round of peacocking, she selects one of the sailors who seems the most worldly - a red haired, sun-beaten young man called Michaelo, who is probably the least immediately handsome of those available - and spends the trip following him around the deck when hes on duty, asking about everything.  Asking about rigging knots.  Asking about the kinds of fish they catch.  Asking about how they navigate.  Asking about how much of Kalimdor hes seen, and what hes seen there.  First this strikes Michaelo as miraculously fortunate - this beautiful elven woman is showing interest in him, right away - but he quickly fights kens the fact that Aleeana finds him useful, not necessarily attractive; and he settles for the simple pleasure of having made something like a friend.

MorLags gambit pays off, and the lad they have drawn in - a blond young man named Bastival who has a good enough sense of humor that hes willing to waive the offered bribe, and teach MorLag a little junk magic just to be able to tell stories about how he taught a two headed ogre how to do magic.  And the elemental spirits, whipping by on the sea, impart their peaceful whispers to Jakkari, some slowing in their movements to reverse and follow the ship like curious dolphins, fascinated by the sand troll shaman so far from sand.  They whisper mysteries from far north - the sea around the red-earth peninsula brimming with more little ships every day, not loaded for war for for travel; of sleek scaled serpent folk beneath the waves, brooding and enacting their strange will closer to shore than normal; of a great burning conflict they have heard is taking place in the Firelands, with many princes scrabbling for a vacant throne...

*****

 And when they arrive in Ratchet, Aleeana is the first off the ship; springing with a superfluous twirl that flares the blue linen of her short mantle, and landing neatly on the chunky wooden planks of the pier.  She draws in a deep breath, plants her fists on her hips, and permits the newness of the horizon to simply marinate her soul.  Jakkari and MorLag disembark while the deckhands make short work of the groups supply, passing its custody off to a goblin stevedore who seems to understand the ultimate destination of the goods; and those bags and boxes - including Isaeras clothes - embark on the first step of their exciting journey.  By the time Isaera realizes where the needed garments are, conferring with Marion and Aleeana who boards the ship again to see what the delay is, the luggage is in motion.  They have been loaded up on to a wooden pallet with wheels, and a long leather strap that leads forth to the grip of an unlikely possessor - a lime green murloc.  The stevedore makes a gesture toward the long road leading through town and up the exiting road on the far side, pats the murloc on the back, and the fish-frog-man chomps down on a well-chomped bit of the strap, and begins running, body forward, arms flapping behind him, towing the bumping and bouncing pallet up the road with remarkable vigor.

Aleeana grimaces as they watch the murloc - who is apparently some kind of porter - take off with the luggage.  _...Well, thats  Thats singular._  For the second time, she vaults off the boat, and takes off after the murloc at full speed - which, even with the murloc towing a load, is a slow gain.  Her departure blowing through the working crowd draws attention to the scene, and a couple of Ratchet Bruisers - the local security that passes for a town guard - take off after her, squawking ill informed protest.  One passing goblin onlooker spots the swimsuit-clad sorceress, and lets out an almost instinctive wolf-whistle, truncated by the jealous slap of his wife who begins hustling him away from the scene for a more thorough henpecking.  But this draws even more attention to Isaeras predicament - workers on the dock begin peering up at the ship to see whats going on, forcing Isaera to retreat back some, losing some visual access to the dock to deny some from it.  It seems her only option is to wait for Aleeanas return; but then another whistle sounds - this one not lupine, but walrus in its designation.  The whistler is not on the dock at all, but on the deck of an sleek, black sailed elven destroyer docked next to the Antonidas Chagrin.

The whistler is a Queldorei sailor - or by his position high on the aftcastle while the ethnically mixed crew hurries about casting off, perhaps a captain.  His eyes are the sharp, bright green that many QuelDorei have in this new reality; his hair a main of soot black that hits the right mark before the border of unkempt, suggesting not poor grooming habits, but only an ambient energy of wildness and freedom, and a rough harmony with things wild and free.  His expression is stony, neither expressing amusement nor empathy for Isaeras dilemna which keen eyes and ears appear to have enabled him to discern.  But he shrugs from his shoulders the sailors coat, worn black leather with red and brass epaulets, and balls it in one hand.    With one powerful arm - and they do appear powerful indeed - he tosses it in the air in a great upward arc, sailing between the aftcastle of his ship to the deck of the Chagrin, unfurling in the air just early enough to flap harmlessly onto Isaeras arm, either outstretched to catch, or by self-preserving instinct against the projectile.  Then he turns away, facing out to sea as the ship wheels away from the dock, and the wind begins carrying him from the bustling city.

*Spoiler: ?????*
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Down on the dock, Jakkari with MorLag in authoritative shadow engage the well dressed goblin; who sighs in relief, lets the sign drop, and mops his brow of heat-sweat and, possibly, nerve sweat from the huge ogress looming over him. _ Ah.  Glad to meet you as well.  My name is Kerwin; Im an assistant to Mayor Gazlowe.  Its my task to make sure you have all you need to get settled in town.  Schlep already has most of your bags, and the others will be on their way shortly.  I was told to expect five of you?_  The goblin lifts an eyebrow, peering up at the deck of the ship without the height to spot Marion or Isaera, and glancing up to MorLag, trying to guess if they count for one or two.

----------


## Plaids

There are five bodies amongst us. Though one of our ranks seems to have gone ahead. Another seems to still be on the ship. She'll be out shortly. 

Hopefully Isaera's initial hesitance hadn't returned to her now that the party was well outside Theramore. Luckily it seemed unlikely given the presence of her sister who had just gone dashing into town.

Turning towards Marion the one had most closely associated with Isaera on the boat Jakk'ari asks her.
 Marion, what is keeping Isaera? We are almost at our destination. Our guide and the crew have obligations to fulfill as well as we do. 
Some frustration finds its way into Jakk'ari's voice now that much closer to home and accomplishing his task.

Was it too demanding of the party and bordering on curmudgeonly behavior? Possibly, but the party didn't seem to be acting as the dignitaries of a global league of peacekeepers.

Addressing the goblin.
 Excuse me for a moment I'll be back shortly. 

Walking back on deck Jakk'ari quickly spots Isaera given she was wearing some of the most vibrant fabric in the port.
 What is delaying you Isaera? Everyone is ready to depart but you.

----------


## WindStruck

_Well, this was..._ 

Isaeara sighed. How could she have been so careless? It was one thing to be toying with these sailors out on sea, but it seemed she took it a bit too far. Thankfully her sister seemed to have her back, dashing off after the pallet with all their belongings. Gods bless her!

And now she waited.. keeping out of the crew of the Antonidas's Chagrin's way. Still with a smile, but much more shy than before. She had retreated back aboard when it was clear she was getting more unwanted attention. But even this didn't hide her from the eyes of the.. captain aboard an adjacent ship. A tall, muscular, mysterious, and quiet fellow, he tossed her his coat before his ship sailed away.

The whole situation was almost surreal. Going from something that might play out in someone's nightmares to just meeting the hottest guy you've ever seen. "W-who is that??" Isaera asks one of the crew, pointing at the ship that was beginning to leave port.

When Jakk'ari returns to ask her what the delay is, Isaera whirls around, almost having a heart attack and fearing it was someone else. "Ah! You see, uh, all my clothes was in my luggage, and apparently it was already loaded, and some.."

She nervously balls up and scrunches the fancy jacket in her hands before deciding maybe it was a good idea to cloak it around herself. "Well, I don't think I should be walking into Ratchet like this. So.. I think Aleeana is chasing after our belongings to find me something to wear."

----------


## JoyWonderLove

*=On a Lonely Ridge above Rachet=*:

Emilias bored gaze raked across the arid landscape from the middle windowsill of the tower, taking a light sip of her flask against the yearning to gulp. The sun was still high like the over-proud banner of some celestial high lord that had all of no mercy for pale mortals, or those with an appreciation for strong spirits. Her tabard had been used to dab away the light sweat swordplay had built up, but the efforts had been abandoned after only entertaining the basic stances. It would little do to meet new acquaintances when sweatier than a repeat criminal before a disgusted judge.  

A silver tongued shaman and dune of skin, Jakkari prone to herbalism. But blonde and fair and of bookish rite, Isaera an investigator of Daedens might. Emilia had made up and started reciting the rhymes only a day ago, but she hoped Thomas would be proud. Her youngest older brother, he had been only too keen to tell her how mages in Dalaran had many memory techniques to learn difficult and demanding considerations. One of the most simplistic of which were memory rhymes, for rote memorization was a fine path to burnout, he insisted. Another swig was taken as she wondered irritably if these people had become victims of heatstroke. Tardiness befit only royalty and imbeciles, and these people were meant to be neither. 

Drumming the fingers of her sword hand on the rough stone, had Emilia a warhorse and the grounds-keeper present, she would have rode out a little to confirm hungry wildlife hadnt become bold while the goblin held the fort. But Scuttleswipe was relieved of his duties, and she had no destrier on hand, let alone any idea if her absent colleagues ship had gone off course. All there was to do was wait and prepare, until they arrived, or it was revealed that something had gone amiss. 

Two heads betwixt the close quarters queen, Emilia grumbled to the world outside the windowsill. Know MorLag brilliant in alchemical sheen. Yet Alterac boasts a heroic line, Marion unblemished despite a fel-adled mind. 

It was a wise gambit, allowing a warlock among the guild leaders. Anything untoward that the Burningblade cult left behind would be noted immediately by Benthans granddaughter, and Emilia could tell in one look what some rangers missed in their companions of a hundred miles. Between them and Isaera, the cave system would be swept swiftly and expertly to confirm everything was safe and fit for their operations. She hoped to convince them to it before any interviews. 

A former corporal rounds them out, Zackary Black  Lordaeron native, marksman, scout. 

Another swig was rewarded her, for surely no sign of the strangers did.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

 Mostly trying to make my own fun with not enough alcohol or duties to entertain.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*On the lonely clifftop*

The squires solitary watch is broken up by two sudden arrivals, and one sudden departure.  A bright green murloc, arms flapping behind him as he pulls a wheeled skid of bags and trunks, comes charging up the hill with the vigor of a manic sled dog.  He comes to a halt, looks up at Emilia with big googly eyes, then resumes his frantic work: spitting the bit from his mouth and unhitching the leather bridle from lugs on the side of the pallet with movements so practiced they almost dont seem like the goofy capering of an inelegant amphibian.

The second arrival is an elf - green of eye, black of hair - that comes racing up the slope after the murloc, finally catching up with him at the loss of her breath.  She leans forward with her palms on her knees and watches in confusion as the creature dumps his goods and turns, tireless, to resume his zoomies back down the hill.  The elfs goal appears to have been the luggage, not the creature, and she snatches a bag of embroidered ray skin from the pile, then leans against the tower for a moment to rest.  Its then that she noticed Emilia - giving her a cursory eyeballing, and making the intuitive leap that she, and the tower, are connected.

 Who are you, then?  Hired security?

----------


## Plaids

Now it became clear. Though he could not intuitively know or innately understand the discomfort of being scantily clad outside in public. Sympathy for the diplomat could be achieved though through prior experience while communication and understanding could be achieved like an astute observer assessing the situation and choosing the correct manuscript to recite phonetically. It was still rather unusual to see such a shift from flirtatious and flaunting to shy and hesitant. Though Jakk'ari could understand the discomfort of being regarded as a fascinating oddity in a distant land far from family.

Jakk'ari scratches the back of his head and averts his gaze to the horizon before once again facing turning his eyes to Isaera. 
 Oh.. I see. Well, it seems that half the problem is solved at least.  

The jacket was a new sight. A stylish but substantial coat with colorful fringe that could either be a dapper elven design or a flamboyant human one. The coat easily could have been Isaera's if it hadn't been several sizes too large for the slender elf.

 Well if you like you could borrow one of my garments...  
But given the absence of his own luggage now likely carted off that was likely not going to happen. There was also past to experience which made it abundantly clear now that even a destitute person outside of the Faraki clans would forgo clothing that had recently been doffed from a troll's body.

 Well guess that won't do...
But there still other options.
 Perhaps this might work.  

Pulling out an obsidian arrowhead and a flat rock freshly rolled in pungent pollen the stones collide singing the yellow spores. With a short prayer and an aromatic offering local water spirits soon congregate forming a wispy fog covering everything between Isaera's ankles to her navel.

 This should last until reach the hilltop. Provided the pollen is reapplied. 

*Spoiler: Mechanics*
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Jakk'ari is using "Environment Control" to reduce the visibility on the area below Isaera's waist. Though this is not concealment it does reduce perception of everyone who looking at the covered area.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

*=On a Not So Lonely Ridge above Rachet=*

Emilia eyed the murloc turned sled dog with wary curiosity, for it was not at the head of a warband, and utterly unarmed  before he dumped his trash and rapidly dashed away before she could voice any protest. The elf that had chased him up here was outright glared at, for she absolutely was not dune of skin, or blonde of hair. She had exactly one too few heads, and no Queldorei the squire had ever met claimed themselves a Marion or Zackary. This was an expat or shyster, at the kindest turn. 

Am I securi... Emilia groused quietly, eyes rolling at the elf below. _Clearly_ I am the Light incarnate; come to absolve you all your sins! Quickly, childe! Unto these hallowed halls lest the Void take you! came the sardonic proclamation from her vantage point in the tower. 

Emilia had the hatch opened, and huffed her way down the ladder. By the time she touched down on ground level again, the scene had been reviewed in her minds eye, and her annoyance was blunted some. Her former mentor, deceased as she was, had always warned against letting anger route her sense. Rage often stole the balance needed for each stepping stone to heaven, or so Danica insisted. Forcing a deep breathe, and letting go any immediate biting remarks, the heavy oak door was unlocked again, for she would never have left it open that some hatchet man would find easy purchase. Her family had enemies, and she had made her share on the northern continent besides. She stepped outside again.

I was not made aware of any porter service, Emilia began with a tone all faux sweetness, her own arms folded while looking over the leaning elf. There was the slightest hint of an accusation. And sans the very people I await, no less. Who are _you_, exactly? 

*Spoiler: Well-Informed/Investigation (20+) and Intuition, minor question of positioning*
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Sometimes I wonder why I play anything but Skilled characters, when I like them the most. I imagined there might be a window in the middleish of the tower, so not in the sunlight directly, but still allowing a few of the approach. But if Im wrong Im wrong. We can always amend this post. 

Well-Informed/Investigation (20+) on random elf. Doubt I can get anything, but you never know. 
Well-Informed/Investigation (20+) on random mrglglglglglgl. Hes a local celebrity, so hopefully?

Intuition/Assessment (24) on random elf. Trustworthy? Honourable? Any real threat?
Intuition (24) on random mrglglglglglgl, hopefully before he takes off. Trustworthy? Honourable? No need to check his threat level because hes seemingly long gone.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*At the Dock...*

Jakk'ari's coaxing of the elemental spirits produces a tasteful, dress-shaped misting of vaporous droplets that wink in the sunlight.  The spirits even have the sense to leave the spectral dress slashed down the side of the right calf.  On a less comely creature, this combination of oversized naval coat and  supernatural skirting would be a clashing jumble, drawing more attention to the wearer's dilemma, rather than less.  In Isaera's case, her elegance conspires with these options to produce a fetching outcome: a look like some exotic beauty who had stepped off the ship wearing a gleaming, diamond dress; a strange loveliness that seems protectively framed rather than smothered by the borrowed mantle cast into her hands.  _"Who was what?"_ Asks the last lingering sailor, a chap named Yancy who had made his comically insufficient advances at Isaera, come to terms with his failure, but who has not lost a willingness to be useful one last time.  He follows her indication, and squints out at the black sailed ship.  _"I think that's the Sara'nairah, by her sails and slip.  That's Captain Skyflash, then; out looking for trouble again, I guess."_  Yancy glances to the coat in Isaera's possession, eyebrows raising a little as he makes the connection, and offers her an expression that is equal parts impressed, and carefully distanced.  "I'd not lose that, if I were you!"  And then he's off, vaulting over the edge of the ship's railing, using a trivial amound of _featherfall_ to glide to the dock and jogging to catch up to his fellows.

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Expertise: War, elves, history, or similar; or else just being an elf.  DC 13.*
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_Sara'nairah_ is the name of one of the twelve daughters of an ancient highborne prince, known to posterity only as _The Prince of Pyres_.  There is a complicated legend about the Prince's political escapades, which usually involve dispatching one or more of his twelve daughters, each gifted in the sorcery of flame, to immolate a rival, or enemy, or predatory monster.  The name is also significant for another reason: during the build up to the Second War, while King Anasterian was still hedging away from full commitment to the alliance, he had the sense to begin preparing for war anyway.  He commissioned twelve ships, the _Thas'Serrir_, or _Fangs of the Forest_, each which integrated into their keels a splinter from _Thas'alah_, the ancient mother-tree which bonded to the radiance of the Sunwell when it was established in Quel'Thalas.  This noble and mystically powerful tree represents the weaving of arcane magics with natural ones - indeed, it is this tree which acts as a kind of _anchor_ for the elven runestones that historically shielded Quel'Thalas both from troll invaders, and demonic observers.  The capacity to foil the latter is a triumph of high elven history, and a sound argument that the Quel'dorei were _right_ to rebuke Malfurion Stormrage, and his hysterical abandonment of all arcane magics which were known to attract the Legion.  Demons cannot be attracted by what they cannot detect, and _Thas'alah_ validated the decision of the progenitors of the High Elven race to break from their highborne ancestors come to the Eastern Kingdoms where they could be free to pursue their magical studies unhounded.

The twelve ships commissioned prior to the elves' involvement in the second war were named after the twelve daughters of the _Prince of Pyres_.  Five of those ships were sunk in the second war; two were confirmed destroyed in the third.  The other five were lost to any who recorded such things during the wholesale collapse of the elven nation.  But if that _is_ the real, actual _Sara'nairah_, then this elven captain operating out of Ratchet is sailing around in a genuine relic of elven history, and one imbued with a shard of Quel'Thalas's magical heart, with all the great hosts of nebulous magical implication that the imagination might spin off from it.


*Spoiler: OOC: Jakk'ari's Elemental Skirt*
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Technically, this isn't a valid use of Environmental control - the power's meant for pretty sweeping environmental changes, and even the Visibility obscuring use of that power is more about adding a vague misty haze rather than anything that really covers or conceals.  The Selective extra lets you mix and match effects within your range, but it's really more like "I warm the ground undernear everyone's tents"; manipulation on that scale.  Under normal circumstances, to do something this much of a push from the power itself, it would require spending a Victory Point to stunt it.  But on the other hand:

1. We're in a narrative portion of the story, not one where I'm really dispensing or taking VP.
2. I dig the idea that one of Jakk'ari's elemental acquaintances would make a shimmering water-skirt for Isaera; and I reserve the right as storyteller to make your efforts _more effective  than they mechanically ought to be_ if I think it'll be cooler!


* * * * *
*On Top of a Soon-To-Be-Crowded Cliff...*

Aleeana gives the squire's sarcasm a lifted, long eyebrow, a drop of the other, and the faintest charitable smirk; a look that suggests she is not impressed with the brash rejoinder, but also implies a kind of reassuring condescension that she's simply too far above it to be irritated by it.  Once the would-be-Paladin and would-be-Farstrider are united again at the ground floor, she lilts back a detached response.  _"I'm sure one could fill many librams with the list of things you are not aware of, human.  The porter service, troublesomely overzealous as it was, seems to be complementary."_  She looks for a moment like she might continue being obtuse; but a glance down the sloped road back into town shows a small party approaching at a leisurely pace.  A pair of kodos are pulling a pair open wagons up the hill.  In one, behind a suited goblin driver, sit a human, an elf, and a troll, matching more closely the descriptions you've been given.  In the other wagon is a two-headed ogress, the 'sole' occupant of that vehicle driven by a much younger goblin lad with a certain amount of family resemblance to the first.

"...In any case, I expect these are the one's you're waiting for.  I just mooched a ride on their ship."  Deciding that Isaera has obviously found a solution to her dilemna, the elder Runescribe sister gives her a wave, raises the bag she was preparing to run back to the dock as if to assure that help had been on the way even if fortune hadn't provided another option, and then sets it back on the pallet with the other gear.  She trades it for a much leaner bag - a framed backpack of the kind used by experienced hikers, wayfarers and rangers on their journeys.  This one, however, is conspicuously undamaged.  "Just into town to find a test or two for my skills, and to be reimbursed for the trouble.  Nothing as exciting as all this."  She gestures to the tower, and by implication, the whole Opal Collocation _thing._  She does a good job of radiating aloof disinterest; especially since, a couple of weeks from now, she'll be sitting inside that tower on the other side of an interview table trying to nonchalantly wrangle a job out of _all this._ _"_Al diel shala, _oh radiant theophany.  Tell my sister I'm going to fetch something for dinner."_  And off she dashes into the high grasses, into the bright wilderness of the Barrens, with all its perils and promises.

A few minutes later, the wagons arrive, and pile out their occupants.  Kerwin, sweaty-suited assistant to Gazlowe, and Kerwin's nephew, Rankle, pause to feed and water the kodos.  The older goblin rounds off the rather dry, routine _welcome to town if there's anything you need_ speech he gave the group in transit.  "Once again, the _Broken Keel_ acts as a post office here, so that's the easiest way to get word to me if there's anything you need from the land council.  Otherwise, it's all yours.  I believe the young lady there has the keys."  The young lady to which he gestures, of course, is Emilia; who unbeknownst to the rest of the group, has been reciting her mnemonic devices for just this moment.

*Spoiler: Emilia: Rolls And Such*
Show

*Well-Informed* on Aleeana: _This elf either isn't famous enough to have a reputation, or not remarkable enough to resemble it._
*Intuition Assessment* on Aleeana: _She seems benign enough; radiating the boisterous energy of a tourist, more than the ranger she's dressing to be.  Your instinct, surface level as it is, is that she is genuinely excited to be out here, and that excitement contains no con or hidden agenda that you detect._

*Well-Informed* on Schlep: _This murloc is Schlep.  You heard about him when you arrived in town, though you hadn't seen him - apparently, as upstanding a citizen as a forward hunching frogfishman can be.  He has been adopted by the town and apparently appreciates the favor, and repays it to Ratchet with simple labors performed with his peculiar enthusiasm._
*Intuition Assessment* on Schlep:  _While you've been assured in the past that from time to time murlocs can accrue intelligence close enough to humans (they have mages and priests after all), the truth of the matter is most murlocs seem to have an intellect closer to that of an impressive dog.  You just don't think this creature has the depth to be anything other than what he appears - a happy little fish, with a mouthful of shark teeth._

*Spoiler: OOC: Everyone!*
Show

I shuffled the scene along a little, just to get everyone together so introductions can happen.  If you have something your character wanted to do or say on the way, shout it out to me in the OOC; I can always shuffle this post down after your thing.  I am keen to get the party grouped and situated, and to start feeding you adventure hooks though!  So now would be a find time to introduce yourself, express skepticism, or what have you.  Following this introduction scene, we'll have a time skip of about three weeks, after which your staff will have been recruited, and your various rooms will have been set up as per your discussions.  So consider how your characters are going to adjust to each other over this time.  Emilia's the new girl, but the rest of you have only known each other for a couple of weeks anyway.  A three week period of living together is longer than Jakk'ari, Isaera, Marion and Mor'Lag spend on the road together, so this is the time that opinions about each other are going to mellow out and smooth - or, possibly, sharpen to a fine point.  I wouldn't ask you to not 'play your character', but do bend them towards cooperation if you can!

At that time skip, I'll give you a chance to describe what your characters were doing during that time - starting their businesses, doing research, or what have you.  But that comes later.  For now, it's introduction time, and any poking and prodding at the Tower you want to do.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion, what is keeping Isaera? We are almost at our destination. Our guide and the crew have obligations to fulfill as well as we do.

"A wardrobe malfunction or such..." Marion uttered, craning her head about t try and ascertain Isaera's location while she spoke with the weary resignation of a mother wondering what their mischievous child was up to now. 

When he spotted the extent of the, ahem, _problem_, Marion immediately drew her pack off of her shoulders and rummaged through for some clothes. No sooner had she withdrawn an item of clothing that would protect the elfs dignity from the lecherous eyes of the vouyeristic degenerates of the town, that a miasma of mist coalesced from the ether and coiled itself about Isaera's figure like a shielding cloak. Furrowing her brow in confusion, Marion's attention was caught by the gesticulations of her troll companion, and the warlock quickly put two and two together. 

Exhaling and shaking her head, Marion tucked her clothing back into her sack, closed it and drew it back up and across her shoulders. 

"A wonderful first impression for our new neighbors, Isaera," Marion commented, the hint of disapproval lurking in her tone. 

"Before Jakkari rescued you from your...unfortunate state of dishabille, were you planning on just walking through the town? Skipping perhaps?" 

_What a tart. A lady would have waited in private until her state was remedied, rather than sashaying out into public view_, the warlock thought to herself, the highborn aristocrat within her appalled at the lack of propriety and dignity.

oOo


Marion swayed back and forth in rhythm with the lumbering kodo upon whose broad back she was seated. One hand on the beasts hide to steady herself, the warlock was taking the time to peer across the landscape that stretched out before them, the creeping sensation in the back of her head warning her that, despite her desires, she had coincidencely brought herself closer to the orcish dogs that now inhabited this blasted land. 

_Green bastards_, Marion mused gingerly to herself, before the sight of the tower caught her attention. 

It was...nice. It had potential. With some nice touches it could become a comfortable place to live. And, as Marion drew a small cloth up to her forehead to wipe away the sweat that had gathered in response to this damn sun, the warlock hoped it would provide respite from the natural elements of this land. 

Hmmm, the tower was tall...perhaps a series of vents could be created, vents that funneled the winds across the surface of water to provide a constant flow of cool air? Such a renovation would require several building implements...

And so Marions mind wandered again, until the kodo's ponderous halt snapped her back into the present. 

Smiling politely and nodding to the goblin, if someone offered Marion accepted their help down from the kodo, before brushing herself off and rolling her shoulders within the straps of her bag. Drawing a hood up around her silky locks to cover her scalp against the sun, Marion stood with the others as the unassuming one as her eyes took in the scene before her. 

Another human: Emelia. What should be a welcome element of familiarity instead filled Marion with caution: something was off about this one. Call it female intuition or the sharpened antennae she possessed for detecting when dangerous and overzealous agents were nearby...something was just _wrong_ about her.

----------


## Plaids

The town was pleasant enough. For the locals on mundane it must be quite pleasant. Thankfully the carts moved fast enough for them parties to not become idols upon parade floats to be fascinated over. Though the party attracted a fair share of attention with a bifold ogre, a sand troll, and Isaera in unusual attire all drawing eyes.   Though the vaporous skirt was diaphanous due to its components Isaera seemed fine. The bright sun also was reflected off the vapors seeming to hide what she didn't want revealed. Jakk'ari knew small indignities could pile causing people to slough through routine activities. Which was something Jakk'ari didn't want any of his companions to endure.

Hopefully a troll wouldn't need to face heightened scrutiny and suspicion here. The other trolls going about their daily routines seemed to affirm that for Jakk'ari. 
The goblins on the other hand jittered Jakk'ari. While diminutive escalation always seemed to follow them. From further expansions into the dessert to conflict in the streets of Gadgetzan pitting communities against one another and workers being swung about in with were referred to as "rackets". Whatever that meant. Chaotic expansion always seemed to precipitate trouble when goblins were around. 

Arriving at the ridge the towers came into sight alongside the party's contact. The woman before them was young, wearing armor identifying her as one of the Argent Dawn, with her hair neatly tied behind her head. Why were there so many youths adventuring nowadays? She seemed well practiced what with her seeming to find a comfortable posture while standing in her armor. 

Jakk'ari steps off the wagon to introduce himself to their partner. Though what kind of character the newcomer would be hard to tell. There had been plenty opportunities to observe practitioners and followers of the light outside Tanaris. Much like Farraki shaman there were many different types. The first were strict and zealous following scripture closely and forgoing dancing and games with a pension for saving "errant" souls but meant well.The second followed the guidance and motto of the light much like the wise Brother Bright who followed the spirit of the scripture and not the full letter of it. Others who were still developing their understanding of their relationship to light but knew nothing else beyond their devout upbringings. They were earnest but often lacked tact and experience causing awkward interactions with those outside their cultural sphere. Then there was the fourth group. The witch hunters, flagellants, and divine papals beyond reproach. It was best to avoid the fourth group.

Judging by her age and affiliation to the devout Argent Dawn it was probably safe to assume she was closer to the third group and finding out how varied the world actually was. It would probably be best to break the ice and engage her in her comfort zone.


 Thank the light we finally made it. Greetings dawn warrior. You must be our contact from the Argent Dawn and Opal Collocation. I am Jakk'ari of the Farraki. Mor'Lag, Marion, and Isaera are right behind me. It looks like you met Aleana as well. So how is our house on the hillock?

----------


## Feathersnow

"Oh great,  the Argent Dawn.  What we needed was a lightwielder.  Try to be polite" Whispers Mor.

_Wait, aren't they_ altruists_!? A_ crazy_ lightwielder, not just some priest who wanted power and decided to draw it from suspicious sources_ thinks Lag.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is none too happy at Marion's chiding. The situation was hardly her fault!  Except kind of the part where it partially was...  but still!

Not many people in Ratchet had seen her and she was still technically on the waters...   ugh, better just forget it and move on.




> "...were you planning on just walking through the town? Skipping perhaps?"


"No. I was thinking more of a sashay, or perhaps I could perform the Elven Waltz of Solidarity up the main road with Jakk'ari," she responds, equally as sardonic and indignant.

But yes. That little hullabaloo was _all behind them_ now. Isaera kept silent and to herself as they rode up the street on their wagons, at once wishing the mist Jakk'ari summoned was actually something else, something more substantial, but also hoping it wouldn't disperse at just the wrong moment.

With just the right amount of haste to dismount from the wagon, not so much to convey urgency, but just enough to promote efficacy, Isaera plops down and maintains a coy smile for their new contact, vaguely in tune with the conversation about them while moving slowly to her bags.

She waves timidly. "Yes. I am Isaera. Aleeana is my sister.."  For a moment Isaera turns to gaze off into the grasslands. "And I've no idea where she ran off to or why." She shrugs, beginning to open up one bag of her luggage, where she had placed her dress on the boat.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

=*Of hunters and church mice*=

Emilia squinted incredulously at the lithesome woman disguised as a ranger, arms still folded, mouth pressed to an unamused line. She looked pointedly at the trash dumped on their property the elf had exhausted herself over, and back at her. Yes. And no doubt these librams are much akin to chasing your other quarry then: Her tone came out as well-measured as any chapel. Junk. 

But the absence any further accusation spoke loudest to the lack of the elfs sales pitch. Schlep was a dedicated but simple peasant, from all accounts. Tricking the innocent creature into dumping stolen goods on their property, in some mistaken impression of playing porter, could easily have had any actual huckster claim tragedy that these damaged-but-still-fine items had to be sold at a much reduced rate. Two kodo-led wagons thankfully appeared at the foot of the hill, bearing personnel much closer to expectations. When the dark haired, verdant eyed supposed hunter waved a bag at them, her innocence was altogether self-evident. The incident wasnt choreographed.

The shapely expat carried on a showing of nonchalance as she donned a mint rucksack, despite the subtle shine in her eyes and undercurrent of excitement when gesturing at the tower. Emilia only frowned when the comely nuisance revealed herself Isaeras half sister, and disappeared off into the brush. _Wonderful. I now owe apology to a self-proclaimed mooch, and half-sister our arcanist at that. So it stands._  Unable to smooth out the knicks with the not-poacher for now, she cracked her neck free of tension. 

The kodo wagons still a wanting distance away, Emilia turned away from them and pulled her sword to take her measure in the reflection. Checking that her fishtail crown styled hair was very much still in place, the tabard drying nicely, the chain mail and shoulder pads not having picked up any dirt in tickling the tunnels mouth. Satisfied, she backed into the towers shade, and quietly recited the rhymes to herself again, like whispered prayers for a good first impression. 

=*On a near crowded clifftop*=

Many would be intimidated in the face of meeting a crowd of strangers, even a small one, but the youthful woman with a fishtail crown braid, polished chainmail, and a new tabard appeared eager to enter the social breech. But when the goblins gave her cue, the desert troll caught her flat-footed by speaking first. Cordially, peaceably, despite the overeager murloc and sluggish uphill crawl.  A half smile answered his prostrations of the light, doubting very much a caller of the elementals cared overmuch about the Light and Void, but the appreciation touched her eyes all the more. 

Emilia. Your liaison and requisitions officer. If you require anything to accomplish our great work of unifying creeds and cultures, as per the Opal Collocation, never tarry to ask. Any of you. Serving Azeroth with people so promising is a blessing. The others were caught in a deliberate glance before refocusing. A hand was extended to the exotic troll man that spoke common remarkably well, her grip only ever as firm as she judged he could manage.   

I will spare pelting you with questions as Chief Diplomat before you have settled, Jakkari, but how can I be of service to your other talents? The land is sterner than a warden by half, and near entirely new to me. What seeds would you need as a herbalist? How might I preserve my own Light practice, while ensuring no offence to the elements?  




> With just the right amount of haste to dismount from the wagon, not so much to convey urgency, but just enough to promote efficacy, Isaera plops down and maintains a coy smile for their new contact, vaguely in tune with the conversation about them while moving slowly to her bags.
> 
> She waves timidly. "Yes. I am Isaera. Aleeana is my sister.."  For a moment Isaera turns to gaze off into the grasslands. "And I've no idea where she ran off to or why." She shrugs, beginning to open up one bag of her luggage, where she had placed her dress on the boat.


Emilia appeared suddenly struck when Isaera was truly considered, and then stunned. Gold-spun hair, twin emeralds eyes, and an ephemeral ice dress held together by impossibly invisible string. Timid words and gentle gestures only made her seem ever more otherworldly, and entirely too likely to evaporate under the Kalimdor sun. The squire cleared her throat, as if some to reclaim herself, but only managed to fold her arms again defensively. A spectral owl gliding on invisible winds to teach her its knowledge and wisdom hadnt prepared her for a princess stepping out of dreamscape. She nodded to cloak some of the sudden awkwardness. 

Yes. Welcome. Aleeana  she is hunting. Will return, soon. 

Emilia wore a self-conscious frown now, entirely sure she sounded like she had been given elocution lessons by Schlep. She looked over at Jakkari, a novice actress seemingly floundering for lines, but started glaring at him, and then back at the strange elf of her dreams. This was not how the introductions were meant to go, and it started to feel an uphill battle to redeem herself. 

Regardless. You will _all_, She said, half-way daring them to discover otherwise. Find the tower sparsely furnished, and serviceable. The floors are interconnected by rope ladders, and the previous tenants were the Burningblade cult. Of that, a concern demands the efforts of Miss Runescape, as our Resident Arcanist, Miss Mordis, as our Expert against the Dark Arts, and I, to attend. The matter is best not approached casually, but should not require immediate investigation. A good light source is a must, as well. 

Emilias bunched shoulders and face had started to relax the more she spoke of her duties, and what she knew of them and the tower. The temptation to put her back to the enchantress for greater ease was easily parried. It was one thing to falter, quite another to intentionally add insult to it. Truly, I would be happy to help any of you with luggage. Madams Mor and Lag, as Elite Infantry, I little presume either of you require my strength. But I am available if the corridors and hatches prove constraining. Miss Mordis, I am equally available as you need. Have any of you questions?

----------


## WindStruck

"_Runescribe,_" Isaera said with a hint of annoyance. "The name is Runescribe," she repeats as she continues rummaging through her bag, pulling out a pair of dainty sandals and slipping them on as well.

The elf mutters something under her breath but appears to be saying it in another language.

*Spoiler: A high perception and Thalassian*
Show

_If she botched that I could only imagine her failing to pronounce my actual name in our language..._


"Um, I'm sorry. What demands our attention, exactly?"

Burning Blade.  Burning Blade..

"Ah. So you think there may still be a Fel presence there?"

----------


## Plaids

now this was an impressive youth standing at attention. A portrait of Emelia would have been most misleading. The fresh face devoid of any signs of misfortune or affliction and an immaculate uniform would have suggested someone freshly enrolled in training or a noble assigned a regiment seeking bolster future opportunities in statecraft. Something which could be observed in several cultures across Azeroth. 
But the respect and attentiveness she had shown was just downright charming. After all the mysterious mercenaries or bulldozing warriors on the road it was nice to see someone invested in contributing to the team and not stepping on someone else's toes. Things were looking up for Jakk'ari.

 Well, it's pretty early to skin our Zevra before we catch it. 
Considering the party Jakk'ari shortly ponders what would best serve the party.
Given Isaera's, Marion's, and recently Mor'Lag's interest in magical study perhaps there could certainly be many late nights in their future. Doubly so if there was any deliberation to be done in the future.

 Perhaps some tea plants or chiles. We will probably have some late nights in our future. 

 As for the elements don't worry about it. If you listen, you will learn in time. 

*Spoiler: Roll to detect prejudice.*
Show

 If a timeskip is going to happen soon I would like to roll for Jakk'ari seeing one of his companions caught in the act of disliking a group or individual for a reason he would not deem as being justified. I am using the awareness stat bonus. Either, Marion, Isaera, or Emelia I think. Jakk'ari knows Mor'Lag's issue with ogre clan membership but maybe not their issues with the horde (1d20+3)[*19*] Feel free to roll to contest the action. 


As Jakk'ari concludes with his encouragement he allows the others who have now come to a standstill and ready to introduce themselves. 
Seeing Emelia address Isaera first Jakk'ari quitely watches passively. Hopefully Emelias strengths would complement the elves and get Isaera to focus her impressive talents. Some of the best apprentices of the elements in Sunscar village began their journey with a friend who helped push them out of their comfort zone or confront their deficiencies. 




> JoyWonderLove:She nodded to cloak some of the sudden awkwardness.
> 
> Yes. Welcome. Aleeana  she is hunting. Will return, soon.
> 
> Emilia wore a self-conscious frown now, entirely sure she sounded like she had been given elocution lessons by Schlep. She looked over at Jakkari, a novice actress seemingly floundering for lines, but started glaring at him, and then back at the strange elf of her dreams. This was not how the introductions were meant to go, and it started to feel an uphill battle to redeem herself.
> 
> Regardless. You will all, She said, half-way daring them to discover otherwise


That was odd. Isaera's second name is Runescribe. Though such a minor mistake would correct itself over time as familiarity between party members increased. And then the change in her introductions cadance and stiff posture. Well no one was perfect. Shyness came with uncertainty and awkwardness that could come emerge in young recruits. Maybe a little of Isaera's natural gregariousness and theatricality might rub off on her.

Regardless, there was a new task at hand. Exploring the vacated tower and confirming the absence of any dangerous remnants.

 If you need a light, I can provide one. I will follow your discretion in this task.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


While the troll, the elf, the ogre and the human exchanged pleasantries, another figure watched from the shadow of a Kodo beast - Marion. 

She could _sense_ the light on her, she knew it! For months Marion had been hounded across the remnants of Lordaeron by the agents of the Silver Hand and other authorities who believed her to be in league with the Scourge (could one imagine such a ghastly thing?) or that she were a concubine of the infernal forces that had only recently been driven back from Kalimdor. That wasn't to mention the patrols of the Scarlet Crusade...

Though it was fortunate that no one had died during the arduous trek and ceaseless hounding, the experience had made Marion...less that favorable towards having someone of similar inkling lurking within her own abode, walking about while she was asleep in supposed safety. 

Marion would have to ensure the locks and fortifications for the entrance to her quarters were of the highest quality available, and Vargheist would need to be posted to sentry duty every evening _just in case_ the physical barriers proved inadequate to halt the efforts of the righteously zealous. This routine would need to continue until her absolute security against some frothing, boggle-eyed fanatic could be assured.

"The Burning Blade are fond of rituals and ceremonies..." Marion finally spoke up, her soft but firm voice penetrating the circle of conversation as the camera panned over to the human standing in the shadows, her hands clasped together authoritatively before her.

"They often use them as conduits through which they channel their affections and worship for the demons beyond our realm. They unfortunately have human elements within Lordaeron..."

_Who still inhabit my beautiful homeland_, the Warlock thought bitterly about the Argus Wake. 

"Thankfully, their practical knowledge of Demonology and skill with which they apply it to their ceremonies are amusingly basic. Thus, rituals of exorcism and cleansing should be sufficient to draw a sponge across the residual spiritual filth that such dangerous amateurs have left behind."

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera looks up from her bag and toward Marion. Her concerned countenance raises a brow, accentuated by their telltale elven length.

"There are a number of adjectives one might ascribe to the Burning Blade. But I think that typically, if one wishes to keep their head attached to their torso, they would not use the word 'amateur'..."

An ominous beat of silence. The concerning part here was Marion did not appear to be her snarky self.


"Well then! It's a good thing Jaina Proudmore recommended you, and we have a member of the Argent Dawn to watch you, I mean, watch over you..."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

"There are a number of adjectives one might ascribe to the Burning Blade. But I think that typically, if one wishes to keep their head attached to their torso, they would not use the word 'amateur'..."

"And yet I have not lost a foot in height" Marion gently returned, gesturing to her pretty head which was still very much attached to her shoulders.

"One must not mistake knowledge for lethality. The Burning Blade are dangerous, but they are a cult that attracts the detritus of society: people who did not have the dedication or skill to make something of themselves in their respective civilization's, with those few exceptional members who are worth recruiting. The result is an organization that is dangerous, but whose knowledge of The Craft among its members is the summation of a single semester for a new student: rudimentary. With a few exceptional outliers. They would have been much more successful in their schemes were their rank and file equipped with greater skill."

----------


## Plaids

OOC: While the discussion of the presumedly absent Burning Blade threatens to pivot to an exchange cushioning pride the camera zooms out. The focus remains on the three medium sized women now in a fully body shot as Jakk'ari out of focus but identifiably by silhouette briefly interjects. Having seen an opportunity to speak after Marion's contribution on the subject of the cult who had vacated their new headquarters. 




> With a few exceptional outliers. They would have been much more successful in their schemes were their rank and file equipped with greater skill."


  Well that's good to hear. Sounds like the Burning Blade couldn't hold a candle to what we've faced. If you find anyone still hanging around try to leave them in one piece for me, you three. I'll be taking taking the luggage inside and unpacking my things if you don't need me. 
Mor'Lag? Are you going to unpack or go after those "Burnt Butter Knives"?


Jakk'ari begins assessing the currently luggage discerning which casing belonged to who and which may have the most fragile contents.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

My apologies, Miss Runescribe. I  am unused to being enchanted. 
 Her arms remained crossed as Emilia became more centred. After a pause, she added. Your tailor truly is exceptional. Though I am rarely fond of dresses, your garment is nothing shy of unique. We might well have need of such immense talent when it comes time to produce guild uniforms. Who created it? We might be able to negotiate a deal in bulk, when more established. Although that single piece alone appears a small fortune. 

Removing a now even gaze from the body of work, and thankful years around Claudia and her mother  both far more deft hands at saving face and politicking than her as the youngest  had not been entirely squandered, Emilia watched as a disagreement brewed between their warlock and arcanist. Her frown returned, and she found they came easier even after escaping Lordaeron. Her betrothed, as it was a touch right to still claim Eric, had already kindly chided her before that the lost northern continent had taken entirely too much from entirely too many, and not to let it steal more. The paladin interjected when there was a lull in the disagreement between them. 

There was once a saying among the Silver Hand: beware the judge, but behold the jury. Emilia stated, mostly to Isaera. Miss Mordis would not be present, were she a threat to the Opal Collocation mission, or its personnel. Indeed, her outward integrity, deep knowledge on overcoming the fel, and noble etiquette besides, have altogether been laudable enough that she was invited to help bring forward an Azeroth-wide, just and fair society. I need not watch her any more than I might any of you. 

Emilia weighed the warlock openly on that note. Still, Miss Runescribe is well noted for her skill in investigation, and the blood of Daeden and  are said to flow strongly besides. She is easily as qualified as I am, if not more so, to raise concern when your chosen albatross weigh entirely too heavily. Do not hesitate to turn to us when creatures born and shaped of malice and Void behalf precisely like it. Regardless of whatever _The Craft_ proclaims of itself, as your fellow guild leaders, we are each of us, still your best choice for a just society. 

The half-smile returned, if at a struggle. Which brings us to my earlier request: There is a tunnel system below the tower. It has nothing of natural or esoteric light to guide by, and escaped my due diligence for it. Even after all this time, there might well be a lingering fel influence, by way of rituals, and only the foolish attempt to build castles on shaky foundations. I would have us find a light source today, and ensure all is as it should be. There is some sense in doing so before rooms are fully chosen and settled, but I appreciate we have all of one location for a headquarters, and your journey was long. Jakkari, allow me to help. 

With that, the paladin unfolded her arms and set about helping with luggage, asking who had a preference for which room. She little hesitated to state she preferred one on the highest floor. 

*Spoiler: actions*
Show

Go and help with luggage, and later on organise with others to get a light source and check out the tunnel below.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera smiled, an air of mirth upon her face. "You have already spoken to the tailor of this outfit. However, I fear it does not sustain itself for very long, and I would not recommend it for mass production, nor uniforms..."

The slight elf grabs just one of her bags, either content to let others carry the rest for her, or, well, she'll get around to carrying them one at a time. "All the more reason to change out of it and don some more.. normal attire. I would have to see the rooms before I feel like I could choose any. I am sure they are _most comfortable_," she says dryly, now some doubt certainly in her voice.

"But for now, I suppose any will do, if only to put our things inside and have a few moments alone."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


"There was once a saying among the Silver Hand: beware the judge, but behold the jury. Miss Mordis would not be present, were she a threat to the Opal Collocation mission, or its personnel. Indeed, her outward integrity, deep knowledge on overcoming the fel, and noble etiquette besides, have altogether been laudable enough that she was invited to help bring forward an Azeroth-wide, just and fair society. I need not watch her any more than I might any of you."


_A likely story_, Marion thought to herself cynically. 

Still, Miss Runescribe is well noted for her skill in investigation, and the blood of Daeden and are said to flow strongly besides. She is easily as qualified as I am, if not more so, to raise concern when your chosen albatross weigh entirely too heavily. Do not hesitate to turn to us when creatures born and shaped of malice and Void behalf precisely like it. Regardless of whatever The Craft proclaims of itself, as your fellow guild leaders, we are each of us, still your best choice for a just society.

"It's _we_ already?" Marion asked, "Knights of the Silver Hand _do_ move quickly, as they say."

The Warlock was already carrying all the luggage she had in a backpack that was slung over her shoulders. The material seemed stretched and bulging, doubtless containing a mixture of clothes, books, a little bit of food and...something else? Whatever was deforming that rugged material also made its presence felt in its train upon Marions back, as the Warlock would periodically grit her teeth as she drew the straps back up around her shoulders, sometimes even holding them there manually with her hands, lest they slip and her possessions clatter across the floor. Her sandy-golden hair as pulled back into a soft ponytail while her eyes peered out from beneath the cowl of her coat that protected her skin from the harsh touch of this blasted sun. Stepping forward, Marion made a move to enter the tower. 

"Let us take a look at this place then, shall we?" she asked, venturing forth.

----------


## Plaids

The keep all things considered was quite nice at first glance. Sturdy floors, stones and tile absent of large chips and cracks, and a manageable amount dust and soot. Certainly, would disappoint a disappoint a paladin who were keen on maintaining immaculate sanctums but quite comfortable for this shaman. Once unpacking commenced a steady rhythm formed alongside the comfort of handling and situating familiar objects. A bandolier of spices here, effigies of the four cardinal elements there, and a crude table in the freshly swept corner. 

After establishing a comfortable corner for himself Jakk'ari turns to his companions first spotting Marion. The young woman had brought more than Jakk'ari causing a more burdensome load to be hefted inside. That along with her hood seemed to be causing some sweat along her brow. Once she lowers her luggage Jakk'ari begins their conversation. 

 "Looks like you brought your fair share of items. Anyway, what do you think of this place? A bit dusty and worn but a decent place provided the previous tenants didn't leave us anything. You handled yourself well on the ship. You didn't get sick, and the men didn't sweep you off your feet. " 

The young woman had likely spent a fair amount sailing. Likely as a passenger given the lack of callouses on her hands. 
After the small talk Jakk'ari proceeds to his request. The real subject of his discussion.

 " Well, I have a request for you. Since I probably can't do it all on my own. It's about Emelia. I've seen some of your spells and you might get antsy around a light wielder who might bring down the hammer. But I think we have a fresh-faced greenhorn groomed since their first lesson to command.  I wouldn't be asking you this if I thought you couldn't do it. But if you have the time could you help show Emelia the ropes? You saw her start to stutter once we all approached her right? I've seen young trolls in position before, groomed by their elders to command, they're confident but once it's time to lead they can quickly become doubtful, overwhelmed, and withdrawn. I think she could learn a lot from you, and you could learn something from her too. I ... also don't want a repeat of what happened with Felix." 

Jakk'ari breaks eye contact briefly his eyes darting the corners of his eyes as he remembers his time with Felix on the battlefield.

 "So, can I count on you? " 


*Spoiler: OOC Request summary*
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 Hey what do you think of this abandoned cultist compound? Pretty good right? I know you might be suspicious of this new person but I think she's alright. Could you please be a good older sibling and watch her back?
Note: Jakk'ari is not aware of Emelia's crush on Isaera or Marion's suspicion of Emelia but is making an assumption on the later given the spells he has seen Marion cast.

----------


## MrAbdiel

After introductions are made and belongings hauled inside, the goblins take their kodos and head off back down the slope to the town proper.  Most of the party gets their first chance to really once-over the tower's interior.

There is one large room on the ground level suitable for a private quarters, in addition to some reasonably open living space, the crusty remnants of a potbelly stove, and the ghosts of ambitions to have some semblance of dining and common area.  The private room here is an easy give to Mor'Lag for their own for one reason: the ladder and hatch that leads up to the second and third floors will simply not accommodate a creature of her size.  Until there is redress, the ogress is unlikely to progress toward the roof access.  The second and third floors are identical plans - a cross-shaped corridor intersection with four corner rooms.  The ladders and hatches are all settled against the south wall at the end of that terminus of the intersection; the pipe of the stove, with its theoretical promise of a little comfort-heating on cold nights, is settled against the north wall's end.  This makes the rooms on the north-east and north-west corners of both floors the ideal choices for rooms for the rest of the party - though there's nothing stopping them from seizing on the 'colder' rooms on those levels, and leaving the others for alternative function.  With a little furniture and creativity, these rooms are liveable.  And with a little more, the rest of the space in the tower may well become useful too.

Before this, the party makes its expedition to the cave below.  This, too, is a journey forbidden to Mor'Lag - the rope ladder will certainly not take her weight, even if she can make the uncomfortable, claustrophobic squeeze down into the darkness.  Yet it turns out, fortunately for everyone involved, she was not required.

With a fluttering  aura of elemental motes gently orbiting them like fireflies glowing in the gloom, the rest of the party descends down a hundred yards of rope ladder secured to the walls by heavy pitons every twenty feet.  From the bottom, the shaft turns into a south-east-eastward tunnel for another two hundred yards in perfect black over uneven rocky floors until finally it opens into a darkstone cavern with a crummy old jetty and numerous burned-out lanterns in wall sconces.  There might once have been fel magic conducted in this place - Marion's attuned senses follow the faint scent of it to a place where all four of their disciplines - arcane, shamanistic, lightweilder and fel-handler - report the kind of muted signs of a scarred magical essence.  But those rituals are long gone.  The Theramore marines did a good enough job dismantling this den, leaving only the odd wax-drop from confiscated ceremonial candles and some stained rocks where the spilled blood cannot be easilly chipped away - things that are spooky, but not demonic.  It seems what you have is a private bay, even if it's in bad repair, and you could not launch more than a rowboat or one with a collapsible mast from such a low ceiling.  As you watch, a large red snapper lunges from the water, tries to eat one of the elemental mote 'fireflies', and then splashes back into the water, hungry and confused.  After a thorough inspection, nothing more dangerous than that fish presents itself to you.

The next three weeks pass swiftly, with everyone set to their own work establishing their rooms, pursuing their own goals in the city, becoming acclimated to the dryer, warmer Barrens, and making their inputs into the development of the tower.  After it's decided they can afford a number of staff members, no less than ten individuals of varying backgrounds present themselves to be considered for the direct employ of the Opal Collocation.  Some are familiar faces; some are very odd faces indeed.  But after protracted discussion on the matter, and several nights of negotiation, the long-term image of the Opal Collocation's Ratchet branch begins to take shape...

*Spoiler: OOC!*
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Alright, gang.  Time to do a couple of things: settle on that those 3BP for the base will be used on, and give us a post describing what your character gets up to in the next three weeks.  Training, schmoozing, recruiting manufacturers for a burgeoning bug-repellant empire - anything's possible. 
 During this time you end up recruiting your staff too, but they're already picked and set, so they're good to go.  If there's anything you want to do in the downtime that you think might need a roll, go ahead and roll; but this is a bit of a narrative interlude, so I'm unlikely to sweat it unless you're really swinging!

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari's and Marion's discussion ends not with a plan or tangible product but something just as important. A promise to help the newest addition in the party. For now that was enough, plus if someone began slouching there would be precedent for nagging reminders if need be. 

The state of the new headquarters now took priority. The yard was decent if viewed from the front a tall grass lawn with shrubbery dispersed about. But a walk around the perimeter revealed hastily placed bricks and lumber too worn to be considered worthy of being salvaged. The rooms were fine though they would need to be furnished. Then was the hiring of staff. Now it was time to get busy.

*Spoiler: three-week montage actions*
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I don't know if all of these can be done but here is what Jakk'ari will at least attempt. I'll beautify the post later. I divided Jakk'ari's actions projects between guild actions and personal actions. It looks like we are just going with whatever system you want so long as it follows a pattern that could be easily replicated by another player.

Week 1: 
Guild: Start building the guild facilities with a focus on the herb garden. Hopefully a guild staff member can help him with that.
Personal: Try to mentor Emelia by giving some leadership tips and pointers on elemental shamanism. Jakk'ari is glad to mentor or help anyone else if they want.

Week 2:
Guild: Begin interviewing new hires. Accompany candidates on creative interview tasks. Such as taking them out to a restaurant and observe. Do they order alcohol before 1PM, order the most expensive or cheapest thing, do they treat waiters well? Or go shooting arrows at clay pigeons.
Personal: Try to contact Sun Scar village whether it be by messenger pigeon, crystal ball, or fox person caravan. So long as he doesn't have to leave town himself.

Week 3:
Guild: Go into town to build a good repour with the locals and gather rumors. If possible, the destination would be the nearest gambling den to play a bit but most importantly learn how the town operates and gather some rumors and street knowlege. If any time remains, then the new hires will be brought up to speed by Jakk'ari.
Personal: Try to find out where the local trolls hang out to try ease the homesickness. Jakk'ari doesn't know where they are, but he will investiagate.

Feel free to roll or decide the outcomes of the events. Each one of these could have negative consequences, positive ones, or minimal effect on Jakk'ari and the guild.

Some basic herbs would include but are not limited to the following. Maybe some blood clot promoting herbs for healing like yarrow, some aromatic herbs like lavender for ritual offerings, some tea herbs like ginger, and cooking herbs like garlic.
Jakk'ari will be taking one of the warmer rooms on the first floor if possible.

Still planning on updating to justify where the 4 character points end up.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

Emilia levelled an arched brow at the warlock seemingly challenging the notion of a unified guild, a _we_. The warlock was odd, as all their kind had to be, but this one had an awkward withdrawal for a crime unproven one moment, a flowing confidence when talking about her speciality the next, and an unusual cattiness not long after. One swipe at a left spaulder answered it all, as though batting off an unpleasant stain on otherwise polished armour, and Emilia turned away. The luggage needed moving and the paladin lacked an interest in touching the emotional ones just yet. 

*Spoiler: tl;dr 3 Week Plan*
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*Spoiler: on duty*
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Emilia essentially is keen on three things. Doing justice to the mission she accepted (and by extension the Argent Dawn), doing justice to the duties she accepted for that mission, and doing justice generally in the world itself. She accomplishes this through certain actions.  

*Actions*,

1) Emilia wakes very early, and works six days a week for the Guild. After exercise/reading/prayer, she tolerates making coffee, herbal tea (whatever is available), and a quick breakfast (Cooking 15) for everyone; one that roughly appeals to such different palates as sand dune diplomat, airy fairy princess, bratty bookworm, and the Mountain That Grinds. So porridge, with various fruit pieces cut up into it, vanilla and honey and whatever else is healthy and adds flavour. This is offered daily (except her rest day) because they only have one stove and an army marches on its appetites.

2) Emilia, as a first order of business, (and she is not shy about being the one to call a 10 minute meetings after breakfast; if anyone listens is another concern) restates what the Opals mission is, what her rank as liaison and requisitions officer entails broadly, and asks all of them what items, connections, or hobby supporting actions you might need, from her, to make their guild a lasting success. She then prioritises getting anything semi-reasonable (& Inscription ink for herself) after.  The point that the guild name sucks, and to consider ideas to vote on by the end of the month, is also raised. 

3) Emilia defers to Jakkari in this, but she wants to do a charm campaign on Rachet. She first writes calligraphy-esque letters to thank relevant people for the welcome (Inscription: 20 to make them all something and slip that into their envelope as well). Thank Gazlowe for the well-organised welcome, Kerwin & such for the wagon journey, Scuttleswipe for taking care of the tower, and Schlep for the enthusiastic porter service. Well-Informed to guess what they might like. So on. 

3b) Second, she writes to the major businesses (Well Informed Routine Check: 20+) to raise the guilds reputation in the local area. This including details about what their guilds goal is, when they intend to become operational, and know which of a list of times and days are agreeable to discuss how what the Opal Collocation is trying to achieve can benefit both sides. Depending on response (say if the Blacksmith writes back they could really use an Enchanter, the information could be passed on to Isaera, if an architect is needed, then Marion) we can coordinate from there. 

4) For face to face meetings that require her, Emilia typically defers to Jakkari as the Chief Diplomat, and largely supports him before (Well Informed), during (Persuasion + Teamwork) and after (Inscription to write another letter, if appropriate). But her ambition insists she signs most letters (first name and assumed rank) and is present for meetings with anyone seemingly important.

5) In town, Emilia personally tries to build ties with the Lawbringers (or any official guard type organisation), local farmers (these people are going to give cheap ingredients for breakfast so) and the local Chapel. She also gathers information in town about any Burningblade movements (Investigation: 20+ so I can get Specific information) and reaches out for a mentor in sword work and strategy (hmmm, who could that be?), to qualify for higher Argent Dawn ranks.

6) Emilia also tries to get an Inscription going on her fellow guild leaders and fighters armour (citing that the Opal have too many high profile backers not to have its equal in enemies), but she only offers weapon inscriptions for the fighters (MorLag, herself, Felix, purple pointy ears lady).  

 

*Spoiler: Night time*
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To make up to Aleeana (Persuasion check *15*), an offer to cook whatever might be caught on the first day is offered, so she and her sister can enjoy it. If they accept, her Cooking *15* is a Tough result to match. After that, feeling the debt paid off, shes uninterested in cooking further for _anyone_ at night, unless the poacher (whom she occasionally calls exactly that, or ranger-mooch, because who even crashes in their sisters room more than once when Rachet is right there seriously come on) gathers enough for the group itself, and sometimes not even then. 

Otherwise, she spends her evenings alone in her room, tinkering with how to make the best alcohol concoctions she can, or shes outside improving sword play / with a teacher, or shes reading on Light work (no teacher yet?). She is generally uninterested in talking with guild leaders beyond work or self-improvement, it seems. 
 

*Spoiler: Three Days Off, aka What Happens in Rachet...*
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Emilia has a sacrosanct day off every week! Only emergencies or paladin sense pinging can change it. She does not make anyone breakfast. Work related questions are ignored and told to slid a letter request under her door for tomorrow, unless its an emergency. She spends time in town, by herself, and only ever wearing casual or noble worthy but impartial attire thats fairly masculine or unisex. Because shut up.  :Small Smile:  

A good breakfast or afternoon restaurant with refillable drinks (and I dont mean sparkling water) is a must, much like an afternoon trip to the local chapel / Light service. Then in the afternoon or evening something interesting! Watching gladiator arena fights, horseback riding lessons, war art gallery, more drinks; this is her style. In the evening, shell normally stay in town overnight. For one thing, stumbling to the guild drunk looks bad. For another, she might have company she doesnt care to reveal to guild leaders. A flimsy line between private and personal, but it exists. 

[b]Week 1[b/], 1st Saturday evening rest day, she gets into a physical fight in town:

(1d3)[*3*]
1) That she started, because what kind of idiot spills my drink when youre not even drunk yourself. 
2) That she innocently defended herself in, as the bartender will agree. 
3) That witnesses insist no one was innocent in. 

In the end:

(1d3)[*3*]
1) She introduced her assailant to the business end of a longsword and sobered up in a jail cell, because Rachet gets enough of this crap already. 
2) She persuaded authorities that its unjust for her to be jailed, as she honestly believed her assailant hurt themselves more than she hurt them. 
3) She took a pretty ugly injury that demanded the attention of a healer ASAP, so a jail cell option got written off for her. 

*Week 2*, 2nd evening rest day, she met someone into her in town:

(1d3)[*2*] 
1) That she met at the gladiator arena viewing, and then there were a lot of drinks. 
2) That she met at the local Light chapel, and then there were a lot of drinks.
3) That she met at a museum showcasing Alliance pieces, and then there were a lot of drinks. 

In the end:

(1d3)[*2*] 
1) Her paramour was only passing through Rachet, and disappeared in the morning. Oh well.
2) Is local, but is probably uninterested in anything long term or serious? Cant remember much.
3) Was mysterious about the whole thing, which was part of the appeal. Dont ask, dont tell. 

* Week 3*, 3nd evening rest day, her ambition really rears its head in the wrong way:

(1d3)[*2*]
1) She forgoes her rest day and decides to overwork. Inscriptions, cooking, training, everything!
2) Writes a concise letter to her parents stating where she is, what her assumed rank is, all the stupid decisions THEY made, and how high shell soar without even a single favour from them. Count it. 
3) Attempts to learn a technique from her mentor thats way above her current level, because dont baby me and stop stringing this out you money-grubbing coward lets get to the actual lessons. 

In the end:

(1d1)[*1*] 
1, 2 & 3) If above is 1, she collapses and is effectively useless to anyone for a day afterwards. If above is 2, she gets a sinking feeling in her soul but now knows she really needs to make this all work out. If above is 3, she takes an injury that puts her training back a week at least without a healer, and thats with the mentor going exceptionally easy on her, but being rather annoyed.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag is overjoyed, her own room!  She decorates her room, making it warm and cozy.

That accomplished,  she starts trying to study to be a mage in between brewing potions.  She studies the garden for what is on offer to make potions with.  Her magical studies focus on mastering the two spells she knows, "defenestration punch" and "counterspell"

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


"Looks like you brought your fair share of items. Anyway, what do you think of this place? A bit dusty and worn but a decent place provided the previous tenants didn't leave us anything. You handled yourself well on the ship. You didn't get sick, and the men didn't sweep you off your feet. "

Marion had to crane her head back to peer up at the towering troll. Hunched though he was, he still loomed above the shorter human woman. 

"Upon this rock we shall build our church," she gestured to their surroundings, an implication of approval. 

"However, you give me too much credit. I endured a long voyage to travel from Lordaeron to Kalimdor, so it was fortunate that I was already accustomed to both the awkward motion of the oceans, and the cheeky attitudes of sailors," she smiled.

" Well, I have a request for you. Since I probably can't do it all on my own. It's about Emelia. I've seen some of your spells and you might get antsy around a light wielder who might bring down the hammer. But I think we have a fresh-faced greenhorn groomed since their first lesson to command. I wouldn't be asking you this if I thought you couldn't do it. But if you have the time could you help show Emelia the ropes? You saw her start to stutter once we all approached her right? I've seen young trolls in position before, groomed by their elders to command, they're confident but once it's time to lead they can quickly become doubtful, overwhelmed, and withdrawn. I think she could learn a lot from you, and you could learn something from her too. I ... also don't want a repeat of what happened with Felix. So, can I count on you? "

It was quite a request. But Marion could understand Jakk'ari's apprehension at allowing a head-strong and eager but rather green newcomer to seize any position of authority without having first had their mettle tested by the best teacher of all: experience. 

"Have you ever had dealings with the Paladins before? The 'Knights of the Silver Hand'? They were among the saviours of my people during the Second War. Their inspiring leadership, the combination of martial prowess and connection to the Light made many of them household heroes, capable of both smiting orc and healing the injured in equal measure. When the Scourge blighted our lands, the Paladins once again rose to the occasion. For one who has not experienced the Scourge bloating out within their homeland...watching what they _do_ to whole regions...you have _no_ idea..."

Marion seemed to zone out for a second, her eyes staring off into the distance as if reliving some mind-grasping reality that only she could see. It took several seconds before she composed herself, exhaling and squaring her shoulders to return the trolls attention.

"Were it not for them one could argue that the whole of the northern continent of the Eastern Kingdoms would have been enthralled to the will of the Lich King, and by extension, the world itself would have little hope of resistance."

Marion allowed a pregnant pause to linger so that Jakk'ari could process everything she had just said. 

"There was another branch of Paladins that..." Marion trails off, biting her bottom lip as she looked aside, her mind once again traversing in unknown fields as she considered her next words. "No, never mind. They are irrelevant to us."

Composing herself, "Emelia carries that legacy with her. It will inspire her to great heights, but it will also lure her into arrogance. My dealings with the Paladins has been...less than charitable. But as much as I despised their mindless harassment, I can remove my own ego from the equation to view their existence within the Alliance as one of necessity, for whom my race owes its very survival."

Marrion pursed her lips, her green eyes bright beneath the cowl of her hood. 

"Great heights. Great arrogance. I can try to guide her hand, but I can make no guarantee that she will listen."


oOo
Perhaps to no ones surprise, Marion claimed the upper most room available in the tower, the one that was, ironically, closest to the sky. The attic, if you will. The spiralling staircase that drew one up into the floor was sealed off with ritualistic magic at its upper most peak, ensuring only those who were invited or permitted were able to enter the highest summit of the Opal's residence. 

The first week passed with little oddity, relatively speaking. Marion would emerge from her cave carrying soft bags under her eyes and a tiredness to her gait - a fatigue that seemed to catch even the body of a teenager, who should be brimming with energy. Those below the attic would hear little disturbance from the fel user, save the occasional laughter through the floorboards or the whirring of...mechanical devices?

It was the second week that affairs became peculiar. Marion herself was unseen during this period, her image gracing no ones sight save that of the seemingly endless stream of goblin couriers that hurried up and down the stair case. One almost felt sorry for the little deliverymen, as their frames were dwarfed and weighed down by the hefty boxes that they carried, each balsa-wood cube brandished with insignia's from the Steamwheedle Company, the Venture Co and even producers situated in the far-flung dwarven capital of Ironforge. 

And then came the sounds. The..._odd_ sounds that were muffled by the floorboards but nevertheless distinct in their origin from the attic of the tower. 

A laughter here. A distant "Yes!" there. On one particularly stormy evening one might have sworn that a lightning bolt had arched itself through a hole in the ceiling only to be captured by some arcane capacitor to the great delight of its creator. But surely such flights of fantasy were locked within the realm of wild imagination...

By the third week, Marion finally re-appeared among her colleagues. She had retained a distinct, aristocratic grooming, but those bags under her eyes had darkened and the energy with which she moved seemed...unnatural, driven almost by chemical stimulant rather than the natural exuberance of youth and excitement. Nevetheless, sunken though her eyes were they were remarkably alert. 

As usual, Marion barely moved beyond the staircase that would lead one up to her elevated enclave. She received meals from those who would bring it, graciously thanking them, but little else. Instead she spent her time speaking to goblins of unknown identity, their connection to the outside world carried only in the insignia's that were worn upon their uniforms. 

For those of a curious and eavesdropping inclination, scant collections of the warlocks conversation could be collected....

"Yes...yes...a production capacity of a thousand a week for now, and quadruple that after I streamline manufacturing methods...no....yes....no...no...no...no! Nothing less than 60%...I don't care, wish him all the best trying to mine deep into Stranglethorn without my creation..."

Soon, crates started to be carried _out_ of the attic, not into it. Packaged boxes once more dwarfed the goblins carrying them, but each one bore a new logo, one that had not yet been seen, its imagery accompanied by a simple font stencil above its declaration - "Mordis". 

*Spoiler*
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----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Dream, concluded.*
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> 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.


The  powerful, accomplished Chief Ukorz tilts his face forward, and watches you intently through the tops of his eyes while you speaks.  There is something restless and mighty within the Chief's blood and spirit; that cant be denied.  But it was not entirely beyond reason.  And you are a man of reason, as much as an agent of the elements.




> 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 encompassing the entire world. We are too few and must share our tenacity to overcome this threat.


The High Chieftains eyes remain focused on the you.  They do not grow hot with anger; and that might be as good as a spoken concession, in such a volatile and potent ruler.  Youre speaking the truth - the Farraki _are_ too few, and no amount of jingoism or fury would make up for that.  The age of trollish power is gone; a weapon of a forgotten age, buried in the indifferent sands.

Chief Sasani, arms folded beneath her chest, listens to the you in turn; her gaze lighter, more open, and appreciably pragmatic.




> 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.


Her brow furrows a little.  Its clear her feeling of kinship with the Horde leads her to believe they have certain traits she would consider noble.  Still - the margin for error in such decisions, considering how few and scattered their villages, was so slim that an abundance of caution was not unwise counsel.  She looks, atleast, willing to entertain alternatives.




> 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.


This recitation - part of an ancient poem penned by an unknown Farakki - is known by all such sand trolls.  Its stanzas have a familiar and useful formula for teaching early wisdom to children.  Tradition versus adaptation; order versus chaos.  Sophisticated discussions always come down on deciding what is a matter of style and what is a matter of principle; but in this lodge of meeting, in the quiet that follows your words as the flames are released to crackle and pop again, it seems you have been permitted to draw that line with credibility.


High Chieftain Ukorz breaks the silence, first with the clicking of the bone in one muscular shoulder he rolls as he straightens up on his bench, then with his weighty voice.  *I like ya new Sandspeaker, Hajarra.  He got guts, but enough respect I ardly feel incline to see dem.*

As Ukorz appears to cede some ground to you, you cant help but notice your opposite number by Ukorz side, Shiaha Stonecaller, look discomforted.  In that moment, you detect that for whatever Ukorzs personal hubris, he is having that flaw magnified by bad advice - advice you have just undercut - and the advisor in question isnt particularly pleased to be reduced.  Nothing comes of it in the meeting - this is a meeting of Chiefs, after all - but you dont forget the look on her face; the look of mild but real annoyance one gives a bug that has bitten with its tiny jaws, but inflicted an outsized ache with previously hidden venom.

_Im not convinced we can reason with dragons, or elves, any more than the demons, Jakkari.  But I got no rush.  Orgimmar will be there tomorrow, and the day after._

With Hajarras admission, you have the tentative backing of all three chiefs.  Its no solution to the problem, but its all you could ever have hoped for: an opportunity to prove that there is a future for people that does not lie in a miraculous victory and the rebirth of a dead empire which, for all its glory, is so far inferior to the possibility you know lies in the hearts of your people.

The discussion rolls on to other things, then.  Joint patrols on the roads to ward off the Dunemaul.  The renewal of the exchange of meager goods between the coalitions of north, south, and eastern troll villages.  Those conversations, you do not remember clearly.  They hardly mattered; and your head was so full of the music of possibility, you couldnt have contributed much to them if you wanted to.

You do, however, remember Lashanah embracing you after the lodge is over and packed away.  She knows what this means.  Your duty to your people is going to take you far from home; but no other Farraki can do what you are going to try to do.

_You doin a good thing, Jakkari.  You doin a righteous thing.  You come home when you can; we be here when you do._

Lashanah can be a spitfire when she wants to, and you had mostly suspected her to take the opportunity here.  Its an opportunity to feign a threat about what shell do to you if you wander off north and find some Darkspear floozy, for example; or to warn you off filing down your tusks and trying to blend in with the Kaldorei, in Auberdine.  But shes quiet and serious now, and every word she has for you is full of direct encouragement and faith in your mission.

She speaks to you like a woman speaks to a husband she fears she will never see again.  It breaks your heart.  But the only way to overcome that fear is to go, do what you must do, and come back again; and after she has gone to sleep that night, you spend hours in a kneeling bow, fingers curled into the sand of Tanaris, asking the spirits to prepare your way to your destiny - and to prepare the way back, once the work is done, and your people are a truly safe.

It would be two years before you saw your wifes face again.

*Spoiler: OOC: Hey!*
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I went to post, and I realized I never concluded Jakk'ari's dream! :O and when I went to rectify my error, I wrote until I realized it was 11:30.  So the round up post is still coming; it'll just come tomorrow. Thanks for your patience, friends. :)

----------


## MrAbdiel

Three Weeks Pass...

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari*
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Jakk'ari invests his time diligently in the preparation and advancement of their group, and its purpose; preparing the garden by hand with seeds he has himself collected on his varied travels, contributing heavilly to interviews and discussions with the candidates the group interviews to join their staff, and securing social inroads within the town itself.  As the group's only Kalimdor native, he has a degree of natural success that comes from preloaded familiarity.  In embarking on this operation, he finds his most natural ally within the group, interestingly enough, to be Emilia. 
 For their own reasons, each of them is heavilly invested in the success of this chapter of the Opal Collocation and its mission; and the young human paladin, and older sand troll shaman rapidly become a cooperative engine for guild interests especially when they require a degree of personal sacrifice. 
 And both, amusingly enough, have personal skill in the culinary arts - though Emilia is likely to find the troll's palate to be eye-poppingly different from her own.*Spoiler: Side Scene - Soil and Toil*
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You watch in quiet appreciation and amazement as the murloc, Schlep, works with almost frenetic enthusiasm in the garden.  There is no economy to his movements.  His limbs are clearly made by whatever natural force produced such strange creatures to operate mostly in water.  But with a full body commitment to the task, an almost inexhaustible love for labor, and his janky marionette movements, you watch him rapidly rip out a row of weeds and hoe a furrow in the garden for you to scatter some goldenthorn seeds.  He drops the hoe at the moment of his success and runs over to you; big, googly eyes and mouth full of saw teeth communicating a request that is almost canine in its intuitive simplicity.  You oblige, and the unseen water spirit you coaxed up from the sea earlier the morning spritzes the murloc with a sudden, intense deluge; moistening his scales to their healthy green shine.  Schlep is delighted, as he always is when you save him a trip back to the water and up the hill again.  He releases a blurt of sound that is entirely composed of uvulated consonants, and bounces around in a goofy, celebratory jig on the spot; heel-and-toeing and flicking water over you, and everwhere else.  Then he's off again, seizing a nearby rake and wildly scraping up the pulled weeds for disposal.

Everything is going quite well, to your assessment.  The tower is well into development to a fully functional guild building; the new staff are falling into their roles; and all of your companions seem to have found their own rhythms.  You'd hoped to have heard from Zachary by now; but you trust the ranger is carrying on his investigation.  But the best news of the day comes on the wind; a southerly gust that comes to you and whispers in the voice of the breeze.

_"Noble Farraki - the air honors you.  I fly south today, swift and high over the clouds; and my kin, who rush and blow, tell me you have longed to send words to your kin in the land of sand and the whirling ones.  My wake will take leaf, and dust as I go; but use your mortal-magic to flatten your words, and I will carry them where you bid also."_

Your heart leaps.  It's proven easy enough to find couriers willing to run messages to Gadgetzhan, but it's always been difficult to get anyone reliable to go out into the sands looking for a troll village.  It's taken you a week and some to win over some of the Darkspear trolls in Ratchet to trusting you; but most people's experience with sand trolls are second hand accounts of cannibals jumping goblin convoys in the desert - a half-truth, at best.  But today's the second anniversary of your departure from Sunscar village - it's achingly fitting that on this day, your first genuine chance to communicate with your family, and your chief, in months.  What will they think, you wonder, when you tell them where you are, and the opportunities before you?



*Spoiler: Emilia*
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Emilia wastes no time putting her shoulder to the tasks involved in establishing the guild's footing in the civil web of the trading town, operating in intuitive tandem with Jakk'ari.  She calls the first official meeting to order, and most of those that happen after; but manages to do so with a grace that makes her seem more self appointed secretary and keeper of minutes than unanointed autocrat.  Her skilful pen hand dispatches a fleet of letters of introduction to just about every significant business and political operator in the town. 
 She drafts the recruitment posters that bring in the applicants for the interviews, and is rarely caught idle outside of her clearly delineated day off from active work.  She scribes out a number of what inscibers call _anaphorae_; discrete repeated phrases and syllables that are set onto armor or garments in subtle places like the insides of pockets or the inside of a gorget, serving as the activation basis for modular inscriptions applied at another time based on need.  She even succeeds in her gambit to mend the rift between herself an Aleeana - although as it turns out, Aleeana hadn't taken their mildly clashing introduction to heart, and enjoys a belly laugh of incredulity when the paladin comes to her that evening with an attitude of cautious reparation.  But the elves, and everyone else, benefits from Emilia's willingness to cook up the 'small' plainstrider Aleeana hauls back on the first night.  Emilia has never cooked one before - but with Jakk'ari whipping up some stuffing for the bird and assuring her it'll cook just like a giant turkey, the first night's meal together as a guild goes off without a hitch; bellies full of roast bird, sitting on the cliff's edge and watching the lights in the town below come on as the sun vanishes into the savannah horizon behind them.*Spoiler: Side Scene - Time Off*
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Everything's going as well as it can in the guild.  That, at least, you can take pride in.  Because on your off days, you haven't done much you were proud of.  Your first rest day in Ratchet, you started the night at the _Broken Keel_, but ended up drifting at some point from that reputable establishment to a pub occupied mostly by Alliance types called the _Frisky Duke_.  It's a more familiar setting - decorated with paintings from the eastern kingdoms, and furniture in the human style; with a pretence of noble snobbery that is either parody or imitation of true class, with its stained old-wood chairs around the fireplace in addition to a conventional bar.  A human girl, about your age, shared a drink with you there after you were several cups in already.  You talked about... Something.  You remember the folksy Westfall accent, and the black ponytail to keep her hair neatly back, a little lower than your own.  But she said something, or you said something, and before you know it, the situation with someone who might have easily been your first friend in Kalimdor has become so violent that you're throwing hands and breaking tables.  Witnesses to the conflict can't agree on who said which particular vulgarity, but any arrangement of the facts produces a bad picture for both parties.  And you would have won, handilly; you had the physical power over her that became clear early as she reeled back from your connecting blows, and you shrugged off hers.  But then, with the thoughtless and desperate instinct of a creature backed into a corner, she smashed a vase of paper apple blossoms and rammed the jagged sump under your guard and just inside the tip of your highest floating rib.  Your opponent, slurring remorsefully, accompanied you along with a party of tipsy good samaritans to another building in the city, where a priestess you barely remember saved your life, and turned a mortal gut wound full of broken glass into a light, but noticable scar.  As you made eggs for the guild that morning, bandaged and aching and hung over, you told yourself, for sure this time: _never again_.

So how the fel did _this_ happen?

You're banned from _Frisky Duke_, but you wake up to the malicious sunbeams of the Kalimdor dawn blooming through the window of a room you apparently got at the _Broken Keel._ 
 In a couple of hours, you'll need to be back at the guild making breakfast.  But you're not alone.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing up her leather breaches, is your partner for two very different evenings now.  With the punishing clarity of sobriety, you can see she's far more fit than you gave her credit for previously - toned, but not pronounced muscles in her back shifting pleasingly as she pulls the rumpled white buccaneer's shirt around her shoulders, the fabric drifting down to cover over the tattoo on her lower back: a stylized black icon of a horse's head, like a chess piece.

She notices you're awake, glancing over her shoulder at you with what strikes you now as a very pretty, but painfully guilty smile, and begins tying her hair up again.

_"So... I... don't think we should drink together anymore.  We don't - ... I don't think we've established a very good spectrum of outcomes for that, you know?"_  She gives you her best ha-ha-sorry-about-the-stabbing grimace-smile before turning her face to the window.  The sun in the morning seems to hate you, but it's more than happy to frame her in picturesque radiance.  _"I'm.. Amber, by the way.  I don't know if I said that or not."_



*Spoiler: Mor'Lag*
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Mor'Lag is content to leave the administrative activities to others, enjoying the simple joy of a room of her own - and one that, scaled generously for space, can actually accommodate her bulk with minimal fear of doorframes, or tripping over a crowding of uselessly small and fragile furniture.  The goblin Kerwin, upon checking in a few days after their arrival in response to a nice letter sent to him by Emilia, is able to arrange suitable furniture for the ogre, too; and without requiring a custom effort.  Within the town there is a small but healthy number of large folk - ogres and the strange hobgoblins who labor pliantly for their goblin kinsmen - and a specialist industry for their needs.  Soon, the room's door is widened to permit easy access for its occupant, and one corner is given over to a heap of animal hides within a circular rim of stones, creating the firm but not bare bedding familiar and ideal for ogres.  Mor and Lag give their laconic input to the recruitment of staff, throwing their weight largely behind Marion's picks; but importantly, finding the help they need in the gnome mage they hire.  Aglet is adaptable and creative enough to quickly understand the blunt, intuitive elements of her arcane talent, and knows how to set the ogress on the path of catching up to lifetime of not expecting such a gift to manifest.  Once the alchemy lab is up and running, she has a vector to give back to the group, as well; and the slowly growing stockpile of useful potions comes with almost half its tally attributed to the ogress's efforts.*Spoiler: Side Scene - Three Heads Are Better Than Two*
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Aglet is precisely the kind of tutor you hoped for.  Well - maybe not precisely.  The embarrassing smallness of the gnome is hard to overlook.  Its bad enough that the world youre navigating is built for creatures you tower over half again; but these goblins, and even smaller, the gnomes, are sometimes very difficult to take seriously.  Yet one lesson of magic - perhaps the primary lesson - is that physical might does not contain the fore and aft boundaries of power.  If it was, your ancestors could never have thrown down the gronn.  And the orcs would never have thrown down your ancestors.  And the humans, with their skinny, stumpy, and runty allies, would never have thrown down the orcs.  Perhaps it is the nature of power to drift from the brawny to the brainy, and those who trust exclusively in muscle are doomed to serve smaller, frailer masters.  But you will not be swept aside by such a flow, no matter how naturally it may manifest in history.  Two powerful arms, two powerful minds - you will have all of it.

Today you are practicing your gifts outside in the cool of the afternoon as it fades into evening.  Aglet has traded in his robe and pointy hat for a more casual tweed ensemble, unlit pipe pinched between two fingers, used mostly for gesturing.  

_Alright, ladies.  Lets go again._   With an arcane pronouncement which youre sure he could mutter, but is carefully over enunciated to demonstrate technique for you, he conjures a flourish of warm orange light that swims through the air to Felix, standing obligingly nearby for just this purpose.  The ex-cadet closes his eyes as he is lit up with the light spell, blinking as his eyes adjust, and smiles faintly with enduring encouragement to you.

You have repeated this process many, many times now.  It is beginning to tire you.  Aglet will summon the light spell onto Felix, and you will dispel it.  And youve mastered the dispel, somewhat - except Aglet wont acknowledge that.  His frustration is that you are manifesting the magic instinctively, without the traditional verbal components that both Gnomish and Elven arcane traditions require.  Your casting comes easily enough if you just thrust with both hand as if propelling the arcane matter outward invisibly, and focus your mind on the destruction of the enchantment in question.  Eschewing certain components of spells without sacrificing the competence of the casting is typically a suggestion of mastery; but Aglet insists that you ought to learn these components now, ingraining them into your arcane habit earlier, even though you dont need them.

_Go ahead.  Mor, can I get a verbal dispel from you, this time - Lag, not a peep.  And I dont want anyones hands moving._  He gestures with his pipe, as if this should be the easiest thing in the world for you.  But the syllables - neither Gnomish nor Elven, but drawn from a wholly separate magical lexicon - are unfamiliar to you, and feel bad in your mouths, and you keep fumbling over morphemes that dont exist in the languages you know and so barely register to your ears at all.  Your success in purely verbal casting has been patchy.  The feeling is wildly disempowering; like being made to fight with your hands tied behind you.  Felix, the patient recipient of all of todays magic, gives you a thumbs up.



*Spoiler: Isaera*
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Isaera is the member of the group most radically divorced from her comfort zone; and she acutely feels the distance from Theramore and her loved ones.  Aleeana is the Runescribe who is most naturally energized by new places and faces, and for the first week she is an ethereal presence, showing up long enough to scarf a bowl of Emilia's complimentary breakfast, hug her sister, then vanish into the grasses again.  For that first week, it would be easy for Isaera to second guess her decision to embark on this mission at all.  She orders a suite of furniture, and when Kerwin delivers it, sends it back.  And why wouldn't she?  She's planning on staying here long term. 
 Why would she do so with a bed that sags on the left side, or a mismatched set of drawers? 
 The inadequate suite is taken away, and a higher quality one returns, along with an orc craftsman who listens carefully, and adjusts some of the pieces on site until they are satisfactory.  Once the room is appointed however, that's all there is - Isaera, alone in her room; with a town full of goblins outside her window, with no Tarien, and most of the time, no Aleeana.  But by the second week, Aleeana's burst of initial, spastic wanderlust is mostly burned out, and she begins a fixture in Isaera's life again - and without the proximity to their mother triggering whatever need for conflict the raven haired sister seems to have, their relationship immediately strengthens.  Isaera has the patience and clarity of vision that Aleeana sorely needs to prevent her from spinning off into a disaster of her own making; Aleeana is a familiar, confident and comfortable slice of Isaera's world that she requires to thrive in this strange new course of life.  They explore the town together, speak to each other more freely and trustingly than ever before, and fall into a solid rhythm of checking in and splitting off as they each pursue their own skills to be honed.*Spoiler: Side Scene - Far From Home*
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It might be the best you've felt since before the mission into the marsh.  Most of it is the environment: the library in the tower is far from ideal, but its very much functional and academically welcoming, when its not over crowded.  The smell of thumbed paper and burnished parchment is in the air, and even with the bittersweet memories of your much more impressive estate library in tow, the sense of purposed, orderly information at your fingertips in a clean environment is just nice.  A single large table against one wall, large enough for two to sit abreast with a comfortable spread of written matter around them.  There are six floor to ceiling shelves in the room that were quite sparsely occupied until your group brought the gnome mage Aglet onto staff - now the shelves are bowing under their turgid profusion of substance, with other books scattered around the tower in extra storage boxes hither and thither.  Even this does not compromise the orderly state of the room, however.  At the end of the first week, you successfully scribbled up a ritual to manifest and bind an arcane servant to your service.  The simple creatures rudimentary intellect has been constructed to thrive on approval, and to perform various tasks about the tower that relate to the library.  The further one gets from that purpose, the more dicey the outcome; but there has been no trouble for you today.  Early in the morning, you took the arcane token - a library card from an academy in fallen Silvermoon, once belonging in a tome called The Age of Wonderful Things, checked out only twice - and activated it with its command word.  The barely visible, faintly luminous pink shade of a legless humanoid eagerly went about its given task, gliding quietly from room to room rounding up any scattered texts that contained meaningful discussion about teleportation, and returning them to orderly harmony on the shelves for your later perusal (incidentally displacing some other tomes to other rooms, to make the needed space).  At the completion of the task, its final act was as always to hang its little library card by the eyelet on a hook in the library itself, where it waited for your retrieval at the appointed time for your study.  Now, there are six books spread out before you on the table, four in Thalassian, one in common, one diagramatic, all on the subject of teleportation.  A scroll containing Theramores key rune is spread in the middle of the halo of books, just waiting for you to have the breakthrough of understanding you need to start assembling this knowledge into a spell that can send you back to Theramore when required, and not accidentally shoot you into Great Dark.

As you contemplate, your eyes are lidding with the onset of relaxation.  Aleeana, standing behind your chair, is taking her turn brushing your hair with even hypnotic strokes - a task Aleeana hasnt volunteered to do for you since.  Well.  Before the world ended.

_When you figure it out, you ought to let me know before you ever use it.  Ill want to send letters with you, for everyone.  And maybe presents.  And when you sail back, you can bring the responses._  The suggestion is phrased a little presumptuously, as is Aleeanas style; but it makes sense.  Its annoying to have to sail back at all, but atleast half the trip can be done instantly.  Theoretically.  If you can _make the bloody spell work_.

_How much can you take with you, in a solo teleport?_  The answer, you know, is as much as you can carry.  But that candid response invites a future youre already imagining where you are teleporting to Theramore with a zherva carcass on your shoulders, to be stuffed and mounted where the family can see.  Perhaps its a blessing the spells working has eluded you, thus far.



*Spoiler: Marion*
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Marion barely has time to spare to appoint her room in more than a rudimentary capacity.  It quickly becomes a workshop be necessity.  Possessed by a spirit of industry since before she left Theramore, once the scion of Alterac has stable ground and some personal space to work in. 
 The steady stream of goods incoming and product outgoing occupies her full attention, punctuated occasionally by impatient periods of guild meetings and interviews.  It's hard to have patience for such things when there's important work to be done - but Marion was raised into a noble family who did not neglect to teach her the secrets of dividing one's attention judiciously between the internal world and external necessities.  With Mor'Lag continuing to demonstrate a willingness to help; and it's the ogress more often than not who makes sure the delivered goods are hoisted up to Marion's window by the external pulley system the noble has rigged up for just such a purpose.  This powerful distraction does not cause her to neglect darker duties, however; in a locked and warded chest in the corner of her workshop-room, the rough grey sphere of the infernal core rests with a kind of radiating, resistential malice; sharing its seclusion with a smaller container and the strange talisman given by the orc in Brackenwall.  The latter can wait; the former is slow to reveal its secrets.*Spoiler: Sacrifices*
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_Marion, Marion, listen to me for Lights sake. You need help or youre gonna burn yourself to a crisp.  And whats worse, youre leavin money on the table!_

Nodrick Glitterthumb didnt make the cut for employed staff, but didnt take it personally - atleast, not so personally he didnt jump at the opportunity to coordinate the labor and sales element of your burgeoning operation.  Whatever Your personal reservations about the goblin, hes proven to be a competent business associate in a town where you are quite sure there are many false-fronts of the same.  He has managed to coax you, sleep deprived and impatient to get back to work to fulfill another batch of orders, out to Ratchet for lunch at a joint called _Hidalgos_; where the human cook Hidalgo purports to be specialized in serving up human cuisine from the far, lost kingdom of Stromgarde.  Its mostly finger sandwiches and soups, but the locals are enchanted with the exoticism; and theyre pretty good sandwiches, all things considered.  And Hidalgo himself, a not-unattractive swarthy gent still on the younger side of middle aged, has twice now elected not to charge you for your meal except for the vaporous suggestion of your affection.  Around you, at a comfortable distance, the menagerie of these various peoples dine, and gabble.  Nodrick, over a half finished bowl of Stromato MineStrome, continues to plead with you.

_Youve got orders comin out the wazoo.  And theres more in the wind, I promise you.  But you cant keep doing this as a one woman show!  The throttle youre putting on your earning potential is criminal!  I know you want to protect your trade secrets, but you gotta let me help you here.  Theres ways we can make sure no one can copy your work._

Youre tasting the first specks of wealth youve had in a very long time, and all of it the labor of your own dainty digits.  But Nodrick is right.  Youve refined your manufacturing process about as much as you can, and have been considering getting a factory going in the town itself - but the problem inherent is that as soon as someone is making money, there will be vultures circling.  And itll be a breezy afternoon in the Firelands before you let some greenskinned thief work in your factory for a week, then bug out to Gadgetzhan and shake investment for a competing manufacturer out of a money-bags like Baron Noggenfogger.  The impasse is suffocating: without expansion, you cant generate more than a pleasant but limited trickle of gold.  With expansion, you run a very real risk of exposing yourself to industrial espionage.  But you havent fought tooth and nail against the whims of destiny, which has tried its damned hardest to bury you like the rest of Alteracs glory, just to work your hands to the bone every day and otherwise feel _comfortably well off_.  This is just the first step out of the mire.  But how to climb higher, without sliding back down into the muck of poverty?

_I mean, I can send fellas up as often as you want to move the crates youre hand-filling.  But you gotta take a risk, here.  Am I right, or am I right?_

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## MrAbdiel

The Guild Meeting
You together on the generous curve of a large semi-circular table in the living space of the first floor of the tower.  It does double duty as a meal table; but for now it's a meeting table, scattered with missives, maps and nebulously useful papers.  Your staff have dutifully tuned out for the meeting, the first of its kind with all hands on deck, with each of them having worked a little over seven days now, and settling in well enough.  Dinner has been had, and evening is upon you.  After this meeting, Seraphis and Aglet will return to their accommodation in the town below; Felix will begin his evening watch over the tower's exterior; Aleeana will theoretically retire to the room she shares with Isaera; and Schlep will zip with comical rapidity down the trapdoor to the tunnel below, zoom through the darkness with unhindered piscean quickness, and splash out into the water to... Wherever it is he goes, at night.

Seraphis runs the meeting, as is fitting.  In an airy but sophisticated mageweave dayrobe, she projects the confidence and competence that you hired her for; as well as only being a _little_ bit distractingly tall.  With amazonian grace, she had set up an a-frame board covered in cork, to which is pinned whatever documents are relevant to the moment's topic.  She marks an attendance, makes sure there is water with lemon available, as well as a plate of pastries packed with some reddish, sweet bean paste.  After some matters of housekeeping, the staff cycle through their summaries of activity.

_"Training is going well with all parties, I think.  You're all very talented so far as I can tell!"_  The older gnome says brightly, before gesturing loosely with his unlit pipe in the up-and-left direction of the library.  _"If you need me to start researching anything in particular, let me know.  I feel like I've got a fair handle on the place now; and since half those books were once mine, I'm well situated to compile a report on... most any topic you need."
_
_"I, uh... figured since no one robs a place during the day, I ought to be up at night, so that's what I've been doing.  No robberies so far - so.. It's working.  Or you're wasting your money."_  Felix's eyes are tired - the young man still adjusting to his new sleeping schedule - but he's been a cadet long enough that he's no stranger to guard duty.  _"And Aleeana's going to teach me to shoot as good as her, so then I'll have that going on, too."
_
_"Actually, I said I can teach you to shoot better - not as good as I can.  But ..."_  The raven haired elfess brushes away the minor correction with a wave of her hand._ "Better than you can right now.  I'll try to catch you in the afternoons, after you've woken up, and I'm back from scouting."_

_"Scouting..."_ Seraphis, peering over the rims of her glasses, coaxes for an extrapolation from the high-elf; but none is immediately forthcoming for the Kaldorei's bulleted minutes of the meeting.

_"Around.  I figure I'll head out to the Crossroads this week and try to make friends with some of the hunters there; get clued into the Horde's network of outriders as much as I can.  Unless you need me to go somewhere in particular."_

Schlep, standing to one side, animates suddenly; pulling out his notebook and pencil, and scribbles wildly before tearing out the page and offering it to Seraphis.  The night elf purses her lips, and takes the missive pinched between thumb and forefinger, as if she were holding a dead rat by the tail, but raises it up to read its content.  _"Plant for you yes.  Grass for you yes-wait.  Fish, yes-no, down-down yes-no."_  She squints at the paper, looks incredulously to the murloc and back at the paper, raises one long eyebrow and asks, pointing back to the trapdoor that leads to the tunnel to the cove: _"Down-down?"_

The murloc prances in a circle enthusiastically, overjoyed to be simply understood.  Seraphis just levels out her eyebrows at the end of that ordeal, and pins Schlep's note to the board. _ "Well.  I think that's a binary option.  Do you... want him to start fishing for you, or, I suppose, working on making that tunnel and cove more reliable and useful?"_

With the reports out of the way, Seraphis moves on to the primary matter of the meeting - action opportunities for the the Opal Collocation's Ratchet Chapter.

_"Three opportunities that feature as significant enough for the Collocation's purposes.  The first concerns raiding of the Crossroads by centaur encroachment.  According to the request sent by the Horde representative at the Crossroads, the Kolkar centaur are escalating in their aggression.  I'm aware that, in the last several years, the Kolkar tribe has emerged more vigorously from Desolace, and established satellite camps  eastward.  Those in Mulgore and Durotar have invariably clashed with the Horde there; and it seems the process is repeating here, though further from either Thunder Bluff or Orgrimmar's power projection.  The Horde leadership is convinced the leader of this splinter tribe, Verog the Dervish, is insensible to negotiation and must be assassinated to permit more a more reasonable leader to fill the vacancy and, hopefully, lead their people back to Desolace; or atleast settle the raiding.  Whether by assassination or other means, resolving that problem is likely to reflect well on your cause."_

_"Secondly, a goblin calling himself 'Sputtervalve', liason to the Ratchet Tinker's Union, has had some run ins with Venture Co. Operations, and recovered a manual for something called a 'Samophlange'.  He would like one seized from a Venture Co. work camp, up near the path into Ashenvale.  Samophlange.  Samophlange?"_  She squints at the word on the page, forms it again twice with her lips as if trying to conjour its more comprehensible cognate, but gives up with a shrug.  _"Less reward in cache with the major factions, of course, but more with Ratchet folk; and Venture Co., while prone to worming their way back into the graces of the rich and powerful, are presently odious enough that they can be struck without any loss of face."_

_"Finally, a matter of some discretion, comes from the druids of the Cenarion Circle.  It seems they have had an ongoing interest and operation in a cave network near to the Crossroads, and have lost contact with them, and subsequently the pair of druid initiates they sent to investigate.  The Circle is still seen as Kaldorei dominated by the Horde, and moving a heavier force into a cave network near one of their settlements might be problematic - thus the request to yourselves, as a neutral party.  The point of contact is Mathrengyl Bearwalker, druid in good standing, in Darnassus.  Reachable by mail."
_
She pins the three missives, each in a different hand, to the board, and stands back, hands folded behind her, permitting the members of the guild to speak, and waiting for her next opportunity to clarify or assist in some way.

It seems you have three paths before you - though you needn't take any of them, or limit yourself to one of them.

*Spoiler: Perception or Insight DC 15*
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During the presentation, you catch Felix looking introspective and troubled - not in response to anything said, you think.  Maybe someone should check in with him, at some point tonight.


*Spoiler: OOC Stuff!*
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Alright, so there's three active quest options.  You can attempt any of them you find interesting and worth doing.  They all offer financial rewards that will vanish into the ethereal bookkeeping for the guild, and also faction credibility - with Orgrimmar, the Tinker's Union, and the Cenarion Circle, respectively.  You may feel free to ignore any of these, or action them any way you like.  With Aleeana on board as a scout, you can certainly ask her to investigate one while you act on another, for example!

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## WindStruck

Isaera ponders the missives and offers, "All interesting opportunities, I am sure. But I wonder just what the 'horde leadership' has done in relation to the Centaur chieftain. Did they merely send grunts with a message of empty threats, or...?"

She shakes her head. Still unfamiliar with orcs and not thinking the best of them, despite beginning to actually pick up their language, she didn't know if genuine diplomatic measures and compromise had been attempted, or if they simply tried to thinly veiled an attempt at beating the problem into submission.

"And, of course, the request from the Tinkerer's Union is.. intriguing. I am curious about what this 'Samophlange' is. I don't suppose it would be possible to see the manual for ourselves?"

*Spoiler: aaand*
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info on Venture Co.  history:  (1d20+8)[*27*]


"The missive from the Cenarion Circle.. also a mystery. I feel it would be foolish to send a scout in by her lonesome," Isaera says, eying her sister. Not only was she kind of new to this, but logically it did make sense. Two druids disappearing when they investigated, plus a whole operation prior. There was some concern in Isaera's eyes, and she didn't want her sister to fall victim to what was probably a situation she would be vulnerable in.

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## Plaids

*Spoiler: Insight roll on Felix*
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(1d20+7)[*10*]

*Spoiler: Montage activity roll*
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(1d20)[*4*]


A varied selection of options lay before the party. Though for Jakk'ari at least the preferences were notable. 

It would be loathsome to become involved in the machinations of the goblin cartels. Though it was the Steamwheedles that threatened to expand into Tanaris the others would likely follow suit if given the opportunity. Too many products and finances from the cartels were exchanged between the union and the cartels. The cartels and their partners couldn't be trusted. 

The horde meanwhile was strong, immensely so. A group diverse races who had tilled the harsh lands of Kalimdor and were united behind the venerable Thrall. While the capability of the legendary shaman and his cohort was a comforting thought there were reasons to abstain from the horde. The horde were volatile and would no doubt clash with the alliance once more in the future. The horde had originally been an invading force fueled by demon blood in exchange for their freedom and honor. The Farraki diplomatic mission was partly predicated on finding allies who strengthen the standing of the Farraki while sharing common values and not towing the Farraki tribes into further conflict. The horde would have to be passed over.

The Cenarion Circle on the other hand were different. A powerful league of druids who sought to maintain the health and balance of the natural world was appealing. The group was also widely accepted, as much one could be on Azeroth. The Circle also honored traditions and the right of all beings to life. And should conflict arise the group would be formidable and suited for almost any environment. The Circle seemed to be the best option.

Jakk'ari waits for his turn to speak and provides his comment. 
 I have heard stories of Thrall leading the horde to victory against the centaurs. Why would we be needed to quell this threat? Surely the centaurs can be quickly deflected without interference. I believe the circumstances are more dire elsewhere.  
Jakk'ari is confident Mor'Lag's disdain of the horde will work in his favor this time.

Jakk'ari eyes Marion, wondering how the young technophile would respond to the request from the Tinkerers' Union.
 What does the Union plan on using this Samophlange for?  It sounds interesting I don't know what the Union would want from it, and I would be loath to let it fall into the wrong hands.  

There didn't seem to be any strong feelings towards the Circle from other party members. Hopefully Isaera might feel some kinship for night elves.
 If the troubles of the Circle are of concern the natural world, I believe I can be of service. I believe answering this request best aligns with our mission. The circle is a group that operates outside the authorization of the horde and the alliance and have members from both Alliance and Horde aligned races. I think we should help the Circle.  

OOC: More material about montage activities will be written later. So far Jakk'ari is voting for the Cenarion Circle. If we have only 1 vote and no abstentions, then no tie should occur.

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## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag consider,

"We have no love of the Horde"
"And it seems unlikely they would want outside help unless there was something we are missing "

After a pause they continue,

"If the druids cannot solve their own problems,  it must be bad"
"But, of these groups, they are the most trustworthy"

And, with an ogrish gesture that is hard to place, 

"The Goblins, however, are the most forthright.- they want us to burglarize their rivals"
"I am not sure all of you would be comfortable with that"

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## Plaids

Wistful but hopeful. This must be the feeling occupying the mind. 
The elements are ubiquitous throughout the world, but their mobility was less than one might anticipate. Water could remain frozen and passive, the wind could flow rhythmically in circuits till a disruption forced them to change course. Earth could obviously be impassive and even voracious fire could remain passive for months underground within the roots of a tree. The conditions were just right to deliver a message. This is not an opportunity to squander. 

Jakk'ari begins quickly grinding and singeing dried husks whose seeds were deposited in the garden around him. The wind spirit was eager but would likely grow weary traveling to Tanaris. Hopefully the herbal shorthand would preserve his message.
 Blessed wind spirit, thank you for offering me your aid. To HajaÂrra my chief of Sunscar tell her I am working amongst the Opal Collocation. They are a strong force with membership across Azeroth and seek to secure peace across it. Bring her the essence of the Tsamma to show prosperity, fortitude, and promise in harsh lands. 

To LashaÂnah my wife. Tell her I am closer than ever in my goals. I no longer walk this road alone and I miss her deeply. The party I travel with remind me of our children sometimes; I sometimes wonder if you would be more suited to guiding them Lasha'nah. To Lasha'nah bring her the essence of Lavender. Knowing you are safe gives me hope and faith in the victory of life over death.

Finally, to my children. Tell them that I love them and that I seek to return to them someday. A Farraki's place is among their family. To them bring them the essence of sunflower. To remind them that they bring a smile to me even in the darkest times. 

As the vapors and grounds swirl amidst the air elemental Jakk'ari watches the small spirit depart. Tears pools at the corners of his eyes as the spirit disappears over the horizon.

*Spoiler: Tsamma melon*
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*Spoiler: Lavender*
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*Spoiler: Desert Sunflower*
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## JoyWonderLove

*Spoiler: Thirst Time For Everything*
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Emilia groaned as hands clumsily shielded her face from the judgemental dawn, but the tattoo and folksy accent sparked flickers of an urgent kiss here, a whispered oath there, and a deep demanding want. It was confusing guessing whether her company, redressing herself in ruffled sorts already, had wanted to flee before she awakened. The ex squire stiffly sat up, making no move to clutch grey sheets to exposed breasts. Any pretence at modesty had fled Kalimdor two self-destructive benders and one stabbing ago, to say nothing of the evening. It was shameful enough to be banned from a bar many nobles chose not to enter at all. She flinched a little on hearing they shouldnt drink together. _But Amber's still here  gave her name_, the epiphany went. She was even cupped in a sunny halo. A coincidence to the foolish, and omen to any paladin worth her patience in prayer. 

It was a mistake not to at least try. Moderation has its place. But mementos are a good thing...when from the right person. Right? Something to keep and cherish. Left hand floated briefly to the scar, thumb brushing at her four pack before placing hands in her lap. She made herself gaze across the rumbled bedsheets and discarded clothes, for all the cloying unfamiliarity of the situation, with a curious acceptance before resting her gaze on Amber happily. 

Not everything always has to be...perfect...to be...right. 

Pausing to let Amber consider the words, Emilia finally rose out of bed, making no attempt to use the sheets for a makeshift gown, and managed a nervous saunter around its frame to where her company sat on its edge. Emilia. And I would love to be reminded about more things you may or may not have said, grasping Ambers closest hand, she brought a knuckle to graze her lips before lowering it a little. Unlessyou little like coffee? I always have active mornings, myself  so I understand if you would feel better, elsewhere. Even outside the norm, she knew better than not to let Amber have an exit. 

*Spoiler: Not sure anything really needs a Routine/take 10?*
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On one hand I want to Well-Informed (-5 penalty for excess drinking last night?) my way to knowing if the tattoo identifies her or whichever group she might be with. Or an Insight check to see how shes feeling. But you mentioned this is freeformish unless we do something crazy, so?

Dunno.
 



=_Guild Meeting_=




> _"Training is going well with all parties, I think.  You're all very talented so far as I can tell!"_  The older gnome says brightly, before gesturing loosely with his unlit pipe in the up-and-left direction of the library.  _"If you need me to start researching anything in particular, let me know.  I feel like I've got a fair handle on the place now; and since half those books were once mine, I'm well situated to compile a report on... most any topic you need."
> _


Emilia frowned throughout what the old gnome had to say, still questioning the sense in choosing yet another frail academician over the healer, or even stable mistress. Let alone another in the know of demonology. But it was the one area common sense had faltered in their staffing decisions. She nodded when the old gnome asked after assembling reports for matters of interest. 

The Burningblade cult. Anything and everything relating to tactics, weaknesses, and organisational structure. We should have preparations in place to break them the instant they rear their crooked heads. But knowing the enemy is the first step. 




> _"I, uh... figured since no one robs a place during the day, I ought to be up at night, so that's what I've been doing.  No robberies so far - so.. It's working.  Or you're wasting your money."_  Felix's eyes are tired - the young man still adjusting to his new sleeping schedule - but he's been a cadet long enough that he's no stranger to guard duty.  _"And Aleeana's going to teach me to shoot as good as her, so then I'll have that going on, too."
> _
> _"Actually, I said I can teach you to shoot better - not as good as I can.  But ..."_  The raven haired elfess brushes away the minor correction with a wave of her hand._ "Better than you can right now.  I'll try to catch you in the afternoons, after you've woken up, and I'm back from scouting."_


Emilia nibbled non-committally on the pastry in hand while the meeting continued. It was only when Felix spoke that she closely eyed the tiredness in the stood down cadet, and kept her attention on him even while the sarcastic would-be ranger elaborated about the archery lessons. He had snippets of appearing more troubled and introspective than a Scarlet Crusade recruit deciding to war against the endless dead outside, or the demons already among the extremists. 

Would you require a moving target, Felix? My ability to avoid the literal slings and arrows of the world needs work, and we might both benefit here. She glanced between raven haired elf and marine, evidently attempting to join the training exercises.  




> _ "Well.  I think that's a binary option.  Do you... want him to start fishing for you, or, I suppose, working on making that tunnel and cove more reliable and useful?"_


Emilia sipped at her flask to hide an uncharacteristically amused smile, leaving the glass of water still innocently chaste before her. A sidelong glance aimed at the warlock several seats off tried to spy what the one that had voted so pointedly against the industrious, impish, little fish man made of his prancing. _To think that one wanted room service over renovations_. The unceasing drone and drill of work from Mordis room over the first three weeks had been so consistent it was hard not to wonder if she hadnt leased out guild space to the Tinkers Union, but the reveal of the cramped quarters only raised further questions the paladin had little chosen yet to ask. 

Down-down would be ideal, Schlep. Thank you. 

The rest of the meeting was pleasantly dominated by the Amazonian woman explaining the opportunities ahead of them, and the choices seemed split between the needs of an Alliance night elf group, contending with Horde-hostile centaurs, and the requirements of Ratchet goblins. _They all serve the guild, in some path. But if our chapter gains greater favour with the larger factions before any other, even Stormwind would have to acknowledge our good work. Even my parents._ She still regretted sending the letter a week ago, but it would have looked desperate and erratic to chase it with another asking it be overlooked. The Opal Collocation had to thrive for more reasons than she would ever wish to share with the miscellaneous collection invariably deemed guildmates. 

Miss Moonshadow, our resident arcanist raises a point. The centaur may well be granting like for like, and druids rarely care for precious metals, so far as I have ever heard. Do we know why the Kolkar have escalated their aggression recently? Or what intrigues about the caves that they would need investigating at all? 

Emilia hesitated in reaching for her flask, and self-consciously sipped at the glass before her for show. For my own part, I absolutely agree with Jakkari and MorLag. The Cenarion Circle should be our priority. Even without their patronage, the mission aligns closely with what the Opal Collocation expects, and our first mission could easily come across as a statement. Emilia folded her arms. Theft and murder cannot be the call, and should be much maligned fourth and fifth options besides. 

The Argent Dawn recruit frowned. So said, as the Rachet branch of the guild, our superiors might well expect us to prioritise local needs over others. But I can cauterize that wound with a letter, should the majority agree. Accepting work as thieves for hire would only muddy the message we intend to send, and little win us friends in the warrior culture across Kalimdor. That can only compromise a major part of the guild end goal, all told. She looked to the right and left of the table, having seated herself close to the middle of the crescent.

How do you all feel about our investigating the missing druids first, while Aleeana scouts the centaur warlord? She already intended to make contact with the Crossroads, and with greater understanding, we might be able to bring Horde and tribe to the table.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion had been typically quiet during the events thus far, her feminine form clothed in apparently new and tasteful finery that was not too ostentatious, but stylish in its well-crafted simplicity and current color scheme of black and orange. Indeed, Marion had cleaned up nicely. Having emerged from her workshop-sleeping quarters with heavy bags under her eye and a lurching gait that spoke of copious amounts of coffee-infused energy, Marion had recently taken some time to rest and rebloom! Her yellowed hair was well-groomed, her eyes were alert and sliding back and forth over each of her companions while her lips carried that characteristic little smile where one didn't know if she found something cute or "cute". 

"What does the Union plan on using this Samophlange for? It sounds interesting I don't know what the Union would want from it, and I would be loath to let it fall into the wrong hands."

The trolls voice came down to Marion from Jakk'ari superior height. Even when the two of them were seated, the warlock had to turn her head and crane it backwards to look up at the shaman just to reply eye-to-eye.

"The creativity of the goblins is...well established," she smiled. 

"I would have to see the manual to have any idea what their new little machine is designed for, built for and what it actually does," she continued, emphasising that those three things weren't necessarily connected. 

"The three options seem straightforward enough to me, however," the warlock offers a small shrug. 

"With whom do we wish to gain favour with first: the locals here in Ratchet, our neighbors in the barrens, or the Cenarion Circle on the other side of the continent?"

Marion allowed a pregnant pause to linger in the air before she continued. 

"The Cenarion Circle would already be well-disposed to us, given our proximity to Theramore, Lady Proudmoore and, via the Alliance, Darnassus. But say we ventured into some dank cave in search of their missing druids, who doubtless knew the terrain better than we do, what reward would there be for us and how much would the Alliance's relationship with the Night Elves _really_ be improved over its current status?"

Once more a pause for effect. 

"Likewise, Ratchet has already welcomed us and happily takes our coin. Distrust of outsiders is not a natural characteristic of the goblins who founded it, nor are outsiders an uncommon sight here already. We are under no immediate threat of expulsion."

Taking a sip of whatever beverage had been prepared for her and rested within reach, Marion continued. 

"One may consider my suggestion to be uncharacteristic, given the opinions I have vocalised in the past. But I see the toleration and incurred minor debt of the local...Big Dog, so to speak, to be the most valuable reward available on the table. And it fulfils the chartered purpose of this guild, diplomatically, exploratively and "persuasively"."

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## Plaids

> "One may consider my suggestion to be uncharacteristic, given the opinions I have vocalised in the past. But I see the toleration and incurred minor debt of the local...Big Dog, so to speak, to be the most valuable reward available on the table. And it fulfils the chartered purpose of this guild, diplomatically, exploratively and "persuasively"."


Marion did make a few good points. The local predominantly goblin town had shown hospitality without trying to swindle the motley crew of outsiders that was the party. Avoiding eviction would further their mission.
But the Cenarion Circle was still the best option. Trade partners and financiers came and went but trust, respect, and honor were hard to recover. The Union supplied the Cartels and couldn't be trusted. 

Pushing rising and sliding aside his plate and glass Jakk'ari addresses Marion to hopefully nudge her to the correct solution. 

 Our hosts have been quite gracious, that is true. But I believe our mission of securing peace is best pursued outside of the Tinkerers' Union. I've seen it and I know the Union supply weapons to the Goblin Cartels. I'm afraid this Samophlange find its way to Venture Co. regardless of our interference. Besides the Union manufactures potent weapons. I... we can't risk escalating future conflicts they might supply the belligerents with. 

Jakk'ari sits down having concluded his speech. His fingers lace together, and he trains his eyes and ears on the remainder of the party. Hoping they will agree with his arguments.

OOC: Correct me if I'm wrong but does the Tinkerers' Union supply the Goblin cartels with their products? I do know they make weapons.
*Spoiler: OOC: Minor word choice explanation*
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 By "right choice" this is from Jakk'ari's perspective not mine. I think all of these missions sound good but some minor inter-party disagreements make sense and would spice up the scene.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


"Apologies," Marion said quietly, "I meant that we help the Horde with their centaur problem as we stand to gain the most for our expenditure of effort."

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## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Isaera: Info on Venture Co.*
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The Goblin "Nation", in as much as it can be considered such, is a Trade Coalition made up of most all extant cartels, organisations, unions, and trade fleets.  The strange creatures have a society that revolves around innovation and prosperity, and The Venture Company (also trading under _Venture Trading Company_) is considered an unpleasant extreme of what many would call an unpleasant core philosophy.  Venture Co's principle source of income is supplying raw resources harvested from unclaimed or poorly protected reaches of Kalimdor, and now also in the Southern continent of the Eastern Kingdoms since operations in Stranglethorn Vale began.  Most notably, they began an exponential growth of operations when elements of the New Horde, under the leadership of the Warsong champion Grom Hellscream, began hiring the harvesting operations of the Venture Co's goblin shredders, and paying for them in the wealth plundered from the Kaldorei of Ashenvale.  A reinvestment of this burst of income has established clearcutting and stripmining operations up and down the length of Kalimdor.

Venture Co's president is Mogul Razdunk; a ruthless goblinpreneur 
 who was unable to ascend to the position of Trade Prince, which would make him entitled to his own cartel.  The Venture Company represents a kind of old-money-new-money clash within the Trade Coalition; the most recent chapter of which was the seizure of Ratchet from a Venture Co friendly Land Council by Gazlowe, and the _Goin' Legit_ campaign to disassociate the town from what many consider to be disastrously short-sighted business practises.

Since they focus on the _prosperity_ and not the _innovation_ half of goblin psychology, they are likely to have little in common with the Tinker's Union, whose members' goals are atomized, and rarely megalomaniacal.


*Spoiler: Jakk'ari: Info on Felix*
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The lad seems distracted, which seems premature considering this is the first meeting of this kind your guild has had, and should be quite exciting to everyone involved. 
 Why, however, you can't say.


*Spoiler: Emilia: Info on Felix*
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You get the impression that Felix gets along with everyone in the group.  The other four members here - along with a fifth you  haven't met,  Zachary - grabbed him tight and raised him from perdition.  And he's quickly accepting of the other staffers, too.  He seems a _little_ shy of Seraphis' direct attention.  But who wouldn't be?


_"Moving target?  Ah.  Maybe.  I'd be happy if I could consistently hit a stationary one, though I'd give it a shot."_  Felix concedes; eyes deflected, a little distracted.

Aleeana stares at him for a second to see if he's going to notice his own pun, but chooses not to excavate it when he makes no move.  Her fel-green eyes flick back to the paladin.  _"I'm not sure shooting arrows at someone you don't intend to kill is a good training scheme.  Unless you can do that... Thing."_  She makes a spherical gesticulation with her hand, probably referring to the infamous paladin capacity to become temporarilly impervious to harm.

Aglet jots down a reminder to himself to focus in study on the Burning Blade; Schlep offers a nod that is almost a bow for the neckless fellow, and capers immediately off down the corridor, out of the meeting, and into the hatch toward the down-down.

Seraphis fiddles with her spectacles while the group considers its options, waiting with a habit of patience learned over centuries, offering a faint smile when a lull strikes the conversation.

_"I hear... casual interest in the Tinker's Union bid, though low urgency, and a request for more information - particularly a chance to see the manual in question."_  She transcribes this distillation as she makes it, on a page pinned to the cork board. _ "I will speak to Sputtervalve to see if we can arrange a viewing.  I expect the Lady Mordis, and Master Gylphtoggle will be able to decode any goblin esotericism between them."_

_"Considering Crossroads' conflict with the Kolkar, it sounds like we have a broad uncertainty about the nature of the conflict and reticence to get involved in a lethal capacity without understanding it more clearly.  I can't speak to why there would be an escalation in Kolkar aggression; but my suspicion would be it represents outward pressure from the dustbowl of Desolace, where the major tribes joust and drive one another.  But the Barrens uses to be a conflict zone between the Razorfen quillboar, and the Kolkar.  The Tauren might well have been wiped out by the unreasonably aggression of both, had not the Horde arrived to roll them up into its coalition when they did, and become the dominant presense on the region.  But perhaps I have a bias against the centaur.  They represent... a cultural dark spot, for my people.  Perhaps more information on this specific clash is the right way."_

_"I'll find out."_  Aleeana volunteers, offering a loose shrug and adapting her existing plans in the manner Emilia had suggested.  _"Since I'm going that way anyway."_

_"As for the Cenarion Circle operation, I'm afraid I can offer little insight.  I don't think the caves are mineral rich - they're connected to subterranean springs heated by thermal vents.  The call them The Wailing Caverns; but only because of the sound of the releasing steam shooting through some of the fluted stone; not for any known... wailing occupant.  But if the Circle has interest it them, it's likely because they possess some thing useful to the druids; whether it's a resource, or the caves themselves."_

_"So of the three tasks, only the Cenarion one has an implied urgency - lost druids being the factor.  It's also the one that your support staff are most weakly positioned to illuminate for you.  So if your party intended to seek out the Caverns yourselves directly, I'm sure Aleeana and I could have decomposed some of the mystery around the other two objectives to make them easier to roundly accept, or reject.  Is that... roughly amenable?" 
_
Seraphis suggests, pen hovering over a blank region of a pinned paper marked "conclusion".  Her round-up is offered in a perfectly professional tone of suggestion without the presumption of authority.  Marion and Mor'Lag certainly seem less enchanted with the Cenarion offer; but since Jakk'ari and Emilia are interested, and Isaera is atleast reticent to entrust that investigation to a singular scout, it seems to the night elf to be the best suggestable coarse that does not discard either of the others out of hand.

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Side Scene - Soil and Toil*
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The spirit roils and spins, unformed in reality but pulsing and alive in the realm to which it belongs.  As you invoke each of your desired messages, the wind around you picks up in a flutter, as if the spirit is leaning closer to the real to understand your intention, and your nostrils are flooded with the scents of tsamma melon, lavender, and desert sunflower in sequence with the offering of their ground herbal expressions.  It feels like a sort of confirmation process, as a mortal courier might turn around his note pad to show what he has written to ensure it matches the desired message.

_"This, I do for you, shaman.  I will find your chief, and your wife, and your children, and carry to them the things you have said."_

There's a flutter of sound, a recycled blur of your own voice - _"-the Tsamma to show prosperity, fortitude -/- party I travel with remind me of our children sometimes -/- remind them that they bring a smile to me even in the darkest times"_, demonstrating the successful capture of the spoken messages, collapsed mystically into the scents of the herbal fragments; and then with a rush of air, the spirit spirals upwards, dragging the scents, and dust from the cliff garden with it, and is gone.  Perhaps, if the spirits are kind, the wind will turn back after it reaches Tanaris, and bring you something in return.


*Spoiler: Emilia's Side Scene - Time Off*
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Amber doesn't jerk her hand away, when you capture it for her gentle affections; bright eyes glancing up - and inevitably, up and down - at you as you make your delicate appeal.  The palm turns briefly to cup the frame of Emilia's jaw, but then slips free from its capture with a smoothness plainly meant not to be felt as too severe a rejection.

_"I bet you say that to_ everyone_ who stabs you."_

It's funny, but it's funny offered as a consolation in the looming shadow of retreat; and so maybe not that funny.  She stands - shorter than you by about five inches, as you knew during the fight but lost track of in the horizontal hours - and peels away from you, 
 turning to quickly pace the small room looking around for anything she left behind.

_"But... seriously.  I don't normally do this kind of thing.  So I think I'm just gonna..._"  Another undeniably cute, but apologetic smile. 
_"But I had fun.  More this time, than last time I mean.  So..."_

With her boots clutched to her side in one hand, socks dangling out of their cuffs, and her purse gripped in three fingers of the other, she begins negotiating a fully revolution of the door handle with thumb and forefinger alone.

_"...So maybe coffee, next time.  I have to go, but, it's a small town, right?  We'll bump into each other again."_  Before she can cringe into a black hole at that particular choice of final words, the door clicks open, and she pads out on the balls of her feet, bumping the door with her hip, mouthing 'thanks' as it closes, and cuts her from view.

In the lonely moments after, as you're gathering your own things, you find something that doesn't belong to you - a strange, green glass lens on an adjustable leather strap, perhaps designed to be worn over an eye.  Your mysterious paramour has left something behind after all - and whatever it is, it might be worth enough for her to return to your orbit sooner than later.

*Spoiler: Check Results*
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You're unaware of any group that uses the black horse head as a marking icon.  You'd guess some kind of cavalier or outrider, but fit as Amber was, she doesn't strike you as a woman who does combat on horseback.  Something about it is nagging you, however; like it reminds you of something you can't quite bring to the viewing space in your forebrain.

Your best instinct tells you that she's not recoiling from you in disgust - which is good, because she's seen you at your most intoxicated and offensive - but just embarassment for having woken up in a situation like this.  Not everyone is a functioning alcoholic, after all; and for some, waking up with blurry visions of a previous night's shenanigans is unsettling.  But like she said - it's a small town.  It's not like she'd just skip town without saying goodbye, right?

Right?

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## JoyWonderLove

*Spoiler: voting, changing vote or not*
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This is an attempt to try and find a compromise between Plaids/BPhone. If one of them dislikes it, Im pretty happy with the Cenarion Circle honestly. I put this forward as it +++seems+++ like a middle ground solution between Jakkaris interest in looking out for the natural world and Mordis wanting to sweet talk orcs. Surprised WindStruck hasnt said much one way or the other.
 

Another half smile was the closest Emilia came to voicing her agreement with the troll  the Union and Company cared for profits over peace. They were no ally to the Opal Collocation. But she squinted incredulously when the refined majordomo styled the warlock a _lady_, finding it pressing to believe Seraphis was mistaken, and worse the night elf told the way of it. Noble etiquette indeed, she thought of the backtracking shut in. Amidst the quiet muttered word of others to neighbours, the paladin simply continued with small bites of the sweet pastry, mindful not to get any unexpected spurt of it on the chainmail she had polished again until it shone for the meeting, although she hadnt offered herself enough time for more than a ponytail to suffice. 

Here I was concerned the Tinkers had fashioned you into their mouthpiece, Emilia quipped, admitting to much the same misunderstanding as the Chief Diplomat as she leaned forward in her seat. But our calling is to be the iron lynchpin that holds together a thousand different, divergent silk strands. Ignoring the Circle is artless, but overlooking your good suggestion is foolish. So what of weaving them together? She glanced between warlock and shaman. We can somewhat secure the natural world, to your point Jakkari, at precisely the time we attend the Dervish. The Union and Cooperative are arms trading, war profiteering jackals. But the latter also mauls the land. Their contraption is even on the edge of Ashenvale. Little wonder if the device will be used to hasten forest destruction, or merely protect those that do. So if...Lady Mordis...is inclined, she could go with Miss Starshadow. 

Placing the pastry down, she set both elbows on the meeting table, interlacing her fingers like a flat bridge. They would understand and recall what the machine plans being presented actually mean. From there, we let ink fly. Tell the Cenarion Circle we currently stem the tide of blood the Dervish is unleashing. In consolation for the delay, and out of respect for our dear patrons, we give them a detailed warning for exactly whatever it is Venture plots to unleash on Ashenvale. Our girl scout would still attend the centaurs, to honour safety concerns. The Circle is appeased temporarily, the Tinkers met, and we attend to peacekeeping with the Dervish regardless. Fair?

----------


## Plaids

Taut pale knuckles release Jakk'ari's armrest followed by a deep breath. Words were said and conclusions were drawn by a troll intuitively from the consultation of just one perspective.
Relaxing his posture Jakk'ari responds.

 You are right Emelia. We don't know the purpose of the dervish device. It could be used for either the destruction or renewal of the natural world. We do have to thread the many errant strands in our world and not just the ones we prefer. I do agree that we should learn as much as we can before we act. But I am concerned most by the circle. Their mission holds the greatest mystery while the horde and union know the threat they face.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion listened to the offering first from their Majordomo and next from Emelia and then from Jakk'ari. 

The overall thread seemed to be bending towards assisting the Night Elves in this 'wailing caverns', place. As charming and inviting as that sounds, Marion still didn't think it was the right choice. Or at least, the choice that served their interest and rewarded their efforts as well as assisting the Horde with the centaurs would. 

Perhaps she was naïve and simply unaware, but Marion could picture that acquiring a favour from the Horde in exchange for their assistance would serve them well in their own backyard, not to mention receiving the chance to loot some of the Kolkar holdings should they drive the wretched beasts from the fields. One could only speculate that such animals, known as they were for their raiding and marauding adventures, had fostered quite the stash of ill-gotten gains that an enterprising and swiftly-acting group could help themselves to in the wake of the centaurs retreat or, preferably, extermination.

But that was how _Marion_'s mind worked, to think of these three groups competing for their attention as three different gauges. Two of them, the local Cartel and the Night Elves, were already sitting at adequate levels of measurement. However the third, the Horde, who were the resident powerhouse of the Barrens, had dropped into dangerously low territory that could endanger their future operations. So the most rewarding course of action was to shore-up relations with the latter. And if things went poorly, the guild had several hundred thick, green bodies to place between themselves and a roving herd of angry centaur to soak up the fallout. Lowest risk, highest reward.

It made sense to her. 

However, it clearly was not the foundation which supported the thinking of Emelia, Jakk'ari or any of the others. Their course of thought was produced by an ulterior nature that had different priorities, priorities that seemed more inclined towards "good deeds" and other such ideals that did not manifest as gold in their pocket or networking favours. Clearly, no where was Marion more desperately needed than within a newly formed guild of illogical people. 

Oooo, a delicious pastry!

Marion's eyes honed in one one particular savoury delight: a fantastic looking sausage roll. 

Reaching forward with one dainty hand, the teenager plucked the delicacy up from its tray and took a gentle bite from it, her eyes widening slightly in approval once she did so. 

Turning her head up and towards Mor'lagh, the warlock gestured with with her spare hand towards the plate. 

"These are really nice, Mor'algh! You simply must try some!" she whispered.

Finishing the bit of food off in a mannered, cultured way, rather than stuffing it into her face, Marion drew up a napkin to dab at her lips before injecting herself back into conversation. 

"I fear that dividing our focus and attention while in a new and potentially hostile land, may produce outcomes that are less than favourable. I think we should apply our full focus to one of these endeavours to prevent any half-measures. After all, when you punch someone, I am told, you use your fist, not an open hand," the warlock smiles. "If we believe the peril of the Cenarion Hold requires our more immediate and expeditious attention, then I will assist with this most courageous option as best as I am able."


*The Marion Sideshow*

*Spoiler*
Show

During the few weeks, Marion works diligently to design, refine and produce her wares. It is a period of relatively little contact, though the warlock shows particular gratitude towards the large ogress who had lent a helping hand, typically by giving her food, friendly words of praise and sparing some time to teach her anything along the arcane lines that the ogress might be interested in. Marion also took note to set aside some of the funds procured from her venture to pay towards Mor'lagh at a later date. Honest wages for honest work.

Later on at Hidalgo's, Marion was pondering how to remedy the situation. 

She had returned Higalo's generosity with a stroke of flair, smiles and friendly witticisms, but she had insisted on paying _something_ for the food she received. She knew all too well that there was no such thing as a free lunch, and though Higalo himself may have been a swarthy, handsome older male, Marion knew she wanted someone closer to her age for the next phase of her family restoration. A younger fellow however, one still 'finding himself' and forging his own identity. Marion could work with that to create an excellent husband and consort for her future plans. An older man would simply be too set in his ways. 

Nodrick did have a point however, as Marion sat at that table with a bowl of beef stroganoff before her. She would need more than simple youthful energy to move forward and expand, and at this rate her designs for a full-on factory were contingent upon some sort of work force under her employ...many hands and people labouring beneath the Mordis banner. Yes...

Marion's eyes flickered briefly as an idea struck her. Sitting up in her seat, bringing one hand up in exclamation. 

"Of course!" she announced, her voice an excited whisper. 

"I will build a factory in Theramore! There are plenty of human refugee's still arriving after the disaster in the Eastern Kingdoms. Numerous men willing to work hard to earn coin for their families. And I have a contact in Jaina to help expediate the process, for which I'm sure she will be grateful for the expanded trade income and employment!"

A grin crossed Marions features. 

_And I won't have to lay awake at night wondering what greenskinned little bat-eared bastard is ripping me off this time!_ she thought quietly to herself. 

_And it will get me closer to that pompous bitch so I can buy that swampland for development!_ was her second, happy thought. 

In one stroke Marion thought of how to expand, gather people under her employ _and_ work towards Phase 2 of her restorative plan. 

Wunderbar!

----------


## Feathersnow

"You are wise, Marion."
"And these trifles are delicious"

"Of course we will defer to our betters,"
"But, if we may, the Druids do seem the most in need of immediate aid"

"To us, at least"

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera sat there, listening to the others speak, or perhaps argue. Well, there were certainly some disagreements, though no voices were heated and raised. Perhaps a good start.

"I do believe miss Starshadow has the crux of it all. We need more information both regarding this 'samophlange' and the Kolkar. Though I believe that regardless, infiltrating the Venture Company's grounds and effectively burglarizing them," she nods to Mor, "is an activity that is beneath us and the purpose of the Opal Collection and this guild. No matter how odious their reputation may be. In this instance, we would merely be acting as scoundrels stealing from other scoundrels. That hardly seems like something to risk our reputation with, unless further evidence is uncovered..."

She briefly looks at Marion and continues, "Now the Horde as a whole is far more influential and indeed would likely garner us much influence or wealth in the long run. Their problems are large problems, albeit in this case, perhaps not urgent. I am confident that their warriors and defenses will easily hold out. I still believe we need an inquiry into the exact nature of the clashes with the Kolkar, and history of any diplomatic engagements, if any. Ultimately, I believe we are first and foremost a peacekeeping organization, as was advertised, not some.. guild of assassins. So if we do end up having to confront their new chieftain and remove him, that should be an action of last resort."

"Because we need more information for these other two requests, and the nature of the Cenarion Circle's missive is more urgent, I believe we should concentrate on that, first and foremost. When people go missing, it is almost certainly a race against time. The longer we wait, the higher the chance of a less than desirable or gruesome outcome."

After some silence and looking at everyone, she finishes, "So then, are we agreed? We shall help the Cenarion Circle first, while intelligence is gathered regarding the other two missives?"

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera: Far from Home*
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Isaera opened her mouth to begin saying something, but immediately shut it again. She could just tell where her sister was going with this..  not only would she become a glorified pack mule, but really. She honestly could not carry much on her frail, skinny elf body.

"It depends," she finally answered. As the hair brushing stopped, she knew her sister was annoyed with her vague answer. Isaera turned around and said, "Really, that's the simple answer. How much power, or mana, is put into the spell helps, but teleportation can get quite dangerous when either the spell - _or the caster_ - are strained." She made sure to put emphasis on that last bit about straining herself.

"I'd say, um, thirty, thirty-five pounds is probably safe," she said, making up some number, and also assuming Aleeana would try to jockey that number up to forty or fifty. But she quickly adds, "And not a ridiculous amount of volume either."

She nods and says, "I do think taking letters and little presents back is reasonable. But if you want to send anything big, you had just better send it by boat like normal."

Speaking of boats and presents, Isaera still had that coat that was tossed over to her. She had been keeping it in a safe place, just waiting to return it to that captain who...  well.  Honestly, who knew where he sailed off to? But it would probably be a while before she ever saw his return.

----------


## Plaids

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's consolations*
Show

 A few days after an arduous selection of the guild's newest hires.

 A cool breeze cut through the muggy coastal air. A blooming pink sunset framed horizon offering gentle rays to the varied patrons Sea'Atlee bar and grill. The patrons occupying the outdoor balcony awaiting their server were a consisted of a humble tauren, pugnacious human, resplendent undead, opportunistic goblin, and vigilant dwarf. 
The candidates had performed well enough. Certainly, being employable they had slipped through the cracks.  Though the current guild budget wouldn't allow additional hires it was it would be in a troll's best interests to maintain some contact with such talented individuals. Given how engrossed Marion, accommodations, and Isaera had become in their own works and the swiftness at which they advanced upon their goals.  Marion's been working herself obsessively the bone muttering about Jaina green eyes in the grass. Isaera was fretting over plans for further support and accommodations for her family back home. And Mor'Lag was spent long hours with Aglet trying to relearn invocations. It was quite admirable seeing such diligence. Such efforts could lead to growth. A less distant Marion, a more decisive Isaera, and Mor'Lag who's confidence had been shattered long being reforged would be wonderful. But the burnout and complacency with the power they had was also a risk. It might be good to have some backup if they ever decided to quite while they were ahead.  

Grease and oil popped while vegetables sizzle in cast iron skillets in preparation for the coming dinner rush. A glass swiftly rapping the table seized their attention and ended the murmuring and awkward glances.  Thank you for coming today. Well, as you know selections have already been made by the guild. You all showed your strengths, and we wish you the best in your future endeavors.  The responses were ranged from feigned respectful interest and apathy. Nadia already taking the lead and guzzling a tankard of ale which was probably the most respectful think she could do at the moment. While Nodrick was tabulating on a steel handheld abacus with flashing bulbs. 
 This meal is for you. Each one of you has impressed at least one hiring member of the guild.   Well, almost all of them.   Should you choose, you may remain in contact with the guild. You won't be paid but if an opening occurs you will be the first to know. Who knows, if the guild expands we will need some additional help. Feel free to make your decision at any time whether it be now or later at the guild hall you are all welcome to take one of these.  The items presented being enveloped enclosing immaculately inscribed letters courtesy of Emelia and given a slight enchantment just to provide a subtle discharge of magic to prevent any counterfeits. 

Some looked expectantly and others with hesitancy. But in the end they would make their own choices.
What followed was lively night offering insights some of which had eluded the interviewers in days prior.

Voxombris was gracious for the offer while also consoling Nadia over her loss to a damn fish and Sheila and Tylia joined Nodrick in performing as the restaurants substitute band after some gentle persuasion. The three performances came together with a compelling guttural chorus of throat singing from Sheila, a melodious mandolin from Tylia, and a screaming saxophone from Nodrick. All while the regularly scheduled band awaited the return of adventurers tasked with retrieving their instruments from a thieving harpy nest down southwards. 
OOC: Work in progress. Will add a bit more later.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Isaera's Side Scene: Far From Home*
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_"Thirty pounds?  What a ridiculous limitation.  I bet that's what they tell you, but not the real number.  Though I suppose if you breach that regularly, you'll end up with the Kirin Tor breathing down your neck."_  Aleeana gives a melodramatic sigh, setting down the brush.  And she's probably not entirely wrong.  Teleport and portal magic was a practise of collapsing matter into a mana-scripted waveform and instantaneously punting that waveform along leylines to the destination.  The process was simple enough in antiquity when elven magi used it to lazily zip back and forth across the Thalassian landmass in their small numbers; but in an age where humans, trolls, elves, and countless other races had some access to the same magics, the leylines were stressed and, so the specialists said, at times close to catastrophic fracture.  It is one of the Kirin Tor's primary purposes to repair those lines with remedial arcane ritual, and the cost of doing so is passed on to mages in the form of galling markup on the black pearls and other reagents the work-a-day mage uses in their teleports.  So the Kirin Tor probably _were_ lowballing the actual figures to keep a certain amount of financial clearance between normal magical operation and ley-collapse - and some were probably wetting their whistles for other reasons in the process.

Or the whole thing could be a racket.  It's hard to say.  But Aleeana appears to have given up, for now, on any ambition to use you as a teleport freighter.  The older sister produces a smaller, finer brush and, taking your chin gently in a steadying 'v' of thumb and forefinger, begins brushing your eyebrows too - a perfectly normal and needed part of high elven self-care, however funny it must seem to all non-elves.

"Speaking of boats..."

It takes no telepathic solution for her mind to have gone to where yours has.  There has been no shortage of discussion of this mysterious gentleman-pirate elf since Aleeana returned to discover she'd missed out on raking him over with her own less-bashful gaze.  She's nakedly more carnivorous than yourself when she has taken a fancy to someone, and if she had been there, she might well have eclipsed you with her confidence.  It wouldn't have been the first time your sister's single-minded pursuit of the things she wants had battered aside someone she is supposed to care about.  But she wasn't there - she was running off after your bags, and she knows only of _the captain_ through your description.  You can feel a kind of jealousy emanating from her, when the topic comes up; a thing she must certainly think of as harmless, and good natured, whatever the reality.

_"...Have you given any thought to what you intend to do, when he's back in town?  A man doesn't give you his coat unless he's looking for an opportunity to come retrieve it from you.  You ought to hide it, so he's inclined to help you come seek it.  Oh!"_  Her eyes flash with felfire-green deviousness. _"Or teleport it back to Theramore, so he's obliged to sail you there to reclaim it.  Show off your minor-celebrity status, while you're there."_

She seems to have become very invested in your potential interaction.


*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Side Scene 2: Jakk'ari's Consolation*
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OOC: Hey, this is cool: a side scene you're soloing!  It's great.  Keep it up!  You've correctly intuited the characters are pretty undeveloped templates until you 'hire' them, so I don't feel the need to jump in and add much.  I just get to read! 
 Hooray! :D


*Spoiler: Marion's Side Scene: Theramo' Money, Theramo' Problems*
Show

Nodrick straightens up at your revelation lifting both hands as he does.  _"Well there you go!"_  In his effort to express celebration, his soup spoon flicks a single, clinging piece of MineStrome pasta over his shoulder to _spek_ onto the shaven green back of an orc's head.  Both your eyes, and Nodrick's track suddenly to this possible disaster, and watch the orc's hand come up to brush at what he must assume is some kind of insect.  Somehow he misses it entirely, and the little white pasta shell remains, clinging to the back of the orc's noggin like a barnacle.  With the best possible outcome fatefully manifesting from this accident, Nodrick looks back to you and feels at ease to continue.  _"That'll help, and I'm sure it'll win you some points with the sorceress-in-cheif.  But - hey, look, let me throw an idea at ya."_  He puts the soup spoon down, so he can freely articulate himself with both hands gesticulating alongside his words.  They feel carefully chosen, like he's expecting you to be preloaded with a negative response, and he's trying to manage you towards a second assessment.

_"Theramore's a good call.  I know you're more comfortable with your kinda people working on your kinda stuff.  Totally understand.  But your greatest asset here is the non-physical value of your design.  As long as you're putting that in someone else's hands, you're at risk of losing your grip on this thing.  If you can protect it for long enough to corner the market, then it doesn't matter anymore - even if some two-bit wrench-slinger reverse-gnomengineers the design, no one will want to buy a product that doesn't have the ram-skull and chevrons.  But if that slips out too early, before your operation is up at full pace, they might just pip you at the post.  So let me help you here, okay?"_  His posture shifts, from forward, attentive, stressful, to reclining in the chair as a physical manifestation of the relief his proposal purports to promise.

_"Break it into two parts, and we'll charter a small ship all for your product alone.  Have your factory in Theramore doing the main assembly, and let me set up a smaller operation doing the finer machining on the core mechanism over in Booty Bay.  On its way west, the ship can carry the core mechanisms and whatever additional cargo they can rustle up.  Drop off the mechanisms at your plant in Theramore for the main assembly and finish of the product.  Heading back east, takes the finished products to fulfill the orders streaming out of the operations in Stranglethorn.  That way, no one but you needs to know how to create the full device, and you can outsource the labor entirely.  Is it more expensive than a single-plant operations?  You bet.  Is it going to make you more gold long term?  Maybe.  Think of it as design-insurance.  Better to have it and not need it.  Because if you need it and don't have it, and some skeevy cog-swiveller snipes your windfall, it'll be too late.  Problem solved."_  Satisfied with his presentation, he holds up his big, green palms to either side in a beatific gesture of openness.  _"Marion.  Bubbe.  I'm your green knight."_

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera: Far From Home*
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Isaera's cheeks began flushing a bit. All the memories of those events and the stupid little game she was playing, and of the captain were flooding back. And the way Aleeana was talking made her more than a little nervous.

"Uh.. Aleeana.. I don't think it would be wise to toy with him. Just.. I don't know. You know how I told you the story. He doesn't seem to be the type you want to cross. But I suppose he would think such obvious sabotage was a pass at him. If he didn't like the games, that obviously wouldn't go well for us. On the other hand, if that were to attract his desire so easily..  I honestly don't think we'd want a part of that either."

Isaera blinks a few times as her sister was combing her eyebrows. This was a little awkward. She would feel more comfortable doing it herself. "Ugh, what am I saying. We? _You're_ the one who's going crazy for some roguish ship captain! I think I'd rather just return the jacket, buy him some drinks, and hopefully we can chat to get to know him. We could find out if he's really someone you want to be with, mm?"

Squinting into her sister's dissatisfied eyes, she changes the subject. "And why are your eyes still green? Are you still using that fell energy when we can afford perfectly good mana?" She sighed. Was she _serious_ about liking the green color?

----------


## MrAbdiel

Interbellum, Chapter 1: Always Greener
You can say one thing for the Barrens that puts it above Dustwallow: it's not always raining.  But it brings with it is own host of environmental discomforts, most notably, the heat; which is abominable to everyone except Jakk'ari for whom it is an absolutely negligible feature.  Your group was able to hitch a ride with a kodo caravan heading to the Crossroads; and your services as potential auxiliary guards was simply not required.  The interesting natural beauty of the land opens up to you, on the first day of the journey.  Twice, you pass small herds of zhervra; black-and-white horse-like creatures with a singular horn crowning their heads.  They cluster near to the road and graze there, attracted to the open sight-lines that make it harder for predators of the land to stalk them.  They don't even startle as you pass - the kodos, the extremely sunburned but cheerful dwarven caravan leader tells you, put them at ease, even though they would certainly spook if a group of humanoids had approached them on foot.  Towards the end of that day, as the sun plunges into the distant valley in which you have left Ratchet behind, you spot a single, lonely giraffe nibbling at a cluster of leaves at the top of one of the savannah trees.  It pauses to turn its towering neck to track you as you go, rearranging its amusingly gangly limbs to follow you for a couple of minutes at a distance that is safe enough _from_ you that it might still turn and run if threatened, and safe enough _because_ of you, rather than risk being discovered by predators alone.  It's a good tactic - Aleeana spots, and points out, a pair of gold furred, feline shapes stalking in the tall grasses alongside the road.  A pair of lionesses that might have swung on the solitary giraffe, but are warded off by the presense of the kodos - apparently, serving as a kind of herbivorous champion of the region.  _"The web of life here is a little complex,_" Aleeana offers spontaneously, perhaps just because she feels she is able to do so, out of her three weeks of experience in the land.  _"Most of the herbivores are no trouble, and they gravitate to kodos because kodos don't seem to differentiate between creatures more deeply than 'predator' and 'not predator'.  That's why the Tauren domesticated them so easily.  And most of the predators will keep away if you're near a kodo.  But thunder lizards get territorial around anything close to their size, so they'll spit sparks at kodos.  So kodos will run from them - unless there's something smaller than them to protect, which they treat as a vulnerable child; in which case they'll rush the thunder lizard and try their luck.  But a thunder lizard won't attack you on foot.  But the lions will.  And the raptors will, but only if they're being aggressively hunted by humanoids, or not hunted at all.  Raptors will attack if they think you - and by you, I mean the tribe they perceive you to belong to, which is something like 'biped' - are weak.  That's when they'll figure they can afford to hunt you.  But if the locals are killing them off in numbers, their little nest-tribes start merging into larger groups, and they'll start attacking not to hunt, but to project threat.  If they kill a few folks, they'll back off and they break up into nest-tribes again.  So the local hunters have to coordinate so they're hunting raptors in that sweet-spot between 'no threat, attack' and 'threat that can't be ignored, attack'.  They're clever girls."_

You camp with the caravan that night on the road - in better tents, now that you've had a little financial freedom to afford them - and the next day, you part ways with it.  Aleeana and the caravan carry on towards the crossroads; you strike west across the open land filled with yellow grass, and grown rock mesas, and hardy, scattered trees offering brief respite from the punishing sun.  One again, fortune smiles on you, and you're not disturbed in your travel.  A significant streak of your overland journey is through an area where a fire has burned off most of the long grass a week ago, and stubborn green shoots are poking up, unjaded by the savannah sun.  Aside from nearly stepping on a nest for a golden-brown wind-serpent (which hisses and flaps up into the air in its undulating panick, circling above you as it considers its options and choosing not to try its luck, as you move on by), the second day has little trouble to offer you all the way until the afternoon.  The sun behind you, just beginning to discolor the sky, you come around a mesa and see the sudden, almost shocking intrusion of green of the oasis.  A dense wall of palm trees, and great ferns with huge feathery leaves surrounds what is less of an oasis pool, and more of a small lake; surprisingly clear, and pleasingly fresh; bubbling in places where it is fed by the pressure from underground springs.  It's quite beautiful, actually; with the shade cutting away much of the heat for the day, and the steamy vents feeding the pool suggesting a source of radiant warmth for a campsite through the night, or for an adventurous night-swimmer.  A pair of huge tortoises, with angular, pineapplish nodes covering their shells, give you wary looks with their big, dumb eyes.  They're the size of large dogs, and with a sharp, bony underbite, they look capable of chomping fairly hard; but they seem more interested in seeking food in the water than out of anyone's legs, and they maneuver away into the water at their top, embarassingly slow speed.  Clusters of bright red and orange flowers, each bloom as big as a human hand, nod approvingly at your approach.  And at the far side of the water, a couple of minutes walk around its perimeter, is a white-granite stone protrusion with three natural openings - two high, one at ground level - giving a kind of sloppy resemblance to a giant skull.  This, certainly, is the entrance to the caverns.  You could make your way to the entrance and start immediately exploring; or opt to make camp here, and start that effort tomorrow.

*Spoiler: OOC Options:*
Show

Welcome to the Lushwater Oasis.  Everyone can give me up to two things they'd like to do as you arrive, and may feel free to proactively roll, or take a routine 10 as appropriate, for those things.  Examples might include scouting around the oasis for wildlife or visitors (Perception), looking specifically for tracks made by a higher order of life than the wild creatures (Investigation), conferring with the elemental spirits in the area (Jakk'ari's Communicate), performing a cursory examination of the water's quality (Expertise: Alchemy), doing any of these things while paranoid'ly trying to remain hidded (Stealth), or any other creative thingamabob you'd like to try to get past me.  Feel free to comment on anything your character might have done on the journey here, or if you're so inclined, the wardrobe changes they have adopted for this safari - wide brimmed hats, parasols, what have you.  Obviously that has no mechanical effect, but you're bringing the _world_ to _life._

----------


## JoyWonderLove

*Spoiler: ooc, why so little*
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 Im mostly out of posting sorts, so Im posting this tiny bit now to get myself back into some kind of posting order. 

Posting.
 

*Spoiler: Not Quite Insightful Conversation (Felix)*
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About two hours and a quarter into what would be the guard night shift, Emilia appeared out the front door backwards, two steaming mugs in hand. For all the same polished armour, longsword, and ponytail in the earlier meeting, the silver sun tabard was glaringly missing. Removing it from her person had become an unofficial sign these past four weeks. As much to herself as those nearby, it oft meant to ask little guild related work of her then, and expect less until tomorrow. Although it was not unknown for her to wear the tabard all day, if duties demanded it, it made her appearance even odder at that time of night. Being an early riser had meant earlier bedtimes to balance. 

Emilia marched, as was oft her way, over only to ignore the former cadet despite standing in line with him. She gazed out at the dusk and dirt and the stars shining above. Cant claim I miss this crap, she muttered, loud enough. Even with the precise affectations she sported for duties dropped, the refined pronunciation and accent still barely clung to her, like rusted armour on a marble statue. She offered Felix one of the mugs.

Peppermint and ginger. Steeped long enough that it _actually_ makes us more alert; not like some rip-off artists down there that piss in a cup and claim it lemon tea.  She pulled a very unladylike face even while looking down at Rachet, before returning to scanning the horizon outwards, like anyone that had pulled sentry duty in the past. 

Funny how little things can make you miss home. Hows Rachet been treating you?

----------


## Plaids

After a long trek out into the savannah the oasis was quite pleasant. Clear water and shaded groves were the most popular places to rest in such warm climates. But appearances and first impressions could be deceiving and everyone else would need to know better before learning from experience
 It looks like we have arrived at the mouth of caverns everyone. Stick together for now and don't go refilling our water supplies just yet. The water might be saline, and we don't know yet how accommodating this oasis is for us just yet. 

Considering the plight of the apprentice druids who entered prior it would be best to prepare some rudimentary contingencies. Seizing several sticks and ferns Jakk'ari begins to fashion fibrous cords to attach the discarded sticks. The result is nothing special with the durability or fantastical uses that Marion, Mor'Lag, or Emelia would produce with the right workbench. But the sticks tied with fibrous chords to the large fern leaves would mark the parties traveled path and point towards the direction the wind would be exiting. 

Jakk'ari pushes aside a large leaf fern and proceeds through a shaded thicket. The cool air providing a welcome respite from the heat as the shaman proceeds to the cave face. The ground is firm but springy unlike the hard packed coarse scrub soil earlier in the day. Everyone was out of their element and help would be needed. Now came the crucial part.  "Elements I come seeking your aid. My companions and I have come seeking apprentices of the Cenarion Circle. We believe they have become lost in the caverns below while investigating a disturbance to the land. Has anyone else recently arrived at this oasis and the caverns below? 

*Spoiler: Actions chosen*
Show

 Jakk'ari has chosen to make some trail markers out of the sticks in leaves in the oasis to make sure the party does not get lost in the caverns. He is also asking the elementals if they have seen anyone enter the caverns recently. This could be anyone from the druids who entered the caverns or any other unknown party.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag liked the loose-fitting sundress they had commissioned.  They had permeated it in chrysanthemum and citron oils before leaving, based on Marion's ideas for bug repellent.  Between that and the fabric itself, she was largely protected from the biting vermin of the swamp..

As the group began to set up the camp, Mor and Lag survey the area.  Lag searches for any sign of intelligent life, while Mor surveys signs of dangerous animals.  Their two heads allow both surveys to go in tandem.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

The journey across the barrens was easier for Marion than one might think. Though a casual judgment may write the aristocrat off as a soft, pale girl that would be hard-pressed by even a two day journey through the exotic and unknown savannah wilderness, the warlock took to the trip with surprising fortitude that might not be so astonishing when one remembered the distant and arduous travels she had endured just to arrive on this continent. And so, a hardened journeyman by now, Marion sat atop the howdah that had been fastened to one of the great beasts where she could read a book, survey the local interests and deploy an umbrella should the beating sun become too harsh. 

The warlock sometimes listened with passing interest to Aleena's tour-guide like explanations and on other occassions she zoned her out as she focused on the opened pages of her tome before her. It's not that Marion didn't appreciate the elfs new-found knowledge of the local area, she did, it's just...well, despite gazing upon something few humans had seen, the Alteraci just wasn't that interested in this type of biome. Heat. Endless golden grass. Big animals. Occasional pigman, green or brown. The end. It wasn't the mountains, the rich forests, the flowing azure rivers or the green fields of her homeland...if anything, it just reminded her how far away from home she truly was. 

When they finally happened upon the oasis, Marion smiled to herself at the vision. It was quite beautiful, she had to admit, like a ripe green-and-blue fruit nestled within an endless sea of brown. The scent of fresh, running water. The emerald foliage of the healthy vegetation. It was a little patch of Eden amidst a blighted land. 


ooc:

Marion would have brought along an ample supply of provisions, given that she's now Ms Moneybags. Food (trail-ration variety), water, camping/survival tools and some spare coin/precious stones should bartering or trade need to take place. 

For her actions, Marion will cast Demon Armor on herself and throw some glances around. Sorry to be annoying :P but that's about all she'd do at the moment, she'll leave the "scouting for enemies" and "searching for interesting stuff" to others who are more inclined. She'll just prep for heading into the cave.

----------


## WindStruck

With the even hotter weather of The Barrens, Isaera was, of course, showing off a lot of skin again. She basically wore a tiny two-piece outfit as she had two weeks prior during that near-scandalous incident, though this was tempered with a cover up of sorts. A small sarong and half cardigan of light, almost sheer fabric adorned her body, and combined with tactical use of parasol and ointments, the bugs nor the elements hardly bothered her. Of course, she also had the foresight to bring warmer clothes for the nights, and exploring the Wailing Caverns if need be.

"You've seemed to learn a lot," Isaera remarks to her sister, as she explains the web of ecosystems.

Before they part ways, she stops Aleeana and says, "Hey. Be careful," with a genuine look of concern before embracing her in a hug.

- - - - - - - - - -

Upon arriving to the oasis, Isaera is relieved in a way, having come to such a lush, beautiful place amid the veritable wastelands all around them, though she knew full well that there was likely a danger lurking nearby.

"I'm sure the water is fine," she says, waving away Jakk'ari's concerns. "If it was anything dangerous, there would be no vegetation growing around it. I know that much."

Raising a finger she adds, "That said.. I am curious if there are any magical or other unique properties to this water. And it would probably be best to purify it by boiling, regardless."

She soon gathers a few samples of the water and begins preparing some tests for them. While these things are going on in the background, she takes the chance to follow Mor'Lag around, trying to see if she can spot anything the ogress misses.

*Spoiler: OOC*
Show

As fun as it would be to take a nice dip in the water, that would just be irresponsible and stupid.   :Small Tongue: 

So anyway, real stuff here.  Isaera will try analyzing the water for unique properties. As suggested, an expertise alchemy check would be in order: (1d20+14)[*29*]

However, if anything else magical is discovered about this water, I'd also like to try my hand at expertise: arcane magic  (1d20+14)[*27*]

I don't think Isaera would feel comfortable wandering about the area by herself, but she could perform an investigative check while near Mor'Lag...

investigation: (1d20+14)[*16*]  We'll look for signs of "higher life".

Lastly, with the resources I have to make up to three potions, my choices would be:
- a mana potion. Obviously. Gotta have my fix, especially in case of emergency!
- a potion of regeneration. I think in WoW it was something like minor trolls blood.  Will probably grant one or a few ranks in fast healing.
- This might be completely random, but I feel like a potion of water breathing might be useful.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

=_Meeting Mission Parameters_=

Emilias attempt to do justice by way of a liaison offering a middle path done, she still seemed pleased at the druid mission being prioritised. The missing were best rediscovered sooner than not, and it simply fit their guild far better than the other options. As the night elf summarised the agreed upon actions, Ambers odd green eyepatch was pulled out and turned over idly in hand. It looked unique enough that she would notice it elsewhere, but unique enough to ask of it after their awkward end? _Like as much a sentimental thing, or else a good luck baubel at best._ When others werent overmuch placing attention on the paladin, she speculatively brought it level with her right eye and glanced the room before pocketing it again. Rising from her seat, her mind was away.

There was a mission to prepare for, and a concern of whatever haunted Felix.

=_Absence in an Oasis_=

Emilia had been restlessly quiet the entire bumpy way of the caravan. She frowned while unconsciously poking at the rings of her chainmail, feeling strangely vulnerable for her tabard absent. It had seemed wrong to wear it on their first deployment. Their guild had its own name and mission and resources, of which the Argent Dawn was only a small but integral part, and none of her fellow guild leaders had anything identifying themselves. So she had opted to go without. A guilt-ridden attempt at solidarity, worsened for realizing they appeared a spittle of armed thugs with no identifying banner or uniform, and were soon to be skulking around in a cave system. It stank of being brigands hunkering where Alliance and Horde wouldnt tread. _Or mercenaries, at best._ That she opted for a surprisingly fine black cloak with silver trim to keep the heat off her head had been her ego insisting on it, over a wide brimmed straw hat. 

Just find the druids, she muttered to herself, between sweating and mouthfuls of mostly water. Do your utmost to that, and Light take the rest.

Beyond dispensing the rations at the start of the journey, Emilia had said much of nothing to anyone else, and made no attempt to start conversation. But she did listen when the ranger spoke of the ecosystem, and seemed fascinated with the oddly horned horses and excessively long necked creature, considering the kodos with a new regard when it became clear their very presence kept the predators at bay. The big lumbering beasts had more nobility to them than some Stormwind Houses.  The rattling, bumping, jostling journey felt a great deal more tolerable after that. _Still, how did they suffer this nonsense uphill, and not challenge taking a wagon all the way here? I would sooner chance a mount than this._ She would have to put in a request for horses with the Argent Dawn when they returned, or push for that stablemistress in the next round of staff intake for the guild. 

Finally, Emilia exclaimed when the wagon stopped the first night.

But by the second day, with no narration and much marching, Emilia grew bored scrutinizing the sea of grass and savanna trees for threats eventually, and instead settled for sighing impatiently. When her throat was somehow parched and sated of drinking from her water skin, and she was bored of not talking to others, she instead wrapped her fingers around the longsword hilt and dragged the sword up a little, before stabbing it down, and continued not to talk to anyone. Exactly as she had when waiting at the tower, she let the sound of steel on leather sooth her in addition to the rustling wind and heavier thud of the ogre. It was no surprise threats gave them wide purchase. 

They arrived at the cave. When the troll warned off of the water, Emilia took a smaller mouthful of her water skin, before producing the item she had inscribed to help pinpoint residual druidic magic. Her right hand forever kept at least one finger on the sword hilt, what with threats enough in the wild to undo even druids lurking somewhere. 

Raptors, spiders, and wind serpents favour the cave system. To say nothing of the Kolkar and the oasis. Stay vigilant. 

Emilia went over to the oasis, scrutinizing the area, even as she bent and resisted her impulse to refill on water. She instead checked around the oasis for any footprints or signs of recent humanoids in the area to begin her investigation, and went from there. 

*Spoiler: Actions and item requests*
Show

 

Action 1, Mission First: Skill Mastery Routine Check Investigation for *24*. Lets find those druids. 

Action 2, Stay Vigilant: Perception (result 14, no Skill Mastery) and stay vigilant. Check out the oasis and cave.

Item Request 1: Inscription (result 20) that helps me find the missing druids. You mentioned an inscription that can help hone in on druid residual magic? If I can get away with temporary inscriptions that fade away in time, I want to stick the inscription on the emerald eyepatch.  :Small Big Grin:  If not, Ill leave it alone and go with...a compass I bought in Rachet and Inscribe that? Make it point the way!

Item Request 2: Cooking (result 15) to make rations for the group, not unlike you would find for an army deployed.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


*Spoiler: With Nodrick*
Show

Marion watched with detached amusement as a tiny portion of the goblins food went on a little adventure. 

Shaking her head, seemingly snapping out of it, the warlock turned her attention back to Nodrick as he laid out his plan. Once again, Marion could see the benefits...but her instincts told her not to trust the goblins. She had no reason to doubt Nodrick's personal loyalty - he wouldn't be here if she did. But all those goblins? That was just asking to be swindled. 

Nodding, pursing her lips, "I think you're right, Nodrick," she started, leaning back in her chair, her hands coming up to tent her fingers before her. 

"Compartmentalising the production process would be an expensive, but effective, means of intellectual property protection. Yes, yes I have found your arugment thoroughly convincing!" she said, sitting upright and leaning forward. 

Using her dinner implements before her in an impromtu map of Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. 

"We'll make one component here in Theramore..." she pointed a finger at where the human city would be. 

"We will then contract ships to carry crates aboard them for our second, smaller factory in _Stormwind_," she pointed to the city's location on the improvised map. 

"There they are assembled, boxed and dispersed across Azeroth's trading lanes! And from there, we can place shipments onto the Gnome train and look to secure a contract with the Explorers League in Ironforge."

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Isaera: Far From Home*
Show

_"Oh, pshhh. _ Wise.  _Do you think it's wise to be so concerned about being wise, when all the best tales of adventure and romance are preoccupied instead with experience?  I get by perfectly fine by avoiding doing the plainly stupid things; but if you're not willing to flirt with a little danger, well then..." She interprets Isaera's look without needing to break stride on her defence of impulsiveness, rolls her eyes a little, and yields the delicate comb to her, to comb her own brows, as if that proved her point somehow.  "Well then, what's the bloody point of it all?  He saw you were in distress - that means he was watching you, in the little bathing suit you brought because you wanted to be watched in it.  He gave you something of his that he'll likely want back.  It's an invitation, Isa.  If you don't see where it goes, you're going to wonder what you missed.  And I'm not going crazy for_ him_.  I'm a little upset that I didn't get to see him, I'll admit.  But I'm crazy because you're just about the strongest, most capable person I know; and half the time you seem to know it, and half the time you lock up and worry about all the angles."_

She sighs, perhaps a little melodramatically, and leans forward; chin in her palms, elbows on her knees.  _"I just don't want you to wake up some day and realize you're five hundred years old and you wish you'd taken more chances.  That's all."_

She does not, however, respond to the question about her eyes - either avoiding the topic herself, or just reticent to let Isaera change from the previous one.


*Spoiler: Emilia: A Not Quite Insightful Conversation*
Show

Felix shakes from his distraction when she shows up, straightening his posture a little to make up for his reverie.  Your comfortable vulgarity seems to shock him a little; eyes widening as his brain attempts to parse both the flicker of noble accent and the urological tea criticism at once; hemispheres boggling at each other behind his eyes with their clashing determinations.  _"Oh - oh, thanks.  Thanks, yeah."_  He takes the mug, blows on it, and sips; he gives you a look, eyebrows rising as he nods in appreciation.  It seems a little put on; the lad is unlikely to have as refined a tea palate as the lady, but he gives you a smile as if he _does_ notice the increase in quality, and has you to thank.  Then he looks away again, out toward the town; like so many young men, just as incapable of staring too long into the face of a beautiful woman as he is of staring into the sun.

_"Ratchet?  Yeah.  Yeah, it's okay.  It's not so bad.  I sleep down in a boarding house, off the side of the Frisky Duke.  Not a lot of space or privacy, but I gave that up when I became a cadet, so I'm sorta used to barracks-living, you know?"_  He gives a smile that is definitely _off_; misshapen, like the blanket a child throws over the pile of clothes, toys, and various crap they scooped from the floor of their room to pass it of as 'clean'.

_"Surprised how many people here speak common.  I figured I'd have to learn goblin-speak or something, but they just switch back and forth between languages like it's nothing."_

This, it strikes you, is smalltalk; but the attempt to read your posture from the corner of his eyes suggests he is wondering why you are here, right now; perhaps suspecting he is in trouble, or has forgotten something you're about to remind him to do.


*Spoiler: Marion: Theramo' Money, Theramo' Problems*
Show

Nodrick appears to be smiling through pain as you take half his idea, and rejigger the other half geographically.  Your best read on him suggests it's less about the goblin nature of the Booty Bay, and more about the extra costs incurred paying the Crown fee at the docks in Stormwind, and the generally inflated price of labor in the heart of the world's most dynamic reborn kingdom.  The margins change with the readjustment; and perhaps he doesn't see the clarity of what is to be gained with the Deeprun to Ironforge factored in.  He is, after all, less acquainted with the Alliance kingdoms than you are.  But he's a good sport, bringing his hands together almost prayerfully.  _"Well, there you go.  You'd know more about Ironforge trade than I would.  Dwarves and Goblins, you know?  I had an uncle who said his sapper crew got within ten feet of rock of actually breaching into Ironforge during the great siege, before the Alliance relief showed up and turned the whole thing over.  He says Anduin Lothar himself trampled his best friend.  My uncle's best friend, I mean.  And Lothar's horse doing the trampling, not Lothar himself.  Anyway."_ 
 Another flap of the hand, dismissing the digression like a bothersome fly.  _"I'll pull out my logs see what kind of affordable rates we can get running from Theramore to Stormwind and back.  Might need to be fewer trips with larger loads, to bring your margins up again.  Do you know anyone in Stormwind who can get a workforce set up there?  Or know anyone who knows anyone?  I can find someone if you want; it'll just take a bit of work."_

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jakk'ari, certainly the most attuned to the land of the group, selects a number of sticks, and delicate fern leaves to create trail markers for the journey.  A bundle of these orienteering staples strapped to his back, he goes about his communion with the land as he has, many times before.

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari - You Listen...*
Show

The interaction between elemental spirits, which make up the non-living natural things of the world, and the living beings within that natural world is a delicate one; and a somewhat onesided relationship.  Tanaris and the Barrens were once wonderfully fertile territories before the lands were smashed apart, and the ecology of the regions strained to adapt; buckling in many places entirely.  But sand spirits will happily occupy a land from which the water spirits have fled; and they will yield up, perhaps with a fight, that same land when the rains come hard to change the land once more. 
 Creatures, even species, may flee or move on or die outright; but the land cannot die.  The land endures.

The elemental spirits here are few, and weak.  Your senses struggle to pick them up at all.  In the water, two spirits - Ripple and Rush - spiral quietly in a body of liquid that should host considerably more of the beings.  A skittish earth spirit flees from your introduction, its unmanifested, vaporous presenses sluicing deep into the ground to wait for your departure.  So carefully, speaking the gentlest stripe of Kalimag you know, you coax Ripple and Rush into explanation.  They hesitate at first; and you are forced to 'pull rank' on them; your authority as a shaman has bound them to you, just as you to them.  They yield what they can, fearfully.

*"A deep vein bleeds, shaman."*
_"And an infection presses on the wound!"_
*"Not one wound; two wounds.  Each spilling into the other!"*
_"It is not the land's blood..."_
*"...But it is a familiar knife.  We will not linger.  It is not safe."*
_"No safety here, for druids, or spirits, or demons, even."_
*"We must go..."*
_"Forgiveness, shaman."_
*"Forgiveness, shaman."*
_"We must go..."_
*"We must go!"*

It's one of the more unusual conversations you have had with such creatures.  You chew over their cryptic commentary, but come first to two immediate conclusions.

The first is that something unusual and supernatural is happening.  If the earth and water spirits have fled the area, usually alternative spirits would arrive and their presence would begin ensuring a physiological shift - air spirits turning the area into a dustbowl, for example.  And the ecology of the area would be suffering as the elemental forces in which all mortal life is rooted slunk away, leaving the hollow, helpless material shell of the world.  But the pools here seem teeming with life; all the creatures and plants you spy seem healthy, and flushed with vitality.  Life thrives here; but not from the sustenance of the reluctant land.

The second is that Ripple and Rush seemed to identify two problems, both of which were somewhat alien to them.  What they are, you can't precisely discern from those words beyond speculation; but even knowing nothing, the situation has become radically more complex than just finding the missing druids.


Mor and Lag swivel their respective heads, lending two minds and three eyes to surveilance of the area.  The turtles aren't so big - not to an ogress, anyway. They possess sharp, chomping beaks that seem to be designed to snip through bone, so they probably aren't very cuddly; but they can't move particularly fast, for sure; and it's hard not to imagine it would be trivial for them to just pick up an aggressing turtle, and lay it gently upside down, negating its threat entirely.  Apart from them, the ogresses senses pick up no dangerous wildly; some little green snakes in the trees that are unlikely to be venomous, some flitting fish in the water, and a zherva mother with her foal drinking peacefully from the waters over the other side of the pool, trading off between the foal drinking and the mother keeping watch, and vice versa.  Their coordinated vigilance reminds Mor and Lag of themselves, and their own honed teamwork.

Isaera, after sweeping up a pair of clear glass tubes of the oasis water, follows Mor'Lag on their patrol; one breezily dressed arcanist after another.  The keen elven eyes track over the vibrant plantlife; but detect no higher life observing the group, or making use of the waters.

*Spoiler: Isaera's Alchemy, and Magic*
Show

After lazily stirring the samples with a roll of your wrist will you stroll, circulating a pinch of two different reactive powders into each one, you determine the water is not poisoned, or tainted, as far as you can tell.  If anything, the creatures in the area seem to be _more_ nourished by the area than they have a right to be.  But instinct tells you there's something to be seen here, and without so much as a vocalized or gestured components, you assemble wilfully a flicker of arcane sense to your eyes, permitting you to analyze the waters from a magical perspective.

The liquid is saturated with arcane motes.  It shines brightly to the flash of magic sense you adopted, almost stunning you with its intensity.  There is more mana present in these vials than in the mana potion you brewed for the purpose of storing mana!  There's no bonding agent - the water will lose its magical saturation over the next hour, if separated from the source of the magical influence - but you've never seen anything like it.  The mana swirling in this water is the cleanest, most pure, you've ever seen.  Cleaner than motes extracted by the dissolution of a principally magical creature like a manawyrm.  Cleaner than what can be derived from the bonded alchemical elements in a potion. 
 Cleaner than the crystalized forms of mana you used to see back in Silvermoon, shuttled around as power sources and experimental components.

It's hard to imagine what could be generating such a manasource with such purity; but your very elven soul, long accustomed to mana, is so drawn to know the answer that you catch yourself beginning to instinctively salivate.


Emilia sets to work immediately, looking for signs of the druids who came to the area.  With the occasional wary glance for onlookers hidden in the brush, the squire produces a curious, emerald green lens, to strap over the eye like a patch, and begins her survey of the approach to the cave.

*Spoiler: Emilia Walks The Grid*
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Either you messed up this inscription, or you're in the right place. 
 The whole zone, like a blastradius from the cavemouth, is washed with life magic.  It might explain the presence of such a flourishing oasis.  But taking a moment to sort the sources of this magic and to get used to this extra layer of vision, you note this saturation of life magic has a fairly even grade, and seems to be emitting from beneath the ground, perhaps within the caverns, in a direct fashion with no particular regard to the caverns themselves.  But there are traces here, of humanoids - elves, likely - who were themselves ensorcelled with life magic who came to this pool _from_ the caverns, and then returned to it.  You detect two sources here; which means only that atleast two folks, emerged and returned again.  But it also means that - for at least a week, you're confident - no such druids have emerged from the cave and then kept going.  If they're still alive in there, however many there are, they've been in there for some time; and atleast two have made an unhurried trip to the surface, for... what?

It's impossible to tell anything forensically from the physical area - the movement of your quarry happened too long ago.  But the tool you've designed for this purpose suggests a slight deviation in time between the tracks you're sensing: _one emerged, and stopped here.  The other emerged, and came to them; they returned together._  Did someone try to escape, and was beckoned back?  Were they just coming up for fresh air, and were recalled?  You may only speculate.

But you know, now, that there are atleast two druids who left, and reentered, the Wailing Caverns, not more than a week ago.


While Isaera and Mor'Lag take a circuit to look for potential signs of higher life, and as Jakk'ari and Emilia finish up their nearby interrogations of supernatural levels of the scene, Marion is content to let others' feet do the walking.  She makes a reasonably discreet incantation, which sends a ripple of red-green flame from her feet to the crown of her head.  A faint, slender silhouette seems superimposed on top of the warlock's own; a very similar figure to the woman herself, though more bulked out with brawn, and with the ridgey suggestion of plated, jagged armor.  

*Spoiler: Marion's Disinterested Eyes*
Show

You finish your casting, and let the others get on with the busy-work. You're ready to get into the cave and find this problem so you can get back to important things. 
 Yet it must be observed that fate has a sense of humor; and it is your eyes, not those of anyone diligently looking, that notice an observer no more than fifty feet from where you, Jakk'ari, and Emilia are; with Mor'Lag and Isaera wandered a little off in the other direction.  Your eyes catch a flicker of a feminine torso, and a white veiled face with bright golden eyes; and, if you're not mistaken, the forequarters of a horse.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion was humming happily to herself...until she saw _it_. 

It took several moments to register in the teenagers head just what it was she was looking at. But as soon as the lethargy was stripped from her senses, the warlock wasted no time. 

Drawing her hands up, Marion uttered an incantation and sent her thoughts forward as an invisible cloud - the air around the centaur abruptly becoming heavy with an oppressive, smoky red gaze materialising and eroding everything in the area...

"Centaurs!" Marion yelled out to the others as she shoved herself behind a nearby tree to give herself some degree of cover.


ooc:

Marion is using her Move action to move into cover.

She's using her *Move-by* advantage to move, cast *Death and Decay* with the centaur being at the centre. Everything within 30 feet has to take a Toughness DC 18 test, it's *Contagious* and it'll continue next round.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Isaera: Far from Home*
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Isaera laughs off and waves away her sister's.. criticism. If you could even call it that. "Oh, please! All the tales of romance and adventure are just that: tales!" she scoffs.

Isaera snatches the delicate little eyebrow comb from her sister's hand with a playful 'pff'. "On second thought, it's probably not a good idea to let you handle pointy objects anywhere near my eyes..." she mutters.

"The captain and I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. But you're missing the entire point," Isaera insists. "Because of course I plan to meet him again. And you're welcome to come along to. I just don't plan on playing any stupid games. I'll return his jacket, I'll thank him.. and maybe we'll see what happens from there." She shrugs. "In any case, he seems to be quite the serious type, so maybe the best way to catch his eye would be being direct, and no nonsense."

When her sister voices her concerns about waking up 500 years old and alone, however, Isaera's gaze softens and she says, "Oh, I don't think I will. Not with you always pushing me into doing idiotic things..." she teases playfully.

The lack of a response to the question about Aleeana's eyes, however, seemed to darken the mood considerably, and it gave Isaera pause. "...are you alright? I suppose maybe you did really like the green color, but..."  Oh no. Was this a consequence of taping into the nether? "Is it not going away?"

----------


## WindStruck

With Isaera keenly aware of magical auras in the moment, and beginning to look around triumphantly to announce her findings to all her companions with glee, she actually notices something quite off instead.

A silhouette over Marion, her sharp intake and collection of fel energies, and what looks like a single centaur some distance away. Or with such a quick glimpse, was she even a centaur?

All Isaera knew was that one lone centaur might not be that much of a threat. If they wanted to attack they might have already. But attacking now would probably dash all attempts for a peaceful resolution to the whole Kolkar Tribe conflict.

*"Stop!!"* Isaera shouts, beginning to run straight at Marion. Though her attempts to stop Marion were about the most panicky and vigorous physical activity she had ever done, it's not saying much for her frail  body. She might just tackle Marion, but it might only wind up becoming a glorified glomp. And that is assuming that Isaera was able to even get close.

----------


## Plaids

The hurried exit of Ripple and Rush only brought about more questions. 
Elementals who should been content to bask in bounty of their small dominion were frightened and fleeing. 

Two wounds, an infection, a knife? At least there was solace to be found with the mention of druids and demons. The druids may still yet persist, and demons are likely not the drivers of this infection or the beneficiary of these wounds. 

The troll's contemplation and the serene atmosphere is broken by a high-pitched shout from Isaera. Pleading for mercy or restraint from an unknown unknown party.
This had to coincide with the element's absence and lives were at stake. 

Jakk'ari dashes from the cavern entrance forgoing the winding trail he initially traversed to travel through underbrush to hopefully reunite a few moments earlier with his party.
 Cover Isaera! Form a front line. 
A rushed trollish incantation is muttered causing energy to well from tattooed focal points in preparation for the worst.

*Spoiler: OOC Actions*
Show

 Jakk'ari runs straight from the mouth of the cavern back to Isaera based on the sound of her voice. Jakk'ari also gets ready to heal Isaera just in case.
I would like to have Jakk'ari's healing power not fall under his "shaman abilities" descriptor but fall under "trollish tattoo magic" instead. Since empathic healing doesn't neatly fall into a shaman ability to me. I also got the inspiration from the character Zul'jin in Heroes of the Storm who attacks faster if by activating his tattoos.*Spoiler: Inspiration*
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## JoyWonderLove

*Spoiler: Not Quite Insightful Conversation (Felix), Part 2*
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Emilia blew on her own steaming mug, content to listen. She only gave a casual nod when the misshapen smile occurred while Felix spoke of the cadet lifestyle. It would have been pleasant, not holding herself to airs, were the situation not pinging at her intuition as it had earlier. One of the only true advantages of the issues on the northern continent had been a certain ease of conduct that she little felt open to when speaking to the upper echelon or attending duties. 

Its damn near amazing, the whole multilingual flex theyve got going on here. Not that surprising, I guess, when a hundred new visitors stroll by every week? But in Stormwind, the Kings Commonll do fine. Lordaeron the same, before and after. Turns out nobody cares over much if you can translate bits of celestial when the family hound your wards buried last week wants to go walkies again. You fight, farm, fish, or...whatever else. Do one well enough, and youve earned shelter. Not that it hasnt gotten a lot better since.  

Emilia sipped at her tea, and discovered she had added a little too much wine, but at least she had given him the right cup. _Refined palette indeed_. So I sorta get the barracks-living, except I always had a bit more room and privacy, even up north. But sometimes, its a little hard not to feel lonelier for it. She shrugged. The Argent Dawn actually trained me in Orcish for this assignment. Not my first choice, frankly. You pick up any languages yourself? What made you become a cadet anyway?   
 

=_Company in the Oasis_=

Emilia breathed out slowly as the kaleidoscopic explosion of life magic appeared to her right eye, the emerald lens adding layers on layers in the oasis. Making her way from the water source to the cave opening, it was likely that the two druids were drawn to whatever the deep pool of life energy beneath the earth was. Studying the formation and maintenance of these pockets of life, possibly. But the warning cry rang out of the Kolkar and the paladin immediately drew her weapon and turned, only to see the princess-librarian shouting at the ethereally armoured warlock to halt a weave of energies that appeared deadly, and Isaera insanely attempted to tackle the skittish warlock. The shaman spoke of defensive and Emilia moved to protect the disintegrating arcane line. 

Centaurs will ruin us in the open; forming rank in the cave is best! she said, even as she went against her own assessment to act as a barrier between roughly where Marion had been looking, and the awkward scuffle between the mages.

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## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag return from their circuit of the area to see the tense confrontation.  Something wasn't quite right about it, and they didn't want to set the tinder alight.  In Orcish, Lag cries out, "Oi!  Centaur!" Mor continues, "What do you want!?"

*Spoiler: OoC reasoning*
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In the off chance this isn't an attack, the Centuars might speak Orcish.  If it is an attack, better they pay attention to Mor'Lag over the casters

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## MrAbdiel

Isaera charges, and strives to halt Marion's malefic casting by hook or crook; but the young noblewoman refuses to be caught in a trap, and lets fly a curling wisp of crimson energy that vanishes from her palm and reappears as a sizzling, cryptic overlay of dark runes on the patch of ferns and cover in which the figure hid.  The centaur - for that is what she is, indeed - lets out a startled, almost human cry of distress; the skin around her eyes, where it is visible between veil and head covering, paling and shooting through with blackening veins.  She runs, darting back through the brush into what should be cover; but as she goes, a swathe of the plantlife dies around her, and she remains now more clearly visible than before, if a little further away; a feminine humanoid torso on a sleek, ruddy red equine body.  The humanoid portion is veiled and covered around the head and neck, with bandeau of rough cloth around the chest.  White paint marks an unfamiliar sequence of symbols  over the skin of her bare stomach, and curling off over the coat of her lower body in long streamers of unreadable centaur text.  She whips a staff about her in the air, the narrow length whooshing and whistling, and the air seems to answer the call; grey cloud, the kind one associates with storms except hanging just thirty feet in the air, immediately darkens the oasis, and rumbles with threat.

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Elemental Senses*
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Perhaps not a true shaman, in the sense of knowing and speaking for the elements, this female centaur is certainly some manner of aeromancer.  A new elemental, Typhoon, has bloomed into the spiritual space at her command; throwing its shadow over the otherwise spiritually desolate area, and mustering a quiver of lightning bolts it intends to hurl when directed.  Some centaur, it seems, have atleast some communion with the elements.


Three more figures become apparent, as they fling light spears at the source of the strange magics - Mor'Lag's call either lost in translation, or else set aside in the face of an immediate magical threat.  These new opponents have masculine torsos, and no veiling at all; hide armor on their upper torsos, and hair tonsured back behind pointed ears.  If the centaur were not preparing to attack, they were certainly _prepared_ to attack; the attackers emerging suggesting a semicircular engagement pattern, each centaur fifty feet apart.  It's hard not to imagine there being more out there, completing the surrounding; but these are the ones who have made themselves visible.  The spears are thrown with jerky haste; and two whiz by, close to the magical pair.  But the third spear rakes through the elegant fabrics of Isaera's clothing, drawing blood as it does - a blow that _might_, without too much imagination required, have easily struck Marion otherwise.

*Spoiler: The Situation!*
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Isaera!  I rolled D4's for the attacks to see if any 'accidentally' went at you, and guess what?  It's a damage 5 attack, so that's a DC 20 Toughness check, if you'd be so kind.

With everyone moving up in response to Marion's warning, you're all in a loose cluster about 50 ft from each of the three spear throwers; and each of them is about 50ft from each other.  For those with no special move powers, that's a 30ft move and a little more away; for those with atleast move 1, that's just 1 move away.  Each of the spear throwers has some light cover, from the ferns.  The female centaur resisted the Death and Decay, and fled back from its zone; but the contagion carried with her has killed off all the plants she intended to hide behind, so she's not in cover.  She's just further away, off to the right of the spear attackers, and about 90ft from your group.

It's *Mor'Lag's* turn!

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## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag charges the center Centaur barreling forth in a double move!

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## WindStruck

For all Isaera's efforts of heroics, to stop a conflict from escalating and without also harming her 'dearest' other magical companion, she is rewarded with a spear to the gut. She would have screamed, but all the air in her lungs was already spent futilely trying to stop Marion.

So instead, with a sharp gasp of an inhale, Isaera staggers back, with blood already pouring from her wound and seeping into the fabrics of her wispy clothes.

The shouting of the others was a confusing blur. Sounded like Jakk'ari was telling Isaera to find cover, and Emilia was saying something about the cave. That sounded like a fine idea. If Marion wanted to pick a fight with the centaurs, she could do it without her!!

*Spoiler: ooc*
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Isaera's using her single action to move toward or into the cave.

Edit: using extra effort for some additional move

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marions instincts proved right - in her mind at least - as the foliage rotted away and the centauress beast screached in a hoof-beaten retreat...only to reveal the presence of _more_ man-horse things, weapons at the ready. 

So ready, in fact, they immediately threw them at her!

Marions instincts to duck for cover after casting her spell had proven a wise course of action, as the crudely made shafts of wood speared through the air. Their primitive construction did not subtract from their effectiveness, however, as demonstrated when a sickening, wet impact resounded from behind the warlock. 

Oh no...

Turning her head and spotting Isaera, the Alteraci's eyes widened and her mouth went agape. 

"You silly elf!" 

Marion sounded more concerned and worried rather than scolding. As she did so, her Death and Decay spell continued to rot away the foliage of the oasis that had surrounded the centaur, as palm trees, vegetation and greenery seemed to collapse in upon themselves and melt into the ground itself to form a coagulated, red-tinged bubbling soup. 

Marion mentally chanted the few syllables that were needed to ensure her spell remained intact, before she plucked herself away from cover and darted towards the entrance of the cave.

Let it not be said that Marion was a heartless girl. She helped Isaera as best she could along the way, to ensure the elf would get into the safety of the cave entrance, from whence the two could fling their lethal spells at their ambushers.

ooc:

*Standard Action:* Maintaining Death and Decay.

*Move Action:* Dashing into the opening of the cave and hiding.

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## Plaids

Leaving the brush brought about a hectic sight. Spears flew through the air, a blossoming cloud of miasmic decay, and Mor'Lag charging into the fray. 
Everything held fought for attention until a spear found it target. Jakk'ari saw Isaera stagger from the impact, breathlessly gasp, and collapse as blood trickled through her robes.

Jakk'ari stomach plummeted at the sight, his nostrils flared at the audacity of these creatures having attacked this youth who little more than a fledgling. The rotten scent and metallic smelling blood compounded the dismay of seeing this youth who was dying. 
The Loa nor the light would embrace her today if this shaman had any say in it.

Running to Isaera's side Jakk'ari placed his body between the semicircle of attacking centaurs in an attempt to catch any more spears that would hit Isaera. 
Gazing the offending centaur who had drawn first blood Jakk'ari called out to any elemental traces at the outskirts of the spirit bereft oasis. A small trace indeed remained. A small subterranean fire spirit within the sandy soil lazily chewing the roots of a palm on the oasis outskirts. Reaching out to the spirit and with the promise of new fuel the spirit is galvanized. A plume fire erupts from the ground right beneath the offending centaur.

Not waiting to see if his attack hit Jakk'ari looks back to Isaera. Her complexion seemed to have lightened after having shed blood. Panicking Jakk'ari calls upon another magic his tribe granted him. Jakk'ari starts by first removing the spear from Isaera. Then process formally begins with Jakk'ari palming Isaera's face. Feeling the latent energy now available to him the troll's tattoos illuminate lending the Loa given regeneration within all trolls briefly to Isaera.

OOC: The use of the leadership advantage is meant to remove the dazed status from Isaera. So, she can move and use a spell even if she only goes at half speed.

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## JoyWonderLove

Golden skin blacked, spears flew, storm clouds grew. Isaera bled, the warlock chastised and the Ogre charged. But Emilias face only scrunched in disbelief, doing a double take between the fleeing centaur leader and the warlock that saw threat in their first meeting by the tower, of all the ridiculous farces. _How does a scout in cover and camouflage get spotted, of all souls, by a bookworm with zilch for training?!_ The paladin swore, and it took every screaming fibre to reluctantly jam the longsword back in its home. This was no ambush. 

Peace! Our apologies! For the good of Kalimdor! she shouted to the leader, palms open and up. 

*Spoiler: actions*
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Presuming this is like d&d.

Move action to put the weapon back in its scabbard. 

Skill Mastery Persuasion, so I can pull off take 10/Routine checks in the most improbable situations. Persuasion aimed at the fleeing golden/blackened leader: *15*.

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## MrAbdiel

As Mor'Lag tears forward with earth-shaking strides to engage one of the enemies, Jakk'ari makes his move, bidding the furnace-bounty of the deep places rise to his aid.  A howl of anger contorts swiftly to pain, and then wailing, breathless despair; the haunting sound of creature defying, realizing, and confronting their death by flame.  It is a familiar elegy; one that filled the air in the flight from Stonemaul village.

Jakk'ari lays a hand on Isaera, and passes to her a modicum of his loa blessing which seals the deepest part of her wound, and gives her enough strength to retreat to the cavemouth; with Marion keeping pace, continuing her destruction of the Oasis' flora, and the possibility that the centaur witch might hide herself from coming fury.  Mor'Lag's opponent wheels and dances out of the way of the charge, circling and drawing another spear from a hide quiver, gritting teeth at the ogress and preparing to fight, or die, in the contest.  Emilia, in a desperate appeal, draws no weapon and calls out for peace in a tongue she can only hope the enemy can intuit.

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Isaera's Brush With Death*
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You press your hand to your side, and feel the unfamiliar - and to be frank, rather unwelcome - sensation of your own hot blood rushing freely through your fingers.  You remember your father telling you the story of how he caught a fragment of flying metal to the cheek to make that scar, and how the pain didn't kick in until long after the combat was over.  You feel slightly lied to.  This hurts like hellfire.

As you steady yourself and prepare to withdraw, with Mor'Lag and Emilia rushing to the fore of the combat to cover you and Marion (whose demeanour has changed from _cornered panther_ to _almost, almost apologetic_) Jakk'ari intercepts you and reaches for you with one big, three fingered hand.  The tribal markings on his skin are lit with a faint luminescence; and in no position to argue, you receive his touch upon your face and what you expect to be a burst of shamanic healing magic.

The next _one second_ is so startling that it looms enormous in your retrospect of the event.  As Jakk'ari's hand touches you, you hear a deep and bassy drumstrike; and you are transported away - only, that's not quite right.  It's as if everything except you is transported away, or flipped, or changed.  In the instant of contact, you are not standing by an oasis in the middle of an entirely unnecessary battle with centaurs; you are standing on a gilded balcony on top of some unthinkably massive step pyramid, buffeted by chill winds under a starry night sky; below, streets of tan stone and gold idols roll out in primal manificent until they merge seamlessly into a wildly lush jungle.  The palms and huge, dark green leafy foliage seems almost to have slide like a tide of life down the side of the nearby mountain, whose top vanishes into cloud.  And Jakk'ari is gone, too; a different troll has touched your cheek.  Huge, lean and lanky, stooping to engage with you.  Clad, you first think, in some kind of bone regalia to cover its pale blue skin in places - but it's not cladding, but rather a kind of intrinsic expression of the being's essence.  You feel the bones of its fingers on your cheek, as you stare stunned up into the smoking blue eyes in the dark hollows of a skull faceplate.

*"Not yet, li' gyal."*

Rumbled words like the grind of a closing tomb door; mirthful and amused somehow.  And a second after that first drumbeat, there is a second, and you're back in the bedlam of the oasis fight; your body rapidly finding the strength to wheel away and ferry you to the shelter of the cave mouth.  Whatever that was, you can afford to think about it only when you are not also dodging spears, in preservation of your life.

*Spoiler: An unforgettable visitation.*
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Across the battlefield, the centauress hears.  If she understand, that fact remains obscured; but some combination of the strident appeal, the fel forces wielded against them, and the cold calculus of battle forces a decision from her.  She calls something in her own clipped nomad language; and the begin to withdraw; one centaur warrior making a clean break; another giving Mor and Lag a look of baleful, unconcluded promise before wheeling away.  The stormcloud, pregnant with voltage, loses its flickering charge, and morphs into a mere obscuring fog that sinks to cover their retreat.  Within moments, all that remains of the centaur party are the hurled spears, scattered around; and the body of one creature, its equine lower half blackened and scorched, its blood boiled out its eyes and mouth; abandoned where he fell.

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## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Isaera: Far From Home*
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Aleeana rolls her eyes at your suggestion of occular danger - Aleeana does the best eyebrows, just ask her and she'll tell you - but it's what you say next that makes her melodramatically spring from her chair, and stagger back to bump into a bookshelf, as if snakebitten.

_"No stupid games, or nonsense?!  Stupid games and nonsense are the BEST PART, Isa.  How have I not passed this on to you yet?  I'm ashamed of myself."_  A dramatic sigh as she slides her palms down her cheeks.  _"Boys don't respect you unless you give them at least a little hell.  A well fed, and well bred cat will still chase mice.  Let me just - Hmm."_  She puffs a little in frustration, and lets her hands settle on her hips as she resolves to present her case better.  _"The stupid games are part of it.  The nonsense is part of it.  You_ want_ to know who he is, not just who he presents himself to be when you give him full command of the presentation.  You remember how mom used to pretend to be angry, and dad would just duck it all.  And they'd both come away happy because that was part of it, for them.  Don't you want that?"_

Somewhere toward the end of the sentence, it's clear to you she's stopped just trying to pontificate to you about the virtues of coquetry, and has started also to, quite accidentally, expose a corner of her heart.  Noticing this immediately after you do, and intuiting that you haven't failed to notice, she gives you a heartbreakingly weak smile, and draws her arms around herself. _ "That's what I want, anyway."_  Her voice cracks a little, she veers away from the subject sharply, reinflating her smile.  _"And I do like the eyes.  Lots of folks have them, now. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Isa.  We adapt, we survive.  That's all it is."_  She gestures towards her own countenance, matter-of-factly.  _"I'm proud that I'm a survivor."_



*Spoiler: Emilia: Not Quite Insightful Conversation*
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Felix nods along, noncommittally at the recollection of Lordaeron.  The lad is Lorderaenian himself, as are most of the folks from Theramore; but that trauma is one he seems to have a decent grip on, atleast at the moment.  The talk of loneliness strikes something in him, if obliquely; and he starts to exhibit the mild, intermittent squirming of someone who wants to share the unbearable tension of a secret, just to take the edge off concealing it.  _"Ah... No real language pick-ups.  A couple of orc words from my stay in the basement at Brackenwall.  Zug-zug, strobu, lok'tar; just the obvious ones. As for why I became a cadet, well.  My friends and I - we all had family who fought in the Third War.  We were all too young to be directly involved, but as soon as we aged into it, we signed up together.  Getting ready to save the world in the_ Fourth_ War, you know?  But, ah... Didn't really work out."_  A faint smile, and he sips his tea.  A little silence and then, like you expected he would, he gives you a sidelong glance and a half cringed expression.  _"...Hey.  Can you keep a secret?"_

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## JoyWonderLove

*Spoiler: Not Quite Insightful Conversation (Felix), Part 3: Party Hard*
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Emilia nodded slowly along while Felix shared the impact of the Third War and signing up with friends to save the world from the Fourth. She smothered the comment that their guild might prevent there ever being one, instead opting for a pained look when he stated it never worked out. Losing friends was never an easy ask. In the darkness and silence, she glanced his faint smile and mirrored it herself, but turned her eyes outwards again, as one more sentry on duty might. The question of whether he could confide came, but she paused thoughtfully. It was exactly why she had ventured into the unofficial meeting, but she had always preferred even footing with others. 

Depends, Felix. Can you keep one of mine? she glanced him curiously. 
 

=_Company in the Oasis_= 

Emilia frowned, even as she eyed the centaur retreat, and slowly lowered her hands until her right rested predictably on the hilt. The unnatural fog ate up the sounds of hooves moving further away, until all that remained was the sullenly silent oasis. Looking over at the cave entrance to eye the wounded elf in particular, the paladin grimaced in guilt. The Light empowered everything the Void didnt, but learning how to heal with it was months off at the quickest. _If I ever do_. Striding forward some, she stopped at near enough halfway between the exposed ogress and the cave opening. Only when the conjoined twins started moving back did Emilia do the same, heading to the cave. One surprise was enough for there time already. 

Quite the counter-push, she complimented reluctantly. In answer to spear and spell, they had charred a centaur, and had their best on the front-lines ready to snap spines like tinder, with whatever the warlock did still ongoing. It was obvious how they had survived Infernals, impossible as it was to think they had ever returned. Demons, a continent wide cult, and the Kolkar; no wonder the Opal Collocation formed.  

How bad is the wound? Are the rest of you well? 

*Spoiler: rough attempt to identify centaur leader/Well-Informed 20+*
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The emerald eyepatch was no doubt obviously on during the fight. Was the centauress using life magic, and so probably some kind of druid or shaman, or likely something else entirely? Just trying to put whatever little pieces together (golden centauress leader, very likely Kolkar, life magic or no) to see if I have enough to be Well-Informed (20+) about who she actually is?

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## WindStruck

Isaera is rather stunned after the effects of.. whatever it was Jakk'ari did. Her legs still took her to the cave, but her mind was running elsewhere, somehow. What was that??

Before she even knew it, the centaurs had ran off, and everyone was reconvening around her.

How bad is the wound? Are the rest of you well?

Isaera looked up from her wound, which seemed to be recovering remarkably well. Probably better than had she drank the elixir of regeneration she had brought along.

"I.. I think I am okay.  I am more angry than anything else," she says, glaring darts towards Marion.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion poked her head around the opening of the cave to peer down across the battlefield, a glimmer of satisfaction sparked when she saw that the centaurs were retreating. Would they be deterred from attacking them again, knowing the cost? Or would they just return with greater numbers? Time would tell.

Ceasing the effect of her spell, Marion drew herself about to face inside the cave. Closing her eyes, drawing her hands about her in massaging gesticulations, the warlock started a soft chant...

"Vargeist N smbb ej oep he seal zeghr zgea hrl wend..."

Motes of winking darkness materialised into being in orbit around the warlock as she continued her soft chant, before the tiny bundles of energy gradually coalesced together to take the large, imposing blue form of a Voidwalker - Vargheist. 

Marion drew her neck back to consider the shadow-wreathed, indigo demon before her. 

"L sepbd rmwl pild oep m zl aealjhi mve."

"Mjd reil zmpbh ni ao mfiljsl?"

Marion raised her right finger accusingly, her lips parting to speak only to halt before the first syllable was uttered. Her eyes narrowed into a yeah-maybe-you've-got-a-point look before lowering her hand in concurrence. 

Walking up to join the others, now fully kitted out and ready to go a 'splorin of the cave system, Marion arrived towards the end of the exchange. 

How bad is the wound? Are the rest of you well?

"I.. I think I am okay. I am more angry than anything else,"

When Isaera glared in Marion's direction, the warlock appeared slightly confused. She then turned her head to look over her own shoulder, as if to ask _'are you looking at someone behind me?'_




*Spoiler: Noggin Dinner*
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*Spoiler*
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Nodrick appears to be smiling through pain as you take half his idea, and rejigger the other half geographically. Your best read on him suggests it's less about the goblin nature of the Booty Bay, and more about the extra costs incurred paying the Crown fee at the docks in Stormwind, and the generally inflated price of labor in the heart of the world's most dynamic reborn kingdom. The margins change with the readjustment; and perhaps he doesn't see the clarity of what is to be gained with the Deeprun to Ironforge factored in. He is, after all, less acquainted with the Alliance kingdoms than you are. But he's a good sport, bringing his hands together almost prayerfully. "Well, there you go. You'd know more about Ironforge trade than I would. Dwarves and Goblins, you know? I had an uncle who said his sapper crew got within ten feet of rock of actually breaching into Ironforge during the great siege, before the Alliance relief showed up and turned the whole thing over. He says Anduin Lothar himself trampled his best friend. My uncle's best friend, I mean. And Lothar's horse doing the trampling, not Lothar himself. Anyway."
Another flap of the hand, dismissing the digression like a bothersome fly. "I'll pull out my logs see what kind of affordable rates we can get running from Theramore to Stormwind and back. Might need to be fewer trips with larger loads, to bring your margins up again. Do you know anyone in Stormwind who can get a workforce set up there? Or know anyone who knows anyone? I can find someone if you want; it'll just take a bit of work."


Marion leaned back in her chair, eyes staring off into the distance in ponderance of some unknown variable. Whatever it was she was considering, it couldn't be too all-encompassing, as the Alteraci drew a wine glass up to take a sip of her beverage. 

"No, I don't know anyone, actually..." she stated matter-of-factly, leaving it unclear if this bothered her or not. 

And I don't know anyone in Booty Bay either, she thought to herself. 

"We might lose some margins due to a higher cost of labour, but the security of the region and reliability of the courts for...contract breach and disputes, makes it worthwhile."

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## Plaids

As quick it had begun the fighting had ended. 
All that remained was decaying fetid plant matter and one burnt corpse. The smell of burnt hair and the slackening grimace was enough to flip the shaman's stomach. 
The centaur had fled and dispelled their elemental ally by Emelia's words. This had been a mistake. The centaur in the region were agitated and this would only incense them further. Amends had to be made if they were only minor ones which the party could afford at this time. 

Walking up to slain centaur Jakk'ari begins digging a simple grave. The mixture of sand and fertile loamy soil expedites the digging.
Isaera was stable, the felled centaur was buried, and the coast seemed clear for now. Now all that remained was regrouping with the party at the cave entrance. 
Now Jakk'ari addresses Emelia first with concern and a little shame in his voice defers to the Paladin.  I am ready to begin our task within the caverns. I will follow your lead.  

Seeing that party was not completely ready Jakk'ari quietly whispers to Mor'Lag and Emelia  How did this occur? And what transpired between Isaera and Marion? 
The disagreement now occupies his attention, and he is intent on uncovering the answer. regardless of whether the part would begin their descent or not.

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## Feathersnow

In Orcish, Mor responds first "While we checked the perimeter, the Centuars approached. We knew not their intention."

Lag continues "Before it could be clear,  our leader sought a pre-emptive strike."


"We followed her lead"

"And the Centuars fled"

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## WindStruck

"A pre-emptive strike, yes. Because if we ever hope for there to be peace, we just need to start blasting things first without having a clue what is going on."

Isaera stands from resting, a little shaky at first. "I tried to stop Marion. Of course, we all know that did not work out."

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion tilted her head to look up at the ogress as she spoke on her behalf, while Vargheist loomed silently just off to the side behind the Warlock.

"Thank you, Mor'lagh," the human responded. 

"The centaurs are brutal marauders whose entire history is raiding, murder, pillage and enslavement. The only peace you will get with them is the peace of the grave. They will only stay away if they fear you. They will only fear you if they think you can kill them first. To think otherwise is naïve, wishful thinking at its worst that will get us killed or worse." Marion stated, an unusual firmness in her voice.

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## WindStruck

"And on what basis to you make all those claims?" Isaera asks, without any skepticism hidden from her voice or demeanor.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion looked at the elf empty-eyed for several seconds, before shaking her head. 

"The centaurs are known brutes and raiders, and there they were, hiding in ambush positions about us without announcing their presence. If they want to talk, they can make themselves known by waving a nice big white flag, because until they do I consider them a threat. If you want to talk to them, then keep walking in that direction and I'm sure they'll be happy to hear your out while you become the guest of honour for tonight's dinner. But I haven't travelled from the centre of Lordaeron to end up being pushed through the colon of a horse because my naïve companion entrusted our lives to the good-will of the centaurs."

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## Plaids

Clearly Marion was suspicious of the centaur from outset while Isaera had vehemently disagreed.
The sight before him wasn't pleasant and Jakk'ari had seen enough adolescent disagreements to see where this was going. 
Walking close to the Jakk'ari addresses the two glowering party members. Positioning himself just close enough to cut in between the two should things become more heated.

 That is enough Marion. Your concern for our safety is an asset to the party. Whatever Isaera may have done she has already received beyond her fair share of punishment. Isaera, your conviction is noble, but we will worry about your safety and will place you above our combatants. 

We ought to proceed through the cavern should the centaur return in greater numbers. The caves will mitigate their advantages in speed and number.

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## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Marion: Theramo' Money, Theramo' Problems*
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_"Well, don't worry about it.  I got friends who got friends; I'll stitch together a proposal for the run, with a couple potential runners, and I'll give it to your boy, who bunks down in town.  Felix.  Give me a week or so and I'll throw something together."_  The rest of the meal runs pleasant enough; Nodrick is the kind of goblin who is as happy to fill the silence with his interesting stories as he is to listen to any offered.  He stops at once drink - demonstrated temperance, from an intemperate people - and offers to escort you back to your tower.  Fortunately, that's not necessary; the unmanifested presence of your Voidwalker is escort enough, when the alternatives are so unrefined in any traditional sense.

_OOC: When you return from the Wailing Caverns, Nodrick's Proposal will be ready._


*Spoiler: Emilia: Not Quite Insightful Conversation*
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_"Sure."_  He quickly concedes with a pull of relieved breath, rapping his fingertips against the side of the tea mug and looking around conspiratorially to make sure no one's listening in.

_"I, uh.  Got robbed."_  He winces, as if he somehow expected the confession to be less pathetic.  _"Or burgled, I guess.  We all get footlockers, down in the boarding house.  I put all my stuff in there, naturally; just like cadet living.  The clothes I have; some personal items.  All the coin I was paid in the lump-sum advance for this job.  I locked the footlocker, but someone just carried off the locker and put one of the empty ones where it was.  I don't know if it happened while I was sleeping, or on duty, or what.  Isn't that stupid?  I'm supposed to be some kind of security guard.  Two weeks in, and someone steals my pants."_ 
 His demeanor tightens up from self-pity and he manages to look at you for a longer moment, as impresses the importance of secrecy.  _"I'm going to get it back.  I think I know who took it.  And I don't want any help.  It's... Important to me that..."_  He trails off in mild exasperation, but you get it.  _Everyone_ in this context is the rest of the guild.  They rescued him, and chose to take him with them into the mire and smoke.  They extended to him a modicum of respect as a young soldier while he was feeling ridiculous and foolish for getting captured.  And they were his consolation companions when he learned, to his horror, that two of his friends had died, and died badly.  The shine has come off the idea of being a marine of Theramore; but the idol glow has transferred to his saviours.  Adoration isn't a bad quality to have, in a security guard.  But it would be punishing for him to be exposed as so immediately incompetent at such an elementary level, to those idols.  If permitted to navigate this crisis on his own, he might regain some faith in himself and save his own face.  But if unassisted, if the secret here is respected... what's to say it won't become worse?


*Spoiler: Emilia: Well Informed - The Centauress*
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You know precious little about the centaurs as a culture, and only a little about any individuals.  She's definitely Kolkar - the tribal markings fit.  No life magic on your sensors, and while you're pretty sure it was elementalism, something about her shamanic effort seems ... rougher, than the elegant primalism you have come to expect of Jakk'ari.  You know the Barrens Kolkar are a sub-tribe of the greater Kolkar, and this subtribe is ruled by an uneasy triumvirate of three leaders: Barak Kodobane, Hezrul Bloodmark, and Verog the Dervish; the latter being the target your guild was invited to assassinate to cause disintegration of their tribal momentum.  They certainly have other leaders, likely superior to those three, in Desolace, the mysterious bleak heartland of the Centaur.  But you don't know any other centaur names, and certainly nothing about this specific shaman.  You suspect you would have to talk to a someone more closely connected, to learn more - perhaps Tauren, as they are the race most connected with the centaur historically.

----------


## WindStruck

Jakk'ari stops their argument. And none too soon, as Isaera may have wound up saying some nasty things.

"_Fine._ I've no intention of proving you wrong today, _Marion_."

"We came here to do a job. And if anything, should the centaurs come back in greater numbers, hopefully they will at least respect the wisdom of the Cenarion Circle. Now let's go rescue some druids."

Isaera invokes an incantation, summoning a chilly shield of frost around her, then shoulders past. Though the high elf tries to shrug off the argument with some shred of conviction and walk with purpose, it still seems pretty obvious she's not at 100%.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The clash resolved - or at least delayed - nothing prevents the party from cautiously descending further into the caverns.  For a two hundred feet of smooth stone, curving and curling tunnel, the walls are lined with burned-out sconces once holding long-burning alchemical torches.  You're forced to light one of your own soon, but before long it becomes redundant.  Past a certain depth, the caverns feature frequent, long horizontal strips of bioluminescent moss clinging to the damp stone walls.  They throw cool lights ranging from deep blue up to almost pure white, so your journey through the tunnel alternates between workably gloomy to genuinely well illuminated.

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Herbalism*
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This looks like _Goblin's Gold_ to you; a kind of moss which tends to grow in shady areas and glows in the gloom, surviving off very faint sources of light and reflecting enough of the light to be distinct and visible.  You haven't seen much of it - once when you were younger, young uncle took you to an oasis in Tanaris and taught you all the plants there.  Goblin gold was one, clinging to life in a patch of rare Tanaris soil in the heavy shade of a _silver stagfern_, which itself was surviving incredibly far from Ashenvale where it ought to be.  Goblin's Gold likes temperate climates, not too wet, and a shady place where it doesn't have to compete with other direct-mosses.

Frankly though, this shouldn't be here.  The interior of the cave at this depth is warm and wet to the point of being downright tropical.  The oversaturation should kill off such plants and give way to more hydrophilic lichens, and straight algaes.  And what's more, this deep in the cave, the amount of reflective light from the outside sneaking all the way down the cavern's bends is infinitesimal.  These mosses are exuding far, far more light than they are taking in (enough to nourish other plants with their light!), strongly suggesting they are absorbing nourishment from a non-traditional, possibly unsavory source.

But if you're in the market for a strange glowing moss with unknown properties, you found it!


After a short, wary descent further, you arrive in a cavern chamber with a reasonably flat floor.  In splits in the rock, leafy plants inexplicably flourish far beneath the touch of the sun.  The cavern widens out to either side of the entrance, creating a kind of natural receiving room, divided in half by a chasm that plunges down to steamy-hot, slow flowing river.  Narrow arches of stone, both of which make an admirable effort to look like naturally occurring structures, from narrow bridges to the far right and left of the room, providing passage to the other side of this central chamber.  As you observe the area, a flushing fit of waterpressure churns and surges the water below; and a plume of steam gusts out from several cracks and fissures in the walls of the chasm.  The whole chamber vibrates with a ragged, whistling moan as the earth vents its pressures through some network of unscene flumes; and you are forced to consider for a moment how unpleasant it would be to be down there, in the path of the steam and rushing water; and not up here, where the surge of water vapor goes up, fogs against the cavern roof, and slowly begins turning to a pitter-patter of indoor rainfall.

The signs of occupation here are obvious.  Areas on this southern side of the chasm have been designated for various functions by some thoughtful occupant.  There is a sleeping space where there are nine bedrolls layed out against the walls, with watercovers made from fabrics fixed to pitons in the walls, and stakes driven into the stony cavern floor.

*Spoiler: Investigation DC 10*
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All of these bedrolls are the fine, natural fibre and down make you would expect of Kaldorei supply - no bundled hay for Elune's favorites.  But two of them appear to have been flattened by heavier consistent use; and the difference in scuffing near them suggests that, if these bedrolls correspond to the druid party one-for-one, you're looking for seven night elves, and two tauren.*Spoiler: Investigation DC 15*
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The bedrolls used by the tauren seem to be both fresher, and used within the last week or so - more than you can say for the others, which haven't seen the sun in atleast two weeks, and are turning to mould.  It seems likely that the two druids sent to follow up were the tauren, who encamped here for some time, and then also vanished.



More interesting is what must be called a research station; a small outdoor shade pavilion set up inside to keep the condensation from falling on the water resistant, but not water _immune_ scrolls and papers on which the team has been making notes.  Some lightweight timber tables have been set up under them, and seems obvious that a great deal of time has been spent by the cavern seekers discussing, compiling, and theorizing around these tables.

There are some glass vials and containers for samples, most filled with now blackening plant matter; some small, chicken sized wicker cages, which once held some form of life that has long chewed its way free; a great profusion of scattered and mildew-crusting notes, and a well drawn vellum map of the cave system, its labels beautifully rendered in slanted Darnassian calligraphy, and then underwritten in bigger, clumsier orc characters.  A line drawing of a toothy fish fills a void in the map, suggesting the cartographer had an artist's impatience for whitespace.

*Spoiler: The Map*
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With no one able to read the Darnassian bulk of the research, eyes are naturally drawn to more recent additions to the piles, in that thicker, orcish script; sometimes augmented with arrows pointing to the piles of elven discourse where they lay.

*Spoiler: Notes in Orcish*
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*Open Journal, Somewhat Damp
*_1. Naralex - Unresponsive at DR.  Conf.  Fauna avoids, for now; cannot be moved while [*some kind of loan word from Taura'he].
2. Scarletleaf - POF.  Spec.
3. Jarlaxa - POF.  Spec.
4. Aryn - WC.  Spec.
5. Baraneth - WC.  Spec.
6. Mors'ahn - WC.  Spec.
7. Ebru - ??

Operating in two groups.  Ebru likely in POF to make 3-3.  Or else [**some kind of longer loan word from Taura'he, cognate to the first.]

Confirm map, then begin.  WC First.  POF first.  Single point extractions. Work from 2 down. Once entire complex secure, attempt to [**some kind of loan word from Taura'he] for Naralex._

*A scribbled series of note papers crowded around the map.*
_SG cleared; most fauna_ deviate_, unusually cross-species cooperation; mostly responsive to charms._
_WC
COTE Verdan is REAL, confirmed.  Sadly, too far gone; too risky.  WC scouting delayed until after POF.
POF_

[Both WC and POF are written with some space around them as if expecting, but not receiving, additional content.  POF is the last thing written.]

*Another scrap note, by itself.*
_Obs.
No discernable pattern to venting.  Unfortunate; POF and WC both exclusively water access.
Definate [***some kind of short loan word from Taura'he, cognate to the others] bleed somewhere in POF.
Unknown saturant from WC, or else deeper aquifer.  Possibly requiring KT assist._



*Spoiler: Emilia's Life-Magic Vision*
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As you descent, a heavy, ambient presence of life magic, raw and unshaped but slightly _off_, is present everywhere you go.  It seems to haze strongly to the west, and fades out rapidly as you look to the east side of the cavern; as if some kind of pressure is pushing back on it from that side.

You pick up the trail you spotted at the waterside - two trails out, two back, as if someone left to fetch the first and they returned together - down into the primary cavern with the campsite, after which those trails immediately peel off westward towards the Pit of Fangs, vanishing into the water.  They seem disinterested in the academic set up, and the bedrolls; and obviously didn't return for them.

Beyond those trails, there's a great deal of overlapping 'druid' here; with two other signatures populating the campsite much more recently than the larger group.  These two signatures vanish into the water leading westward too, and never re-emerge.

Seven old signatures came in here, a long time ago, muddled and scattered.  Much later, two more came, poked around, and vanished west; shortly after this disappearance, two of the older signatures emerged, one then the other, and finally returned west.

*Spoiler: Investigation/Perception DC 15*
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It's hard because they're so faded and muddled, but you think that some of these druid signatures are featuring that _off_ brand of life magic, while others are _clean._*Spoiler: Investigation/Perception DC 20*
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You think a _clean_ one left the cave, and an _off_ one camp to escort it back.  The pair that came from outside to the camp and vanished west are both _clean._




*Spoiler: OOC!*
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If you want to spend your time puzzling over any particular feature of this site, or keeping watch towards any particular direction or feature, now's the time to declare it.  After that, there's four ways to go from where you are. 

1. Back to the entrance is the little spiral on the map.
2. North, crossing either the left or right bridges, leads you towards the cavern the map calls "Dreamer's Rock".
3. West, descending into the river and wading through its shallows, leads to the cavern the map calls "Pit of Fangs".
4. East, descending into the river and swimming up the considerably deeper waters upstream, leads to a cavern the map calls the Crag of the Everliving, and then ultimately into another cavern the map calls the Winding Chasm.

You'll need to decide which way to proceed!

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera takes in the scene, quickly inspecting the various beds and then looking over the notes.

"Seven Kaldorei here initially, some time ago. Two tauren druids sent more recently. Seems these notes in orcish are their reconnaissance notes. Looks like we have two groups of druids which were found in the 'path of fangs' and the 'winding chasm'. I'm not sure what spec means, however. Another is unresponsive at this dreaming rock..."

"Well if I had to guess, the two druids are at either of those aforementioned places, seeing the blank space left in their notes? It's hard to really say.. but shall we press on and see if we can figure out what in the blazes is going on?"

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag try to show off.
"Probably have to swim."
" The orcish notes what sound like volcanic springs,".
" and having to go underwater."

After a pause.

"They also say the animals acting weird"
"Probably some kind of magic"

----------


## Plaids

This scene only brought further questions. What was the purpose were the druids fulfilling? What did the two different scripts entail? And how could such place of natural splendor drive away the elements and and disrupt the local fauna? The trail was getting warmer and now wasn't the time lower their guard. 
The animals be being uncharacteristic? The elements have made themselves scarce despite comfortable natural arrangements here. We should group up before proceeding. 

Upon surveying the group they all seemed prepared and enthused with perhaps one exception. Isaera who didn't seem fully recuperated and who's enthusiasm was undoubtedly dampened after the scuffle with centaur and subsequent argument with Marion. The abrupt end to the argument along with Marion receiving additional vote of confidence no doubt only embittered the disagreement. And while traversing the down into the cavern he could have sworn he had seen the young elf sulking.
Acknowledging Isaera, Jakk'ari approaches to notify here of his planned actions.
 I will watch your back. I trust you have a hunch on where we should investigate given the elven scripts.  

*Spoiler: OOC: Actions*
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Jakk'ari is going to follow Isaera and watch her back to avoid her accruing more injuries.
Before leaving Jakk'ari is also going to pocket one of the vials with the dead plant matter to hopefully see what the druids were studying or store an important sample later. He is also going to study the animals markings to see what may have escaped. That would entail things like at the bite markings, looking for footprints and looking for animal scales or hair. Rolling for animal investigation (1d20+1)[*16*].

He will be on the lookout for any threats. Particularly any threats from hostile animals in the area. Rolling for perception on wildlife (1d20+7)[*17*]
Rolling for Investigation on the campsite(1d20+1)[*12*]

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Isaera Runescribe - Mercenary Linguist*
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You've never formally studied Darnassian; but as you put your attention on the script, it occurs to you that the night elf tongue and your on Thalassian are similar enough to almost be dialects, in many cases.  Elven generations pass slowly, which gives a great deal of rigidity to written forms and prevent a great deal of lexical drift you'd expect to see in languages of the shorter lived races.  You can't imagine spontaneously getting much cross-association from a page of Common, and whatever form of common humans spoke even two or three thousand years ago.  Much of the change between the elven language is culturally driven - the peoples branching off into strong cultural rejection of, or exploration into, deeper arcane studies.  Lots of the night elf adjectives are theological in nature; directly describing a phenomenon as _like Elune in this way_ or _unlike the mighty Goldrinn in this way_; and those _comparison phrases_ seem to get compact into sharp contractions that would require more deliberate study to intuitively grasp.  But enough is similar that you can muddle through some elements with a few minutes of concentration, which has the added benefit of drawing your mind away from the aching throb of your treated but still fresh injury.  You wonder, briefly, if there's an amusing secret to these languages - the Highborne by all reports were arcane obsessives with fantastical cities powered and protected by magic.  Could Thalassian be much closer to the 'true' Highborne tongue, which academics have assumed would most closely resemble the language of the Night Elves?  The Kaldorei, after all, are the ones who radically changed their culture toward nature magics and near-primativism.  The High Elves just carried on being Highborne, except having enough sense to take precautions to keep the demons from circling.  An interesting proposition, perhaps.

The name "Naralex" seems to identify the leader of the initial group of druids who came to this place.  Every time his name is mentioned it is garnished with a different adjective of esteem, suggesting he has some small manner of prestige in the Cenarion Circle.  The elven notes seem to suggest this group, the _Disciples of Naralex_, came to the Wailing caverns to investigate... something.  The word you need to pick apart seems to mean something like _nearness_, although there is an implication of injury in it; like a blow near to a vital spot, or a dying person being near to death. 
 The _Nearness_, Naralex postulates, is well known to be the source of the oasis's capacity to thrive in even within the Barren's sorry ecology.  His intention has been to study the effect of the _Nearness_ on the flora and fauna around the caverns, with a view to exploiting the _Nearness_, ultimately, to revitalize the entire Barrens region.

Another scrap of text that is easy enough for you to glean is written by the youngest of the night elf druids, Ebru.  It is profuse with those honorifics lavished upon Naralex - much more than the other documents on the table.  She's either afraid of him, or in love with him, to gush such flattery in an otherwise academic document questioning elements of the research; or there's something about this writing that connects to Kaldorei culture in a way you're unfamiliar with.  Whatever her state of mine, Ebru seems to be questioning a hasty attitude in the group's project because of some discovery early in their investigations.  Her work refers not to the _Nearness_; but instead to both the _Initial Nearness_ and the _Complicating Nearness_.  She is concerned that they are under equipped to understand the _Complicating Nearness_, and urges permission to be sent away to fetch a specialist from... a word you don't understand.  It seems to be a compound with syllables from what might be the word for _folly_ or _blasphemy_, and some modifier that suggests that first element is a past description, not entirely suitable as a handle in retrospect.  Something like_ "Those with whom we have traditionally had extreme issues"._

She must have thought long and hard about this, and then written it down to submit to Naralex, rather than simply asking directly since they were living in the same cave system.

*Spoiler: Expertise: Arcane Magic DC 20*
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These _Nearnesses_ sound like weakpoints between the material world and other cosmic planes.  If druids were investigating the _Initial Nearness_, they might have theorized that the border realm for nature magics and creature spirits - which the Kaldorei traditionally call the _Emerald Dream_, is close by here.  That would certainly comport with the natural flourishing in the area.  This, of course, isn't your area of specialty; but you can appreciate that the idea of druids meddling so directly with exterior forces, natural or not, is  quite radical. 
 Dangerous, even - but then, many great discoveries are preceded by radical, dangerous work.

This _Complicating Nearness_ could be a similar phenomenon, but you'd have to see it to guess with any confidence.  The druids thought they were doing careful, radical but controlled experimentation on one unusual planar phenomenon; and when it turned out there was a second unusual planar phenomenon right next door, it seems as though they decided their work was too precious to delay to account for it.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

*Spoiler: Not Quite Insightful Conversation (Felix), Part 4: 4 times the Emilia*
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Emilia took a deep breathe, and with letting it go, sloughed off all earlier sloppy language and causality as one might the overly loose clothing of a plomper sibling. Whatsoever else she had anticipated of Felixs worries of lost friends and strange continents, the revealed issue was entirely not much she had experience with. She would have to settle for being little less than a guild leader, and turned to him fully after a moments further composure. 

So some sirrah stole guild stipends while you attended your duties, or else needed rest, and you feel unmanned by their treachery, unfit for service? 

After a beat, Emilia tried a hand on his shoulder and the thin smile. Want that mere security guards could single-handedly charge Infernals, Felix. Let alone the first of their kind since the Third War, and in defence of the innocent. No one of sound heart and fair mind would question that level of excellence. You are nothing shy of our first true guardian.  

The guild leader removed her hand, lest Emilia appear overfamiliar. Felix had already had enough uncertainty inflicted on him recently. What a crook did while you granted us safety and peace of mind is no stain to your name, and you were every inch responsible in securing those funds. Truly, the flaw is mine for not securing safety deposit boxes first, or staff lockers. As your requisitions officer, you deserve finer. I will speak with Miss Moonshadow to arrange it in the morn, little as it does for the wound already inflicted. 

She could only be called contrite in that instant, for it was no secret Aleeana was bedding down in her sisters room, or that Felix had found accommodation near the disreputable bar. That they also lacked a place to securely place their belongings was obvious, although the teenager could little state what had been so pressing in the past week that there was any excuse for it. A glance was given to the shadows, testing that they didnt now harbour anything untoward before looking back. 

But we agree. The entire guild need not know, beyond perhaps to acknowledge my own shortcoming, and make staff arrangements. At least until we have answered the theft evenly. Why a legion when a platoon can hold? she asked, sipping the warm beverage. Simply know our aim must be exact, and response measured. When did you report the theft? Who do you believe guilty, and by what evidence? 


 

=_Comfy Cosy Caves_= 

So long as we are clear your actions were every inch reasonable, Emilia replied to the troll when he appeared contrite for defending Isaera in the fog of war, her tone taking a certain sternness that didnt invite argument, head tilting downwards a touch. And your insights still invaluable? Yes. I can lead. 

Emilia went into the cave system first, a torch soon struck in hand to drive back the shadows. But the bioluminescence that they encountered farther and deeper down into the cavern flirted that they had no need for it, a temptation she only indulged in when they got to the natural receiving room of the opening cavern. From crouching down next to the sleeping spot to striding over to the reading material and leafing through first the one in a language beyond her, into the orcish scribblings. Finally she placed them back on the table and took a few moments to angle her vision down the three paths deeper into the cave system while the blood elf and troll spoke. She flipped up the eyepatch some to rub her eye and readjust to a less kaleidoscopic vision briefly. 

Runescribe has a good thumbnail sketch. I would need Jakkari to give insight into the fauna and life magic before we have a full watercolour painting, but I can add depth as is. The mission demands we go west, but I advise we hunker down first. 

Emilia gestured to the sleeping bags. The oasis tracks and bedding confirm a little over a week ago the two Tauren arrived. While the journal splits the night elves between the Path of Fangs and the Winding Chasm from there, the most recent activity has four signatures manoeuvring west. Including the two we seek. But there is a broader issue overshadowing this. She tapped the flipped up emerald eyepatch knowingly, a frown growing. The cave appears split between two entrenched camps. Life magic is being ushered in from the west, with something repelling it in the east. But that western wellspring is askew, somehow. Like a portrait in a tilted house. Some of the druids have even had their own signatures altered by it. Between the three night elves and a _Verdan_ being confirmed too far gone in the east, our encounter with the centaur above, and the four druid trails to the west, we might be standing between two opposed outposts. Light only knows if the eastern camp is aligned with the Dervish himself.

There was a folding of arms. We should eat the rations now, and then strike west. The better to reject untoward influences while we find the missing personnel. 

*Spoiler: tldr*
Show

 Lets eat the rations now to raise our resistance and then go west where the tauren are!

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera says, "The language of the Night Elves is not too dissimilar from my own. They were researching something..  a planar phenomenon? I believe the Kaldorei called it the Emerald Dream- a border realm from whence nature magics might originate. Whatever causes the lush life of the oasis, they hoped to spread to the entirety of The Barrens and make it fertile."

"Naralex is the name of the druids' leader, and I think he is accounted for at this Dreaming Rock, albeit perhaps in some sort of trance or unresponsive."

"Ebru is..  I don't know. She seemed to be voicing caution and wanted to get some outside help regarding a new discovery they made. So it could be that she just isn't here at all, or perhaps happened to do something without the others' knowledge."

"Imagine if someone were investigating the twisting nether and something went horribly wrong. I think Marion would have the most expertise in explaining what was happening and safely countering the effects. Likewise, if we are dealing with this Emerald Dream.. I can only guess that perhaps nature magic has corrupted life here, or at the very least become very unruly. I believe Jakk'ari's expertise will be paramount for what we discover ahead."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion had mostly kept to herself following the combat with the centaurs and the little 'disagreement' with her elven companion. For her part, Marion didn't seem phased by the disagreement, and instead had proceeded to walk with the rest of the group and hum happily and softly to herself, Vargheist gliding along protectively just behind her. The warlock took better to the cave navigation that some might expect one of her well-to-do and stylishly groomed appearance, the boots she wore serving as both sturdy protectors against the ankle-deep elements and padded, comfortable grips that she used to descend some of the steeper rocky hills within the caverns. 

When the group of plucky heroes came upon the disheveled camp, Marion handed her backpack over to Vargheist so that she could take a look around. With her curious eyes alert, the warlock perused the scene, her understanding of the druids intentions limited by her own thin knowledge of both their magicks and the aims of the Cenarion Circle itself. That was until Isaera explained it. 

It was quite an impressive goal, the warlock thought to herself. However, given her minimal experience with the magic that the druids wielded, she wondered if they would not be better served by engineering a series of man-made rivers and branching irrigation networks to return lush life to the barrens, instead...well, whatever _this_ was.

I mean, it was relatively straight forward to Marion. The oasis' existed because of the large bodies of water around which they were wrapped...spread the water, spread the life.

While the others spoke, Marion pondered to herself one of the better ways to explore these systems in search of the missing druids. Who knew how far, deep and winding each rocky corridor extended for. They might start down one entrance only to end up back at where they entered after days worth of travel...if they even re-emerged at all. If the nature-attuned druids could become lost within this labyrinth, what chance did they have?

So, perhaps it was better to let something _else_ take the chance for them. 

"Vargheist, please..." Marion spoke gently to her looming pet, the voidwalker holding forth her backpack to allow the shorter human to stand on her tippie toes and peer into its contents, within which she rummaged around before withdrawing a large book. 

Opening the well-worn tome, Marion drew several pages across in search of something, her left hand cradling the grimoire's spine while the dextrous fingers of her right hand ran like a spider across the surface before - "Ah!"

Inhaling softly and speaking gently, barely above a whisper, Marion started to chant...

----------


## MrAbdiel

Marion's intonations, and gestures, are mystical to anyone's eyes.  But even someone not trained extensively in arcane matters would understand the unwholesome _extremeness_ of it in its elements: the rigid curling of fingers hyperflexion of wrists within performed somatic components; the wealth of rough, unpleasant syllables replete with guttural phonemes and glottal stops.  The spell assembles in the air with each of these efforts, faint green lines flickering and curling into demonic runes that prove insufficient to warp reality in the desired way - until, with a rush of cold air, they implode and draw the extra, needed power from the warmth of Marion's body, instantly and visibly paling her skin and taking some strength from her.  But what emerges from the spell's aftermath is a vertically slitted, lidless demonic eyeball; bloodshot and jaundiced, hovering in the air nearby.  A corona of pale green felflame flickers about it, and it zips about the room with the erratic movements of hell's parody of a hummingbird.  As it does, Marion's left eyeball, independant of the right, rolls about wildly in the socket and finally tips back and up into her skull - a disturbing thing to see, probably best hidden behind a closed lid.

The Eye of Kilrogg returned after several spastic, darting seconds to its summoner, listened to some quietly spoken instructions, and then whipped away, silent and blazing fast, into the western passage, close to the ceiling, casting no light from its evil fire.

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

The Eye of Kilrogg is cast, and away it goes!

I assume the party is going to take a few minutes to eat the delicious prepared hotpot (with mechnical benefits) and then head off down the Western tunnel.  I'll give Marion some additional insight for that shortly; but the question I need answered is this: Both Marion and Isaera are now fatigued. 
 Are you going to take an hour to rest before continuing, or are you going to proceed with maximum haste - taking 15 minutes for the eye to scout and for everyone to eat before immediately heading off?  This is with the presumption that the Eye does not witness anything immediately alarming that compels sudden movement.  My default assumption is you're continuing with haste - let me know in the OOC if you'd be pressing for a breather!

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag look on at awe at a feat they only saw once before, as a child, when their fathers scouted ahead that fateful day...

"We should wait"
"Until our wonder-workers are ready"

Hopefully, this would turn out better. Their shared mental link cued a simultaneous thought "_do the fools who imagine the gods care about us pray in situations like this? Does it feel good? Please let this end better!_"

----------


## MrAbdiel

The group settles in the camp, and Emilia unpacks the prepared meal from a slingbag.  A pot is set in a wire-frame stand that in most cases would be set over an open flame.  In this case, the pot is inscribed by its bearer with mystical script that loops around its base and, once activated, gradually escalates its interior heat in such a way that makes a cooking fire redundant.  The broth is boiled; the cuts of fish are set out; an with a little alertness spared so the group isn't snuck up on again, you are free to enjoy the meal, and a little time to rest.

*Spoiler: Kalimdor Seafood Hotpot*
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The "Kalimdor" Seafood Hotpot, features cuts of Rainbow Fin Albacore, Bristlewhisker Catfish, and Rainbow Smallfish, courtesy of your capering gardener/fishfinder-general. Its fragrant and flavoursome payload promises a meal that will delight tastebuds and at the price of a little sweat, as a result of the spices; but it certainly gets the blood flowing, and ready to discharge heat! Functionally, it's a kind of communal 'potion' that grants: _Enhanced Trait (Fortitude, 2 Ranks)_; and _Immunity (Environmental Heat)._


Meanwhile, the Eye of Kilrogg flits over into the chasm, and shoots off on its scouting mission...

*Spoiler: A Marion Tale 2: Eyeball Goes West!*
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Your summoned eye flits west, swirling through the air and down to the top of the steaming river, skimming its surface and following the direction of its flow.  As it passes beyond the main cavern, it quickly threads between the stalactites on a terribly low ceiling that seems likely to necessitate swimming - or atleast floating - for human sized travellers.  The angle of the river dips down, narrows, and becomes a more rapid rush which some of the bright eyed cave fish are barely able to fight against.  A monsterously large tortoise, blue skinned and as large as the kodo you rode in on, makes his way upstream by plodding along the stone below the surface, with only the tip of his nose and the top of his shell poking out of the water.  The eye passes close by, but it seems to recognize the flaming green missile is not food, and does not snap at it.  All the same, you must assume such a creature would not feel so indifferent about a more substantial passer by.

The watery tunnel, whose breathing room had been just a few inches of steam filled, jagged rock ceiling a moment ago, opens up to small lake which drains off its water though much smaller passages in the water below.  A lazy whirlpool might be a hazard to fish, but seems too narrow to suck any of your companions in.

From the shore of this terminal lake, the now dryer tunnel slopes up, curls around, turns sharply into a room filled with mostly broken natural columns like a desolate stone jungle, and a floor carpeted in shaggy gret moss.  It seems to writhe with life, and the eye pauses to scrutinize the movement - and a cobra, long and bleached white, rises up to hiss at it.  Knowing its purpose is survival and scouting, the Eye retreats, and proceeds.

At the end of this cavern, at the end that is more clear of obstacles, you discover some - not quite all - of your missing druids.  They are heaped together in what you, and the eye, first mistakes for a corpse pile; but darting closer to examine, the truth is not quite so grim.  Two male, and two female Kaldorei, each dressed in the breeze purple-and-green druid fashions of their people, lay in an interlocked, snuggled sleep; arms and legs loosely embracing one another at soporific random.  It does not strike you as a lacivious intimacy; but it is a remarkable comfort with one another - and with the dozens of snakes that slither over and around them, relishing their body heat, forming their own interwoven sets for rest nearby.

The additional exit to this room is a door-sized arch overgrown with creepervines that startle the demon-eye as they rustle, and you are disoriented for a moment as the thing retreats back to a more discrete viewing distance.  A third Kaldorei male pushes through the vines (which seem eager to accomodate), sets a wooden pail to one side, wanders to the pile, and gives one of the women a stirring jab with the tip of one sandaled foot.  She stirs, expression pissy and displeased; and through the mute scene you get the impression that she is taking over some kind of _watch_.  After a few minutes of stretching and tenst exchanged conversation, she saunters through the vines, and the new arrival leans up against the wall near the elf-heap.  Restless, the eye shuffles about, but it cannot find a way to proceed through the vines without certainly being spotted; and it elects to turn back.


... and, perhaps fifteen minutes later, it comes blitzing back and rapidly vanishes down the right passage.

*Spoiler: Marion, My Wayward Son: Eye Goes East, Then You Are Done*
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There is more space in this tunnel, enough that you could stand and wade through the waterflow as it comes at you, as long as you weren't careless about where your head was.  As the riverflow tightens to its powerful source, the passage slopes up above the rivermouth, providing exit to another chamber for those able to climb with reasonable competence.  A huge thunderlizard, too big to have any way to leave this chamber, sleeps in the middle of the following cave; the huge clumps of bright glowing moss clearly gnawed and chewed, but somehow keeping up with the thing's appetite.  The beast makes no hazard for the eye as it presses past through another tight natural corridor; but at this point your vision begins to stutter and break up.  There is some kind of magical interference with the spell, here; and if it's threatening to undo the vicarious vision, it must also be threatening to undo the binding on the eye, which seems oblivious to the threat.  Rather than risk the little demon getting loose and alerting everyone in the cavern to your presence, you judiciously release its summoning, and with a flash, the eyeball disappears from the world and your vision returns to normal.


*Spoiler: OOC All!*
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Mostly Marion things in this post; but that'll give you a thing or two more to consider, after which you are free to move on.  Marion and Isaera are henceforth no longer exhausted; you are rested.

----------


## Plaids

The convulsing motions and chanting was disconcerting but small infernal eye would likely yield information that the absent elements couldn't provide. But for now it seemed the group would just have to wait.

While the surely delightful hotpot cooked the lull in activity still failed to abate lingering uncertainty. 
Just what was down here? Was the disruptive force making even the centaurs cautious? The nurturing force of life magic the druids practiced couldn't be the ruinous force the fleeing elements here had warned about. The true culprit had terrified the elements. It supposedly even frightened demons. But in nature not every agent that menaced an adversary is an ally. 
Glancing at Marion eyes rolled backwards and seeing beyond her own sight she obviously wasn't available for council. 
The next best option stood guard staring vacantly at the group, hovering rigidly in place, while it's fringes billowed ever so slightly from the light breeze within the cavern. 
 The elements have told me a dangerous power permeates these caverns. So dangerous that even demons quiver in its presence. Is there any insight you could provide us with? 

The demon floats in the air most likely to remain as conversant as the blooming cacti in Tanaris.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Emilia and Felix: Confessions Pt. 221*
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Felix certainly seems to appreciate the reassurance.  He nods a little, eyes deflected to lip of the cliff's drop before them. 
 Around the other side of the house, a soft _mrrglgurgl_ing speaks to the benign presense of the piscean gardener, plying his trade in the cool of the night.  It is as peaceful and reassuring as the sound of a murloc has ever been.

But Felix tenses immediately when he detects Emilia trying, good naturedly, to absorb some of the blame herself, or extend direct help.

"No, no, it's no one's fault but mine.  You're not my nanny; securing my belongings is my trouble, and that's all.  Please, don't tell anyone.  Not even Miss Moonshadow; she's sharp, she'll put it together.  I haven't reported it.  And I'm not sure who did it, I just... Give me a week to sort it out on my end, okay?  Let me clean up my mess.  And then, if you want to make some kind of locker situation happen, no one's the wiser but me.  I'll be wiser. 
 Okay?"

His desperation to stall her intervention seems to have voided his mind of the knowledge that she, theoretically, owes him a secret herself.


The demon, whom Jakk'ari has heard Marion call 'Vargheist', slowly twists where it hovers, turning its shoulders a little, and its forward-mounted neck to face the shaman; compromising its posture somewhat to receive the address without his primary facing, toward his summoner.  The thing is a matt-black hole in the world, radiating something that could generously be called _light_, except that it seems almost less to shine per se as to cause white objects nearby to shine of themselves; as if nearness to it thrust normally light colors onto a new, more competative scale of contrast necessitating that they glow.  Its eyes are soft pink embers in its face; and though mouthless, it possesses a depression at nasal height that is much more like a skull's nasal cavity than a true nose.  Despite this, it speaks aloud in common to the troll, its voice undulating and cold.

_"Demons... Are the least of the wicked things, Jak-Arr-Ee; the least of the wicked things that crawl at the edges of the universe.  There are things, Jak-Arr-Ee, older than demons; older than the ten thousand old war that Az-Arr-Oath thinks of as... Primordial.  Things, Jak-Arr-Ee, that a mad god would make a Legion to restrain.  Things, Jak-Arr-Ee, in which such a Legion is destined to drown."_

This seems to be the extend of the Voidwalker's wisdom on the topic; a cryptic deflection which may be mined for as much speculation as one dares.

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Shamanic Insights, on Vargheist*
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You have not seen such creatures up close; not until you met Marion.  But now, taking stock of this bound demon up close for the first time, you find it surprisingly unlike the other demons you have seen, and heard about, and researched.  The infernals you fought were not strictly demons as much as a kind of siege golem possessed by demonic malice; but you the broad strokes of 'true' demons, as anyone who lived through the Legion's second coming must.  Green flame of fel; a physionomical pattern around horns, and hooves, and leathery bat wings, and long ropey tails.  These traits are not universally shared by demons, but tend to cluster in a sort of demonic family resembance.  Succubus demons do not roil with green flame, but they walk on hooves, and possess wings and horns and tails.  Wrathguard demons do not fly on wings, but the horns and tail are present, and often the flame.

This thing is much more like a bound elemental than a demon; even the way its seemingly formless nature is gathered up into a humanoid torso that trails off into dark mist is like the way elemental spirits manifest so often when they are forced through the veil into the _real._  And there, on its wrists, are binding bracers; much like those forced onto captured elementals to nail them to the physical world, or gifted as part of a pact between summoner and elemental for the same net effect.  Is this voidwalker a kind of... negative elemental?  The forced manifestation of no specific element of the world, but _specifically no element of the world?_  The implications are disturbing; but surely it must be demonic _enough_ to be snared and bound by a warlock's magic.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

The rush of victory that came with successfully completing the ritual was swiftly replaced by a sharp, sudden pain and Marion's head jerking backwards as if she had unwittingly caught a low-flying bird with her face. 

"Ah!" she grunted, craning her neck to recover her composition, as she brought her hand up and rubbed at her features in a confused search for what had happened. 

"What...wait...?" she asked, blinking heavily, a dull, hot sensation emanating from her left eye as she brought up her left hand to pat curious at her face. 

"Ow...what the...?" Marion shook her head, before rummaging through her backpack and withdrawing a mirror. Holding the reflective surface up to inspect herself, the warlocks mouth fell open in a silent gape at what had become of her pretty features...before drawing closer to the polished silver for a closer inspection.

"...fascinating!"

oOo

For the next hour Marion sat with the others, seemingly staring off into space. The truth was that she was simply paying more attention to her 'demon sight', as she had suggested - the visual link she shared with the Eye of Kilrogg as the delightful sphere whizzed about the cave system in a silent mapping and exploration of the system. 

As this happened, Marion had suggested that the most artistically inclined among them sit next to her and draw out across parchment a basic description of what she saw, at least in geographical terms. That would, at least, acquire them a rudimentary map. 

And allow others to receive a glimmer of what she had seen.

----------


## WindStruck

After the demon speaks, Isaera chimes in, "Oh my. That sounds awfully dreadful. And vague. But I suppose we already knew we were up against something dangerous and unknown."

As Marion wishes to call out various descriptions for making a map, she says, "Well it's a good thing that we already have a map. Maybe we can just draw more onto it?"

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion turned her head to look at Isaera, that deformed, white-eye nestled in half of her face.

"It is good to know if anything lurks in waiting among the corridors for the approach of unsuspecting prey..." the Warlock nodded knowingly, reaching up and tapping at her demon eye.

"I am making notes of where we may encounter...difficulties."

----------


## Plaids

The voidwalkers response was unsettling to say the least. A nebulous force that rivaled the demons. Even threatening to envelop the countless infernal armies. The resemblance to elementals didn't help matters either. The anchoring bracers and nebulous form resembling a humanoid torso were hallmark of elementals in service to a master. But the emanating energy was off and only resembled the worlds elementals in through it's absences. Like the form of a statue replica formed by the absence of material in a hollow pillar. 

A hissing sound reminiscent of doused coals signals the abrupt return of Marion. The girls eyes having rolled forwards while a hand gingerly rises to attend to her face. 

The pale eye now dropping in its socket is akin to the eyes of drifters within the desert. Whose eyes were clouded by cataracts formed from exposure to the harsh sun. The common was solution for these trolls was to apply a knife and wait for it to heal if they so accepted it.

The traditional method would likely not work for Marion. Jakk'ari shouts out to Marion.
 Foolish child what have you done!  
Reprimanding her in a tone used by parents who fear their child had made a mistake they cannot recover from on their own. 
 Hold still this will only take a moment. 
Jakk'ari reaches towards Marion with a tattooed finger beginning to illuminate.

*Spoiler: OOC: Action and Roll*
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Jakk'ari is going to attempt to heal Marions face with troll tattoo magic. (1d20+4)[*17*] Marion could refuse if she wants.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion did not scare easily, but the abrupt and sudden scolding from the troll caused caused the warlock to visibly flinch in shock as Jakk'ari was suddenly looming above her with a scrutinizing eye. Such was the unexpected nature of the shamans movements, even Vargheist drew closer to his mortal charge as if ready to shield her from the spontaneous bout of madness that had seized the troll. 

"No, no it's fine...really..." Marion uttered, turning her head slightly to avoid further perusal. For a second she looked like a kid attempting to avoid the licked fingers of a mother who sought to correct out-of-place hairlicks and smudges. If that mother was an 8 foot tall troll. 

"It's supposed to be like that, it is how I see through the lens of the demonling I have sent forth to scout for us. It should pass once I am uncoupled from it."

----------


## MrAbdiel

Marion's presumption proves correct, much to everyone's benefit; once the Eye of Kilrogg is released from service after it vanished into the east tunnel, Marion's eye seems to 'wake', roll, and almost sheepishly falls back into symmetry with its companion.  The visible effect, while unsettling, has passed; and once more the young warlock proves that it is possible, under some circumstances to dabble in fel magics without falling prey to them.  For now.

*Spoiler: Woopsidoodle Archive - Westward Journey, For Later*
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Equipped with this advanced knowledge of the tunnel to come, the first obstacle to the group's journey is getting to the druids without accident.  Below, the rushing, steaming waters of the flow hurry west facilitating the immediate journey (though not so much the return); but that seems to be all the help the cavern wants to give.  The preceding meal, redolent with spices harvested from the same alchemically active plants from which one might craft a low grade potion of fire resistance, will insulate against the water's uncomfortable heat; but Marion's report suggests that the winding stream goes for long stretches with almost no head room for breathing above the water.  That'll be trouble, as it necessitates taking a breath or two briefly and then ducking below water before getting beaned by a stalactite.  This all presumes the group descends into the chasm safely; a fifty foot hand-over-hand climb down a steam-slick rockface directly into a stream too shallow for a dive from more than ten feet; and not at all, for Mor'Lag.  Once the chasm is negotiated and the stream undertaken, there remains one more hiccup before they will be back on solid ground: presumably, halfway down that tunnel, they'll run into a kodo-sized snapping turtle; and with no pocket druid to woo its acquiescence, that confrontation may be a challenge!

*Spoiler: Challenge Time!*
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Alright!  I think we've done enough prep, time to get going.  Here's the skinny on the immediate challenges, and I invite you to negotiate in the OOC about your approach.  If you have a novel solution to one or more of them, feel free to pitch it to me there too!

Challenge 1: The Climb.

A fifty foot climb down the interior chasm wall to the surface of the hot steam.  This is an *Athletics* check, *DC 15*.  No routine checks here; it's not an inherently difficult task, but there are elements of randomness and slippage that require the dice.  If you fail, you're going to need to make a *Toughness check*.  The *DC* is *12*, plus 2 for every degree of failure on the preceding Athletics check.  Naturally, more catastrophic failures represent slipping earlier on the climb, or hitting a particularly shallow part of the water.

After this, everyone's in the water, and ready to go down the steam toward the West.  Anyone with a swim speed can do this without rolling; the stream carries you along.  Anyone without a swim speed will need to make an *Athletics* check, *DC 10*, to tread water as you're thrust along. 
 Failure means you struggle to keep your head up as the water tosses you, and you'll need to take a *Fortitude check*, DC 12, against suffocation (dazed/stunned/incapacitated).  Critical failure means you strike a stalactite when you pop up to breath, so you'll need to make a *DC 13 Toughness check* and THEN the aforementioned *Fortitude check* not to drown.

Once you've done both these things, we're about two thirds down the stream, and about ready to encounter the turtle - we'll resolve that one in narrative, or combat, next.  Good luck!

----------


## WindStruck

"So many of the missing druids are to the west. I agree we should head that way. But..."

Isaera looks uncertainly at everyone. "How are we going to get *back*?"

She also asks Jakk'ari, "Do you think you could calm the giant turtle and allow us to swim past it?"

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag climb down easily.  After both consider just swimming, they independently come to the idea that it was a stupid risk and down the potion they made for exactly this eventuality.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

*Spoiler: Not Quite Insightful Conversation (Felix), Part 5: 5 finger discount opinions*
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Emilia frowned at the rejected help, but her brows only furrowed for all the irritation. It didnt sound a vendetta any more than his approach did measured. I can scarcely name a single knight, paladin, or person of quality, that has ever done justice to themselves or duty, without first assuming self-responsibility. Emilia conceded, grudgingly. Nor is it fair not to let you proof yourself, when we little know the other. Have at him, then. But recall there are appropriate authorities in Rachet, we are each of us subject to law, and it takes but a few wrong turns before even a long leash become a noose. 

Second guessing drinking of the minor wisps still twirling off the remaining half of the tea, Emilia dumped the contents unto the dry soil unceremoniously. Now, it is beyond time I slept. But as I owe you a secret: ask around the Frisky Duke of a woman banned following a quarrel, two weeks previous. Make of it what you will. The empty mug was raised in an impromptu salute. Safe watch, and goodnight. 


 

=_Comfy Cosy Caves_= 

Beyond wondering at the librarian-princess lack of complaints even with the healing, throwing an incredulous look at the troll when he invited that bloated dark cloud of malice and deceit to spout whatever lies it would, and turning her back entirely to the warlock when she conjured a floating eyeball flaming infernal green, Emilia busied herself with tossing already filleted fish into a small iron pot ringed with unnamed inscriptions alongside other ingredients and the few spices she could take. It was not overlong before it was all simmering together and dispensed in small cups. She ate in a silence borderline impatient, not especially thrilled to push the exhausted or linger around the infernal. After the troll healed the misguided warlock revealed noble, Emilia wandered away from the already read journals to fold her arms and frowned. It was not entirely clear if they were done trusting the advice of self-described wicked things, or allowing their ally to damn herself for profit.

Emilia remained silent until they got to the rushing river, and she nodded agreement for Isaeras objection. If the tale of two outposts is true, the living leather belt and bowl of snapping soup might well be what passes for defences. If we cannot quell the wildlife softly in the west, we still have time to start claiming heads in the east. The foe of my foe is near enough my friend, and what need have the druids for their revolving vigil without the Void pushing back? Our allies would come to us then. No rivers, no problem.

*Spoiler: MrA, tangential minor boon from eyepatch?*
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Im a player so its unsurprising Ill ask silly questions in the hope it somehow works out a little better for me. Because the eyepatch is all about _l~i~f~e~m~a~g~i~c_ can I nonsense my way into saying oh I totally see all like, the currents in the river maaaan, and so find it easier to swim with the tide/lower the athletics check? 


*Spoiler: ooc, basically putting it out there*
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Id be surprised if the other players buy into the eh maybe east is best after all position as its likely too late for that. So think of this as putting it out there that we could be messing with the druids. But who really knows. Otherwise Id just jump in first? 

If someone objects strongly enough Ill probably jump in.

----------


## Plaids

Responding to Isaera Jakk'ari offers his meager consolations.
As for coming back I could attempt to freeze the stream. But the risk of falling beneath the ice into the water is too great. The warm plants make it difficult as well. Hopefully the druids can offer us aid. I have heard of their ability to adopt aquatic forms. Perhaps the Tauren are of high enough stature as druids and can aid us in that aspect.

As for the turtle I am unfortunately unable to speak to the beast. My abilities lie with the elements and not the living animal components of the world. But a cold shock could act as a sedative. Perhaps we could combine elemental ice and arcane frost to subdue the creature. We just need to overcome the plants in the area...  Although I do know someone who is the bane of vegetation.


OOC: I actually did not think of the party would get out of the cavern. I honestly would not be opposed to going East or North first to find the Tauren who may help the party out. The night elves seem fine for now so going East or North would make sense. Just have to be careful due to the lack of scouting.

My best guess for the turtle would be to try to slow it down by cooling it down. The warm magic plants would stifle the attempt but Marion could use magic to kill off the plants.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera isn't too convinced by Jakk'ari's wishful thinking. "Did it ever occur to you that.. maybe the druids *can't* figure out a way back?? So maybe they're just holed up there?"

"But- but I don't know. I wasn't the one with a demonic eye pet. Is there nothing else on this map?"

It really wasn't looking like a good option for the party if this was, for all they knew, a one-way trip.

*Spoiler: ooc*
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eh sorry.  but seriously it isn't right?

In any case, Isaera has some options to her to both negate the challenge of the climb down and the swim, so I won't be rolling for those.

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## JoyWonderLove

Emilia exhaled exasperatedly. For the love of Lig  the two tauren went _and_ returned safely; my eyepatch confirms. Without getting mauled by all Mordis saw, and without poisoned auras. It screams de facto stronghold. Again, two massive auras pushing back on one another, journal entries of far gone night elves in the east, Mordis confirming the western druids locked in a rest and vigil rotation  we are very likely between two opposed camps. Our attacking the west to do a tauren welfare check is as idiotic as stealing from a treasury to ensure their accounting is accurate. Until we know it a rescue operation, only north and east serve to move us forward. 

Emilia gave a cursory glance over the edge at the climb down, the uneven rocky descent of the cave wall straight down into rushing water would likely have to be navigated first by her to give the others encouragement. Two bookworms, one ogre, and a desert person, meant she was the one that would eventually have to. But not yet. She turned away from the edge dismissively and flipped the emerald eyepatch back down over her eye, blinking a moment as she readjusted to the explosion of life radiating all around them. 

I will head north. A close up of the night elf left there will tell what became of Verdan, and Naralex might even be responsive by now. 

*Spoiler: actions*
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If its a real choice, yes, save the rolls, but go north. Maybe the magic eyepatch can find the night elf that was left there and see whats going on with his aura and other clues. 

I understand this wasnt the most diplomatic approach and Im okay with going solo, if thats an option, as its not a perfect option, but still better than attacking a potential druid camp.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor'Lag looks chagrined.  The silly altruist was clearly right and their fearless leader, for all her scouting, was making the right call.  What was more, the lightweilder was acting like a leader, despite her inferior magic.

"The Lightweilder has a point," concedes Lag.

----------


## Plaids

The night elves appear to be safe and not lacking food or drink. They seem fine for now. I will follow you Emelia.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion listened to the discussion and nodded towards the end. 

"North it is!" she agrees to Emelia's suggestion as she scoops her backpack over her shoulders a little further, ready to set forth into the surprisingly humid, dank cave system. 

_I'm just saying that killing scores of Centaur for payment from the orcs would've been much easier_, the Warlock thought to herself, ready to travel or descend where needed.

----------


## MrAbdiel

With judicious secondary consideration made possible by the demonic slave-eye, the party postpones the possibility of journeying up or down stream.  Instead, they strike out to the north; taking a moment to prove the narrow arches of rock that lead across the chasm before passing over them with no incident.  The tunnel that leaves the main cavern is comfortably wide, and veers north, down, and wiggles a little toward the east as it goes before, after a hundred or so paces, opening up into a new chamber.

There is no denying that magic has made its impact on this place; nature magic and otherwise.  The stone shaping of the interior of the room is simple and beautiful: from the entrance, around a large natural pillar, then to a large reasonably circular cavern perhaps twenty yards end to end.  There is the minimum of stalactites on the roof, but no corresponding stalagmites on the grey stone floor, which bears instead a pleasing marbled coloration in between patches of blue-green moss.  The stone floor slopes down as it approaches the edges of the room toward the northern half, resulting in a crescent depression at the terminal end of the room which is filled with clear water bubbling in from a small cavity to the north east, and draining out a similar opening to the north west.  The crescent-moon shaping of the water against the totality of the room is unmistakable; and one might be forgiven for speculating if this was not, or had not once been, an Elunite moonwell of some variety; though it lacks the fluttering motes of lunar-divine energy that such fountains, now visually familiar to the alliance-native members of the party, know to expect.  But this is where the natural beauty begins to meet the alloying input of some mind or another: the stone in the middle of the room has gathered together starkly, sweeping up to a circular plateau like a stony table or altar sprouting seamlessly from the ground.  On this altar lies a male Kaldorei, in fitful repose; in a finely crafted druidic brown-and-green robe, he shuffles restlessly with bare feet and hands loosely - almost intimately - curled with long streamers of creeper vines that sprout up from mossy cracks at the base of the altar.  His hair is waistlength, and white; his face cleanshaven.

The sides of the altar, and the walls of the cavern, are dashed and dotted with some kind of paint or ochre, creating a grand and intricate design of magically significant runes.  Around those runes, the phosphorescent mosses grow thick but somehow cautiously; bordering, paralleling, but never crossing hiding the runes.  There seems to be no occupants to the room aside from the sleeper; and perhaps not for some time.

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Expertise: Magic (Any), DC:10*
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It's fairly common knowledge that druids are capable of entering a hibernative slumber that slows their metabolic processes to a crawl.  The fact that this elf's face is cleanshaven, in many circumstances, might tell you how long he had gone without shaving it - but with the slowing impact of the hibernation, it's impossible to know for sure.  He may well have been asleep for almost the entire duration the druids have been working in this caverns at all.


*Spoiler: Emilia's Nature Vision*
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This room is almost unbearably bright with the 'radiation' of nature magic.  There's definately a strong 'source' for it in the western cavern somewhere, but the runes of this ritual - that's what it must be - are drawing aggressively upon that power, feeding back to it. 
 Connected, now, through something that has been done here.  As your vision moves left to right, about two thirds of the way across the room, the natural magic seems to start to lose ground to the background pressure of the opposing force.  Whatever that opposing force is, it's not Life magic; and it's not Light, that you know for sure.  And if it was Fel, surely there'd be some obvious deformation of the terrain with demonic features.  Those, you can count out.


*Spoiler: Isaera's Arcane Expertise*
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The runes on the wall are draconic - an early and powerful magical language, though not the only language capable of compelling state-changes in mana to produce magical effects.  The study of these languages and their difference is principally the province of classical mages.  Lightwielders have their light-born syllables, Fel-users have a guttural demonic lexicon, and shaman (when they are forced to write their magical elements rather than intuitively push them into being) tap into the primordial elemental language known as Kalimag, which doubles as their communication tongue with the elements directly.  You learned your spells in the refined and excellent tongue of the ancient highborne; but you're perfectly conversant in the draconic alternatives incase, for example, you were duelling another elven mage and needed to jam a slippery counterspell into their operation before they could catch and decompose it.  The runes on the wall are Draconic, and specifically the green draconic dialect of draconic; exactly what you would expect druids to use when committing to a ritual of such power that requires a rune-chamber.  Green dragons are guardians of the Emerald Dream, the boundary-realm between the material and the realm of Life; and such dragons are longstanding confederates of the druids of Azeroth.  But it's more complicated than that - about two thirds of the room, the westmost and the central thirds, are in that green dragon spelltongue; the eastmost third seems to grade swiftly into what you know as 'basic' draconic - the kind used by blue dragons, associated with the arcane magics of the world, sometimes tutors, guardians and wardens of mortal magi.

*Spoiler: Isaera's Investigation, DC: 18*
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...Infact, when you look at it closely, it's almost like the room was prepared as a rune-chamber for this ritual singularly in the green-dragon runics, but some ineffable force is _pushing_ on the script from the east, conforming the spell into a more formal, classically arcane style.  The idea is disturbing, like a magic spell that _wants_ to be cast and is trying to force its verbal elements into the world; an impatient arcane fist, punching out the narrow window beside the door, reaching through and fumbling irritably for the latch on the otherside.



*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Shamanic Instincts*
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It appals you to see a room of such beauty devoid of the natural spirits that should be revelling in its stone and water; but this might well be the source of what has driven them out.  Some grand ritual has taken place here that has made the region frightful to elemental spirits, and subtly mutative to the plants and likely animals.

Your profession is a kind of cousin to the craft of druids, and you understand some things here immediately.  This elf is not just hibernating, he's wandering.  He has, by his druidic technique and perhaps by this ritual in part, turned his body into a door through which his vital spirit has stepped, and now explores some other place beyond the mortal realms; most likely the Emerald Dream, which is the wellspring of Life and druidic magic in the world.  This is not an action without cost.  You understand the Kaldorei druids departed into their barrows for similar purpose many ages ago to gain wisdom 
 in this slumber, and the elves vigilantly guard their sleeping kin in such cases.  Only another druid, or perhaps a priestess of the elven moon goddess, can rouse a druid from such a slumber.  And to move his sleeping body may be disastrous, since the body is less an anchor than a door, and the effect may for the druid be like returning home after a long journey to find someone has carried off his house, leaving him no recourse to find it let alone re-enter it.


*Spoiler: Marion's Wicked Intuitions*
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The runes on the walls are draconic, you know that much; the most basic language of magical action that you half-mastered in Dalaran before you were introduced to an inspiring new lexicon that was so much more... _expressive._  But you'd expect draconic, from a druid, whose Life magics are taught to them historically by green dragons.  You're forced to guess then that this place has been turned into what is sometimes called a _rune chamber_; a room dedicated to preparing a ritual powerful enough to require etched elements not just in a circle, but at intersecting points in the third dimension, permitting additional actuating symmetries and nested lines of spell-words.  That's all well and good.  But something here is... off.  It's hard to place.  You suspect you don't possess the senses to know it for sure; but there's somethings about the ambient life magic in the room drawn by the spell that is _off_.  It reminds you of the brief, chalking aftertaste that fills your mouth when you finish your summoning invocation for Vargheist.

*Spoiler: Marion's Expertise: Magic (Fel), DC: 18*
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...You don't know much about druids, especially; and you're quite sure this is not Fel-magic related. But you know a little about hubris; and this scene has hubris written all over it.  You think this druid has made the same mistake that warlocks so often make, just with another power source; his reach outstripped his grasp, and he's knocked the jam jar off the shelf.  Your group has been operating under the assumption that there are two forces at play, here; the Life magic from the west, and some competing magical force from the east. 
 But you're growing gradually more certain that the Life magic, which the paladin described as _askew_ with her device's vision, is tainted... Probably, by Void.



*Spoiler: Mor'Lag's Vigilance*
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The various magical experts apply their expertise, and the paladin uses her green lens to peer at the powers in operation in this place.  You're learning, and Aglet suggests you're a quick study, but you aren't sure you'll pick up anything about the magic in this room before anyone else will.  Yet you're accustomed at all times, even when concentrating at one task, to have one of your heads keeping vigilant for threats and interruptions; and this is a case where three eyes are better than two.

No threat or interruption, in this case; but taking instinctively to the duty of vigilance, you are the first to notice that, playing out on the water's rippling surface when viewed from a height not intuitively accessible to your small companions - perhaps to a Night Elf, though - are flickers of dreamy scenes.  The elf on the altar is in them, running through a gauzy green world.  The scenes show seconds at a time of him running, and then blink out, and start up again somewhere else on the water's surface; but you quickly piece together the theme.  In this vision, the Kaldorei is not just running, but fleeing something; a redness that chews up the green even as he charges on.  Trees and vines, bushes and ferns rush past him, but as often as not they are subtly warped and wrong.  With the elf twitching in his sleep on the altar, it's not hard to make the leap that he is suffering some kind of nightmare; and the water here, mystical as it obviously is, plays out some direct or stylized scenes from his terrors.

----------


## Plaids

Having found a still living figure within the pristine almost manicured cave Elation and jubilance took hold. 
Jakk'ari announces to the group joyously.
 "We found one he! Don't worry this one's still alive. He just be in a druidic slumber so don't move him." 
Jogging towards the center of the room Jakk'ari approaches the room still heedless to any hesitance in sharing his personal thoughts.
"At least we know where six of the night elves are now." 

Jakk'ari approaches slumbering elf still fully intending to display the same respect he had shown to other leaders that had gotten him this far.
 "Master druid. We have come at the behest of the Cenarion Circle and are fully prepared to deliver you from this place. If you can please tell us of what happened to Ebru and the remainder of the druids.
..." 

If the sleeping elf does not answer:
Disappointment begins to tinge Jakk'ari's voice as his previously taught shoulders begin to sag.
  "It seems he can't hear us... The only way to awaken him is with aid of another druid or a priestess of Elune. Or maybe..." 

Desparate for a solution Jakk'ari begins to ramble haphazardly. "Wait wait, I think I know solution. It's a Furion and Tyr'ande. All we need is a token of devotion." 
Jakk'ari remembers the story of the awakening a druid by an act of devotion from his wife.
Surely the party knew the story Furion and Tyr'ande. The story of the druid Furion and his wife Tyr'ande. 
The story of the druid Furion who had slumbered whilst demons torched the forests and his wife attempted to awaken him. 
*Spoiler: The story of Malfurion being awakened by Tyrande: A sand troll's recollection*
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Tyr'ande attempting to awaken Furion had trumpetted for three days and nights. After the third night she only stopped to gasp for air only to swallow a thorny pine needle causing her to bellow in pain. Furion after hearing of her injury caused by her devotion was finally awoken and repelled the demons.



 "Perhaps. A sign of devotion is the way! Please forgive Lashanah, I do this is for Sunscar." 
Jakk'ari leans forward aligning his lips and takes extra care to not skewer the night elves exposed neck with his tusks while delivering a token devotion.

*Spoiler: Summary*
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 Jakk'ari tries to speak to the elf. If the elf does not answer Jakk'ari gets desperate. He misremembers an incorrectly retold version of Malfurion's reawakening he attempts to awaken the elf with a fairytale kiss.

----------


## JoyWonderLove

Entering the crescent moon shaped chamber, Emilia scratches her head, not knowing enough about Life magic or night elves to claim the shaman wasnt invoking the right spirits, channelling the correct intention. Pausing a moment to gauge if the kiss worked, she had always heard trolls and shamans were strange by nature, but it was stranger still when mixed with unknowable night elves. It made her wonder for a moment how Moonshadow managed to blend in, despite being statuesque.

Nightmares aside, Naralex appears fine, the paladin observed suspiciously if the kiss failed, eyes scanning the prone and twitching man cautiously, standing outside arms reach. The vines held him for a reason. So no hints as to what became of Verdan or his ilk. But the venture yields _some_ swords to our cause. Her left hand did a sweeping motion, from west to east, halting at two thirds of the room to indicate an invisible border. Life has a strong claim here, and the ritual is a glutton for its banquet. The western druids; is their rota keeping the Life magic strong enough to repulse their enemy, save Naralex? she speculated, looking at the elf and troll in particular. The evidence was circumstantial, and they would know more of ecology and magic. In afterthought, she shrugged. No one was there to gather evidence for a court case, and Emilia suddenly looked bored. 

Stepping back from the alter further, she rattled her hilt to ensure the sword drew smoothly when the time came. Regardless, the eastern force is not Life nor Light. It directly opposes the only energy actually keeping the oasis alive, and the very specific Tauren we were assigned to check in on have aligned with the west. To say nothing of both sides potentially establishing outposts in neutral territory. The druids were of the Cenarion Circle, so any stronghold of theirs would be easy to sweet-talk or sanction before needing to be sacked. But the eastern threat was another villain entirely. I still say we start crushing windpipes in the east until we get answers, but each of you knows more about rituals and magic and Kalimdor than I. What is happening here, and are there any objections to striking east?  

*Spoiler: explain and vote*
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 Im not looking in others spoilers, so I could be drawing the wrong conclusion, but until someone tells me something mind changing about the ritual and stuff, Im more comfortable voting for an east attack than west right now. But you guys are the magic and druid experts compared to me sooooo

----------


## Feathersnow

"They are caught in a dream."
"It isn't a magic we know."
"It might be a mercy to let them rest"
"But that is a step that can wait until we know more."

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jakkaris approach is novel, but ultimately in vain.  To achieve lip to skin contact, he is forced to plant the peck on the unconscious Druids prominent, sharp chin - but lacking either _true love_, or perhaps the actual Druidic ritual magic process required, causes the gesture to manifest no change.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion's brow furrowed as she perused and inspected the glyphs that were drawn about the chamber, a look of curious concern galvanised by every new rune that she inspected. 

"Vargheist, hold this please..." she would utter while her eyes remained focused, reaching out to her pet to grant him her back pack before withdrawing from within it some sharpened coal and a journal within which to take notes and draw replicative diagrams. 

Unless anyone asked her a question or pointed something out to her, Marion would spend the next ten minutes or two moving between the laylines of eldritch energies that were anchored into the material world by those inscriptions. 

Her survey and estimations complete, the warlock returned to the others. Mercifully, she arrived _after_ the towering troll had attempted his 'novel approach' with its lacking immaterial components.

"I don't think the 'Life' magic is entirely what it seems..."

----------


## Plaids

Hmm, I suppose you are right Mor'Lag.
The situation was novel and there was little insight to give. The puzzling thing was the absence of the typical elements that would gladly flock to the caverns instead of any hostile presence. 
 I do not know what be happening here paladin Emelia. What concerns me the most is that our Vargheist is the closest thing to an elemental I can sense within these caverns. If you sense a force opposing the life magic the West I say we go East.

With Marions return her suggestion turns Jakk'ari's head. Could the force permeating caverns could be anything but life magic? Such a question would be calling a basic principle the party had been operating on.
Jakk'ari responds responds to Marion
 What do you propose that force be?

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


"I can feel and see the touch of the Void," the warlock answered. 

Marion pursed her lips in thought for a second before gesturing with her thumb to Vargheist, "where he comes from. Vargheist is not a demon...not strictly speaking anyway."

"Take a fistful of dirt and crumble it into a glass of water. The glass is still filled with water, but now it's tainted...it's _different_, and you had best not drink it. I think that's what the Night Elf druid did."

----------


## WindStruck

"This whole room - this runechamber - was a ritual meant to draw our material world closer to the Emerald Dream.." Isaera says.

Gesturing at the walls she continues, "The runes are all written with Draconic runes, though as you can see, the green coloration more closely associated with those dragons of life and nature has become blue toward the east. This most likely represents more pure arcane energy..."

Isaera wondered.. was this what she had noticed in the oasis water?

"I suppose whatever may be causing this disturbance is indeed to the east. However, if the druids on the western end are combating it somehow, perhaps it would be best to speak with them first. At the very least, I'd like to have a better idea of what is going on. And maybe one of them can tell us how to stop it."

----------


## Plaids

Bah, troublesome arcane magic. Pulling strands best left alone.
The druids' help would be most appreciated. 

But the druid present before the group raised further questions. 

 But why would they leave one of their own in solitude?
Either way if we brave the river there won't be any elements who can help us and whatever arcane power in the East may endanger our friend here.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: -_-*
Show

I typed out a whole thing, then accidentally bumped one of the extra pro-gamer buttons on my overwrought mouse, paged back, and lost it all.

Bury me.


After some discussion and deliberation, it becomes clear to the party they can do little more here, at the moment; the answers must lie at the extreme west and east of the caverns; and east, they go.  This is not a path without peril - ahead lies a descent over the rocky cliff of the chasm, and then the arduous effort of pushing upstream against the rushing water towards the source of the strange arcane radiation...

*Spoiler: Challenges!*
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A fifty foot climb down the interior chasm wall to the surface of the hot stream. This is an Athletics check, DC 15. No routine checks here; it's not an inherently difficult task, but there are elements of randomness and slippage that require the dice. If you fail, you're going to need to make a Toughness check. The DC is 12, plus 2 for every degree of failure on the preceding Athletics check. Naturally, more catastrophic failures represent slipping earlier on the climb, or hitting a particularly shallow part of the water.

After this, everyone's in the water, and ready to go down the steam toward the West. Anyone with a swim speed can do this without rolling; the stream carries you along. Anyone without a swim speed will need to make an Athletics check, DC 10, to tread water as you're thrust along.
Failure means you struggle to keep your head up as the water tosses you, and you'll need to take a Fortitude check, DC 12, against suffocation (dazed/stunned/incapacitated). Critical failure means you strike a I stalactite when you pop up to breath, so you'll need to make a DC 13 Toughness check and THEN the aforementioned Fortitude check not to drown.

Going upstream is slower than downstream will be, naturally.  The water in the eastern passage is shallower, but not at all slower, and the party's shorter members can just touch the ground with their feet while keeping shoulders above the water.  If you have a swim speed from a dose of potion, you can swim upstream with a DC 12 Athletics check.  Failing that, you'll have to march through the flow like everyone else.

Marching through the flow is a DC 13 Athletics check.  Failure means you take a level of fatigue from the sustained effort.  Failure by 3 or more means you slip, and are flushed back to the central cavern; forced to make the check again, or else for the party to come back for you.

Mor'Lag specifically brings a helpful option to this challenge, as her bulk is ideal as a water-break.  Her Athletics check is still DC13, but anyone who declares they are sheltering in Mor'Lag's wake as you push upstream can have a +5 on your Athletics check.  Mor'Lag, I'd like you to hold off making this roll until everyone else makes theirs.  If Mor'Lag fails by 3 or more (or rolls a natural 1), she'll slip, and take everyone behind her with her!

After these challenges, you'll be about two thirds the way up the tunnel. We'll see how the scene looks at that point!

----------


## WindStruck

"Well then, east it is then," Isaera says.

Though the problem here was, there was no apparent way to go east, except down into this ravine and into the flowing water...

Not confident in her ability to swim at all, Isaera downs the contents of the water-breathing potion that she made, then strips off her wispy garments and sandals, leaving her in just her swimwear. "Good thing I came prepared..." she says.

"If anyone would like a nice, easy ride down, let me know," Iseara says. She extends a hand to Emilia or Marion, but any two people would do - except for Mor'Lag who would certainly count for more than two people. If Mor'Lag wanted to float down, Isaera was pretty sure she could only help the ogress and no one else.

Isaera casts Feather Fall, which allows her and up to two other people to float down with her. After that, Isaera is now immersed in hot, steamy water. Her swimwear certainly makes the whole experience more comfortable, but unfortunately does not grant her any magical bonuses to swimming. Still, she has a bit of pride and refuses to attempt this with anyone's help - at least at first.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

my awful awful athletics roll

(1d20-2)[*5*]

----------


## Plaids

Deciding the other members of his party need the help more than he, Jakk'ari begins the climb down into the river.
 I will see you at the bottom. Mor'Lag I will be trusting you in this wet endeavor. 

Wandering the barrens and Tanaris were easier tasks that fit befit a sand troll but the discomfort would be well worth it in the end.

*Spoiler: Rolls*
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Athletics for climbing down the cliff(1d20)[*19*]
Toughness roll if need (1d20+1)[*15*]

*Spoiler*
Show

Athletics for treading water (1d20)[*6*]
Fortitude roll if needed to avoid suffocation (1d20+1)[*2*]
Toughness roll if needed to resist stalactite (1d20+1)[*13*]


That's a lot of rolls and none of the potential negative modifiers have not been calculated.
Jakk'arri will be going behind Mor'Lag when marching upstream. The roll to preogress up the river will be made in the OOC thread.



After rolls: I think Jakk'ari lost his footing and got some water in his lungs. But I think he narrowly avoided the stalactite assuming the degrees of failure from the attempt to avoid drowning don't count towards avoiding the stalactite. Jakk'ari got into the river without issue and rolled well for navigating the river.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

The travel was not particularly taxing for the Alteraci aristocrat, as she had endured worse before. Mostly it was the humidity that got to her. Originating from the high altitudes of the mountains and moving mostly through forested lands, the warlock would occasionally draw a cloth up to wipe away the beads of sweat that had formed jewellery-like sheets across her forehead as the group made their way through the subterranean complex. 

When they arrived at their next obstacle, Marion turned her neck and craned it backwards to look expectedly up at Vargheist. Outside of Isaera, it was possible that Marion was the shortest of the group, as her feminine physique and average stature of 5'6" made her diminutive compared to the troll, the ogre, the voidwalker and even the more amazonian human Emelia. Thus the dark bookling cast her silent desire for aid to her pet, who looked down at her and leaned forward so that the warlock could scramble atop his right shoulder. 

Held aloft like an over-grown child, Marion could not restrain the smile and little giggle that cracked her features as Varghest glid down the uncompromising surface in a duo-scene that was sure to draw the eye of those who were attracted to unusual spectacles. 

Close to the bottom, Marion once more could not help the excited yelp, hands-over-her-mouth enthusiasm and gratitude towards her pet in the form of rubbing her hands over the massive, indigo arch of its shoulders and gentle "Thank you Vargheist!" uttered from her lips, as the void-born creature eased his body forward enough so that the warlock could slide forward from atop his shoulders and onto the solid surface below.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor gleefully accepts the spell.  Lag's hesitatation is noted by Mor, but she is reluctant to think about it. Lag has been going through some changes,  and now us not the time to process them.

Once in the water, the Ogress easily braces against the current and lets the smaller party members pass on her slipstream, stoicly overcoming the elements.

----------


## Plaids

While Emelia's misstep into the slick riverbed elicits a small wince from Jakk'ari the concern is waived as Emelia stands quickly only slightly bruised. 
The remainder of the party is delightful in their own peculiar way. With Mor'Lag's huge frame daintily floating into the stream while Marion giddily descended with the help of her demon like acting like some mixture between a family's beloved shaggy camel and a dignified father hoisting their growing child on their back.
While Isaera seemed to be struggling against the current she seemed in no danger of drowning given the lack glubbing and blubbing and the absence of her silky garments would keep probably keep her from being swept away like a jelly.
Jakk'ari discretely chuckles under his breath.
 Hah, crazy kids. 

Addressing Isaera he says.
 Need any help Isaera? I've got the blunt end of a spear if you need it. 
Jakk'ari gestures to a wooden shaft held by a holster attached to his back.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The descent turns out to be simple enough, between gifted climbers, armored stumblers, feather fallers and void walkers.  Once at the water level, however, the real trial begins; a long, difficult slog upstream.

The water is wonderfully hot - perhaps the heat of a bath one might let cool for a few minutes, rather than subject themselves to.  But the fine, quasi-alchemical spices in the previously ingested meal make the difference, and the sensation is translated in the party's experience from _unbearably hot_ to merely _very hot._  Inhaling the thick, steamy air intensifies the labor of the slog, as the watervapor competes against nourishing air with every breath.  The floor of the stream is long worn smooth by the water's passage; but it is also sheened with a film of some kind of underwater moss that thrives in the heat.  At irregular intervals, it glows with bioluminescence with mercifully lights up the dark tunnel enough to navigate it; but it's slick underfoot, and no one escapes the occasional stumble and slide, losing up to twenty meters of progress before managing to grab a stony protrusion on the tunnel wall, or the hand of a friend.

Isaera, whose delicate, magical descent to the water in her scarce bathing suit must be described as _aphroditian_, is at first leading the party into the gloom; her alchemical assistance transmuting her landborne grace to an undulating swimming technique that cuts the current coming at her life a knife and making some progress with an admirable determination to be self sufficient.  But the elfess is no endurance athlete; and as the progress up the waterflow stretches from five, to ten, to fifteen minutes of sustained effort, a moment of weakness hits at the wrong time, and the water's power overtakes her; sending her tumbling back down the tunnel.  It might have flushed her clear out into the entry chasm and perhaps further into the western passage; but a strong grip snatches around her wrist - Mor's ogrish paw, arresting the elf's disaster, and buying a moment for Jakk'ari and Emilia to help her into the relatively mild wake of the ogress's passage.

*Spoiler: OOC - The Worst Waterslide Ever*
Show

Everyone makes the climb without taking damage!  With the exception of a single failure ((Isaera takes the fatigued condition!) with no penalty!), everyone manages to truck along in Mor'Lag's waterbreak, and Mor'Lag does not get blown back into them like a big tan bowling ball.  Boo-urns.


Finally, the  tunnel begins to open up; and as the space increases, the pressure of the flow decreases; until finally the party is crouched in calmly flowing waters in no danger of knocking them down.  But from this position, from the mouth of the tunnel before it opens up into a new chamber onto which these waters bank, they can see the next obstacle - the massive, snoozing thunder-lizard on the elevated ground.  It's massive - bigger than the kodos you rode in on, for certain - and its scales and hide seem shot through with an unnatural blue which you have never seen on a creature in the Barrens.  Its every breath flushes the room with the stinging scent of ozone.

It does not choke the room with its size - there's room to get around it, if one intended to be careful - but the effort would require a non-trivial effort at subtlety.  Past its great, finned tail, the room narrows to a single continuing tunnel, at the terminus where Marion's exploratory eye ran out of integrity.

*Spoiler: Party Options!*
Show

I of course encourage you to discuss these, and other options, in character; but here's the obvious ones:

1. Sneak past the beast, and up the tunnel beyond. Requires sneaky-sneaking.
2. Sneak out of the water and ambush the sleeping beast with everyone in optimal positions.  Requires less sneaky-sneaking, and likely a fight against an enemy who has taken one round of your best shots.
3.  Attack immediately, from where you are.  Requires no sneaky-sneaking; but only those with ranged attacks they can rely on will be able to get their ambush attacks in, while the melee parties slog out of the water and close the distance.
4.  ???  Anything you can come up with that you think is reasonable!

----------


## Feathersnow

"There is a spell we learned."
"Counterspell"
"Perhaps the gifted among us should blast it"
"We neutralize its breath"
"Then it charges"
"We and the Lightweilder fall on it as it closes."

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera, determined to make this journey by herself, nearly makes it, but stumbles in the end. Her slim and frail body careens backward, tumbling within the churning waters. She may have called out, but already her head was submerged in the hot, flowing water. Flailing her limbs around for something to grab onto, it's the humongous, meaty hand of Mor'Lag which catches her.

After the panic subsides, Isaera remembers that she was never in fear of drowning anyway, but still, how far would she have been swept back? For now, she's still part of the group that presses forward, however instead of fording ahead by herself and marveling at the wonders of this cavern, she now gazes upon the behind of an ogre.

Once they all make it to calmer and shallower water, the next problem looms ahead of them. Already Mor'Lag was speaking of 'countering' the thunder lizard's breath. As if it was a spell! But it wasn't a spell, not at all. In Isaera's expert opinion, perhaps the breath could be countered, but it would take a specific spell designed to neutralize those energies. So anyway, if Mor'Lag's idea failed, they were all currently sitting waist deep in water. Or if not, they would all be dripping wet.

Well she wasn't having any of that idea. Isaera was already distancing herself from the others, slowly moving against the cave wall opposite the giant thunder lizard, placing herself about as far away as possible while skirting against the water's flow. While she may have looked quite appealing and ravishing upon her descent, Isaera's now-waterlogged frame looked more like a frightened, drowned rat. Her long locks, now bedraggled and utterly disheveled, clung to her wet body. Isaera's only response to Mor'Lag's talk of tactics is silently shaking her head and pointing in the direction of the wall to follow her lead.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

I guess making a stealth roll wouldn't hurt now.  Either way we're going to need it, unless we just want to heedlessly make it charge at us anyway!  Oh yeah, and Isaera rather sucks at this roll too. She's definitely not ranger material!

(1d20-2)[*6*]

edit:  may have forgot to add fatigue to this...

----------


## Plaids

Fording the river came easily enough for someone with the second longest legs amongst the party. The abundance of slick plants and algae didn't help matters but Mor'Lag's bulk saved the party from additional exertion and having to circle back to grab Isaera.

Upon seeing the large thunder lizard gently snoring and swaying the vegetation near it's nostrils Jakk'arri can't help gaze in wonderment. The coloration, the size, and the improbability of such a small space supporting such a prodigious creature. Then Jakk'ari notices Mor'Lags' scheming

 Wait, perhaps we can get by without conflict with such a magnificent creature. Perhaps I can make stealth more tenable. 

Jakk'ari flexes an arm attempting to cool the space immediately surrounding him before hopefully spreading it further into the room.

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's plan*
Show

Jakk'ari isn't gung-ho for combat. He is in favor of stealth and would like to cool the room to make the beast before them lethargic. Jakk'ari would used this method in the past to slow dessert dwelling reptiles for hunting or escape. I don't know if cooling the room would work due to the absence of elementals though.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion had enjoyed the short burst of obstacle courses that, let's face it, Vargheist had navigated on her behalf. For Marions part she encouraged her pet in spirit, sitting aloft its right shoulder, her hands resting at strategic points along its broad, dome-like back so that she did not tumble off of the blue mountain and go head-first into the river below in what would be a most undignified display. 

This was wonderful! Marion thought to herself. This must be what those old Emperors felt like when sat atop a comfortable dais while squads of slaves literally shoulder-carried them about.

When the fun was over, Marion was gently deposited back onto the ground as Vargheist leaned forward and the warlock 'slid' down his arm to land on her feet upon the soft earth. 

"Thank you Vargheist!" the Alteracii acknowledged with a smile, giving her pet a reassuring pat on its arm with her left hand, before turning to continue with the rest of the group into the humid, subterranean tunnels before them.

When the group encountered the new, slumbering threat, Marion proceeded cautiously. This animal, were it awake and menacing, would need to be fought, and they would be wise - in Marions mind anyway - to hit first and hit hard. But, it would be foolish to wake the beast...why fight it, when they could just move around it? 

Though they would have to come back this direction anyway when departing the caves, so perhaps violence was, ultimately, inevitable?

Marion moved near Isaera and whispered softly. 

"Do you have any spells that can blanket noise out from a region so that we could sneak around it?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

A brief conference between the team members proceeds, but is truncated by necessity and decisive action.  They are not stealth specialists; but ambushing the creature seems variously over-dangerous, and somewhat cruel.  And so Isaera leads off, her comrades following her impulse, attempting to keep their movements as quiet as possible.

This proves to be difficult.  Mor'Lag, Marion, and Isaera have a universally dismal time trying to mask their steps in the shallow water; the slippery stone requiring a certain number of stumbles and muffled curses that begin to stir the great creature.  Its huge eyelids begin to flutter, an ozone-snuffling breath fills its nose... and then Emilia, a clump of moss coming loose under the heel of her greave, skids sideways and clatters loudly off a wall, scraping down it as she tries to catch herself; every instinctive effort to slow her fall only making it louder.  She ends at a half-crouch, hands braced on the wall, looking at her companions with an unspoken, apologetic grimace.  At this, the beast starts, gives an indignant growl and begins to rise...

*Spoiler: {Fluff} Jakk'ari's Plea*
Show

You reach out to the spiritual realm that backlights the material. The Elemental spirits have fled this place - but nebulous, unformed elemental energies still exist, idle and scarce, constituting nothing in dormancy.  Your desperation is a language as real a spoken word, to the spirits; and you push out your request further, and further into the silent distance...

...And from far below, in some deep cavern of magma and steam that heats the water on its way up to these caverns, a fiery spirit rises up with trepidation into this banned place.  You feel its waryness, being here.  This place doesn't belong to the elements - not anymore.  It belongs to something else, just as primal: magic itself.  The little Spark's unmanifested mind flits around the room and sweeps up the lingering fire motes left by the menagerie of elementals who abandoned this place before, and then plunges back down into the depths.  In doing so, it drags so much heat from the room that the coldsnap sets in immediately...


... And then Jakk'ari is there, his legs unaccustomed to wading through water, but all the elements his home by a greater law; curling his three-fingered hands into quivering fists that immediately cover in a sheen of frost.  The temperature in the room drops a hundred degrees in the space of a second.  At once, your bodies register a chill of shock as you go from uncomfortably hot to uncomfortably cold; but your fortified constitutions prevent this from reaching a harmful peak.  The thunderlizard is not so fortified - its fluttering eyes squeeze shut as the cold for instinctive fear of them freezing over, and its goes from its rising posture into a tighter, conservative curl of its tremendous body, preserving its heat, and slumbering anew.

Soon enough, the whole party has passed the room while the chill remains; though warmth will undoubtedly return in the passing of time.  With that, nothing prevents them from proceeding through the following passage, in which the light blue glow of moss grows steadily to an ultraviolent gloom that makes whites of eyes, teeth, and clothing seem to glow as if internally lambent themselves.  A minute or two of winding descent, and you can hear a growing _thrum_; a buzzing that is not quite mechanical or organic, but thuds in your ears like a bassy, erratic pulse all the same.  Through the sound which blurs and strains your conversation, there is also the sound of something creaking and shifting - a sound like the stressing of wood, on a tilting ship's deck.

*Spoiler: Isaera*
Show

...As you have descended down this last passage, you have felt first a warm tingle in your arms that drove away the cold you endured escaping the thunder lizard... but that tingle soon graduates just to heat.  Pleasant internal heat, like that perfect amount of effort spent in a dance, or swim; a premium sensation of rightness in the nerves.  You feel... amazing.  You haven't felt this good, this _whole_, since...

...Since you last stood in chamber of the Sunwell with your father; bathing in its direct arcane glow and feeling nourished by its assuring power.  For the first time in a long time, you feet utterly satiated in a way that makes you realize how carefully your personal discipline had contained you hunger for mana beforehand.

(OOC: Until otherwise notified, you have a +2 bonus to any spellcasting you attempt, in this place.)

----------


## Plaids

The inordinately sized suprised Jakk'arri. While he had expected Emelia to clatter around somewhat in her armor the inelegant movements of his lightly clothed companions came as a surprise. The elemental assistance also came as a shock. When a water elemental cooling the surroundings would have been expected the quick arrival and departure of a flame elemental heat pumping the warmth from surrounding was novel and might come in handy in the future. Though right now it would only serve to torment his more lightly clothed allies and any character building wouldn't be needed for this venture.

With the underground foliage brightening the group had to be approaching something. Just as the grass thickened as it approached the ocean something had to have caused the change in scenery.
 Anyone see or sense anything? The elements are just as absent as before, but I reckon something may be close. 
Jakk'arri takes point amongst the group.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion could have kicked herself for potentially disturbing the sleeping thunderlizard. It wasn't her fault, really...well okay it was.  But stealth was not her forte! She was more about blasting the snot out of whatever they encountered that meant them harm, or melting their faces off or stealing their souls. And if such means could not solve such impeding problems then there was always her legs innate ability to turn herself around and simply run away. 

But stealth? Bah. Warlocks did not _stealth!_ Nobles did not _stealth!_ Up and coming Stormwind Financial Times Millionaires Under 20 of the Year did not _stealth!_ But apparently in this instance they had to. For that thunderlizard wore the mantle of his namesake, his stormy and powerful mien issuing a silent but menacing warning that one would be best served by letting sleeping dogs lie. 

Such was Marions preoccupation that she hadn't even noticed that they had past the threat. One second fear gripped her mind and the next they were past the slumbering menace. But alas, they were not yet out of the clutches of danger, for their trollish friend pointed out the absence of 'the spirits', his primitive means of gauging the winds of magic in the area. 

Well, maybe not so primitive. Marion was being a bit harsh there. He had prove that he knew a thing or two that she did not, and he wielded a form of magic that was as unusual to her as hers was to the regular mage in Dalaran. 

"I sense nothing..." Marions soft voice answered the troll, as she peered about for any other signs that her particular expertise may be able to detect. 


ooc:
_________________

Just looking around and seeing if she notices anything amiss. 

*Expertise (Fel):* (1D20+11)[*15*]
*Perception:* (1d20+5)[*21*]

----------


## WindStruck

The party of heroes snuck, or they tried to anyway..  it was all pretty clumsy but still the large beast slept soundly. Until Emilia slipped and made enough racket to wake the dead. Isaera cringed a bit at the sound, ready to dive under the water for cover (if it could even provide cover from an electric blast!) in case things got dicey. To be fair, at least Isaera wouldn't have been a target if it didn't see her?

But then Jakk'ari stepped in, with his expertise in the magic of spirits and nature. The room temperature changed drastically, from hot to freezing, and Isaera felt herself recoiling. She dove back into the water anyway, trying not to freeze to death into a popsicle, and swam as far as she could, breathing the cooling water, before she had to face the inevitable.

Dripping wet again, she clutched herself and tried to make a tiptoeing dash to the exit beyond, hurrying to get back to the cave's warmer environment and hoping she wasn't going to get frostbite. At least it wasn't like she had clothes to stay damp and suck away even more of her body heat away like a wick, but it would take a while until her long hair dried.

Descending the tunnel, it not only grew warmer but felt more.. right.

"I feel the mana. It's in the air. It's... everywhere."

The elf closes her eyes and breathes deeply, enthralled by this wonderful feeling that she had forgotten from so long ago, and missed.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari observes Isaera inhaling deeply and becoming mesmerized by the ambient energy surrounding the group. A tranquil high like this for a troll could only be found from smoking the fresh venom from a scorpid back home.

 We should finish our business here soon. Who knows what could happen to us if we stay here any longer than we need? Might cause our tusks to fall out.

----------


## Feathersnow

"This must be what the Homeworld was like" "Before the Draenei and their war..."  Mor and Lag look on in wonder.

----------


## Plaids

Mor'Lags had nothing to remember of their homeland. Given their age and the time of the ogres' introduction to the world they only would have had stories and recollections by their elders. A people leaving their land would entail a collective change forever. A people's livelihood and collective memory was inextricably linked to their life sustaining land and the temperamental ogre twins were born unmoored and untethered. The thought was enough was enough to leave a hollowing sorrow.

Jakk'ari turns his head upwards to responds to Mor'Lag.
 Have you been you been told stories of your home world? Have you ever thought of being there?

----------


## Feathersnow

"We were told many stories."
"There is a great forest on the edge of a great swamp."
"The swamp has thick air and mushrooms that walk like people or fly like birds"
"We often wondered what that would be like,"
"The Great Lake of Zangar and the city of the mushrooms"
"This place reminds of that story."

----------


## Plaids

It sounds beautiful. A fertile land without the typhoons for life to emerge from the earth. Maybe someday you will see it for the first time.

----------


## MrAbdiel

It would be hard to deny a certain otherworldly loveliness to the luminous plant and fungal life.  That phantasmagorical light-play, the constant splay and growth of your own manifold soft shadows in the dark, certainly makes for a memorable journey; and guards kept up fearing ambush in this  tight connecting passageway prove to be unwarranted.  It finally opens into a larger cavern - not to large as the central chasm chamber, but larger than the pocket containing the thunder lizard.  It's a roughly oval shaped natural formation in the deep stone, with the tunnel you entered through at one narrow end and a similar egress at the far end; with the wide sides of the oval shape rising up twenty feet on each side before plateauting back to the wall and rising another twenty feet to curve into the ceiling.  The impression is of passing through a canyon forty feet wide, with short cliffs either side.

Strikingly, almost every inch of stone surface in this chamber is covered with plant or fungal life.  A carpet of moss so thick and firmly rooted it almost qualifies as grass rolls out beneath your feet all the length of the canyon.  The flanking cliffs are crisscrossed with ropey, fungoid vines with clustering blooms of colorful mushrooms.  Incredibly, at irregular intervals along the canyon but especially dense across the tops of the flanking cliffs,  the bioluminescence (or something else) supplies enough light to support the grown of honest, surface-style trees.  They are small, hip-high saplings and shrubs in the canyon, but fully grown trees with their boughs pressed flush to the ceiling and weaving between stalactites; with leaves that seem black within a constricted light spectrum that cannot accommodate their true green.  Pansies and peacebloom flowers swarm improbably around the stalactites on the roof, like a peacebond on the jaws of some ancient beast.  A small, but busy colony of bees buzzes quietly away on the righthand cliffside, dutifully doing that noble toil that only they can do, even under these strange conditions.

Advancing cautiously into this verdant valley, you find no immediate threat - there are no creatures or people hiding on the short clifftops or trees where an ambush would have been very effective, and the plantlife itself is in no way inherent hostile.  Not, atleast, initially.

The advance through this room is complicated as you approach the middle, where a cluster of the hardy little subterranean saplings grow out of a thick, rugged mat of tangled foliage and crawler vines.  Ponderously, slowly enough that the alarm of its happening gives you plenty of time to step back and prepare, two points of royal blue light bloom into brightness in the mess of leaves and moss - eyes, your suspicions indicate, quickly validated.  The mess of plantlife in that tangle place begins drawing together, and from even further to the cliff walls twenty feet either side; as if the resting spread of this accruing being had spanned the entire width of the valley.  When it is done retracting these cables of plant life and mana-drenched root networks into itself, it has drawn up to an imposing figure: seventeen feet of looming, aggregated life in a humanoid shape half again as wide in the spread of its long dangling arms as it is tall.  The plants composing it are flowers, roots, saplings, moss, and fungal tag-alongs; life with no especially uniting principle other than whatever supernatural compulsion has driven them into this mannish shape, and given it whatever mind is operating behind those glowing eyes.  It has no express mouth, and you cannot imagine it has any real organic seal to force air through it if it did; but the wheezing, moaning whistle of air forced through its shambling form by a contraction of creaking wooden parts strikes you as mournful, questioning, and simmering impatient.  It seems to be asking something _beneath_ the vulgar word-shapes mortal beings use to bandy their brief concerns; speaking in a language that might be intelligible to gifted druids, but surely no others.  If this creature has wits, it is at their _end_, transferring this urgency onto you for reasons beyond your kenning.

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

This creature, Verdan, has not attacked yet; merely manifested in your presence.  Its watching you very intensely, giving you moment for something.  If you want to take advantage of this lull, either to attack, or prepare to attack, or communicate with your fellows, or anything else, you may do so still outside of initiative order - but as soon as it perceives threat, correctly or not, were into fight-time!

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag look on in hushed silence.  This kind of magic was beyond anything one of their ilk had seen seen in all the history they knew.

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari looks back to the group quizzically silently asking if any of them knew what was occurring. Not seeing anything Jakk'ari, standing at the head of the group discards his weapons. He looks to the green giant actively listening in an attempt to discern what it could trying to draw attention to.
Active listening (1d20+7)[*27*] from perception and AWE. Adjust the number if a different skill applies.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera doesn't know what she is seeing, though she is filled with something more like awe than dread. Glancing around at her companions, she asks, "Do any of you understand it? Jakk'ari?"

She is not sure what to do at the moment, except kneeling down among the incredibly lush and thick moss, not quite a token of reverence given her ignorance, but most certainly a sign of deferrance and respect.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: {Fluff}Jakk'ari Listens...*
Show

You are equipped with senses beyond those classically recognized by the people of Azeroth; a kind of hearing that extends into the spirit realm where the nascent and sometimes developed intelligences of elementals glide manifested in the spiritual echoes of the world.  Shaman through the various troll tribes come to hear the elemental voices differently: a child of the burning sands, wind and fire were the first to speak to you, with earth not slow to join the chorus, and the voice of water years later, marking your transition from student to journeyman shaman with a pilgrimage to the ocean and a three day and night fast.  A darkspear shaman would typically hear water and wind first, with earth and fire proving elusive; but all strive to hear the voices of the four elements to understand the wisdom of their full concert.  You can even now smell the salt of the sea wind from that day - so unlikely the freshwater of the oases and secret springs of your desert home, so alien and confronting - and the saline burn in your nostrils comes back to you from time to time when the voices of the elements, particularly water, catches you off guard in some way.

Usually, these voices come from individual spirits that correspond to the presense of elements in the real world, as much causing them as caused by them.  The voice of _spark_ and _pebble_ might come to you eagerly when you gaze into a campfire on a dry night; but more exotic voices come sometimes, too.  Voices like _Slag_ and _Flow_ speak for amalgams of fire and earth you once found haunting the cooling remnants of a volcanic eruption, for example; and another time, you spoke with a kind of elemental noble of the air called _Ertan_; who communicated with you in words and concepts as clear and complex as any you have heard from mortal lips.  Sometimes, your mentor once told you, the elemental spirits speak in woven voices; one might become chosen to hear the voice of _Water_ in some grander sense, perhaps of all the water spirits in a particular region, or further still.

But whereas the ability to hear all four core elements instead of a selection therefrom is the difference between a student and a journeyman, it is the ability to hear at least in some small way from the _fifth_ element, the element of Spirit, that separates the journeyman from the master. 
Spirit does almost never presents in _elemental spirits_ like the cardinal elements do - it is clearer to say it is present in all of them, in some way; offering the very principle of life and awareness that differentiates an earth elemental from a lump of stones.  Spirit is born from the realm of Life, and the weaving of that Life with the elemental spirits of the cardinal elements creates a world of thriving forces and teeming, largely harmonious creatures.  That, atleast, is the theory; in practice _Spirit_ as a fifth element is so elusive and so weak that its existence within the pantheon of elements is sometimes doubted completely.  Its stewardship is largely left to different magical specialists - Druids, who approach the question of life from a study of the physical, extrapolating from animal and plant life as it manifests in the world into principles of spiritual reality beyond it.

Spirit, as an element, is something a shaman might hope to hear from a few times in their life.  This is one such time.  You do not know what this creature is saying, in as much as it is _saying_ anything; but your heart strains in your chest with desperation to know and understand, if at all you can; and your allies, awestruck or at least hesitating, do not foul your effort.  You hear _Spirit_ move, like an ethereal wind through the hollows of the looming ligneous beast's body; and the wordless touch of _Spirit_ is like a breif, momentary flash of total understanding, bridging the gap between you, and the alien force hunching before your eyes here in the guts of the earth, in this impossible glade.

This creature is Verdan.  It is an elemental of Life; a kind of guardian spirit who has been devoted to protecting these caverns for... a unit of time you don't entirely understand, but must equate to hundreds of years at least; perhaps thousands.  These are sacred caverns, as the druids certainly knew; the nearness of the Emerald Dream, the loom through which the mystical raw stuff of _life_ passes to grade into living things in Azeroth, being so rare and special in the world; and certainly the source of the oasis' normal thriving state.  Unscrupulous mystics of various kinds have sought to use the caverns for their purposes over time; local potentates sometimes attempting to seize and directly colonize the oasis and not share its bounty with all the dwellers of the barrens beyond.  Verdan, once every few generations, has had to muster force to despatch or drive off such parasites.  Life is not the property of any selection of beings.  Life belongs to life.

But something has happened.  The nearness of another realm - of the strobing, burning, pure possibility of the arcane - is not meant to bleed into the material world like elemental forces are.  Its ideal state is confined, and ordered, and drawn carefully into reality by judicious users.  Here, it is haemorrhaging in from some kind of breach in the cavern beyond this one, and the effect of the mana spilling through is toxic to elemental spirits and mutative to living creatures.  Verdan, connected to all the life in these caverns, has chosen to _soak_ as much of this magical radiation as it can stand, rather than to permit the creatures and plants and fungi within to become truly deviate; but it has reached its capacity.  The mana has poisoned its body; sapped its soul; and with an impaired awareness, it is at least aware that it is losing its mind.

It knows it needs to die, to rejoin Spirit before its essence is completely subsumed and it becomes something else entirely.  But it is also in pain; and the flow of so much raw mana is causing defects in its senses so that it does not know what is illusion or not.  It suspects it has been betrayed, but knows it cannot trust its suspicions, and is near to maddened with this paradox.  The question it seemed to be asking, if it could be hammered into the shape of an intelligible sentence, would have to be something like a sullen, bitter: _'Are you real?'_  But it cannot trust any answer given it; so it it delays its only other instinct - the instinct to attack, as protector of the caverns - not because it can receive a sufficient answer, but because it hates the inevitability of what must follow.

Verdan, you understand immediately, is extremely sick, though not quite dying. He is a Life Elemental who is now so shot through with the cancerous, transmutative energies of raw arcane that he is almost what some might call an Arcane Elemental, and the transmogrification has been extremely punishing.

He cannot be healed of this condition.  He can only be set free.

----------


## Plaids

Isaera's voice draws Jakk'ari out of a sublime trance. This creature Verduran is a marvel a champion of unimpeded growth within nature and a unifying constant amongst all elements. But it is not well teetering on the edge of insanity, something the elements provided refuge by teaching acceptance of the natural world.

Jakk'ari makes eyes contact with and responds to Isaera. The first few words uttered as only hushed croaks attempting to mask his sadness. 
 That is Verduran. The custodial guardian of this place and elemental of spirit. 
It is sickened and doesn't even if we are real. Something here has poisoned it and it could assail us at any moment. 

Jakk'ari breaks eye contact to admire Verduran hoping his reverence will delay the inevitable.
But the mission superseded enlightenment.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

On the outside, Marion was coping relatively well. As well as one would expect of some book-worm aristocrat of her character. She carried herself with poise, maintaining a nice coif of hair, her clothes intact and bearing only the minimal marks of one sifting through the grime and dangers of an underground cave system. But on the inside, Marion had decided something: stuff caves. 

She remembered being the only one who dissented against venturing into this humid, claustrophobic death-trap, and she would continue to remember it until their little troupe broke apart. The rest of her friends, though she valued their companionship dearly, could, in her secret estimation, go and suck and egg for willingly drawing them all down into this fetid, sweaty hell.

"It's touched by the Void," Marion's voice spoke up from the back, matter-of-factly. 

"The madness within this place stems from the Void."

----------


## Plaids

The fell? No, it was its damnable sibling. 
Arcane magic, the force that precipitated the decline of the ancient troll empires and unscrupulous sorcerers opened perilous portals summoning fiends to this day.

The magic sought to control the natural world and never accepted anything not under its own terms.

Jakk'ari croaks a raspy response.
 No, Marion. It's Arcane Magic and it has poisoned this place. The Fell is likely not far behind.  

Jakk'ari's voice begin to bristle with rage.
 Someone has changed this place and Verduran is has taken the abuse.  Jakk'ari points to giant sewn together by vines and roots.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion pursed her lips and blanched. 

Inhaling through her nostrils, holding, then exhaling, the Warlock nodded in acquiesces. 

"Alright. What do I know? I'm only a warlock."

----------


## WindStruck

The pure arcane energy permeating the area was intense. It was more than being at the Sunwell now. Though Isaera's people had adapted more to being showered with mana and arcane energy, even this seemed to be far too much for her.

Even one with an incredibly high tolerance for liquor could still succumb to alcohol poisoning.

"Arcane magic is known for twisting and mutating living creatures. Too much of a good thing is.. a bad thing," she mumbles, beginning to feel herself become more incoherent.

Isaera shakes her head and tries to focus. "We need to find the source and stop it somehow. If that's even possible? Or..."

Or perhaps it would be best to just let it overwhelm this place. Maybe Isaera could lead her people and her family to a lush oasis, filled with ever-changing life and mana, a beacon which overshadowed the Sunwell. She could be heralded as a hero, a philanthropist, delivering her people to a source of mana that wasn't tainted by the fel.

But on the other hand.. Marion felt a demonic presence here? What? Was this phenomenon here caused by the void somehow? Isaera was confused and distant as she daydreamed.

----------


## Feathersnow

Lag pipes up "Yes, this isn't right.  It is for a different time"  

Mor looks perplexed.  Lag had been acting funny lately.

----------


## Plaids

Yes Lag we need to stop the infection then rip and tear apart those responsible! Our work has just begun.  
Jakk'ari's left begins to swivel about looking for incriminating evidence. Perhaps a loose mana crystal or a goblin rocket, something to nail the arsonists responsible.

Jakk'ari then speaks in a hushed voice vainly attempting to console and comfort Verduran.
  Don't worry Verdy Jakk'ari will banish the arcane leak, and everything will be back to what it once was.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Verdan seems to be responding to Jakk'ari's paternal tones and efforts to sooth; stooping down to lower itself to eye level with the troll.  The gleaming blue points of light within the ligneous cavities of its head seem imploring, and wistful...

...And then the mossy ridge serving as a facial brow hardens with resolve; and any trace of warmth and speculative restraint vanishes from its posture.  With a wheezing, inhuman battlecry, it lashes out with limbs of tangled vines to snatch the troll up and hoist him into the air!

*Spoiler: Combat!*
Show

Roll initiative!

Verdan: *Initiative* - (1d20+1)[*9*]

Verdan's surprise action was attacking Jakk'ari (a 14, I think, will just barely hit Jakk'ari's Parry defense; in my Roll Thread for posterity) for a Damage 5 hit; so *Jakk'ari*, you can make me a _toughness_ roll against DC 20.  In addition, Verdan has some grab related talents, which are going to be relevent throughout this fight.

With _Fast Grab_, any time he hits with an unarmed attack, he does his normal damage and may also attempt a grab.  The attack roll (14 in this case) does double duty as the Grab test, which you may oppose with Dodge or Strength, your choice.
With _Improved Hold_, if he successfully grabs you, later efforts to escape the hold take a -5 Circumstance Penalty.
With _Chokehold_, if he successfully grabs you, you also begin to suffocate.

Now, Suffocation is a doozy.  The rules aren't very good with it.  They give you the rules for holding your breath (1 minute plus 2*Stamina rounds; way longer than most fights take, making choking useless as an attack).  At the end of that time you begin to suffocate, which puts you just a few rolls away from blacking out and dying; way too harsh as an attack in combat.  So here's my plan, in the spirit of experimentation:  When you are grabbed into a chokehold in combat, you don't get to draw a lungful of breath unless you were specifically preparing an action to do so.  Instead, you get 1d6+(2*Stamina, minimum 1) rounds of breath.  That means a waif with negative stamina will have between 2 and 7 rounds of dangling before blackout rolls come into play; and against big chonkers with +4 Stamina, looking at 9-15 rounds, the tactic is unlikely to be very effective at all.

Jakk'ari, make me that toughness roll against DC 20; and also a Strength or Dodge roll at DC 14, your choice.  Failing the first is damage as normal; failing the second means you are grabbed, and Verdan is beginning to choke you to death.  And that's how combat begins!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Verdan's massive hands made of matted masses of roots and vines lash out at Jakk'ari.  The troll twists instinctively out of the gripping clench, but the sheer momentum of the blunted attack striking his chest knocks the wind from him and sends him staggering back a couple of steps.

Emilia has been quiet for the encounter - what she sees in the inscribed green lens, in this room of conflicting magics, must be difficult to describe.  But as soon as violence erupts, her focus narrows to a razor edge - not unlike that of the longsword that rings from its sheath.  But the blow cuts through a few vines and thunks into a core of wood within the bulky arm, to her dismay; it will require some effort to get a gage of where this creature's weaknesses lay... if it has any.

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

Emilia misses!  *Marion and Vargheist* are up!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion watched as the troll plied his spiritual magics in an attempt to 'speak' to the plants and compel it to reconsider its path in life. But alas, such efforts were futile. The Void let few things go so easily, the warlock thought to herself.

The hideous plant-thing lurched forward, its thorn-woven hands smashing at Jakk'ari's body as vines within its image attempted to spiral out from their hiding sheaths and entangle the troll in some ghastly death-grip. Thankfully, the shaman managed to wriggle his way out of it!

Taking a step back, her heart starting to beat within her chest, Marion drew her hands up and sent her mind upon the dimensions of the walking foliage her grasp of the Fel. 

By her side, Vargheists sizeable form propelled forward, his large, clawed hands moving in to strike.


ooc:
___________________
Marion is moving back well out of reach. 

She's using Move-by Action to cast *Corruption* on the plant. It's Perception so auto-hits, with a DC 19 toughness check. It has Secondary Effect so it has to take another Toughness check next round. 

Vargheist will move up and attack: (1D20+4)[*9*]  DC 15 if he hits.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jakk'ari staggers back as Emilia and Vargheist press in; neither divine-sponsored nor void-expelled assailant finding purchase with their attacks.  A patch of the vines and roots on the central trunk of plant matter begins to blacken and spread, however; dead plant-flesh corroding in an intricate manner that maps to the movements of Marion's fel digits.  Maddened with magical sickness and delusion, Verdan snatches out with one grasping hand towards Jakk'ari, and one towards Vargheist...

*Spoiler: OOC: Damage Report!*
Show

No hit from Vargheist, but Marion's _Corruption_ does more than just chip the paint - rolling a 1 on his toughness, Verdan's Core takes a 3 degree damage effect - staggered, -1 to Toughness checks, and a further 3 degree hit upgrades to a 4!

Verdan's response is to clobber Jakk'ari and Vargheist.  He hits both handilly, so I'll need another set of rolls: toughness roll against DC 20; and also a Strength or Dodge roll at DC 14.  Vargheist will need to provide the same!

----------


## MrAbdiel

Vargheist is struck, but the blow _thunks_ into the dark violet pseudo-flesh of the voidwalker and the pinprick-glow eyes barely seem to register the contact at all.  The voidwalker jukes back as the tendrils try to grip it, then back in to close the gap again.  Jakk'ari is not so fortunate; Verdan reaches upward with one hand, splays its 'fingers' out into broad, thorny spatula that slams down and brackets the Farraki against the mossy earth.  It then hoists him into the air, well above where the lanky troll's legs can find traction, and in a great convulsion of its viney composition, begins to constrict, crush, and choke the captive shaman.

*Spoiler: OOC Attack Resolutions:*
Show

Just resolving the damage and effects of Verdan's attacks.  To round up:

Verdan's RIGHT ARM is choking Jakk'ari, and has no damage.
Verdan's CORE is _Staggered_ and has a -1 accumulated damage modifier.
Verdan's LEFT ARM is free, and has no damage.

Jakk'ari, having posted his roll in the OOC, misses with his melee attack, and is no longer staggered; but he is at a -2 damage modifier from being clobbered twice.

Mor'Lag, Marion, Isaera and Emilia may act!  I'll do Emilia last and roll it into the same Post as Verdan's attack next turn; but she's likely to attempt to free Jakk'ari!

----------


## WindStruck

Seeing the situation suddenly turn into a mess, and Jakk'ari being clobbered and strangled unprovoked, some anger flares up in Isaera. To match the heat of her emotions, fire begins to coalesce between her hands. She launches the bolt of flames at Verdan's core.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

attack: (1d20+1)[*5*]

for 6 fire damage.  DC 21 if hit, or maybe higher if this mass of plants is vulnerable to fire.

Also, +2 to "any spellcasting".


"Let him go," she says rigidly, despite the fact that it probably didn't understand.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag attempt to wrest the Shaman free.  They might have been more worried about doing this with a member of another race, but the hardiness of the Ur-Race of this plane was the stuff of fables. 

*Spoiler*
Show

(1d20)[*18*] I honestly am not sure what the modifiers even are, but probably a +8?

----------


## MrAbdiel

Isaera's flame bolt lances out and collides with the verdurous bulk of the creature; but in mid flight, the projectivized flame corrodes and reduces as if the dense, ambient mana is flensing the spell's energy.  When it contacts, it produces a scorch and some lingering flicker, but no lasting damage.  But its attention swings in that moment towards Isaera - the old emnity between spark and branch flashing in its eyes - which in turn buys a moment for Mor'Lag to rush forward, meaty fists wrapping around the ankles of the hoisted shaman, and yanking him ferociously from the viney grip in a plume of snapped vine and shed leaves that dumbfounds the elemental, and frees the troll!

*Spoiler: OOC Outcomes!*
Show

Isaera's flamebolt missed - his magic number against ranged attacks is 10, by the way - but Mor'Lag overpowered the grip of Verdan and frees Jakk'ari long before the strangling could become a problem!  Breaking a grab is an athletics or acrobatics check (it's fair to say an Athletics check for an outsider then, too), and the DC is 20... but rolling 18 and adding Mor'Lag's 5 strength, that's enough!

Marion remains to act this around before Verdan strikes again.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Seeing that the front-liners had it in hand, Marion decided to help out a little further. 

Narrowing her eyes and uttering a word of black magic, she willed a curse upon the plant creature...


ooc:

Casting *Corruption* on the Plant Creature again. 

Another DC 19 toughness save, and another one next round.

Meanwhile, Vargheist will take another swing at the plant creature.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Vargheist hunkers in under the blows of the creature and begins raking away at the corroded vines of its core, while the corruption continues its dark work; and Marion's second application of the curse begins withering and desiccating the superficial layer of foliage on its right side.  The injury the initial casting of corruption seems to have inflicted on this creature, a creature of life and green and perhaps the ideal target of such a spell, is immense; the reek of rapidly composted vegetable matter radiates from it, a blackness spreading from its middle; one of the bright blue eyes dimming and stuttering out.

Still, it lashes with both arms, the ligneous weapons distending into snatching cords of vine; one of which buffets but finds no purchase on Vargheist, one of which smashes into Emilia hard enough to disrupt her attack, rattle her body, and hoists her struggling into the air as vines snake around her throat!

*Spoiler: OOC Damage Report!*
Show

Verdan's Core is destroyed!  The left and right sides remain unharmed, but he's down to two actions a turn instead of three!

Vargheist's attack on the core didn't do the trick, but the secondary tick of Corruption did the deed.  Emelia swing, and whiffed.

Verdan whiffed at Vargheist with the left, but the right clobbered Emilia for a 2 degree injury, clocking her with a -1 to future toughness rolls and dazing her for this coming turn!

Big bad has attacked, all PCs may act again!

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag attempt to rip off the right arm of the monster!

*Spoiler:  OoC*
Show


(1d20+5)[*19*]

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari will move out of arms reach of Verduran and attempt to either demoralize the arm grappling Emelia or any other ally or just the healthiest one if no one is grappled.

 You've lost yourself, the only way to honor your duty now is to submit to us. 

(1d20+3)[*16*] Rolling for Intimidation with +3 from presence.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Mor'Lag lays grabbing hands on the huge, twisted arm of the plant hulk; but twisting and straining, cannot yet find enough torsion to snap or break it.  Emilia wheezes as the vines tighten around her neck, her plated legs kicking madly at the elemental... though it staggers a little in its ruthless strangling, turning its one good eye back to Jakk'ari for a moment, afflicted with a debilitating moment of clarity.

*Spoiler: OOC Actions Resolutions!*
Show

Mor'Lag hit, but Verdan soaked it!  Still no damage on the Right or Left, with the middle out for the count.  But Jakk'ari manages to demoralize the right - we'll interpret that as a more generalized demoralization, which hinders Verdan partially - specifically, by _impairing_ one of his actions.

----------


## WindStruck

With one part of this elemental already withered away, and another part of it now trying to choke Emilia, Isaera turns her attention to the other "arm" that is not swarmed by bodies, hoping to get a clear shot and immolate it in flames.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

attack roll: (1d20+1)[*6*]

same as before!

for 6 fire damage. DC 21 if hit, or maybe higher if this mass of plants is vulnerable to fire.

Also, +2 to "any spellcasting".

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Seeing the plant thing stumbling and erring, Marion kept her distance and drew her hands up in a soft incantation. It only took half a second, but upon completion a streak of flame speared out from her hands and streaked towards the corrupted plant. 



ooc:

*Marion: Shadow and Fire:* (1D20+4)[*10*]
*Variable:* Fire, Homing 1.


*Varghest: Attacks the Plant Man again:* (1D20+4)[*14*]

----------


## MrAbdiel

Marion's corrupting magics spend themselves killing sheets of sloughing foliage from Verdan's bulk, but neither these injuries not the skimming miss of the shadowy flame slows it down.  With the bolt circling back as its energies trickle away, Emilia sees her moment and kicks hard with both feet against the creature; and its grip slackened by distraction and by Jakk'ari's indicting rebuke, she tears free, bounds gasping to her feet, and scoops up her sword.

Isaera's flame coalesces between her palms, transmuted from ambient magic in almost thoughtless perfection; but something goes wrong.  The magical flame snaps into being larger and more intense than it ought to be, feeding off the environmental magic flow; and a reflexive effort to similarly overcharge the containment element of the spell is all that prevents the flames from bursting in the elven sorceress's face.  When the overcharged bolt is loosed from her hands, it spirals out of its intended trajectory and bursts in the air behind in a bloom of unstable spellfire - but Isaera has had to draw instinctively on the mana-reserve within herself to turn a disaster into a miss.  The fatigue of mana deprivation washes in like an unwelcome tide, numbed slightly by the magic in the air, but not immediately relieved.

The lambent blue eye of the creature turns, now; past the creatures nearest to it who are striking and breaking its grip, to the one who has introduced decay into is sacred realm.  With a sound like a lion's roar muddied by crackling groan of an ancient bough snapping, Verdan barrels forward, barging past the swipes of Mor'Lag, Varghast, Jakk'ari and Emilia to whip both arms of snaking vines out at the Fel-gifted noblewoman...

*Spoiler: OOC Damage Report!*
Show

Isaera, you miss, and I'm also triggering your Mana Addiction complication, under the pretext that containing this particular miscast has forced Isaera to drain her personal mana reserve, which will leave Isaera _Disabled_ and _Staggered_ for this turn.  Fortunately, IIRC, you planned for such a scenario with chemical contingencies, if you want to access them.  Either way, gain a VP.

Marion's attack misses, Homing attack pending for next round, and Verdan soaks the secondary on the corruption.  Varghast hits, but Verdan soaks!

Emilia, however, manages to break the grapple of the demoralized arm!

VERDAN'S TURN:  He charges past all the folks in melee and attacks Marion TWICE.  Just as well for him, because the first misses on a 13, but second hits on a 24.  That'll be some rolls from you, Marion: the Alteraci needs to give us a *Toughness Roll vs DC 20* against the damage, and a *Strength or Dodge roll at DC 14* against the Fast grab.

*Varghast, Jakk'ari and Mor'Lag* can all make free melee attacks on him as he moves away from them. 
 Emilia did: she hit, but got soaked.

With that, it's the HERO'S TURN again!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marions eyes widen as the corrupted plant monster bursts past the wall of bodies and goes straight for her. 

Her lips parting slightly as she steps back as that grotesque monstrosity bears down upon her, her loyal demon saves the day...


ooc:

Vargheist will use *Interpose* and take the hits for her.

Vargheist Toughness; (1D20+8)[*11*]

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor takes an attack of opportunity that Lag follows up on!  The twins are in sync, like dancers they twist in a violent display of brutality!

*Spoiler: rolls*
Show


(1d20+8)[*15*] attack reduced by power attack
(1d20+8)[*19*] attack reduced by power attack

----------


## MrAbdiel

Mor's might fist grabs a handful of bark and bramble and tears it free from Verdan's bulk, revealing the sparking wisps of blue light angrilly sustaining the composite of the being within, in a shape and location roughly corresponding to a human _humerus._  Varghast roils like black smoke to throw itself in the path of the attack striking towards Marion.  Thorny tendrils penetrate into the void walker's flank, and it releases an echoing moan that seems to suggest its suffering is partially sourced in some other place - somewhere deep, and acoustically agoraphobic.  The life elemental hauls the near-weightless void creature off the ground; the lack of breath in it to choke out seeming not to deter its efforts in the slightest.

*Spoiler: OOC Damage Report!*
Show

Mor'Lag wonks the Right Side, inflicting a -1 penalty to future damage soaks and incrementing it towards destruction.
Varghast doesn't score a hit on his opportunity attack, but does save Marion some suffering by throwing himself into the path of the attack.  He takes a -1 ongoing wound penalty, is dazed until the end of his next turn, and is grabbed.

Jakk'ari, Isaera and Marion still to act.  Varghast can struggle against the grab, if he wants - but as a specialized pocket tank, he's rolling a flat d20 vs DC 20.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is caught off guard as the flame surges within her hands, threatening to engulf her and the entire place in flames.  Perhaps not a bad way to kill off Verdan, but certainly bad for everyone else too.  Using all her inner resources and discipline to try to contain the blaze, Isaera finds herself quite weakened and disoriented. But still, even though she somehow managed to exhaust herself in a matter of seconds, all the mana suffused in the environment was quickly flooding back into her.

More carefully this time, Isaera conjures up some flames, using only a minimal amount of mana, but it quickly grows despite this, and she hurls it at Verdan's left arm.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Let me just make a roll first to see what other train wreck I get to RP with.

(1d20+1)[*17*]

----------


## Plaids

Upon seeing the glistening flesh exposed by Mor'Lag Jakk'ari joins Emelia in an attempt to strike wounded elemental. Seizing a an oblong sheet of rock he charges at Verdan hoping to free the wild guardian.
 The heart is exposed; liberate the protector! 

*Spoiler: Results*
Show

 I rolled a 5 in the OOC chat. So Jakk'ari probably is not hitting.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Emelia and Jakk'ari launch in together; the troll with a spar of rock, the crusader with her flashing sword; but Verdan drops his shoulder and both weapons thunk into the layered, twisted rootwork that forms his hardened torso - scarred by Isaera's flames and Mor'Lag's blow, but resilient still.

*Spoiler: Damage Report!*
Show

Jakk'ari misses, Emilia Crits - but Verdan rolls a 25 and beats even her crit's 24 DC.  Oof!  Marion and Varghast to go this round, including the repeat attack on the missed attack from last round.  Then it's Verdan's turn again.  With one of the three portions broken, and a second injured, your party is well on its way to victory, having only taken damage to the tank-demon and the regenerating shaman!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion takes several big steps backwards, moving with surprising gusto to place as much distance between herself and the violent plant-creature. 

Once a sufficient "safe" distance had been reached, Marion turned back around, focused on the corrupted element and uttered another word of dark power.

Vargheist, meanwhile, moved up behind the thing and struck at it while the others struggled.

ooc:

Marion is *Moving* her max movement distance in a single move action.

Second *Shadow and Fire* Roll to Hit from Homing: (1D20+4)[*22*], oh nice. That's *DC 21* toughness save, because her Shadow and Fire also has *Multiattack* for +2 damage with a degree of success, and if she beat the Elementals Toughness by 5 or more, that's *DC 24*.

*Casting: Corruption* - Take a DC 19 Toughness Check.

Vargheist is moving to the elemental and then Attacking it: (1D20+4)[*14*]

----------


## MrAbdiel

The bolt of black flame circles around and slams into Verdan's back with a resounding blast; but the strange magical air of this place has depleted the bolt. Perhaps some of its fel construction has been warped into raw arcane, in its flight; but whatever the reason, the detonation does not seem to shake the elemental, though the corruption taking hold and blackening more of the fibre of the depleted arm does.  As Marrion retreats, Verdan takes a couple of loping, pursuing steps and snaps out with its right arm.  The viney mass of thorns and briars distends and seems almost to grow at a speed accomodating a projectilization of its natural threat, and soon the coils are trying to snake around the limbs of the warlock to shred her body and arrest her flight.

Varghast, unable to fulfill its primary function where it is grabbed and held in Verdan's other grip, writhes and emits a furious, psychically pained squeal; the punishing magics of its bindings demanding it force itself harder to protect its summoner.  In this growing distress, it squirms and thrashes, tearing out chunks of ligneous bicep.  In response, the plant creature hoists the voidwalker up in the air and slams it back to the ground, its vines spidering out on the earth below and morphing into roots to grow and pin the voidwalker to the tainted moss, and stone.

*Spoiler: Damage Report!*
Show

Marion's Shadow and Flame hits, but Verdan rolls great and soaks the DC24 hit.  Not so great for Varghast's attack or the corruption, though - the left arm is now at -4, and is considerably easier to damage.

Verdan attacks.  His left arm attacks Varghast with a power-attack - little buddy needs to make a Toughness check against a crunchy DC 22.  Since he's already damaged, He's at a +7 toughness roll these days I believe, and a DC 15 Strength check against the grab upgrading to a comprehensive pin.

Likewise, Verdan lashes out and attacks Marion.  He has a great deal of reach on his attack, so her backpedalling won't save her just now.  Also, I guess I hallucinated that this edition had something like Attacks of Opportunity in it.  It doesn't, but we'll keep the effects that the players earned with those attacks!

Anyway, Verdan hits Marion with his attack.  So she's looking at a DC20 save against the Damage of the attack, and a DC 15 Dodge or Strength check to avoid being grabbed and choked!



With that, it's the player's go again.  Marion might be imperilled by the right grip; but the left grip is substantially weakened and with any luck will perish with another couple of good hits.  Emilia, for her part, is frustrated by the toughness of the creature - she's looking to coordinate blows with anyone and everyone who is willing to try!

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag are torn.  They should free the Warlock!  But simply pulling on her would not be safe.  And the other hand is nearly crippled.  
Lag shouts "Altruist, on the signal!"  
Mor continues "we smash the free hand!"

The Twins read to stun the other hand for a follow-up from the paladin.  Hopefully their leader will forgive her crisis being ignored.

(1d20+6)[*25*]

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is not sure what to do (well, fire bolt, obviously!) but either way it boiled down to a 50/50 choice.  Right "hand" or left "hand"?

On one hand, it might be prudent to attack the cluster of vines that was currently smashing into and attempting to strangle Marion. But on the other hand, after the whole debacle with the centaurs, the paranoia, and pointing fingers, it was oddly satisfying to see her comeuppance. But really, Isaera rationalized, the other limb was just as much of a threat and currently weakened. And Marion would most likely be fine. Probably.

So, much like before, Isaera begins to channel some of the readily-available mana, sculpting it into flames, and launches her fire bolt at the weakened arm.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

pew!:  (1d20+1)[*17*]

DC 21

Not sure if I'm still debilitated, or if the +2 bonus to all magic still applies...

*Also,* isn't this elemental comprised of vines and stuff vulnerable to fire?

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Come down into the dank, dark cave, they said. It'll be no sweat, it'll be easy, they said.

We'll gather all around the enemy so that you can't hit him with your most devastating spells, they said. 

Right now they could be on the open plains, not being molested and attacked by corrupted fel-plant creatures. 

Marion thought this as the grasping vines of the elemental squeezed against her lithe frame, eliciting a grimace from the warlock as blood was drawn from the various places across her frame, while Vargheist copped another nasty blow. 

She didn't mind so much for him. Sure he could feel pain. But if he 'died' he'd just go back to where he came from and she'd summon him back again, good as new, right as rain. The same couldn't be said for her. 

Thankfully for Marion, however, the Demon Armor was already stitching back together the tears on her skin...

----------


## Plaids

Jakk'ari
Jakk'ari observes Verdan swat away the void elemental and then envelope Marion. This expedition seemed to be one cruel joke after another. An opportunity to leave the humid port city was now being spent fighting to avoid drowning and asphyxiation. A chance for the young cadre of companions to learn something about wilderness survival was pushing them to their limits. The once in a lifetime opportunity for achieving spiritual enlightenment was now being spent obliterating its herald. This couldn't become any worse.

Jakk'ari grabs a stalactite dislodged during the conflict and strikes alongside Emelia targeting the arm burying Marion. No one would be departing before their time today.
*Spoiler: Actions*
Show

 Rolling for a team attack to help Emelia attack the arm grabbing Marion.
(1d20+1)[*21*] Didn't expect the nat 20. Hopefully Emelia rolls well too.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: OOC Rolls*
Show

Just a reminder that the thread I'm using for rolls personally for this game (and some others sometimes) is here.  I felt like restating that because I rolled total insanity here; a nat 20 for Emilia's assist with Mor'Lag which pumped up the arm's toughness save DC to a monumental DC 29.  And then I rolled a nat 20 on that save, so he soaked it.  And then he rolled a nat 20 on the save vs corruption's ongoing effect.  But he DID roll a 2 for the other arm's save which, comboing Emilia's assist on Jakk'ari's crit, and penalizing Verdan's toughness by 2 for being on fire due to Isaera's relentless application of it, caused the HEALTHY arm to fail that save by 4 degrees.  Madness.


Emilia doesn't like being called _altruist_, particularly.  It feels like a minimization of the Light's philosophy.  But what she likes less than that is the weeny little _dink, dink_ noise her sword has been making on this monstrosity; and so when the ogress calls the ball, Emilia is there to aid.  Mor's fist hammers into the tormented left arm as its vines crush and press Varghast; the blow impacts the ligneous limb, forces its structure taut, and with a howl of desperate effort, Emilia drives her sword through the taut arm and into the earth below.

And Verdan reacts with casually mounting displeasure.  Vines bunch like the fibres of muscles to strain against the pinning sword, and would likely have succeeded in pulling free; but an elegantly corkscrewing blast of fire weaves between human and ogress, slaps into Verdan's shoulder, and ignites him with a splash of flame so fat and mana-drunk it seems almost to drape over the elemental like a liquid blaze.  It wheezes in pain (or something like it), fire flashing through hollows in its eyes where the burn is searing through the structure of it; and the initiate paladin is forced to release her weapon where it stands and stagger back to avoid the heat.  From her periphery she catches Jakk'ari's approach with the stalactite, and a flash of communication and insight between shaman and paladin permits an instinctive manoeuvre.  She crouches and laces her fingers together, catches one of the Farraki's big two-toed feet in the cradle of her grip, and heaves him upward.  The launch gives the troll an impressive burst of altitude to complement the swing, and Verdan's mad, pained, desperate gaze is drawn upward to the shape; backlit by the mana-fused blue phosphorescence of the cavern, grading rapidly to orange as he nears the firelight crawling over the elemental's shoulders.

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari*
Show

You feel the key shudder briefly in your pocket.


Inexplicably, as he strikes, the bulky stone spike is transformed.  The majority of its weight is suddenly shattered into particles of sand that blow back over his shoulder, while the minority that is left forms the clear form of a sword too narrow and sharp to ever be born of hammer and chisel.  With the force of the drop-cut into the shoulder where the flames have now crawled, the stone-blade shears clear through the mass of roots and vines and elemental composite, follows through, and smashes when its edge touches the mossy ground, leaving the shaman with a handful of sand.

The severed matter convulses once, but then slackens and releases the stricken warlock.  The remaining arm strives to hold on to Varghast, but the demon has outlasted its opponent and pulls simply free of the weakening brambles as the whole battered, rotted, burned, cloven and impaled elemental form crashes to its knees, and sags forward; fire and rot slowly claiming it as its strength and will give out; smoke rising up and pooling amidst the ceiling's stony teeth.

It can offer no more resistance, now; it remains where the sword pins it, laid low, waiting in agony for release.

*Spoiler: Damage Report!*
Show

Isaera hits the injured arm.  It fails by two degrees, crippling it further.  Even with the +2 ranks for arcane magic in the mana-miasma and a +1 rank I gave it for being fire, the arm manages not to die.
Emilia crits on her combo with Mor'Lag.  Mor'Lag hits with enough degrees to contribute +5 ranks to the effective damage roll of the attack, with +5 ranks for being a crit, making the DC 29.  Verdan somehow rolls a natural 20 and just soaks it up; but I rewarded the combo with some flavor-success.

Similarly, I was moved by Windstruck's suggestion that fire might be super-effective here; and given that verdan has copped a lot of Firebolts and Shadow-And-Flame's, I figure he's dry enough that he's catching, and taking a -2 toughness penalty to all his portions as the flame spreads.

Emilia (I decided) uses her VP to extra-effort and combo-attacks with Jakk'ari, this time on the healthy arm that is mauling Marion.  Jakk'ari crits.  I decide the improvised mace is a +2 damage rank weapon; so with +2 from the weapon, +2 from the assist, and +5 from the crit, Jakk'ari nails the arm for a DC 24 hit.  Verdan rolls a 2; which with his penalized _flambe_ toughness of 6, means he gets an 8, failing the check by a total of 4 degrees and 'dying'; and so I flavoured the attack accordingly.

Strictly speaking, Verdan is still alive; but he's so badly mangled now that the fight is over.  You can let him burn, or someone could offer a mercy-blow.  Or a spite-blow, if they are so inclined.  A fine victory!

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera sighs with some relief. The monstrosity- no.. not the right word..  the former guardian (?) had fallen, rotting, burning, crumpling a part.

"I'll take care of it," Isaera says, looking down at Verdan with just a little pity.  The elfess conjures up a steady stream of flames, not with quite the initial burst force and flash heat of a fire bolt, but as the flames constantly wreath over the elemental, they quickly smolder and eventually combust.

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

Quick, help me dig her out!

Jakk'ari jumps onto the felled arm of Verdan to frantically peel away the vines encasing Marion. The scratches and cuts on her face and clothes cause Jakk'ari to paw at a muddy patch of ground and unfasten his pouch of herbs but he pauses. The cuts on Marion's face recede and fade leaving only dollops of crimson blood blemishing her face. The girl was more resilient than her etiquette would suggest. Jakk'ari compliments Marion and the rest of the party in a wavering voice hoping their spirits hadn't been diminished while trying to control his own. 


You look no worse for wear Marion. All you need now is some tusks and you could pass yourself as a bona fide troll. Your magic saved us all a lot of trouble.

You all did well and fought bravely. Please give me some time to finish this.
 

Jakk'ari begins assessing the knotted masses of Verdan wondering how to end the guardian's misery quickly and most reverently. Any less would belittle the guardian's effort to safeguard the land.

 We have to end the guardian's suffering quickly. But a fire will choke us with smoke and a knife would be extended agony. Do any of you know a merciful release?

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion emerged from the tangle of thorns and vines looking...fine. Unusually. Some scarlet droplets remained on her skin, so the barrier had been punctured at some point, but her Demon Armor had mended any wounds she might have endured and restored her to normal. 

Standing, the vines falling about her unblemished form, Marion looked like some daughter born from a void-touched chrysalis. 

"Thank you, Jakk'ari," Marion responded to the trolls compliment. 

"But sadly I know of no 'merciful' magics..."

----------


## MrAbdiel

Jakk'ari speculates with haste about the most honorable way to end Verdan's suffering; something that recognizes the nobility of the guardian who has while expunging the calamity of what is.  Marion's magics, as she admits, are not gentle. They twist and break, at a biological level or a spiritual one.  Emilia glances to Mor'Lag - both, at their cores, martial creatures for whom a swift physical execution is achievable, and preferable to protracted suffering.

It is Isaera, interestingly enough, who possesses the right mastery for the task.  Verdan's elemental soul craves return to the elements, and through them, into the warmth of life, of _Life_, which is mother to it.  The arcane infection within it has other directing forces; pulsing with a cosmic impetus towards complication and design which can be so easily mistaken for intelligence, it wants to complete Verdan's transformation into a new, different, fundamentally arcane and therefore _non-natural_ thing.

The flame, coaxed into life by the subtle arcane gestures of the elf's left hand, ripple and grow over Verdan's slouching form.  The dry, corrupted plant-flesh burns up first and quickly; but the rest of the body of vine, and thorn, and oaken bone goes up too - elements of the guardian's corpus withering away into mundane ash, and scintillating purple smoke.  The ash pools on the scorched mossy ground; some day, to be reclaimed by the life here and integrated into latter generations of teeming plant life.  But the smoke, rioting and oscillating with trapped arcane energy, is drawn in a contracting spiral towards entirely different conjuration gestures in Isaera's right hand.  There, they collapse into a point on her palm; the arcane taint invisibly rushing to replenish the burned reservoir of power inherent in elvish souls.  

In this way, Verdan dies with a final crackling, bonfire wheeze.  The elemental's corpus collapses into powdery ash.  Its spirit is loosed to fly, in a space and direction only Jakk'ari can witness, out and beyond this twisted place.  And the arcane energy, parasitically corrupting both, is stripped out in the process of immolation and neutralized within the elf herself.  Once it's over, all that remains of the sparking smoke is an inert black sphere of charcoal within the mage's palm.


The guardian defeated, and committed to rest in the most dignified fashion available under the circumstances.  At the far end of the room's verdant run, a lopsided natural archway of stone beckons the seekers onward, with a hazy indigo glow beyond.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

It only took a minute or so until Marion was ready to go again, like an evil energiser bunny. 

The warlock looked up to her pet, the demon drawing in the thick shadows of the subterranean cave around them to replenish his form. 

"Thank you for your service, Vargheist," Marion spoke gently, as if addressing a valued servant.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The Voidwalker grumbles ambiguously.  Slaved to the binding, the void-creature has no alternative but to serve his mistress's interests with all his might.  But he does have the power to grumble instead of graciously accept thanks, and this he exercises now.

A short walk to the end of the verdant canyon leads to another bending passage hooking around to the left and descending a little more... and there, finally, they reach the terminus of this arm of the Wailing Caverns; and within, the source of much of its woes.

Remnants of plant life, and the mana-blasted, blue-crystal bones of deep earth vermin are scattered about on the floor amidst dust that strobes blue with arcane investiture.  Capitally, the centre of the chamber features a geological oddity: a great, eight meter long split in the stone floor, cracked in a jagged line and then pushed up by some escaping force like the gasping stone lips of Azeroth herself.  The stone, where it pushes up, first angles from the floor like a normal tectonic rupture, but at the edges of the crack the stone takes on a blue glassing aspect and a smoother, backward curl.  And out of the crack, having blasted up the stone itself and twisted the buckling slab in its escape, comes a flashing, convulsing jet of raw mana; blazing out wildly like the cutting flame of a tinker's torch, licking and spasming at the air for a meter around.  That _fiery_ aspect is superficial; it does not burn, not emit heat; but merely dances in that infernal semblance as magical energy bleeds from the crevice and permeates the chamber. The walls; the stone floor; the buzzing air; the blue-hazed light; presumably also, the strangely altered life forms and the mana-tainted waters, too.

Shamans, warlocks, and magi skilled and freshly minted are able to understand immediately what they are looking at.  This is a _leyline_, a subterranean, semi-physical conduit of magical power that runs beneath the surface of Azeroth as veins under the skin of a mortal.  Magic safely permeates out of the leylines into the world, replenishing that which is burned away in the use of magic users and creatures.  Its nearness to the surface lends power to certain places in the world; and intersections of leylines are useful for powerful workings of magic.  They are the unseen magical pathways that make portal magic possible; and the maintenance of which has become the duty of the Kirin Tor, whose uses most often stress them.

But _this_ should not be happening.  Something - some mystical driver - has forced this leyline _up_, both up directionally from the deep places of the world and up conceptually from the unformed places where mana comes from; and the result is this arcane rupture and its poisoning effect on the caverns.  There are no druids here; no sign that they made it past Verdan, who must have personally absorbed a tremendous amount of this radiating magical energy.  Just the breach in the world, and the ongoing torrent of its power.

"What is it?" Emilia asks, slightly awestruck, deeply suspicious.  "It's like it's... bleeding.  Did the druids do this?  Did they... mean to?"

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

That must be the source of the disruption to this place. With the guardian gone and the flow no longer stymied the mutations will only escalate.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag look on, but it is clear their minor degree of education and pitiful beginning on learning the secrets of the Arcane aren't going to help here.

----------


## WindStruck

"Everyone, you need to get back. This radiation is dangerous."

Isaera performs an incantation, granting her immunity to all this arcane radiation.

"I can temporarily seal this.. fissure - this gash in the leyline. But it will take some time. You all need to go back the other way, see what you can do to help those druids and what you can learn from them. This is a serious problem, one that only the Kirin Tor can resolve."

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

Jakk'ari twitches indecisively swiveling his head between Isaera and the rift and the rest of the party. Like a bird eying an approaching snake and having to choose between the safe choice and the virtuous choice.

Arcane magic is fickle, volatile, and faithless. The force permeated what it wished while possessing no representatives and nobody tangible. Those representatives made shamanism and druidism the foremost in cultivating wisdom and providing solutions. Elementals and treants could be talked to and bargained with and even the most deceitful ones could be trusted to act in their best interests. But the arcane had no representatives or doctrines and creeds. There were only its wielders and practitioners.

Jakk'ari turns to address Isaera to offer hope.
 I don't trust this arcane energy that surrounds us. But I trust you to what is right. Your skill and judgement are important here and are not in doubt. We will head towards the druids.  

*Spoiler: OOC Map request*
Show

 Is the rift in a dead end? I would like to know if the group can only go backtrack or go down a different path.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Isaera remains behind, arcane radiation sparking and crackling off a roughly globular field around her while she uses her heel to trace the beginnings of a ritual circle around the fissure.  But lingering long enough to witness this began to yield bad outcomes. Marion, whose interest was most pronounced, begins to feature a rapidly intensifying redness of her exposed skin, as if exposed in that minute to a day's angry sunlight; and the thought of what many minutes exposed just so could do is enough to encourage full egress.

*Spoiler: The Wizardless Party*
Show

The map you discovered suggested the secondary exit from this fissure cavern folds back around to the main chamber.  Staying dry and in control beats the hot and soggy alternative, so you chance the secondary tunnel.  It pays off: it's narrower, sometimes single file and particularly uncomfortable for Mor'Lag; but after just an hour or so of walking compared to the two and a half of slogging upstream, you thread through an iris in the ceiling of the main cavern, across the dividing chasm and concealed in a patch of stalactites.  Isaera's _Featherfall_ would have been especially useful here; but you make do with ropes, and care, and slow work.  But as you're packing up the ropes and preparing for the sloped climb down the jagged rocks into the water once more, predicting this time to follow the current west, your next obstacle makes itself known.

Down in the chasm, its kodo-wide bulk battered by the river but unmoved, the enormous deviate tortoise peers up at you with distrust.  It seems in the time you spent going east and coming back, it has completed its journey up the river and now squats, implicitly contankerous, in the way you need to go if you are to proceed to where the Eye of Kilrogg showed the Night Elves to be gathered.  It does not look especially fast; just big, and tough, and disagreeable; but you are forced to wonder if you get past it, it might just turn and pursue you, making havoc for you on your river descent.  Or else it might, perhaps, pose trouble for Isaera when she inevitably makes her path back this way.

You will either need a solution to its ponderous hostility... or else, to be comfortable with the ongoing threat it suggests.

*Spoiler: Unrelated Perception Check: DC 30*
Show

It almost escapes your notice, but you're pretty sure there's something amiss here; different to the way you left it.  It's a footprint - just one, or half of one, where some careful mover has permitted one edge of a boot to crease the dust here, while elsewhere carefully stepping only where they will leave no mark.  This print has less condensation settling in it than the others - meaning they entered this chamber after you first departed it to head east to Verdan's chamber.  But where are they now?



*Spoiler: The Wizard*
Show

Containing this magic, turning it back to seal itself, will require care and creativity, but mostly discipline; and you have all those things.  You know a formalized traditional spell structure won't work - you're not drawing in the magic from elsewhere. 
 It's already just... sort of, _here_; which is the problem.  But magic is potential; it is, as your father once said, _the soul of a thing unspecified, for which a potent mage must provide specification_.

Three steps, then.  _Contain.  Harness.  Specify._

First, containment.  Now that your companions have left the room, you're free to experiment a little without fear of harming them.  With a curl of your wrist, the slow forward thrust of you other palm, and the backwards incantation of the spell you used to ward yourself, you break the sphere of protection on yourself; splitting it at a point behind you, warping it forward into an expanding hemisphere; then a mild concave, before folding it over forward onto the breach in the ley-line.  Immediately, the field that was sparking and glowing protecting you is an incandescently bright dome of straining blue power, on the fissure itself.  You feel the violence enacted against your spell being translated into physical pain within your body; a mild throbbing sting in your arms, and a more significant one when you flow the support of the dome entirely to the gestures of one hand.

You have achieved _containment_.  Now to _harness_ enough of that contained energy into an obedient medium: to turn raw _magic_ into what is strictly considered _mana_.

*Spoiler: Expressive Action*
Show

You crushed the roll, so Isaera isn't stumbling and accidentally summoning an arcane elemental she has to fight, or anything.  But I'm interested as to what it might look like for Isaera to cast an arcane ritual.  You can be as brief or as wordy as you want, but it'd be a good opportunity to decide/display what her magic looks like when she's not fighting for her life.  Is most of her casting about the motions of her body, and those somatic elements?  Does she loudly and carefully enunciate in Thalassian, in a booming, unnatural contralto?

As far as the scene goes, all I'm really asking is that you give me a description of how we get from 'dome full of chaotic blue light' to 'dome full of calm and responsive light'.  But you can decide how phantasmagorical or coldly procedural the process is to get there.

----------


## Plaids

Perception Check(1d20+7)[*13*]

Jakk'ari nervously sizes up the worrisome turtle giving an ornery stare. It didn't look friendly and the caverns likely corrupted this beast to some extent 
Ooh, looks like we can't reason with this one. This would be simpler if one of us had devoted themselves to the loa. But predator can't be allowed to travel upstream towards Isaera. Perhaps the abandoned cages can be repurposed to block its passage?

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: The Mageless Party*
Show

After some negotiation on the best way to overcome the the chelonian obstacle, the group settles in an initial approach of patience.  The creature is big and agitated, but it's also a giant tortoise - not known for their radical sensory powers, and presently wading through the rush of a fast stream.  Simply pulling back behind the lip of the cliff breaks line of sight to the beast.  It continues offering challenging hiss-grunts, out of sight, for many minutes.  Emilia is hardest hit - in an effort to offer no noise at all that might give the creature pause, she is forced to sit very still in her armor; an operation that is very much not in her nature.  After some twenty minutes of feigning absence, the hissing and grunting stops; and plodding and splashing proceeds for another ten.  Ten after that, and it's gone entirely; the grumpy reptile, presumably, making his way up the stream east, beyond the boundaries of sight and sound.  With that, the party is free to descend and follow the river's flow upsteam to the west.

The climb is a little bumping; the cliff is inconsistent enough that a rope-descent isn't practical, but the hand-over-hand effort discovers loose rocks and slippery toeholds.  Emilia takes a tumble with a scuffling _bang_ onto her back at the end of the climb - peering skyward and inwardly reflecting how her armor has been less than helpful this adventure in general - but this is the second decent of this cliff the party has made, and the moves are generally well executed.  Tripping _downstream_ is certainly faster than tripping _upstream_; the effort is not sheltering against the push of the water, but preventing it from whisking the group along too fast and too far, into threatening stalactites and the stony walls.  But having an anchoring bulk like Mor'Lag in the party remains valuable against such conditions.  It's another hour of stop-starting, drifting in gentle runs and shuffling forward at Mor'Lag's careful, sure-stepping pace at worse corners and flumes.  Finally, they come to the bank where the stream drains away into holes in the stone, none broad enough to threaten subduction, and the coalition of human, ogre, and troll can totter back onto solid ground.

Thanks to the Eye of Kilrogg's illicit existence and nifty spy capability, it is known that the tunnel exit from this room curls up and around to a room of natural stone pillars, a carpet of shaggy grey moss... and a writhing wealth of pale white snakes sluicing through it.  Beyond _that_ room is the chamber where the elves were seen - how to traverse the distance, then, becomes the next concern.

*Spoiler: OOC: Next Obstacle!*
Show

I tried to think of a reason "just waiting quietly and letting it go" wouldn't work against tortoise-bro, and I failed.  You win this round, players-who-aren't-murder-hobos.

We did some obstacle rolls and not-getting-wrecked in the steam rolls previously that I had to scrub because I assumed we were going a different way; but now that the turtle's not going to jump you halfway, it's a little less important if you have a bruise or two going down the river.  Serious injuries are within Jakk'ari's power to heal, too, now that the primary time pressure, the broken ley-line, is theoretically dealt with; so you may feel free to get as many scrapes or lungsful of water as you like proceeding to the present juncture.

You are a room full of snakes away from the room where the eye of Kilrogg saw the elves in their snooze-pile.  The serpents seemed aggressive to the Eye's passage - it may be worth considering how to traverse this room, now that you have advanced warning.



*Spoiler: The Partyless Mage*
Show

As you continues to cage the restless forces pouring out of the ley-line...

*Spoiler: Perception Check DC 13: Fail*
Show

... You start, nearly dropping a stitch of the spell you're weaving as something moves behind you, near the entrance of the cavern.  But after a moment's reflection, you're quite sure it's just the dance of shadow blowing off the magical operation you're performing.  As someone who grew up in a big family, whose family only grew closer as it became smaller, being alone in such an alien place plays on the nerves.

That's probably it.


*Spoiler: Perception Check DC 13: Success*
Show

...You resist the impulse to flinch as a shadow moves behind in your peripheral vision - one you're quite sure hasn't been cast by your spell-flare against you or the protrustions of stone in the room.  Someone, or something, dipped breifly into the room and out again; and either lingers in the threshold of the tunnel leading back to Verdan's demise, or has fled back that way after seeing you.  You're positive.

----------


## WindStruck

Though Isaera is almost certain that she sees something in her periphery, she can't just stop now. Okay. Well. She actually could. But she really doesn't feel as though she _should_.

The best idea Isaera can come up with is orienting herself so that she faces the exit that was once behind her. That way, should anyone come around to enter the room or peek at her again, she should easily see it.

As for the ritual she weaves, it's rather unorthodox. Normally, a standard ritual involves setting up a magic circle. You have to slowly draw in power through that circle. The circle helps contain that power. And usually other glyphs you add to the circle help ensure the mana being drawn in can correctly be applied in the nuanced way it was intended.

However, the situation Isaera found herself in now felt quite the opposite. There was an overwhelming amount of energy _already present_ and contained within what was effectively a circle already. So perhaps.. perhaps all Isaera needed to do was add in a glyph of her own, and then concentrate on that.

Thinking on the situation more, making a 'glyph' seemed to be the problem here. Isaera was, for lack of better terms, lacking in tools and possessions. Still, there were some rocks lying around in this cave. Picking up a fairly decent flat one, no bigger than her palm, she found another rock with a somewhat sharp point and began to etch a rune into it.

As Isaera understood it, like in a standard ritual circle, the glyphs help direct how the mana is used, how its effects are manifested. So, this rune... it would take that mana and turn it into a stone. But not just any stone: stone which also bore the same sigil. And so that stone would also take in mana and create more stone just like it. Theoretically, the cycle would continue indefinitely. For a brief moment Isaera was worried that it might produce catastrophic results, like create an ever-growing mountain, however, she reasoned that the worst this could do was take up space until it filled up all void in the physical realm. The stone could not, for instance, traverse into the realm of pure arcane energy.

After scratching and scratching her rudimentary glyph into stone with stone, and keeping an eye on the door, the only thing left for Isaera to do is drop the stone into the field of energy. It wasn't magical at all, so it passed right through the barrier. However, in addition to keeping the barrier up, Isaera then had to also attempt to concentrate on the glyph. The results were almost immediate.

With just a tiny amount of concentration, stone began to branch out in all directions, covered in that fractal-like pattern which Isaera had etched. She had to jump back or else risk getting impaled by all the sudden growth. The cave rumbled a bit, and loose pebbles fell from the ceiling, but eventually the situation settled down. Before Isaera was only a gnarl of bizarrely-shaped and patterned rock, without much evidence of a mana leak at all anymore. Just the lingering taste of it due to previous saturation.

And it seemed that, for the time being, due to all this rampant growth of stone, the only exit for Isaera now was the way in which her companions went: down the narrow path behind her.

----------


## Feathersnow

"These snakes aren't normal," Says Mor 
"We don't know how they will react," adds Lag
"We can't work wonders to calm them or kill them from afar."
"It seems shameful and dangerous to slaughter them."
"But we have no better idea."

----------


## Plaids

*Jak'arri*
A carpet of snakes it sure would have been nice to have a beast master or druid amongst the party. But Aleana, Isaera's flighty counterpart, was regrettably elsewhere and the party didn't share Jak'arri's enthusiasm for the dwarven beast master. The pathfinders had just leapt into a crevice but left the rope at the exit.

Jak'arri ponders for a moment rubbing his smooth chin. Simple agents and problems were often best dealt with by simple solutions. Something which other leaders in Kalimdor seemed to have forgotten.


 Perhaps a little deterent is all we need Mor'Lag. A little fire and smoke has served me well in Tanaris.
Jak'arri begins foraging for fallen foliage amongst the bountiful vegetation and fishes a small blade and match stone from a pouch.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion's slender, right eyebrow rose as she perked her head around at the sound.

"Fire?" she asked, eyes alight. 

"You need _fire?_" the warlock asked, drawing one hand up...

----------


## Plaids

*Jak'arri*
Jak'arri smiles. A youngster quick on the uptake and seizing the initiative is welcome to the old troll.
 Fire should keep the serpents away. But I can't risk the safety of an elemental by bringing it here. Elementals reside even within Gadgetzan but not here.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: The Mageless Party*
Show

Gnarled old roots, a few feet long, are not hard to come by; and putting fire to them is simple enough, with Marion's magical talent.  With a few moments work, all four (or five, given the ogre ambiguity quotient) of the travellers have torches in their grips.  Swung low, and slow, the pale serpents in the room know by ancient instinct to keep away.  Even some bolder specimens, arm-thick slitherers with flared, serated cobra hoods that hiss in challenge to approach, are cowed after a short challenge of wills; and the party is able (with some use of the tactical diamond formation) traverse the room in a protective boundary of ophidian hesitation.  They do not give chance beyond their strange chamber, as the grey moss carpet grades back to loamy earth; perhaps they know, or fear, something further along.

Charred sticks set aside, there are no more obstacles; just another bend in a stony twist of passage, and the party is at the entrance to what the map called the _Pit of Fangs_.  Beyond, you recall, is where the Eye of Killrogg saw the elves - the elves you initially came here to find.  But how best to proceed, into their midst?

*Spoiler: A reminder of the last information you had about this room, from a few hours ago.*
Show




> At the end of this cavern, at the end that is more clear of obstacles, you discover some - not quite all - of your missing druids. They are heaped together in what you, and the eye, first mistakes for a corpse pile; but darting closer to examine, the truth is not quite so grim. Two male, and two female Kaldorei, each dressed in the breeze purple-and-green druid fashions of their people, lay in an interlocked, snuggled sleep; arms and legs loosely embracing one another at soporific random. It does not strike you as a lascivious intimacy; but it is a remarkable comfort with one another - and with the dozens of snakes that slither over and around them, relishing their body heat, forming their own interwoven sets for rest nearby.
> 
> The additional exit to this room is a door-sized arch overgrown with creepervines that startle the demon-eye as they rustle, and you are disoriented for a moment as the thing retreats back to a more discrete viewing distance. A third Kaldorei male pushes through the vines (which seem eager to accommodate), sets a wooden pail to one side, wanders to the pile, and gives one of the women a stirring jab with the tip of one sandaled foot. She stirs, expression pissy and displeased; and through the mute scene you get the impression that she is taking over some kind of watch. After a few minutes of stretching and tense exchanged conversation, she saunters through the vines, and the new arrival leans up against the wall near the elf-heap. Restless, the eye shuffles about, but it cannot find a way to proceed through the vines without certainly being spotted; and it elects to turn back.






*Spoiler: The Partyless Mage*
Show

Success.  The snarl of stone that has spidered up in the wake of your shaping is fit for purpose - functional, but also, if you dare say so, _pretty_ in a way; the play of natural forces driving at each other in an unnaturally arcane space has made the stone-scar as much like a bloomed rose as it is like a crush of random stone.  And, perhaps fortunately, the surge of its reparative growth has mostly closed off the way from the previous cavern - the one where the ambiguous movement of shadow had been, so good riddance to that.

With the threat contained, you can feel the arcane ambience bleeding away; and in the wake of this victory of studied precision and will over the obstreperous forces of the universe, you begin making your way to the narrow exterior exit to the room. Your companions haven't doubled back - presumably, they have found success in their passing - and that remains the only way to proceed.  But behind you, your tall and sharp ears catch the sound of shuffle, and slide of sand and stone.  Something is _carefully_, _quietly_, making its way through an uncomfortably narrow space between the growth of stone and the wall of the cavern near the first entrance.  Whatever is there seems to have decided it is safe to proceed, now that you have made it so; though its failure to announce itself, either as friend or foe, is disconcerting.

*Spoiler: Perception DC 20*
Show

...But faintly, amidst the stealthy shuffling, you catch the muted grumble of a _Thalassian_ curse, in feminine _sotto voce_.

----------


## WindStruck

Someone was there, following her. She was sure of it! Isaera could hear whoever it was, apparently trying to scrape past the formation of rock. Not entirely impossible, she supposed, but probably not comfortable.

Well, that was it. Isaera wasn't going to have any of this nonsense. Had one of the others lingered behind despite her wishes? _Fine_, whatever. But all this secrecy and the stalking was getting ridiculous.

As Isaeara turned around to confront her shadow, she then heard the curse in Thalassian. What.. who was it then? Her best guess may have been, her sister? But how, and why? Then again, she could ask that of any other random person as well.

After she rounds the narrow bend again, Isaera is already beginning to say, <Thalassian> "Who goes there?"  She hoped it was Aleeana, at least. Perhaps it was.. oh... did it have something to do with the centaurs?

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: The Partyless Mage*
Show

_"Aw."_

The disappointment in Aleeana's voice is plain as her silent approach is scuttled.  Now less concerned about making no noise, she squirms more vigorously through a claustrophobic cleft in the stone, plops out into the main chamber, and offers you a half-smirk that is both frustrated at her own failure, but pleased with your perceptiveness.

_"Thought I was going to get right up to you, that time.  I found your tracks in the big cavern near the entrance; looked like you'd gone up the river, and I was right."  She jerks a thumb back over her shoulder as she trots up to you, dusting herself off with the other hand.  "Did you see that thunder lizard?  Massive.  Never seen one that big.  Anyway.  We're going this way?"_

You had parted ways with your sister where your targets diverged - she had gone up to the Crossroads, and you on to the Wailing Caverns.  To catch up to you now, here, she must have arrived at the Crossroads, and barely had time to think about getting a room before she _booked_ overland at a fairly impressive gait to the Caverns - making up two days of Kodo-back travel in one day, or less.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera nods at the question of going the way they're going.

"I'm glad to see you. Though surprised, nonetheless. What are you doing here? I thought you had business in the crossroads," she says.

----------


## Plaids

*Jak'arri*

The apprentices are one chamber away and all threats were at a safe distance. Only the task of convincing the apprentices to vacate the area remained. Though the lax nature of students was unusual. Druids were at home in the wilds but feeling lax enough to quibble over chores and sleep schedule usually indicated a lack of fervor in a students studies. 

Luckily the party could likely convince them through admiration rather than stern decree.
 The apprentices should be just up ahead. Looks like they got a bit too comfortable down here and might need some convincing to get up and about. Emelia, Mor'Lag, I think you should take the lead. Isaera would be good here but you two are just as good. They will trust us more easily if fellow students greet them before the stately disciplinarians come around to lead them out of here.   

Jakk'ari proposes attempting to add some levity with his commentary on Marion and himself.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag don't look convinced,  but follow the instructions. 

They go forth, calling "ahoy!/ahoy!"

The sisters try to be as unintimidating as possible as they reach the students.

"Hello"
"We are here to rescue you"

----------


## MrAbdiel

Emilia gives a terse nod, at Jakk'ari's suggestion; still a little sore from the price her armor has caused her to pay through all the rugged traversal.  "Alright.  I guess we'll try asking nicely, and see how they respond.  I still wonder why they're packed back here instead of watching over the one in the dream-cave. But I can tell you that the druid magic is spiking, here.  I guess..."  She slips the green lens on its band down over her eye and looks back the way they came, and forth again.  "I guess it's gotten more intense the further down we've gotten this side.  I can't make out tracks, anymore - I mean, I can't see the motes of life energy that clearly marked the druids, and their passage before.  It's like looking for raindrops in seaspray - it's all through the air here.  Becomes impenetrably dense toward the other end of the chamber they're in - whatever is causing it is coming from the next room on.  It... can't be harmful, right?  Not like the arcane breach Isaera is capping.  It's _life_ energy.  But there's no way out, but through."

*Spoiler: Marion*
Show

The _life_ magic can't be harmful.  Maybe.  Druids have proved perfectly capable of harmful spells when they repelled Archimonde, after all; the great and glorious beheading of the Burning Legion which is atleast partially responsible for a globally increased tolerance for studies like yours.  The elves can't just blow up a magic tree every time there's a demon problem; next time the Legion comes, and they _will_, the demons will be repelled by people like _you_ who have devoted themselves and sacrificed for the dangerous knowledge required to put such monsters on leashes.

But you do notice Vargheist seems... healthier.  _Radiant_ even; or perhaps, the mirror of that word.  However abundant the life motes are in this room, they may conceal as much as they reveal about the ambient magics.  A _void_ walker is not nourished by the energy of _life_, after all.


Rounding the corner with Mor'Lag and Emilia a good few paces in the lead, the paladin cadet offers a loose wave toward the figures at the far end of the moss-and-weed-cluttered cavern.  "The ogress speaks true; we've been asked to check on you.  Are you... alright?  Are you trapped here?"

As they approach, their invocation stirs elven forms in the phosphorescent gloom at the other end of the cavern.  One masculine; just shy of seven feet tall with the towering physical imposition of his kind, whose wild and wide-flaring hair, eyebrows and sideburns are picked out by the soft white light radiating from his narrowing eyes.  He approaches a few steps in the blue gloom before a loose gesticulation of one hand releases a sudden manifestation of golden fireflies from his palm. They swarm and whirl, alighting on stalactites and plants, hovering in twos and trios in the air and transforming the azure dullness of the phosphorescence into a more revealing brightness.  His fashion is esoteric, and impenetrable in its oddness; purple and golds in his loose leathers, with green and orange boots, and fingerless gloves; a huge two handed axe strapped to his back.

_"...To rescue?  From what?"_

His voice is a warm rasp that carries well in the cavern; and just as well, because  he halts his approach still fifteen yards clear of Mor'Lag and Emilia.  Over his shoulder, to the stirring, lounging forms of a male and female Kaldorei, he calls back in the tongue of his people.

*Spoiler: Insight Check, DC 10*
Show

You don't speak Darnassian; but the tone, the body language, seems to be something like _go get the others_.  It feels cautious, but not more cautious than is reasonable for strangers encountering strangers in a dangerous place.

*Spoiler: Insight Check, DC 20*
Show

...And that would be the end of it.  But there is something in his movement; the little glance over the shoulder, maybe.  Something loose, and ophidian.  Predatory.  And not with the feral nobility druids like to exude - some inexplicable, animal trait that is communicating to you on an instinctive level... and it's setting your teeth on edge.



The pair rise - the woman languid, lilac skinned and white haired and the man with a more violet tone of body and green braids draped down over his rounded shoulders - and share a word with each other.  At least a dozen snakes, apparently sleeping comfortably on them, slough off and slink away as they rise and head to the curtain of vines at that end of the room, and past it to obscurity beyond.

The one who has approached folds his arms across his broad chest, dragging his gaze over your crew.  _"This is a dangerous and sacred place, strangers.  We are doing important and sacred works here.  Why have you come here?  Really?"_

*Spoiler: The Partyless Mage*
Show

_"I_ did_ have business in the crossroads.  Among other things, I was going to try to find out about that_ samophlange_ thing, or if the Crossroads horde knew anything about the Kolkar centaurs, since they're the ones having issues with them.  I learned a little, but I make a habit of picking up delivery jobs for the way back - and imagine my surprise when there's a missive from Orgrimmar for the Opal Collocation, Ratchet Chapter. 
It has the Warcheif's seal - I'm told that means, if Warchief Thrall himself hasn't written it, he's atleast sealed it. 
 There were a few like it at the courier post; but only one heading to Ratchet.  So I took the scroll and double-timed it over here.  If it turns out to be urgent, then you might have to hustle.  Speaking of which..."_

Aleeana stops in her stride to lift a foot to the stone wall of the tunnel, and begins a quick calf-stretch.

_"I hope you brought comfortable shoes; I want to catch up to the others and finish up here, so we can find out what's in that scroll.  The suspense is killing me."_

----------


## Feathersnow

"The Elders"
"Your Elders"

"Worried"
"Because you didn't report back..."

Mor'Lag try to relax, and hide they are getting in a wrestler's pose.  They don't want to hurt the elflings, but the sisters are coming to suspect the youngsters aren't thinking clearly.

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*
Jakk'ari stands back behind Mor'Lag and Emelia observing the exchange. The comical dress and absence of druidic pleasantries stick out like a duck in the desert. Bantering with his fellow disciplinarian, Marion, can't be helped.
 Look at those absurd threads. They must have acquired those from the monastery surplus stores. Wouldn't be too surprised if they were attempting to copy the swagger of adventurers. Students always seem to desire the greener grass on the horizon. 

Jakk'ari smiles after reminiscing and nostalgically concluding.

 The secret is that the grass greener where you water it. 
Jakk'ari snickers, once more observing the ridiculous collage of clothes and gear.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The night elf blinks.  He has the classic, fine arrangement of Kaldorei men: sharp features, high cheekbones, smooth skin - indications that he may be anywhere between eighteen and, at most, a thousand years old.  He lofts an extravagant eyebrow at Mor'Lag's mention of the Elders of the Circle.

_"...I must take it, then, that our message did not reach them.  If it had, they might have sent more druids, rather than - "_  He purses his lips; but then his countenance falls towards self reproach.

_"Forgive me, strangers.  I do not mean to seem ungrateful.  Only that the situation here requires... specialised wisdom.  It is precarious.  We sent back our Tauren colleagues seeking no less than ten initiated druids to return with them.  Did they not... Raise this alarm, that has drawn you?"_

"I'm afraid not.  No one has heard from you, or the druids sent in to find you, since you vanished into these caverns."  Emilia supplies the answer; but quickly adds a question.  "What are you doing here that needs so many druids?  Is it so urgent that you could not go get them yourselves earlier?  We're here to help, if we can."

There is a pause as the elf makes an assessment.  Then a small sigh of what seems to be concession.

_"My name - outside of my place in the Circle - is Mors'ahn.  And I appreciate your offer, even if I doubt your capacity to assist.  But you can bear witness, and perhaps take back word of what you see.  There is a... complication here.  How much do you know about... the Emerald Dream?"_

The elf, calling himself Mors'ahn, turns on his heel; and with a languid, winding step, leads off towards the curtain of vines into which his friends departed - the implication, plainly, to follow.

*Spoiler: Party Rolls!*
Show

Mors'ahn appears to be taking you as _friendly_, though he is open about not trusting your capacity to assist.  If you want to make any social rolls - persuasion, to try to warm him to you; deception, to disguise an intention or feign some special knowledge about Druidism, or anything else you think you can leverage as a roll in this position, feel free to roll as part of your post!


*Spoiler: Isaera OOC*
Show

Please give me, if you would be so kind, an _athletics_ roll to see how well you keep up with Aleeana, cave-parkouring and then swimming to catch up to the others. 
 Don't worry about it too much - track and field is certainly not Isaera's strongsuit, but Aleeana is presently projecting her _Aspect of the Pack_, which gives Run Speed (3) to her allies nearby, outside of combat circumstances; so for the most part you're zipping along at about 30MPH. 
 But give me a roll anyway, to determine how taxing the fast-tracking is for Isaera.  Have a +2, because Aleeana is hanging back with you to assist rather than hooning off ahead like a bad sister.

----------


## WindStruck

"Well, no, I left my belonging in the central ..  hey, slow down!!" Isaera calls.

This was fairly annoying. Isaera didn't really know where she was going and was trying to follow her sister without scraping herself or banging her head and limbs on anything.

"So, what, you wanted us five - er six? - to look at the scroll at the same time? But why didn't you just take it back to Ratchet? I'm sure that uptight Seraphis woman would have been more than capable."

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

Jakk'ari trots forward sliding past Mor'Lag and following Mors'ahn.
He seemed friendly enough but it rarely hurt to further ingratiate oneself with another adventurer or student of nature. Unless someone stood to become jealous.

 Salutations, you met my colleagues Mor'Lag and Emelia. When we came to your camp we noticed the abundance of snakes within the chamber. How did your group develop such a harmony with them? Such a skill is impressive I remember teaching my students how to allow the natural world to be at ease in their presence. Perhaps I can learn from a something to incorporate in my lessons. 
(1d20)[*5*] Attempting to know how the druids got so cozy with the snakes. *Spoiler: Animal friends?*
Show

Due to them being apprentices and even fully leveled druids are attacked by wild animals, at least in WOW.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Elves On the Run*

Keeping a respectful restraint on her pace so her sister can keep up, Aleeana answers over her shoulder without pause or puff.

_"Are you kidding me?  It's been burning a hole in my pocket the whole way here, but I'm an_ employee_ of the_ Opal Collocation_, not a member.  So I'm not the intended recipient, and neither is the amazon accountant from Ashenvale back at the tower in Ratchet.  And normally that kind of thing wouldn't stop me, but given that it's Horde-official at this level, I don't want some little snitch-spirit bound into the seal to run off to Orgrimmar and blackball me as a courier.  Anyway, it seemed important enough to bring straight to you.  If we'd opened it back in Ratchet and it turned out to be meaningful I'd just be doubling back to tell you anyway."_

*Spoiler: Athletics for Isaera!*
Show

That'll do it!  Isaera is able to keep up; so Isaera and Aleeana with rejoin the other group at the earliest possibility, rather than experiencing any (potentially crucial) delay.  I'll introduce a segue for that soon!  For now, I must ask you to hang tight!


_In The Pit of Fangs_

Emilia fades back a little with Mor'Lag as Jakk'ari scoots up to converse with the Kaldorei.  A cluster of fireflies spiral around Jakk'ari as he approaches, drawing the attention of their summoner.  _"The serpents here gather in unusual numbers, because of the warmth of the caves.  Unpleasant as some may find them, they are the inheritors of this world like all other creatures.  We drove out and culled the raptors that swarmed these caverns because their deviation had maddened them; but these creatures are not too far gone.  They've responded to charms, and conventional training; but they're also small enough they do not see us as prey.  If we do not present ourselves as predator, they are no trouble.  But there is another reason.  You will see, in a moment.  But I must ask you -"_

He halts at the vine-draped threshold, and his lambent gaze swings to Marion.

_"...To leave your pet demon outside this sacred chamber.  You understand."_

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Snake Handling*
Show

Alas, despite these stated reasons, you can't think of a more compelling one for why these snakes have been benevolent to the druids than that they have druidic insight into the behaviours of such creatures, and therefore the handling of them.  It is a little odd, though; snakes aren't the majestic forest creatures that Kaldorei, especially, find compelling.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion had little nice to say about their current situation. Feeling as if they had moved into a literal den of vipers, the warlock pursed her lips at the request to leave Vargheist 'outside', or rather to dismiss him while she was in this area. 

She didn't like the idea. She didn't like the idea at all. That she would trust the hospitality of some druidic night elves that had walled themselves off into isolation for so long their own masters were worried about them...Marion had seen minds breaking before. She had witnessed what a fissured psyche did to a once rational and reasonable person. To now wade into a pit of fangs with that possibility in the back of the warlocks mind? 

"Very well," the warlock finally said, gesturing with her hand for Vargheist to wink out of existence for the time being, which he happily did.

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

It is still quite remarkable what you have done. Even the most easy beasts can become hostile if you occupy the entrances of their burrows too long.

Following the resourceful students Jakk'ari follows the night elf apprentice unsure of what lies ahead.

----------


## MrAbdiel

The passage past the veil of vines is narrow; single file, and a sidelong struggle for Mor'Lag, at places.  But this opens to a final cavern; this one small, compared to many of the others - perhaps, fifteen yards across, in a roughly hemispherical layout.  Its walls and floor are seethingly dense with vines, and weeds, and sprouts; much of the plant life here is an abnormal color, but it is hard to tell which.  The wall across from the entrance bathes the room in a surreal green radiance - not the felfire green of the infernal disaster they once fled, but a richer green that is ...physically invigorating to feel on the skin.  It casts this light from a great diagonal streak across its surface, which glitters like green glass - like a huge vein of emerald had been discovered.  Or, perhaps more closely, as if the stone on that far wall had just been thinly painted on dirt; and some mighty hand had wiped away a portion of the overgrowth and the obscuring dirt to reveal this viridian window.  Standing before this window, turning slowly to face you with cautious eyes, are the rest of the elves - their colorations must run the typical gamut for their kind, though everything within the room is washed with the same beryl filter.  Five in all, six with Mors'ahn leading you in.  The three most imposing are the men, braided and ponytailed and sporting axe slung over backs, and on hips.  To their right stands the female night elf who Mors'ahn dismissed earlier; arms folded beneath her chest, her gaze upon you lazy and skeptical.  To her side is the final member of the group; staff clutched in one hand, hand on her hip.  Beyond her, against the wall, is a mass that coil and writhe together so thick and numerous as to seem to form a singular, pulsing mass; a tumor of life pressed into the corner, some ten feet long and protruding four feet off the stone.  But those serpents seem well enough contented in their own company; and they are hardly the most attention grabbing thing in the room.

"As you can see," Mor'sahn says; his tone fuller and somehow stronger in this enclosed room. 
 "We are not in need of rescue.  We are not trapped.  But..."

Beyond that glassy wall, which should at best show stone, or the flow of water in the flumes, there is a _place_ - a wild and untameable jungle, green and _green_ and _green_, trees and vines and looms  in chaotic jumbles; some pulling themselves up by their roots to traverse their domain.  Life within that life, too; birds, and beasts, and crawling things in a realm too choked with them to seem to be able to support them.

Then a shape moves, breifly covering the window entirely with movement; the shimmering slip of scales rushing past too close to track the form they are attached to.  When it pulls back, its fullness is more clear - a snake of gargantuan size, whose dark scales are rendered black in the green haze of the room, whose eyes shine with intelligence, and ancient power, whose ribbed and flaring hood flexes once as _it_ beholds _you_ through the green glass.

_"They've gone crazy!"_

This, from the younger woman at the end of the line; a spontaneous utterance that comes as her facade of cool breaks and she steps aside and away from her companions.  As your attention is pulled away from the ophidian goliath depicted beyond this window, it's clear this outburst was very much to your benefit - the other five are readying their weapons, and are galled with fury to have attention called to their treasonous strikes before they can be made.

_They_ are not trapped; but surrounded by these wild eyed druids in their sacred place, _you_ might be.

*Spoiler: Zounds, a trap!  OOC:*
Show



You're more or less clustered together in the middle of this room, with about fifteen yards of radius either side of you.  Behind your group, standing in the passage through which you entered, is Mor'sahn; with his great axe in hand now.

In front and to your right is the frightful window into the Emerald Dream, with its slithering voyeur watching you through it.

In front and to your left are the other druids.  They haven't introduced themselves, but they are Baraneth (Lord Boahn), Aryn (Lord Pythas), Jarlaxa (Lord Cobrahn), and Scarletleaf (Lady Anacondra).  The last, the one who blurted out her warning and denied the enemy a surprise round, is Ebru.

Cobrahn has a wicked looking fighting claw in hand, now.  Lord Boahn and Mor'sahn (Lord Serpentis) both have their great axes out; Pythas has a pair of hand axes at the ready; Anacondra has a small staff on a strap over her back, but doesn't seem fussed to draw it. 
 And Ebru has her staff out, looking terrified and desperate.

Time for initiative.  If you equal or beat an 11, you can act right away as the collapsing trap is half-sprung on you.  If you get less than that, I'm afraid the Druids of the Fang will act before you!

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor is still unsure what is going on, but Lag responds immediately and tries to tackle Lady Anacondras to the ground, clumsily taking control of both legs before Mor can act with their usual tandem dance...

*Spoiler*
Show


(1d20+10)[*19*]  Fighting!

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: A Brief Reminder, Mor'Lag!  OOC:*
Show

It's been a while since we threw down, but because of the game's Power Level of 4, your maximum Attack bonus and Effect Level (in this case, Damage)  is 8.  Mor'Lag's strength is 5, so strictly speaking the maximum attack bonus you could introduce is +3.  I think we did a rebuild a while back to accommodate this stuff, and your new sheet is a little removed from the one at the start of the thread.  I think we settled on something like giving you Accurate Attack, so you could trade Damage Effect for Attack Bonus when you wanted.

But it has been a while, so forgiveness flows freely!  Let us assume that Mor'Lag very much wanted to grab Scarletleaf - let's say you might have taken a -2 to the damage effect on this first, necessary assault to initiate a grab.  With your roll of a 9, and a +5, you get a 14 - which hits, because you beat her initiative and she is presently Vulnerable because of Ebru's betrayal.  So your grab hits.  Or rather, because you have _Fast Grab_, your _Attack_ hits, and also executes a _Grab_ with the same roll result.  So Scarletleaf is going to roll a toughness check against your hit, and a strength or dodge check to not be grabbed.  I'll roll those in the roll thread now...


Lag's instinctive assault catches the druidess off guard.  She manages to worm back with instinct of her own, enough to miss the closing grip of the meaty ogre fingers; but not enough to miss the staggering shoulder barge that comes with it.  Lag's shoulder thumps into the night elf's chest, and all her amazonian graze is taken from her as the sheer mass of her assailant bowls her over, knocking her on her back and the breath from her lungs; leaving her gasping as she scrambles back to her feet.

*Spoiler: Attack Resolution, OOC!*
Show

The attack hits Scarletleaf - Lady Anacondra - and she fails her toughness check by two degrees, causing her an ongoing -1 Penalty and Daze for her upcoming turn!  But she manages to slip the grasp, so Mor'Lag cannot trivially hold her with one hand at no penalty just yet!

Marion's turn remains; then Bad People!

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion's eyes narrowed: she _knew_ it!

You couldn't trust stupid hippies and their 'flower power'! There was only the mind for the arcane and industry. 

Moving a bit behind the much bigger troll for protection, Marion drew a fel word of power to her lips and hissed beneath her breath as she gestured towards a cluster of Druids...


ooc:

I'm not sure what the layout is, but Marion is casting Death and Decay in a way to catch as many enemy druids as possible. 

DC 18 Toughness and contagious in a 30 feet cylinder radius.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Chaos erupts in the sanctum of the Fang.

Marion's fel gesticulation constructs a web of dark magic that blooms into profane being over an edge of the room, with its bleak orange lines glimmering a half-dome of corrupting energy into the middle of the room and catching the Lords Cobrahn, Boahn, and Pythas.  But the elves are as agile as the legends suggest - Cobrahn and Boahn seem to react with almost precognitive agility, throwing themselves out of the brunt of the expanding magics such that the scraps that impact them cause no more damage than peeling skin, and superficial blackening of armor.  Pythas is not so fast - the Druid stumbles as he is wracked with pain fleeing the burst, and streaks of his green braids are bleached white as strings of blisters and black veins begin crawling up his skin.

*Spoiler: Marion's attack Resolution!*
Show

Solid defensive rolls from the boys - Boahn tanks the hit with toughness, Cobrahn beats the toughness only because he also passed the dodge test to drop its effective rank by 1.  But Pythas has no escape, though it's not a catastrophic fail - Now he has a -1 injury penalty, and that's how we do it here in M&M3e town: accumulation of penalties.

As a visual assessment, especially for those with the Assessment advantage, these druids do not seem remarkably more powerful than your group - their defenses, and attack ranks, are all floating around the 3 to 5 mark.


The Druids of the Fang muster their wrath.  Their ambush is deflated, but their appetite for combat seems well intact.

*Boahn* stoops to spring into a charge, but is given pause by the necrotic havoc of the ongoing spell.  Huge, corrupting streaks of blackening death are worming through the teeming plantlife of the cavern grove, as well as casting lingering effects on his comrades. Turning from the combat proper, he whirls the long haft of his axe in the air in three full revolutions, each one accumulating brighter streaks of green energy populated by the silhouettes of leafy plantlife, and then whips his weapon toward the decaying magic.  The bolt of life energy swarms with streamers of anxious, quasi-living motes and soars through the space with ethereal birdsong.  It collides and contests with the corrupting magic - a moment's struggle telling which will overpower the other.

Lady *Anacondra*, scrambling to her feet after Mor'Lag's charge, does not have the balance to quite retreat in her recovery; but a gesture of her free hand brings a flourish of life energy circling her own form, contesting the damage inflicted by the ogress's assault.

To her aid comes Lord *Pythas*, who launches into a flanking assault on Mor'Lag with grand, warding swings of his paired axes.  But Mor'Lag is well used to this particular dance - the evasion of the small but deadly weapons of a tiny foe, waiting for the moment to reach in with a bare hand and respond; and the night elf makes no contact in his immediate assault.

Lord *Serpentis* lets out a throaty hiss, and makes his own charge - the huge blade scything through the air and slashing Jakk'ari across the back, with the sand troll's reflexes along preventing the blow from being so severe as to end him at once!

*"You will never wake the Dreamer!"*, *Cobrahn* declares with animus.  A few steps towards the centre of the room, and in mid stride his form flashes and shifts into the sleek, blitzing form of a golden furred savannah cat which crosses the room with distressing pace.  At the end of the dash, he launches into the air and takes elven form again; leading with the fighting claw and lunging to strike at Marion!  The tips of the claws on his hand threaten to punch through the magical membrane protecting her; their glinting, elven steel dripping with some unpleasant, clear toxin.

Ebru, for her part, lets out a choked scream.  She seems to have no desire to participate in this - neither on behalf of the allies she has worked with for so long, nor those innocent adventurers who had come thinking to rescue them.  For the moment, it's all she can do to wrestle with her own denial of the outcome of the meeting.

Emilia is too slow to intervene on Marion's behalf, but she's there a moment after; hammering her shield into Cobrahn's side, and following up with a slash from her longsword that throws a spritz of elven blood against the cavern wall... and draws his enduring hatred.

It's at that point that footsteps echo through the entrance corridor, and two more shadowed elven forms come to join the brawl - and not a moment too soon.

*Spoiler: Enemy/NPC turn summary!*
Show

Deep in the interior of the room, Mor'Lag is in combat with *Anacondra* and *Pythas*, now.  Pythas failed to hit her with his attack (which means no contagion from the the death and decay, lucky!  Anacondra, dazed from the last strike, used her only action to cast rejuvenate on herself, removing the -1 injury penalty she sustained from the previous attack!

A little further in, next to the pulsing death and decay spell, *Boahn* is attempting to _counter_ death and decay with its keyword opposite - Tranquility.  That's going to require an effect rank check from Marion to see if the Death and Decay is dispelled!

*Ebru* stands idle in the interior of the room, paralyzed with horror and indecision.

*Cobrahn* clears the room with his _Pounce_ ability and attacks Marion, almost, but not quite, critting.  It's a linked attack, with a debilitating poison and a melee attack - so roll good!

*Serpentis* has charged Jakk'ari, striking him with a mighty blow.  This too is a linked attack - there's a toughness save involved, and also a fortitude save or be knocked around by the power of the blow.  

*NPC Summary:*

*Ebru* is uninjured.

*Lady Anacondra* is uninjured, now recovered from her wound penalty, and under the effect of a lingering healing spell that seems to continue.

*Cobrahn* has a -1 wound penalty.

*Pythas* has a -1 wound penalty, and is contagious with Death and Decay.

*Boahn* is uninjured.

*Serpentis* uninjured.



*Rolls Required from Players:*

*Marion* needs to make a rank check for Death and Decay (Rank+d20).  Boahn got a 17 with his Tranquility to dispel, and his Tranquility is at rank 4; so you're looking for a total of 18 or more!
*Marion* also needs to make a Toughness check vs DC19 from Cobrahn's strike, and a Fortitude check vs DC 14 or becoming _Fighting Impaired_, or _Stunned_ with two degrees of failure.

*Jakk'ari* needs to make a Toughness check vs DC20 from Serpentis's strike, and a Fortitude check vs DC 15 or becoming _Vulnerable_, or _Stunned_ with two degrees of failure.

Players are up!  *Isaera*, you and Aleeana arrive during the player actions of this round - you are near the entrance of the room, where Marion, Emilia and Jakk'ari are being harassed by Cobrahn and Serpentis.  Aleeana will act too, at the start of the NPC phase.  That's what you get for passing that atheltics check - if you'd rolled bad, they'd all have to endure another round of action without you.  If you'd rolled a one, they'd had to have endured two more!  But you succeeded, so get in there!

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera, shrouded in a blue frosty bubble, first makes her appearance.  She sees the virulent green glow of the Emerald Dream, Marion's sickly magic of death and decay, one druid cowering amongst Isaera's allies, the rest of the night elves fighting her party.

"What in the Nether is going on??" Isaera says. Or _what did Marion do this time?_ she thought. Little did she know these druids were crazed.

Still, her gut told her something was off, especially with one of them shouting, "You will never wake the Dreamer!" Combined with the fact that even Emilia was attacking him, Isaera decides to try shooting a fairly "harmless" frost missile at him.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

attack: (1d20+1)[*5*]

on hit, deals 1 damage (DC 16 toughness) and requires a DC 17 fortitude save or become dazed and hindered.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion's eyes widen as that deranged Night Elf hippie leapt at her, claws brandished and swinging wildly. Unfortunately, one caught her in the midsection, but his claws failed to penetrate the protective fel barrier the warlock had cocooned herself within since the encounter with the plantbeast. Then its attention was drawn about as Emilia finally made herself useful and took a swing at him from behind. 

_Did...that thing dare to touch me?_ Marion thought incredulously to herself, time seeming to slow down as she took a moment to process the _insult_ she had just endured.

_Did that filthy stupid hippie just try to kill me?!_

She had travelled across an ocean of time to get here. Her childhood within the fractious, Second War riddled lands of Alterac and the social humiliation and fall it incurred. The scourging of Lordaeron, scratching and existence within the mountains, hounded by ghouls and paladins, the loss of all that she held dear and close...just to be _clawed_ at by some _filthy_ hippie in a backwater cave of primitives?!

For several frozen-in-time moments Marion stood there, mouth agape, eyes wide in utter shock at the...the...the _arrogance_ of such a disgusting caveman to possess to believe that he could hurt _her_! The arc of her life ended by this disheveled degenerate?! The utter hubris! Into the roiling fury whispered the tendrils of Fel magic that she commanded, the dark lore she had accumulated from years of study coalescing within the white hot point of her anger and brewing into a manifest metamorphosis.

"Annoying insects!"

Marion's body started to...transform. Her normaly clean limbs contorted, lengthed unnaturally, the crackling sound of bone filling the air as her image deformed and...grew, her 5'4" frame expanding and thickening, her height extending as she sloomed forward, tentacles sprouding from her back as a thick, leather-like chiten spews forth across her skin from hidden pores until a towering, hideous thing loomed eight feet above where the warlock once stood. 

"You only delay the inevitable!"

*Spoiler*
Show



The tentacles surged forward like a swarm of knives towards the Elf that dared to presume...

OOC:

Marion is Power Stunting Metamorphosis.
Using her Move action to change into it.
Then using Tentacle Strike on the guy that just claws her, aiming it in a way to not strike Emelia.

----------


## MrAbdiel

As the high elves round the corner, Cobrahn begins to feel outnumbered.  He bows back out of the way of the incoming frostbolt that crusts his bare chest with glittering ice particles, and begins to scoot back from his rapidly multiplying attackers.  Then the dark haired human begins twisting and morphing - an shift in the tide of battle that no one could have prepared for.

The zealotry in the claw wielding Cobrahn conflicts with disgust and fear as Marion transforms into this abomination; and he has just enough presense of mind to juke back away from the flurry of tendrils that lunge outward.  Clipped by their muscular, squamous assault, he is spun at a stagger back on one heel and, blinking in bewilderment, reassesses his options.

Further back, Boahn looks on with some releif as his life magics overpower the fading decay and flush the greenery with renewed green - but he too is battered by the tentacles at the extreme of their length!

*Spoiler*
Show

Isaera and Aleeana have arrived, and presently they, and Emilia and Marion, are squaring off against poor Cobrahn.  Marion's tentacles slap Cobrahn for two degrees (another -1 and daze) and Boahn (-1), but don't manage to pull off the grab.

Mor'Lag, facing off against the dual axe wielding Pythas and the presently Heal-infused Anacondra, is yet to go this turn; as is Jakk'ari, whose guest star bees are approved for test flight.  If you want to become a master of bees, Plaids, we can discuss the more formalized version of the power to buy later.  But for now, deploy dem bees if you wanna!

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag look briefly on at a mix of horror and awe at Marion duplicating a feat worthy of Guldan!

Then they go back to the fight,  trying to strangle the restoration specialist so the fight can be win by attrition!

*Spoiler*
Show

(1d20+8)[*15*] Unarmed strike!  Grab if succeeds!

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*
The Scythe came quickly after the ruse was sprung. Marion and Mor'Lag's begrudging and tentative trust issues saved them from a treacherous blindside attack. If only such an attitude had been adapted earlier the group would be safer. It was humiliating and infuriating to extend a hand of trust to bitten by the serpents in this bountiful wilderness. Seeing Marion contort into a beast prompted a question. *Why not abandon diplomacy and become the hunters and take control? Why not repay them in kind?* But then in the corner of the chamber is Ebru, catatonic and shivering against the cave wall. It was time to repay her in kind.

Stealing his resolve Jakk'ari rises from the ground. Blood flows freely and a nicked vertebrae squeaks a complaint. It would require pressure to flattened and compressed later to prevent permanent elongation from an improper recovery. 

Dashing through the maelstrom of weapons and bodies Jakk'ari arrives besides Ebru. Careful to obscure the conflict from her view with his body Jakk'ari begins to encourage Ebru.

We have been sent by the Cenarion Circle to deliver you from this place. You have helped once. *Please help us once more in defeating these usurpers and I promise you that you and your dreaming friend will leave this place with us.* 

*Spoiler: Mechanical actions*
Show

 Used a VP to remove Stunned condition from Jakk'ari.
Jakk'ari moves right beside Ebru and encourages her to fight beside the party. Using persuasion.
Rolling persuasion: (1d20+8)[*28*]

----------


## MrAbdiel

Aleeana is only _slightly_ worldier than Isaera, and so is only _slightly_ less repulsed by Marion's manifestation - but it's clear which side of the combat the Marionstrosity is on, and that can't be overlooked in such a desperate brawl.  She hops forward a couple of steps to scan the depth of the room, glaces at the leering ophidian spectator behind the beryl window into another world, and then hops back beside her sister.  _"That's... a big snake.  Stay near to me, little sister.  And call the target!"_  Shoulder to shoulder with her spell-slinging sister, she knocks an arrow into the channel of her bow, tensions the string, and waits to lay fire on Isaera's target!

*Spoiler: Aleeana's Actions!*
Show

Aleeana's first action is secret.  But the action she'll take in turn 2 is to attempt a Team Attack.  It'll be with Isaera, unless Isa needs to cast a spell that isn't Damage vs Toughness; in which case it'll be with Emilia who is also nearby.


Emilia, taking a few steps away from the demonic manifestation, regards this change with carefully managed displeasure before deciding that Marion has her present attacker more or less covered.  Instead, the paladin dashes across the room to make a lunging strike at Pythas, who is forced to turn from his flanking attack on Mor'Lag to deflect the blow.

*Spoiler: Emilia's Actions!*
Show

Charges at Pythas, but misses; but now it's Pythas and Anacondra vs Mor'Lag and Emilia on that side of the room, so that's... 2Vs2.5.


Ebru's startled and scattered state of mind crystalizes as Jakk'ari makes his appeal.  Her resolve hardens, and the troll can witness some naïve element in her that wanted an impossibly peaceful resolution dying, in the fall of her expression.  "They're... trying to break through, to the dream.  We thought it would just come close, but -... They have to be stopped!"  With a sweep of her hand, she releases a curl of viridian energy which whirls around the shaman, soothing and beginning the closure of his wound.

*Spoiler: Ebru's Actions!*
Show

Well, that was a 28 persuasion; hard to ignore that!  Ebru is now convinced and fighting on your side.  Jakk'ari, you've received a Rejuvenation spell; this round, it has successfully healed off your _staggered_ condition.  Next turn, it'll try to heal your -1.[/ROLL]


_"I will not be_ stopped!_"_, *Lord Serpentis* barks; the cool facade of Mors'ahn long gone as he watches Jakk'ari withdraw from him, and his once ally Ebru turn on him.  His gaze swings to the warped creature that has bloomed out of the warlock.  _"Nor will I have what is_ inevitable_ dictated by the likes of_ you!_  I am the Serpent King!  I can do ANYTHING!"_

The impact of his transformation is somewhat undercut by the more outlandish nature of the one preceeding it; but the night elf throws back his head and releases a howl that warps into a his as his body twists, thickens, enscales.  The druid's attire smokes away, leaving only talismans and trinkets hanging off his scaly bulk; legs merging into a single winding trunk; features flattening and pressing out.  Within a passing second, he has become not a druidic form that gives praise to nature, but something awful; a huge serpent, only a head shorter than Marion's demonic visage.  A cobra-like hood fans from the top of his elongated skull to behind his shoulder blades; and his arms have not only stayed, but thickened with muscle. This fact is driven home as, while the battered *Cobrahn* makes a distracting strike, slashing at Marion's lower tentacles, the serpentine leader coils and rushes with a long-splitting blow down at the demon's join of shoulder and neck!

*Pythas*, dual axes spinning, is forced to turn from Mor'Lag and engage the rushing paladin squire directly; sparks shearing off blade and shield as the pair exchange blows. Atleast for now, youthful zeal appears to be a match for ageless skill; and neither makes ground on the other.

Fending now for herself,* Lady Anacondra*, sneering and pronouncing that _"None can stand against the Serpent Lords!"_, makes a desperate but vicious blow up at her ogress aggressor; seeking to strike one head with her staff and, turning it, carry through to strike the other!  Her healing magics fade, now; and the work of the pummeling laid upon her has been undone!

Unengaged, but limping from the glancing blow struck by the hideous tentacles, *Boahn* crowds his fingers together before himself; and a network of flashing white sparks leaps between his fingers before he hurls it, spear like, across the room.  It zigs, zags, and strikes the demonically infused warlock - nature lashing out at perversity, even as the wielders of those powers champion the other.

*Spoiler: Enemy Actions!*
Show

  Marion's shocking transformation has drawn a lot of attention!

*Lord Serpentis* transforms!  He's bigger, stronger, and possesses a mouthful of deadly fangs which presumably are full of toxin.  He makes a team attack with Cobrahn against Marion, and both land blows.  They'll require saves - I'll collate them at the end here, because it's gonna be a big turn for Marion.

*Boahn* hurls a lightning bolt at Marion, which ALSO hits!

*Pythas* misses Emilia!

*Lady Anacondra*'s healing spell fades, leaving her unwounded.  She elects to lean into a swing against Mor'Lag, and actually hits with her staff!

Damage Report:

Serpentis: Healthy
Anacondra: Healthy
Pythas: -1
Boahn: -1
Cobrahn: -2

Incoming attacks needing saves:

Mor'Lag to make a simple toughness save vs Anacondra's staff, DC 20!

Marion to make a Toughness Save against Cobrahn and Serpentis' Team attack.  With the combined attack, the Toughness check is going to be DC 23!  You're immune to the poison on Cobrahn's linked attack, but you'll also need to make a Fortitude save, DC 15, or be Melee Impaired/Stunned by the battering force of Serpentis' chop.

Marion also to make a Toughness save against Boahn's lightning (DC20).  That also bears a linked Fortitude save, or suffer Weaken (Toughness), only in regards to lightning attacks.

And that's it!  It's the Heroes' Turns!  Ebru will act last in the hero turn.  Aleeana's action is already spoken for this turn. 
 And Emilia looks likely to continue her duel with the dual wielder.  Go team!

----------


## WindStruck

This situation was getting crazier by the second. Now there were _three_ big monsters to worry about**: the metamorphized Marion, the giant snake watching from the Dream, and the druid turned large snake with arms. Technically there were four monsters if you counted Mor'lag, or five if .. ah, nevermind.

Through all the chaos, Isaera has a hard time figuring out what was going on. What were the druids up to? Could their plans be stopped? With all the chaos, she could hardly even formulate a plan. Who was the best target to take down?

With "Lord Serpentis" making his own transformation, it gave Isaera pause. However, she figured perhaps at this point it would just be one freak slugging it out with another freak. At this point, she had to make some decision.

"Can't go wrong with taking out whomever the paladin is scrapping with," Isaera says, shrugging. Beginning her arcane gestures and intonements, she starts launching what is the beginning of a volley of arcane missiles at Pythas.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Not sure if I am elgible for team attack at all, but I am all for ganging up on Pythas and eliminating him first!

Arcane Missile(s):

attack: (1d20+2)[*9*]

4 damage (DC 19)

has 3 additional homing chances.


"Lets try not to actually _kill_ anyone unless we have to, though," she adds.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion hissed with anger when she became the focus of not just one, or two but _three_ druids attempts to destroy her. Claws. Slams. More claws. Lightning magic. All fell upon her frame and all took their toll, but in the end she was still standing.

The wings upon Marion's back drew in upon themselves and then extended as a great gush of air blasted before her to hoist the warlock up into the air and out of reach of the foes below. 

Free from their wretched claws, the Marionstrosity flew across the ceiling the cavern, her tentacles launching out again at a much more vulnerable target...

*ooc:*
Marion is burning a VP to brush off the Stun effect. 

She's then using Move-by action to fly into the air, out of reach of Cobra and Lord Serpentis, and over to above Boahn where she's using her 15 feet reach line attack tentacles to attack him and Fast Grab him. 

So, DC 19 toughness save and a Strength check against DC 18 for Boahn.

If she succeeds in Grabbing him, she's using her Move-by action to hoist him up into the air with her. He'll get another Strength check to resist being moved, but this time he'll have a -5 Penalty due to Improved Hold.

Assuming as well her Regeneration regens 1 toughness penalty, with another one being regenerated in a couple of rounds.

----------


## MrAbdiel

[Post Deleted Because I'm Dumb And Meant OOC.]

----------


## Feathersnow

"That's enough"
"Of that"

Say Mor and Lag as they attempt to sunder Anacondras' staff

----------


## MrAbdiel

Ebru's spell finishes its magic on Jakk'ari, closing the last of the wound Jakk'ari received  in his rush to her side.  Tears stream down her cheeks; each drop an emerald in the strange light of the room, thrown from her as she whips her attention back and forth across the room as she seeks her best avenue of assistance. But her keen senses catch enough of Isaera's voice as she and her sister conspire...




> "Can't go wrong with taking out whomever the paladin is scrapping with,"


...and does her best to assist.  With a circular gesture and a whispered petition to the heart of the world, the young druidess conjures tangled mess of roots to burst from the stone and begin coiling around Pythas's legs and waist.  The effect is immediate - with snaring tendrils curling around him, the dual-wielding brawler can barely move to defend himself.  The assault that falls upon him shortly after is a hurricane of violence that would bring most men to the ground with little chance to get back up.  One of Aleeana's arrows lacerates his cheek as it zips by; another bites into the meat of his thigh.  A volley of Isaera's arcane missles stitch a line of bloody welters up his back from right hip to left shoulder.  And Emilia's own assault doesn't stop; her blade clanging off two parried blows then slashing through the braided leather over his forearm offered in desperate defence.  But the warrior persists - growling and thrashing with increasingly feral desperation, eyes turning upon Ebru - the traitor.

Jakk'ari's own senses prick up - but at things only he is equipped to detect.  The smell of ozone from Boahn's hurled lightning is rich in the air, but the spirit-sense can perceive, in the contraction of elemental forces around Marion's altered form, the lingering vulnerability to voltage the last blast imbued.  With a swirl of his arms and a leaping spin of the body that seems as much dancing as spellcasting, he makes a final upthusting gesture that produces a mystical marker - a totem, piercing the stone, standing four feet tall and baring a mocking, carved countenance of one of the loa.

Then, body tense, he waits.

Mor'Lag, after suffering a frustrating elusion and complimentary battering, finally catches a break.  Or, rather, breaks a catch - snapping a huge hand out with distressing speed, her opponent is forced to raise her staff in a two-handed block... only for the ogress's hand to close on the middle of the weapon, leverage upward pressure of the thumb against countervailing pressure of first and final fingers, and extracting a dry _crunch_ and puff of mournful, depleting magic.  Lady Anacondra staggers back, looking back and forth at the broken halves of her weapon, before tossing them aside and scrambling for a new approach.

*Spoiler: NPC/PC Summary!*
Show

Mor'Lag successfull destroys Anacondra's weapon!
Jakk'ari uses Deflection on Marion!
Ebru casts Entangling Roots on Pythas, leaving him Vulnerable and Hindered!
Emilia, Isaera and Aleeana all rain down Team attacks on Pythas... who is hit by all of them because he's Vulnerable, but rolls a 23 on his toughness check against a final DC of 25, so takes merely a -1 addition to his penalties and growls on!


*Anacondra*, harried and isolated by the relentless assault of the ogress, does her best to harry and isolate her back - and her spirit, unlike her staff, is unbroken.  "None can stand against the serpent lords!" With her own petition to the natural forces, an explosion of complicit roots lurch out of the mossy stone and attempt to ensnare Mor'Lag, while her quarry steps back and away!

*Pythas* disengages from Emilia, warding her with axe blows, and attempts to bull on toward Ebru with murder in his eyes - the rage-born strength in his limbs first straining, then snapping the roots that constrain him!

*Boahn*, knocked to his knees in his frantic efforts to keep out of Marion's tentacular grip, turns his gaze up to where her strange form hovers, and projects his palms toward her again.  Familiar sparks leap between his fingertips, then leap up toward her - but then lurch unexpectedly sideways, earthing into Jakk'ari's totem.  The night elf looks on, bamboozled, as his crucial assault is stolen - then in horror as the sand troll points the forked fingers of one hand back at him, and touches the top of the totem with the other.  The captive lightning snaps out from from troll to elf instantly, sending Boahn reeling back form the power of his own redirected assualt!

*Lord Serpentis* turns his slitted gaze away from Marion's flight to the elves more immediately close.  With swift and rythmic convulsions of his serpent body, he rushes towards the elven sisters - his approach interrupted by an almost imperceptible _click_, and then a burst of ice magic that snap-freezes him in a twisted pillar of ice.  Aleeana breifly looks very pleased with herself -

_"Hah!  Watch where you -...slither, I guess."_

- but then blanches as a flex of ophidian muscles smashes the frozen prison.  Nothing can impede him from closing the distance and striking, then; Aleeana does her best to defend herself, but the axeblow is so fierce it pushes aside her guard and sends her skidding back to thump prone against the mossy wall of the cave - a ribbon of her blood splashed across the floor with her.

*Cobrahn* assists his lord's assault as best he can - by lunging at Isaera, seeking to prevent her from assisting her sister.  He is injured, but not critically; and he weaves back and forth in his loping charge before lunging with poison claw extended towards Isaera's throat.  Then Emilia is there - having crossed the room at an instinctive sprint, slamming into the claw-fighter with her sheild, receiving an off-hand blow to her jaw and spitting blood for her troubles.

*Spoiler: Enemy Turn Summary!*
Show

*Anacondra* uses _Entangling Roots_ on Mor'Lag, and moves back away from her!
*Pythas* double moves towards Ebru and Jakk'ari, and shakes of his own _Entangling Vines_.
*Boahn* attacks Marion with his lightning bolt; but because Jakk'ari used Deflect with the Reflection modifier, Boahn succeeds only in zapping his own butt for another -1 and a _staggered_ conditions.
*Lord Serpentis* charges Aleeana.  He triggers the Freezing Trap she set up in her first turn on the scene, but nails his save, so he is unhindered except cinematically paused.  He wallows Aleeana - she takes a -1, a _staggered_ condition, and is knocked to the ground, _Stunned_.
*Cobrahn* attacks Isaera and hits a 20 - but Emilia uses her Interpose advantage to take the hit.  She takes a -1 injury, and she is dazed, but she saves against the poison!

Player Rolls Required:
Mor'Lag needs to make a *Dodge* resistance check vs *DC14* to escape the Entangling Roots attack, or else be Hindered and Vulnerable on one degree failure, or Defenceless and Immobilized with two or more.  At the end of her turn, if she is hit, she saves against it again with Strength, or Sleight of Hand, her choice.
Marion will regenerate from -2 to -1 at the beginning of this turn.

That's it, for this round - tides of battle receding in some places, rising in others.

*PC/NPC Health Check:*
Marion: -1
Mor''Lag: -1
Jakk'ari: Healthy
Isaera: Healthy
Emilia: -1, Dazed
Aleeana: -1, Staggered, Stunned
Ebru: Emotionally overwhelmed but Healthy.

*Enemy Health Check:*
Boahn: -3, Staggered.
Cobrahn: -2
Pythas: -2
Lord Serpentis: Healthy
Anacondra: Healthy.

Visually in the room, Boahn  is isolated with Marion in the air above him; Anacondra is backed up against the wall with Mor'Lag in pursuit; Jakk'ari and Ebru are being charged by Pythas; and Emilia, Aleeana and Isaera have been dragged into a brawl with Cobrahn and Serpentis.

*Player Turn!  Mor'Lag, Marion, Isaera, and Jakk'ari, your time is now!*

----------


## WindStruck

With all the background combat going on in Isaera's mind, time seemed to slow as the Lord Serpentis barrelled into her sister, hardly even flinching through the ice trap! Isaera stood there stunned, almost unaware of the lackey coming for her, which Emilia managed to swiftly intercept.

Shaken and fearing for her sister's life, Isaera ran to her aid. "Aleeana..! No!" She wasn't dead; she mostly just seemed out of it. Perhaps Aleeana would live through this (she was quite stubborn after all). Still, the brutality of it all, the helplessness Isaera felt, that began to quickly transform into red hot anger. The most enraged she's ever been.

"If you can do anything.." Isaera said, standing to face Lord Serpentis with a murderous glare. Her hands became wreathed in flame, the fires growing larger and hotter, more dangerous than anything she has dared to wield before.

*"then BURN!!"*

Her angry shriek was accompanied by a huge gout of uncontrolled flame directed at the monstrous cobra with arms. Nearly blinded was she by the intense fires and heat. When it was all over, her spent anger and power subsiding, she opened her eyes, squinting, to see a shadow looming in the dissipating smoke.The form of Lord Serpentis slithered forward triumphantly, with a sneer or a grin (honestly hard to tell now), apparently able to easily dodge her clumsy attack.

Isaera would curse in Thalassian, if there was time. Neither ice nor flame could stop this crazed druid. And now he was upon her. What would become of her now?

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Isaera has 0 VP now and is fatigued.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion felt a pang of satisfaction at watching that crazy druid suffer at her hands. But swiftly, the warlocks attention was snapped over to Serpentris and the two elves, Isaera and her sister. 

Seeing the situation they were in, Marion double-took down to Boahn, then back at Serpentis and the elves. 

Gritting her teeth, Marion powered her wings in an uplifting thrust and sailed over to behind Serpentis, her tentacles surging forth...


ooc:
Marion is Moving over behind Serpentis. She's using her Area Line tentacle attack from behind on Serpentis, and attempting to Grab him. DC 18 Strength check, as before.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Sometimes, it seems the world has it out for you; and giving your all to an effort succeeds in only a deeper failure.  But other times, on the barest of margins, everything just sort of comes together.  Scholars have speculated as to whether this means things 'even out' in the final accounting; the divine probing of celestial powers to ensure wrongs are righted, and good deeds rewarded.  Who can say?  But it feels like it's _close_, sometimes.

The shuddering blast of flame, tightly contracted into a blazing sphere of beachball size, zooms and jukes through the air towards the self-declared Serpent King.  Its power seems likely tremendous, but it approaches with the speed of a galloping horse, not a bullet; and the sinewy body of Lord Serpentis merely flexes out of the way of the blast which sails on toward the back of the room.  If his lipless guise would permit him to grin in triumph, he would have done so; and hoisting an axe wet with Isaera's sister's blood, he prepares a strike that might carry force sufficient to cleave the mage's magical barrier and bone alike.

And that blow comes down, thumping into the stone floor about two feet from where Isaera stands.  The source of its paucity is quickly apparent; Marion has rushed from behind, speedily extended and braided the tips of her tentacles with the Serpent King's tail, and jerked back hard so that his lower have pulls back from beneath him, and upper body thumps awkwardly to the ground.  And then, with leverage provided by gripping hands to one of the hanging stallactites and recoiling on her tentacles with all their elastic musculature, she pulls; and Lord Serpentis launches backwards into the air.

"NoooOOooo!  The dreamer must not-"

The declaration is truncated as his body slaps into the emerald window with the vision of his bizarre god, a moment before the pyroblast.  The rupturing spell is briefly deafening; the smell of burned flesh powerful; and the shockwave of the burst felt throughout the cavern.  But more troubling than that is the sight, for those do not instinctively turn their eyes away; the silhouette of the Serpent King, then moments after the reverted form of the night elf Mors'ahn, screaming on an upright bed of burning magic.

Crucified by fire, upon the face of his coldly watching god.

A moment later, when the spell clears, the body does not fall; the blackened body seems almost fused to the now marred and scorched beryl panel.

*Spoiler: OOC Damage Report!*
Show

Damage Report for Marion and Isaera!

Marion's tentacle (just) hit, and he failed to dodge the grab.  He _did_ tank the damage for no trouble; but he rolled poorly for toughness against the pyroblast that was just able to hit him thanks to the vulnerability imposed by the grab.  Rolled a 7, plus a toughness of 5 is 12; which is exactly 15 clear of the DC 27 of a damage 12 attack.  That's a level 4 damage consequence - the Lord Serpentis is out of action, _probably_ dead!

Mor'Lah and Jakk'ari still to act!

----------


## Plaids

With the calamity in full swing restraint was now a luxury. Marion had shed skin like her opponents and Aleeana was down but still breathing. Hopefully this attack wouldn't evaporate the weak link out there. It would be beneficial to have a fanatic to question alongside their victim Ebru. 

Focusing on the ground Jakk'ari coaxes the stones and moisture to envelope and topple the limping cultist. (1d20+8)[*12*]
*Spoiler: Mechanics*
Show

Jakk'ari is going to attack Boahn with a ranged attack. I don't know the exact distances but -2 modifier for ranged attacks and -5 for long ranged ones.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor channels aether and tries to use it to disrupt the bindings surrounding her shared body!  

*Spoiler:  ooc*
Show


The stunt I described, rolling, but not sure what the modifiers are.
(1d20)[*12*]

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Mor'Lag*'s sweeping hand creates a sparking flash of jousting magics; and then the vines coiling around them recoil and dissolve.  This is not the outcome Anacondra had hoped for, naturally; and her countenance begins to show, finally, a creeping fear that perhaps, just perhaps, something _can_ stop the serpent lords.

*Emilia* pursues Pythas as he slogs vengefully towards Ebru - but injured as he is, he deflects her assault with one axe warding behind him; an insulting display of fearless skill, keeping the paladin at bay.

*Ebru* is left to fend for herself then, as her friend-turned-foe closes on her.  Grimacing with the pain of the necessity, she makes her arcane gestures; and wills into being an arcane image of the moon ten feet above *Pythas's* head.  At once, it dispenses a flashing column of pink light that sears and ignites him with its strange fire; dooming his vengeful blow to a clumsy miss.

*Boahn*, still scintillating with the reception of his own lightning bolt,  staggers his wat towards Jakk'ari.  There's enough pep left in him to juke the lash of earth and stone that Jakk'ari has whipped up, but he takes his axe to hand like an elf who much prefers to engage at range - but dares not do so, considering the last outcome.  He can hardly afford to spare a look to his immolated leader - like most serpents, his instincts are solitary, and cold.

*Cobrahn*, battered and aching, is not doing much better.  His first instinct is to leap and finish the downed blood elf - but  as he rushes towards the sisters, Isaera can read his eyes.  His predatorial cunning judges her to be no threat - still, silent, unbreathing - and so his attention swings to the upright elf.  The one who launched such a terrible attack moments ago.  Claw arched back, frost dusting his skin as he pushes through the veil of cold punishment the mage has conjured around herself, he makes a rising strike aiming to punch the poison spikes up behind the elf's ribs and into her heart.

But then *Emilia* is there again, shield pushing into the Kaldorei's face; the poison tips of the claw squeaking and scrabbling off her breastplate as her growl of effort grows to a determined, throaty scream.  Inch by inch, she drives the attacker back, establishing a few feet of distance between him and the sisters Runescribe.

*Lady Anacondra*'s entanglement on the ogress broken so easilly, her path to easilly join and heal her companions complicated, she gives a defiant sneer and takes the only option left to her - a writhing, physical convulsion as the feminine frame loses all its definition, vanishing into ophidian coils.  What is left is a huge snake, pink of scale and featuring superficial pointed elven ears; and it lunges fangs out toward Mor'Lag!

*Spoiler: OOC NPC and Enemy Turns!*
Show

Player Turn Resolutions:

*Jakk'ari*'s attack misses, sadly.  I think you'll find it's closer to +4 to hit and +4 damage, rather than the flat +8 to hit, my friend Plaids, too!

*Mor'Lag* dispels the entangling roots and, presumably, closes the gap again.  She was going to beat you in the opposed roll, but you were targeting the effect, which just challenges the rank of the ability; and you would beat that, with your roll plus rank of a dispel power we would build.  We'll stat it up in post.

NPC Turns:

*Emilia* bonks Pythas but he soaks it like a champ.

*Aleeana* lies quietly on the ground.

*Ebru* zaps Pythas with a Moonfire.  He fails by three degrees, so he's -3 and Staggered, and slated for another whack of damage next turn!

Enemy Turns:

*Serpentis* sizzles in the corner.

*Cobrahn* attacks Isaera and hits, but Emilia uses Interpose, and aces her toughness and fort rolls against both the attack and the poison.

*Pythas* misses Ebru with his swing.

*Boahn* is staggered, so he can only move to close combat range with Jakk'ari.

*Anacondra* is running out of options, so she shapeshifts into a snake and lunges at Mor'lag!  Thats a hit,and a potential grab!


*ROLLS REQUIRED:*

Mor'Lag, I need a *Toughness* check at DC 18 from you from the bite; and a Strength or Dodge check vs DC13 or be fast-grabbed yourself, by this wicked noodle.

Aside from that, the tide has certainly turned in your favor.  Players go now!

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera looks on at the carnage, perhaps a twinge of regret as her fire spell had done _exactly_ what she called it to do. But with the burning hatred of vengeance subsiding, it was all too macabre for her to process, to take ownership of. She did this. She killed another, almost single-handedly, charring the crazed druid to a crips...

This was no time for regret, nor remorse, however. Almost immediately the big snake's lackey was upon her. Emilia saves the day again as she puts herself between Isaera and her assailant, thwarting Cobrahn's attack. A long, sharp, poison-coated claw directly into Isaera's exposed abdomen and up her chest cavity would have most certainly been a deadly blow.

Gasping with surprise at first, Isaera briefly feels safer with Emilia blocking the way. She looks down at her sister, who was.. no! Had Aleeana stopped breathing?! She kneels over her fallen sister, dismissing the frost armor so as to not accidentally give Aleeana some frostburn.

"Aleeana! Please, say something!" This was bad. So bad. Isaera tried to check her wound, but.. there was so much blood. She didn't really know what she was doing.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Welp, Isaera has 0 ranks in treatment. Should probably up that at some point. I really hope Aleeana is just doing that ranger trick "feign death".

This time I'm wasting my turn for real.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

It was with a great satisfaction that Marion held Serpentis aloft to receive the fiery punishment he so richly deserved. The demonic visage the warlock wore smiled. 

'Die filth!' the words resonated within her mind, that smile morphing into a grinning rictus as the tentacles squeezed and compressed the burned flesh, black chunks of charred meat sloughing off from the dead, crazed druid. 

But the day was not yet won. There was still more work to do. 

Casting aside the broken corpse of Serpentis, Marion's attention returned to the annoying insect that had dared to try and harm her earlier. With her wings adjusting their thrust, the demonic-visaged warlock flew over and hovered above *Cobrahn*, her tentacles snaking down from above and behind...

"Ah! Little blue man..." her feminine, oddly sonorous devil voice boomed down.

ooc:

Hovering over to Cobrahn and Line Attack + Grab combo on him. 

DC 19 toughness check, DC 18 strength check or be Grabbed etc. 

ooc:

----------


## MrAbdiel

Isaera crouches over her fallen sister, pushes aside her blood-speckled hair - black, like their mother's.  It can't be this bad, can it...?

*Spoiler: Perception Check Results*
Show

She's not breathing.  Her body rests in a ragdoll heap where fingermarks in the moss preserve a memory of her effort to get back up, before passing out entirely.  There's no shortage of blood - the axe strike was deep, and with dread for what you may not find, you reach out for a pulse...


... then her hand tightens suddenly around the grip of her bow.  In a flash she knocks two arrows she had intended for Serpentis, each held to the string by the gaps in index-middle and middle-ring fingers respectively, and looses both point black into the back of the claw-wielding druid as he is buffeted and spun of Emilia's shield.  They bite deep into him, one into shoulder blade, one into neck beside the spine; and he turns at the indignity of the sneak attack to spit blood and stare with venom... before Marion's tendrils slam into him all at once.  He cracks against the ground hard enough that everyone nearby can see teeth scatter, and hear some deep and fundamental bone - maybe a hip? - snap with the force of it.  Slack and unresponsive, there is nothing to preserve him from being hoisted into the air at the demonist's whim, like a puppet on her strings.

A _Marion-ette_, if you will.

*"Easy, sister..."* Aleeana croaks, wincing but grinning wryly as she rolls painfully to a sit.  *"You nearly blew my shot."*

This oblique, backhanded reassurance, close enough to outright appreciation and affection for Isaera's care, reveals the ruse in full.  She had played possum, Cobrahn had fallen for it; and now they were slowly rolling up the enemy that had moments ago looked likely to kill them all.

"Nice."  Emilia offers with battle-tightened monosyllabism as she takes off across the room again, at a full-plate dead-run towards the swaying Boahn closing on Jakk'ari.  "Next."


*Spoiler: OOC: Isaera, Marion and Aleeana's Resolutions*
Show

You got it, Isaera.  Aleeana was feigning death - a reaction power she can take to effectively perform a deception Trick against nearby targets who witness her take a blow of two or three degrees of severity.  Cobrahn's insight (and Isaera's perception) didn't meet her Deception, so she appeared out-of-action enough to be entitled to attack him as if he were vulnerable (half defenses).  She chose to combine her attack with the next person attacking him, which happened to be Marion; and by their powers combined, another one bites the dust.  Marion would have hit him and clobbered him for a 2 degree hit anyway, but a team attack _multi attack_ against a vulnerable target makes a big difference.  She nailed it with three degrees, which both added 5 to the rank of the impacting attack, and increasing the difficulty separately by 5 for the multi-attack - grading it all the way up to a 4 degree knockout.

With Isa, Aleeana and Marion done, it's Jakk'ari and Mor'Lag's turns.  For the record, Emilia is looking to team attack with Jakk'ari against Boahn, and Ebru is going to continue trying to lock-down and finish Pythas.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

The damage wrought by the demons tentacles upon Cobhran's body was best left undescribed. The crazed druid was yanked into the air and...neutralised. 

The grim deed done and the left-overs spilling down across the floor far below, Marion turned to survey the rest of the field for where she might be of the most use next.

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

Seeing Emelia's renewed confidence, it was now time neutralize the duplicitous elf in front of them who had abandoned his oath as a steward to the natural world. The stumbling gait of the deceiver Boahn failed to secure him safety from Jakk'ari and Emelia.

Preparing to strike him up close Jakk'ari selects to aim a strike at Boahn's wrist to bring the defensively postured weapons back upon Boahn with concussive force.
 Now Emelia, bring him down! 
(1d20+1)[*13*]
*Spoiler: Mechanics*
Show

Jakk'ari is going to attempt a team attack with Emelia after moving into melee with Boahn.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Emilia* comes from one side, *Jakk'ari* from the other.  Jakk'ari's palm catches the distracted druid's wrist and drives the haft of his axe back into his face, cracking his nose and smearing his lip instantly with blood; and Emilia tries to barrel him to the ground on the face of her shield to end his contest. But drunk on adrenaline, and refunded voltage, the staggered* Boahn* persists - with the courage of a fanatic, even in this desperate, losing fight.

*Spoiler: OOC: Jakk'ari and Emilia's Resolution*
Show

Emilia let you down, Jakk'ari!  Or rather, she rolled terrible, so she didn't contribute to the hit.  You hit, but he also rolled a 19 on the dice to soak the damage - even with his present -3 to toughness checks, he totters on.  All it'll take is one lousy roll and he'll go out, but he's there for now.

Mor'Lag, and Ebru, remaining to act.  Need Mor'Lag's resistance to the bite 'n and grab, too.  Feather's still in super-busy mode, but I'll give her a little more time to find room for a post before I take the noble burden of rolling dice on her behalf.  Boahn and Pythas still both at -3 and Staggered.  Anacondra unharmed, snake-morphed and lashing out against Mor'Lag who has boxed her in and given her little chance to heal in this fight.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Anacondra*, now in serpentine form herself, launches forward at the ogress, seeking to sink fangs into the ogress and establish a crushing coil; but the quick defensive instincts of the two-minds defending bring both flat palms to bear, clapping on the approaching snake head and shutting the lunging mouth.  It's all Anacondra can do to recoil and slip out of the grip; making another hesitant, noncommital dart forward to nip at the air but daring not over expose herself.

*Pythas* has finally closed on Ebru; with shreds of blackening vine hanging off him, pink moonfire searing and licking at his flesh.  Ebru makes a wild swing with her staff; but her towering Kaldorei opponent drops one axe to catch the middle of the shaft in mid swing, halting its approach flatly as the slim apprentice druid stuggles at the other end of the weapon...

*Spoiler: NPC and Mor'Lag's Resolutions!*
Show

Don't sweat it, Feather; I'll look after Mor'lag and you jump back in when you can.  But I aced the defence rolls, so she is neither hurt nor grabbed!  Unfortunately, I also aced Anacondra's defense rolls, and she's neither hurt nor grabbed in response.  You seem evenly matched!

*Mor'Lag* hits, but fails to wound or grab, Anacondra's serpent form.
*Ebru* swings at Pythas but he soaks the attack comfortably.


But with a snarl that dies out in his throat, Pythas collapses; the whispers of colored flame - Elune's judgement, some might say - finally guttering out after driving him into unconsciousness.

*Boahn*, still stumbling and now wheezing with desperate fanaticism, tries to get his axe to contact with the troll; but Emilia forces her way in and receives a ringing blow on her shield arm that elicits a grunt of pain from her and the collapse of her guard for a moment.  Boahn appears to be more of a caster than melee combatant; but he is still a foot taller than Emilia, and his blows, even flagging, are a hard rain on her defenses.

*Spoiler: Enemy Resolutions!*
Show

*Serpentis and Cobrahn are both well and truly out of the fight.*

*Anacondra* strikes at Mor'Lah, and misses.  And hisses.

*Boahn* swings and hits Jakk'ari, but Emilia continues to do her job and uses Intervene to take the hit.  It's a 2 degree hit - she's at a -1 penalty, and is dazed next turn.

*Pythas* wants to swing, but he rolled a natural 1 on his toughness check against the secondary effect of the moonfire.  Even at its reduced rank for the second attack, he gets a 4 degree failure.  Even a 3 degree would have done it!  So he's out.

It's PC actions again!  Finish them!  Only the battered *Boahn* and the untouched *Anacondra* remain standing.  Marion also heals again this round - she has fully recovered from her injuries, now.

----------


## WindStruck

With the tide of the battle shifting, and Aleena turning out to be.. well, okay, Isaera is filled with renewed hope and confidence.

"You fools! Yield before there is yet more unnecessary bloodshed!" Isaera cries. The fact that she had a scare for her sister's life, and she (almost) single-handedly took the life of one of the others, burning him to an over-done crisp, didn't sit well with her. If she could help it, she would avoid killing anyone. And yet, that feeling.. when it came to protecting Aleena or avenging her.. she would do it all over again.

Isaera begins to prepare arcane energies within her hands again, intent on shooting more arcane missiles, but she hesitates. She does not release them yet.

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

Maybe I could try a Persuasion?  (1d20+14)[*34*]

----------


## MrAbdiel

Fanatics they are; but not suicide cultists, it seems.    Lady Anacondra - the one the party would later understand was once called Scarletleaf -  sees sense first.  As she melts back into an elven form, the hands that manifest from her sides are raised in bitter surrender, palms up, and raised.  

_"It's over, Boahn.  They've ruined it all.  There are too few of us, now."_

Boahn, smoking and bloodied, is locked against Emilia's shield... but after a despairing look at his decimated grovemates, he finally just sinks to his hands and knees, breathing shakily, clenching his fists.  The combat is over; the druids subdued or killed.  Ebru dashes to Boahn's side and, after a brief checking look at the group, begins to cast a renewing spell on her badly battered companion.  Having been commited to killing her if he had to moments ago, Boahn receives the spell with laconic despair.

With the hostility over, the creature beyond the emerald glass window seems to lose interest in the scene; its more complex emotions imperceptible behind the rigid grin of its serpentine features.  With a whisper of distant coils, it slips out of view; and now, the gore-smeared panel shows only the plant-choked, supernatural jungle beyond it.

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

With a natural 20 Persuasion to stop fighting a losing battle, the Druids of the Fang cut their losses and cease hostility.  The battle is over, and we're back into RP time.


_"I'm sorry!"_  The younger druidess calls to the victorious interlopers, almost cringing with heartbroken sincerity.  _"We didn't mean for any of this!  I didn't mean for any of this!  This isn't what was supposed to happen!"_

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera harmlessly releases the arcane energies, and she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose with weariness. "Well, if someone doesn't mind explaining.. what _was_ supposed to happen? This whole area is in chaos, and over half a dozen druids were missing."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

The warlock descended slowly down on the ground to softly place her feet upon the earth. Her skin softened, her frame diminished and her dimensions seemed to compact in upon itself until Marion's lovely form was returned to normal.

----------


## MrAbdiel

_"It was supposed to bring life to his place!"_  She sputters, kneeling down and pressing her face into the heels of her palms.  _"This region was once verdant forest.  Beautiful, pristine wilderness like Ashenvale, where the creatures did not need to starve and scavenge to pick out lives in waterless stretches of dry weeds.  When Then'Ralore still stood, there was life here; but after the great ruination of the land so long ago, it became this, which we call now 'Barren'.  Our dream was to bring life back to this place - to just... draw the Dream a little closer, so its power could be felt through and the ecosystems would become a little hardier, and more nourished.  But...We-we-we didn't completely understand the magics involved, and -"
_

Ebru stops as Anacondra cuts her off.  _"We understood very little indeed - but now we understand more than we ever did, as part of the Circle.  Cenarius was once warden of the wilds, but he is dead.  Without a new patron of the same power to safeguard our wilds, all these efforts are for naught.  And damn the Circle's blindness, if they cannot see it!"_

This triggers something in Ebru, who shoots to her feet and crosses the room at pace to the hissing heap of snakes piled up against its edge.  With a whirl of her hands, she communes with the animals; and they scatter at once into the cracks and crevices of the cave... revealing the two still (but quietly breathing) forms of unconscious Tauren they had previously concealed.  Here, then, seems to be the missing druids send to investigate the first pack; incapacitated through unobvious means.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera purses her lips in thought. "You know.. that seems a lot like a predicament my ancestors were in long ago. We all thought we knew better, but made a terrible mistake. They were exiled, but.. I suppose, after thousands and thousands of years or so, we had quite a prosperous society?" She didn't exactly know what point she was making just yet, but at least, perhaps, a little story to relate?

"I don't think I would want the world looking _quite_ like that, though," she says, pointing to the emerald window choked with life in life upon life. "..or to be a snake," she adds.

"Just a thought.. it would seem The Barrens lacks _water_. Wouldn't it have been more simple to call water over the lands, with a close connection to the elements?"

Noting the Tauren druids, Isaera looks a bit concerned. "Oh dear. I hope you didn't..."

----------


## Feathersnow

Lag tries to glare at Mor.  She can't bend her neck far enough.  *"This is exactly the kind of thing magic always causes.*

Mor looks confused.  As far as she ever understood things, the Druids were entirely in the right.  But, apparently, something had gone wrong and they attacked rather than admit to it.

She sheepishly asks "How can we move forward?"

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion listened to the vaunted hopes of the druid, and she did so with a pang of sympathy. The warlock understood what it was like to strive for a new homeland, a recreation, the rebirth to something glorious. 

"Do not bite at the bait of pleasure, till you know there is no hook beneath it. Trust me on that," Marion spoke firmly but gently to the Night Elf.

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*
Jakk'ari relaxes and wipes some of soot and fetid plant matter provided by Isaera and Marion's magics.
The nightelves' woes were familiar. A disgruntled group having seen the degradation of their shared pride and home. Who else Isaera would have appealed to their virtues?
 Us Farraki also know of ruination of our empire of Zul by the demon queen. I know the pain but resent your daggers. But you will be judged not by us but the Cenarion Circle. 
I must ask. If you were using the Emerald Dream why does arcane magic permeate these halls?

----------


## MrAbdiel

> "Just a thought.. it would seem The Barrens lacks water. Wouldn't it have been more simple to call water over the lands, with a close connection to the elements?"


"Reviving a land takes more than simply directing _water._"  The surrendered Lady Anacondra takes it upon herself to deflect Isaera's commend; her words, some what appropriately, venomous in their tone.  _"The entire interplay of living and unliving things is skewed.  But first must come spirit, or else tampering will do more damage than good!"_

_"Well that'd be a shame."_  Aleeana adds, as she mills slowly over to the gathering with a hand over her bleeding wound - drifting a little towards Jakk'ari, in presumptuous hope of remedy. _ "But I figure we might want to hear from fewer snake-cultists for the rest of this."_

Aleeana and Anacondra exchange baleful looks, but the night elf does not, in her position as prisoner, return fire.




> "Do not bite at the bait of pleasure, till you know there is no hook beneath it. Trust me on that," Marion spoke firmly but gently to the Night Elf.


Ebru glances back over her shoulder at Marion.  There's room for contest, against her encouragement; but she just dims her lambent eyes, in tacit receipt.  Everyone in that room, after all, was either a refugee of a fallen kingdom, or a latter generation living in the memory of the same.  She turns her efforts to the unconscious Tauren before her, the green ribbons of life magic working between her fingertips.




> Lag tries to glare at Mor. She can't bend her neck far enough. "This is exactly the kind of thing magic always causes.
> 
> Mor looks confused. As far as she ever understood things, the Druids were entirely in the right. But, apparently, something had gone wrong and they attacked rather than admit to it.
> 
> She sheepishly asks "How can we move forward?"


"That is the question, for sure."  Emilia chimes in; having finished tying the hands of Pythas and Boahn, and moving on to perform the same favor for Anacondra.  She doubts how useful such mortal restraints are for folk who can shapeshift, but it'll stop them from grabbing at weapons without a little delay, atleast.  "I have to guess that you were successful, Miss Runescribe, and the other breach is contained for now.  But it seems like the kind of thing we'll need to pass off to the Kirin Tor."




> "Us Farraki also know of ruination of our empire of Zul by the demon queen. I know the pain but resent your daggers. But you will be judged not by us but the Cenarion Circle.  I must ask. If you were using the Emerald Dream why does arcane magic permeate these halls?"


_"Because they failed to understand the nature of the realms.  One cannot cast a spell to bring the Dream 'closer'.  It's over, and through, and all around; not locationally divided from us in a simple way.  All you can do is make a location like this one thinner; and then it's thinner to all realms pressing on it."_

This, from the black furred tauren; walking groggilly with his tawny furred counterpart as Ebru, having abolished their soporific poisonings, walks alongside sheepishly.

_"You have our thanks, friends; as deep as our lives.  It's the least we can do to explain what you must have found here - but first, if you will help, there is one more captive who needs assistance."_

* * * * *
The tauren druids, Muyoh and Nalpak, explain what they can on the way to the Dreamer's chamber.  When they arrived, they found the wildlife of the caverns had been greatly corrupted by something they call the _deviate_ effect - a kind of contagious madness and low-grade mutation that has been found expressed in multiple places across Azeroth - its cause so far unknown.  They were forced to cull the local raptor and flying serpent populations when they arrived, but found no sign of the druids - except Naralex, caught in his Nightmare.  Not knowing enough to risk attempting to wake him without interrogating his comrates,  they explored as best they could.  Going east, they got as far as Verdan before deciding they lacked the strength to euthanize the arcane-tainted guardian.  Going west, they found the Druids of the Fang, who appeared initially to welcome their arrival, but then fell on them in an ambush and overpowered them.

_"I didn't know they were going to do that."_ Ebru adds, insistently.  _"When they said they were going to_ kill_ you, I fled to the outside and I had intended to go back to the Circle to get help.  But Lady Scarletleaf ... promised me they wouldn't do it; and I didn't want to leave Naralex behind in such a state..."_

"The strange traces we found outside at the oasis - the druid traces that led out from the caverns, then back in again."  Emilia says, with a sigh of catharsis of a puzzle piece finally slipping into place.

Ebru fills in much of the remaining mystery.  They had come, a circle of seven, to attempt Naralex's dream of restoring the Barrens to verdant glory.  His naive goal required him first to spirit-walk to the dream, and establish on that side similar magics to those they had used in the Dreamer's chamber to 'thin' the walls between planes.  But his spirit's arrival in that place was not easy, or comfortable; indeed, the visions of flight and fear suggested he was stuck, even _lost_, in a place not as wholesome and vital as they had hoped.

And with that thinning, they had permitted something to issue through from the other side - not quite a physical summoning, but space for the influential, sibilant whispers of the snake being on the other side to contact the Druids who had begun casting across the gap.  Ebru, most junior among the casters and taking the least pivotal role in the ritual, was least effected - she recalls a burst of intrusive thoughts, but her overwhelming fear for the welfare of Naralex, with whim she clearly has some level of infatuation, crowded it out.  The other five druids, it seems, were quickly turned: now serving a new master, with Ebru following along in fear and bewilderment, hoping to talk sense into her deluded companions.

But the ritual had had _another_ unintended consequence - it had drawn close the veins of arcane power that run beneath the substrate of this magical world, even at one point to the surface where it breached  and began to saturate the area in arcane power. It also created an ambient magical opposition to druidic magics - and if they were to create a way for their new patron to surge into the world, they would need their full strength.  So they left Naralex where he lay, an idle anchor between worlds like a; and moved to the west most cavern, where they continued dabbling with the magics Naralex thought he had mastered.  When Muyoh and Nalpak arrived looking for them, their first instinct was to kill them before they could raise alarm to the Circle proper - but with Ebru close to defecting, they took them instead as prisoner, fearing both that they might need her participation in a ritual to come,  and could certainly not afford her raising an alarm herself.

Thus, the situation you had found when you arrived - two halves of the cavern flooded with opposing magics, a central ritual chamber touched by both, and a sleeping druid whose hubris had created not one, but two bleeding wounds in the world he was trying to heal.  The elements, repulsed by the disturbance of the order of things, had fled; and only your timely intervention has made it possible even to put things right.

With the balance of powers changed, some of the madness that had come over the druids of the fang seems to have left them.  They are disillusioned zealots, now; their movement had failed, and when given the offer of assisting in the ritual to bring Naralex back to his body - a man who was once their friend and mentor - in exchange for some small consideration before the Circle that would judge them, they are sullenly pliable.  With Muyoh and Nalpak, they have enough druids to stand at the six points around the altar and draw the spirit of their companion home.

It is... difficult to explain the circumstances of all that has transpired to him; and when he wakes, he sits up in a great hysterical cry before Ebru comforts and calms him.

With the ley-line capped, and the living tether to Dream recalled to his body, the magical situation here has graduated to _stable._  With only two of the dangerous fanatics paying a mortal price for the folly, the outcome seems about as good as it could be.

* * * * *
Outside, it is very dark; and you are very tired.  But it's also cool, and fair, and peaceful; and a harmony of crickets, and a few lonely warbling frogs, echo from the pools nearby where no life lingered at all when you arrived.

_"We will take them for judgement, now; and we will let Mathrengyl Bearwalker know you answered you answered the Circle's call with speed, and diligence.  You have our debt - perhaps, in time, there will be chance to repay it."_  
Muyoh shakes hands in his huge mits when he can, genuinely happy to be alive, as Nalpak deals with the captives - one at a time requiring them to take the form of a small songbird within his grip, only to be placed within a wicker cage for just such creatures.

"Alright.  If there's any questions for the shape-shifters, or souvenirs to take, now's the time.  Though I think we ought to make camp - maybe under the stars, tonight.  I'm sick of stone roofs." Emilia thumbs sadly at the dents and scratches over over her armor - the product of tumbling and bumbling through the dark caverns, and very little of it from actual combat.  "Which reminds me - why're you here, Aleeana?  And did you just get lucky finding us when you did?"

_"I'm here because I barely put my ass to chair at the Crossroads Inn before I picked up a courier gig to get a letter to you guys - and it's official enough I decided to take it seriously.  But it wasn't luck - once I got to the Caverns, I saw I could go left or right; but someone left markers."_  Aleeana jerks her thumb towards Jakk'ari - whose supply of marking sticks with fern leaves had been by now exhausted, but it seems, not without benefit.  _"They pointed right, so I went right.  Most of you must have been coming back by the narrow tunnel while I was making my way up the up the riverflow; but I ran into Isa as she was finishing up at that end.  Oh, and that reminds me..."_  She gestures to the patch of ground in the near distance, where the plants have been desiccated and ruined.  _"Did you... get into a fight out here, too?"_

*Spoiler: OOC!*
Show

Hooah!  Mission complete!  Any lingering questions, or nice little RP tie ups to instigate, now's the time.  The druids you saved are about to escort the druids whose asses you kicked to justice, after which it's probably nap time for tired adventurers.  But if you've other stuff to do that I've missed or forgotten, now's the time!

----------


## WindStruck

Addressing the druids, Isaera says, "If at all possible, I will try to speak on your behalf. It would be understandable, after all, if some outside influence changed your mind and clouded your judgement. As for restoring the Barrens..."

"Please, believe me and take my words seriously. I know a thing or two about science and the nature of the world without actually having much spiritual talent. What I do know is that life spreads of its own accord, whenever possible. The Barrens _could_ simply use more water. Perhaps other things as well.. fertilization? But in any case, the transition I had in mind to bring life to the Barrens would be very slow. All life needs is a foothold though. Perhaps, over some generations, you could help nurture new ecosystems that can support more life. In any case, I feel your attempt here with the Emerald Dream, while your goals were noble, was one of those situations that was too good to be true. You might bring life to all of The Barrons instantly, but then at what cost?"

-----

Isaera nods at Aleeana's question. "Centaurs," she sighs. "I rather feel _we_ started the fight.. and by we I mean Marion. But in any case, it turned into a conflict that got everyone involved. We drove away the centaurs for the time being."

"Speaking of the missive.. what does it say? Why don't we read it now?"

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag watch with awe.  They were raised to treat magic with great respect.  These were truly wonderous workings of a mature and degree most never got to see.  But the twins had, in their small way, helped precipitate them!

Afterwards, they are silent, Lag still digesting Mor's heresy, Mor still considering the ramifications of voicing it.  Both have little to say to the prisoners.  They lost, but were useful alive.  Among Ogres, the second would mean more than the first, given the nature of their crime was one of ambition, not passion or desperation.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion watched the druids work their magic, a skeptical eye and raised eyebrow offering little wonder as to the suspicions the warlock had for such energies. 

It wasn't that it wasn't appreciated or had it's use. It just felt...unusual. Vegetation spurred to life and existence by _magic_? Surely it carried a residue of those works somehow. Afterall, the arcane and fel energies of her and Isaera's processes lingered within the the fruits of their magical labour, so why not the druids? If one ate an apple grown from a tree that had sprouted forth at the behest of a druid's spell, had one imbibed such energies into their system? What were the long term consequences?

Well, it confirmed Marions earlier suspicions that the Void was involved. _That_ was why the vegetation here seemed so...unnatural, that was origin of the berserk vine creature. Imagine if such a thing had been allowed to propagate and spread throughout the Barrens at the direction of these lunatics and their Void-infused snake god? What a catastrophe that would have been.

The engineer within the warlock pursed her lips and shook her head slowly. For all the ways that mages and druids turned to her and her fel works and wagged their fingers with a 'tut tut tut and your quick route to power!', it sure seemed to Marion that the druids were trying just as hard to turn the Barrens into a verdant tract of life the easy way. 

There were river run offs into the Barrens. The landscape was dotted with oases. It would be a generational effort to achieve, but a skilled and committed population could create a series of irrigation canals that brought life-creating water to the farthest reaches of the Barrens. Within a few decades, such a people would be rewarded with arable land. 

But, that was just Marion and her stupid "safe and secure practicality". Yes, much better to try and force the issue _now_ using dangerous magics in collusion with cold, hideous snake gods from other dimensions. Yes, truly the wisdom of the druids was a wonder to behold. 

"Centaurs," Isaera sighs. "I rather feel we started the fight.. and by we I mean Marion. But in any case, it turned into a conflict that got everyone involved. We drove away the centaurs for the time being."

The mention of her name pulled the warlock out of her reflections, as she turned a curious eye in the direction of the elven sisters. 

"The centaur are blood-thirsty lunatics. They were either in the process of reconnaissance or laying an ambush. I took the initiative, and they came off worse for wear," she stated plainly and unrepentantly, fully confident in her earlier decision.

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

Jakk'ari hearing Isaera's sentiments recounts a story of his own involving forestry gone awry.

 The night elves disrupted the land hoping to bring back a forest but brough unforeseen dangers closer to Azeroth. Reminds me of a time when I was Gadgetzan. 
The one of their bosses wanted bigger profits, deals, and margins so he began to alter the landscape with his "Enormous Terraformus" project. He lead crews to drill wells, haul fertilizer from the mines, and seed the dessert around Gadgetzan. Eventually Gadgetzan had it's own timber forest ready to be harvested by their clankin' shredders. Wine spilled from the rooftops into the streets as new gold flowed to Gadgetzan and the bay became goblin green. But the goblins plans had brought their own unseen threats.
One night when the moon had fully waned a swarm descended upon Gadgetzan from the harbor. Murloc tidecallers lead the assault flooding the streets as their warrions collapsed the mines, collapsed the wells, and burned the forest before slipping beneath the waves. The murlocs had been enraged like never before all due to goblin forestry. 
The goblins fertilizer had drained into the bay creating a carpet of algae blotting out the sun. Having been denied the sun all other aquatic plants soon perished. And without the plants the local fish died, starving the murlocs earning the goblins the fury of the murlocs. Just goes to show that ye can't light a flame and place a stone without casting a shadow. 
Concluding his tale of goblin humiliation Jakk'ari pivots to a more somber subject. The topic would need to be breached eventually as they embarked upon more missions for the Concordant.

 The night elves began with a noble goal to restore the verdant forests once found in the barrens. They believed they were doing what was right but soon they came to assault and arrest their fellow druids. We may come against other groups who also believe they are doing the right thing in the future. In my travels I have heard of many of the dispossessed in Azeroth. The exodus of alterac, the destruction of the Sunwell, the arrival of the ogres on an alien Azeroth, and the burning of Stormwind. I must ask you all before it is too late. Can you decide in your heart to stand against your own people if need be. You don't need answer tonight or to me, but you soon discover the answer soon. 

Jakk'ari sits down upon a bedroll preparing to rest from the excursion into Wailing Caverns.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Ebru lingers, listening to the discussion; considering the advice offered.  With Isaera's suggestion, she remains a little shell-shocked from the preceding events; but latches on to one part, at least.

_"You are right, certainly, that it will take time.  It cannot - or atleast, oughtn't, be forced.  Thousands of years.  Tens of thousands.  Or perhaps..."_

She glances out over the barrens; the scrappy savannah that extends out for miles with the occasional squat acacia tree rendered silver in the starlight, bracing for another day of oppressive sunlight to come.  Somewhere in the distance, a couple of nightjars trill their evening songs.  A trio of giraffes roam in the grasses, as alert and mobile at night as they are during the day.  The chorus of cicadas thickens to an ambient buzz.

Ebru casts a glance north.  That way, for those familiar with the Barrens geography and military history, stands the lush but contested forests of Ashenvale, where the forest demigod Cenarius fought the orcs, and died defending the forest.  Beyond that are mountains, and at the crown of the highest, a skyline which has been amputated of its most stark feature - the majesty World Tree, Hyjal, sacrificed to throw back the Legion.  The sacred heart of the Kaldorei, and the source of their immortality, split and broken after ten thousand years.

_"Perhaps we would do better to mourn Then'Ralore.  It is gone.  But life has endured here; even if not in the ways that most please our longings."_

She glances after the Tauren, now hoofing their way south across the land east toward the road, perhaps towards Camp Taurajo, or as far as Mulgore; and then back to Naralex; kneeling in silent self council beside the recovering waters of the oasis.  Her thoughts are written on her face: she wonders if the Tauren are more natural stewards of the savannah; if perhaps, this endeavour had been more about the Kaldorei and their empire receding while the Horde settle and expand, than it was about nature's recovery.

_"I don't know.  I don't know.  But thank you.  If not for you, I would be dead; or worse, more complicit in something terrible than I am.  Ande'thoras-ethil, heroes: may your troubles scatter before you."_

* * * * *
With the druids gone, the group is left to consider Jakk'ari's words hanging in the air - Can you decide in your heart to stand against your own people, if need be?  Emilia and Aleeana take him up on his offer to decline to answer right away.  The weight of the question is unpleasant, indeed; however necessary it may ultimately be.

_"Oh, right - the missive."_  Aleeana produces an impressively official looking package - a slim leather envelope stitched shut, circled with a strip of red mageweave cloth stamped with a big, black wax seal featuring the Horde's distinctive crest; with a small central superimposition of the stylized portrait facing of a wolf's head - the Frostwolf Clan emblem, turning the horde's symbol into the mark of the Warcheif.  She passes it to Jakk'ari, somewhat instinctively because of his diplomatic tendency; though Mor'Lag might be a more natural Orcish reader, and Emilia looks mildly put out for being passed over.  Within are two vellum sheets; the first adorned only with large, blocky orcish lettering, and the other more fine and formal, with the seal present once more.

*Spoiler: A Letter Penned By A Large Hand*
Show


_
"Mor'Lag Voidfist, Jakk'ari, Marion, Isaera, Zachary;

Victory and power to you.

The Stonemaul have not forgotten your valor against the demons.  Our mounds are destroyed and many are dead, but so many endure because you were willing to step into the green fires when the way was open for you to flee. 
 You owed us nothing, but gave us your strength; we do not forget our debt.

Our Overlord, Mok'Morokk, perished in the dragonfire.  Leadership falls to me, though I am old.  I make the best decisions I can.  The Horde have given us shelter; we have debt to them now, too.  That is a debt we can repay only with strength, and the Stonemaul formally join the Horde very soon.

There is a ceremony called the Armistice Ball soon to take place in Orgimmar.  Its primary purpose is to honor the peace between Horde and Alliance; but other matters are to be recognized there also.  There will be many dignitaries and delegations from both factions present.  Recognition of the Stonemaul has been appended to the agenda in the final hour, and I have been permitted invite a certain number of guests.  Though most are Stonemaul, it would honor me if you would attend so I may honor you in turn.  We do not forget friends of the Stonemaul.

Your Friend,

Oro Manflinger."

Spoiler: An appendix, in carefully drawn Ogre Runes:
Show

Mor'Lag Voidfist,

I know this may mean the end of your desire to pledge to the Stonemaul.  Do not think worse of us for honoring our debt to those who have sheltered us.  I would support your pledge still, if you can stand behind the pledges we make to the banner of the New Horde; but I would not think less of you if you choose to be merely our friend.
_

This letter, from the ogre with the broken horn who fought the infernals with you and then inherited the undesired mantle of refugee leader during their flight to Brackenwall, seems likely to have been penned by his large awkward fist, even if it has been validated by the office of the Warcheif by its presense with the other document, in the sealed envelope.



*Spoiler: An Invitation To The Second Annual Armistice Ball*
Show


This is a formal invitation to an event; it is hand scribed, but a keen eye can spot slight variances in the ink where names and numbers have been later inserted after mass production of the majority document.  It is presented in Orcish, with common translations for the major header and footer.

_The Company of Mor'Lag Voidfist and Four Additional Guests are hereby invited by bond of Oro Manflinger to attend the Second Annual Armistice Ball in celebration of Four Years of peace between the Horde and Alliance.  Events Include:

Signing of the Theramore-Orgrimmar Trade Accord by the Lady Jaina Proudmoore and Warcheif Thrall
The Return of the Bow Thas'Dorah to the Lady Vereesa Windrunner
State of the War Against the Scourge Address by Lord Maxwell Tyrosus
Renewal of the Treaty of Hyjal by the Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage and Vol'Jin of the Darkspear Tribe
And sundry other matters!

Libations by Chen Stormstout
Catering by Gremlock Pilsnor of Kharanos and Pyall Silentstride of Mulgore

Dress Code is Eclectic Formal
Please present this invitation at the gates of Orgrimmar's Armistice Booth.  This invitation is only valid for Mor'Lag Voidfist and companions.

Steemwheedle Events Looks Forward To Your Arrival!_

The listed date is only seven days from now.



_"...Well, I'm glad I hustled.  That's not much time to spare.  Making good time on foot and picking up a ride at the Crossroads, you'll barely get there in time."_  Aleeana states; a tiny spectre of jealousy in her voice at not being invited, with Emilia likely to occupy Zachary's empty slot.

"Or we can head straight back to Ratchet, have a day of rest in our own beds and a chance to get formal wear, and try to wrangle a zepplin.  I'd be very surprised if Mayor Gazlowe wasn't going to the same shindig; and he's not going to walk."  Emilia supplies, as a counterpoint.

_"Well, I guess it's your backsides on the line - but you won't catch me climbing into a flying vessel made by goblins.  There's less embarassing ways to die."_

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera looks at her sister somewhat annoyed at first. "Well, if you refuse to ride one of those things, _that's fine with me_... After all, it's not like you were invited to this event anyway," she says a little smugly, before immediately feeling bad.

She sighs. "Well, I suppose I wish you could come. But I guess you would rather be doing other things anyway, hmm?"

*Spoiler: ooc*
Show

So it seems we might have skipped over this idea I had about Aleeana?  Well I just breifly mentioned I had an idea but did not specify.

If her eyes are still green, and she wanted to try to change it back to blue, I had an idea. She could probably drink a lot of that oasis water while it was still infused with mana, and maybe that would flush her systems out?

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion was conflicted on the news of their invitation to a celebration and dressed event within Orgrimmar. 

On the one hand, she'd have to travel _to Orgrimmar_, and place herself among more orcs than she'd eve be comfortable being around. Those people had tried to wipe hers out! Had the orcs had their way decades ago, the human race would be mostly extinct, with some hold outs in the mountains and others wearing chains and collars. It was hard to let such brutal attempted transgressions slide.


But on the other hand, she'd get to dress up! Ohhh it had ben a long time since Marion could wear a beautiful dress, do her hair up properly and sparkle at an event! What's more, she had some _wealth_ now. Even at this very moment, the apparatus of her business ventures had been set in place to operate independently of her supervision, the gold it generated flowing into the coffers of her resurgent House Mordis. That was _her money_. And through careful methods of accounting, she had plenty to spare to visit the expansive networks of the goblins in search of a beautiful dress, some jewels and perfumes!

Yes. She would be the Belle of the Ball!

After all, what competition did she have?

Orc girls? When compared with a pig farm maybe!

The cow-women? Mooo!

The walking corpses whose boobs probably weren't even her own?

Yes...Marion could see it all now. House Mordis, once thought extinct, finally makes its triumphant return upon the stage of high society - the scion of its name the most elegant and beautiful woman present!


Meanwhile, outside of Marion's mind, the world continued.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: A little later, between the sisters Runescribe:*
Show

Sitting together by the waters of the arcane-drenched oasis, Isaera and Aleeana chat.  Aleeana's general attitude of drama-seeking and oppositional reflex seems to have rounded off with the abundance of freedom she is experiencing; bringing her to Ratchet to stretch her legs, rather than leaving her at home driving your mother insane, might well have been the right choice.  But on the subject of her eyes, after a thoughtful moment trailing her fingertips in the oasis waters, she declines ones again.

_"No...  Thank you, Isa; but I do like them, really.  It reminds me, and others I meet, that I'm the kind of person who will sacrifice to adapt.  I'm okay with that.  I promise not to sprout horns or wings.  But maybe, if you like, we take a couple of water skins back with us, in case Tarien wants to test your theory.  He's less convicted about the matter than I am - he might like to try to restore the old blue."_

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Sister, Sister...*
Show

Isaera shakes her head.  "The water in this oasis quickly loses its magic properties once removed...  and I fear, since I managed to seal up the massive tear in the ley line, soon this water will become fairly mundane once again as well.  So it's now or never."

In one last bid to sway her sister, she says, "_I suppose_, if you did happen to try this little experiment, and your eyes did revert back to blue..." she hesitates before saying exactly what she had planned to, "Well, you do know exactly how to change them back to green, don't you?"

She dips her own little glass into the oasis waters, and lifts it for a toast. "I did plan on drinking just a little and seeing how it felt. I remember, just the thought of it before made my mouth water." She chuckles to herself, and thinking of this drink to come, plus all the mana she was suffused with in the Wailing Caverns, she hoped she wouldn't get more addicted to it.

"Hm. On second thought..  this might sound crazy saying this, but I think I've had far too much mana for one day." She pours the water back into the oasis.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Sister, Sister, Pt 3.*
Show

Aleeana listens, and watches Isaera talk herself into, and out of, drinking the mana-drenched water; and finally adopts a look of imperious, if not uncaring scrutiny.

"...Would _you_ feel better, if I tried it?  And ... how confident are you that it's not going to be any kind of negative result..?"

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Sister Sister the Quilogy*
Show

Quite frankly, Isaera shrugs and says, "Yes, I guess I _would_ feel better. Though you can think me silly all you want because of it. But I guess it doesn't matter, Aleeana. They're _you're_ eyes, and they're beautiful either way..."

Isaera moves to get up, though if her sister's attitude doesn't remain so hostile, it might only be to stretch. "And yes, I already did some tests before we went in. It's simply been infused with pure mana. After dealing with the source, it all makes sense. If there are any side effects, they're probably no different than from natural sources of water you may find, like if a bird pissed upstream."

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Sister Sister 5: Return to Sister Island*
Show

_"I will think it, and I will say it.  You are silly."_

But then she's kneeling and scooping the water into her palms in handfuls, and drinking it all the same.  Typical Aleeana - provoke with words; concede with actions.

The outcome of the experiment is mixed.  Aleeana drinks about as much as she can stand (complaining to you mildly each time she is required to sneak off to relieve herself during the evening); but you aren't wrong about the mana content.  Aleeana's cheeks flush with color after each deep draught, and her reported experience is positive - better than dream dust, if a felt a little different ingesting in liquid.  It's something like a hard shot of sweet liqueur after a tough day, and a cold glass of ice water on a hot one; refreshing, pleasant, intoxicating, heady.

But the other outcome - the effect on her eyes - is not successful; or atleast, not as pronounced as you might have hoped.  There's definitely a discernible dimming to the fel-glow.  You can make out the big circles of her irises now, for one; rather than the impenetrable, undifferentiated green lambency there was before.  But the color remains, by the end of the night.  Though the theory seems to be correct, the proportionality of it seems unfavorable.  Fel energy stains _deeply_; a little yielding to it as a mana source seems to promise a very long period of its superficial phenotypism.  It may require a fel-free mana diet of months or years to 'overpower' the now present green.

----------


## WindStruck

*Spoiler: Sister Sister 6: The show that should have been canceled a decade ago*
Show

Isaera chuckles at Aleeana's comment, but watches with morbid curiosity as she chugs and chugs the oasis water. Soon Isaera was starting to get worried that this much intake was just plain unhealthy.

"Woah now sister, lets not overdo it. I don't want you succumbing to mana addiction, and  besides, even too much water at once is bad for you too..."

Looking at her eyes, she notices a difference, albeit small.  "Hmm.. I can notice a difference. The green is not so intense...  and yet you've ingested a lot of mana and water already."

She shrugs, refraining from a sigh (being around her sister sure did make her want to sigh a lot). "Well.. for scientific purposes, at least I feel better knowing the condition may not be permanent." She pulls out a small pocket mirror and shows it to Aleeana. "So what do you think? Do you like the glow now, or did you like it better while it was more intense?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: Sister, Sister 7: Holiday Reunion Special*
Show

_"Oh.~"_  She checks herself out in the mirror; one profile then the other; pouting a little more, a little less; concocting an idea about how the intensity of the glow might be throttled up or down for occasions, learning the exact opposite lesson of Isaera's loving and protective gesture; but hopefully the intended one, too. 
_ "I think it's more intimate to be able to see the iris more clearly; clearer eye contact, right?  But I do like the mystery of the full glow.  I'll think about it more."_ She gives the mirror back, and that seems to be the end of it.

Or, just about.

_"I appreciate it.  And you coming to me when I went down, in the caves.  It hurt; not as bad as I was playing it.  And if you'd gotten hurt protecting me while I was feigning vulnerability, I don't know what I would have done.  But I appreciate it."_

She gives you a little smile; a very naked expression, stripped just for now of its usual accents of self-appreciation or condescension.   Less lovely, for sure, than her arrogant smiles - that may be why she employs them so often - but more valuable, in its genuine quality.  _"You're very powerful.  Very gifted.  We knew it, always; but it's a sight to see."_

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari* 

Jakk'ari smiles widely stretching his lips over his tusks heartened to know Oro Manflinger is leading the refugee ogres and is warmly regarding the party. The thought of the families and children of the ogres persisting permitted some optimism to bloom in Jakk'ari's mind. Though their soon to be membership with the horde was worrisome. Would it be a union built upon loyalty burnished with honor or fealty?

The invitation was a pleasant surprise but would leave little rest for the weary. Though it would somewhat be inappropriate to represent the entirety of the Faraki at the summit the opportunity was too important to defer. Sunscar and her neighbors needed a delegate to convince the world of the value of the Faraki and it would have one.

As for travel plans walking just had to be the best option. Relying on a goblin to provide passage with a clanking and huffing dirigible couldn't be safe. And if the party needed to resupply, they could simply resupply at Orgrimar the metropolitan heart of the horde. Jakk'ari, Emelia, and Mor'lag could purchase the service of esteemed armor smiths, Isaera could find whatever arcane solution she needed for any problem she might have, and Marion would probably appreciate the finery available likely ranging from crocolisk leather to hydra teeth.

 A momentous occasion. We can't waste any time traveling to Orgrimmar. I believe we should directly head to the Orgrimmar.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera is among the first (or maybe the only) to object. "Directly to Orgrimmar? Do you hear what you're saying? We've.. we've got nothing to wear!"  And by 'we' she probably meant herself more than anything, though it likely was applicable to any human or elf member in the group.  Orgrimmar, the bastion of the horde, the stronghold of the orcs was not likely to have a wide selection of pretty and frilly dresses. Especially anything that would fit Isaera's striking figure.

((Thinking about competition, Marion?? you're looking at it!!))

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

By now Marion had come out of her little private fantasy, her bright eyes peering across the others with a knowing, devilish little smile across her face. 

"I don't believe that will be necessary," Marion interjected gently. 

"I think the safest route to pursue is back to Ratchet. From there we can refreshen and recover, and then take a ship to the Orgrimmar docks. We have one week, and we should optimise our time. After all, we do not want to dishonour our hosts by arriving out of the wastes in a disheveled state of affairs, do we?"

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag each almost question the wisdom of shopping in a provincial backwater instead of the capitol of one of this world's great superpowers.   Then they don't.  It was definitely true that orcs and humans were basically the same size and shape, but the twins knew they wouldn't trust a Vrykul or even a Mogu, should such rarified beings make themselves available, to tailor her a suitable raiment for such a party.   Trolls and Tauren occasionally had individuals of their races that grew to the twins' scale, so she would wait until they reached the metropolis.

----------


## MrAbdiel

Emilia listens to the exchanges as she coaxes a cosy fire to life; and produces the leftovers of her food supplies to bodge together into a 'it'll do' casserole.

"Well, I don't know what 'Eclectic Formal' means.  I assume it means formal by anyone's standards and we're supposed to just.. be diplomatic about it.  I hope it includes armor, because... I'm not wearing a dress if I don't have to.  But getting there is the trick."

She glances now that the fire is coming to life; takes her hair out of its ponytail; combs the locks into a comfortable splay with the raking of one hand.

"The 'Docks' of Orgrimmar are skydocks for zeppelins.  It's build into a land-bound chasm.  Parts of it pretty far below sea level; very defensible.  To get there by _ship_, you'd be sailing for two days to the east coast of Durotar to one of the coastal villages, then hoofing it inland for a day or so.  You'll lose a whole day you could save if you take the zeppelin, and have to do a bunch of overland travel on top of it.  I think the zepplin's the smart bet - but the safest is just the straight hike."

*Spoiler: Travel Options*
Show

You have 7 days to get to Orgrimmar.  Here's your speculative options:

1. *Travel 6 days overland directly to Orgrimmar.*  This is the safest option (timewise), as it relies on no additional transport.  It will leave you *1 Day of preparation*, in Orgrimmar.

2. *Travel 3 days overland to Ratchet, and 1 by Zeppelin to Orgrimmar.*  This is the riskiest (timewise) since who knows what challenges the zepplin will provide - but it looses your schedule up to have 3 days to rest/prepare either in Ratchet or Orgrimmar in whatever proportions you prefer.

3. *Travel 3 days overland to Ratchet, and 1 by sea to the east coast of Durotar, and 1 overland to Orgrimmar.*  Splits the risk to give 2 free days to rest/prepare.  Nautical dangers likely less troublesome than airborne ones.


You may, of course, split up and go in whichever proportions you like whichever ways.  Despite the memery, sometimes splitting the party is cool and sensible.

----------


## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag considered this carefully.   Not too long ago, going alone to a city full of filthy, scheming orcs would have terrified them.  But they had friends and a battlename now!

"How about we, err..."

"I"

"Go on ahead by Zepplin"

"And arrange lodgings and finery for ourself"

----------


## WindStruck

"I am all for going ahead on a zeppelin as well. Just imagine, traveling 6 days through the dusty Barrens, arriving in Orgrimmar a dirty, disheveled mess with nothing to wear, trying to find lodgings and a suitable dress and accessories to wear for the occasion? It simply can't be done!"

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion nods to the ogresses and elfs suggestion. 

"I concur, what little amenities within Rachet will suit us far better than what is to be found in Orgrimmar."

Visiting a tailor in Orgrimmar? Marion rolled her eyes internally. Wearing dresses that had been resized from she-hulk, beer-keg arse orc women for her? Oh no, that wouldn't do at all.

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*
_I just don't understand the elf/human appeal in being delicate and desperately trying to preserve garments that are so ephemeral. The woman of Sandscar bared callouses and battle scars as a record of their struggles and triumphs. While accessories like the vaunted hydra teeth were either tough and hardy or ephemeral and transitory as the flower necklaces._ 

Jakk'ari harumphs having seen the party choosing to travel on a path with opportunities to shop for fineries that Orgrimar couldn't deliver. Jakk'ari begins to resign himself to the group's choice much like a parent unable to convince their not so dependent dependents otherwise. Staying together would be the best option. So many other factions would kill to have Mor'Lags' invite.

A tepid smile accompanies Jakkari's final appeal to the unified group. 

 I will join you on the trip if that is truly what you all want. But consider this, would you trust the cooperation and compliance of a goblin baron over the generosity of the land? The land may not provide everything we want but it gives everything we need. What can you expect from our goblin friend but a hefty fee? The land doesn't charge you variable rates for walking or nutrition. Besides, blunted quill boar spines and harpy feathers can adorn a dress just as beautiful as any dress the alliance or goblin hawk. So what do you say? 

Jakk'ari plucks some fat honeypot ants from a shallow recess in the earth and carefully removes their engorged abdomen to display the enticing unique benefits from traveling the barrens on foot.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion listened to the trolls attempt at persuasion. 

Travel through the dusty, arid hot barrens, plucking off the bones and feathers of slain enemies to adorn themselves with, so that they may arrive at the Orgrimmar for all to behold. 

It took...all the willpower at Marion's command to resist vomiting right there and then at the very thought. Decorate herself like some cavewoman with the teeth of dead pigs? Not even when she was fleeing through the ghoul-infested Silverpine Forest during the Scourging did she have to stoop to such barbarity.

Instead, Marion just looked at Isaeara, and as friendly/passive aggressive as their association might be, it was likely that the elf and her shared the same view on this proposition and could be exchanged through a simple shared glance: hell no.

Looking back at Jakk'ari as he was now scooping...up ants to eat...because of course he was...Marion offered a friendly smile to the towering troll. 

"It is an exciting and novel idea, Jakk'ari," she nodded, "but Isaera and I are both fatigued after our recent adventure across the Barrens and into the Wailing Caverns where we fought the mad druids. The rest and recuperation of Rachet is required, I think, for neither of us contain your or Mor'lags hardy fortitude..." she smiled pleasantly.


A little later, however, Marion was pull Jakk'ari aside gently. Having to stand on her tippie toes to whisper to him, unless he ducked down, the warlock spoke softly. 

"The spirits you command...the ones of wind and air...can they carry a written message somewhere?" she asked curiously.

----------


## WindStruck

"It depends on the goblin. But regardless, despite their cleverness and ingenuity, they are still simple-minded creatures. Shiny things, flashy things, things that go 'boom' and 'whiz' all entice goblins, much like ravens. You can bribe them with gold, with food, with women.. or men I suppose. If you know the goblin's price, you don't even need brute force to have your way with them," Isaera muses.

"A goblin, I can control and deal with. But nature?" the elf shakes her head, looking at Jakk'ari, "That's your expertise, and I'm afraid even that isn't completely reliable."

"Look, I will be frank with you, Jakk'ari. I have no intention of showing up at this event looking like a cave man. Oh, I'm sure for an orc warchief or ogress, harpy feathers and quills would make a fine 'formal' garment. Not for me though. I'm more willing to trust a goblin and their contraptions to get me to Ogrimmar in three days, than any of the most skilled tailors in Orgrimmar to measure me, and assemble a fitting dress in one day."

From what Isaera could tell, at least it seemed that she and Marion seemed to be on the same page for once. While it seemed obvious to Isaera that Marion was sugar coating some lame excuses, she had preferred a more direct approach. As willing as she was to entertain arguments, she still felt she wouldn't be budging. There is no way she was coming to this ball looking like a savage!  Though she soon realized, perhaps a lot of other more unsavory peoples might just do that.

Deep in thought, Isaera sighed. Maybe she just shouldn't go at all? Or.. get Aleeana to take her place. Yeah. She's sure the big oafs would never tell the difference. "Oh look, there's an elf, that must be her!"

----------


## Feathersnow

"Hey!"
"Orcs are savages by choice"

"We Ogres just have..."
"Less means"

"There are Trolls that share"
"Aesthetics less utilitarian, 
"As well."

"I was hoping"
"In Orgimmar"
"A troll tailor whose standards"
"More resemble Zandalar than Sandfury"

(No offense)

"And might have experience with people of our stature."

"Because a frilly robe is exactly what a Warmage would wear in Highmaul on the homeworld "

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion listened to Isaera, once again needing to call upon all her willpower reserves to not leap across their semi-circle and tackle her to the ground to halt her words. 

Instead, Marion blanched. 

_'I really must pull her aside and teach her some some decorum and etiquette...'_ Marions inner aristocrat noted. Good breeding wasn't simply good looks, it was also good manners. 

Then Mor'lag spoke up about her own desire for some presentable clothing. Most people might scoff and laugh at this. An ogre in a dress? Ha! But Marion smiled. It was a warm, genuine and encouraging smile. 

"I think may tailors will rush to offer you their best Mor'alg. You're the guest of honor after al!" she nodded.

----------


## Plaids

> Marion Mordis
> "The spirits you command...the ones of wind and air...can they carry a written message somewhere?" she asked curiously.


Jakk'ari sights as he relents on any further attempts at persuasion. Having Mor'Lag being keen on dressing to impress was unexpected but did fit with their quest for group acceptance.
Now addressing Marion.
 I don't command the elements strictly speaking. Elements are implored to aid us with the promise that we will be worthy stewards of the natural world. Offerings and seniority also improve the chances of heard too. The elements could be used to deliver messages, but the good and legible condition of any letter would not be guaranteed. Some of the mischievous elementals can be terrible gossips as well. My chieftain relied on beasts to deliver confidential messages.

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion smiled politely. Internally, however, she scrunched up her face and touched her index finger and thumb over the bridge of her nose. 

She couldn't deal with this flower power, 'I request of the spirits!' poppycock. When she wanted something to happen, she wanted it _to happen_, not _maybe_ happen on the whim of some ethereal being that might go that extra step and sabotage her works just for fun. 

"Thank you very much, Jakk'ari," Marion smiled sweetly and nodded, before turning and heading off. 

Then it dawned on her - the druids! Those hippies should be good for something at least. 

Hurrying back over to the cave entrance where they had gathered and the rescued druids were planning their next move, the human spoke. 

"Hello everyone!' Hi!" she smiled brightly, her 5'4" stature dwarfed by the towering night elves and taurens that doubtless turned to inspect the interloper to their circle. 

"I hope you have all taken time to regain yourselves and plan your next journey. But I am wondering, and I understand this is a bit of a stretch, but, you know, all things considered.." she gestured around with a soft laugh, code for: we just saved your hippie asses.

"But, as someone not well versed in your magics and commune with nature, are you able to recruit the services of a raven, or some type of bird to carry a written message to Rachet for me?"

----------


## MrAbdiel

Ebru has lingered as the others have made preparations, and she fields Marion's question with a faintly apologetic smile.

_"We can - but... not with true reliability.  If you are going via the Crossroads, however, you might find a goblin there, who runs one half of a carrier-pigeon line with his brother in Ratchet.  Those birds are well trained for the task; even if I cannot claim any druidic credit for it.  I can.. try to send a small message with a carrier; but birds are distractible creatures.  If it is urgent, we might try; if it is important... I would suggest a more conventional courier."_

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

There was that word again: unreliable. 

Still, Marion kept her composure, her smile friendly and her eyes wide and gentle. 

"Thank you for the warning, I will take you up on your offer!" she said, "and I will send another at the crossroads, just in case."

Nodding, "yes, this is an urgent matter," she spoke, unslinging her backpack and opening it up to reveal a surprisingly neat and orderly arrangement of traveling necessities and what looked like a tube. Withdrawing the cylinder, Marion retrieved from within a piece of parchment, a quill and some ink. Acquiring a book from her bag to use as a backstop, she started to write. 

Once finished, she threw some writing dust over it to dry out the remaining ink and blew it off. Curling the small parchment up, no broader than her palm, the human then held it as she withdrew some wax and _snap-clicked!_ her fingers to produce a tiny flame between them that she used to melt the candle. Once done, she dripped some upon the parchment's fissure, then pressed down on it firmly with the signet ring she wore on her left hand and which imprinted the rams head sigil within the wax as it cooled and closed the letter, before wrapping a little tight bow around it with a message 'to Nodrick Glitterthumb of Rachet' and then handing it over to the druid. 

Packing her things away, she smiled and nodded. 

"Thank you very much!" she beamed, "I am very happy to have helped the Cenarian Refuge! This needs to be delivered to Nodrick Glitterthumb at Ratchet."

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

Jakk'ari sees Marion walk off with relaxed but with a purpose towards the druids now resting closer to the oasis. 
Jakk'ari sinks back down by the low campfire considering the peace summit. Besides the alliance and horde there was no telling who would be in attendance. With all the nobility and craft unions, and mercenary bands involving themselves in conflicts opportunists always were always about and they would need to be challenged. Jakk'ari to Mor'Lag requesting a favor. 

 Mor'Lag at this summit we may encounter representatives from groups who threaten my clan. The Steamwheedle are one of them but there are many others. If I do come meet them I must challenge them. If it does come to that may I rely on your endorsement of my challenge? I will do so for as well for everyone here.

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Sorry for the slow-postin'.  World of Warcraft: Dragonflight just launched, and it's competing pretty hard for my attention.  Not that that's an excuse; but that's the culprit.  *Feathersnow*, feel free to offer a reply to Jakk'ari even though I'm moving the scene on!  You already know how much I like threading asynchonous scenes, to get those loose ends tied up. :)


Three days of travel across the open savannah and then the kodo-pounded road brings the party back to Ratchet with, welcomely, no outrageously hostile encounters.  Isaera at one point early on the second day watches a centaur scout watching from a far hill - he must have followed you all the way from the oasis, and only now as the territory offered less cover was he caught in sight - but he turns back, and is not seen again.  Jakk'ari interrogates the elements about what is responsible for a gouge in the road the size of a tsamma melon - the ethereal earth spirit _Clay_ whispers than a small party of quillboar strayed all the way up here from their home in the Kraul, and came to blows over some disagreement.  The chunk of earth was a disciplinary blow, wrenched from the ground with rough elemental compulsion and launched punitively at the young brawlers by an elder, who soon turned their venture back south to the brambled lands.  Beyond this, and a little opportunistic herbalism for the troll, the team is unhalted - and your tower, such that it is, greets you from its place of overwatch, on the inland cliffs above the coastal village below.

It's much as you remember it, with some exceptions: visually, the area radiating from the tower's base is changing color.  Dry, brown ground with recalcitrant clumps of spinifex grass has started improbably to produce clumps of hard-battling turf.  The grass is dry in many places - the climate is a brutal opponent - but the signs are there that you are well on your way to having something like _lawn_ that extends twenty meters from the base of the tower.  Whatever dark groundskeeping Schlep is performing, it appears to be, if not winning, proving its valor.  The murloc himself is there too; watering can in hand, dancing about as he splashes its content around - a one-for-you, one-for-me arrangement to keep his scales moist and cool in the bullying sun.  But when he spots the group approaching down the road, he bounces a few feet into the air in what must be _joy_, drops the watering can, runs in an excited circle, and dashes to the door to knock on it with a few flat-palmed slaps.  Miss Seraphis Moonshadow, doubles her role as majordomo to include doorman for the moment; the Kaldorei answering the knock and waiting with her surfeit of stately grass in the doorway for you to approach vocal distance.  Schlep bobs in place; unable to be still for even a short time.

_"Welcome back.  I see you are all upright - a victory then?"_  But her faintly lambent eyes track to Aleeana, and one of the night elf's elegant eyebrows angles up.  _"And together with the elder Miss Runescribe, also.  I had understood you were intending to report back here after you had stopped by the Crossroads to garner intelligence about the local Kolkar centaurs.  I had begun to think you had encountered some untoward obstacle."_  It is such a delicate and refined casting of shade that it may slip undetected past many listens; but Aleeana is no stranger to the shade delivery, and receipt.

_"As a matter of fact, I ran into an opportunity - one that superseded the initial task.  So I hooked up with the main team instead; I hope you found_ some_ way to be useful in my absence, Moonshadow."_  They give each other fake smiles; a very low grade hostility present that neither seems to feel the need to escalate.  It soon drops away from conversational relevance as the group heads inside into the relative cool.

"She's not wrong.  The centaur and the samophlange might have to wait - we've been invited to some diplomatic event in Orgrimmar.  We're hoping to get there by air.  Can you make travel arrangements for the five of us, Miss Moonshadow?  I need to take care of something in town."

_"The Armistice Ball?  A great honor.  I assume you won't be the only parties heading there from Ratchet - I shall speak to the mayor's people about projected zeppelin flights.  And, ah..."_  The night elf for the first time looks slightly rushed as Emilia, after dumping her pack inside the door, slips back out again apparently to 'take care of something in town'.  _"I'll call a general meeting for the evening if you can pass the message to Felix at his boarding house!"_  She gets a loose thumbs up over the shoulder from the town-bound squire; and that seems to be enough.

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

 Welcome Home!

You chose the majordomo as one of your staff, so there's no labor or trouble in doing things like booking flights.  You have up to three days rest and prep time in Ratchet.  It's afternoon on the third day of travel right now; so there's not much you can accomplish today - but I'm open to valiant efforts.  And Moonshadow is going to call an update meeting for the things you set in motion last time, so that's up next.

So, if your character wants to do something other than flop on their bed and decompress before the meeting, now is the time to post it.

Also, as a result of your success in this mission and the feedback that's come in from the Cenarion Circle, your operating expenses are getting boosted - You can now employ 0.5 more staff, and can add another room/feature to the tower.  As far as staff goes, that means you can either pick up Voxombis, the ex-druid housekeeper; or bank that 0.5 to buy a 'full' staff member later.  Base facilities are available like last time - basically, within reason and with my this-doesn't-break-the-game approval.  Elemental security, gnomish radio room, on-site accommodations for your staff.. Have a think!

*Spoiler: Bananaphone Only!*
Show

Your message to Nodrick may or may not have gotten through - but there's nothing waiting at the tower for you besides a build up of unrelated business stuff.

Also, I've been thinking - I see your updated sheet goes up from 2 to 4 Wealth; and it's just too much!  at 3 wealth, you could hire a small army to solve a problem, but it would financially wreck you to do so.  At 4 wealth you can basically have a standing army.  In a superhero world where standing armies are just mooks to get hit by the freeze ray, that's one thing; but this is a world of armies that make a difference.  So as far as character points go, I'm going to ask you to cap out at 3 wealth until later on, when your enemies might be the kind of foes for whom wealth 4 is not inappropriate leverage.  You probably have the equivalent of several millions of dollars in motion right now - but much of it is tied up in strategic loans, buying materials to make inventory, etc.

----------


## Feathersnow

*Before*
Mor and Lag pause after the request from Jak'kari.  Not because they are unwilling, but out of the significance that they are important enough to ask.  They have moved up in the world!

"We would be honored."  They say in unison.

*Now*
Mor and Lag survey the garden.  

"Good work,"
"Schlep."

"Can you find,"
"Two white geraniums?"

"Peace and mourning"
"And remembrance. "

"This is a solemn occasion."
"And we must remember."

----------


## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion had been high spirits on the return journey, a smile on her pretty, angular face and her bright eyes allowing herself some enjoyment of the Barrens rugged charms. She said little, but could often be found reading one of her Tomes, clearly brushing up on things after their experience in the cavern. 

Upon returning home, the human smirked and internally snickered at the catty little knives between the towering Night Elf and the shorter Blood Elf. _'Fight, fight, fight, fight...'_ the warlock silently giggled, resisting the urge to draw her hands up into fists and egg them on. 

When she ascended the stairs to her quarters, however, imagine the dismal sheet-from-under you look on her face as she opened her door to find within her room...nothing she had wanted. Narrowing her eyes, pursing her lips, Marion found renewed vigor as she unceremoniously dumped her pack onto her bed, turning to Vargheist. 

"Vargheist, I am going to be gone for a little while. Please watch over this area and make sure no one enters it without my verbal permission. Thank you," she nodded to her giant, hovering blue menace, as she locked her door behind her and departed the tower. 

Marion, with a coin purse on her hip and still dressed in her travellers clothes, departed their tower and headed into town.

Nodrick Glitterthumb would soon hear a gentle rapping upon his door.

----------


## WindStruck

Isaera does indeed unwind, making the laborious climb up to her quarters shared by her sister and unpacking her things. She would bathe and comb her hair and freshen up. And she would see what she had to wear for the evening and possibly for the Armistice Ball.

One of the real reasons Isaera had wanted to come to Ratchet was yes, obviously to prepare for the ball. Perhaps she could purchase a nice fetching dress here, found, stolen, or possibly even legitimately made by an enterprising goblin around here, but the reality was, she already _had_ a nice selection of clothing already with her. All those ridiculous amounts of luggage she brought along with her on this journey.. that wasn't all for nothing was it?

Hm. Isaera was even planning on taking a stroll around Ratchet this evening to see what was in stock, and then, maybe she'd splurge a little and have a nice meal out somewhere. After this guild meeting, of course. For now, she rummages through her belongings, pondering what to wear...

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

The return trip from the Barrens was thankfully uneventful with Aleana was just as exemplary of a trail guide on the groups return to Ratchet as she had been when departing.
The emerging lawn was a pleasant surprise perhaps Schlep had some affinity to nature or the elements? Hopefully Schlep would enjoy the treat Jakk'ari had failed to convince the rest of the party to enjoy? The murloc had earned it and fish enjoyed consuming insects so by a transitive property the fishy Schlep should enjoy them, right? Jakk'ari provides the honeypot abdomen to Schlep which sparkle in the midday sun.

Jakk'ari lounges in his room for a few moments now parsing his thoughts on the now concluded journey. Arriving at a lush oasis, tussling with some centaur, almost getting his life wringed from him by a corrupted life elemental, and fighting the rogue serpent society of druids. The journey had been dangerous just like the last one. Ironically the horde and StoneMaul ogres had been less of a threat than life elemental and druids the group had encountered. 

Now might be the time to secure the progress made toward securing the future of SunScar village.
Taking a pen and parchment Jakk'ari begins drafting his contingency. The work would have to continue and thankfully there were others who would.

Once the sun was closer to the horizon the letter was ready. Approaching Seraphis Moonshadow the older troll makes his request. 
 Miss Moonshadow, can you deliver a letter to a village in the Tanaris desert?

----------


## MrAbdiel

*Mor'Lag*

Schlep revels in even your mild praise, offering a circular fit of capering to glory therein.  When you task him, he pauses after your request; then claps excitedly, apparently confirmingly, and hares off around the tower, and down the sloped road toward the town.

He is gone for some time.  It is not until late that evening, after Miss Moonshadow has arranged for some passable pub-fare to be delivered up the hill for reheating and plating for your crew's dinner, that he returns.  He has clearly taken the task seriously - his rubbery skin and scales are dry and dusty, suggesting he's been tirelessly operating without his standard operation dips into the sea, and will likely retreat to such after this.  But he clutches in his webbed hands, held at full extension in front of him as though recognizing it to be too precious to be nearer to him, a fired clay pot containing a flowering geranium plant.  It hosts half a dozen delicate white flowers, and two presently coming to bud; the whole of it apparently yours, the elected pair to be excised at your discretion.

*Jakk'ari*

Schlep scarfs the insectile treat with absolute relish upon your offering - he, atleast, has not become so 'civilized' as to lose touch with the premium flavours of nature's own feast table.  He bobs in the shade provided by the lip of the tower, poking at the honey remnants on his own lips with his huge frog-fish tongue.

A few hours later, while you are lounghing and just considering beginning your letter, there is a knock at the door of your quarters.  It's Schlep - unusual for the amphibious groundskeeper, coming to your door for some direct appeal.  His features are too far from the humanoid standard for him to be easily readable, sometimes; but his body language usually makes up for that, and in this case he has a hunkered, embarassed posture with a suggestion of growing desperation.  He opens his little notepad, and taps at a 'word' he has scrawled on the open page:

'JRMAMAN'
This is not a word in any language you know, though it uses human-common characters; and when pressed for clarification the murloc forlornly attempts to use his incompatible vocal array to bridge the gap.

_"Jrrmurmeemurm.  Jrrmurmum."__
_
He taps the black page next to the word with a his pencil and thrusts the book toward you.

_"Jrrrmrrlmmelmum?"_

This is frog gibberish.  After a little pantomime, Schlep gets a little more frantic; but then hops with the force of his next idea and gestures for you to stay where you are, then zooms down the stairs.  He returns with Seraphis Moonshadow in tow; your majordomo who has become a sort of interpreter for Schelp.  He repeats the 'word', and taps at his book, and thrusts it toward you, and looks at Seraphis.  She considers for a moment, as determined as you are to source the murloc's distress.

_"I think...Geranium?  The flower Mor'Lag asked you about, earlier?"_

With this, he spasms with ragdoll glee, and once more desperately thrusts the book and pencil toward you.  The mystery solved, the night elf returns to her duties, leaving Schelp and yourself to sort our his need.  It seems he needs to acquire geraniums - but despite his role as your groundskeeper, he doesn't know the plant by name.  Flipping back to earlier pages where he has made clumsy sketches of other flowers and leaves, he is begging you, herbalist that you are, to help him by rendering an image of the plant for him to hunt for.  It's a trivial enough task for you; it's not a local plant, but a very popular one for many races across Azeroth; and once you sketch out the leaf pattern and an example flower, all his piscean panic drains away.  He offers one of his comic bows, and with his book and pencil in hand, heads back out into the stairwell and then wriggles almost bonelessly through one of the narrow windows, too embarassed to risk passing Mor'Lag on the lower floor without the prize in hand.  Later on, when you see Schlep presenting a pot of white geraniums to Mor'Lag, you know you set him on the right track.

Seraphis Moonshadow is happy to assist with your courier request.  _"Absolutely.  I'm sure there are reputable couriers in Gadgetzhan I could relay it through - but I understand the Explorer's League is beginning some operations in the area, and they have a quiet side industry of delivering items to and from remote places.  Your homeland is not particularly close, and I cannot make the mail travel faster; but I can ensure with a high degree of certainty it gets to its destination, and that return correspondence reaches you."_

*Marion*

Vargheist offers his sullen, devoted assent as you leave him to guard you room.  Then you depart, commanding your weary legs to carry you down the slope into town; dreading the return trip, which will be uphill.  You aren't the only one making the trip; Emilia preceeded you, and you can see her silvery form well ahead down the long straight slope; and Schlep, whatever he thinks he is doing, comes rocketing past you shortly after you leave, arms and legs pinwheeling wildly in his all-ahead-full gait.  You make sure neither are in sight, as you make your way to Nodrick's residence; Emilia has turned off into one of the local bars, and you had lost track of Schlep until he bursts out of the town's only florist's shop, and then starts hooning off back up the hill again at the same full tilt, empty handed.

Nodrick lodges in one of the private rooms at a big boarding house by the docks.  Its large common rooms are used by the passing sailors and work crews, not to mention itinerant adventurers; but its upstairs rooms are rented by the slightly wealthier clientele to which Nodrick belongs.  The goblin attends the door, at your knocking; and you glance into his room to see a dwelling that is packed with shelves, lockboxes, crates and chests all stacked neatly and accessibly against the walls in a U-formation surrounding a small desk with ledgers and writing equipment in the middle.  There's no bed, oddly enough, and no room for one if there had been.

_"Oh, Lady Mordis - back so soon, eh?  Hey, was that your bird personally, or someone else's? Because I gave up an opportunity to slap it out of the air when it tried peckin' my ear off, and if it didn't belong to someone who matters, I'm gonna regret holdin'  back.  But I got your message.  It seems, uh...  Are you sure -"_  He trails off, and flaps a hand.  _"You know what?  I don't judge.  Anyway, I have a couple of crates of stuff for you, and a hole in my back around that's beggin' for reimbursement.  I got receipts.  Except the last thing, the, uh... alchemical.  Look, I used to date a girl who works with Noggenfogger down in Gadgetzhan; but given the timeframe you're working with, I've had to engage a local guy.  He should have something ready for testing in two days, he says."_

He hands you a wad of receipts, in case you want to count them yourself rather than trust his tally of the incurred costs.  It's not inconsiderable.  Flights of fancy like this could damage someone who didn't make sure to take them only rarely.  But with them is a wooden tag with the number '52' burned into it, and a pair of keys on a ring.

_"That's for the guy at the check-in, downstairs.  I rented storage space, he'll show you where out back.  Big key for the big crate, small key for the smaller one."_

*Isaera*

Emilia heads off into town; and from your window, you see first Marion and then Schlep take off toward Ratchet proper.  But you and Aleeana were both badly injured, on this last mission; and even with healing magic having repaired both injuries, there is a lingering tenderness and ache where the body is unsure how to process the sudden absense of trauma. It's a sensation greatly eased by simple recreational lounging.  On the lowslung cot against the wall opposite your actual bed, Aleeana flops down onto her back, and spends the next four minutes shuffling and kicking her legs to get her boots off.  It's a task that could have been accomplished with the use of her hands much more quickly; but when has she ever elected to do things the easy way.

In your luggage, there is absolutely a wealth of elven fashion.  Silvermoon fashions have ranged wildly over the years; and your mother was a creature of glamor and spotlights, as performers prefer to be.  She furnished you and Aleeana with the habit of composing and refining a wardrobe as a matter of feminine principle.  _There's nothing wrong with wearing simple clothes, practical clothes, and old clothes,_ she had once said; _but if you do, the most people will say is that 'there's nothing wrong with her'._

Many of these dresses, skirts, halters and doublets you rummage through have memories attached of better times; before you had to run.  Before the end of the world.  And many of them would drop jaws; which is the reaction you are accustom to receiving.  But it does occur to you also that they are all years old.  Your family has not been in a position to keep up with trends.  Ever since your older brother led your family to Theramore then left for the Battle of Hyjal, you had largely held the position of your family's protector by default.  And the order of the time had been frugal austerity: for you, for your cousins, for your once glamourous, then barely consolable mother.  It's only now, since you've started making _adventurer_ money instead of _street stall alchemist_ money that you've had the breathing toom to consider that you haven't bought or worn anything new since...

Well.  Since Silvermoon still stood.  Were elves still setting cutting edge alliance fashion, after the great desolation?  If they weren't, who was?  _Night_ elves?  Humans?  Dwarves?

_Gnomes?_

These are questions that need answers.  But then you realise Aleeana asking you something, and you tune into her commentary just in time to understand the thrust of her question.

_"Don't you think it's funny?  About Jakk'ari, I mean.  We both grew up on stories of the crazy trolls in the hills beyond Eversong; but you and I both got turned halfway inside out and if not for old-man-troll back there... Well, we might not be dead; but we'd know we'd been hit. And I'd be scarred up, for sure." _ She grimaces; the idea apparently clashing with her vanity.  _"You're working with a troll, and an ogre.  And a full-blown fel-user, by the way; in case you missed the demon monster in the fight.  Maybe this really is the end of the factions - Alliance and Horde going obsolete.  Maybe they'll announce a dissolution, at the ball."_  She yawns, and tucks her hands under her head; eyes closed, peaceful as she's ever been as she prognosticates.  _"That's my prediction."_

----------


## WindStruck

As Isaera checks over and contemplates the wardrobes and drawers stuffed with clothes, it finally dawns on Isaera that yes, these clothes were somewhat old and.. for all intents and purposes, perhaps from another era and another civilization. It felt like ages since she was last in Silvermoon, living in a prim and proper, somewhat boring and stifling, yet functional and more scheduled life.

The memories came flooding back, and she held back some tears. It wasn't too difficult, as it was all mostly nostalgia and old fond memories.. simply marred by the rampage of the Scourge. Isaera blinks and looks off to the side, watching her sister still struggling to kick off her boots without use of her hands.

"Aleeena.. what is the point of having hands if you aren't going to properly use them?" she teases. It was a silly question in response to a silly action. No right or wrong answers, just lighthearted chiding.

Returning her attention to her selection of clothes, it suddenly all made sense why her mother had no qualms about taking most of these dresses. They were _old_, and the alluring matron most likely intended to buy _new_ things with their newfound wealth. So could Isaera wear any of these to the Armistice Ball? It was a very definite yes. Any one of these old garments were probably much better than anything she could have hoped to find in Orgrimmar. And yet, there was still the nagging feeling in the back of her head that she could do better. She should do better!

She turned her attention to Aleeana again who had started talking about something: the troll, the ogress, alliance and horde. Isaera looked down and rubbed her abdomen where the centaur spear once practically skewered her body. It mildly ached with a strange phantom pain. Or was it all real? She could hardly tell.

Isaera managed a small smile and a light chuckle. "Well, Jakk'ari is perhaps one of the most reasonable trolls I have met so far. But it's true, he's nothing like the 'Wathas. They are of.. an entirely different tribe and peoples, I imagine..."

At the mention of Marion and the 'demon monster' Isaera's face darkens and she looks about and listens for signs of activity nearby (though she then remembered she saw Marion heading into Ratchet). Still she keeps her voice down and approaches her sister with a low voice. "I truly am worried about that. I feel like I can trust the troll and the ogress. But that warlock..?" Isaera considered all the happenings she had witnessed, from strange activity and boxes coming to and from her room upstairs, to the all-too-casual comments about the Burning Blade, the demonic transformation and the absolutely horrible things an actual evil demon would say, the aggressiveness with the centaurs and the shifting of blame. "I really don't know, Aleeana. I don't trust her. Horde and Alliance may just be different peoples with different cultures. But demons and the Fel, are Fel and demons.. I don't think we can trust her..."

After a tense pause, Isaera shifts the subject and raises her voice to a normal level. "Still, I rather doubt Alliance and Horde will be dissolving just like that. There are still people with prejudices. And I imagine there are still profiteers and power-hungry despots that would prefer conflict to giving up even a tiny crumb of their piece of pie."

----------


## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

It was good therapeutic even to see everyone else scurry about on occupying themselves on more mundane tasks. The Runescribes were curating their diplomatic wardrobes, Marion was off discretely conducting her own business, and Mor'Lag had curiously requested geraniums. With everyone else out and about Jakk'ari meditates.

*Spoiler: Jakk'ari's letter*
Show

To my dearest and beloved,
I have made progress on my mission. I have come amongst a wonderous congregation who are tasked with delivering Azeroth to safety. But the group has faced great danger and will encounter even more. Should I be sent to Da Other Side I will give you a key to unlock all your doubts. Should you be called travel the Merchant Coast search for a blackened tower visible from the port. There you will find my fellow initiates to the congregation. An eclectic group from peoples and tribes who been brought low. Tell them you have been chosen by me and offer your services humbly. I cherish you my beloved.



Jakk'ari's arm quivers and his knuckles whiten as he grasps at the bronze given to him by the DarkSpear troll chieftain. Meditating further would be of no use anymore. Perhaps Emelia and Felix were available while everyone else was out and about. 

*Spoiler: OOC plan*
Show

Jakk'ari just plans requesting the key be sent to Sunscar if something were to happen. I'm quite happy playing Jakk'ari at the moment. I just played Hearthstone Book of Mercenaries and the troll Bru'kan is one of the two heroes out of ten who perishes plus I think Jakk'ari would worry about falling in combat after the last adventure.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion moved towards Nodrick's residence like a woman on a mission. She offered the niceties required of her, as being in a hurry was no excuse for bad manners, and when she was standing before Nodrick's door she rapped upon it gently, but incessently, until the old goblins form soon filled the frame. 

""Oh, Lady Mordis - back so soon, eh?"

Marion smiled.

"Yes, I am back from the sunny and lovely subterranean caves of the central Barrens. I must return for my vacation next year."

When she was invited in, Marion closed the door behind herself.

"You know what? I don't judge. Anyway, I have a couple of crates of stuff for you, and a hole in my back around that's beggin' for reimbursement. I got receipts."

"I'm sure you do..." she answered, reaching out a slender hand to receive the notes, her eyes swiftly scanning the writing. 

"Except the last thing, the, uh... alchemical. Look, I used to date a girl who works with Noggenfogger down in Gadgetzhan; but given the timeframe you're working with, I've had to engage a local guy. He should have something ready for testing in two days, he says."

"Hmmm?" Marion grunted as she looked up from the notes, her mind seemingly elsewhere. 

"Oh! Oh yes, that idea of..." she trailed off, pursing her lips. As satisfying as it would be to watch that smug little princess fret over her ever expanding backside, Marion smiled darkly in fantasy, tilted her head back and forth and then shrugged it away. 

"No no, that's fine, no need anymore. The desert temperature, and all that, it went to my head a little," she dismissed the idea with an explanatory smile.

Nodrick was right about the cost. Indeed, this was a sum that, just half a year ago, Marion would have been desperate to get her hands on. Now she was throwing it away on, admittedly, a little bit of an ego trip. 

No. She corrected herself, composed and dignified. She is _investing_ in the best appearance and debut as she can for her House and Name. Appearances matter. Dignity and grace are the grease with which we oil the machine of prestige and diplomacy. These were not _costs_ they were investments, it was not an ego trip, it was her family's name returning to prominence. Ever since the end of the second war her good name was marred and beaten around, kicked into the dirt and mocked by traitors and opportunists. Where once that rams sigil stood for dependability and industry, only a forlorn pit of violent orcs, treasonous syndicalist and that damn scourge remained, chewing and devouring a lineage that had presided over their mountain home for as long as humans had lived in the Eastern Kingdoms. 

_Really, Marion, I'm disappointed in you sometimes_, the warlock thought to herself, adopting a more dignified, but sharper-angled and silver-tongued alter-ego avatar to help get her back to a clearer way of thinking. _Humility is a virtue, girl, but too much is a crippling lack of self-esteem and confidence.  Our name has suffered enough indignities already and here you stand on the moment of its return to respect on a wide stage after decades in the mud, yet you're fretting about currency? Did you worry about money when you were trapped in those ghoul-infested woods with the other refugees, every ten minutes bringnig another agonised scream and tearing flesh?_

No.

_Was currency the most pressing issue when you had to break into that farmers coop in the night and stuff down those eggs raw because you hadn't eaten for seven days?_

No.

_And was gold the top priority when you were shivering alone in the Silverpine Forests at night, hiding from the Paladins who were only distracted away by local villages that needed their protection?_

No.

_Exactly. No. It is transitory. But that name of yours and your sigil was carried aloft by your father and his father before him, beneath which were your brothers, your sisters, your mother, and it's all that's left of them. They're all gone. Everything relies on you. And now you stand to draw it back up high in the air where it belongs, and you fret over money?_

Marion swallowed, blushing softly over how realising how petty her mind had been.

_Has your newly acquired riches already turned your brain to mush? Made you soft and plump, like some air-headed girl that nary worked a day in her life? Focus and look at the big picture, you stupid little girl, you endured years of disgrace and horror and have single-handedly brought your name back to wealth and prominence: act like it._

She was right. From this procession greater things would come. 

Nodding, "Yes, thank you Nodrick. I will provide my seal for you to admit these to Expenses and Accounts, to ensure you're compensated" Marion said after what seemed like a few moments of her zoning out. The warlock composed herself, smiled pleasantly and nodded in appreciation towards the goblin. 

"You have helped me enormously, as always. And don't worry too much about these costs, I think we know enough people now that we can re-coop most of them with personalised sale in Orgrimmar and tradesmans wives in Stormwind and Southshore" she thanked and reassured him, "is there any chance you could have the crates delivered to my current residence?"


oOo

Assuming such a thing could be done, Marion stood at the mouth of her room within the groups tower as she watched a few goblins hurry up the stairs, coordinating the loads of two crates to deliver them into her bedroom/workshop. 

Thanking and tipping each of them, Marion had her hands on her hips as she looked about her quarters, pursing her lips as she contrasted it with the contents of those crates. "I really need to clean up around here, designated an area for something more...plush. Maybe buy my own manor soon?" she spoke to herself, as Vargheist stood vigilantly by the door. 

"Ah well, no matter, first lets get this..." she trailed off, picking up a crowbar, approaching the larger crate and shoving that metal wedge into the top seam of the crate and pushing down on the improvised fulcrum to _Crack!_ the lid open, this action soon visited upon the second, smaller crate.

"Oh my..." she smiled to herself, beholding the bounties within...

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## MrAbdiel

*Isaera*

Aleeana doesn't respond to the teasing about her refusal to use her hands to de-boot.  This is naked laziness; the kind of laziness that takes hard work and devotion to achieve, and which would never be accessible by those who were tempted by sensible expenditures of effort to access _the easy way._  When she finally works her boots off and kicks them off her bed's end, she does turn a self-satisfied look in your direction; as if this should be impressive enough as an answer.

She does listen to your speculations about Jakk'ari; and his agreeable temperament, compared to the trolls of Tor'Watha and Zeb'Watha.  It's true: the trolls of the world split from each other, atleast in the first divergence, before the elves did; you remember your history tutors reciting at various times that the Amani forest trolls preceded even the departure of the Quel'dorei from the Kal'dorei homeland.  How different history might have been if the Amani had been as thoughtful and diplomatically alert as Jakk'ari the Farraki, instead of the the berserking cannibals they doggedly resolved to be for thousands of years!  Elves and Trolls could have stood together against the Scourge, instead of falling separately - though perhaps the Scourge wouldn't have come at all, since without the Amani menace, the ancient high elves would surely never have given magic to the rough and short-sighted human tribes of the south in their quest for allies.  The magic of men would never have called the Legion to the world, and so then-...

One might drive themselves mad, trying to track the various skeins of what might have been.

_"He's definitely the most reasonable troll I've encountered, no lie.  I've never even seen other Farraki north of Tanaris, let alone so actively trying to make nice.  Not that I've been to Tanaris, yes; but ... well, what I hear is that they're isolated and territorial folk living in ruins of their fallen empire.  Spent the whole Third War separate from all the active battles; the first they knew of something wrong was when the demons started popping into the world.  I hope they're all like him, though."_

When you begun your more hushed whispering, Aleeana perks up and scoots to the edge of her bed to listen in.  The very nature of whispers, the whole _don't wake mom and dad_ mischief of it, is immediately activating to her soul.

"Mor'Lag is pretty open what she-... What they?- What she is all about.  Marion's definitely the wildcard.  She's done, and said... odd stuff, sure.  That transformation back in the cavern was a new kind of awful.  But maybe we wouldn't have won the fight, without it. 
 I guess that's the whole deal with warlocks, now; everyone's trying to get used to them being a little bit essential, even if no one likes that they exist at all.  But I think we can trust her _to be herself_, you know?  That might be power-grubby and haughty, but I don't think she's likely to be treacherous.  Atleast, not if she keeps letting herself bond to the people here.  She writes all these letters and has all these meetings, but far as I can tell, they're all business related.  Jakk'ari has his family back home in Tanaris, and we have ours in Theramore; and Emilia writes to hers, even if she makes it sound like a chore.  Even Mor and Lag have each other.  I... don't think Marion has anyone. 
 I think her best friend is that demon-slave.  I don't think she has any family left at all."

Aleeana grimaces at her own words; glancing to the foot her bed where a storage crate does double duty as a foot locker and desk.  A writing kit lies there, gathering dust, when it ought to be in use semi frequently to write your mother.  Later that evening, she would muster her attention and write that letter; compelled by the conversation, and pity for the human woman upstairs's lonely position.

When you speculate about the Alliance and Horde persisting, if only to profit the various groups that prefer them apart, she concedes with a look of mild sadness. _ "You're probably right.  Still, I have to hope.  We lost Dad, and Kaleneus to the Legion and Scourge; the enemies of all life.  None of the humans and orcs who were there will be alive, a hundred years from now; but we will be.  If we can all work together the next time the demons come and throw them back without that kind of price... That's the best outcome, I think."_

*Jakk'ari*

Seraphis takes the scrolled up letter, and helpfully produces a stitched and waterproofed leather scroll case tube, in which to keep it.  She works with you for a few minutes, taking directions to get some details on how a courier should find Sunscar village.  As you try to explain it to an outsider, you realize how difficult the task must be.  For the elementals who you task with carrying simple whispered messages, the land is their nature; but those who are not children of the desert, who did not grow up marinating in the dark voodoo initiations and firm tutelage of elders of the sands, navigating the desert is a difficult proposition.  Roads cannot be build deep within it; the sand will bury them.  The same is true of markers and signposts.  The sands change by increments every day.  It is part of the reason your people have been as safely insulated from the predations of the ogres and goblins as they have.  But a combination of landmarks, and navigation by stars, seems to be sufficient.  Night elves are not desert people, but they know a thing or two about the arrangement of the heavens; and after a short and interesting discussion decoding each other's names for mutually understood constellations by which to orient oneself in travel, you come up with a series of directions that should do the trick.

_"I think that will be sufficient, Jakk'ari.  I'll have it dispatched right away, and instruct the carrier to be prepared to take a dictated reply.  I shall get this on its way - but I expect I will see you for the meeting, in a couple of hours."_  She gives you a minimum of a bow, and drifts off with her people's irrepressible grace to this task.  Your people have limited history interacting with the other races, and Night Elves are no exception, despite being your neighbours on Kalimdor.  In ancient times, during a period the elves call _The War of Shifting Sands_ but your people know more simply as _Theka's War_, you had a common enemy.  The insectile Qiraji were pouring out of their hives in Ahn'Qiraj, and the Night Elf warhost sent to stop them failed in their purpose to drive them back; and failed so fabulously that the elves were driven all the way into Tanaris, with the Qiraji on their heels.  The Night Elves were a sprawling empire, and the Sand Trolls were simply the relic of one.  Your people could not give battle on that scale; it might be fair to say the Kaldorei 'saved' your race, at the time.  But the Farraki gave succour and pathfinding guidance to the elven host, and gave battle where they had to - most famously, a grand last stand in the ruin-city of Zul'Farrak, where the hero-priest Theka gave his life to invoke a powerful curse upon the Qiraji invaders, transforming them all into harmless, scuttling scarabs.  But even at that time, even against such a hideous foe that has left its crawling, aggressive progeny to blight your people for all time, you would not have been considered _allies_ with the elves.  Your people have _never_ had allies; much less allies whose empire rose to glory as the memory of the united Zul faded in the minds of your ancestors.  What you are trying to do, here - you specifically, Jakk'ari of the Farraki - has not been done before.  Trolls have barely been able to be allies of _other trolls_ for long; the fractious nature of your peoples have always been their greatest weakness.  But Vol'jin, and his Darkspear Rebels, have proven that it is possible for a small troll nation to move into a cooperative relationship with another power, in the world; and the Darkspear of Sen'Jin are not vassals of the horde, but a member state of it.  And now, as the war between Horde and Alliance cools to peace, if there has ever been a time for the Farraki to become a neutral _partner_ state, a trade ally to both and military ally to neither, that time is now.

Is that what this key is about?  Did the Shadow Hunter know something about your ambitions, and empower you toward them?  The mystery endures.  Another mystery - who was that Wild God, whom the Druids of the Fang entertained - also begs answering, but is not within your grasp just yet.  Your wife might know.  As a witchdoctor, her relationship to the greater pantheon of Loa is much more sophisticated than yours.  To you, as to most Farraki, there are three most relevant:  Eraka no Kimbul, the Lion; Ueetay no Mueh'zala, the Sleeper; and Elortha no Shadra, the Spider.  These three sponsored and helped your people survive after the great shattering of the world.  But the host of other Loa worshiped by the other tribes are complex and interrelated, and that is a matter for a witchdoctor or shadow hunter to navigate.  It would have been next to fruitless to try to describe enough specifics of the serpent in your letter - but perhaps, when the Elements are kind and prepare your way home again, she will have an answer for that mystery, atleast.

Emilia and Felix remain elusive, for a while; the former having headed to the town the moment you got back to the tower, the former having not been present from that point.  Marion has since made her way back, and shortly after, a crew of goblins carrying a couple of crates of yet more supply for her upstairs business operations.  But as the time draws near for the meeting, you are pacing outside feeling the pleasant crush of Schlep's cultivated lawn under your feet when Felix rounds the corner, armored and ready for the night-shift of protecting your tower from interlopers.

_"Oh - Jakk'ari, hello.  Ran into Emilia on the way up here - I'm glad you're all back and alright.  No incidents to report, I'm afraid.  Some looki-loos I had to chase off once or twice, but that's all."_

As he gives you this rundown, he is slipping his classically alliance-style horse-tail helmet onto his head.  But not fast enough so that you don't see what he's trying to hide - a black eye, a split lip, and a face discolored with the kind of excessive bruising that occurs in races who do not regenerate.  Usually within a day or two or having been beaten half-way to hell.

*Marion*

Nodrick waits patiently for you to self-extract from your reverie.  He seems a little relieved, when you relieve him of the alchemical obligation.  "No need?  Alright.  Alright, well, I'll tell my guy it's off.  I'll have to compensate him for labour and ingredients already expended, you understand; but that should be the last you hear of it."  He makes a carefully little scribble of note for himself, in a black skinned pocketbook.

"Ah, sure.  I can have them hauled to your place, if you still have that rig mounted on the front to get it up to your room.  You just let me know when you need the rest of it dissolved into secondary sales.  Stormwind and Southshore, maybe; but hey, I'm sure we can get back a good chunk of the expense, no doubt about it."  He squints at you a little, and then offers finally.  "Hey... Make sure you're drinkin' enough water, okay?  Workaholic types don't keep up on that.  You seem a little..."  He makes a loose gesture all about you; but that's all the commentary he makes on your zoning outs and distractions in the conversation.  He, of course, doesn't know how much you have to think about.

You supervise as the goblins load your crates into your room, tip the haulers, then close the door just in case.  You spot Felix making his way up the ascending road, as you go to shut a window.  His arrival suggests the time for this guild meeting is nigh; though squinting in the diminishing light, he seems to have copped a bruise or two to the face.  Getting into another scrap, perhaps?  That wouldn't be out of character.  You remember him charging quite foolishly into combat with the infernals; Cadet Felix did not have the most clear appreciation of his own limitations.

But now, alone in your room, you have your bounty - a wealth of what passes (decently so) for cutting edge fashion, in this part of the world.  Much of it is what you might call _Barbarian Chic_; single strap leather dresses with shining embellishments and accessories, as a kind of fusion of tribal styles and those of sophisticates.  With the fall of Quel'Thalas, the driving force unifying the development of society _haute couture_ was shattered.  You haven't exactly been hovering in those circles - you were on their fringes even when you were in Dalaran - but as best you can tell, there is a style-war going on in the tailoring world as divisive and desperate as the genuine wars have been.  Who will adopt the influences of who, in their select circles?  In this time of peace, will the daughters of Orc sub-chiefs need to wear mageweave skirts and halters to feel they are keeping abreast of the movement of the world?  Or will the nieces of dwarven merchants in Khaz'Modan outflank their friends by wearing stylized spaulders with bone spikes to their ale-soaked debutants' ball?  The answer is being determined in real time, in events much like the one you are slated to attend; shoes, and dresses, and hair pins put on like sabatons, cuirasses and scabbards in this different kind of war.

It is, at least, a war with fewer casualties.  Still, that's no reason to roll over and give the will to the greenskins.

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## Plaids

*Jakk'ari*

_As he gives you this rundown, he is slipping his classically alliance-style horse-tail helmet onto his head. But not fast enough so that you don't see what he's trying to hide_ 

That look was quite familiar. Much like the young boy covertly rushing to remove the jackal from the inadequately guarded road runner warren with use of his cloak. The beast bit and snapped without a bark, perhaps it knew of the boy's desperation. Both youngsters were lucky not to require stitches as far as the elder in the room knew.

The effort and desire for approval was commendable, but the injuries sustained from maintaining their elder's approval was worrisome. Best to wait and let him come forward. It was best to let him conceive his exit strategy instead of forcing him to do the same.

 So, there were some invasive eyes eh. What did they look like and how did they approach? But most important thing I need to know is this. Did ya win? With that black ruby of yours I bet ya did.  Referring to the bruise under Felix's eye. 

Jakk'ari waits placing all his focus on the helmeted Felix.
_If details wouldn't be surrendered or the story didn't add up there was always Schlep, Seraphis, and the gnome who could offer details._

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## WindStruck

Isaera isn't really impressed by Aleeana's persistence to remove her boots in the laziest, most inefficient way possible. She simply sighs to herself and pinches the bridge of her nose briefly before continuing to rummage through her clothes.

Aleeana's insights hit Isaera like a ton of bricks. Yeah, poor girl. She probably _didn't_ have any friends or family.. and her only 'friend', that demon pet, seemed quite disgruntled. She wasn't sure if it would turn on Marion, if given a chance.

"You're right though. If she wasn't there we might not be alive. Their leader, the one who nearly killed you. He may have just cleaved me in half next.." Both the memories of Marion's demon form, and the sizzling of the druid in a massive fireball did not sit well with Isaera. But Marion, and her demon form, Isaera could easily try to forget and distance herself from. Her own actions, however.. she could not simply run away from. She killed another person.. with a flash of anger and one heated, dangerous spell. What may have happened if she missed and hit someone else? Or if it backfired?

For now, she puts those thoughts aside and continues preparing for the meeting. She changes her clothes and continues to freshen up.

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## Feathersnow

Mor and Lag are unsure.  They have reached a consensus that they should advance their training as a mage, but, still, they want nothing to do with the Orcs of Ogrimmar, and that leaves precious few willing to train them.  So it is more vital than ever they make a good impression on any neutrals able to channel Order energy and interested in a pupil unbeholden to the Alliance.

And that means looking their best!

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis


Marion hummed to herself as she spent a good portion of the rest of her day prodding and prying through the two crates of fashion goods, items and accessories, drawing things out and strewing them across her workshop-bedroom hybrid as if it were a giant, walk-in wardrobe. 

"Ohhh, something of that..."

"Ahh, I like _this!_"

"Ohh no no, that won't do at all, hah they'll think I'm a troll or something!"

"By the Light, are they really that big in the hips..." Marion uttered to herself, holding a skirt up before her waist, stretching the band out clearly well-past her own dimensions so that she could imagine the broad, muscular thighs of the orcish women whom its inhabitation was designed for. 

Hours past, but eventually Marion drew together something that made her smile. Arranging the outfit on her bed, stepping back with her hands on her hips and grin broad across her face, she beheld her fashionista work and nodded in satisfaction. "Yes! Excelsior!" she exclaimed, looking over her shoulder to Vargheists silent, floating huge image as she nodded to him. 

"Quite wonderful, yes?"

*"You never cease to amaze me,"* came it's flat reply. Genuity or sarcasm? Probably the later. 

Marion looked back upon her creation, a bright grin crossing her face as she nodded. 

"Absolutely splendid!"

The human giggled happily and rubbed her hands together before cleaning the other outfits away. 

"No, I have my hair appointment the morning of our departure. I made sure to book well ahead of our scheduled flight, so that will give me plenty of time. Let's see...hair...cosmetics are done...clothes done...jewellery done...I think we're all done!" she clapped, looking up at Vargheist. 

"Would you like something? Perhaps a bow-tie, and a little hat and cane? You'd look very handsome!" she asked with a cheeky grin, as the looming demon simply stared at her with the white sockets of its eye indentations. 

*"Mortal fascination with cloaking themselves with dyed materials will forever be a mystery to me. You are allocating time and resources to grant others power over you through the criticism of their opinions."*

Marion rolled her eyes. "You must be wonderful fun at dinner parties," she said back. 

"I don't expect you to understand. For us, these garments are a sign of status. We all care about what others think, even if we claim not to, because we're all social creatures. Members of the herd who are excluded get picked off by predators, while those to whom everyone else looks to get to direct where the masses go."

The demon stared blankly without reply.

"Oh alright, fine! You don't have to accompany me. I'll keep you on standby though, so don't go too far off or anything..." she permitted. 

With the flush of achievement rushing through her body and having packed everything away - except the necessary clothing and jewels she would wear - Marion next turned her attention to one particular item resting upon a rack placed squarely atop her workshop bench: a rifle.

"Yes...my beauty!" she grinned, approaching the weapon and reaching out to stroke it's wooden-and-steel length. 

"I could have really used you back in those caves...but never matter, you'll be with me from now on!" she whispered, as she held underneath the gun with both hands and drew it up off its rack. Holding the stock up to her shoulder and peering down the sights, she pretended to aim and pull the trigger, even moving her shoulder back to replicate recoil as she made a little "Pew!" sound.

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## MrAbdiel

*Jakk'ari*

"Ah..."  For a moment, you think he's playing dumb.  But after a moment's consideration, it's not clear if he's playing, or if he's the real deal.

"Oh, this - ... Oh, no, No, there were no incidents here at the tower.  The occasional looky-loo, but no one trying to force entry.  This is just...  That's just something else I had to sort out.  It's no issue.  On King's Honor, it won't interfere with the job."

He offers a conciliatory smile which is completely hidden by his helm.  But under your sweltering scrutiny, he quickly seeks a suspicious escape.

"Better head in, I think.  I'm sure Miss Seraphis is itching to get her presentation going."

And in he heads - fortunately for him, the night elf is indeed about ready.

*The Meeting*

Seraphis, Aglet, Schlep, Aleeana and Felix are all present at the meeting; Emilia being the last to arrive, plonking heavily into her chair.  There are enough chairs, this time, so no one is required to stand.  This only amplifies the subtle awkwardness around Felix, who is there in his mail armor with his help on, despite being inside.  _"I'm technically on the clock, guarding you all right now,"_ he insists when Seraphis brings this up; _"really, I see just fine."_

After the report of your victory in Wailing Caverns, a ripple of approval from your hirelings spreads through the room.

"Excellent.  I'm sure none of us expected anything less; though by the sounds of the event, it was more touch-and-go than we should prefer.  Still, I'll expect the Cenarion Circle to extend their thanks shortly; and the Argent Dawn to make their appreciation available in the medium of additional resources.  I believe last time there was talk of possibly working to incorporate some level of automatic defenses, which might be feasible at this point."  The Night elf reminds, with a lifted, elegantly protruding eyebrow lofted for emphasis.  Emilia, who is here but somewhat quiet, raises a thumbs-up - this appeals to her spartan, tactical sensibilities.

"Of course, er... If there were somewhere I could store my things on site, I could be on hand to keep an eye on the place the whole day.  And the others wouldn't have to struggle up the hill each day."

Aglet Glyphtoggle, the gnomish arcane magical specialist and researcher, gives Felix a flat look - no one thinks the tireless fish-man or the amazonian accountant are the ones struggling up the hill; but he doesn't make an issue of it.  He does comment, however.

_"I'm happy enough to keep doing research on what you need me to research, and to continue with Mor'Lag's tutelage as well; but I'm happy to remind you that my expertise isn't limited to the mystical.  If you had the space for the devices, I'm sure the Argent Dawn would cough up enough parts for a functioning radio room.  They're doing all kinds of things with communication gizmos, I hear; using dynamic fel-boosting and mnemonic unravellers to enable communication well beyond normal broadcast ranges.  It might be useful for you to be able to access the wisdom of your library here while you're in the field; if we can get a comms-room up and running, it's just a toggle away."_

Schlep does not offer his expertise on what he thinks this increase in budget should cover.  He does, however, flip out his notebook, and scribble something; holding it up to reveal the word 'GRASS'.

_"Very good, Schlep.  I'm genuinely impressed at your affinity for land-plants.  I was... more than skeptical, before, but both the herb garden, grasses and other plants are sustaining despite the aggressive Barrens heat.  Since we're moving on to reports, have you had any success improving the old hidden dock, beneath the shaft?  The down-down?"_  Seraphis makes some downward indications with the pencil in her hand, and Schlep pauses to think; then lifts his own hand, flat in the air, wavering it back and forth.  The night elf interprets.

_"Some, but not as much as you plan."_  The Murloc bobs, affirmative.  _"I see.  Well, keep at it; I'm sure that anyone who is itching to see its improvements will make the time to spelunk down there.  Felix, anything to report concerning the security of the tower - particularly anything that might be interpreted as related to the Burning Blade?"_

The cadet shakes his helmeted head, and lifts his mailed hands, empty.  _"No, but I guess that's the best answer we could hope for.  Occasionally there's kids or tourists who wander close just to see what the place is about; once I caught a goblin casing around the back, but nothing more than regular theives looking for easy pickings.  Nothing actionable, and nothing worth reporting.  Nothing warlock-like, certainly."_

Seraphis seems pleased; and her attention swivels to Aleeana.  _"And it seems like your mission to learn what you could about the activities of the Kolkar centaur has been aided by a direct brush with them - we know, at least, they are snooping around the local oases.  What did the rangers at the Crossroads have to say?"_

Aleeana purses her lips, and narrows her fel-green eyes at the Kaldorei.  _"...I... didn't get the chance to make an extensive survey, given that an urgent message for the team cropped up and I happened to be in the position to swiftly deliver it.  Plus, it turns out we needed all hands on deck, fighting those Druids.  I'll get back on it this week."_

Seraphis pauses, and longer than she does when she is being polite.  The friction between herself and Aleeana is more pronounced, now; the orderly former-sentinel is sceptical of the decision made unilaterally by the ranger in the field to abandon her priority in favour of another opportunity, but it had, in fact, worked out for the best.  She chooses not to have the battle, now.

_"Well.  We shall all look forward to hearing that report when the team returns from the Armistice Ball.  I had some success recovering a copy of the manual for the Samophlange, vis-à-vis the job posting from the Tinkers' Union, however."_

_"Oh, yes."_  Aglet pipes up, waggling a thick green-leather bound volume. _"You'll want to take this with you on the zepplin, Marion; some_ light reading_.  Maybe you'll have more luck than I will - but the manual seems to be written by someone who hated manuals and hated anyone who tolerated them.  I suspect the reason the Union wants to capture this Samophlange is just for that reason; because they don't know what it does, and they want to learn, before the Venture Company gets a leg up on them in some way.  Oh!  And I managed to squeeze in some research about the Burning Blade, like you asked."_

Seraphis checks her agenda quickly - that's all the reports, and then emancipates the eager gnome to gabble on, with a wave of her hand.

_"Alright - now, I suspect Mor'Lag knows most of this, being from the orc world herself.  But for the uninitiated, a little background on the Burning Blade cult:"_

_"They've undergone quite a transformation from their Origins, but they were first and best known as the Burning Blade_ Clan_; one of the constituant orc clans making up the Old Horde that invaded in the first war and continued into the second.  Particularly fierce were their blademasters; the unarmed orc warrior purists who are now, perhaps thankfully, few and far between."_

_"But of all the orc clans, the Burning Blade was one of, perhaps the most, vulnerable to the demonic corruption they invited into their armies.  After the second war, after Warcheif Thrall's rallying of the New Horde, most of the blademasters who once were part of that clan defected to join his New Horde rather than languish bitterly in the shadow of their violated clan.  I understand it's always been a clan of extremes - even during the second war, the Burning Blade Clan were considered savages by their own orc kin, who tasked their ogre vassals to keep them under control before herding them towards enemy strongpoints.  This, in contrast to the focused and serene blademasters - it's no wonder they defected, with disgust at what the demon curse had made their bretheren." _ 

_"But the Clan itself was shattered and routed at the battle for the Dark Portal, by a contingent under Uther.  The Lightbringer, I mean.  The cult that bears their name are just the lingering demon-blood addicts and the warlocks who sustain and manipulate them.  They must have come to Kalimdor during the Third War, when the Legion seemed poised to overcome all of Azeroth; likely hoping to curry favor."_

_"Now, they're just shattered into cells scattered throughout Kalimdor.  Amongst orc towns and cities, they can atleast feign innocence.  There have been cases of cells uprooted in Orgrimmar, Razor Hill, the Echo Isles, and other places in Durotar; though the one Gazlowe saw chased out of Ratchet was the only one in the Barrens I can find any word of.  If you want to investigate them further, you might need a Horde source - but naturally, it's not open knowledge who the Warcheif has running the cult to ground.  Perhaps you can ask him, when you meet him."_

*Spoiler: OOC:*
Show

Questions about the Armistice Ball, about any of these loose ends, or anything else might be appropriate, as is any color commentary from our lovely cast.

To remind you folks, you have another base build point available as reward for this mission (useful to build another room, or facility, or function); and another 0.5 staffing points available, which is useful either to immediately hire Voxombis as a cook and housekeeper, or to bank to hire someone else when you get another half-point!

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## WindStruck

Isaera clears her throat and says, "It's a lot we have to go over..."

Looking at the Night Elf, she asks, "I know we just got back, but we will be contacting the Kirin Tor as soon as possible, won't we? I fear the ley line is an issue that needs to be checked again at some point. I am not confident that I actually fixed the problem.  Physically speaking, on this.. plane of existence, I think it's sealed off, but the arcane energy still must be as close as it was before. Unless ending the druids' ritual had some effect..."

The tension between Aleeana and Seraphis seems palpable, but hopefully it would all smooth over for now. "I'm glad to have had your company, and your aid in that scuffle, sister. Though.. perhaps after you delivered that missive, you could have continued on with your mission?"

She shrugs and says, "Oh well. Perhaps as Miss Starshadow suggests, you will hopefully be able to return with some intelligence by time we get back..." Though Isaera was still worried about her sister. And now that things at the Oasis got mucked up and the centaur were attacked, that might make things even more dangerous for her.

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## Plaids

We will definitely inquire about any horde breakaways or adversaries who could threaten us. We are enjoying their hospitality after all. 

Jakk'ari further nestles himself in his chair content with the progress and rewards the party has achieved. Happy as a clam he sports the widest smile in the meeting. 
_Though uncertainties still remained with Felix's altercation, whatever it may have been. A bruise that big on his cheek was concerning. And who knew if the centaur or other groups would harbor a grudge and choose to strike while the party was out._ 

 I think some additional defenses would be a wonderful addition to the tower. The town will also be glad that someone is guarding its rear.
If opportunity permits I will assist in discerning the purpose of this Samophlange. Can't be safe with Venture Co. involved.

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## BananaPhone

Marion Mordis

Marion sat at the end of the table with a notebook in front of her, half-focusing on whatever it was she was writing and half-paying attention to the meeting at large. If she were being honest, there were some times when she...zoned out, or drifted off, perhaps. At least at first. Then, out of nowhere, bam, bam, bam, bam.

Talk of long-distance, fel-boosted communication gizmos. 

Bam!

Automatic defences arrayed around their tower. 

Bam!

The passive-aggressive cattiness between the elves.

Ba - er, not so much. Marion kinda tuned that out. She thought Aleena was pretty. Seraphis was a bit stuck up. Bit haughty. In any little sniping contest between the two, Marion would be mentally massaging the shoulders of the Blood Elf between verbal rounds, but that was about it. But her suggestion that she'd be heading back out into the Barrens at large to gather intel did interest the warlock. It interested her quite a bit indeed...

"Aleena," Marion's soft voice penetrated the awkward silence from the other end of the table - the 5'4", nicely dressed and well-groomed, dark-haired human girl sitting at the end with a friendly little smile on her face after speaking. 

"If you wish, I have a few items that you could take into the Barrens with you. They're prototypes that I intend on field-testing soon myself, but I would love for a seasoned soldier-type like yourself to provide insight. Come and see me afterwards in my workshop!"

However, the talk of devices and prototypes reminded one of the staff about that Samophlange.

_



			
				"Oh, yes." Aglet pipes up, waggling a thick green-leather bound volume. "You'll want to take this with you on the zepplin, Marion; some light reading. Maybe you'll have more luck than I will - but the manual seems to be written by someone who hated manuals and hated anyone who tolerated them. I suspect the reason the Union wants to capture this Samophlange is just for that reason; because they don't know what it does, and they want to learn, before the Venture Company gets a leg up on them in some way. Oh! And I managed to squeeze in some research about the Burning Blade, like you asked."
			
		

_

Marions eyes swivelled in their sockets, a visible glean of interest.

"You have the manual?" she asked tentatively, a clear mote of excitement in the timbre of her voice as her appetite was whetted for being the first to sift through new technical knowledge. 

"I believe that I will, yes!" the warlock smiled, "Thank you very much, Aglet, that is most helpful!"

But then mention of the Burning Blade arose, and Marion's mood noticeably darkened. 

_These morons again_, she thought bitterly to herself, the tale of their place in the Horde, the devastation they wrought and the price they paid for it about what she expected. 

"The Burning Blade are inept amateurs," Marion said. However, she quickly followed her words up with caution.

"However, they are still incredibly dangerous as they toy with fel magics using the thin knowledge that their dim minds have scratched together. Thralls Horde is right to purge their ignorance from this world. I think that we should assist him in any way we can should the topic arise during conversation. They're a demon-worshiping cult. One only needs to remember the Cult of the Damned to know what damage hidden groups of lunatics can cause. There is only one treatment for this disease: kill them all."

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