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 
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 .
 
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.
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.
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.
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. 
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." 
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?" 
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."  
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 
[roll]1d20+3 [/roll]
 
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 
     
 
 

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. 
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.
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 ] 
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 
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??  😛
 


She clears her throat.  "Ahem, and a word in private, captain?" 
 
 Spoiler: for GM, or perhaps snippets with quite a high perception roll 
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." 
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."  
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?' 
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.
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.
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 

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

 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 

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: 
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: 
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  

 (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 

 (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 
[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. 
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 
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
 
 
 Originally Posted by 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."   
 

 "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." 

 
 Originally Posted by BananaPhone 
 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.


 
 Originally Posted by hand ax ranger 
 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! 
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. 

  
 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. 
   
 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. 
   
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 
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) 
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. 
 “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: 
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}: 
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. 
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) 
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 
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 
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 
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 

 (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 
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 
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: 
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 
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 
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! 

 (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: 
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 

 (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-&gt;Mid or Mid-&gt;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: 
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 

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 
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! 
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: 
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 

 
 Originally Posted by 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. 
 
 

"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 
  ...Look like this, typically. 
 

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

 
 Spoiler: Insight DC 8 
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 
   
 


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 
   
 
 
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 
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} 
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. 
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
 
 
 Originally Posted by 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." 
 

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 
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. 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 VILLAGE     It’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! 
  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 
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 
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! 
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... 
   “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 
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 
...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 
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: 
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 
 "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? 
"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: 
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 

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 
"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... 
 
 The Bloody Dwarf

   
 Spoiler: Ambience, Visuals 
 
  
 


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 
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... 
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... 
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? 
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... 
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: 
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... 
"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 
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... 
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 
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! 
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 
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.
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-"

 
 
 Originally Posted by BananaPhone 
  "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?" 
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?" 
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.
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.
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.
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 

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."
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... 

  
 Spoiler: OOC 
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 
 
  
 
 
 
  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 
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… 
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 
(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… 
 “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 
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 
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 

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... 
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 
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: 
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... 
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 
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 
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: 
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) 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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! 
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? 
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! 
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 
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&amp;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: 
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 
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: 
"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! 
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! 
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: 
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 
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 
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 
Faintly, carried on the wind, is the sound of drums, and deep voiced revelry.
 

 
 Spoiler: Perception DC: 15 
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 
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 
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 
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! 
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 
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 
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 
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) 
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) 
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) 
  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) 
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 
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
 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
   "... 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 
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 
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. 
 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! 
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 
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 
 (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 
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  
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! 
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 
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 

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 
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 
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 
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 
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: 
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 
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! 
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! 
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 
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... 
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! 
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 
  (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 
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 
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 
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 
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! 
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 

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 
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 
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 
 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 
A ripple of concern seems to be rolling through the ogres; some of them are growing alarmed at something... 
 Spoiler: Perception, DC:15 
...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 
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 
 
  
^Mood Music.
 


The adrenaline floods back into your bloodstream, chasing away tiredness with the blazing clarity of shock.

 
 Spoiler: {Fluff}Isaera 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
“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 
“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. 
 
 


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 
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 
 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 
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 
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 
 "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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
 "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 
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 
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 
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 
 
 Spoiler: OOC 
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 
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 
 "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 
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 

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 
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 
 "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 pleading 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 
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.
 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: Siblings on the Roof 
 “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.” 
 
WindStruck
 
 Spoiler: Siblings on the roof 
 "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." 
 
Plaids
 
 Spoiler: Jakk'ari's pitstop 
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.  
 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: Siblings On The Roof 
 "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! 
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 
[I]"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! 
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 
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 
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.
 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Pitstop 
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 
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'. 
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! 
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! :)
 
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...
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.... 


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?" 
 
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.
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." 
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) 


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 


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………
 
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 
 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 
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 

 
 Originally Posted by 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) 


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 


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………
 
 
 
 

 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 
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 


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 

(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! 
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.
 
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." 
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.
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.  
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 
Just a mini post punched out after work to reply to Jakk’ari’s thoughts :) bigger one later tonight.
 
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." 
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 


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? 


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?
 
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. 
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 
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 
 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 
 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.
 
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.
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 
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...  🙂

Chances are, she'd have one of the guys fetch it though.  😛
 
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 
 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: ????? 
   
 


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 
 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 
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 


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. 
 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 
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 
 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! 
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?  ”


 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
 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 
   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. 
 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 
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 
 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! 
   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 

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 

 
 Spoiler: on duty 


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 (&amp; 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 &amp; 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 

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... 
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. 🙂

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 &amp; 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 
   
 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: Jakk'ari's Dream, concluded. 

 
 Originally Posted by Jakk’ari 
  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.


 
 Originally Posted by Jakk’ari 
  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.


 
 Originally Posted by Jakk’ari 
  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.


 
 Originally Posted by Jakk’ari 
  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! 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
 “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?” 
 

 
 
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 
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! 
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!
 
 
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 
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.
Plaids
 
 Spoiler: Insight roll on Felix 
 (1d20+7)[ 10 ] 
 

 
 Spoiler: Montage activity roll 
 (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.
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"
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 
 
 

 
 Spoiler: Lavender 
 
 

 
 Spoiler: Desert Sunflower 
 
 
JoyWonderLove
 
 Spoiler: Thirst Time For Everything 


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? 


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. ”
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"." 
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 
 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.
 
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." 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Isaera: Info on Venture Co. 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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?
 

 

 
JoyWonderLove
 
 Spoiler: voting, changing vote or not 

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 
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 
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 
   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 
 "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 
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 
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 
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: 
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 
 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) 


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 
 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 
As fun as it would be to take a nice dip in the water, that would just be irresponsible and stupid.  😛

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 

 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. 😁 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 
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 
 "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 
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 
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... 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
 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 
 
 

 
JoyWonderLove
 
 Spoiler: Not Quite Insightful Conversation (Felix), Part 2 


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.
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 
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
 
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 
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! 
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!
 
 
Feathersnow
Mor'Lag charges the center Centaur barreling forth in a double move!
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 
Isaera's using her single action to move toward or into the cave.

Edit: using extra effort for some additional move
 
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.
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.
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 


Presuming this is like d&amp;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 .
 
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 
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. 
 
 

 


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. 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Isaera: Far From Home 
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 
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?" 
 
 
JoyWonderLove
 
 Spoiler: Not Quite Insightful Conversation (Felix), Part 3: Party Hard 


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+ 


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?
 
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.
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 
 
 Spoiler 
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." 
 
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.
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"
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." 
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.
WindStruck
 "And on what basis to you make all those claims?"  Isaera asks, without any skepticism hidden from her voice or demeanor.
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." 
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.  
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Marion: Theramo' Money, Theramo' Problems 
 "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 
 "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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
   
 


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 
 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 
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 
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 
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! 
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 
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 
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 
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 


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 
 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! 
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 
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! 
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 
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! 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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! 
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 


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? 


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 


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 
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.
 
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 


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 
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 
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 
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 
...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 
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 
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 
...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 
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 
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 
 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 
 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: -_- 
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! 
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 
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 
Athletics for climbing down the cliff (1d20)[ 19 ] 
Toughness roll if need  (1d20+1)[ 15 ] 
 
 Spoiler 
 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 
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! 
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 
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 
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 
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 
...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! 
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... 
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! 
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! 
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! 
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: 
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 
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 
 (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! 
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! 
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 

 (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! 
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 
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! 
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 

 (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! 
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 
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 
 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! 
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! 
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 
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 
 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 
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 
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! 
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 
 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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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! 
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 
As you continues to cage the restless forces pouring out of the ley-line...

 
 Spoiler: Perception Check DC 13: Fail 
... 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 
...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 
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. 

 
 Originally Posted by A Friendly Eyeball 
 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 
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 
...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,  &lt;Thalassian&gt; "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 
 "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 
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 
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 
...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 
 "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! 
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 
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? 
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! 
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 
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: 


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 

 (1d20+10)[ 19 ]   Fighting!
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: A Brief Reminder, Mor'Lag!  OOC: 
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! 
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! 
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&amp;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! 
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 
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 
 
 
 
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 
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 
 (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 
 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! 
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! 
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! 
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! 
  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 
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! 
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! 
 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 
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! 
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 
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 

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! 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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 
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! 
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! 
 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 
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! 
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
 
 
 Originally Posted by Isaera 
 "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.


 
 Originally Posted by Marion 
 "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.


 
 Originally Posted by Mor'Lag 
 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." 

 
 Originally Posted by Jakk'ari 
 "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! 
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 

 
"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: 
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 

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 
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: 
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... 
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. 
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 
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 
 "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 
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 
 "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 
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
 
 Originally Posted by BananaPhone 
    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: 
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: 
 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! 
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 
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 
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.
 
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...
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. 
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.  
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.
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!
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.
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: 
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!
 
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.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari
 
  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.  

Speaking of enigmatic artifacts. The weight of the Bracken Wall shadow hunter's consolation prize begins to come into sharper focus for just a moment. All that was known to Jakk'ari were regarding the dull bronze key was its Iron Forge origin and residual magic from its paired lock or safe. Hopefully the peace summit would have guests to answer everyone's' questions.

Jakk'ari speaks interjecting right before an elegant routine pivot from Seraphis would have brought the meeting closer to adjourn.
  Ms. Seraphis, the peace summit would there perhaps be a representative from Iron Forge. Also can we expect each invited diplomat to have an entourage of their own versed in skills outside of statecraft? 
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." 
MrAbdiel
 Seraphis listens and, professional as ever, rounds up the sentiments into near, comprehensible bundles scribbled on the charting paper for all to see.  She allows Marion's dire warning to hang in the air for an appropriate moment, then begins over it.

 "Very good.  Aleeana will pursue intelligence on the Kolkar, while you attend your event in Orgrimmar.  And since master Glyphtoggle here is an alumnus of the Kirin Tor, I am certain he can be trusted to contact them, and manage the direction of whatever containment team they dispatch with due urgency to make permanent measures over the crucial, short term ones in place.  I suspect all of the Barrens owes you thanks; especially you, Miss Arkhanaskrit.  Though people are as a rule bad at appreciating calamities prevented, it is hard to imagine the ultimate outcome had this group not fought so hard, and employed such skill, to contain such forces." 

It's a compliment; or something  like  a compliment.  A compliment delicately wrapped in Kaldorei grace and diplomacy, keeping it fresh, but less intimate of a gesture.  Her smile is cool; though not condescending, so it seems genuine enough.

 "The samophlange manual we will send with you all on your journey, for your perusal.  If I had not been able to make sense of it, I would not hold that it has no sense in it necessarily - but master Glyphtoggle finding none makes me wary.  It would be just like a goblin to guard his design by writing a confusing and fallacious manual then allowing that to be captured by his rivals.  But you might decide on what you want to do about that item, if anything, when you return." 
 "As for the Armistace Ball, given how exhausted you all are, I recommend taking tomorrow to rest and recover - especially those of you who took wounds, and whose bodies must still be dispersing the healing magics.  But my recommendation aside, you have two days; then a day long zeppelin ride, and finally a day to yourselves inside of Orgrimmar with the ball in the evening.  That should give Mor and Lag here enough time to make their own arrangements.  I've taken the liberty of sending some preparatory messages ahead.  One is to the  Steemwheedle Events Pavilion  outside of the gates of Orgrimmar, where they are hosting large, temporary accommodations for all the foreign dignitaries and emissaries.  I am given to understand they're quite luxurious; and you should expect them to accommodate you for your stay after you arrive.  I've also sent a note ahead to  Magar's Cloth Goods  in Orgrimmar proper for an evening fitting the night you arrive, Mor'Lag.  If you make your way in and let them know what you want, let them take measurements, they will have your panoply ready by noon the next day, which should give you some breathing room to troubleshoot if there's an issues." 

The night elf's eyes swing to the sand troll.   "And yes, Jakk'ari; I do think you can expect an Ironforge delegation, and perhaps a Wildhammer one; though that might be asking a little much.  I am not certain they will bring an entourage with skills beyond bodyguarding and perhaps trade negotiation; but dwarves are a skilled people, so you may be lucky in that regard.  But aside from seeking that interest, and putting the question to the Orcs about splinter cells of the Burning Blade, I think you'll be free to enjoy the ball.  With that, unless there's anything else, I think we are adjourned for the night." 

Aleeana raises an eyebrow a little at Marion's invitation to field test her inventions, but gives a little nod, intending to follow up once the meeting is formally over.  Calling her a  seasoned soldier type  is a little generous for the self-appointed Quel'Dorei ranger; but it's the kind of flattery that works on her!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Huzzah! 
You have two days to burn before your flight.  Spending atleast one in genuine rest is a good idea; being flatout fighting magical evils and walking across continents may have long term detriments without such breaks.  But you can feel free to post anything you're doing in your interim to get ready -
 once everyone feels ready to roll, we'll get to Zeppelining!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion nodded once with a little smile on her face, apparently satisfied with the conclusion of the meeting as she pushed her chair away from the table and stood up to depart. The Warlock didn't waste any time in her movements - sliding up behind Aleena and gently placing a hand on the elfs shoulder.

 "If you would just like to follow me, I'll show you what I had in mind!"  she said quietly, offering a friendly little smile as she attempted to lead the Blood Elf away and up to her workshop/bedroom.

If Aleena follows...

 
 Spoiler 
Marion chatted happily during the stairway ascension, sharing little thoughts and small-talk with her 'guest'.

 "...I, of course, had no doubt in my mind that we would have over-come those nasty druids!" 
 "Overall I'd rather stay in civilisation than trudge around the Barrens again...the heat, the bleak wastes are not to my liking..." 
 "I tell you what though, the oasis did have a certain primordial beauty and charm to it didn't it? Shame about all those ghastly centaurs, ugly creatures!" 

Until finally they reached the thick door to Marions quarters. Taking out her key from her hip, the human unlocked her portal and opened it to reveal the mish-mash of benches, workshop tools, a bed with clothes strewn about it, a small book-case whose shelves carried a mix of engineering and demonological tomes, open and messy wardrobes and a wonderful view of Ratchet visible through the door that led to her balcony. Stepping into that room, one could inhale the scent of ozone and grease, as Marion blushed a little while waving her hand back and forth to almost  Shoo!  the fumes away.

 "Hah, ahh sorry about that darling, I always keep the windows and balcony door open to help fumigate the place - it can get a little stuffy sometimes when I'm working on things!" 

Marion closed the door behind her, 'guiding' the elf into her mysterious quarters so she could stand in the centre. Once Aleena was in place, it was difficult not to have her attention drawn to one suspiciously clean section of the bench, upon which sat a stand-supported rifle.


  
 Spoiler 
 
 
 
 "Viola!"  Marion beamed as she drew closer to the gun and made a 'sweeping' gesture across its image with her left hand.

 "The MARS Mark 1!" 

The Warlock reached over and picked the weapon up, drawing it about, muzzle aimed at the floor, and held it before herself as if cradling a newborn.

 "It's light. The stock is adjustable for personal comfort, it's good for righties or lefties..."  she approached Aleena slowly.

 "And it breaks down into three separate parts for discrete handling. A word on firepower: I've developed a feed-back gas system that helps accelerate the .75 caliber shot it fires to leave the muzzle at four hundred yard per second velocity, ideal for punching through armour or paticularly thick hides." 

Marion was positively beaming as she lavished the weapon with her sales pitch, before she tilted it to the side so that Aleena could behold the tube that ran just underneath the barrel.

 "The magazine tube can hold five shots with pre-attached powder caps. One priming of the lever here - "  she demonstrated as her right hand held the the fulcrum underneath the receiver and  Click!  pushed it down, then  Cluck!  drew it back up into place.

 " - and it reloads for you, ready to fire again right away! It's breach loaded through a simple insertion point,"  she tapped the groove underneath the receiver that pushed inwards to reveal the railing that ran underneath the barrel, where one could imagine a line of shots awaiting their turn to be loaded into the chamber.

As if to demonstrate, Marion reached over to her bench and snatched up a handful of shot that each seemed to have caps already placed against them. Due to their unusual shape, there was only one direction in which they could be loaded into the tube magazine, which the warlock happily showed.

 "One...two...three...four...five..."    Click-Cluck! 

Marion grinned, holding the rifle before her,  "and she's ready to go! You can kill five orcs with this girl in under ten seconds before you have to reload!" 

The girl took a few steps back and looked out of the door of her balcony, stepping through it as she spoke over her shoulder. At this elevation, the warlocks dark hair was caught gently in the wind, but her voice was heard well all the same.

 "See that tree over there? On the ridge?"  she gestured to Aleena, pointing out a dry, desiccated savannah tree that would have been two hundred or so yards away.

Marion drew the rifle up, pressed it against her shoulder, aimed down the sights -  Bang! 
 Click-Cluck! 
 Bang! 

The warlock performed this five times, expending a shot each time as pieces of the tree were visibly blown off by the impacting shot, even at this range. The roar of each gunshot echoed off of of the ridge while tendrils of cartridge smoke swirled and billowed away from the balcony.

Turning back around, her ammo expended, Marion was grinning from ear to ear as she held the rifle up, gesturing to the top of the weapon.

 "Adjustable three scale sights, precision boring of the rifle and standardized manufacturing of the shots gives the user fantastic accuracy out to two hundred yards!"  she moved back inside, holding the weapon out for the Blood Elf to receive with her own hands.

 "I'm already working on the Mk 2 version. But the Mk 3 version will be the result of your feedback and my own testing, and it's likely the production model I take to market - no one ever went broke selling weapons, honey!"  If happiness and pride had a face, it was Marions.

 "Think you can take her for a test ride in the Barrens and tell me what you think?" 
 
WindStruck
Isaera, not backing down from a mental challenge, offers,  "If you don't mind, could I take a look at that manual as well? Perhaps a few more eyes and minds on it could help decipher it?" 

That evening Isaera spent resting well, though in the morning she did go out. By no means did she mean to be exerting herself.. nor did she really want to stay cooped up all day. In any case, the main reason for coming to Ratchet now was preparation! It would be foolish to try to prepare for the Armistice Ball only at the last minute.

And so, Isaera takes a stroll down to the town proper, looking through the various stores. She was of course, interested in tailors, and clothing, and fashion boutiques. First, she needed to see what was for sale!

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
So yes.. Isaera will spend the morning going shopping.. though I already have some knowledge that all the clothes are bought out? Which will be interesting to say the least. No, I'm not just giving up and going back when I realize there's nothing for sale anymore.

Anyone else is welcome to tag along too. Except maybe Schlep....  I think he's better off and happier in the water and tending plants anyway.
 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

With the meeting concluded Jakk'ari strolls off towards his own quarters. There would be one day of rest and one day of work.

The Work:
Waking early Jakk'ari goes to the markets. The selections were nice but not providing the exact species desired. The orc Gartog draped in beekeeping attire provided helpful options. Having paid by midday the rest of the work continues.

Approaching Seraphis at work at her desk Jakk'ari begins his investigation.
  Apologies for the interruption but do you have a transcription of Felix's routine? I became worried after seeing blackened eye. I haven't seen signs of any theft of vandalism, but I worry he may have trouble adjusting to the town or found himself in feud. And juniors aren't forthcoming in cases like these.  

--Jakk'ari will most likely tail Felix for the rest of the day especially if he leaves the tower.
 
 Spoiler:  Work Summary 
 Jakk'ari goes to town to get some supplies which include some insects. Upon returning he asks Seraphis if anything unusual or out of routine happened with Felix. He most likely tails Felix to investigate.
 


The Rest:
While the party attended the Armistice Ball the tower party would be relieved of their mentorship and support duties. Then they would begin pursuing the unfinished business of the Kolkar and Samophlange. Persistent work would continue for the tower party.

So, what better way to recuperate than a Farr'aki claypan. Hearing the footsteps of Schelp, Felix, Seraphis, and Aglet approaching Jakk'ari prepares his pitch.
The tower party arrives outside beneath the towers shadow to see Jakk'ari bare chested lounging in a warm aerated pool of mud. Having learned his lesson of cultural variances from his introduction of honey pot ants to the party Jakk'ari prepares to promote a variety of activities to partake. Hopefully with at least one palatable to each member.

Warm aerated mud bubbles invitingly to leisure seekers. Melted wax rests in a glass saucepan over a neat bed of coals readied to remove grime and pluck errant hairs. A of concoction aromatic herbs nestles in a clay bowl,  hopefully Felix could use it to ease the bruising around his eye .
Finally, there is the Irridescent Blowfly larvae located more discreetly in a bucket of to the side. Though Jakk'ari was tempted to prematurely use them to remove deposits of dead skin and plaque on his tusks he resisted remembering the squeamishness of some races towards insects. Aglet, and Felix would likely decline given their cultures pension for cleaner homes free of insects. Schlep would likely accept the invitation to at least dine on the maggots. Seraphis was difficult to predict. Though night elves as far as Jakk'ari knew were fond of nature and living beside all its animals while having a poise and immaculate grooming that would suggest otherwise.

  With all the work you have scheduled during the Armistice Ball I thought you could use a period of respite and recovery. What da you think? 
A muffled splash announces Seraphis's arrival into the mud as she splatters a handful of larvae on her face.

Felix cautiously follows suit dipping his feet in the mud while Aglet carefully applies wax to his bald scalp, and Schlep heartily slurps the herbal remedy.
 
 Spoiler: Rest Summary 
Jakk'ari offers the tower staff a spa day.
 
MrAbdiel
  After the Meeting... 

Aleeana looks over the rifle in the way a veterinarian looks over some one's pet crab - as a weird, necessary part of the job she signed on to.  It was not an elegant longbow with its ancient and familiar shape, stately and powerful and proven; but an ugly, tough construction that worked entirely different principles of motion to launch projectiles.  She understood its use; had fired guns before, even.  But she had the same reservation about firearms that all elves had - it simply wasn't  elven  enough.  There were no stories about elven gunslingers; no sacred elven guns carved from the boughs of ancestral trees given by gods, or anything like it.  Guns were  dwarfy .  They were  mannish .  They were  gnomular. 

Still...

"These are impressive claims.  Fire arms are..."  Gross.  Clunky.  Loud.  Devoid of style. "...Not my first preference; but I've been meaning to become more acquainted with them.  Now that the cost of ammunition has leveled out between longarms and longbows in the post-war surplus, now's as good a time as any."  She pays attention to Marion's demonstration, works herself a  Click-Cluck!  or two.  Watches the impact smash pieces of wood off the tree.

"I'll see if I can't pick a fight on the way to the Crossroads to give you some data.  Not with people, of course."  She flaps a hand a little - perish the thought.  "Pity Zachary is still out and about wherever he is.  He'd be all over such a device.  But as an avid amateur, I'm sure I'll be able to tell you how it goes against the odd charging kodo."

Meanwhile, Aglet shows Isaera the manual for the Samophlange; happy enough for extra eyes on the task.  Unfortunately, it becomes immediately apparent to the mage - as it would to Marion later when she tried, and Aglet beforehand - that the tome is impenetrable.  There are plenty of discernable terms - lots of engineering specific terms like  siphon  and  counterleverage  and  substandard operation  and  sprocket ; some of which Aglet is happy to define to fill in the blanks in Isaera's knowledge on the subject.  But the manual seems to be written not for a typical user, but strictly for the operation of the device's maker.  It seems to anticipate a great deal of familiarity with the item in question, or atleast that the item in question be present.

 In prime operation the shorter oscillates faster than previous measurement.   The shorter what?  Prime operation for what purpose?  Which measurement?
 Most sprockets hand machined but second of second set needs custom replacement.   Hand machined as opposed to.. machine machined?  Doesn't hand-anything imply custom?  Second of second set, implying a first set?
 Under no circumstances invert steel rods in isolation to rest of device.   What does it matter which way up or down a regular steel rod goes?  How would you invert anything in isolation to a device it's part of?

Possessing the device should hopefully be enough of a rosetta stone to the manual, and vice versa, that its purpose be revealed.  Without it, the green leather bound tome is simply a way to generate headaches on demand (which is a novel invention, in a way.)

 The Next Day... 
 Jakk'ari, International Mon of Mystery 

After doing a little bug shopping, you catch Seraphis on her way down to town with Isaera.  She is happy to field your question, as always.   "Yes... yes he does seem to think he is doing a better job concealing his bruised face; but he has proven resistant to query.  I have no transcript of his activities, but I can tell you off the cuff.  When your party is on site, he makes his way here a little early before dinner and Emilia serves him a share of whatever she makes.  If your party is absent, he arranges his dinner before coming up the hill and I hand him the key.  He keeps the lanterns on the first floor oiled up to create the illusion of ongoing occupancy, at my request; and manages his own watch on the road, and the approaches to the tower.  When I return in the morning - shortly before nine bells - he passes the key back, and usually naps for an hour or so on the balcony overlooking the town before heading back to the boarding house by the dock, where he stays.  He's always respectful, and keen to ask if anyone needs any help before he moves on.  He's a model watchman, though his ability to perform in actual combat remains to be seen.  But you spoke well of him, and his performance during the calamity at Stonemaul; so perhaps there is nothing to fear.  He doesn't seem the kind to pick a fight for no reason - that's more Emilia's forté - but one does not need to pick a fight to have one picked, I suppose." 

With this schedule in mind, you dawdle at the roadside, and wait for Felix to pass by on his way back to the boarding house.  He does not disappoint; trudging his tired way down the long ramp of a road into the square of town, weaving through the street, finally making his way into a large, cheap looking boarding house called  The Chalet By The Sea ; an asinine name, since a chalet is an Alterac mountain house and has nothing to do with the sea, and it lends only the thinnest veneer of sophistication to what is fundamentally a flophouse for drunkards, sailors, and itinerant workers.  Using a movement of Darkspear dockhands to mask your movement, you head in and cast your keen gaze down the line of beds in a huge warehouse of a common room.  Almost everyone within is male, and most of those are goblins, with the usual smatter of exceptions to the rules.  Most are peeling away from their beds for the day's work, while a few, Felix included, are doing the opposite.  You watch Felix from a distance as he removes his helm and boots, and puts them into his pack; but leaves the rest of his chain on himself.  An odd decision, considering there is a lockbox at the foot of each of these bed, and most of the patrons don't seem to have any compunction against using them.  Lifting the edge of the thin mattress, he puts his spear beneath it so it is pinned down by his weight when he gets into bed, hugging is pack to his chest, and rolls over to face the wall to go to sleep with all his worldly possessions gripped tightly to his body.

 Isaera, Making Her Way Downtown 

Aleeana left early on her scouting mission, so your ideal shopping partner is absent; but your broad invitation for company while you go to town is taken up by Miss Starshadow, who receives the key from Felix at the end of his shift and hands it off to Aglet to mind the place for a while.  Most of your interaction with Seraphis has been in the formal settings of your Opal Collocation chapter meetings; but she reveals a personality beyond her majordomo façade and her friction with your phlegmatic sister, enough to share the day's efforts with you and provide a set of diplomatic, knowing second opinions on anything you choose to buy.  After a brief stopover with Jakk'ari on the road, you swan through the streets of bustling Ratchet with the amazonian Kaldorei at your side, and check out the fashion scene of the town, such that it is.  You are pleased to see that the goblin tailors and fashionistae do indeed stock clothes in elven sizes - diminutive as they are, their primary desire is to sell to customers, and this behoves a merchant to have accommodation for all possible clients within reason.  You are also pleased to see that, aside from a few idiosyncratic 'boom' fashions overindulging on sequins and rhinestones, the goblins have a fairly compelling range of fine clothing that is  adequate  to your standard; styles that you  would  be caught dead in, and not feel so desecrated that your ghost needed to strangle everyone involved in your funeral procession.  These styles are good.  Some, you would even say, are  great , and you'd put them on a short list to narrow down.

But what is disappointing to see is that there is no overlap between these categories.  There are  clothes you would wear  and  clothes that can fit you .  But the 'venn' sweetspot,  clothes that you would wear and fit you , is just non-existent in one, two, and now the third store, as you try that one, too.

Seraphis briefly handles a red dress that would fit her towering form, though its color would clash with the hue of her skin, and she knows it.  It would look great on you, if you were a foot and a half taller and spent a full quarter of your life doing squats and pull-ups.  But the night elf soon comes to the conclusion that this absense of clothes in the  normal human or high elf woman  catagory seems unusual, just as you have.   "Surely there aren't so many ladies from the human kingdoms and Silvermoon coming to the Armistice ball  via Ratchet  that the whole town is sold out of high fashion garments.  Where would they hide?  Stacked three deep, in the hold of every ship in the bay?"
 
This interrogative is directed at a self-titled goblin  fashionista  named Delia Rocketlips - a name which she has to have given herself as well, surely.  Surely.

The goblin girl sits perched on a stool behind the counter, batting eyelashes as long as her fingers, tending knifishly long nails with the delicate strokes of a file.   "Honey, please.  I can't talk about my buyers.  The bond between a seamstress and her clients is a sacred trust; it's priveledged information.  But hey; my custom schedule is booked up for the next four days.  You could try Suzette's place; or the Brothers Goldstar have a ladies' line, too." 

You have, of course, just come from those places; and received similar excuses. 
WindStruck
One thing was on Isaera's mind, since the stop with Jakk'ari that involved Felix.  "Is everything alright with Felix?"  she asks. While she did regard the young foot soldier with a healthy measure of respect, he seemed to have grown distant as of late. And in fact, it seemed odd that he was wearing that helmet the other day at the meeting. It.. it was part of his gear, yeah, but it wasn't really needed for being in a meeting, was it?

Hmm...

Perusing the various stores, Isaera kept finding near miss after near miss. Some fashions were pretty horrid, or just way too gaudy. And while Isaera did err on the side of cheeky and revealing, even some other outfits went way too far. Then, there was the issue of some things which would be very nice just.. not the right size. But Isaera's keen mind quickly noticed the pattern that  all  of the women's gowns, dresses, and formal clothes of roughly her size were simply gone. How was this possible??

Pulling Seraphis briefly aside, she said,   "Something is not right.. are these goblins trying to tighten their supply just to gauge everyone arriving for the Armistice Ball? But.. I don't know, that still doesn't make much sense..."   Because what about the clothes for men, or for dwarves and gnomes? You'd think they would be all gone too if that were the case.

Isaera couldn't fathom the reason why, and perhaps the answer would come to her later. But what she needed was a solution to her problem, and she figured she may have it.

 "I need a tailor,"  the high elf announced.  "I will pay good money for a decent tailor that can alter a dress or sew one from scratch, within two days' time. And I'll even offer a small commission to any that can help me find such a person quickly." 
MrAbdiel
 Isaera 

Seraphis's lambent eyes track around the shop and the boardwalk outside where some of the passers by - especially goblins - take heed of an opportunity to make a quick buck.  Intuiting your immediate needs, Seraphis manages this flow of interest, weeds out the time-wasters, and those who are hoping to collect a finder's fee pointing you in a direction you've already tried.  This whittles the numbers down considerably, leaving two candidates.

Irma Glamourtoes is an older gnome woman who moved to Kalimdor for the dry weather, which improves her health.  She is not a professional seamstress; but she has raised eight children and managed triple digits of grand and great grandkids; and she has sewn many garments for them in her time.  She also has a gnomes spirit of challenge, and while she hasn't made anything for an elf or what she calls 'tall-scale folk', she is eager to try.

Sandor Dazzlecap  was  an apprentice to one of the fashionistas in town - until he was fired two weeks ago for reasons he avoids explaining.  He has much less experience than Irma, but has some professional training that she lacks; which may make a different when it comes to a dress intended for a formal setting and not a knitted sweater for Winter's Veil.  He's desperate for work, and would work every hour from now until you leave on the zeppelin to complete your order.. or so he promises.

Seraphis Starshadow looks uncomfortable with the meagre offerings of skill, and mentions to you in clandestine fashion:  "Both seem... eager, though for something like this, I fear I would not trust either to produce something of your standards.  We might ask Nodric - no one in town knows the currents of business like that goblin.  But if you would take your chances with one of these, I can do my best to supervise and warn you if it goes poorly before it's too late." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion smiled at the elf's awkward manipulation of the weapon, noting that it must for odd for the older but more elegant races to handle the new confangled contraptions of the younger races - however effective they may be.

 "Oh, I'd rather you not go picking fights, dear Aleena,"  Marion spoke knowingly, a small smirk across her face.

 "A weapons value is as much its reliability in adverse conditions as it is as an instrument of death. If the arid conditions of the Barrens overheats the barrel, I want to know. If sand or dust gets easily caught in the rifling, breach or chamber and jams the gun, I want to know. If the humidity of the oasis warps the wood of the stock or forestock, I want to know. It's light, but is it too light and damages easily during march? Or is it not light enough and becomes a chore to lug around? Is it too long and restrictive, is it just right, does it glint and catch the sun or does it blend in nicely with surroundings? How convenient is it to reload in the field, strip down and clean? I want our...the Alliances boys and girls on the front line to think of this weapon as something they can trust, not a hunk of crap acquired from the lowest bidder. If this weapon has any sins, I want you to get a confession. I speculate that I will be firing the Mk 2 plenty on our next group outing"  she winks with a smile.

Marion would then help the elf with further items of convenience, such as a nice satchel containing pre-made shot-and-powder caps, as well as general instructions for how to unjam the gun should a malfunction, however unlikely, occur. With requests to practice the maneuvers a few times every hour and assurances she'll provide hands on instruction at least once a day before departure, Marion felt confident that Aleena could handle the task!
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 
Jakk'ari watches Felix with concern.   Rooming in a place like this certainly helped explain Felix's current state. Expanding the tower to allow for more occupants was more appealing by the second. 

Jakk'ari observes what he can of the other residents of flophouse. It was unlikely that a mean drunk or single goblin would be able rough up Felix and without retaliation. Not using his foot locker was also interesting.

 
 Spoiler: If the house director is in the house 
Desiring to investigate further Jakk'ari removes all easily identifiable personal effects before donning and loosing a loose hood before entering the flophouse.
Talking to someone appearing to be the flop master Jakk'ari slides a small amount of currency with a simple question to the master.
  Greetings, you must be the director here. I'm looking for some muscle or a good ringleader with few inhibitions for a job. Would you know of any around here? I am willing to pay a further finder's fee.  
 

Added just in case
 
 Spoiler: Otherwise 
Jakk'ari surveys the slovenly house searching for any potentially imposing or conniving individuals.
 

 
 Spoiler: Summary/Intent 
 Jakk'ari is going to investigate to see if anyone could be beating up Felix or directing others to do so in the flophouse. Jakk'ari is investigating by asking the house director if any devious strong individuals or ringleaders are in the house.
 
WindStruck
Isaera is in much agreement with with Seraphis, though she endeavors to be as polite about it as possible.

 "I'll consider your offers.. understandably I have doubts, but I have not written either of you off yet,"  she says.  "Meet me in front of the Luscious Lobster in thirty minute's time and I will give you my final decisions, and perhaps, a free drink or meal." 

The Luscious Lobster was another restaurant with a name of devious Goblin origin, much like the Chalet by the Sea. They were very good at coming up with clever names, or at least, names they thought were clever. But at least it wasn't a complete dump. Rather, Isaera found it a bit quaint, a bit cozy, and reasonably upscale enough for her tastes.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
(If you have ever been to or heard of a Red Lobster, let's say it's about like that. Not a dumpy small place, nor fast food. Not the cheapest, not full of unsavory people and crowded, not too expensive either. Though it  could  get expensive, depending on the menu and drink choices.)
 


So with that offer extended, Isaera nods to Seraphis, and they quickly head over to Nodric to see if he happens to have any recommendations. Also, while they're at it, she'll inquire if he has heard anything unsavory about a certain goblin called Sandor Dazzlecap.
MrAbdiel
  Marion 
 "It's alright, I think I got it."   Aleeana states this with her normal bravada, but fortunately seems indeed to having  got it .  It's just as well; the morning after the handover of the experimental weapon, Aleeana is out the door and on the road to complete the quest already given her.  No additional instructions required - she would have to manage on her own, if there was some aspect of the weapon she couldn't figure out.  But atleast that would create an opportunity to learn how easily adopted the weapon's principles were for a novice firearms user.  Armies rarely buy in bulk a new weapon that requires a lot of training; and the crossbow was a tidy little invention that held the market hostage on 'ranged weapons operable by room-temperature intellects'.  Was it likely your gun would replace such an venerable killing machine?  No, but there were plenty of rewarding secondary markets for specialized firearms.  Perhaps one of them would be ready for a new contender.

 Jakk'ari 

The operator of the boarding house, a middle aged and not particularly  bright  goblin named Glenn Fiddlefine, is reluctant to offer information, but you speak his language: money.

 "Well.  Depends.  Most of the folks here are dockworkers without anywhere else to be.  The real muscle is the hobgoblin labor gang that Hogdash Zapknocker runs, but they don't use this place; they have their own place a few doors from the mayor's perch. But if you're looking for something done quick, and you don't mind if it's a bunch of little guys instead of one or two big guys, then check in with Bosco or Riggs.  Each of them has a crew of stevadors who... are recently adapted to the climate of a town that is 'going legit', and prone to relapse.  Bosco's an orc, Riggs is normal.  Er- Kezani, I mean.  A goblin.  They'll both be at the docks presently, but the crews break at midday because it's hot as hell, so they'll probably head somewhere to eat or drink after that.  Did you.. want to leave a note?" 
 Isaera 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Lobsters, Red or Otherwise 
I am tragically too Australian to have any Red Lobster experience, but I have absorbed enough American media to understand Red Lobster conceptually anyway.  Happy for the  Luscious Lobster  to be added to our Ratchet canon.
 


You find Nodrick in his rented room upstairs in a large boarding house by the dock.  The gentlegoblin at the desk,  Glenn Fiddlefine, directs you up to his room, which turns out also to be a kind of cramped office made possible only by an incredible economy of managed space.  The goblin troublemaker-turned-pacifist-dealmaker looks a little surprised when he opens the door, but scoots back behind his desk to receive you in the closest approximation of professionalism such a tiny operating space can command.

 "Oof.  Dress made in a hurry?  I, ah... Well, you could try Delia Rocketlips; but she's the best, so she might well be booked up.  Your other options are Suzette - she's on the wide-way off the main, at the corner where the bank is - or the Brothers Goldstar.  Don't write off those boys, they've been poaching Suzette's clientelle for a year now, heh..." 
 "They're all booked up."   Seraphis supplies, with her unaffected tones rendering her common smooth and academic, not unlike yours.

Nodrick grimaces.   "Well.  That's rough.  Look, Miss Runescribe - "  he lifts a hand palm up, to forestall objection he expects coming,  "you're a knockout, okay?  You're gonna elevate anything you wear to this thing.  I wouldn't worry.  As for that Dazzlecap kid, eh... He used to work with Suzette, until she let him go.  People say it was a romantic thing - she's twice his age, and engaged, so that'd be messy - but that doesn't add up to me.  Suzette's fiancé is one of Gazlowe's bruisers.  A goblin who got caught schtupping  a bruiser's bride-to-be would skip town if he didn't want to end up carrying around his teeth in a purse.  Something else going on there... But he was still only an apprentice; and not one so gifted that Delia or the Brothers Goldstar snatched him right up." 
 
 Spoiler: Insight DC15 
Nodrick seems a little uncomfortable about this.  It might be as simple as
 him feeling out of his depth around the local fashion scene, or connected in some way to someone involved in your questions, or perhaps mildly salty that you didn't employ him when you had his application after he felt he gave a good interview.

 
 Spoiler: Insight DC 20 
Actually, the way he got away from talking about dressmakers and waffled on about Dazzlecap suggests to you it's something about the situation with the dressmakers that is making him uncomfortable.  Is he involved with one of them, in some way?  But what way would that be which would make him so awkward and shifty?

 
 Spoiler: Insight DC 25 
Nodrick knows more than he's letting on - in fact, he probably knows  why  this bizarre lockup of tailoring services has crept up, and he's feeling guilty about it.
 But he likes you and the rest of your group, and the fact that he's not offering this information outright suggests he is bound to secrecy in some way.
 

 

 
 
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag each hold a book and read it, the meaning of the other's partly sinking in by their psionic link.  They were learning the Arcane 3 times as fast as a single pupil.  At this rate, they might catch up in a few years!  Mor and Lag each cursed the other, Mor for being pushed to this, Lag for not pushing harder, faster.  Magic was their birthright, and, if Mor had insisted on the Old Ways of Jo'Bo and the Titans, instead of the new of Cho'Gall, her fathers, and Sargeras, well she should have made it openly and early. She had cheated Lag and herself. And now they both must address it.

Already, the twins have learned to negate, to dispell, and to dismiss.  Powers reflective of  lack  of  want , of  hate .  These were tricks inimical to the nature of Arcane magic, but well reflective of the Twins' inner turmoil.  Lag decided that she would learn to do something  constructive ...

"Aglet..."
Pause.
"Forge chains"
Pause.  Mor will have no part in this.
"Of arcana.'
...
"  Binding like underpins the Worlds
...
"To hold those we subdue"
MrAbdiel
  Lag and, reluctantly, Mor 

Aglet's chubby little gnome face looks back and forth between the two heads of the ogress.  Concern washes his features - he's not oblivious to their tension, but doesn't presume to know precisely how to advise on it.  So he addresses Lag, since she is interested, and nods along as they get into discussion about the arcane.

 "Oh, yes, yes.  Certainly, we could work on that.  There's a few ways to work into arcane restraints.  I know elves, who love their illusions, like to summon the likeness of chains with restraining magic imposed onto their form; but that's always struck me as cart-before-horse logic.  And, since you're due to wrap your heads around the fundamentals of arcane construction, start there.  Chains are, after all, just a series of interlocking tori.  But we'll start with a sphere, and then get more complex..." 

You work with Aglet on the basics of summoning arcane constructs.  It's a matter of using magical language to define a shape, and then populating that shape with arcane energy in a matter you can self sustain.  Starting from such a place projects the possibilities out very far indeed - to permenant arcane constructs, complex arcane constructs, and autonomous ones, like those Isaera has conjured up to return all the books to the library when they are left at various places in the tower.

The speaking component of the construction defines the space; and you are able to physicalize the investiture of arcane energy with hand motions.  But the motions really require two hands; and the words, simple enough, suffer and collapse when broken up with pauses...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Two Divided By One 
I'm not going to make you make rolls to learn things you're paying points to learn, but I'm interested to know the way it happens.  Does Lag muscle through and become less dependant on Mor's obstinate behaviour?  Or does Mor come to the table when she sees her sister is struggling and supply the other half of the coordination and speech needed to pass this test?

Additionally, arcane constructions usually come in that translucent magenta variety; but if you wanted Mor'Lag's magic to have some odd dual coloration or personal mark, you could consider that also.
 
 
WindStruck
 "I thank you for the compliment. I guess it means a lot if a goblin even finds me attractive... But still. All I'm looking for is one nice dress that isn't decades old!"  Isaera sighs, exasperated.

She looks at Seraphis, though is still effectively talking to both present.  "So if they're all booked, I don't suppose we could pay a bit more to cut ahead in the queue? Or, I wonder if alterations is a different service with more prospects?" 

With a bit of prodding from Seraphis, Isaera gets the suspicion that Nodrick is involved in.. some way. Her eyes narrow with suspicion.  "Do you know something? Are some of those.. those outfitters colluding and running some racket??" 
MrAbdiel
  Isaera: 

Nodrick is visibily uncomfortable; even squirmy.  When you speculate about seeking alterations, or trying to cut ahead of the queue, he tries to supress a grimace.  When you all but accuse him directly, he gives you wincing, sympathetic look; though not quite one you'd associate with a man who has been caught in criminal activity.  Perhaps, just something regrettable.

 "Ladies, please.  There's nothing... sinister going on here.  I  want[/i] to help you.  But Ratchet isn't a Stormwind, or a Darnassus, or even a Thunder Bluff or Theramore.  It's a small-to-medium town well positioned enough to grow in future.  There are bottlenecks of supply of labor and materials.  It sometimes happens.  It sometimes happens at inconvenient times.  It just means that [/i]other parties[i] have created more demand than the local market can supply.  Right now, there is a shortage of high fashion dresses in C1-Frame sizes.  That's, ah..."  He gestures at you loosely.   "C for scale, 1 for female.  C1-Frame is the high elf and human female range."   He shakes his head, dismissing the technical digression.   "That's a very specific shortage and you'll have to deal with it.  There's plenty of things in town to spend money on that aren't in short supply."  He counts them off on his fingers, for your benefit.  "There's good food.  There's guided kodoback safari opportunities.   There's plain dresses in the C1-Frame.  There's cosmetic transmogrification enchantments suitable for application to textiles such as those made available by Jaxxil Sparks.   There's ale." 

He leans on those two with no subtlety at all, widening his eyes and slowing his cadence as he rolls over them, tracking his gaze back and forth between you and Seraphis, to make sure you heard.  Finally, he throws up his hands.   "I wish I could help.  I really do.  I'm a finder; I'm not a miracle worker."  
WindStruck
 "Transmogrification enchantments..?"  Isaera says, with an eyebrow raised. That seemed quite intriguing. The best part is, she didn't even need to spend money on another dress. She had plenty of appropriate dresses back in her lodgings. She could probably take one, and perhaps with a bit of imagination and magic she could..? Yes, that should do nicely.

Isaera smiles faintly.  "I believe a little hint like that could help a great deal. Thank you, Nodrick." 

She consults with Seraphis about this Jaxxil Sparks character. Did she know him, or where to find him? She hoped she could get in a visit with this person before meeting up at the Luscious Lobster.

 "You know, I put in a good word for you. To work for the Opal Collection, I mean. Unfortunately, not everyone was in agreement. Nothing personal. Just, different priorities and all that.. I'm sure you understand."  She twists a hand around, upon a delicate wrist, in a wishy-washy gesture.

 "Well, I'd love to make up the favor. Perhaps we could try to find a bit more steady work for Mr. Glitterthumb, when it comes to fulfilling the needs of our guild?"  she says to the night elf. To be absolutely fair, if one of Seraphis's first suggestions was to come visit the goblin, it might not have been a far-fetched thing to suggest anyway.
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  
 Jakk'ari 
The operator of the boarding house, a middle aged and not particularly  bright  goblin named Glenn Fiddlefine, is reluctant to offer information, but you speak his language: money.

 "Well.  Depends.  Most of the folks here are dockworkers without anywhere else to be.  The real muscle is the hobgoblin labor gang that Hogdash Zapknocker runs, but they don't use this place; they have their own place a few doors from the mayor's perch. But if you're looking for something done quick, and you don't mind if it's a bunch of little guys instead of one or two big guys, then check in with Bosco or Riggs.  Each of them has a crew of stevadors who... are recently adapted to the climate of a town that is 'going legit', and prone to relapse.  Bosco's an orc, Riggs is normal.  Er- Kezani, I mean.  A goblin.  They'll both be at the docks presently, but the crews break at midday because it's hot as hell, so they'll probably head somewhere to eat or drink after that.  Did you.. want to leave a note?" 
  
 

 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari considers who the culprit could be given the leads from Fiddlefine.
 Hobgoblins weren't known for subtlety. Any criminal activity they would have gotten up to would have been discovered long ago unless Hogdash was in on it. But the labor boss was unlikely to rob a man in transit far away from him.
Bosco and Riggs on the other hand could employ some tact and could have informants sleeping right beside Felix.
Or maybe the people who had accosted Felix had already left town stowing away on a merchant vessel.  

Jakk'ari decides to take the safest option given his strict schedule.
  I am interested in meeting with Bosco and Riggs. I'll be back in two weeks.  

Walking away from Fiddlefine Jakk'ari enters the flophouse common room before jerkily rousing Felix awake.
  Wake up! I know that trouble surrounds you.  
Jakk'ari escorts Felix out of the building trying steady the groggy man.

If no interruptions occur.
After emptying Felix's footlocker Jakk'ari lugs Felix out of the flophouse.
After crossing Fiddlefine's desk Jakk'ari slides a coin towards the goblin. The coin audibly grinding against the wood with the surplus force being applied to it.

Jakk'ari tells Felix like a parent delivering an order and not dispensing advice.
  I know the town hasn't been kind to you and trouble has found you. You won't be staying in that game warren just lying there to be picked off. While I'm gone, you'll be in the tower. Resting in my room if need be.  
 
 Spoiler: Armisitice Ball Time Assumptions 
 I am ballpark guessing that the round trip and the Armistice Ball itself will take about two weeks since the 2021 IMF convention took a week from 8/11 to 8/17.
 
MrAbdiel
  Isaera 

Seraphis, consumately committed to backing you, backs you.  "I think that could be arranged.  We have kept Mister Glitterthumb's details on file in the event such an opportunity arises, after all; I suspect it's only a short matter of time before a retainer position opens up."
 
Nodrick raises his palms.   "Well, hey, I'd appreciate it - but there's no favor to make up, here.  Like I said, I'm not a miracle worker.  But don't lose my card, if something does open up.  I'm ready to be a part of a team." 

This is a strange insistence.  Buried somewhere in the things he knows that you don't is a reason he doesn't want to be involved formally in the solution to your problem - though he strikes you as genuine enough that he would warn you if there were any trouble or danger ahead for you on the path to which he has (informally) directed you.  But pleased as he seems to be that you have gotten his extremely unsubtle hint, he continues to persevere with this layer of of thin deniability.  A very useful goblin to know; and perhaps, if you are charitable, one can view his reticence to tell his secrets as assurance that he would be good at keeping the Opal Collocation's.

You find Jaxxil Sparks manning an open-air stall just on the edge of town, where the foot of the sloped road leading up to your tower morphs into Ratchet's main street.  The middle aged goblin is packing up his goods, banners and furniture into the tiny shack behind the simple red awning spreading from its roof.  Jaxxil, Seraphis had informed you as you wandered over, is an entertainments purveyor.  Most of his trade is in flares, fireworks, and coloured smoke; which is why Gazlowe has demanded his home and shop be set up on the edge of town where a powder explosion could do the least damage and set the fewest fires.  Outside of festivals and holidays, the trade is fairly lean; but punctuated by those dates, he does alright for himself.

 "Oh, yeah, yeah.  I heard the Armistice Ball.  Man, I'd pawn my legs for a chance to supply a gala like that; but Orgrimmar's got its own experts local that snap up work like that.  Lots of old sappers who made it through the wars without getting blown apart went into recreational pyrotechnics.  But I get by here with Hallow's End, and Winter's Veil, and so forth.  Kaja-Rama's coming up - hey, let me know if you want to try some Kaja-Cola when the date rolls around, I can hook you up."
 
When asked about transmogrification services, his eyes light up.   "Oh, for sure, for sure.  I know enough enchanting to make them stick.  You'd be surprised how many of those shirtless orc grunts you see patrolling are really decked out in full mail.  If you got the money, you don't need to sacrifice style for safety.  But, err... Well, a permanent transmogrification isn't a small operation.  There's an attunement process for the reagents, and usually a little trial and error.  That can take a week on the short end - transmogrification magic is pretty new, and we're not masters of it yet.  But if you need a dress for just one night, that's both easier and cheaper." 

Jaxxil explains the limitations.  If you spend some time giving him a detailed description, he can work up what he calls a 'lumitype' example of your dress appearance for you to review and finalize tomorrow, as well as drop off the 'blank' dress - as plain as possible, for the illusion to 'stick' best.  After that, he'll make the adjustments and you can pick up your garment on your way to the zeppelin.  It's not a permanent transmogrification (though permanent is a strong word, as such magics are still vulnerable to concentrated dispel efforts), but with the activation of a command tag torn off the dress once you've changed into it, the illusion will take effect and remain in effect for near to six hours - more than enough time to cover this gala, from arrival to end of ceremony.  This short term enchantment is within your budget, too -  cheaper by a considerable margin than the price you were prepared to pay for a genuine article.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
If that solution works for you, then no need to work out the details of the dress here - you can describe it in whatever abstraction or excruciating detail you prefer when we get to the party, retroactively presuming a smooth creation process.  It will be as fancy and extravagant as you like.
 

 Jakk'ari 

Fiddlefine nods at your declaration - though he is dense enough that you're not sure he will remember it.  When you shake Felix awake, he almost stabs you out of instinct with the heavy boat-knife he has concealed in his grip beneath his clutched pack - but his senses come to him before he can give you something to regenerate; and mute with confusion and embarassment, he complies as you tow him stumbling and bleary out of the  Chalet .

It turns out there's nothing in the footlocker, though it is locked, and Felix sleep-drunkenly hands over the key to Fiddlefine as you go.

Once you're out in the cool evening air and he has had a little time to rub his braincells together for the necessary charge, he groans.

 "Oh, man... Did Emilia tell you?  She said she wasn't gonna-... Jakk'ari, really, I appreciate it, but it's just... embarrassing for me.  I have a plan, I'm sorting it out myself. You don't need to worry about me." 

These are tough words; but you are old enough and wise enough to see them for what they are - a desperate effort to save face before his heroes.

 
 Spoiler: Armistice Ball Scheduling 
Well, as a matter of fact, the Armistice Ball itself is a one night gala; that is the part you've been formally invited to attend.  Presumably it is followed by atleast that much negotiation, back and forth and political hotstepping; and Jakk'ari, while not formally invited to any such meetings in the days after the main event, is the kind of fellow who might hang around trying to find opportunities to be involved.
 So your projected timeframe works, speculatively.
 
 
WindStruck
Isaera is at least pleased such a service does indeed exist, and although she's initially discouraged, the idea of merely a temporary enchantment, which is not only cheaper but faster to make, does seem really good. But plus, Isaeara decides to bring up a really good point.

 "Hm. I can see why these enchantments could be so difficult and time-consuming.. considering the stark difference between a set of full plate armor, and an orc that appears to have none. But.. shouldn't the enchantments be  considerably easier  if the starting and ending look are much more similar?"  she asks.

She explains,  "In short, I already do have a number of old dresses that might service this occasion .. adequately. However, if we could merely make some modifications.. perhaps, changing up slight details, adding frills here and there, and a few other cosmetic effects, wouldn't that be even easier than starting with a completely plain dress?" 
MrAbdiel
  Isaera 
 "You'd think so,"  Jaxxil explains,  "but it turns out to be somewhat counterintuitive in that way.  Magic - I'm sure you know, miss - is about describing boundaries for magical energy to manifest within.  That's one thing when you're describing a fireball and manifesting it as an explosion to burn some scuzzball gnoll raiders; but when you're describing an illusion  specifically  interacting with a real object, then you have to magically describe the real object.  You have to tell the spell energy where to start displaying the gold frogging or tassels or whatnot and where to stop; how it should interact with the fabric when it's scrunched or twisted; what it should look like if someone spills wine on it.  If you start with a plain dress - a 'blank' like I said - you can construct a very simple illusory base and then relate all the complex illusions to that base, which is neater, and easier, and less likely to cause a visual discrepancy.  If you have to work off a complex, fancier dress, then you gotta either construct a very complex base illusion over the complex dress, or anchor the spell directly to the complex dress, and in both cases you're forced to use magical language to describe a real-world object in exacting detail.  And, frankly, I'm not confident I can do that.  'Mogging' is mostly in the hands of goblinpreneurs who are cracking the industry open presently, and most goblins including myself learn magic using old Zandali language as our base form.  And ancient trolls didn't have words for 'Thalassian Brocade' or 'Petticoat Lace Fringe'.  It's a big old headache.  But, uh.. if you have a dress already and you want the 'Mog to be that plus some features, I can use it as a visual reference, certainly?"  
WindStruck
For once, Isaera was perhaps going to have some serious respect for a goblin...

 "I see. Very well then. So this is where you live as well, yes? I will be back with a plain dress, and perhaps a nice visual sample to go off of..." 
 "I do have some prior commitments right at the moment. Don't want to be known as a flaky individual who makes empty promises. So, I'll be back in one or two hours time. Alright?" 

Isaera can only assume that's agreeable, otherwise she'd be back regardless. She was going over to the Luscious Lobster to tell the other two prospective crafters the bad news, but perhaps treat them for their patience and dashed hopes, if they were actually there.

And then, she plans to go off and buy a really plain dress, stop by the tower to get one of her old dresses, and return to Jaxxil Sparks.

(we can slowdown and roleplay any of these parts if you want)
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  
Once you're out in the cool evening air and he has had a little time to rub his braincells together for the necessary charge, he groans.

 "Oh, man... Did Emilia tell you?  She said she wasn't gonna-... Jakk'ari, really, I appreciate it, but it's just... embarrassing for me.  I have a plan, I'm sorting it out myself. You don't need to worry about me." 

These are tough words; but you are old enough and wise enough to see them for what they are - a desperate effort to save face before his heroes.
  
 

 Jakk'ari 
  Iknowyoudon't; have a plan.  
Jakk'ari quickly exhales a long-expired breath before deeply inhaling to restore his levelheaded demeanor. It is frustrating trying to help someone who insisted they didn't require aid despite all evidence to the contrary. The air is salty and brackish befitting the nearby docks and the local professions.

  I know you are having troubles. Flourishing individuals don't sleep with a dagger beside them on their mattress. And someone with a plan to deal with a threat wouldn't be concerned with comfort or embarrassment.  

Jakk'ari pauses coaching himself to be gentle with the lad. Unclenching his hands and relaxing his shoulders he continues hoping to appeal to Felix.

  I was worried about you since I first saw with the black eye once I returned. Seraphis also noticed but knew as much as I did.
I'm not furious or disappointed in you. I just worry who could have attacked you, especially with me leaving soon. There are just too many suspects in town and not enough time. All I ask is that you stay by tower while the party and I are away.  

Jakk'ari gestures to the street in the general direction of the tower. The shaman smiling hoping to allay any guilt or fear.
  I know you are trying to maintain the respect everyone has for you. And that is enough for me to know you are trying to do the right thing. I've seen it through my time with many apprentices.  

Jakk'ari drapes an arm around Felix's shoulders while preparing to return to the tower.
MrAbdiel
  Isaera 
 "That's right; home and workplace in one convenient location.  I'm packing up, but knock and I'll come out and we'll nail down the details with that blank dress.  I've done stuff this complex before, but usually with a little more time; but I'm up to it." 

You strike a deal, and with it secure a promising alternative to either of the risky bottom-of-the-barrel options you had before.  True to your promise, you meet up with Sandor Dazzlecap and Irma Glamortoes; the young goblin and elderly gnome disappointed and cheerfully comfortable with your decision, respectively.  But you buy them a meal for their trouble from the Luscious Lobster, and that's not nothing.  You detect some friction from Sandor towards Irma - you can't tell if it's a generational skepticism, or the age old gnome-goblin competitor grudge.  But Irma appears to to wily and and serene to take bait, and by the end her old matronly charm has exhausted his capacity for passive aggression.  She gets him talking about what he would do if he when he opens his own tailor shop, and then he's going, and going; and you and Seraphis find a comfortable moment to excuse yourselves and cover the bill, with no net feelings hurt all around.  Your legs are aching by the end of your errands - a trip back to the tower, down to Jaxxil again and a planning session about the dress's intended illusory appearance.

Problem solved - though your day isn't entirely over.

 Jakk'ari 

Felix sags defeatedly under your arm.  "...It matters to me that you all respect me.  You took me on as a guard for your home; and the first week I was here, I got beat up and my hiring bonus stolen.  It's just... embarrassing.  I can take Bosco and some of his guys; but not all of them, and definitely not when I'm sleeping."  But you've rumbled him now, and there's no hiding it; so he comes with you, even helping carrying your unusual ingredients for your planned spa treatments.  You pass Isaera chatting with one of the local goblin entertainment vendors on the way back up the hill toward the afternoon; and Felix makes a final bid to you:  "Jakk'ari... I'm grateful.  But please don't tell the others about this.  It's bad enough that you and Emilia both know, but you two are... you know, the soft touches.  Marion acts sweet but you can tell by the way she looks at Schlep she's ruthless with people she doesn't see value in.  And Isaera is ... well, intimidating.  Mor's great, but I can't tell if Lag hates me or what.  I don't want to lose this job, I'm just... I'll get better." 

 
 Originally Posted by Jakk'ari of the Farraki 
 While the party attended the Armistice Ball the tower party would be relieved of their mentorship and support duties. Then they would begin pursuing the unfinished business of the Kolkar and Samophlange. Persistent work would continue for the tower party.

So, what better way to recuperate than a Farr'aki claypan. Hearing the footsteps of Schelp, Felix, Seraphis, and Aglet approaching Jakk'ari prepares his pitch.
The tower party arrives outside beneath the towers shadow to see Jakk'ari bare chested lounging in a warm aerated pool of mud. Having learned his lesson of cultural variances from his introduction of honey pot ants to the party Jakk'ari prepares to promote a variety of activities to partake. Hopefully with at least one palatable to each member.

Warm aerated mud bubbles invitingly to leisure seekers. Melted wax rests in a glass saucepan over a neat bed of coals readied to remove grime and pluck errant hairs. A of concoction aromatic herbs nestles in a clay bowl, hopefully Felix could use it to ease the bruising around his eye.
Finally, there is the Irridescent Blowfly larvae located more discreetly in a bucket of to the side. Though Jakk'ari was tempted to prematurely use them to remove deposits of dead skin and plaque on his tusks he resisted remembering the squeamishness of some races towards insects. Aglet, and Felix would likely decline given their cultures pension for cleaner homes free of insects. Schlep would likely accept the invitation to at least dine on the maggots. Seraphis was difficult to predict. Though night elves as far as Jakk'ari knew were fond of nature and living beside all its animals while having a poise and immaculate grooming that would suggest otherwise.

With all the work you have scheduled during the Armistice Ball I thought you could use a period of respite and recovery. What da you think?
A muffled splash announces Seraphis's arrival into the mud as she splatters a handful of larvae on her face.

Felix cautiously follows suit dipping his feet in the mud while Aglet carefully applies wax to his bald scalp, and Schlep heartily slurps the herbal remedy. 
 

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I think that's all substantial business concluded; but I would like to see Jakk'ari's scene play out now that that's squared away, even if it's just the ladies recoiling at the idea of a maggot facemask.  This, I suppose, is the second day; the day immediately before the Zeppelin flight is ready.

Who dares indulge in such idiosyncratic  alternative medicine ?

What rewards might there be for doing so?  One must try their luck, to find out.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion smiled to herself with an exhale of delight as she watched the Blood Elf leave her domicile. She wasn't glad she was gone. Indeed, there had been a tinge of excitement that she had someone within her dwelling to talk to. But rather, she felt happy for the future that would deliver unto her bona fide field tested feedback. That would lead to improvements. Improvements would lead to superior quality. And superior quality was what her brand was all about.

Speaking of quality....

With Vargheist still playing guard duty at the front of her door, Marion felt comfortable enough to start trying on pieces from the huge variety of clothes that her piles of gold had acquired for her.

A little bit of red.

A touch of gold.

Maybe some hair dye. Did she want to be blonde this time? Maybe auburn! Ooo what about sandy, strawberry or dawn across a wheat field?!

So many possibilities!

She didn't have any girlfriends around to talk endlessly with in the spirit of this auspicious moment with, unfortunately, so for the rest of the day it would just be her before a mirror while singing her favorite songs to herself and admiring how gorgeous she was.

Once the sun was going down, however, Marion stood back and admired the final ensemble, as it really put a smile on her face.
Plaids
[QUOTE=MrAbdiel;25705176]   "Jakk'ari... I'm grateful.  But please don't tell the others about this.  It's bad enough that you and Emilia both know, but you two are... you know, the soft touches.  Marion acts sweet but you can tell by the way she looks at Schlep she's ruthless with people she doesn't see value in.  And Isaera is ... well, intimidating.  Mor's great, but I can't tell if Lag hates me or what.  I don't want to lose this job, I'm just... I'll get better."  
 Jakk'ari 
Walking back to the tower Jakk'ari attempts to comfort Felix.
  I promise you I won't inform anyone else. Although I can't make any promises on behalf of Seraphis. But the others will be busy with their own business. Please don't be discouraged or intimidated by Mor'Lag, Isaera, and Marion. They have their own obligations they committed to before we came together. They have people of their own they don't want to disappoint.  

The memory of elated Stone Maul ogres and Isaera's deep concern for her family alongside her sister Aleana came to the forefront of Jakk'ari's mind. Both memories subside as a memory Farraki mother, and her children come to the forefront.

  You will have plenty of time to correct your standing within the town. So just recuperate and relax for now. You can formally begin your rest tomorrow with me outside the tower tomorrow.  
WindStruck
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
I'm still on the first day, and I don't even think I got much past noon. But soon as the dress business is concluded, I guess we could go ahead to tomorrow.  Then again, I guess the business IS concluded, but I should probably describe the dress..?
 


So, Isaera does indeed manage to get the plainest of plain boring dresses. Then she finds an  old dress  which she thought was nice...

When bringing it to Jaxxil, she explains, she thinks she likes the overall "style" of it, however, she would make the skirt shorter so it doesn't drag all over the ground (This makes it about the length of the plain dress anyway). Overall, she wants her dress to be coral-orange colored, and sparkly. No, not like the gaudy rhinestones and sequins she saw in the shops, though they did admittedly inspire her a bit. No, Isaera wants it to sparkle like a night sky filled with stars, as if gazing upon a beach or a road scattered with fine diamond dust.

In addition (compared to the sample dress) she wants the fabrics to be more translucent. The wispy fabrics that drape over the arms and back, definitely so, like the sheerest gossamer. As for the rest of the dress, she wants the midriff area more translucent, as well as the skirt, gradually increasing in sheerness as it flows to her ankles. The little belt that comes with it, can appear to be made of fine gold links.

Hopefully that does it for describing a nice new dress!


-- The next day? --

Isaera eyes the pools of mud and the vats of insects, with a raised eyebrow steeped in skepticism.  "What's all this?"  she says.
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
 Isaera eyes the pools of mud and the vats of insects, with a raised eyebrow steeped in skepticism.  "What's all this?"  she says. 
 

 Jakk'ari  
  Ah, Isaera I didn't expect you. We be enjoying a Farraki claypan. It's like what humans call a "pampering". I was hoping your sister could enjoy these activities but she left before I could invite her. Perhaps you could enjoy some in her place?  

Jakk'ari gestures towards the mud, wax, herbs, and maggots around him hoping one would attract Isaera's interest.

  Perhaps some wax to better define your um, eyebrows.  
Jakk'ari waves towards the melted wax being used Aglet and solid wax chunks ready to be melted.
WindStruck
Isaera felt she had no problems with wax, herbs, nor even mud..  but the maggots.. she'd draw the lines at disgusting little carrion bugs crawling on her.

 "Hm. I am intrigued. But I'm also cautious of what exactly you have planned." 
 "What is wrong with my brows?"   Strike one, Jakk'ari. Strike one!  😛

Reluctantly and timidly, Isaera may acquiesce, provided there is a reliably way to get all the gunk off of her once they are done...
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
 Isaera felt she had no problems with wax, herbs, nor even mud..  but the maggots.. she'd draw the lines at disgusting little carrion bugs crawling on her.

 "Hm. I am intrigued. But I'm also cautious of what exactly you have planned." 
 "What is wrong with my brows?"   Strike one, Jakk'ari. Strike one!  😛 
 

 Jakk'ari 
Responding quickly Jakk'ari raises his hands lightly shrugging while doing so posturing himself to hopefully promote conversation.
  You don't have to partake in anything that fails to entice. I merely suggested the wax since it is excels at removing grime from skin and errant hairs. Not to suggest you have do have brows of course. I uh, merely observed the elven habit of keeping immaculate eyebrows, something Farraki don't have the chance to do.   Jakk'ari concludes conciliatorily.
 It would be best to tread lightly with discussions of beauty. Adolescents could be especially sensitive to the subject. If only La'sha were here she knew this better.  

Jakk'ari continues hoping help Isaera's curiosity prevail over her caution.
  All of this here is to help us recuperate and rejuvenate before we go to the Armistice Ball. Feel free to partake in what you fancy or use them in a tradition of your own. Just like Schlep right here.  

Jakk'ari points to Schlep licking his lips having finished his first serving of herbal mixture.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion was humming happily to herself as she descended from the height of her tower room down that spiral staircase, her gentle voice almost a sweet melody to announce her arrival. Her footsteps were unusually soft, most likely due to her lack of shoes, while her clothing was far less casual-dress than she normally wore while in the presence of others. Was this a sign that she was growing more comfortable with her eclectic cotorie? Or that she didn't particularly care what they thought if they saw her wearing simple breeches and a long-sleeve shift? The latter was unlikely, given they had fought and bled together, and the former seemed a little too out of character that the appearance-conscious warlock could be  that  comfortable around anyone.

But, it soon became clear why she was in a state of dishabille. When she arrived at the base of that spiral staircase, those long, dark locks of hers were gone! In their place was a sheet of gold, along with all of the scent of chemicals and dyes required to turn her once dark brown-borderline black hair into something as sunny as what currently graced her crown. Marion had dyed her hair. Doubtless in preparation for the Big Trip to Orgrimmar.

But then she sniffed the air, her small nose twitching as  something  wafted past her nostrils.

Narrowing her eyes and slowly craning her head about in search of the source of this...rather pungent odor, Marion crossed over to the front door, muttering to herself in puzzlement.

  "Did we acquire a drove of pigs or something?"  

Opening that portal, Marion  expected  the unpeturbed scent of the ocean surrounding Rachet to roll across her, but instead she smelt  that . Turning her head, gazing in a disgusted-curious mystification, Marion stepped out onto their lawn and stared down at...

 "Isaera?"  Marion asked, genuinely puzzled, her eyes drawing over the soft, bubbling pool of mud and the jars of creepy-crawlies strategically placed about it.

But, the warlock had only arrived towards the end of the elfs conversation with the troll, thus important details were unknown to her.

 "You're being waxed?" 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You know, I had thought this was taking place inside for some reason; but that would make having a mud pit more difficult to imagine.  Out the front, Jakk'ari can just politely ask the ground to get soggy, so now that's cleared up... :D
 


"Everyone needs a little wax, sometimes."

This is spoken by Aglet, who reclines in an appropriately diminutive lawn chair.  He wears a pair of blue mageweave shorts, and nothing else; his pasty scholar skin already toasted pink.  A pair of cucumber slices lie on his closed eyes; and a shimmering pink arcane construct in the loose shape of an emaciated, spectral beautician carefully applies paper strips to the huge arcs of wax over his incredibly bushy eyebrows.  Everyone can see how terrible an idea this is, for a venerable gnome's brows.  But it's too late to do anything about it now; he might just have to learn this lesson, though it is unlikely to moderate his typically gnomish sense of openness to new things.

Seraphis seems remarkably comfortable neck-deep in liquid mud; sophisticate or not, the earthen things do appeal to her Kaldorei nature.  Nearby, Felix winces; Emilia chides him not to be a baby about it, as she applies the herbal compress to what everyone can now see is a significant amount of bruising around his eye.  And Schlep, having no standards at all for presentation but apparently a primitive understanding of the importance of  tribe , finishes nibbling on the pulpy remnant of a herbal mixture, pivots rapidly on the spot.. and then seeing all but one of the household in attendance, goes zooming about the residence at needlessly  top speed , arms flapping behind him, looking to find Mor'Lag and pantomime to them his piscean expectation that she be involved.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Beauty is Pain 
Anyone who takes part in at least  some measure  of this troll-spawned day-spa will gain a +2 Circumstance Bonus for the coming event, applicable on all rolls that have to do with something hygiene, confidence, or presentation related.  Jakk'ari is a legit herbalist, it seems fair he produces legit results!
 
 
Feathersnow
Mor'Lag is flattered that the little menial values her company on its own merits.  She follows Schlep to the mudpit.

"Ooh!"
"What's this?"

"A spa!?"

"I heard of this,"
"But wasn't sure I was invited"

"Thank you, Schlep."
"Thank you, Jak'kari"

Mor'Lag's people were cultured and noble, once. But they were cultured and noble on the Nameless World, where the Quel'dorei had never had their cultural schism with the Kaldorei and brought with it a distaste for the living earth.  There is nothing in the spa particularly icky to Mor or Lag...
WindStruck
Isaera is still quite reluctant, but for some odd reason, felt a bond with Seraphis. No, this amazonian woman was not her sister by any means, but they had at least spent a better part of yesterday together. Once Seraphis takes the lead, Isaera followed.  Except, she wasn't putting wax on her skin and ripping little hairs out. No, that was stupid and barbaric and her brows were already perfect!  😛

Then again, sitting in a pool of mud was also extremely barbaric...  At the very least the mud would come off.  The mud will wash off, the mud will wash off , she had to keep telling herself.

By time Isaera's nerves are finally calmed, Marion strolls up.   "Isaera? You're being waxed?" 

The high elf (or blood elf?) squinted open an eye and blearily looked at Marion.  "No, not waxed. Or maggoted. But everything else I suppose,"  she tried to say as coolly as possible.  "Maybe you should try it yourself,"  Isaera suggested.

Boy, it would be funny to see Marion all covered in mud! I bet she'd look ridiculous!

Ridiculous too...

Yes...

Isaera would probably feel better about herself right now if Marion went through with Jakk'ari's shenanigans. At least, she trusted that the sand troll had good intentions.  Just then, Mor'Lag arrived. Uh oh. She was massive. She hoped there was enough room, or...
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 

Now elated by the appearance of Marion and Mor'Lag alongside Isaera he begins advertising the leisurely activities. Participation wasn't mandatory but sometimes people didn't know what they wanted until it had been procured for them with their permission of course.

Mor'Lag seems enthusiastic the activities worked wonders on people who lived hardscrabble lives who were unused to nature accommodating them and their split fingertips and calloused feet. Mor'Lag would surely enjoy this.

  Good to see you Mor'Lag. Today the land we tended accommodates us and it is feeling indulgent today.  

Isaera was squeamish but seemed to be close to timidly participating. Stories of elves rejuvenating themselves in mystic springs were common, but they failed to stress any arcane elements to it. That would have to be remembered in the future. Aglet or someone in his network would probably be able to help with that in the future.

Considering Marion Jakk'ari furrowed his eyebrows as his iris darted to the periphery his eyes while trying to improvise a response. Marion had shown discomfort maybe a little disdain for natural gifts. But she cared about her image and the respect it could help secure. So, who was a powerful individual who commanded power in the punctilious manner Marion respected but also had the respect of the elements? Considering his course of action Jakk'ari announces to Marion.

  The elements have been kind and have blessed us with this brilliant day befitting those who fight for peace and honor. Please join us Marion and enjoy what the elements have to offer. Or should I say Lady Proudmoore.  Taking notice of Marion's new hair color.
MrAbdiel
   
  ORGRIMMAR  
 Interbellum, Chapter 2: Si Vis Pacem  
After some nourishing shamanic indulgence and a day of rest, the time comes for departure on the early morning following.  Having picked up certain orders and made certain arrangements, you make your way to Mayor Gazlowe's 'mansion'; which is infact a bizarrely asymmetrical, multi-story workshop made of bolted and welded metal.  On top of this, another forty feet above the three stories below, a wooden tower reaches up to form Ratchet's only Zeppelin tower.  Many of the zeppelins that come and go from the tower are converted goblin scout zeppelins; suitable for sustained flights for small groups.  The party boards one such vessel; the sole operator of the sky-skiff a middle aged goblin called Egon Swizzlejet, who seems ideal for the purpose.  He is enthusastic and friendly to greet with the biggest, whitest smile imaginable; but after which does not bother anyone; only discusses matters of aeronatics when provoked.  His sole companion is a big, gold feathered eagle called Jojo; to whom he talks when steering and occasionally commands to alongside.  Trained birds are apparently quite common, on such vessels; useful for delivering messages to other vessels and to the ground without landing; and Egon swears a good eagle is better than a handful of bodyguards up here, when it comes to dissuading harpies.  There is enough cabin space below for four, and Egon has go as far as to pitch a tent on the deck at for Mor'Lag to nap in during long, boring stretches of the flight.

Below you the parched golden grasses give way to the churning waters of the Southfury River and then grading rapidly into the red-dirt badlands of Durotar.  Lumpen mesas and canyons have warped the landscape below; a very poor place to settle, if given other options.  Only scraggly, crooked trees grow in small patches throughout the land; and big clusters of what the human explorers called  bastard grass ; a tough, mostly useless plant that grows deep roots, resists drought, and exudes an oily, fire-retarding smoke when burned often extinguishing a campfire it may have been expected to feed.  But the one thing bastard grass is good for is feeding the herds of swine; the same hardy, eat-anything rouge hogs the party saw near Brackenwall Village.  Thus, pig farms are the order of the day; and the zeppelin sails over many yards from which the greenskinned swineherds peer up at the influx of sky traffic with suspicion.  But they do not trouble the flight; indeed, the whole journey is remarkably undisturbed, and you touch town in the dark of night on the zeppelin tower under the watchful eyes of the Orgrimmar gate, with its braziers and its watchful guardians.

The massive stone wall is one of three which seal off the interior of Orgimmar in its valley; the natural defences of the surrounding mesas making it a difficult city to siege now that those entrances have been plugged with stern, defensible masonry.  But the destination for the evening is not within those walls; but rather outside them in the great plains of the Orgrimmar Approach.  From the zeppelin tower, the ground below you looks like a huge military bivouac with hundreds of tents, watchfires, guards with torches.  This is the exterior accommodation provided by 'Steemwheedle Events'.  It is plain from this perch that the camp has become naturally districted.  Closest to the wall, the tents are red with Horde banners, and vary through the leather conical style of Tauren tradition to the square-topped pavilions of human design... but with the cracked mask icon that suggests their occupants are arguably  former  humans.  This is a relatively small cluster; past that is a long, dividing line of white and grey encampments with banners of various colours and kinds.  And beyond this neutral zone, in which the Opal Collocation's places are certainly located, is a larger field of blue and white, typically cylindrical alliance faction encampments, with more elaborate elven tents dotted in between the human bulk.

The goblins must be well compensated for all this, and they bear it out in the quality of their service.  Once Mor'Lag presents the invitation, a team of attendants help with your luggage and invite you down the stairs of the tower to your transport to lodgings: a rank of litters, afforded to carry such important people to their tents in something approximating style.  They even have accommodated Mor'Lag in this way; while the litters for Marion, Emilia, Jakk'ari and Isaera are simple curtained palanquins carried by teams of eight goblins apiece, there is a larger, more industrial platform made of hardy timbre with a throne of pillows, and this is carried by a team of four - two hobgoblins and two tauren.  Emilia can't bring herself to indulge - for whatever reason, this extreme luxury seems to rub her the wrong way, and she walks alongside all the way to your pavilion.  The large, white dome has a staked sign out the front with  'Reserved for Opal Collocation (Ratchet)' .  It is between two neighbours;  'Reserved for Opal Collocation (Everlook)'  and  'Reserved for Opal Collocation (Arathi Entante)' .  The tent itself is spacious; with comfortably large central chamber furnished with pillows and furs for lounging, and six 'rooms' surrounding that chamber, divided by hanging, pegged down sheets of dividing linen and with simple, push-aside flaps to the main chamber.

Emilia literally tosses her bag of belongings into one of the two rooms nearest the main flap.  "Well.  I've tried flying, and I've tried sailing; and I hate them both.  But I think my stomach is settled enough to eat.  I think I saw some kind of goblin restaurant out in the neutral strip.  I'm going to grab something and bring it back here, where I can keep an eye on our things."

 
 Spoiler: Welcome to Durotar. 
There's no requirement to do anything this evening, but there's opportunity!  There are visiting dignitaries from all over the world, here - if you're looking for gossip from a particular region, with Emilia volunteering to mind the tent, now's a good time to go looking to make some contacts.

Mor'Lag has an additional thing to do this evening - visit Magar's Cloth Goods for the fitting session Saraphis set up, so they can have her garment ready for tomorrow.  The humans and elves may have trouble getting into Orgimmar in these night hours; but Mor'Lag, and possibly Jakk'ari, are likely to have less difficulty.

What now, adventurers?
 

 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion was in an oddly chipper mood as the lot of them loaded themselves onto the Zeppelin that was destined for Orgrimmar. One would think that, given her history and her nations prior entanglement with the orcs, that the noble scion would loathe the city to which they were traveling, for the presence of so many greenskins would simply conjure memories from bleaker times. But, apparently not! Marion seemed quite happy as she boarded the transport with an unusually large bag in tow. One of the goblins that worked for her, Ikkit, had been requisitioned to serve as a sort of footman for the girl, her treatment of him surprisingly kind and gracious for what the uninitiated might think would be the behavior displayed by a dark wizard born into privilege. Indeed, should anyone ask, the goblin actually had family in Orgrimmar, and this was his time off to go and visit them, with said vacation time beginning right after they arrived and concluded before they departed. This permitted a convenient space of time for the little greenskin to carry loads for the warlock.

 "Just right there, Ikkit!"  Marion motioned to her allocated baggage space, her smile bright and friendly when her assistant deposited her luggage there-on.

 "Thank you Ikkit! That will be all. Do as you see fit, but I will need assistance to unload once we arrive." 

The hook-nosed creature responded his understanding and soon disappeared to elsewhere upon the airborne transport, while Marion turned to her compatriots. Her figure swayed gently as the machine was untethered from the Ratchet dock, but her unusually positive attitude remained.

 "Well, I dare say that - ohh! Look!"  she pointed excitedly towards the rear of the vehicle, to the open air, railed-in balcony as she hurriedly dashed over to it and emerged upon its stature and placed her hands against the barrier as she watched the ruggedly beautiful landscape of the barrens and the ocean moving down below them. Her face was bright, grin wide and her eyes lit up with a girlish happiness as she brought a hand to cover her mouth and take it all in as they moved.

And that was the girls general demeanor throughout the trip. Wide-eyed excitement and genuine happiness. It was odd that the normally sarcastic, calculating warlock had allowed her inner child to over-take her behaviour, but there it was.

When the Zeppelin touched down before the great, bristling towers of Orgrimmar, Marion watched silently, her face impervious to attempts at empathetic reading. Whether she felt uncomfortable or not, Marion didn't show it, but she offered a friendly smile to her compatriots when their discharge from the vehicle was permitted.

 "Another happy landing!" 

After depositing their luggage in their assigned tents, Marion once more thanked Ikkit with a sincere gratitude before the smaller creature hurried off towards the entrances to the orcish city. The warlock herself did not need to change, yet, as her appearance was well-groomed and clearly regailed in well-made, quality clothing that hinted at wealth but was not so crass as to clearly advertise it. However, for the more perceptive, there was one curious new addition to Marions personage: a tastefully styled and well-crafted signet ring was wrapped around the little pinkie finger of her left hand, its face baring the rams-head sigil that was marked on those crates that contained her products which were shipped across the world to customers on distant shores.

 "Now, there are a number of people I want to speak to here..."  she said to no-one-in-particular, seemingly going over a mental list out-loud.

Though the names were not important, anyone who was up to date with the Alliance military organization - which Marion oddly seemed to be - would recognize the  theme  of her list: ordnance and supply and the House of Nobles and hereditary recognition.

How curious.


ooc:

 
 Spoiler 
Finally, her Advantage - Benefit (Status - Minor Noble) 2 - is useful!
 
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  
Emilia literally tosses her bag of belongings into one of the two rooms nearest the main flap.  "Well.  I've tried flying, and I've tried sailing; and I hate them both.  But I think my stomach is settled enough to eat.  I think I saw some kind of goblin restaurant out in the neutral strip.  I'm going to grab something and bring it back here, where I can keep an eye on our things."
  
 

 
 Jakk'ari 
  I will accompany you on your search.  Jakk'ari replies to Emelia as he stifles a yawn to appraise as nearby tents as before the departure of the remaining daylight.
  Sky travel has left me expended. I'll remain here and greet our colleagues for the rest of the night.   Jakk'ari leans against a post slowly to stretch his legs. The hard and swaying zeppelin was unlike the warm and gently conforming sands from his home. He had also not gotten comfortable with such densely populated settlements.  Having this many disparate peoples together so suddenly was unnatural. At least the goblins had the foresight to place people along a gradient of familiarity.   Jakk'ari mused.

  I can't stop any of you from venturing out. Just be careful and perhaps try the "buddy system" while it is dark. 
Jakk'ari quickly assesses Mor'Lag and Marion who was joined to the hip their sibling and had her companion available to summon with a tome she carried at her hip respectively.

As Jakk'ari walks off Emelia he absentmindedly scans nearby tents hoping to spy one belonging to residents of Tanaris.
 
 Spoiler: Day and night plans 
Jakk'ari will spend the night walking with Emelia to get some food and then spend the rest of the night either resting or talking to the other Opal Collocation franchisees. With a particular interest in the Arathi group. The day will be spent looking for friendly faces from Tanaris with Faraki and bronze dragons being the primary people sought after.
 
WindStruck
Isaera found that she found it hard to relax or study inside the cabin. She took in the sights of the trip with interest. Not quite the child that Marion had oddly brought out - not exactly a stoic or a grump either. She is calm, reserved, and observant on their flight, not only looking down onto the landscape but in the skies beside them in case something was amiss. Thankfully nothing waylaid the group on their journey, and the zeppelin didn't break down and require an emergency landing either.

They are then ushered down the tower just outside Orgrimmar, and carried about in a ridiculous display, on some platform carried by goblins. Isaera felt somewhat uncomfortable, contemplating getting off to walk with Emilia, but she allows it. After they get to the pavilion reserved for their little group, she takes note that there are other Opal Collection pavilions from around the world.

Bringing her belongings to one of the sectioned off "rooms", she nods to Emilia and says,  "Sounds good. I think I'd like to meet some of these other people from our .. organization."  And so she wanders up to one of the other tents, to see if whoever was assigned to be there might be home.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 
 "Right, so, who is - oh..." 

Marion had prepared herself, managing to refreshen quickly, as she emerged into the main area of their tent with her walking staff in hand and bright smile abound...only to discover everyone had already left.

Exhaling softly, swallowing, pursing her lips and nodding once,  "Well, yes, everyone is rather keen to look about I suppose!"  she said, reaching for her backpack and drawing it over her shoulders as she gave her walking staff a little spin.

Examining herself in the mirror, the warlock smiled  "Right. It's just me, myself and I. Again,"  she nodded, before turning towards the exit and departing.

OOC:
 
 Spoiler 
Marion will be heading on her own towards the what looks like will be the area of important Alliance bigwigs.
 
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
  After they get to the pavilion reserved for their little group, she takes note that there are other Opal Collection pavilions from around the world.

Bringing her belongings to one of the sectioned off "rooms", she nods to Emilia and says,  "Sounds good. I think I'd like to meet some of these other people from our .. organization."  And so she wanders up to one of the other tents, to see if whoever was assigned to be there might be home. 
 

 Jakk'ari 
  We will join you once we return with dinner.   Jakk'ari hollers to Isaera, not taking notice if she had heard him as she was close to being engulfed by the tent.
Walking through the popup city Emelia Jakk'ari marvels at the collage of tents adorned with the insignias, colors, and languages all packed together. Now regretting that he had neglected to see the tent city while he fiercely gripped the guardrails furthest from port and starboard sides.  Perhaps one of the fancier tents had some scaffolding to climb and offer a better view.  
  So, what were you thinking of purchasing here? We could probably find some a goblin facsimile of something you are familiar with.  Jakk'ari queries and comments to Emelia. He his chain of thought with Emelia as they continue out of sight of their tent.
  It seems Isaera, Mor'Lag, and especially Marion have gotten dolled up for this occasion. What about you? The Farraki claypan has given you as much of a start as Marion. You'd be forgiven for think she came here looking for a suitor.   Chuckling casually with Emelia at his side.
Feathersnow
Lag tells Emilia-  "Yes, good.  One of us should stay behind to guard our baggage."

Mor considers joking about the insanity of Orcs building a city, given they are all thieves and barbarians.  Then she realizes saying this was unwise....

Anyway.


Mor and Lag get on their palanquin.  It was the due of the Great Warrior Voidfist!

  "Voidfist would have you take her"
"to Magar's Cloth Goods,"

 "There to improve our sartorial splendor."
"For the great Ball"

" Should we make it there in good order,"
"You will be rewarded."

Mor and Lag were moving up in the world.  They felt worthy, for the first time since that fateful day, of their heritage.  They were a great warfare, carried by servants, to be decorated in silks and gilt.  All was as it was meant to be.

 And their litter bearers were Tauren and Hobs, both respectable races, even if these were clearly the dregs of their societies to pull litter duty.  That no Orc was found doing it was curious, but she couldn't complain. Ogres understood that a meritocracy was built on the banks of useless peons.

A thought crosses Mor's head.  Most of the bearers were Goblins, outsiders.  And Tauren were weird Idealists.  Maybe the Orcs thought all Orcs were too good to be demeaned by such labor for their betters!  That wasn't the value of the First Horde, the Horde that had slain the Gronn.  Iron came from work and filth and poison, gold came from nothing, or water, or soft stone, when one met the other, only iron remained...

They, Mor'Lag, were a sword, fit to be gilded. That these Orcs hired servants willing to do what they would nit meant they were soft nuggets.  Or perhaps it meant nothing.

 It isn't like they wanted greenskin company, anyway.  thought-replied Lag.

That they quibbled more than was seemly for a bifold, and that this city was teeming with filthy Orcs, were problems, but not insurmountable ones.
MrAbdiel
  Jakk’ari and Emilia: 

The Argent Squire and the Farraki Shaman wander through the ranks of tents towards the greatest concentrations of smoke, and the scent of cooking.  The way is mostly easy going; the hard-packed red earth of Durotar rarely sees rain, so the most travelled intersections of the encampment are not run to brown slush as they often are in dense temporary settlements. But instead of mud, there is dry and flaky ground; and all travelers who go any real distance in the area (those not in palanquins, anyway) find themselves coated from ankle to  thigh in a patina of orange dust that must be aggressively slapped away at the end of a journey.  Most folk seem to have given up on it, choosing instead to squirrel away their ‘good’ clothes for tomorrow’s event and resigning to the oranging of whatever they choose to wear for now.  Here and there, however, there is a lady in a fine gown or a priest in an formal robe looking anguished and perplexed at their dusting, and the leveling effect it has on all fashion in the grand encampment.


 
 Originally Posted by Jakk’ari 
 So, what were you thinking of purchasing here? We could probably find some a goblin facsimile of something you are familiar with. …
It seems Isaera, Mor'Lag, and especially Marion have gotten dolled up for this occasion. What about you? The Farraki claypan has given you as much of a start as Marion. You'd be forgiven for think she came here looking for a suitor. 
 

Emilia snorts; not a cute and girlish snort either, but a rather unladylike sound.   “Well, I liked the mud-bath.  Or… claypan, if you prefer.  But I don’t really get dolled up.  I’ll give my armor a buff tomorrow before we head in, but I’m more than happy to leave glamor to the glamorous.  There’s a line between seeking to be… respectfully presentable, and honoring to one’s cause and call… and where that can become self-indulgent, and vain.  My mentor used to say that ‘one has enough temptations without inviting it again with new habits.’  I never really cared for-” 

A telling pause; arrested before the sentence is completed, as the young woman seems to confront what was almost a less than honest statement and reforms it into one that has more integrity.   “...I’m content to eschew the pretty dresses, and the quadrilles, and so on.  Honestly, I’m more excited to hear Lord Tyrosius’s brief on the state of the war against the Scourge than anything else.” 

There is a kind of running night market selling a variety of foods; as well as a premium charge to have a goblin apprentice chef wheel over a grill-cart contraption to near a tent to do the cooking for a given party.  Emilia immediate gravitates to one such cart, and negotiates a fee to ‘rent’ it without the goblin - she’s more than happy to do the cooking herself, and the squire and shaman had seen and settled on some cuts of lamb and assorted vegetables.  Sheep were native to the Eastern Kingdoms, not Kalimdor; perhaps it would be a return to nostalgic flavors for Isaera, Marion, and Emilia.

But while the Argent Squire is making her bid for the grill-cart, Jakk’ari notices an unusual figure in the crowd at the food markets.

A fellow of shaggy white fur, thick and discolored with the caking orange dust of Durotar; stooped forward posture; thick limbs and claws.  The distance between a Furbolg and their obvious animal counterpart the bear is physically much less pronounced than one sees between, say, Murlocs and fish, or humans and apes.  To a casual or disinterested observer, one could mistake a furbolg for a bear completely.  But likely not in this case; not with the profusion of talismans and feather tokens dangling from a lattice of woven cords around this one’s neck, and wrists; and the gnarled staff in its hand.  The bearfolk stands by himself in the bustle of the crowd, looking over the stalls of food and supply; snuffling at the air.  Jakk’ari witnesses as he reaches out a clawed hand and, with care not to scratch, paws at a Tauren manning a spit of plainstrider.  He gets the tauren’s attention, but the Furbolg simply does not have the same oral arrangement as any of the races attending; and the ‘conversation’ ends in an awkward shrug and extraction by the hoofed caterer.  Indeed, it seems no one is able to understand his rumbling argot of throaty growls and sniffs; but for the Farraki diplomat, there is a fair bit to be learned about him just by watching.

He is awkward, out of place, progressively hungry and thirsty, and lonely in a strange place.  The pelt gives him away as a native of one of the clans from Winterspring, the snowy region to Kalimdor’s extreme north.  He is as much a stranger in a strange land as Jakk’ari was when he wandered out under his own conviction and sought to find a place for himself amidst the folk of Theramore.  How it is that he gained invitation to this event and made his way here is unclear, but he is not completely alone; to the Farraki shaman’s supernatural senses, there follows also after the furbolg an elemental spirit of snow and wind (which likely means the bearfolk is a shaman in some capacity himself).  The snow spirit is out of place here like its partner, hidden from the eyes of roaming mortals but enduring curious interrogations of its own from the local spirits of dust devils, but it is doing fair work keeping the arctic wanderer cool in the badlands heat of Durotar.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
Just an opportunity to many a new friend, since that’s one of Jakk’ari’s hobbies.  You don’t speak Winterfall Furbolg, and he doesn’t speak Common or Orcish it seems - but you can guess he probably speaks Kalimag, since all Shamans must.
 

 Marion: 

Marion needs to eat as well - but given that she is waiting on Emilia to make it possible by bringing something back, she is afforded the time she needs to indulge her curiosity and wander south from the ‘neutral’ zone of white and grey tents into the neighbourhood of blue and gold ones - the Alliance enclave.  And those associated with ranking Alliance members are not astonishingly difficult to find.  They are the largest pavilions, ringed with smaller tents and interspersed with a non-trivial sampling of alliance soldiery: human knights on foot, Kaldorei sentinels with their extravagant three-bladed glaives slung on their backs, dwarven riflemen.  A large white pavilion flying the white banner of Theramore is easily found - this one, likely containing the traveling party of the Lady Jaina Proudmoore with whom Marion is already acquainted.

Three other major pavilions populate what the warlock’s eyes gage to be the center of the alliance delegation here - a steepled one in rich Kaldorei purple, a silver and white tent in Quel’Dorei design, and great square azure tent featuring the lion crest of Stormwind.


 “Looking for something?” 

The words come from a gentleman who, it seems, has noticed Marion’s interest in this area of the campsite.  A little taller than average, a little younger than middle age, and in most ways unremarkable; though possessed of well trimmed facial hair and the kind of wry smile that suits it, and elevates an unremarkable face to passingly handsome.  He wears blue robes that one expects of an Alliance caster with a slim golden wood wand on one hip; arms folded as he regards Marion with quiet scrutiny.

 Isaera 

It’s easy enough for Isaera to keep a loose eye on the home-tent while wandering over to meet the immediate neighbors.  The decision of which to start with is made for her - calling from the threshold of the “Everlook” chapter’s tent yields no answer to which she must conclude there either no one home or no one willing to come to the entrance and be social  But the “Arathi Entente” tent is more welcoming - its flap is tied open, and as the elven mage approaches, the chatter of lively conversation forecasts conversational neighbors within.

It is a group as eclectic as the Ratchet Chapter, at a glance: an orc, a forsaken, a human, and two high elves.

The male orc is almost an archtypical example of his kind: big, green, rippling with slabby muscle barely contained in hardened leather armor woven through with tokens of bone and horn and tusk.  Bald and clean shaven, he chatters along in prolonged fashion with the forsaken fellow who lounges by his side on a heap of the cushions provided to this tent like all the others.  Whatever wound killed this particular man seems to have been inflicted in the same combat that removed his jaw.  A silvery silk kercheif covers the stubby absence of a nose and everything below it, but the corners of a brass prosthetic jaw peek out from behind it.  He does a lot of nodding to the orc, and occasionally replies by means of a fluttering, swift series of hand gestures that at first seem arcane, but prove ultimately to be only linguistic.  His chainmail is obviously in much better condition than the withered body that fills it; though Isaera may note that, as is the case often with Forsaken, he does not seem burdened with a particular abundance of the fragrance of death - a beneficiary of whatever means these people have developed to make them minimally palatable in broader company.

The human is middle aged with hair going too early from black to grey, and the deeply tanned features of an outdoorswoman of no small experience.  She sits at a table in the main room by the light of one of the magical sconces, composing a letter with her writing kit in the painstakingly slow and focused manner that is present only in those adults who have learned to write late in life - too late to ever find the practise particularly swift or comfortable.  She is doing her best to ignore the young Quel’Dorei who bicker near the entrance of the tent.

 “...And if they make such an announcement, I shall expect you and I will both sign up with no hesitation,”  proposes the one with the bright blue eyes trending almost to purple.

 “I should say not - it’s a vanity matter now.  Once we’ve put in our time with the Collocation, we must consider instead joining the colonies across the veil,”  counters the one with emerald green eyes, glimmering with the same superficial fel light that Isaera has seen now in Aleeana and other elves besides.  These two have facial likeness that suggests family, confirmed by the way they discuss each other’s futures as a linked endeavor; both young, fine featured and silver haired.  The blue eyed one wears his hair cut into short effortless spikes, matching the gleaming silver spiked studs at intervals on his dark lacquered field plate.  The green eyed elf has let his hair grow out in a single long tail thrown forward over his shoulder, where it rests over the intricately embroidered gray mageweave robe.

It is the elves who permit their conversation to dry up first; their eyes swinging to Isaera in the doorway with unspoken, and not unreasonable expectation of some kind of announcement.

 Mor’Lag 

Mor and Lag benefit from their luxury conveyance to the gates of Orgrimmar and beyond.  Strictly speaking, the palanquin service is meant for conveyance around the dust-caked campground; but when requested to go further, the bearers are not such sticklers that they would refuse; and off they go together.  The orcish guards at the gate regard the ogress on their way past, but they are used to Ogres coming and going, and have not once encountered an ogre spy.  Mor’Lag, then, is the first (and second) of the party to see the Horde capital up close and in person.  Gazlowe planned the city and its defenses, but the structures within are orcish; and orcish buildings spring from many of the same aesthetic sensibilities as their former masters, the Ogres.  Bones of the ancient giants feature bracing canopies shading thresholds, where available; and the trunks of trees made into supports for buildings are often carved loosely into the likeness of a rib, or a giant tusk.  The orc refugees who settled here had no fabulous limestone quarries like the Ogres did back on Draenor and so made do with the dull red stone and rugged grey granite available in Durotar, but they have made it work.  The buildings are strikingly irregular to one another, but united by a common barbarian grandeur that is especially pronounced in evening torchlight.

The palanquin carries Mor’Lag through the massive town plaza where the site is being arranged for the armistice ball tomorrow; beyond the major structures like the frontmost stronghold and the town bank and auctionhouse, and on to the winding torchlit canyon lined with shops and display stalls.  Most of these are closed for the night; but Magar’s Cloth Goods, as advertised, is open and waiting.  Within it are five brawny orc men, and one orc woman; ranging from young adult to the latter side of middle age.  Magar, the eldest, greets Mor’Lag at the door and flags her in where his four offsiders rise from their stools and seize upon measuring tapes, cloth samples, and carved bowls of stone jewelry, copper bracelets and other accessories.  To anyone else in the group from Ratchet, this gang of muscular greenskins, operating as a co-ordinated pack of textile enthusiasts, would seem a funny fit indeed.  To Mor’Lag, even these orcs are puny compared to her stature; and so perhaps it does not follow naturally from their visual profile that this ought to seem funny at all.

 “M’pleased to get about your garb here, misses.  Have you a thought of preferred style, or pattern, or a theme in mind?”  
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  
He is awkward, out of place, progressively hungry and thirsty, and lonely in a strange place. The pelt gives him away as a native of one of the clans from Winterspring, the snowy region to Kalimdor’s extreme north. He is as much a stranger in a strange land as Jakk’ari was when he wandered out under his own conviction and sought to find a place for himself amidst the folk of Theramore. How it is that he gained invitation to this event and made his way here is unclear, but he is not completely alone; to the Farraki shaman’s supernatural senses, there follows also after the furbolg an elemental spirit of snow and wind (which likely means the bearfolk is a shaman in some capacity himself). The snow spirit is out of place here like its partner, hidden from the eyes of roaming mortals but enduring curious interrogations of its own from the local spirits of dust devils, but it is doing fair work keeping the arctic wanderer cool in the badlands heat of Durotar.  
 

 
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari gives an encouraging tap on the shoulder encouraging.
[color="#DEB31F"] You're doing quite well for yourself right now and you don't seem to be regretting your new choices. [COLOR]

Walking into view of the Furbolg Jakk'ari senses the elemental made conspicuous by it's presence in a misfitting climate. Palming two of the moistest vegetables Jakk'ari announces his detour to Emelia.
[color="#DEB31F"] I have a person of interest I have to meet. I'll be back at the tent soon. [COLOR]

Approaching the Furbolg Jakk'ari offers a vegetable to the traveler in a conciliatory gesture hoping to begin his introduction with near universally beloved gift of food. Speaking in Kalimag he begins.
  I noticed you and your frigid companion. What brought you here. Did you come by sweet fortune or some rotten luck?  
Jakk'ari munches on a strip of vegetable flesh to set an atmosphere of casual discussion.
Feathersnow
Despite never having seen the glories of their own people, the twins recognize and approve of the Ogrish influences that underpin Orcish aesthetics. They didn't know what to expect in Durotar, but this glorious metropolis was far from it.

Mor and Lag are at home in the shop. Despite their disdain for the Horde, they have nothing but respect for skilled professionals, especially those who bettered themselves from the pitiful beginnings that most Orcs came from.

"We hope for your advice, esteemed Maghar."

"You are a master tailor, much recommended"


"We are warriors, gifted in wondrous power."

"But the sartorial arts are not ours"


"Help us be seen as a competent diplomat and warrior"

"Not a debutant or a fool"

In truth, Mor'Lag had a battle name, and a part of her considered that parlaying their new worth into a marriage contract would be a viable option.  But both twins wanted more adventure and achievement in their life, both for its own sake and to guarantee a higher class of man when they retired.  Also, they really didn't want to live in the Horde, even if, having actually seen it first hand, they realized their judgment may have been overly hasty.
WindStruck
Isaera is at first curious, though as her eyes briefly wander and attention slowly falls to her, she cannot help but feel as though she is still intruding.

 "Sorry to interrupt. It's nothing that important..." 
 "I am Isaera Runescribe, from over at the Ratchet Chapter,"  she says, gesturing at the tent next door with a warm, but perhaps slightly tepid smile.

 "I just thought.. 'Hey, we're all in the same organization. We probably have the same goals, or if not, similar outlooks.. right?' So I just thought I'd come over to visit and.."  she does manage to avoid repeating the word visit to describe her intentions, though the beautiful elf, for all her charm and glamour, feels herself caught out at the moment with no clear goals in mind, and no familiarity with these people.

 "Well, perhaps we could share some news! And get to know each other? If you are so inclined..." 

Some people could probably keep rambling on and on, inevitably sticking their foot, then both feet into their mouths, but at least Isaera felt she knew exactly when to stop talking.
MrAbdiel
  Jakk'ari 

Emilia trades a look between Jakk'ari and the uncomfortable looking bear man, and gives a flat sort of dimplomatic smile.  The ways of the shaman and paladin were not particularly compatible, and she was still carving out a place in her worldview for people who drew their spiritual purpose from the ground beneath their feet, rather than the radiance pouring down from above.   "I'll set a share aside for you," , she offers, and then off she sets with the rented cooking setup and the ingredients that will later become dinner.

The furbolg startles at the sound of language he can comprehend and respond in; for the mystical nature of the elemental language as much a function of the soul as the throat and tongue.  To onlookers who are unfamiliar, it must seem that the troll and furbolg are speaking past each other in entirely different utterances distinct from their native tongues by a league; but any Horde shaman who happened to pass by would perceive the nature of their communion.

The bear-man is deeply grateful for the gift.  The unusual foreward-mounting of the bear man's head on his body prevents a conventional gesture like a bow from being dignified, almost requiring the use of the hands or else fall on the face; but he gives back a physical gesture of humble appreciation in a shuffling of his feet, and a response in the shaman tongue.

 "You are kind to me, troll.  In truth, I was invited - some time ago, a traveller from the far lands earned friendship and respect of my people, and extended to me a guest invitation to this gathering.  She hoped that maybe I gain insight into the great factions and their wars, and their peace.  It seemed a good idea.  My tribe is small, and full of troubles; and the world is so much... louder, than it was before.  Once we had Winterspring all to ourselves, with just the Kaldorei at the fringes minding their manners, taming the sabres.  Now there are demons, and dragonspawn, and goblins picking around everywhere looking for treasures..."   Becoming aware of his lament, he gnaws on the vegetable appreciatively for a moment before asking:  "You are not like the other trolls here - a different tribe?" 
 Mor'Lag 

The orc tailor smiles; doesn't draw attention to Mor'Lag's slight imperfection in orcish.  The name Magar, and the appellation 'Mag'har' referring to the handful of resistant orcish elements back in Outland who refused to take the demonblood  pact, have a similar enough vocalisation it is a forgivable mistake, particularly for one who has spent most of their time speaking Common, in recent days.

 "Well, misses, I think we can help with that.  You're, ah... not clan affiliated then?  Two of my lads ken ogrish, is all, and are versant in the deed-markers that most of the clans seem to like for accessories.  And not horde or alliance devoted - so red and blue are out.  But you're part of that, ah, Opal outfit, yes? That's what the letter said.  So let's see what we can do with that..." 

The next hour passes in a flurry of coordinated activity between the tailor team, measuring Mor'Lag, bickering with each other about materials and extra details.  In the end they settle on an ensemble they beleive will suit the ogress's needs, and chart to make it overnight and deliver it in the morning.

Silver trunks and bandeau for the underclothes, important only because the white mageweave robe that comprises the primary element of the panoply curls over one shoulder only, in the ogrish style.  They also have possession of some glimmering, opalescent fabric; and intend to sew a long strip into the centre run of a black sack.  They marshall a handful of ivory ornaments with inset opals to be arrayed in Mor'Lag's hair; and the two orcs who know their ogre runes spent a few minutes painting Mor'Lag's biceps, right shoulder and back, the parts that will be revealed by the robe, in ogre markings.

They seek to hit Mor'Lag's mark - wanting to be taken seriously - and so strike a tine with the marks that is not so boastful as to invite dismissal, but not so meek as to permit overlooking.  Many of the runes are  ambition runes  - 'Who Shall Be Known', 'Who Shall Grasp The Old Magics', 'Whose Names Will Be Feared', 'Who Shall Travel To Far Places'.  But enough of them are  accomplishment runes  with backing based in her proven history one way or the other - 'Who Stood Against The Wild Spirit Verdan', 'Who Delivered he Lost Sons of Theramore', 'Who Aided The Flight of the Stonemaul', and central over the shoulderblade larger than the others, 'Who Smote The Infernals With Her Fist'.

They use a mildly acrid smelling staining paint, the purpose of which is to leave the marks picked out on Mor'Lag's skin in a darkened shade of her own skintone in a way that will fade in the coming week; but they also furnish her with a pot of dark, glimmering pigment and a brush.
 
"This will fade out by a week's end',"  Magar explains,  "but you'll want to have a friend fill out the outlines with this pigment shortly before the event.  It dries black with an opalescent shine.  It'll peel off in flakes by the morning after, so this, like the beads, is something you ought to do before you come here to pick up the completed garment before the event, and we'll send a runner to you if there's any trouble in the interim.  Do you have someone, who can put the tokens in your hair and paint over the rune marks..?" 
 Isaera 

Fortunately, intruding or not, Isaera's arrival seems ultimately welcome after a beat.  The Orc and Forsaken further in the tent continue their one-sided conversation unabated; the human woman looks relieved that the elves have stopped bickering, and there a few young elven men who would not gladly forsake a fruitless verbal joust for an intrusion like Isaera.

She witnesses the eyes of both of the brothers - their kinship soon to become more obvious -  widen slightly in surprise at her arrival in that way that a beautiful woman soon becomes used to.  Her presence commands a sudden rearrangement of their lax behaviours; posture adjustments, focused attention, and the summoning of those charming reserves of repartee held in reserve for such occasions.

 "Ratchet - oh, how wonderful!  How wonderful.  I'd hoped to meet our Kalimdor counterparts, but the Everlook folk weren't here when we arrived,"  explains Blue Eyes.

 "Right, right,"  agrees Green Eyes, inviting her in with a wave of his hand towards a corner of the main tent furnished with cushions, two chairs, and a collapsible table.  He begins moving in that direction at once, even as he makes his introduction.   "We've been operating up in the human Highlands - though they're more orc than human at this point.  I'm Matthean Emberpride.  Zalael, fetch us all a glass of wine, would you?  Isaera has been so far from the old country for so long she must have nearly forgotten the flavor of Quel'Danil vintages entirely.  We must reacquaint her, lest we be thought bad patriots."   

Blue eyed Zalael, outflanked by his green eyed brother, can hardly decline the suggestion, even if it has been phrased deliberately as a command to give his brother a competitive edge in the immediately ensuing competition for Isaera's attention.  The suggestion makes too much sense.  All he can do is try to roll with it, as he peels away to one of the side rooms and calls back.   "Well, given that we are patriots, we cannot permit that to come to pass.  Do you lean red or white, Mistress Runescribe - or shall I take this opportunity to intuit your preference?"   He leans back around the dividing tent wall to crook a silver eyebrow at the new arrival.  And, perhaps coincidentally, to showcase at that angle how much broader shouldered and more classically shaped he appears in his field plate, than his scholarly brother.

Matthean, who is now pulling out a chair anticipating Isaera's entry, cuts in again.   "We were just discussing the potential announcements at the ball - the chance that, now with improved relations between the factions, there may be a call to drive the Scourge out of Silvermoon. My brother thinks this is very noble - I think our people need a new beginning in a new place, not to haunt the ruins of our past granduer.  I don't suppose you've heard any gossip on the topic, in your time in Kalimdor?"  
WindStruck
Isaera emits a long and drawn-out sigh, a dramatic one at that, and takes a seat at the table in the corner.  "Oh my, Quel'Danil. I haven't heard that name in.. quite some time, to say the least..." 

With a playful smile at Zalael leaning back, she says,  "Well, I suppose my tastes have changed over the years.. but after living in Theramore for some time, I will let you hazard a guess." 

In truth, Isaera didn't really have a preference.. at least not with wine by itself. Different types of wine tasted better paired with different types of food, though. She threw in the information about living in Theramore as a "clue", but her only intention was complicating things a bit, so the one brother might agonize over his decision a bit more.

 "Tell me, does the Quel'Danil Lodge still stand and its lands remain unravaged? Or did the Scourge wipe that out too? I would hate to think there is only vintage wine left..." 

Once Silvermoon is brought up, Isaera casts Matthean a glance, replete with a raised eyebrow.  "I would expect that you have heard about as much as, or more than me. Our fearless prince, the sunarmies, lost in Outland... and perhaps a new source of mana?"  she mutters.

Her eyes meet Matthean's again, and she felt she already understood the situation.  "I see you have tapped into that source of mana. And your brother has not? The divide is evident. You wish to try new things, take new risks, a fresh new start.. Zalael, perhaps, being not so eager to consume mana with fel origins, would like to bring back the glory of our old home? More of a traditionalist, I suppose?" 

She shrugs and says,  "Well, there's nothing wrong with either of those outlooks. My mother refused to indulge in the Magister's technique, and she was at odds with my siblings who leaped at the opportunity.. but we all still love each other." 
MrAbdiel
 
 Isaera 

Blue eyed Zalael furnishes Isaera and the brothers with glasses of Quel'Danil  Spiral  Reserve; a vibrant red beverage with a persistant swirl of violet, manacharged liquid within that vanishes into the mix when emulsified with a generous swirl; but which, when the wine is left to dwell in the hand or on the table for five or six seconds, the violent stripe manifests again as a visible curl like a manawyrm cuddling to the walls of the glass.  The red is a little too tart; the violet spiral is overly sweet; but swirled appropriately, they sum to a very fine drop indeed.

 "Quel'Danil stands, still. The Scourge concentration remains in Lordaeron's primary realm, and the surrounds of Stratholme.  There's a concentration us there now, I understand; some refugees, others who have made their way back from Outland.  They have much more trouble with the Revantusk trolls than undead; but those trolls are somewhat under the auspices of the Horde atleast diplomaticlaly - so given that the war is all but over, we can expect that will remain comfortable.  No, it's Quel'Lithien Lodge that's in the teeth of it; up there at the border of the Ghostlands, sandwiched between the undead humans pouring from Stratholme and the undead trolls trickling out of Zul'Mashar.  But, if the sun shines once more, we will likely be launching the reconquest from there." 

The warrior elf articulates this smoothly as a running statement, doing his best to be interesting enough to overshadow the fact that Matthean, cunningly, has secured the only two chairs for Isaera and himself; forcing his taller, more athletic brother to sit on a shorter stool pulled over, diminishing him somewhat.  It's a good move; a solid opening for Matthean in the game that is beginning.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Trel'Vadar, The Dance of Three. 
 in  Trel'Vadar ,  the dance of three ; an elven flirtation game where two  wooers , openly and often performatively, vie for attention of a single  wooee .  When Silvermoon was fair and plenteous,  Trel'Vadar  was a very common game for parties, social events, even chance encounters when the players intuited the moment.

Legend suggests it was concocted in ages past to extinguish a spike in duelling fatalities during a romantic epoch of Silvermoon's infancy where stage and song elevated romantic pursuit, or death in the effort, to almost hysterical levels of social value.  Rather than have the princelings of Silvermoon clash and kill one another over winter court trysts, the the wiser entrenched nobles successfully incepted an idea of flirtation as a competitive sport.
 This caught on easily - it drew more attention to the successful wooer, glorified the wooee, and saved face for the defeated wooer who was, after all,  just playing along .

It caused some complications - there are occasions when a young elven wooee will be caught up to heaven to find himself the object of the competing charms of two lovely wooers, only to discover when it's all said and done that neither were really invested and were performing for some other obliquely harvested social cachet; perhaps to impress some fourth party onlooking the whole thing.  For this reason, only the most doe-eyed young debutants take the sometimes subtle, extravagant gestures of Trel'Vadar to heart unless they are consumated with some kind of more traditional, less performative gesture of interest after the fact.

Still, it has remained historically popular and exceeded its additional mandate.  A wooee might enlist a good 'wingman' to rope their desired match into a Trel'Vadar, only to 'throw' the match for his or her friend's sake.  Semi-professional Trel'Vadar 'players' once sought each other out across Quel'Thalas to determine who was the most charming of a generation.  Efforts to codify the game more explicitly cropped up more than once, but always fell over - creating rules in a game like this is merely invitation to break those rules and then be celebrated for it.

Isaera may have some memories of her father feeling most kingly when one of his wife's sisters came by and instigated a Trel'Vadar - always, she would have intuited, with the unspoken understanding that the 'winner' was never in question.  It was as natural and non-threatening to them as humans kissing one another's spouses on the cheek and remarking on how fair they look.

As with humans, any effort to genuinely woo someone else's spouse is likely to very soon stop being a game, and to instead invite a swift exchange of hands.
 


Matthean is glad to receive Isaera's question about matters of mana and some magical 'shop talk'.  His brother is always going to dance circles around him, in matters of conquest, and patriotic fervor, and anything that invites the image of the armored and graceful Zalael joining a grand and much-anticipated effort to take back the elven homeland.  Matthean is not unhandsome himself; but he knows which of them would look better as a statue.

 "Indeed, Lady Arkhanaskrit; you have the right of it.  Zalael is the traditionalist, I am the radical.  Conversations like ours, like the one your mother and siblings have had, are happening wherever two or more of us gather on the face of Azeroth, I fear; and I can only pray that more of them have an outcome born of love, also.  I suspect Zalael and I would have come to blows over it more than once, if it wasn't a foregone conclusion how such a fight would turn out-" 
 "It's hardly any sport to knock him on his backside, I fear; more poor brother has always lacked certain elements of grace-" 
 "-Ahah, unless we happen to be standing more then ten feet apart, in which case my good brother would find himself chewing grass and reconsidering his anger from a more  ovine  perspective for the evening-" 
 "-but yes, we've grown out of such outbursts, though not our convictions.  Ultimately, we both reject what the doomsayers suggest - that it is time to give up on our people as more than enclaves attached to human cities for the next five or ten generations until we are a nation again.  Whether in Silvermoon, or Outland, our people will be together again under the Sunstrider crown." 

Matthean, once again on the backfoot on this subject again, drags it back into his court.   "But the fel-mana, well... I don't care for it truly; but I accept the premise that it is an intermediate measure while our Prince establishes operations in Outland.  I'm given to understand that work is underway on facilities to harness mana from the Nether and strip it of its fel elements.  We may see a Manawell in the next few years; and then, none of us will have to choose between starvation and desperate measures."  
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  Becoming aware of his lament, he gnaws on the vegetable appreciatively for a moment before asking:  "You are not like the other trolls here - a different tribe?"  
 

 Jakk'ari 
Eager to converse with the fellow shaman Jakk'ari responds.
  Aye, I am not from one of the tribes well represented at this summit. I belong to the Farraki of Tanaris a sun kissed land hardy residents similar to Durotar.   
Giving the furbolg his answer.
Jakk'ari continues the conversation with his investment having been piqued by the traveler's description of Winterspring. Enjoying the familiarity, he feels with the furbolg he continues divulging more details of home.

  But it too has been disrupted lately. Groups of ogre brigands patrol the well-trodden hunting trails and Steamwheedle profiteers proceed further inland to thresh the land. And the leaders of the tribes still have yet to acclimate to the changes to the world that have become common place.  
Jakk'ari states as a pair of orcs guide a kodo laden with a cart filled with twisted black branches. And a forsaken scribe does her best to translate a large ogre's proclamations and demands into a diplomatic manuscript.

Pausing until the furbolg shaman finishes bite of vegetable Jakk'ari continues with a more optimistic bent.

  But we are here and to learn what we can to advance the needs of our people. Perhaps we can even find some people whose interests would be furthered by peace.  
Jakk'ari comments with a twinge of sarcasm concluding his hope.

  I came here with a detachment of Opal Collocation agents. You mentioned you came with the invitation of a respected traveler do you have any companions with you here?    Jakk'ari asks now interested in who this friend or benefactor could be.
WindStruck
Iseara swirls her glass and sips, a delightful medley of flavor. She listens as the brothers share their news and outlook, casually nodding along with an earnest attentiveness to each of them. At this point, she wasn't sure how invested they were into Trel'Vadar. It was a little something entertaining to pass the time, and who knew? She  may  be interested in courting with either of them? But she had a long life to live, assuming she didn't die horribly in this Opal Collocation work, and many more people to meet. Either way... she would probably be too busy for a relationship.

She begins smirking slightly to herself, suppressing some chuckles as they talk about who might be better in a fight. Oh, particularly that polymorph spell. Isaera still had not gotten that down.

 "Five or ten generations does sound extreme.. though enclaves.. enclaves may still persist for quite a while, regardless.."  Isaera says with a sigh.

 "An intermediate measure, perhaps,"  she says, looking at Matthean briefly.  "But I still felt it was quite a risky one. There is no telling if there may be long-term consequences as of yet, but I think that, if it becomes a widespread and long-term phenomenon on a massive scale, demonic beings will notice mana being siphoned out of their realm even with the parts of ritual that obscure it..." 

She considers each of the brothers again briefly and adds,  "I'm afraid I don't have much news myself. Ratchet is about as backwater as you may imagine. I have met Jaina Proudmoore in person.. aside from that, I am afraid that not much has happened in Theramore.  Although .. it is a curious thing that happened some days travel away. An ogre village burnt to the ground, first by infernals, then by dragons..." 
 "I fear that, even if relations between Horde and Alliance are smoothed over, we may have more sinister foes to contend with..  Oh. Perhaps I should be telling the others this?" 
Feathersnow
Mor'Lag strides back to the Convocation tent new women.  She looks splendid in her gown and runes and body paint. First she makes a point of checking on Jak'kari, who she understands to have the most fraught position of the group.  He also is most likely to be able to help touch up her outfit in the morning...
MrAbdiel
  Jakk'ari 

The furbolg - whose name turns out to be Roshorn the Strider - seems legitimately attentive to Jakk'ari's descriptions of Tanaris.  Perhaps some of this is diplomatic, but he seems starved for conversation and understanding as well.  He has a strange habit of clapping one hand over the other under his chin and rocking side to side on his feet when he is most enthusiastically engaged with the troll's descriptions - furbolgs, it seems, have particularly unsubtle body language.

 "Yes - yes, goblins and ogres and greenfire demons.  In these years, the spirits cry that so many mortal lives have perished in wars and conflict - but the world seems somehow smaller for it.  I must do what I can so that my people, who are simple and insular and vulnerable to such things, can survive the change." 

When Jakk'ari mentions the Opal Collocations specificall, he rocks foot to foot in recognition.   "Yes! Yes, the Opal clan.  The dwarf called Donova the Den of Snow is one such, her people dwelling in my Winterspring, in the goblin camp.  But they are not like the goblins - they are most interested in the Furbolg, and to my eyes, a good friends as we can hope to find.  She gave to me a paper for this event, and the guards permitted me into this place; but I have not seen Donova or her companions.  In truth, I had not anticipated so very many people.  I had not imagined a city so massive." 

Confessing this, the bear-man's amber eyes look over the tents around him in wonderment; even a little fear.  The Furbolgs do not have a grand imperial history, like the Trolls do.  Even now, he seems to be mistaking the camp - which is not small - for the primary city of Ogrimmar on the other side of the wall.  If the encampments of those hear for the ball is blowing his mind, seeing the sprawl of a major city will be extremely daunting for him indeed.  But having an opportunity to speak with someone at all seems to be very balming for the frazzled Furbolg, indeed.  He gives Jakk'ari a forlorn look, as he asks a question he expects is in vain.   "Do you... know Donova, Den of the Snow?" 
 Isaera 

Matthean tilts his head and flaps a hand to one side, a polite concession to the general truth of Isaera's concerns about the long term cponsequences of tampering with the energies of the Nether.   "Not an unfair concern.  Still, I'm given to understand that was also the mentality of the Kaldorei when we left them behind - the old empire, burned by their magical folly, introverting into natural mysticism while our ancestors chased the rising sun to found Silvermoon in a new land.  The demons and their energies exist, whether we like it or not.  The martyrs of Azeroth saw that they were defeated at the world tree; now, we have until their profane armies recover and muster again to come to understand and master such things.  I can't imagine a better time to take a calculated risk like this, than immediately after banishing their profane king and his legion from our world." 

Matthean is polite, but he does seem at some deep level affected by the suggestion that taking on the fel-mana is a potential harm.  He is careful not to be defensive about it; but can hardly concede the point fully, given that he is participating in it.  Zalael needs no subtle guardedness.  Yet he elects not to lever against this feature of his brother's demeanor for his own gain in the Trel'Vadar.  After all, when Isaera has given one of them the subtle indication that they are the more impressive one and has 'won' her approval, the game will be over... but they will still be brothers.

 "The Lady Proudmoore?  Amazing.  She is supposed to be the most naturally gifted mage in many years.  Perhaps not as flat-out powerful as our Good Prince, but he has benefitted from considerable multiples of her years of practice.  Perhaps you have enough sway with her that you can ask her what's going on with Dalaran?  The whole place was desolated when the Scourge tore through, but since then the Kirin Tor have sealed the entire city in an opaque magical dome, and they don't think Matthean here is important enough to inform about the goings on." 

Matthean is quick to counter.   "They're being tight lipped to anyone with less authority an an Archmage.  I assume the Lady Runescribe is merely an affiliate rank like myself.  It's still quite uncertain for the Dalarani; technically they are an alliance member nation, atleast by the old vows which admittedly accrued around the now fallen Lorderaenian crown.  But they are stressing neutrality toward the Horde, which was a difficult act to perform up until tomorrow's summit after which I suspect it will be much easier.  As will our jobs - Lucky you, Zalael!  You, Lorik and Pernard might not have to roll around in the mud trying to stop the riders our of Hammerfall and the Stromgarde renmants from starting another bloody battle for the Basin." 

Zalael leans back on his chair to reply, only to remember his chair is not a chair but a stool, and rocks on it vulnerable for an inelegant moment before trying half-successfully to convert the aborted fall from his eat into stretch of the arms and shoulders.

 "I almost hope not - that's most of our work in Arathi, trying to thwart instigators.  That and keeping tabs on the Witherbark trolls.  But come now, brother; let's hear our guest a little.  Demons and dragons and orges you say, Lady Runescribe?  Oh, is this to do with the local Stonemaul?  Atia, you were right - they're refugees it seems, after their village burned down twice.  I saw they'd turned up in force here, and wondered why they'd suddenly decided the Horde was to their taste again." 

Zalael flags over the others in the tent, bringing their attention to Isaera at the promise of a report of the events in Dustwallow Marsh.  The orc and the forsaken must be Lorik and Pernard; the maternal human huntress must be Atia.  It's Atia who asks the obvious question, forcing the Trel'Vadar to an intermission.

 "Alright, I'm intrigued.  Why did they give up after the second burning, but not the first?" 
 Mor'Lag 

Magar sets Mor'Lag up with a fine grey and green gown for the evening; a sort of 'loaner' for her to wear and decide if its dimensions pose any discomfort for her wearing, so that the tailors can make last minute adjustments to the final product they must be furiously assembling overnight.  It's just as well - the thoroughfare through the camp is so hazardous to hems that this temporary gown's fringe is caked with orange dust by the time the ogress gets back to the Collocation's camp.  Fortunately, the final genuine purchase will be fitted for them shortly before they are due at the Armistice Ball, and the roads are all paved between the Drag, where the tailor is located, and the huge town square inside the gates of Orgrimmar where the event proper is taking place.  They dispatch Mor'Lag with a short intinerary to make sure it all goes smoothly, tomorrow:

 1. After Lunch, have one of your friends trace the runes with the paint.  They should be dry to touch within a few minutes and properly set after two to three hours.

2. Early Evening, come to the shop for a final fitting, and report any discomforts you have with the loan gown.  We'll make last minute adjustments as required.

3. Evening, return the loan gown and dress in your new finery.

4. Enjoy your evening at the Armistice Ball, and feel free to recommend our services if you have found them above adequate.  Strength and Honor! 

The whole fitting process has been so smooth that, even without the litter that conveyed them into the city, Mor'Lag is back at the camp before anyone except Emilia, who is fiddling with a goblin grill just outside and monitoring some sizzing kodo skewers.  She looks up at Mor'Lag as she returns, and can't help but smile a little at the gown - which is decent quality, even if this one is a placeholder.   "Look at you two.  Out to break some massive hearts and the party's not even until tomorrow night.  I don't suppose you saw Marion while you were out?  Isaera's entertaining the neighbours, and Jakk'ari is making a new friend in the food market; but I can't find the warlock.. and she's the one I worry about losing track of."  
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag blush, despite themselves.

"We just got back."
"We haven't seen anyone."

"We couldn't blame her for wandering."
"Her kind of power is more accepted here."

"But it seems out of character...."
"Will be on the look out."


Mor and Lag decide to go looking for Marion....
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion moved through the human ‘section’ of the gathering, her senses flooded with the sights and audible sensation of hearing Common uttered so frequently around her and at a pace and phonetic application that she was used to. It was so odd and unusual, not being around ‘ones own’ for so long, how impactful it was to suddenly be thrust back among her own kind and hear them talking, seeing them walking about and her image within their company being that of just another human in the crowd, blending in as if she belonged. It was an odd sensation, one that had not been present ever since leaving Theramore all those months ago, and the teenager wasn’t aware that she was even capable of feeling it, until now.

Dressed nicely and groomed well, Marion moved through the busy Stormwind entourage, her eyes shifting about and a smile across her face as she couldn’t help but rubberneck. Though her beloved Alterac had been the least populated and ‘weakest’ of the human kingdoms before the Second War had started, she had not grown up beneath the purview of their kings treachery, but rather had only experienced the world in its wake, and while close to her own family that had remained as loyal to The Cause as one could be. As such, the banners that were unfurled with that royal blue and golden yellow were oddly comforting to the girl, even if she had had to, at times, flee from their presence during the Scourging of Lordaeron, because where-ever those flags fluttered in the wind there was likely to be several paladins within shouting distance.

But! This was neutral ground. Well, mostly anyway. And by now Marion had proven herself a loyal member of the human race anyway, with referees such as Alliance hero Lady Proudmoore able to vouch as such.

 “Looking for something?” 

Marion halted her movement and turned to face the one addressing her. She offered a pleasant smile and gentle little curtsey, nothing extragavent, just a polite greeting.

 “Good day sir, how do you fare?”  she asked as part of the initial pleasantries.

 “I am actually…yes, looking for something, but I am looking for an administrative hub within the Alliance delegation. Are you able to assist?”
 
WindStruck
Isaera glances at Matthean, a twinge of.. if anything, slight apology and regret for making him uncomfortable, so she does concede with some positivity.  "You definitely have a point there. The schism between Night Elf and High Elf is quite similar in many ways, though thankfully, I don't think we are anywhere near banishing those with green eyes. Perhaps.. we may reconsider if they start sprouting horns and claws?"  she playfully jests.

 "In any case, your choice.. any individual's choice is their own. And I do hope you can learn a great deal. I would just .. well, I am sure you have heard this countless times before: you should still exercise caution." 

She adds,  "It is a shame about Dalaran. I have no idea what state it is in now. Is the scourge gone? Are people living there again?"  She shakes her head and sighs.  "Again, I feel you know more than me. I've merely been with the Opal Collocation for a few weeks. Our chapter is only that old. For all the time the war has been going on, I was just.. some refugee. Not even able to afford living in an enclave..." 

Her mood manages to lighten a bit more.  "You do make me so curious, now. I don't think I could get any answers either."  She can't help but smirk as Zalael nearly loses his balance. But still somehow managed to coolly play it off.

When the others are waved over, Atia's question makes Isaera tilt her head, elongated eyebrows raised with initial confusion.  "...apologies. Why did  who  give up the second time? The ogres? The attackers? Perhaps I need to tell the whole story from the beginning..." 
MrAbdiel
  Marion 

The blue robed caster raises his eyebrows slightly with indulgent attention as Marion offers her pleasantries; nodding in response.  She notes, briefly, a sheen of violet light flickers over his eyes - some kind of spell, simple enough for him to cast with simple intention and no movement of the hands or magical tongue.  Given that it affected his eyes, the woman of Alterac would be correct to guess this was some kind of detection spell. The mage was scanning her, perhaps for hidden magical effects. And with good reason - while this summit was an effort and hope to consummate a peace that will finalize the last three world-shaking wars after the cooperation at Hyjal, it would also be an ideal time to sabotage that peace; and the last thing an army mage needs is to be forever tainted as 'that guy who let three goblin sappers in a trenchcoat walk past him with a basic illusion façade'.  Fortunately, Marion is not three sappers in a trenchcoat; she is everything she appears to be.

And the suspicious things she  is  that she does  not  appear to be, well... those are no one's business and not detectable even at a magical glance.

 "I see.  Well, you're close to it.  If I'd let you get much further, you'd start running into people who are less friendly and more direct about requesting the business of visitors.  Each of the member states of the Alliance have their own delegations here, and security measures.  Presently, however, the King is in conference with his Kalimdor allies before he intends to return home.  He's not attending the festivities here - eager to get home to see his son, and his kingdom.  Is this a... mercantile matter, or something else?  A little more clarity might help me direct you some level of administration that can be more helpful."
 
The mage is polite enough; though his words are more than a little surprising.  The last Marion had heard heard, when she left the Eastern Kingdoms, the King of Stormwind was a nine year old boy whose father had been tragically lost at sea.  The government of Stormwind, therefore was a bickering mess of nobles, cardinals, magi and generals trying to leverage their petty influence on the orphaned boy-king and his regent protector, Bolvar Fordragon.  But the way the mage talks, there has been some recent breaking news - perhaps, breaking while you were airborne toward Orgrimmar.  This means that King Varian Wrynn is alive after all; and, importantly, that there is a human kingdom with an active monarch speaking for humanity's interest in the Alliance, now.  Dalaran, Stromgarde, Kul Tiras, Gilneas, Lordaeron, and Alterac had all participated in the second war after Stormwind was destroyed in the first.  Alterac's fate, Marion knows too well - a parliment of lords flinching in the face of annihilation and losing honor and domain to their triumphant kinsmen in Stromgarde, Lordaeron and Gilneas.  But then disagreement about the post-war decisions broke the trust of kings for each other; whether the orcs ought to be incarcerated or eradicated; which and how many families of Alterac should retain land and standing; which nations should contribute, and how much, to rebuilding the world as they knew it.  The alliance dissolved.  Gilneas walled itself off from the world and became insular and hostile.  Stromgarde buckled under the weight of conspiracy and banditry.  Lordaeron fell to the scourge; Dalaran to Archimonde.  Kul Tiras lost their Lord Admiral in a skirmish with Horde forces at a time when efforts were strongest, even by the Lord Admiral's daughter Jaina, to repair relations with the orcs and their confederates; and the great fleet retreated to their islands and isolation.  Stormwind stood alone as the core of human devotion to what was once called the Alliance of Lordaeron And Stormwind lost its queen to labor riots and its king to treacherous seas, leaving the final human representation (and the plurality of men-at-arms engaged in a combined host) in a dithering anarchic state.

But the return of King Varian meant, atleast theoretically, a return to human coherence in the Alliance; and perhaps a rallying point for the other wounded and scattered human realms to unite behind.  It meant the Alliance had potential to consolidate its military edge over the Horde - and perhaps, another reason why peace might be a preferable alternative to a fourth war, or a continuation of the present unofficial hostilities.

However this panned out, it was somewhat above Marion's realm of influence.  Perhaps the Alliance would soon have a unifying counterpart to the Horde's warmaster. But for now, the army mage remained politely wary of her intentions, but seemingly ready to help.

 Isaera 

Atia blinks, as though the line of her questioning should be obvious.   "Well, if demons burning it wasn't enough to leave it, why stick around only to leave after the dragons have their turn?"
 

Thus the confusion - Atia has not unreasonably assumed the burning was on two separate occasions.  Isaera is able to clarify, and that resolves the matter quickly; even if it does make it a more outlandish happening.  To have Stonemaul Village attacked by demons and then, after the Collocation's intervention blunted and halted that disaster, for dragons to swoop in and finish the job immediately after is a bizarre a couplet of events to these adventurers as it was to the party at the time.  Somewhere, Zachary continues his investigation seeking answers as to what created this collision of events.  For now, it remains elusive.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
I won't force you to recount in detail the events you all went through, Windstruck - we can assume Isaera thrillingly narrates the whole thing, though if you want to underline, embellish, or omit anything in particularly, you could flag those things for future reference!
 

 "Black dragons..?  Hrm."   This is the orc, Lorik's contribution.  He folds his arms.   "For a dying breed, they seem to get around.  There was rumor the whole flight fled through the portal into Outland after the second war; but they've been active around Blackrock Mountain, too... part of this 'Dark Horde' nonsense that the remnant of the Black Tooth Grin clan are trying to pull.  But this is the first I've heard of them in Kalimdor." 

Matthean and Zalael are, like the others, impressed by the tale.

 "Incredible work, Lady Runescribe.  Both dispatching infernal demons and also aiding the ogres in their flight.  Your cell sounds very proficient in violence, without the folly that often comes with that talent.  I like to think the same of our little troupe.  I wonder..."   Matthean begins, and then glances to his comrades; who offer him a variety of responses that range from noncommital shrugs to assenting nods.  Zalael finishes the thought, with that tacit permission.

 "We wonder if we were to encounter a task too big for one cell to handle on their own, and if we could arrange the portal transport, if your people would be interested lending your firepower.  And vice versa.  The reverse offer is true, also - we've dragged down a rogue stone giant in Arathi and snuffed out a naga coven in Hillsbrad, so we're not without some pride of our own; but sometimes prudence is accomplishing  easilly  something with many that could be accomplished  desperately  with a few." 
 Mor'Lag 

Mor'Lag knows Marion well enough to consider where to start looking.  She is a human with some pride in her humanity; looking for the human concentrations of the alliance camp is the right choice.  Asking the human guards who are keeping vigilant eyes in the area if they have seen her and where she went bears some fruit, albeit slowly.

But Mor'Lag is not without her own vigilance; and having one set of eyes able to watch the path forward and the other to cast senses about provides benefits ongoing.  And while Mor looks forth, Lag notices a bulky shadow vanish behind a tent they just past.  As Lag takes point, Mor's gaze catches a fleeting silhouette of a broad, dark shape; perhaps orcish, and so thick set it is hard to believe they are able to move so quietly.  But they  are  there, and they are following Mor'Lag.  Perhaps the alliance does not trust ogres wandering in its tent neighbourhood; perhaps the stalker has some other reason.  It seems outlandish to expect they will start something, here - to create violence in this place is to invite the immediate reprisal of some of the alliances best bodyguards equipped with steel and sorcery and no toleration for foolishness near their princes and diplomats.  Whether to overlook this follower, or to seek to turn and confront them before finding Marion, is the question the twins must contend with immediately. 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari
 
 

Jakk'ari barely appraises Roshorn upon hearing his request for help. While Jakk'ari had lectured himself to be frugal with his time and tight lipped with information in a place where it became a currency. Jakk'ari catches himself before pressing aside anxieties from having been so undisciplined with the other tribal shaman. Roshorn most definitely didn't look to be a trained diplomat or information agent like he had met before.
Those who had disputed the fringes of tribal hunting grounds bringing deliberations to become a morass of political move and countermove. With proposals exchanged with one's own knowledge and the diplomat's inferred knowledge of the other diplomat's knowledge of theirs.

Jakk'ari found no reason to mistrust a fellow shaman and advocate for a culture suddenly brought out of safe isolation.
He responds to Roshorn's request, inviting the ursine shaman to follow him.
  I don't know who Donova is. But I know where the "Opal tribe" is within the camp. Perhaps she arrived while I was out. It is this way between the red Horde and blue Alliance tents.  
Feathersnow
Sneakiness was not the Ogre way...

Mor and Lag pivot to face their shadow.

"You can come out now."
"We know you are there."

"You can tell us why."
"Or you can walk away."

"We are bound by hospitality."
"But refusing to talk means you broke first."

Frankly, Lag's bit about hospitality was a bluff.  Ogres had no such tradition, and they only had a vague idea how it worked.  Something about weaker races breaking hiding to whine without getting their noses broke...
WindStruck
Isaera recounts the tale, how they tracked down the dead recruits' bodies. One buried at the foot of an ancient elven ley line stone, and yet, they also discovered the demonic presence.  "Oh believe me.. this was no mere coincidence. Obviously, it was a coordinated attack. I imagine that the infernals were there to pose a serious threat, to cause all the ogres to rally for a fight. And then, once they thought they had won.. the dragons would swoop in to finish them off." 

Her hand gestures in a wave, as if dissipating a mote of smoke in a single stroke, obliterating it.

 "So perhaps, one might be wondering who would want to eradicate the Stonemaul ogres like this, and why.. I haven't the slightest idea who, though obviously whoever it is has ties not only to black dragons, but also to the nether." 

At the idea of the two chapters banding together, Isaera's mood lightens a bit and she says in a delightful tone,  "That sounds like a fine idea! Of course, I can only imagine that sometimes one or the other of us may be tied up and unable to assist.. but, should the stars align, I feel it is a brilliant strategy. I should just.. run it by the others, first. I can only speak for myself, you understand..." 
MrAbdiel
  Jakk'ari 

Light sparks in Roshorn's ursine eyes at this news.  Some of the nervous energy about his person - present in abundance - drains away with this offer of simple assistance.

 "Ah!  Ah, you are most kind, Speaker Jakk'ari -  yes, yes; please, show me the way.  I am eager to see my companions again.  They had planned to speak for my tribe's sake, in this place.  I will bring them some of these fine vegetables..." 

After briefly facilitating a short bartering of wooden beaded charms for a small bag of bulbs and root vegetables, the shamans of sand and snow head back to the Opal Collocation's row of tents.  Emilia is present just where Jakk'ari expects, cooking up a meal in the Ratchet Chapter's tent; but pushing aside the door flap of the Everlook Chapter's tent, only quiet and stillness is there to greet them.  Crestfallen, Roshorn wanders into the tent and paces about the space, holding the vegetable bag to his chest as he sniffs about.

 "...They have not been here.  No one has - not since the goblins that pitched the tent.  Surely, they have suffered some delay... but atleast here, they will find me, when they arrive." 

The furbolg pushes aside a cluster of pillows so he can sit on the ground in the tent, facing the door with his vegetables in his lap.

 "Thank you, Jakk'ari.  I will wait here, for my friends - but I am glad to have made another!" 
 Isaera 

The folks from the Arathi Entente are just as mystified as anyone else about the connection between the two - none can offer any clear connection between the black dragons, and the demons.

 "It's strange,"  Matthean notes,  "... since historically, dragons are not collaborators with demons at all.  As far as records go, and as the dragons themselves confess, they were significantly invested in deflecting the Legion when it first came to Azeroth in ancient days.  But I suppose no one is incorruptible, or beyond temptation - I am left wondering if you are dealing with demons in the service of dragons, or both in the service of some third power." 

Atia is interested in cultivating this potential future cooperation, too, it seems.   "Well - I'm not sure our combined power is enough to deal with dozens of dragons, but there's plenty of problems we can solve together.  Say, you're located in the Barrens - used to operating in heat-rich conditions, you might say?" 

Zalael asks more directly - perhaps, inviting an opportunity for Isaera to speak about herself.   "How's your ice magic?" 
 Mor'Lag 

Sneakiness is not the ogre way indeed...

... In almost all cases.  The pursuer emits a small, acknowledging grunt at your forthrightness - then slowly emerges from the shadow of a pavilion behind Mor'Lag.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Your Pursuer 
 
 


Broader and taller than an orc, but shorter and slimmer than an ogre; mantled in fine furs, leathers, and beast horn that the ogress has little reason to doubt were each won and claimed fairly by the wearer.  The pelt of a great warg hangs over his shoulders and head down to the nose, leaving the tusked mouth free to speak.  Brown ochre skin bears tribal marks that Mor'Lag has no trouble recognizing: Mok'Nathal.

Mor'Lag knows the Mok'Nathal well enough, though only by reputation.  Once a pet project of the dwindling Gorian Empire, the curated and husbanded offspring of ogres and orcs mixed for physical power and low cunning, the Mok'Nathal eventually freed themselves in a Frostwolf-backed rebellion that saw the end of the Bladespire clan of ogres and the final dissolution of the ogre empire in Draenor. When the Horde rose, the Mok'Nathal participated in the siege of Shattrath (for they hated the Draenei, and hunted them ruthlessly), but did not join the ogre clans in submitting to the Horde proper on their ultimate crusade through the portal.  They had no appetite for conquest; and little for battle, when not forced.

All but a few, and among those few a particular example is well known indeed.  Rexxar, Champion of the Horde, allows Mor'Lag to see him.  Perhaps, moments before, he was allowing himself to be heard, too.  His legend is not unimpressive - a stalker, hunter, and warrior of great skill.  His father choked to death the last Imperator of the Gorian empire.  Rexxar himself, if the tale is true, cut down Daelin Proudmoore, Jaina's war-hero father, in the Battle of Theramore.  And, relevantly, he briefly held leadership of the Stonemaul ogres after deposing the warlord Kor'gall; and eventually passed that leadership on to another before leaving to roam Kalimdor again.

 "Mor'Lag Voidfist.  I greet you - though I will not lie that pleasantry is what I came for.  I have spoken to many of the Stonemaul, about the desolation of their village - though many were intoxicated, or filled with fear in the Night of Conflagrations.  But of all the ogres, you were the only one not caught in revelry, and clear minded.  I wanted to hear the account of it, from you."  
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

It was here that preparation and rehearsal crashed into reality. Because the truth was...Marion didn't  actually  know what department or person she was supposed to talk to. At least not specifically. She knew the ones back in Stormwind, but here, in a delegation?

Feeling a tinge of foolishness rise across her back, the teenager straightened herself a little and drew upon a well of confidence as she offered the mage a friendly smile.

 "I..."  she stated,  "I am actually a refugee from Lordaeron,"  Marion answered.

 "I fled years ago during...you know..."  she didn't want to say the official name outloud, The Scourging, for such an event conjured too many vile and awful memories.

 "And I have been in Kalimdor since, creating a life here. I have gone from scraps on the side of the road, to building a factory in Stormwind through proxies, but I would like to speak to someone who has the authority of recognition,"  she stated, drawing her hand over to reveal the signet ring on her finger, and the rams head sigil engraved upon it.
WindStruck
Isaera looks just a tad bit flustered by the sudden attention on her and her magical capabilities. While she  was  a mage, and apparently her little group  did  "excel at violence", at her heart she still felt she was more of a scholar.. and really, she was meant to be, up until the scourge happened and lucrative odd jobs emerged to push her capabilities to her limits.

 "Ice magic? Well, I - it's.. passable,"  she says with a vague nod. She looks towards Atia curiously tilting her head.  "The Barrens are quite hot, yes, but also dry and.. well, that has little if anything to do with my magic. I simply tend to wear more.. shall we say, appropriate dress for the climate?" 

It seemed the more sensible thing to do to wear lighter, looser, sparser clothes, rather than rely upon magic to fix everything anyway. Or.. maybe it was all just opportunity for Isaera to be more provocative. Still, she had tried to make her point.

Taking a wild guess, she says,  "Is there a problem? An issue with some fire creature, perhaps?" 
MrAbdiel
  Marion 

The mage listens attentively, though with cool professionalism.  He strikes the warlock as reasonable, but wary; and no less wary, as Marion's (mild) deception unfolds.  His eyes look over the signet, and he squints a little, before shaking his head slightly.   "I must admit, I'm unfamiliar with the symbol.  Who did you say you were, again..?  And the business you intend to conduct here..?" 
 "She's from the line of Mordis,"  comes a sharply precise statement from a new figure imposing himself on the scene - a plate clad knight with silver hair retaining only flecks of brown hither and yon.  The older cavalier seems to have the immediate interest and trust of the mage; especially since he was getting to the end of his ability to pry answers from Marion.  "Ah, I see.  You're familiar with the heraldry, Sir Cadfael?"

He answers shortly, though not bluntly; no smile present on his lips, but the ghost of one hidden somewhere behind his moustache, perhaps.   "I am, in fact.  It's no trouble, Henry.  I'll assist the young lady."   The mage - Henry, apparently - gives a little bow, and is comfortable being relieved of the conversation as he withdraws.  But the knight that replaced him, once the mage has cleared off, looks you over with stormy grey eyes lit with suspicion, and concern.

 "Not exactly a Lordaeron refugee, are you...? But I understand the deception, considering the truth.  I thought what remained of the line of Mordis vanished when the ogres expanded through the mountains.  Did you steal that ring?  And if not - are you here for yourself, or... as a representative...?" 

That last line seems to have a referent Marion is missing.  It gloomily anticipates an answer with some sternness; though whatever Marion would have to be representing to earn this discouraging ire is unknown to her.

 Isaera 
 "Yes - yes, quite so,"  Matthean is happy to expound;  "though I'll admit, we're not  point  on this one.  The Redridge and Dun Morogh chapters have some kind of problem they've been swatting around for a while;  some kind of lava creature  out of the  Searing Gorge , I think... even though they're being tight lipped.  The more Collocation Chapters we can rely on to be involved, the fewer baseline mercenaries we'd have to get involved; which is one less expense, and better representation for the group, if it's a victory we can publicize."  
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

"I must admit, I'm unfamiliar with the symbol. Who did you say you were, again..? And the business you intend to conduct here..?"

Marion had not expected immediate recognition for her sigil, she wasn't that egotistical. She had the self-awareness to understand that Alterac had been the smallest of human kingdoms, and her minor noble family, a barony at best, likely unknown to all but the most well-versed in pre-Scourge heraldry. Heck, even pre-Second War heraldry.

As Marion opened her mouth to answer, however, another voice chimed in, one that carried the weight of years within its timbre. Enough years, perhaps, to have such knowledge.

 "She's from the line of Mordis... It's no trouble, Henry. I'll assist the young lady." 

A knight who knew her sigil and her  name . She hadn't even given the mage her last name, yet this armored and seasoned man before her knew it and, given the quiet thunder in his eyes, knew  of it .

 "Not exactly a Lordaeron refugee, are you...? But I understand the deception, considering the truth. I thought what remained of the line of Mordis vanished when the ogres expanded through the mountains. Did you steal that ring? And if not - are you here for yourself, or... as a representative...?" 

In the span of half a second a veritable rainbow of emotions crossed the teenagers face before she composed herself. Ignominy, resentment, pride, dignity.

 "I didn't  steal it ,"  she returned, perhaps a bit too sharply, her eyes narrowed in indignation. But, it was a sharpness that came from the heart, that much was certain.

 "It belonged to my father, then my mother, then my brother..."  Marion continued, softening just a touch as she drew her hand up and looking at that rams head sigil, the one that emblazoned the side of the crates that her company used.

 "And I'm all that's left of them." 
WindStruck
Isaera is quick to point out,  "Well.. the transportation, the portals might be considered an expense." 

Thinking a bit on the subject she adds,  "I think I could add some frost enchantments onto weapons, effectively imbuing them with the power to deliver an ice attack with each swing..." 
 "Although, I don't know all the details of this little problem. I have a feeling that if it was something as simple as swatting a few creatures around, they'd have already solved the problem. So, there may be an issue of getting to the root of it." 
Feathersnow
"You must understand"

"We are not of that village."

It was manifestly obvious that she wasn't a proper Stonemaul, but perhaps the great man assumed she was a slave who had earned freedom on the battlefield in the aftermath of the attacks.  Such things weren't rare, unlike Ogres working alongside Quel'dorei and Humans, or a noble troll associating with any outsider...

"We are mercenaries of The Opal"
"We came to respond to disquieting rumors and a request for help."


"We found Daemons!"
"And I used the Old Magic to help force them away!"


No doubt Rexxar has further questions, and Mor and Lag gladly answer them.
Plaids
Jakk'ari leaves the tent after Roshorn finds a comfortable place to lay Jakk'ari quietly leaves the tent.
He breathed a deep sigh of contentment and relief, having brought a disoriented member of the Opal Collocation to camp felt right and was right. The small paranoia he felt after having quickly divulged so much was thankfully needless.
The shaman makes his way to Emelia and the charred fragrance that came from the cooking spit.
  He was lost amongst all the tents it seems. 
Jakk'ari states, referring to Roshorn.
  Roshorn is with the Everlook chapter. He must be new to membership within the Opal Collocation. We should keep a ledger somewhere to be aware of the members of members of sibling chapters.  

Jakk'ari squats beside Emelia skewering a few vegetables as he gives her a chance to speak.
  Did anything seize your gaze while I was gone?  
MrAbdiel
   Marion  
Sir Cadfael watches Marion as she explains; offering no movement of his own to her swift cycle of defensive feelings.  He does nod a little, as she comes to her conclusion: detecting something like the ring of truth in her works of ownership, of the sigil.

 "I suppose you are.  A bitter rain has fallen over that entire mountain kingdom, more damning that even the green tide that scoured the coastal realms.  But you've survived - making something of yourself in a far land, mm?  I suppose that's as much of a family tradition as nobility.  I did not know your father, girl; but I knew your mother's father, when he was a peasant horseman who brought his mountain drawl and naivete to Stormwind.  Came to learn from the Stormwind cavaliers who had smashed the gnoll hordes to fragments under King Barathen Wrynn, so many years earlier.  Hadn't counted on the orcs, as if anyone had - but Sir Bentham Orlo saved my life at Mercedes' gap, along with many others.  We crossed the span together, in the Great Flight; and I enjoyed the letters he would send to me when I returned during the repatriation... though by the pretty handwriting, I expect he had your young mother take dictation - I doubt he ever learned letters himself.  I was sad when they stopped coming - but such is life, and he lived a full one.  I can't say I care much for the Mordis name - but I know the quality of Orlo, and no one could be better blooded for springing up out of the dust and dirt." 

The old knight folds his arms, sighs a little with a moment of weariness, and allows some of the sternness to melt away from his visage, leaving a somewhat more sympathetic disposition.

 "What are you looking for, young Lady Mordis?" 
 
 Spoiler: Sir Cadfael Pic: 
 
 

  Isaera  
Zalael agrees.   "Exactly.  I'm not particularly keen to go roaring off into a furnace without a good idea of what we're there to do, or how we are to do it.  I expect at least a day or two of training and planning if we don't intend to just lose people hand over fist so something of such purported threat." 
 
 Spoiler: Zalael Pic: 
 
 

 "I'm sure the other chapters aren't just trying to feed us into the 'furnace', brother.  We must have a modicum of faith in each other.  And if it's as serious as they claim it to be, I'm sure they can convince one of the benefactors to finance portals there and back.  Until then, we ought to keep doing out work and making outselves, outwardly and obviously, to valuable to let sit on an intercontinental boat-ride,"   Matthean rejoinds confidently.  And then, raising an tastefully extravagant eyebrow, he adds: "Perhaps, if the occasion comes, we could put our heads together on such a mass-enchantment spell.  I'd love to collaborate."

 
 Spoiler: Matthean Pic: 
 
 

  Mor'Lag  

Rexxar, Champion of the Horde and former chief of the Stonemaul, listens to Mor'Lag's recounting of the events.  He is perhaps expectedly unflapped by talk of demons and dragons, having reportedly fought both in his time; the paired axes slung over his back have felled many varied and strong foes on their serrated edges.  Still, he seems disquieted by the story's whole, in the telling; no doubt, given that he rescued the Stonemaul from a bad leader and then leaving them with a new chief at his own departure, there are elements of the outcome for which he might feel somewhat responsible, rightly or wrongly.  Finally, with a gruff puff of air, he asks an ultimate clarifier:

 "...I do not doubt your power, Mor'Lag; and I am grateful it was deployed where it was, for the Stonemaul to escape in as much as they did.  But the Stonemaul Cheiftain, Mok'Morrok - he died there.  I wanted to ask - did he die well?" 

 
 Originally Posted by A Memory 
  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.  
 


 
 Originally Posted by An Older Memory 
  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.  
 

What does it mean to  die well ?  Mor'Lag knows well what it is to be a dichotomy - does the orc in Rexxar mean the same thing as the ogre, when he asks this question?  It is hard to know; and he seems, ultimately, to be asking Mor'Lag for their thoughts; not for a comfort-serving answer.
 
 Jakk'ari  
Emilia listens to Jakk'ari's rundown about the furbolg shaman, and the Everlook chapter.  "...A furbolg, eh?  Well.  I suppose we have a murloc gardener.  Maybe whoever is backing the Everlook chapter is looking to expand the franchise of 'peace on Azeroth' to include ... Well, everyone.  Might be getting ahead of ourselves... but he seemed non-aggressive.  Glad you could help him.  I guess the Everlook chapter will roll in tomorrow.  As for keeping a ledger - that sounds like a job for Miss Moonshadow.  Or... Starshadow.  It's Starshadow, right?  I can never remember.  Elf names all seem to come out of the same shook-up bag of mystical words.  Mor'Lag came back, a little ago; went out again looking to track down Marion, who a wandering; and Isaera's next door.  I guess we should get comfortable in the meantime."

The squire gives the cooking food a few jabs and flips, before sitting back on her stool; rolling her shoulders, listening to the sizzle.  Finally, she asks the troll, conversationally:

 "So... How does Durotar compare to Tanaris?  Better, or worse?" 

The question smuggles in a fundamentally human assumption - that Tanaris and Durotar are fundamentally bad places to be ranked, and some pride taken in adaptation to living there.  But humans adapt to hostile enviroments with invention, and land-cunning, and good old fashion hard-nosed acceptance of suffering and mortality.  There is something admirable about the soft skinned, tuskless folk rugging themselves up in the skins of bears for the snow, or darting from shade to shade while sweating so desperately in desert heat that they simply do not have the moisture left to chew, or urinate.  For trolls, a few generations of exposure to an environment produced adaptations at a genetic level - the Darkspear in Durotar, the Farraki in Tanaris; and for both, the idea that their personally adapted homeland could be 'worse' than another is a kind of catagory error.  But Jakk'ari is clever enough to know Emilia doesn't mean insult, by the remark; she is trying to get to know him, in her less than perfect way.

 
 Spoiler: Roshorn Pic 
 ...But like.. whiter.
 
 
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag could say a lot.  But there were truths, and there were truths.  And one a warlock might be tasked with killing a tally of enemy dead and their family punished if they fail.   That was the Ogre way, enforced on them when the Legion press ganged the Horde into double-sided war against the Old Gods and the Light.   That was a truth.

But... Mok'Morrok had died in a seige, in a time of nominal peace.  Not in a challenge, not by stealth, struck down in open battle were the only objective was to live and for his family to live.


"Our ways are not yours"
"We are too few to value anything over survival."

"But... by that measure,"
"He died so his family could live"

"Mok'Morrok did single battle with an Infernal and bested it by force alone."
"His might was enough, while we did less empowered with the Old Magic"

"In the end,"
"He fell to a dragon."

"A weapon of The Titans forged against Gods"
"The power of creation given life"

"No lesser force could slay Mok'Morrok"
"With that we must be content."
WindStruck
Isaera raises an eyebrow with a wry smile.  "Hm. Perhaps?"  Obviously this was just some excuse to spend more time with her as they collaborated on a mass enchantment.

 "Still. Perhaps we will see in the future. As I said, I should run it by the others. And we should also learn more of this problem before diving straight into it."  She nods to Zalael.

 "If the threat is severe enough to warrant cooperation among chapters, and we aren't all dealing with our own immediate concerns, it still sounds like a good idea. Maybe some of you would like to come over to our pavilion and meet some of the others?" 

It only sounded fair and logical at first. Then she realized they'd likely be meeting a troll and a two-headed ogre, and probably a demon. She started to kick herself but recomposed quickly. Either way, if they planned to collaborate on a future endeavor, they'd all meet eventually!  "Uh, right. I might warn you that some of our members are a bit... shall we say, uncivilized?"  She sighs and adds,  "But I suppose that seeing as we are all members of the Opal Collocation, that can be overlooked, and they can be trusted." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Where Marion's image had been slightly darkened with defence, her eyes lightened and the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her lips at the mention of her maternal grandfather.

 "Granpa Benny?"  she brightened up,  "you knew him?" 

Immediately it was as if a friendlier switch had been flicked in the back of the warlocks mind that emanated across her whole mien.

 "He'd hold the reins of my horse and taught me how to ride! Outside of my father I don't think there was anyone whom my mother trusted more!" 

For a moment Marion didn't look like the well-dressed, imperious little woman on a mission, but instead a the teenager she was reminiscing goldenly about a beloved grandparent. She threw her memory back to those early days. The second war was still a bitter memory, and the Kingdom of Alterac was undergoing its upheaval and dissolution, not that she was aware of any of that at the time. All she could remember of Orlo was the wizened beard and playful, impish sense of humour that had been honed over a lifetime of adventure and violence. Maybe a part of that independent, curious spirit had rubbed off on her? Thus her delving into demonological texts in the forbidden area's of Dalaran, which ultimately led to her expulsion...and, ironically, her salvation, as it was doubtful she'd of survived the Scourge's onslaught on the academy had she stayed.

 "What are you looking for, young Lady Mordis?" 

Her edges softened, Marion kept her shoulders straight as she looked up at the grizzled man whose presence had possibly influenced her disposition from before she was even born.

 "I am seeking recognition and re-instatement,"  she said, holding her hand back up and rubbing her thumb along the rams-head sigil of her ring.

 "Alterac is gone. Almost all the houses there are gone, at least the honourable ones anyway - the rest fell in league with the Syndicate. A petty gang of thieves and murderers more content with ruling a carcass than restoring a legacy." 

This was the first time the girl had ever mentioned the shadowy organisation that called itself 'The Syndicate', a hint that Marion knew a lot more of the political situation of her homeland than one might assume - though doubtless her knowledge was a year or so out of date by now.

 "I won't lie to you, Sir Cadfael. I escaped the... loss  of my House and lands and people during the Scourging because I was expelled from Dalaran. I...delved too deeply into their forbidden lores. Ironically, had I not been ejected from the academy, I likely would have perished when Dalaran was sacked by the Scourge. I fled through Lordaeron, hunted by the undead and the Knights of the Silver Hand, though thankfully violent confrontation wasn't necessary, only evasion. I subsisted where I could and fled to Kalimdor, where Lady Jaina Proudmoore tolerated my presence and I earned her trust by serving in a diplomatic mission to the Horde in the Dustwallow Marsh and a tribe of Ogres, and assisting the Cenario Circle in the Wailing Caverns of the Barrens. That's how I and my group are even here - we were invited by the Warchief in recognition for helping foster peace between the races." 

As Marion said all of this matter of factly, it might not escape notice that she was attempting to criticism-sandwich herself. Yeeeeees she had done something pretty bad to get expelled, but she'd have died had she stayed there, she'd paid for it dearly and had now been a force for decency in the world, even gaining a modicum of trust from established Alliance-affiliated members. There was a hint of a childlike round-about way of saying sorry to a disapproving adult, as Cadfels sudden emergence as a part of her own history she'd never known about granted him greater significance in her eyes, as if she wanted his approval, or at least, his understanding.
Plaids
"So... How does Durotar compare to Tanaris? Better, or worse?" - Emelia
 
 Jakk'ari 

While sitting beside Emelia, a smile emerges from having been given the chance for some light introspection. He casually answers.
  Better or worse?    The shaman swirls a finger through the red dirt.
  The soil here is red and full of clay while Tanaris yellow and sandy. The white gypsum deep within Tanaris is my personal favorite tough. But perhaps with the clay in Durotars soil more vegetation could grow here?
Though I would rather contend with the cacti of Tanaris than the brambles of Durotar. The cactus can be plucked of their spines while the camels eat them whole without problem.
While the mountains in Durotar could be used as chokepoints to defend villages the shifting dunes dissuade any not born in Tanaris from encroaching.
Either way I am sure my people would endure in either land. We would find just as many things to admire and squabble over in Durotar as we do in Tanaris.   

Jakk'ari chuckles warmly and lifts his hand now powdered with bloody reddish clay. Knowing the futility in trying to wipe the clingy red clay from his hand Jakk'ari balls his hand into a fist and rests it upon his wrist. Where the dirt couldn't stain anything. The myriad of surrounding tents and styles occupy his attention while Emelia recedes from his attention.
  From the blimp I have only seen horde buildings. Wood and stone structures capped with spikes and flying the horde flag. In Tanaris there are many designs. Farraki stonework, goblin cartel smokestacks, and Dunemaul Ogre tents.
Perhaps Durotar would be better.  
Jakk'ari concludes his thoughts. Refocusing his attention to Emelia he quietly asks.
  What do you think of this land?   
MrAbdiel
   Mor'Lag  
Rexxar hunkers; balanced on the balls of his feet, elbows on his knees, like a man used to a great deal of hunkering, as he listens to Mor'Lag's account.  There is little emotion to be read in his stoic face; eyed shaded by his wolf cowl, jaw impassively squared.  But there is a little shift in his posture that gives away something like small sorrow.  Perhaps Mok'Morrok was his friend; or perhaps he had simply hoped better for a successor he appointed, prior to his departure.  Perhaps he wonders if he could have done more to deliver the Stonemaul, had he committed himself to stay.  He does not specify.  When he does speak, there is a brief curl of poetry to his gravelly tone.

"'...And how can a man die better, than facing fearful odds - for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods?'  A human wrote this thing; a man of old Strom, as I understand.  It's a mannish thing to wish to die defending a home; an orcish one to die fighting for glory in a far place.  An ogrish thing to...  What?  Die with a full stomach, surrounded by the bent heads of those who obey you, and the severed heads of those who do not; and fly then to Ogri'la?  It seems a much smaller glory, somehow.
 I wonder."

He lets this rhetorical wondering hang in the air for a few moments, before he stands to his full height again - all done with musings, now.

 "Thank you, Mor'Lag.  With this, we must be content.   Gar'gah U'Noka , Mor'Lag." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Fluff, Ogrish 
"Gar" = Breakage
"Gah" = Blade
"Nok" = Second Person Pronoun.

Many languages have a single and plural pronouns; Common famously featuring a degeneration in the second person form.   I  is to  We  as  You  is to...  You .  Common is forced to reach for clumsy additional modifiers external to the pronoun -  I  is to  We  as  You  is to  All of You .

Ogrish has the uncommon feature of a significantly developed dual form nouns.
  Nok  is  You ;  Nokura  is  All of you ; but  Noka  is  Both of you.   The reason for this sustained language feature may be obvious.

Along with the case modifer  U'  imposing the  Superessive Case , Rexxar's (somewhat formal) parting line can be understood to non-ogrish speakers as  "(May) Blades break (upon) you both." 

In ogrish clans where spoken curses are taken as serious invocations of fate, it is not uncommon to have an underling seized for mumbling this line and made to repeat it with more conviction.

There is a treasonous distance between  "May blades break upon you" and "May blades break you." 
 


And then he goes; leaving Mor'Lag to her imcomplete search for the wandering warlock.  Fortunately, it is not long after this that Marion is easilly found, returning from her own meeting...

  Marion  

Sir Cadfael's approval might indeed be slower to come than his understanding.  His eyes contain a conflict between the easy, instinctive decision to shut off any sense of pity or obligation to a confessed warlock and a decendant of the Alliance's betrayer kingdom; and a less easily abandoned obligation to the spectre of an old friend, perhaps present in some faint resemblance in the shape of Marion's eyebrows, or her nose.

 "Well, I'm... glad you've found a place to start again.  And made something of yourself.  It must have been extraordinarily trying to escape the calamities hitting the northern kingdoms.  But... Reinstantment...?  To noble circles, you mean..?" 

He grimaces.  The old knight is trying to hide the calculus behind his eyes; but beoynd him, in Marion's vision, others are not.  The mage 'Henry' whom she first met is conversing with another gent in the livery of a royal footman; spear in one hand, leaning on it as the mage gossips to him and both glance to where the knight and warlock speak.  The mage explains something perhaps scandelous; makes a gesture to his ring finger, and to Cadfael, and some less obvious gesturing; the footman regards the warlock with suspicion and replies in some way lost by the distance.  But the suspicion of them, the icy unwelcomeness that is in their demeanours as they come to understand to whom Marion is connected, is discernible by their movements and postures alone.  The specific innocence of Marion's father in the defection of Alterac is the kind of detail that vanishes easily into the greater shadow of the monstrous defection itself; and what must it mean for a descendant of the fallen traitor kingdom of Alterac, who betrayed the faith of the kingdoms of men and elves to give succour to the Horde, to be invited and honoured by the new Warcheif of that  supposedly reformed  Horde?

 "That... May be a slow process.  All human politics is centralized in Stormwind, now; and Stormwind's political landscape is... fractious.  After today, I hope relations with Theramore will be more secure; but the Lady Proudmoore's entrenched refusal to listen to external allied expectations of posture has been... difficult.  But she has retained noble recognition by remaining unimpeachably noble despite the mocking songs and the sullen brands of Kul'Tiran expatriates.  The Third War robbed your family of a chance to exonerate itself through the deeds of others that stained it in the Second.  Don't think me harsh for being frank with you: you are beginning from zero." 

Another two footmen have joined the huddle beyond; a man and a woman, both eager to understand what this gossip is about.  Henry repeats his story, pointing to Marion, and his ring fingers...

Sir Cadfael glances behind him and frowns, then back to the young noblewoman.

 "...But your grandfather began as an illiterate horseman; and managed to give your mother a live of privileges and station.  And he was older than you when he started.   If you are accruing accolades with your present work, continue doing so.  The politics will be there, waiting, when you are undeniable.  But for now, it's best you go.  Goodnight, Lady Mordis." 

The old knight breaks from the discussion, turns to the slowly accumulating crowd of gossiping military men and women, and scatters them with a barking reprimand, like an old dog spooking a brood of hens.

The way back to recognition in human society remains frozen and fraught, for Marion - a fact that will become most clear only when she returns to Ratchet...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Flaw Invocation! 
Marion gains a Victory Point, because I am invoking her "Alterac Noble" flaw.  Social cache at this event is somewhat reduced, as people discover she is legitimately descended from Alterac nobility but do not care to address the nuance of how guilty her family was or was not; but there are further repercussions that will manifest after the event also.

This VP will not vaporise when we begin the next 'full contact' mission.  If you hang onto it, you'll go into that adventure with 2 VP in your pocket!
 


Given no way forward into the cloister of white and blue tents and the high society of Stormwind's diplomatic corps, the only way for Marion is back - where she will no doubt encounter the unmistaken form of Mor'Lag, snooping about for her at the peripheries of the 'human' zone; dressed in her fine 'placeholder' gown and adorned with the skin-staining ogrish icons.  Very 'eclectic formal'.

  Isaera  
The Arathi Entente chapter takes positively to the invitation - though they conclude among themselves to make the journey to visit the Ratchet Chapter's tent the next day, rather than tonight.

 "It's about time we got to evening drills,"  Atia announces.  Three of her colleagues groan, in what sounds like a practised melodramatic response; the forsaken fellow, mute as he is, throws up his hands in a pantomime of exhasperation.

The huntress scowls; either despising the joke or participating in it by leaning into the 'nagging parent' role, and rises to start physically rousting the orc and the forsaken to their feet.

Zalael and Matthean rise more agreeably; having participating in this group farce with their groaning, but neither wishing to appear less dutiful or dedicated before their elven visitor.

 "Tomorrow, then - we'll see if we can have Lorik get a pig from the city for us to roast, and bring it with us.  The orcs do know their way around a fine roast pig."   Matthean assures; though it is unclear whether this praise for the orc's cooking is more valuable because of the food it provides, or the way it provides it with no labor on the mage's part beyond praise.  The orc, who seems to find the praise perfectly acceptable currency, offers a thumbs up when he hears his name invoked.

 "I'll bring a little  Spiral  reserve - though perhaps a couple of piccolo bottles, rather than a larger one to share.  I fear there are some luxuries that ten people enjoy less than two might, in a quieter moment."   Zalael offers his smile along with this promise of quality libations.

But both brothers, warrior and mage, offer their hands to Isaera as they precede her to rise - the kind of needless chivalry that exists to broadcast itself, however charming it may be.  The evening is concluding; the Tre'Vadar with it.

It would be a very diplomatic thing to take both hands.  But that might also mean an end to the attentive gazes from both of Isaera's charming young countrymen.  A bird in the hand, as they say... But which?

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Flaw Invocation! 
Isaera can 'decide' who wins the Tre'Vedar by, however subtly she likes, displaying more approval for one brother than the other.
 She can also judge it a 'draw' by carefully moderating her final 'judgement' as evenly as possible, on her way out.

...But either way, I'm invoking Isaera's "Flirt" flaw.  One way or another, they are going to take the outcome of this Tre'Vedar poorly in there will be some injurious social consequences.

You can gain a VP!  This VP will not vaporise when we begin the next 'full contact' mission.  If you hang onto it, you'll go into that adventure with 2 VP in your pocket!
 

  Jakk'ari  

Emilia listens to the troll's comparison of landscapes; splitting her attention between companion and cookery; but when asked about her own thoughts of Durotar, she is forced to pause, as if she hadn't really made a comparison of it, to her own homeland.

 "I'm from Lordaeron... It's about as different as one could want it to be.  All pine trees, and dark soil plains; cool summers, and very cold winters.  I definitely like that more; I feel like I never stop sweating here, or in the Barrens; and like the only green I see is on the locals.  But, uh..."   She gives the back of her head a scratch; to Jakk'ari's perceptive eyes, it's almost as if she is trying to physically grasp an impulsive, jingoistic thought to consider her home best, and all others lesser; and to provide a more diplomatic response, like he does.

 "...Uh, well, I hadn't travelled much before.  I've only really seen cool, forested climates.  When I was told I was coming to the Barrens, I thought it would be more... Barren, you know? But even if it's not the bright magical forest the druids wanted to make it, there's plenty of life there.  All the kodos, and the big cats, and gazelles and zervhas, and whatnot.  Those trees that look like they just sort of gave up on growing upward after ten feet, and start growing sideways - the ones the leopards sleep in?  I guess there's life everywhere, even if it looks extremely different.  Even here.  So I can appreciate that, I guess." 

She looks out past the tents; to the red dust mesas and canyons, where the raptors stalk and the scorpids skitter, and the wild pigs root about in the hardy, thorny scrub.  The squire is on the verge of something; perhaps, the kind of perspective expanding shift the Opal Collocation was conceived to produce; but she is not quite,  quite  there.  Her gaze swings back over the tents, to the formidable walls of Orgrimmar; lit with huge cauldron fires at their battlements.  A horn at the top of the massive gates is blown, and the massive gates rumble shut for the night.

The roasted vegetables and meat hits Emilia's typical eye for quality in such things; they are ready just in time for the scattered members of the Ratchet Chapter to trickle back in for the evening.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
On to the Armistice Ball!  Feel free to give us your final scene thoughts, actions, your journey back to the tent.  But soon, we'll move on to the main event.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

The huddled sniggering of the mage and footmen were not unusual to the girl, as it took her back to both Dalaran and the summers spent with her cousins and friends. Gossip was the lifeblood of social creatures, after all, the absence of which was like a hypoxic strangulation of the connective tissue that underpin the overt ceremonies. Still, she was not used to it being so  blatant , and so when Marion looked in their direction for several moments, she made sure to dredge up from her indoctrinated youth the dispassionate and neutral expression that hinted at disapproval.

Not that they'd likely care, anyway. As far as they could tell, she was some girl off the street with a fantastical story to spin and big rewards to be gained if anyone bought it.

Cadfaels initial compliment to her did feel nice. That he recognized the hell on earth she had survived and gotten away from was appreciated, but Marion realised she had used the wrong words to communicate what she was hoping for. This resulted in him revealing the reality of both the political and the endless social dance of personal politics. Between his words and the huddled, gossiping troupe of footmen and a mage, it was clear that Marion could  not  penetrate that multilayered pageantry of Stormwind noble politics. Nor should she really want to. For now at least.

 "Sir Cadfael,"  Marion's voice spoke up, catching the man after his turn to bring his attention back to her.

 "I misspoke and used imprecise words, forgive me,"  she said, her early-age pronunciation polish returning in the way she spoke.

 "But I do not seek a return to Stormwind or entrance to unknown social circles. I seek affirmation and recognition of my claim, that House Mordis is not extinct, as once thought, and that I am its sole,  legitimate  heir." 

In other words: she wasn't interested in returning to Stormwind and ingratiating herself back into the snobbish pageantry of noble politics. She was happy to stay in Kalimdor, but she just wanted her family's title and name re-affirmed to the registry, with her as its inheritor.

 "Also..."  she drew herself a little closer, her voice quiet.

 "I want to help foster further trade between Stormwind and Theramore. Even now, I own a warehouse in Stormwind that builds my first item of sale,"  she started, remembering the discussion she had had with that goblin about choosing goblin labour or sticking to her own humans, and how she had chosen to go with her own kind despite the higher cost  "I have designed, built and am ready to begin the manufacture of quality ordnance our soldiers could put to excellent use in defence of the realm, and I would like a chance to speak with whomever is in charge of logistics and ordnance acquisition for the Alliance. Just five or so minutes some time during the conference, please?" 

It was clear what she was meaning: she was making guns and wanted to sell them to her own people, the Alliance. In five years she'd gone from refugee of an undead apocalypse to operating her own company that built medical devices, guns and bullets. She was quite the enterprising little Iron Monger.
WindStruck
 "Ah, a roast pig. I admit, I have not had the .. privilege of enjoying one thus far. Perhaps I should see if we can find some side dishes to go along with?"  Isaera suggests. She was quite skeptical of orc diet, and to be safe, it would probably be best to at least find some other familiar foods to go along with what seemed like a carnivore's feast.

Zalael is the last to speak, and about spiral reserve no less. As Isaera moves to stand, she instinctively reaches out for the blue-eyed elf's hand, and only as she is rising, did she realize Matthean also offered his hand.

She smiles demurely.  "We may have found our winner for the evening. I wish I could have waited, but it seems my hand made the choice for me." 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
Okay here's my opinions on this. I'm alright with choosing one brother or the other as a winner for now.

What I'm just leery of is get a VP in exchange for 'injurious social consequences'. That sounds kind of bad, and I don't want it!
 
Plaids
   Jakk'ari 

Dim light frames Emelia's head as she attempts to verbalize her new nascent understanding. The diffused light from the myriad of tents forming this patchwork tent city coalesce granting a gentle radiance to the young knight. Jakk'ari has no words, he has nothing to contribute this moment.

Jakk'ari's eyes wander from Emelia and the campfire she is attending to the wall of Orgrimmar. From this distance the city gate would be indistinguishable from the cliff faces it was between. If it were not for the bright torches lining the gates. The fiery tusks of flame illuminate the contours of the gate and highlighting spiteful needles adorning the cities entrance. Orgrimmar is a fortress situated within indomitable geography much like Zul'Farak.

 What would the tribal leaders tell me know.  Jakk'ari mused.
 Continue your quest. Expand your reach and find like-minded individuals, we can secure peace without becoming beholden to the hordes interests.   Is what Chief Haja'rra of Sandscar would probably say.
  You are in the heart of the horde. Pledge not your fealty but your loyalty and secure our future in Tanaris.   Is what Chief Sasani of  Ut'ongo village would press.
    Bah, we don't need em. We Farraki been on Azeroth longer and my Zul'Farak grandest there is. I challenge biggest green-skin to Mak'Go'Ra.    Is what Ukorz the idiot would definitely say.

A feeling of conflict had now risen unable to be suppressed within Jakk'ari. Would the horde be the right faction to align with? They had a history of harborin Warlocks and splintering at inopportune times. Allowing infighting to take control and leaving vestigial sub-factions to fight on their own and terrorize local populations. But the stories of Thrall and the restoration of honor had made their way through Kalimdor and they were too enticing to ignore.

After seeing the tents housing entirety of their regional agents Jakk'ari wondered.  Would the Opal Collocation ever be strong enough to aid in the Farraki plight?  If war between the Horde and Alliance were to erupt, then Gadgetzan would be flush with arms sales. All to further fund their incursions into Tanaris. But the Opal Collocation had succeeded. Emelia, Marion, Mor'Lag, and Aleana along with this old shaman had fought together. Given mercy to an ailing elemental, disrupted a perverse ritual to change the land, and had emerged stronger because of it. There were also everyone back at the tower.
The grass beneath the Horde was green but the lawn at Opal Collocation was bring well-watered.

Refocusing on Emelia Jakk'ari continues their conversation.  This land does have its fair share of pleasures and pleasantries. Though your homeland sounds pleasant as well. Hopefully we can acquire a portal, and all become less nostalgic for homelands. Jakk'ari shrilly laughs.  

Grabbing a skewer from the spit Jakk'ari rewards himself with a tender kebab of tender vegetables flesh and juicy meats.
  Ah, delicious. Quick grab one before they all disappear.   Jakk'ari warns Emelia as the rest of the party returns, their silhouettes emerging from the darkness.
MrAbdiel
   Isaera  
 "Ahah."   Matthean offers a smile that looks like a grimace with a picture of a smile stretched over it.  He shares a look with Zalael - a well meaning but not painless concession of the game - and morphs his extension of the hand into a bow, sweeping the hand across his body instead.   "My dismay is countervailed only by my affection for the victor" .

Zalael's victory lap is the act of walking Isaera the five yards to the tent's exit, and one step beyond it to the fragrant smoke of Emilia's cooking, calling her back.   "Thank you for coming by, Miss Runescribe.  I enjoy the hope that our chapters can collaborate in future - but more than that, I'm convicted that our  People  need to  embrace our ways, traditions, and scattered brothers and sisters.  Next year, in Silvermoon." 
  Marion  
Sir Cadfael pauses after his excoriation of his military lessers, to look back over his shoulder and listen to Marion's clarification.  He nods a little - but it is a nod of sad understanding, not concession.

 "You may have been imprecise, but the imprecision was more correct.  There is no Kingdom of Alterac, young Lady Marion.  Neither do their exist any houses in the orbit of its broken crown.  Dalaran, Alterac, Stromguard, Lordaeron, Silvermoon - almost every alliance throne north of the Thandol Span is toppled; and those that aren't - the Wildhammers, the bloody Gilneans - have isolated themselves to conduct their own civil calamities away from the trauma of the world around them.  There are no kings on the continent of Lordaeron, Marion; and the only Queen with power to project force and claim domain is dead, and angry about it. And the alliance wants to make peace with her; not re-establish independant kingdoms on the other side of the Lordamere.  Especially not those seeking to arm and equip alliance soldiers.  And the only court of human power that matters anymore is the court of Wrynn.  Perhaps... ten, twenty years from now, when we've driven the scourge remnants into the sea and we're bonded to the invaders-... To the Horde, I mean, by shared victory... Perhaps you'll be able to make a claim that you are owed a parcel of land in the annexed territories, within the rebordered Stromgarde or Dalaran." 

A dire picture, the knight paints.  But before he walks away, he does attend Marion's final request - this, a little less gloomily.   "...Captain Jordan Brighton is the chief logistics officer of Stormwind and, essentially, the united alliance.  He's not at this event - I can only suggest correspondence to open discussion.  I will... speak to him when I return, to expect your letter." 
  Jakk'ari  
Emilia offers a thin smile.   "That's the hope.  Not that there's any shortage of work to do, on this side of the great ocean..." 

Jakk'ari, as a student of people and the most avuncularly nosey of the chapter, has a fair read on Emilia.  In a way, they are opposites.  Jakk'ari's heart longs to return home, but he is driven to far places by his duty and dream.  Emilia seems to be running from her home; but resists a call to return to familiar landscapes by burying herself in duty.  But both sets of sentiment sum to heartaching homesickness; which might be something everyone in this chapter of the Collocation understands.  Soon they are returning; the group is fed, comfortable, and sheltered.  Tomorrow night, if fate is kind, Azeroth will change for the better, and they will all bear witness to it.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Aaaand Scene. 
Alright!  Stand by for next post: The Armistice Ball.
 
 
MrAbdiel
    Orgrimmar  - Steemwheedle Events Presents:  The Armistice Ball  
  
Your party files in to the gates of Orgrimmar, through a goblin-run checkpoint system where invitations are verified and names recorded.  The first checkpoint is at the exterior portcullis, where invitations are checked the first time; the second in the middle, when they are checked a second time, and the third at the interior portcullis to the city.  A busy station of goblins checks invitations and records names a third and final time, and also assign  tokens.   Strictly speaking the third war is over and this event is to attempt to memorialize its finishing; but in practise, this is a huge gathering of alliance and horde intelligence operatives, soldiers, staff, heroes, and royalty.  Everyone attending is required to wear a token denoting their allegiances openly; red for horde, blue for alliance, white for neutral parties, green for the Steemwheedle staff.  The goblins have made an effort to accommodate tastes; there are ribbons, badges, sashes, fresh flowers, fascinators and simple braided wristbands in all these colors; each with a numerical code hidden somewhere on it to be recorded next to the name of the guest to discourage espionage.

The Collocation, as a neutral party, is given white tokens of their choice, to be incorporated into their outfits however they prefer while within the city.  Naturally, only red, green and white tokens are permitted beyond the boundaries of the outdoor gathering into the interior of Orgrimmar.  Alliance visitors trying to sneak off into the Valley of Honor are likely to find stiff resistance.  Presumably, anyone trying to do so under a false token has granted the horde grounds to have them executed as a spy.  But only Mor'Lag has reason to go beyond, to collect her finalized dress from  Magar's Cloth Goods ; with no problems manifesting in its contruction, the tailors pat each other on the back and thank them for their business.  Everyone else is afforded secure rooms inside the ball grounds to change into their finery; with no last minute disasters, everyone looks their best.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You may, in as much as you want to, describe your Armistice Ball panoply; token and all.  Additionally, I'd like to know who volunteers to help Mor'Lag apply her opalescent body paint over her deed markings.  There's no drawbacks to this; I just think it's a cute co-operative scene and I'd like to know who does it.
 


The sun vanishes behind the canyon walls of Orgrimmar long before it finds the far horizon.  It leaves the cooling evening wind winding through the city with a still peach and pink starless sky; though the stone radiating the days heat all around keeps the event warm while Steemwheedle attendants get about shifting braziers about the massive esplanade in which the ball is taking place.  Perhaps in other times, it serves as an open air market for traders to drop their goods off and turn around; but it has been cleared, swept, made ready for the event and it boast a grand floor of brushed white irregular but interlocking paving stones, rather than the sea of red dust that formed the campsite outside.

The evening is only now winding up; guests are still filing in and filling the place out, but already it is buzzing with hundreds of varied figures.  Kaldorei and Darkspear, Gnome and Goblin, Human and Orc.
 At this early stage of the evening, they are keeping largely to their known affiliates and only dabbling in conversation across faction lines.  But they rub shoulders at the libation stations, and when seeking out the hors d'ourves from the servers.  No one is drunk enough to make any diplomatic breakthroughs or do anything deeply foolish, just yet.  The horde attendies largely keep to one side of the grounds, the alliance to the other, and a thin strip in the middle promotes cautious, interfaction discussion where a row of Steemwheedle interpreters facilitate the discussion directly.  A half dozen wandering goblin mage apprentices offer to cast a spell to permit language understanding, at a rate of one gold piece for ten minutes.  Quel'Dorei are somewhat overrepresented, and four in five of the the fair skinned elves has adopted a mask to their outfit - as if they are determined to make the ball, at least for themselves, a masquerade with its mysterious edge, in addition to everything else.  And a familiar cluster of Stonemaul ogres dwell together at the extreme edge of the event; alien to many of the traditions, but striving to make a good impression on their new allies.

 "Well,"  Emilia begins; her hair braided from the crown of her head down to its ends in the dwarven formal style popular in military women - her only concession to the 'formal' request for the event.   "I'm getting something to drink."   With conviction, she wanders over towards the recently built, rough wood bar at once side of the esplanade; manned by a staff of goblins and one jovial, bamboo hat wearing pandaren.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: The Ball! 
There will be three 'time slots' for the night.

The first (Current) is  Early Evening.   There is music and light refreshments, and still a palpable tension with all the assembling elements of this event.  However, as the party hasn't filled out yet, it's also an ideal time to make introductions you normally wouldn't be able to expect during a busier time.
 Perhaps, to begin a relationship that may bear some fruit for you and the chapter down the road?

You may otherwise select for your character to mostly keep to themselves and their friends, if you prefer - don't let me twist your arm!  And if you have another idea for something you might want to do - the kind of people or things you might be seeking out in this international gala of Azeroth - ask, and I'll tell you if it's possible!

People and Groups of note in the scene during this  Early Evening  slot:

- Thrall, Warcheif of the Horde and chosen leader of the orcs of Orgrimmar.
- Cairne Bloodhoof, High Chieftain of the Thunder Bluff Tauren.
- Sylvannas Windrunner, Queen of the Forsaken.
- Archdruid Malfurion Stormrage, co-leader of the Kaldorei.
- Lady Vereesa Windrunner, Ranger General of the Quel'Dorei.
- Lady Jaina Proudmoore, Lady Protector of Theramore.
- Vol'Jin, Shadow Hunter and Cheiftain of the Darkspear Trolls of the Echo Isles.
- Grand Magister Rommath, Leader of the Quel'Dorei order of Magisters.
- Regent Lor'themar Theron, Ruler in Exile of Silvermoon.
- Grand Admiral Jes-Tereth of the Alliance Navy.
- King Magni Bronzebeard of Ironforge.

Slightly less royal but still present:

- Brewmaster Chen Stormstout, of Pandaria.
- Tinkmaster Overspark, of Gnomeregan.
- Lord Maxwell Tyrosus, of the Argent Dawn.
- Mayor Gazlowe of Ratchet, chief Architect of Orgrimmar.
- Archmage Modera of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran.
- Archmage Krasus of the Kirin Tor of Dalaran.
- Swordbrother Leeroy, of the House of Jenkins; human paladin.
- Lady Katrana Prestor, of Stormwind's House of Nobles.
- Grand Apothecary Putress, of the Royal Apothecary Society.

After Early Evening will come Mid-Evening, in which most of the feasting will be done, and it'll be much harder to make contact with any VIP's; and then Late Evening when attention will be drawn to the formal diplomatic events.

Feel free to ask any clarifiers in the OOC!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Well, that hadn't gone as well as she had hoped. Perhaps Marions expectations and goals were too lofty and ambitious for a first time meeting. After all, this was a delegation, not the centre of Stormwind. She was a girl who had literally just walked off the street, wearing the behavioral mannerisms and signet ring as the only evidence to back up her spectacular claim: she was the sole heir of a barony within Alterac that had remained loyal to the Alliance of Lordaeron during the Second War, and she had gone through fire and water to escape the Scourging and arrive here in one piece.

But, Cadfaels words had said otherwise. He wasn't entirely without sympathy to her position, given what she had been through and resourcefulness she'd shown. However, he had been blunt in his appraisal. And so it was with stoicism and her chin high that Marion said her thanks and departed the Alliance entourage, only to run into Mor'Lahg who, apparently, had been waiting for her this whole time!

It was a funny thing, discovering where life's little joys came from, as being thought of in such a way brought a smile to Marions face as she greeted the ogre and asked her how her day had gone.

 "Of course I'll help you!"  the warlock would reply when enquires were made as to her availability to help the ogre prepare for the evening.

And for the rest of the afternoon, she did exactly that.

 oOo 
Marion had opted to receive her token in the form of a white flower, which she placed within her blonde hair. Her dress that she had created from what was available was a surprisingly beautiful piece of work, with the golden-colored clothing embracing her torso and flowing down into a shimmering skirt. It was clear now why the girl had dyed her hair, as the yellowed image of her long locks matched the white-and-gold outfit wrapped around her figure, while that signet ring rested on her right hand. Were one to look at her with the golds, yellows, whites and her youthful features, one could scarcely believe that she could draw upon the dark and sinister energies of the fel.

In her left hand she clasped a glass of sweet white wine - her favorite! On no condition was she going to get drunk and make an arse out of herself, she promised, and so she strived to take only small sips at a time.

With the pleasantries out of the way once they had all been shuffled into the room, the warlock noticed the separation of the two political camps, with the neutrals - them - intermingled in between. If geographical politics could be symbolized, this was it. Nevertheless, Marion spotted a few people she recognized, with one in particular a woman she never thought she would see again.

Approaching, Marion waited until the polite moment to insert herself into her orbit to address her.

 "Archmage Modera,"  Marion greeted her,  "I never thought I'd see you again." 

Marions expulsion came in the wake of Kel'thazad's discovery and the ejection of him and his followers from Dalaran. Needless to say, the girl couldn't have chosen a worse time to become curious with the texts that were locked away and deemed 'unfit for impressionable minds'. The Council of Six were not in a particularly forgiving mood.

Or, given what happened, perhaps fate had prompted her at the best time.
Plaids
    Jakk'ari   

The arrival of everyone is welcome and the company is pleasant and comforting. The food is good, and everyone seems to enjoy the simple flavors and minimal culinary embellishments. The meal and small talk were only interrupted by the hopeless endeavor of shuffling about trying to avoid the smoke from the playful fire elemental inhabiting the cooking spit. The spirit indiscriminately hounding a party member till losing interest after it's playmate resigned themselves to being licked by the smoke.

Today brought a modest victory. Guiding Roshorn, another member of the eclectic organization that was the Opal Collocation. All that was required was attention to detail and sympathy. Joining the order had already yielded large victories and had gotten him here right next to the political fulcrums of Zeroth. Tomorrow would require a larger victory requiring more than virtue. But it would be done, the survival of the Farraki is too important. The Farraki councils' patience would be rewarded.

 ------ 
Jakk'ari palmed a white bolo tie housing a common white polished stone settling it in front of his tunic. The selection accentuated an outfit made with plenty of patience with elements sourced close from the earth. The cloth tunic sported crosshatching rows of blunted cactus needles forming the contour of the Opal Collocation's emblem. Jakk'ari's shoulders feature wooden pauldrons bent to fit the contours of troll shoulders after hours within stone restraints and subjected to harsh steam. Not content with just plain painstakingly made pauldrons, the curved wood is embellished with Farraki runes burnt into the wood with careful pyrography. While not everyone could the effort and time required to fashion these clothes it is what gave it value to those of Sandscar. Anyone could pluck feathers from a bird poached in it's nest but it took patience and discipline to gather pristine discarded feathers.

As the party milled towards the main ballroom the topography of the social space was apparent. Alliance groups off to one side while horde groups where set to another. Each group within their larger faction having a leader with an entourage dispersed through crowd with one agent always within a single stride. Then there was white the stream between the horde and alliance. With a crowd offered the least promises of remaining in their comfort zone.

  Oh, one of my favorites.   Jakk'ari mutters as he collects a peeled cactus apple from a goblin waiter. The fruit is a small comfort in the international gathering.

After announcing his short departure from the party Jakk'ari heads towards the center of the room.
Lightly treading the peripheries of the crowds Jakk'ari's interest is piqued as his pocket begins weighing heavier. He had already had a favor from a representative from the horde. Why not seek one from the alliance?

Crossing into the alliance side of the room Jakk'ari begins wading through the chest to knee high crowd.
Spotting a dwarf in the greatest regalia Jakk'ari announces himself.
  My deepest respects King Bronzebeard. I am Jakk'ari, representative of the Opal Collocation. come to deliver an artifact we can hopefully uncover together.   Loud enough to catch the attention of any of the scholarly dwarven entourage beside the king and give the monarch a comfortable amount of time to prepare for a troll diplomat.
  I come to deliver an item that has come into my possession in my travels back to its people.    Hopefully we can uncover its mysteries together.   
Jakk'ari proposes in a hushed voice as he pulls out the key from his pocket.
MrAbdiel
  Marion 

Archmage Modera was, you know, the Jaina Proudmoore of her era: a youthful arcane prodigy that ascended to the Council of Six in Dalaran and helped steer the magocracy into full collaboration with the Alliance of Lordaeron.  That was back during the second war.  Now, more than twenty years on, she has hit the stage of physical development that students in the halls of Dalaran used to call 'hard silver': the strange substitute for middle age and elder frailty that is either a side affect of magical study or an amusing coincidence.  Her hair is straight silver and sensibly pulled back in a bun; but her posture and personal grace seem to have failed to acknowledge an end of their tenure and work well to mitigate an advancement of years.  Like most human magi, she is likely retain this nebulous  maybe forty maybe a well preserved sixty  appearance well into a three digit lifespan.

When Marion steps into the Archmage's orbit and draws her attention, the ironstone blue of her eyes  tracks to the young warlock and there exists a period of one and a half heartbeats in which she gives no response.  But then she places the face and the voice, and her lips (painted a delicate mauve in compliment to her formal robes for the evening).

 "Ms. Mordis - I don't think either of us expected such an encounter." 

Considering the last interaction they had was conducted through the vehicle of Marion's final scathing academic report.

 "...But then, a great many unforeseen things have happened since then and now.  It is good to see you." 

The thin smile, and the apparent sincerity in the words, contains many times their volume in meaning.  Modera was one of those most critical of deviant studies in the halls of Dalaran - but considering the following desolation of that city at the hands of the Scourge and the Legion, despite any misgivings the Archmage might have about Marion's specific mystical disciplinary leanings, she is glad to discover any students who have not been slain, or corrupted by, those wicked forces.  It  is  good to see each other again... because there are so many whom neither would see again.  This is not a particularly warm reunion; but it is not heartless.

"The Lady Protector of Theramore mentioned your name in a discussion some time ago, and I was quite surprised - and now here you are, surprising us all again, earning a place in such circles."

Who is  us , in this case?  The mages of Dalaran?  The council of six?  Jaina and Modera specifically?  She does not say.

She ends her commentary there. This is something she does, with students and younger magi - states a thought and leaves no obvious invitation for response.  She is the kind of woman who, when asked how she fares, will response  Well, thank you  and simply not ask the implied reciprocal.  It's a tactic that has served her well in the past, preventing her from being ensnared in smalltalk and filtering her conversations down to those with something they intend to say.  She waits to see if Marion has such, or not.

 Jakk'ari 

Several dwarves near King Magni Bronzebeard straighten as Jakk'ari approaches.  Anyone with a skerrick of martial sense can see the micro adjustments in their posture, prepared to lunge and intercept - but this is a peaceful gathering, and the diplomat does forecast his approach with overtures of respect and self identification.

The King of Ironforge is an iconic example of his people; broad, short, muscular, braided, stout.  He wears polished armour of a dark metal that doesn't have the same mirror qualities of steel - almost leaden in its appearance - with a simple hammered iron crown featuring a large inset garnet at the brow.  His paired hammers sit snugly in leather thongs at each side of his belt - no shield for this son of the mountain.

Even as Jakk'ari approaches, he can see the process rolling through the king's eyes.  The diplomat is used to it - to being taken for a savage until proven otherwise.  Yet self-taught about the leaders of the realms as he is, Jakk'ari knows Magni's regard for trolls contains a broader series of considerations.  Not only did he lead Ironforge in its defence against the Horde during the second war (no shortage of Amani trolls had  axe  for the defenders), he has personal greivances against the once-Drakkari trolls who formed the Frostmane tribe that settled in Dun Morough in ancient times.  Strictly speaking, the Frostman were more indigenous to the mountains than the dwarves were - ancient conflicts saw the Frostmane driven back to the fringe hills.  A stable pattern of friction between the Frostmane and the dwarves persisted from this point to the present, with mountaineers periodically running afoul of the unremittingly hostile Frostmane or the trolls feeling bold enough to press the edges of the dwarven domain.  In one such encounter, in which a raiding party of Frostmane strayed close enough to Ironforge to permit calamitous coincidence, Magni's wife Eimear was killed.  Still, this was decades prior to the moment - and many kings would have announced an immediate extermination of their offending neighbours, whose power was a memory of a forgotten age, and pale compared to young kingdoms like Ironforge.

Magni showed restraint then.  As Jakk'ari approaches, he shows restraint now - the visible skepticism in his face flattening out into a deliberately neutral, more diplomatic  ountenance.

 "Ah.  Hail to ye, Jakk'ari.  Would that I had my brother present to sic upon ye, for artifacts are his passion and my hobby. But, err, let's have a look then." 

When Jakk'ari reveals the key, Magni gazes at it for a moment - reaches for it, takes it from the trolls hand, holds it up; glances to one of the dwarves at his side who shrugs back.  Then he settles it back into Jakk'ari's hand.

 "This, Jakk'ari of the Opal Collocation... is a key.  It corresponds to a lock, which is a kind of... fastener some folk use to secure their, err... huts, an' jars, and so forth against theft.  Ye see, ye just..." 

Disaster.  The King of Ironforge and his entourage have confirmed that the key the Shadowhunter gave Jakk'ari is mundane; an unremarkable product of a dwarven locksmith, presumably for an unremarkable lock somewhere in the world.  They do not seem to think there is magical or mystical significance to it - whatever meaning the strange gift has, it is tied up in mystery not inherent in the key itself.

But presenting the key in this way to King Magni left him a few options - he might have thought Jakk'ari some kind of joker attempting a badly translated jest, but has opted to try what felt more diplomatic: guessing that the Farr'aki, desert dwelling tribesman as he is, might be genuinely unfamiliar with lock-and-key technology.  He is making an effort to be magnanimous, miming the action of a lock and key for Jakk'ari's benefit.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Wuh oh. 
I admire Jakk'ari's drive to figure out the mystery of the key.  But it seems even Magni Bronzebeard has no answer for him.  Indeed, Jakk'ari at this point might have to play along and pretend to be a real rube to avoid being thought a more conventional fool... or he might have to pull some diplomatic wizardry out of his ear to make sense of why he approached the King of Ironforge to help him solve the mystery of a normal seeming key!
 
 
WindStruck
Isaera selects a white flower to pin into her hair. It seemed she was attending the ball in a somewhat older but pretty dress. Something more traditional, or a family keepsake perhaps? However, after being brought to private rooms, she eventually emerges in her stunning and shimmering, sheer orange ensemble. Her hair is left to flow freely for the most part, though the delicate white flower is again tucked into one side and braided in, accenting one of the ears poking through her hair.

Surveying the "ballroom", the separation of all the factions was quite noticeable. This really drove home the fact that it was all not just niceties here and there were important people conducting important business. Perhaps people would open up later, but it feels like that would take one hell of an icebreaker.. or just a lot of booze. Hmm..

  "Well, I'm getting something to drink,"   Emilia said. Isaera looked at the woman and nodded.  "A fine idea,"  she agrees.

The two approached the bar, and Isaera gave the Pandaran a long and appraising look as she walked up. She didn't think she ever met a Pandaran before, though she had certainly heard and read about them. Oddly enough, the picture she had in her mind was so uncannily different from what was before her. And yet, she managed to find her manners and  stop staring .

In any case, this bar might be a good place to set up shop, with so many coming and going. The trick would be not getting utterly smashed. And perhaps, with some talk and questions, she may have further reason to hang around.

 "Hello there,"  Isaera says.  "You must be from Pandaria, correct? A pleasure to meet you. Do you happen to have any unique drinks that.. don't intoxicate, per chance? Such a rare opportunity this is. But I don't want to get drunk. Not yet anyway." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

It would be easy for Marion to act one way or another.

On one hand, she stood before one of the archmages that had banished her from Dalaran, who had once held her academic career in her hands and had decided to grasp and grip until the innards burst from within. She had been an unwise, curious cat drawn to the exotic and novel - just a child, really, not even old enough to buy herself an ale, yet old enough to be to receive a career-destroying banishment. One of the main voices of such a deathknell was the woman standing before her, a member of the tribunal that had ultimately decided her fate...in more ways than anyone knew at time. Modera would not have known it at the time, but her decision had tainted Marion in her own parents eyes and had condemned her to years of unspeakable hardships in the wilderness of Lordaeron where the girl survived the Scourge.

On the other...it had been so long. So, so long. Though for one considerably older than Marion the passage of 3-4 years was nothing, for her that represented almost half of her conscious life. Had she been spared the rod of banishment, had she been allowed to remain at Dalaran well...who knows where she would be today. A nameless corpse-slave of the Lich King? A dutiful necromancer in his service? A benighted refugee who was at the tender mercies of those that needed convincing to take her in? Though undignified and harsh as the circumstances had been for her after being ejected from the wizardly academy, the grisly fate that awaited an unfortunately large number of pupils of Dalaran in the wake of the Scourge Invasion suggested that perhaps her expulsion was a blessing in disguise.

What point was there in continuing to grasp the hot coal of spite?

 "Ms. Mordis - I don't think either of us expected such an encounter...But then, a great many unforeseen things have happened since then and now. It is good to see you. The Lady Protector of Theramore mentioned your name in a discussion some time ago, and I was quite surprised - and now here you are, surprising us all again, earning a place in such circles." 
 "It's Baroness, now,"  Marion stated flatly. Though easy to infer as an arrogant demand, some uppity and smug girl wanting to hear words of affirmation heaped upon her to smooth whatever grasping ego kept her animated, the truth was otherwise. The mixed attitude upon the girls features hinted at a deeper intention: she was the only Mordis left. Her family were all gone, consumed by the Scourge like so many others. Her siblings? Dead. Her mother? Dead. Her aunties and uncles? Dead. Her cousins? Dead. Her father? Dead, his title now hers as the sole living heir. All within the past few years while she was subsisting her survival in Lordaeron as ghouls and necromancers prowled the land.

The girls features and tone softened noticeably. With all that she had suffered and accomplished, it was easy to forget that was just a teenager, not even existing for 2 decades of life.

 "Things could have been a lot worse, Ma'am." 
 "What happened to Dalarn was..."  Marion's eyes cast aside briefly as if she were hiding back a reaction to having learned a loved one died, a tear almost forming in the corner of one eye. Despite her expulsion, Marion had been there for several years: she had friends there and teachers of whom she had grown fond. Just the mental image of  what was  still holding a fondness in her heart.

 "Awful. Just awful." 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 
Drat, the last few months adventuring in the wilds and mean streets through grit and improvisational lateral thinking wasn't the best way to think for a diplomatic summit and ball.
Given the king's quizically raised eyebrow and subdued bewilderment it was safe to surmise that the big diplomatic breakthrough wouldn't occur here. A rookie would panic and overextend themselves in an attempt to salvage the conversation, an adventurer would cause a distraction to quickly escape into the crowd. Now was the time for this troll to return to being the consummate veteran diplomat who had worked through so many council meetings.
 Best to find a connection with someone else than to force a relationship or squeeze a favor from king Bronzebeard. Perhaps it was time to play the fool.  

Through his travels Jakk'ari knew Bronzebeard dwarves valued tenacity and their own metal craft which they used to defend their mountainous home from Drakkari and the frigid climate.

  I have come before you to thank the Bronzebeard clan for inviting such a wonderous form to Azeroth. This 'key' has such a slender yet strong form. Is able to withstand a fall from any height and avoid damage. The teeth beautifully align to permit or deny passage through a portal. I have even commissioned a mage arcanist to analyze this artifact for magic but all she found was the ambient magic from one of your vaults.   While the arcane mastery of Isaera's cousin was exaggerated she would technically be the most accomplished mage in Zul'Farrak with Farraki arcanists being witch doctors.

Jakk'ari scans the crowd noticing several gazes at the dwarven periphery. The gazes belonged to people giving the troll diplomat his time to maintain decorum while politely insisting on having their own turn. With waiting diplomats quietly rapping their toes and adjusting the rings on their fingers. All these actions conveying clearly to Jakk'ari not to waste their time.
Preparing for a graceful departure Jakk'ari bows once more while slowly shuffling backwards and offering his final praises.   The Bronzebeard clan has disseminated their industrious spirit through Azeroth. Hopefully the Farraki can engage in further cultural exchanges in the future.  
 
 Spoiler: Plans 
 That meeting with King Bronzebeard didn't go quite as planned. If any time remains Jakk'ari will be talking to more neutral or alliance representatives. Maybe chen, leeroy, or katrana.
 
MrAbdiel
   Isaera 
 
The Pandaran turns his attention to you, at your greeting.  He is immediately warm and friendly - the kind of infinitely affable,  everyone's pal  energy that is associated with the best kind of drinker at the best phase of their intoxication. The fellow might be a little drunk himself, though it doesn't manifest in slurred speech or compromised movement.  If anything, he is masterfully graceful as he reaches to the racks of kegs and flasks set up behind him, plucking certain bottles from between others without collision or trouble.  Maybe he's not drunk at all - just friendly?

 "Ah, there is wisdom in this approach my good elf.  It is as I often say - 'it takes hours to sober up a drunk... but you can always catch up to him, with much less delay'!  Something light to begin the evening, then.  Sophisticated, perhaps?  Then I shall set you up this evening with this...  Four Wind Soju .  A beverage from my ancestral homeland, in fact - a lighter touch, with four flavours to be distinguished by the tongue..." 

He pours a stemless wineglass to half its volume.  A pleasingly peach coloured drink whirls and settles, before the bartender dusts its surface with sugar, then slides it across the bar for your keeping.

 "It's for sipping,  take mind - but providing you don't throw it back immediately, it's quite light.  I like it a deal myself - a taste of Pandaria, though you might not believe, I've never been!" 

He laughs gently.  A number of the local goblin event staff are also serving the other customers, affording the black-and-white-furred fellow to linger to see if the drink has found your approval.

 "In fact, my family lives on the Wandering Isle - our city travels the seas from the Eastern Kingdoms to Kalimdor and other places, affording me... quite an education in libations.  In my lifetime, the great Isle has not returned to Pandaria.  I hope I will live to see a homecoming.  But I suppose that is hardly an... uncommon sentiment." 

He glances out over the gathering.  Behind you, the event proceeds here in Orgrimmar - the home the orcs have made for themselves in the harsh land they found.  Their ancient home is the one they left behind, once called Draenor, now a ruined and broken Outland.  Given that Magister Rommath has returned from that place to talk about Prince Kael'Thas's explorations and discovery of that realm, it is an open secret that the way to Outland is accessible for the first time in many years.  Will the Orcs 'go home', soon?  The ogres, too, came that way - though the latter have spread far and wide and have shown a knack for making their home wherever they set down, often to the chagrin of local populations.  The Night Elves uprooted their civilization from the ruins of Hyjal and began anew in their new capital of Darnassus.  But most uncertain of all is the fate of your people, so ruinously broken by the Scourge that the talk of return to Silvermoon, or starting again elsewhere, seem like dreams competing for possibility.  The Pandaran doesn't require you to speak on that topic, or even explicitly ask for it; but he leaves the space in the air after his own meandering thoughts about his estrangement conclude.

  Marion  
Modera raises an eyebrow slightly at your claim to the title  Baroness .  It's a title sustained entirely by your own force of will; the Barony to which it is theoretically attached long behind you.  The snow dusted mountains of Alterac have not been formally annexed by neighbouring powers, all of whom have their own problems, so there is no direct disputing the claim that you are  valid  nobility in exile.  But recognizing is somewhat optional for those powerful people with more easily sustained claims of authority.

Modera, herself an elevated Magocrat and a member of ruling body of the state of Dalaran herself, takes a somewhat diplomatic route by offering a mildly sceptical nod, but no overt challenge.  She glances away just as you do; though her firm countenance spares no tear.  Just a shadow of sorrow.

"...Yes.  Yes, Dalaran was a catastrophe in an age of many of them.  You have only lived in a world that has been riven by wars and destruction... But perhaps we will see tonight that there is an end to that epoch.  The demons driven back to the Nether; old enemies preparing to unite against the Scourge.  We may, within a few years, see the liberation of the Northern Kingdoms.  And after that, the rebuilding.  Reform.  Renewal.  Perhaps... a time to release old mistakes."

Old mistakes - what is she alluding to?  Your mistake, in studying the forbidden texts...?

...Or theirs, in expelling you, now that you have proven competent and strong, and the calcified magical establishment found their ignorance of the Fel knowledge you seek to master left them desperately outgunned before the Legion?

  Jakk'ari  
Like a the Tanaris dunes conform themselves before the shape of the prevailing wind, you shift your approach and modify your hopes of the moment, finessing your opening bid's unstable first step into an act of diplomatic flattery.  It seems to work - when it's clear you are not using some odd sense of Farraki humor to mock the dwarves and their king, they become more sympathetic to your plea.  In an effort to repay your flattery with magnanimity, King Magni even responds to your fuller comments.

 "Well, it... is a well made key, I agree.  Though not itself special, or magical.  Perhaps what yer arcanist detected was the exposure to what the corresponding lock binds; or what is beyond the portal it opens.  But, err... Spirits guide ye, in yer search, Farraki." 

You steal a glance back when you've extracted.  The dwarven entourage seem to be sharing very light laughs and shrugs at your expense - but perhaps that's not so bad.  Perhaps, you might hope, the tone of it is amused amazement at meeting a diplomatic sand troll at all.  And you know by now that such amazement is the first step to being taken seriously as something other than a member of a benighted, desert tribe.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Lady Katrana Prestor is 'free', extracting herself from a conversation with another luminary; she is shadowed by a pair of stormwind noble guards who eye you, eying them.
 Swordbrother Leeroy is also available - he is seizing more than a normal person's worth of appetizers and stacking them up too-small plate at the catering tables.  You can approach whichever you like, given your rapid interaction with Magni!  Chen is also there, but you see Isaera talking to him - probably best to choose another target to maximize your group's frontage.
 
 
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag were surrounded by power, they were suddenly thrust into the world they were once expected to live in!

It was exhilarating but also off-putting.  They were neither Alliance nor Horde.  The Alliance would not have them, and they still resented the Horde.

The Twins find themselves looking for other neutrals, and find themselves among the race of Azeroth the Ogres see as their closest parallel, the High Elves.  Like them, they were once a great civilization brought low, ones shaped by magic beyond the ken of lesser races.  Like them, they were once greater than they are.  And, like Mor'Lag, there were no doubt those among them that would seek personal glory as a response to societal collapse.

Unfortunately, perhaps, this kinship might be lost on the Quel'Dorei...
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari brushes away the perspiration budding on his forehead and is glad to have extricated himself from the awkward situation. The mystery of the key would have to wait. It was optimism bordering on negligent selfishness to assume the key and his diplomatic mission would intersect. The work of an antiquarian could be accomplished later.

Eying the two options available and between discussions Jakk'ari decides to converse with figure with the smaller entourage.
  Hail my famished paladin. Which order have you come to represent? I Jakk'ari come from the Opal Collocation. Perhaps we can find some common ground and values over a bite to eat?  
Jakk'ari hastily pulls the closest plate from a table planning to provide some company to the lone fried pickle. Having been poorly appraised for being the last one remaining.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion nodded her head once, joining her conversation partner in a moment of genuine mourning for what was consumed by the scourge.

 "I would long celebrate the day that that became our future,"  she said earnestly, taking another sip of her wine. The girl had a slightly despondent look on her face, as a flood of memories of what was lost came rushing back into her mind. Dalaran had been a beautiful place to live, friends she'd never see again, teachers she'd never learn from again...

Offering a sincere smile, Marion offered the small, semi-formal gesture of thanks and gratitude that was appropriate for the situation.

 "Once more, I am glad to have seen you again. Three years ago I would not have wished it so, but now..."  she gestured to their surroundings.

 "Time's change." 

With that, Marion politely took her leave and moved away from the circle and towards her next target. She was not so crass as to discuss enterprise during an event such as this, but she  did  want to remain in the mind of her next target, and in a positive light.

Approaching the conversation circle, using her knowledge of etiquette to slowly and politely ingratiate herself into it, Marion would smile and offer a polite form of greeting.

 "Lady Proudmoore, it is wonderful to see you again." 
WindStruck
Isaera lightly chuckles at the proverb about catching up to drunks quickly. Very true, but also amusing.

She regards Brewmaster Chen with a sense of curiosity and wonder at first, then a bit of confusion and melancholy.  "Oh, I see,"  she says, her voice dropping flatly.  "Well, I do apologize for assuming wrong. Though I suppose.. the Wandering Isle might not be too far off from what I initially imagined, culturally? Is it... Is it an actual island that magically moves around somehow? Or rather much like a gigantic boat?"  she asks.

She takes a sip of the drink, seeing if she can ferret out the four flavors it promised.

 "No... It is a very common sentiment amongst all here... For some, I can imagine varying reasons. Though there is a difference, I think." 

She looks at the Pandaran quite seriously. Probing.  "There are many who lost their family and loved ones. The places they knew and grew up in during their childhood, razed to the ground, desecrated.. desolate but not forgotten." 
 "You, on the other hand... Well, I can very well see why the Wandering Isle's return to Pandara is quite an event, a homecoming. I am sure it is praised, spoken of highly by your elders. And yet.. still not quite  'home'  is it? For all the familiar sights you knew of when you were young, all the friendly faces, they do not dwell there." 

She tilts her head and shrugs, taking another sip of the drink. Ah, a philosophical discussion of just what it meant to be with or without a home.

 "I suppose, should you so choose, you could always make it your new home. At least it would be nice, having a choice..." 
MrAbdiel
  Mor’Lag 

It is strange that it should be easier to pluck up the courage to fight bare fisted against demons than it is to mingle in a diplomatic gathering; but the rules of power are much less clear in this place.  Steering clear of the horde and alliance officials, you gravitate towards neutrals like yourself - though there seems to be precious few of them.  Quel’Dorei are here; they are technically members of the dissolved  Alliance of Lordaeron  which vanished in the scourging which destroyed that pivotal kingdom.  The  Alliance of Stormwind  which drew itself together from the ashes of its predecessor, has the cooperation of the High Elves of Silvermoon but not their chartered membership, on account of the fact that Arthas killed the last king of the elves and their homeland is overrun with the living dead.  Such desolation puts a considerable damper on formal diplomacy.  Presumably, the presence of some elven luminaries such as the Regent Lor’themar and the Ranger General Vereesa Windrunner at this shindig suggests a return to formal diplomatic relations, even if their Prince couldn’t make it.  It’s a pity - you have been told that Prince Kael’Thas is arguably the greatest arcane practitioner Azeroth has ever produced; certainly on par with the archmagi of the Kirin Tor like Jaina Proudmoore.  It might have been interesting to meet the greatest wizard from a race of great wizards.  But the elves in their fabulous dresses and their ostentatious masks are so absorbed with each other, in incomprehensibly subtle games of conversation in their birdsong of a language, that they seem to have little interest in speaking to you at all.  Your efforts to draw some kind of civil encounter out of them nets you very little success.  You almost give up, until one mercifully seems to intuit your goodwill.

 {Ogrish} “You [both] are called Mor’Lag, yes?” 

The speaker is a male elf; in the centuries long prime of his life by your guess, with black hair tied back in a simple ponytail.  He wears a robe of white with no sleeves, displaying some kind of glyphic markings on his toned biceps.  He does not have the obscuring mask that most of the elves are wearing, unless one counts the collar.  It presses the boundaries of absurdity as it rises up to cover his mouth and nose; almost a gorget, in its style.  Its purpose is not clear; but what you do know is that the mouth behind it is the first non-ogre mouth in recent memory you have heard address you in your native tongue.  Formal; accented; but clean, clanless ogrish, all the same.  This is Rommath; both an Archmage of the Kirin Tor, and also the Grand Magister of Silvermoon.

 {Ogrish} “I have spoken to some of the Stonemaul, who have very flattering things to say about you.  Have you… managed to refine your manifestation, at all?”   He flexes a hand in the air.   “The banishing strike?” 
 Jakk’ari 

Your extraction successful, you stride over to the food and snag that critical pickle.  Then you turn to your fellow diner, and appraise him.

He’s not as young as you first imagined - he strikes you as the kind of older human that is common in their military, which is the kind that suffers a premature cosmetic onset of grey hairs superficial wrinkles in exchange for taking a younger person’s internal vigor and clinging to it for longer than they should.  The result is that there are many warriors, paladins and officers in the alliance who look fifty, fight like they’re thirty, but are in fact forty.  Leeroy’s beard is well groomed, and his grayed locks fall to just below his earlobes; but at a guess, this is a feature of the event being so high class and not a fastidious personal grooming habit. You guess this, because there are fragments of chicken already suspended in his beard.
 
“Ah!  Hail, troll-man!”   He points at your recently acquired pickle with a partially scarfed drumstick.   “You, sir… have chosen wisely.  I’ve had six of those already.  I declare - there is nothing in this world or any other whose flavors are not enhanced by frying!  I will fight the man who says differently.  What say you?” 

He makes this declaration with a manic passion and gesturing with the chicken that makes you think he might be serious.  He seems… eccentric, to say the least.  He wears chainmail with cast metal spaulders.  A massive falchion is scabbarded on his back, which itself is broad enough to suggest he has the strength to swing it.  But only when he turns to you do you notice his tabard’s iconography: a while field, a red border, and a red icon of a blazing fire.  A braided white lanyard marks him as not being part of the Alliance delegation at all, but of some neutral ensemble.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The Scarlet Crusade exists a world away from Jakk’ari; but being the diplomat that he is, and having known Emilia for a little while now, he might know at least some of what they are about.  You can decide how much Jakk’ari knows about them.  But he likely is aware at least aware that they are a faction of humans that sprung out of the destruction of Lordaeron and the Knights of the Silver Hand, dedicated to destroying the undead that the Scourge inflicted upon the world.  Emilia was once affiliated with them, but was ultimately swayed to join the Argent Dawn instead.
 

 Marion 

Modera seems to be in the same place as you, as you peel away; glad for the encounter, even if the tension is not completely lanced.  Every increment of goodwill you gain with the Kirin Tor will improve your standing socially, given that the Archmages are essentially elected royalty of Dalaran and therefore eligible to speak in some future context about your noble legitimacy.  And to learn that the Council is not holding a grudge about your violation of their rules… well, the address of that wound doesn’t hurt either.  Perhaps all those doors are not completely closed after all.

 “Ms Mordis - I’m glad to see you’ve made it.  I understand it was a narrow timeline, for your friends.  But continue to bring up results like you did in the Wailing Caverns, and I’m sure we’ll find space for a portal anchor in your tower.  That at least will make return journeys a little easier.” 

Jaina Proudmoore is as you remember her; blonde, beautiful, young, prodigious and commanding the attention at this gathering that those things combine to command.  Her attire is a little less  elven  for this event; it eschews the midriff in a pursuit at elegance over scandalous carelessness.  It largely succeeds.  She has elected to wear purples and whites; but the ribbon she has chosen for her affiliation is blue.  You might not have been surprised to see white, given how outspokenly anti-war Jaina has been; but being  technically  Alliance must give her some say.  You can only wonder how much of this Armistice Ball, the nearness to peace it represents, is due to her friendship with the Warchief.

The small flock of petty diplomats, minor Kirin Tor magi, and some Quel’Dorei admirers minimize their own orbital chatter to observe your conversation with the Lady Protector of Theramore.

 Isaera 

The pandaren waves at the air to dispel any notion that there might be offense taken.   “Oh, it’s much like what you imagine, I think.  It travels the world for generations at a time, and returns home for one or two; and when it does, the culture of the people who grew up there has changed a little, but not so terribly.  The Isle brings back the things they have discovered and learned, and discovers and learns things they have forgotten from home.  It’s quite a thing.  But the isle itself … Well, it’s not quite boat or land - it is Shen-zin Su!  A grand and mighty turtle of the sea!” 

You have heard of the giant turtles.  Your father told you how the orc Stormreaver clan and the Steemwheedle Cartel goblins (at that time Horde affiliated and not hard-neutral as they are now) magically pacified and used such creatures, the size of small ships, as submersible watercraft that were extremely hazardous to the Alliance fleet of light elven destroyers and human battleships.  You recall one story in which the ship transporting your father and his assigned human footman escort unit was part of a small fleet off the coast of Gilneas.  A trio of such war-rigged turtles set upon them with steam-driven torpedoes and would very nearly have sunk them all, if not for the intervention of an unarmed gnomish scout submarine called the  Fancy Fish , whose operators were able to sight the enemy and call for depth charges while avoiding attacks themselves.  The alliance ships killed one of the turtles, and the other two fled; and your father never had a negative word to say about gnomes for the rest of his life - an unusual feature for magisters, who are often quick to smirk and offer wry words about the efforts of other races to approach elven accomplishment.  But those turtles were as big as ships, not cities.  The idea that one might be so large as to accommodate a floating city is genuinely fantastical.

He seems ready to reply to your musing about homes, and choices, when another voice pipes up.

 “It’s true.  I’ve seen it - but it’s not quite the same as the homeland, I expect.  Nothing can be.” 

This comes at a junction of time where Chen’s libations are needed elsewhere at the bar; and with an ursine smile he excuses you and this new arrival.  A venerable elf with silver-blond hair and a paternal bearing; a mantle of gilded elven steel in the shape of a hawk spread across his chest.  Distinctively, his right eye has the lambent green glow of an adoptee of the new mana ritual, but the left is pale and blinded, having suffered some terrible scratching blow that has left him with a scar that is too jagged to be the conventionally handsome kind.  He lost it when he was nearly beaten to death by the suddenly reanimated elven fallen defending the ley-line nexus An’daroth, part of the defense network of Silvermoon, as Arthas’ terrible legions tore through Quel’Thelas.  You know this because most every refugee knows this.  This is Lor’Themar, Regent in Exile of Silvermoon.

 “I’m surprised you’ve elected to go without a mask.  I’m not sure who started it, but most of the other young ones have just been falling right into it just for the opportunity.  My inclination is to say this event is too serious for such things… but it’s nice to see them so happy.”  
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag blush.  Really, Lag felt differently than Mor, but their blood vessels were linked. A great archmage knew of the cantrip they had invented!  The power of Voidfist was spoken of!

"I/we practice daily."
"We have learned to dismiss spells with the same motion."

"We have begun to learn the Old Magic of the Titans as your folk practice it."
"We are novices, we are honored you know of our one innovation."
WindStruck
Isaera turns to look toward the unfamiliar voice. It scantly reminded her of home, of dialects and tones that belonged to neighbors and peers, which echoed outside and in their great halls. But the voice, she still would have never recognized, for she had never, in fact, heard it before. This was the regent of Silvermoon! ..or what was left of it, anyway.

 
 Spoiler: question 
So you called him Regent in Exile.  I don't believe Lor'themar NOR Kael'thas have actually been exiled, right?  So this is just some edgy title to signify the prince's departure to Outland, and the bad state Silvermoon is in?
 


With a level and awkward gaze at Lor'themar, Isaera asks,  "Y-you've seen what? The Wandering Isle?" 

Oh boy. Isaera was starting to feel nervous, being around what was probably  the most  important person to her people .. aside from Prince Kael'thas of course. Then again, lots of people here were very important: Thrall, Jaina, Grand Magister Rommath, the departed but not-quite dead Sylvannas, the literal king of dwarves, and more.

What was she even doing here, again?? Compared to all these important people, she was a nobody. But perhaps, she would make a name for herself eventually - if she had not begun to already. Isaera flashes a smile and coyly looks away for a moment.

 "Ah, well, no one told me about this little masquerade they were having..."  She wasn't resentful. No, not at all!  "Though to be fair, I think you are right. This is not just some party or a celebration. I get the feeling that much important work gets done here. But if I were to be honest, it would take a lot more than a mask to hide my identity,"  she says with a smirk, finding her confidence again.

 "It is good to finally meet you, Regent Lor'themar. I am Isaera Arkhana'skrit. I presume you have heard of my family?" 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 

The man was quite cordial a sign of immense discipline having kept him from becoming despondent at this event at his age. While his skin was no longer taut simply roaming the banquet tables and animatedly grabbing the roast chicken attested to his strength.

The icon of blazing fire belonged to the Scarlet Crusade. The movement was a world away far. Beyond any ash or moisture riding the air currents. But word of the group spread carried by refugees and the infrequent paladin willing to talk a traveling Farraki shaman. The group stood their ground against the undead scourge in what was once the kingdom of "Lordaeron". The place held no history with the Farraki. But the cause and principles exuded honor.

Jakk'ari responds to the paladins food-based query.   This fried pickle is sharp with vinegar yet buttery and crispy. A food worthy of this banquet.  Offering high praise to the simple pickle.

  From the refugee families arriving in the ports of Kalimdor I have heard of your group the Scarlet Crusad. Tasked by itself to liberate Lordaeren from the scourge. I have several companions who have seen the destruction brought by the scourge. One from Silvermoon and another from Alterac. I hope we can cooperate in the future. The Opal Collocation and my party values protecting the people and the peace. I would like to see what our unique flavors bring about.  
To complete his point Jakk'ari grabs a chicken leg skewered with tough green vegetable cuts before roasting and now resembling a noodley multilimbed terror beside his pickle.
MrAbdiel
  Mor'Lag 

Rommath nods along, and asks some follow up questions about your studies; even talks some about of your hand gestures; the disadvantage of the ogrish arm-to-body ratio in mystical gestures, but the genuinely groundbreaking potential of having two mouths on the same person.

 "Given than the mana evoked comes out of the same corpus, there's no reason it shouldn't receive shaping from both sets of verbal components.  The trick is, as far as I know, there aren't any ogre magi who embrace the magic on both sibling egos.  One develops a magical gift, the other becomes increasingly martial.  Why do you think that is, Mor'Lag?"
 
You are a novice at magic, but now he's curious about ogre psychology - something about which you certainly have much more experience.  Part of you might be more than happy to opine on the topic.  Part of you might not care to speak of such intimate contentions to outsiders at all...

 Isaera 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
In response to your question, neither Lor'themar nor Kael'thas have been exiled.
 Lor'themar is Regent because he is leading the elves of Azeroth while the rightful ruler, Kael'thas, is elsewhere.  He is Regent in Exile because Silvermoon is presently occupied entirely by the scourge; the nation of Quel'Thelas us ruled by a government 'in exile'.
 


The Regent smiles gently.  He does have a paternal air about him; not gentle exactly, but reassuringly constant in his coolness.   "I don't think the masquerade was planned at all, in fact.  Some of the young ones just started conjouring or fashioning masks, and away they went.  And I do, in fact, remember your family, Miss Arkhana'skrit.  I've seen your mother perform in the Silk and Steel Theatre; and I remember your father's service." 

He does not offer a direct apology for your loss, concerning your father; but this is not uncommon in the conversations elves have with each other.  Everyone has lost so many people that to honor all of them at every new meeting would be a grief all of its own.  Your losses are understood inherently in the subject matter, as you understand his.

He asks you a little about your family now; how things are, in Theramore; and in Thalassian, he asks how you've adjusted to living in areas predominated by human and goblin architecture instead of refined elven architecture.  He does so lowering his voice and smiling a little; a quiet joke between elves at the expense of less particular races, but without intending specifically to attack them.

 "It's like living inside a painting hanging crooked, I find.  One of my quieter initiatives has been seeking to draw all the expatriate elven artisans from the corners of the world and have them teaching their crafts to new generations, for when the time comes to rebuild.  There are some... builders in your family, yes?  Cousins, working in Theramore?" 
 Jakk'ari 
 "Mruhh?"  Jenkins responds, looking down after a moment at his tabard and, with a generous pause, understanding your line of thought.   "Mruhh!"   He affirms through a mouthful of chicken, swallowing about sixty percent of it before replying.

 "Ah!  Yes, the undead deserve all the hell that's coming for them.  We've made big inroads the north, carving big holdouts against the rabid scourge.  You know..."   He leans in, whispering conspiratorially to you with only a minimum of chewing,  "I hear they're going to announce the reconquest, at this thing.  The big push, to drive all the deaders into the bloody sea - from Alterac all the way to the top of the elf-lands!  That'll give the shady-lady something to scowl about." 

He thumbs over his shoulder at Sylvannas Windrunner, whose attention is on one of her attendants quietly conversing about some matter of import to the queen of the forsaken.   "Sounds like a good opportunity to work together, eh?  Bring your opal friends to that one, hah!" 
 
Feathersnow
"What can we say."
"We have had a complicated relationship with magic"

"Our fathers were a warlock."
"Warlock magic is different."

"Old Magic is a science."
"Most can learn it, to a degree"

"The Fel requires a price, and an experience."
"One head can give themselves over, the other can remain sober."

"Neither of us were willing to give ourselves over,"
"But, in time, our natural talent..."

"Manifested"

"I, Mor, want to use it."
"I, Lag, want glory."

"These ideas can be in harmony."
"So we seek the old Magic as a compromise."
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

There it was again.

Ms Mordis.

This was the trouble with wanting to re-establish her family's name and legacy: she had to act like it.

She had walked into the Alliance entourage, her ring visible and her story now a source of gossip. She had just politely corrected a former Archmage of Dalaran, and now, she was before the Lord of Theramore. Or Lady, as it were. It was one thing to be thought of as a proud little thing returning her family name, perhaps even being considered arrogant. It was quite another to be thought of as  duplicitous  in seeking this recognition yet shying away from it when meeting her closest authority figure. That would look weak. That would look deceptive. That would look calculated and snakey. It was better to be thought of as an arrogant little b i tch who, nevertheless, was an honest actor than a sycophantic, ambitious liar.

Besides, her story had a degree of sympathy evocation. A teenage girl escaping the mindless horror of the scourge, her family having been loyal to the Alliance and suffering for it, now she sought re-establishment.

No, she couldn't shy away now.

 "It's Baroness now, My Lady,"  Marion replied politely, conjuring all of the social graces indoctrinated into her for the entirety of her youth to present a pleasant front just offering a small correction, with the face-saving 'now' a suggestion that this was a new development since last they met.

 "Yes, actually - my companion, Isaera! I really should only talk about it with her present, I wouldn't want to 'steal her thunder' so to speak, it was she who had to think quickly."  she brightened, offering a genuine, sweet smile.

 "She mentioned an alteration in the magical ley-lines through the caverns,"  she started, both of them educated on arcane matters,  "while the druids...I'm not too familiar with their recognition of affairs, so I don't want to speak where I have no knowledge, but they mentioned it was possibly connected. As you said, it was a narrow affair, and I'm glad we all got there when we did!" 

The warlock seemed sincerely happy with the result, given the alternative horrors that were likely avoided.

 "A portal anchor seems very convenient! How are things progressing in Theramore? My majordomo mentions increased freight shipping." 

Marion didn't muscle her way into talking about buying land surrounding the port. Discussing business like that at an affair like this would be rather crass and uncouth.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari moves his gaze from Leeroy's chicken strewn beard to Sylvanas Windrunner. She could have passed for a night elf at a glance with her extending pointed eyebrows and a light blue complexion. But then there were the red baleful eyes. Luminous eyes were not unheard of across Azeroth. Night elves, elementals, or those with a strong magical acumen are often with bright eyes diffusing traces of latent energies. But the forsaken queen's eyes projected a harsh probing beam unlike any undead he had encountered before.

Turning to his tentative confidant Jakk'ari discusses with Leeroy.   Aye, I know several members of the Collocation who would gladly join the fight. Here, take this if you meet any of the other members.   Removing the his tie Jakk'ari offers the cord and stone clasp to Leeroy.   If you find another chapter just ask for Jakk'ari the Farraki of the Ratchet chapter.  
  I don't know what Sylvanas has a vested interest in but it will likely affect both of us. I wish you the best commander Jenkins.  
WindStruck
Isaera briefly nods, at least somewhat glad her loved ones were remembered. And though her father may be dead and her mother lived on, perhaps from one perspective she may as well have been counted among the dead too, her soul crushed and livelihood snuffed out.

 "Oh, I agree. It never does feel quite right. Even when we have managed to settle someplace for months.. it still feels almost as transient and unfamiliar as the pavilions outside of Orgrimmar." 

She muses on that in Theramore, she didn't even live in what passed for an enclave. Her neighbors consisted of humans and across the street, an old dwarf that seemed to only sit in front of his door and drink.

 "But we've done a fair job renovating the building. My brother has done most of the handiwork there. As for my cousins.. a younger one I have is studying hard to become a mage as well. The other, I'm afraid, seems more musically inclined than anything..." 

She shakes her head and takes another sip of her drink, just reminiscing of her family again. She really should visit.
MrAbdiel
  Isaera 
 
 Spoiler: Family Matters 
I can’t blame you for not remembering all the details of your family!  You pitched an idea to me and I spun it out into a thing that was sort of decided over a long string of posts.  But there are a couple of other cousins in there - young guys who doing low-level building gigs in Theramore and sleeping on the floor in your over crowded house, last time you were there!  I have to dig their names out of the earlier posts, but:

 The Family Runescribe 
 Daeden Runescribe: Father.  Decorated Warmage.  Killed in the defense of Silvermoon in the Third War.

Aunara Runescribe: Mother.  Competent mage; highly accomplished former stage performer.  Very loving, if not especially maternal.  Has pronounced struggles with the diminished realities of refugee life, especially the financial kind, and mana dependency matters.  Squabbles with Aleeana.

Aleeana Runescribe: Older Sister.  Acts like younger sister.  Restless.  Possesses the talent, but not the patience, for great spellcraft.  Fancies herself a Farstrider.  Squabbles with Aunara.

Kaleneus Runescribe: Older Brother.  Warmage.  Killed in the battle of Mount Hyjal, against the Archdemon Archimonde.

Tarien Runescribe: Younger Brother.  Practical.  Average magical promise.  Introverted; empathetic; very passionate about the family legacy. 
 Extended Family: 
 Reyna: Maternal Aunt.  Widowed in the Second War.  Warmage.  Killed, along side your father, in the defense of Silvermoon.  Her five children fell into the care of your mother, as you fled to Kalimdor with the Alliance invasion force.

Jaana: Maternal Aunt.  Widowed in the Second War.  Took her five children and attempted to flee from the scourge through the Eversong wood, where they were caught in the path of the Scourge.

Dalana, Eira, and Jasylla: Cousins.  The girls are all apprenticing at the Theramore Tower of Mages.

Aerdithane and Rayadel: Cousins.  The boys take labor jobs to earn enough to (barely) finance their sisters’ magical studies. 

But I’m going to honor your last post, too - Dalana is the magic apprentice with the most promise, the one that helped Jakk’ari with the key.  I’ll say…Eira is lagging a little, and is the one with musical talent!

There, now we have a Lore entry for Isaera’s family.  😀
 


The Regent-In-Exile has a paternal air and a thoughtful attention that seems to comfortably bridge the gulf between the highest matters of the elven state, and the goings-on in the Runescribe home.  After a few minutes of talking about your family, it doesn’t seem odd to be speaking to him about them at all.

 “Well, I hope to see a day where there are elven enclaves respected and thriving across this world, and perhaps beyond.  But perhaps… There may be a time sooner than that in which we may return to familiar places, and reinvest them with old glory.” 

The elder elf’s soft smile is wistful… But perhaps telling.  If there was a reconquest to be undertaken soon, perhaps to be announced tonight, it would be Lor’themar who knows about it most.  “And if your brother, or cousins, have talent and interest in the honest work of woodworkers and masons… a great deal of that may soon be required.”

 Jakk’ari 

The strange knight Jenkins takes the token between pinky and ring finger, his more primary fingers occupied holding food, and raises it in salute.

He says something that you think might be appreciation, but his mouth is full of chicken.  He seems an earnest sort - not at all the grim soldier of vengeance that you have heard the Crusade to be.  But he is strong, and at least fearless of social judgment.  If he brings that energy into war, then who could stand against him?

 Marion 

The Lady Proudmoore smiles a little as you gently insist on the title.  Unlike Modera, she knows your circumstance somewhat more personally - a stranger in a strange land, with noble blood overlooked in the shadow of treachery, perceived or otherwise.  When she oversaw the foundation of Theramore, she insisted on eschewing the more grand titles she might have taken for the relatively mild epithet ‘Lady Protector’.  But she might just as easily have pressed for Baroness, or something like it; and would have endured the same cold reception from the skeptical potentates of the Eastern Kingdoms just the same.
 
“As you prefer, Baroness Mordis.  The Kirin Tor are working with the Cenarion Circle to resolve the ley-line warping in the caverns - I’ll be sure to have a copy of the eventual report sent to your tower for Isaera’s perusal.  As for Theramore, it progresses comfortably.  Shipping is increasing with the speculative trade routes.  This Armistice is a long time coming - and I’m sure you will appreciate the post-war advantages to traders in the opening markets.” 

She talks to you for a while - not like an exile, or a disappointment, or a listless orphan in the wind; but like an equal.  It is the first validation of your assertion of title you have received; the first of many you will need.

 Mor’Lag 

Rommath is polite, and genuinely interested in the magic of your people.  His Ogrish is quite good - a few times he stops to ask if he is saying something right, and he almost always is.

 “There is a great deal of glory to be found in this pursuit, Mor’Lag.  I commend your effort.  I was, myself, in the Outlands not so long ago.  I went through Nagrand; saw the remnants of Highmaul.  Your people were once great magi and great rulers.  And like mine, they have fallen far.  But we must both do what we must do, if we are to see old glories again.  I may check on you again, Voidfist.  May your ancestors, and mine, watch over our ambitions.” 

The Magister takes his leave; and after he has, there is no shortage of Orgrimmar based ogres gravitating to you with curiosity about the encounter.  It is more prestigious attention than ogrekind is normally afforded.

 
 Spoiler: OOC 
With this, comes the end of the Early portion of the Armistice Ball.  You may take note of the people you have met if you like - they will remember you, and may call on you in future time.  Or you might namedrop them and hope they back you up if you’re called on it.

If you have anything else you’d like to say in conclusion of this portion of the party, go for it!  Otherwise I’ll slide us to the next segment next time I post, this week.
 

 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari smiles as he receives what he assumes to Crusader Jenkin's approval. The man had stretched his vigor beyond the normally allotted years. Perhaps by the fervor of his cause or his disarmingly earnest demeanor. It was enough to abstain from ruminating about the other guests for now. Sure, the disagreements would arise but securing peace in these halls would slow the exchange and proliferation of weapons. And that would be the start to giving his tribe time and the chances it needed.

Grabbing a mug of ambrosial drink from a cart Jakk'ari toasts to Crusader Jenkin's approval.
  To future collaboration and a prosperous peace may we win.   The glass of Jakk'ari's mug smudges as it embraces Jenkin's leg of chicken.
  I need to introduce you to the rest of the chapter. They would love to hear about your cause.  
WindStruck
Isaera nods sagely.  "If you do know of any opportunities - prestigious, lucrative, or simply honorable, please do share. Maybe you need not say right this moment but.. I would certainly see to it that my brother and cousins learn about them, and decide if that is their calling." 

She nods reverently to the regent, and as if noticing she was in a large room populated by many people for the very first time she says,  "Thank you regent. All this reminiscing and pining may strengthen our bonds, but it does not solve the heart of the matter. I think it is about time that I plan a visit." 

Standing from her seat at the bar, Isaera makes her way over towards Jaina Proudmoore. Almost noticeably, one could tell many of the men that gathered near the bar seem less interested in acquiring a drink. As Isaera approaches, she feels the palpable aura of magic again. In a way, to her mystic senses, it seemed to trump all other displays of wealth, beauty, or authority.

Still, she had felt this before, and dealt with this woman before. She wasn't just going veer off and pretend to only skirt by!   "Good evening, Lady Proudmoore. A moment of your time?"  Isaera asks. Once she has the arch mage's attention, she says,   "I wanted to ask you about the key-rune you mentioned to me earlier. Has your tower successfully completed its teleport attunement?" 
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
Well thanks for the family update!

I decided to start a conversation with Jaina, but I guess you can quickly finish it, or outright interrupt it for the next part of the event.
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion's smile was small and subdued, but there nontheless. Jaina's apparent support of her recogition was pleasing and reassuring, particularly as she was the closest authority figure to their current base of operations...and where Marion herself wanted to buy land.

 "Thank you Lady Proudmoore,"  Marion responded with a polite nod to the news of receiving a report from the Cenarion Circle. Just what those nutty nature-lovers were up to was beyond her, but with it put in written form she might be able to make some sense of it.

 "We could all be bound together by trade,"  the warlock offered.  "Soldiers will no longer need to cross boarders when goods can instead." 

Then Isaera appeared.

Marion's bright eyes moved over quietly to watch the elf as she sashayed up to their conversation.
Plaids
   
 Jakk'ari 
Jakk'ari continues conversation with commander Jenkins enjoying his company and the rich food interspersed between Jenkins's stories. He catches himself before cavorting about too enthusiastically. He waves sheepishly to Lady Prestor's entourage, trying to assert to someone that he had reined himself in.
MrAbdiel
  Marion and Isaera 
 "May it all go as you say, Baroness.  If there's one thing the last war should have taught us, it's that Azeroth is at its best and noblest when all its energies are concerted towards a single good - I just hope that good doesn't need to be dodging a particular annihilation every time.  Ah - Mistress Runescribe." 

Lady Proudmoore pivots enough to open the discussion's incarnated bounds to the elf.   "Marion was just singing your praises about your quick thinking in the Wailing Caverns.  It's a related matter, in fact - that ley-line snarl you managed to cap might have had unpredictable effects on teleport runs through the Barrens.  I had an argument with Karsus about whether a mage riding a portal from Theramore to Orgrimmar was more likely to end up warped into the deeps of the Wailing Caverns, or just deposited a hundred miles west of Ogrimmar because of the ley-snarl's 'pull'; dumped out on the Ashenvale side of the river, I suppose.  Anyway, I'm happy not to have to find out.  Once the dispatched team smooths that situation, we should be able to anchor a portal rune in your tower, and fashion you a key. I would  brush up on my translocation magics, if I were you - they may be required soon." 

The rest of the early-evening goes well. Slowly, as the remaining guests arrive, the high-echelon nobles and dignitaries are bundled up in their rarefied groups  which become progressively less penetrable to  mere  heroes and freebooters such as yourselves.  But there are plenty of interesting people to meet who are not so grand in station as to become inapproachable.  Jakk'ari, shocking no one, has made a new friend - an aging knight by the name of  Leeroy Jenkins  who seems to be here representing the Scarlet Crusade.  Typically their crusade is directed towards the undead; in Leeroy's case, it seems to be mostly against the buffet tables.  He is tall, boistrous, and chummy; and not at all noble, even if he is sincere.  He is impulsive, though - at some point after the introduction from the troll, you all blink and find he has wandered off somewhere else in the party. Hopefully, he hasn't gotten into any trouble.

 * * * * * 
In the mid-evening, the event is in full swing. All the guests have arrived; the band cycles through a regionally eclectic mix of loud and danceable tunes. The main course is being fragrantly roasted, grilled, fricasseed and poached nearby; the body of attendees have a moderate, not disastrous, level of alcohol in them.

  Isaera  
 "Getting fun, isn't it?" 

The elf is wearing an elaborate mask over his upper face; a stylized likeness of a hawkstrider's beak in black velvet and silver.  It compliments a set of polished elven field plate, and a sash of dark silk with an opalescent finish completed with a white ribbon near the lapel.  It takes a moment because of the mask, but this is Zalael; the fighter from the Opal Collocation's Arathi chapter whom you met previously.  True to his word, he produces from his sleeve a slim, single serving bottle of what you recognize to be  Spiral Reserve , and offers to refresh your glass with the elusive elven wine.

 "Sorry I didn't come over earlier.  There's goblins going around with clipboards and flowers in their hair, taking votes for King and Queen of the Armistice Ball.
 I've been trying to get ahead of them, and make good impressions." 

Now that you look for them, you can see them - maybe a dozen goblin women, decked out in what they consider high fashion, swanning about and cornering individuals and groups... polling the assembling for the frivolous, but somehow compelling, prize of being recognized as  fairest  amidst those assembled.  It's hard to say if Zalael's plan to preceed them and make impressions will be taken as tacky or masterful; but if that  is  the prize you've come to compete for, you'll need to make some kind of impression...

 "Care to dance?" 
  Marion  
 "Miss Mordis..?"
 
Distracted for a moment, watching the goblin pollsters and figuring out just now their purpose, you are caught slightly off guard by a blue robed figure with whom you are passingly acquainted - the mage who halted you near the royal tents in the camp outside, whom Sir Cadfael referred to as Henry.  He stands along side you in the same blue robe; formal but not ostentatious, clearly not seeking to win any awards himself.  There is a mild awkwardness to his features; something like apology.

 "I'm glad I saw you.  I... wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings about earlier.  Cadfael vouches for you, so I'm inclined to... Well. What I mean is, I'm not completely unsympathetic to your situation.  Alterac, I mean.  It's hard to think that all the northern kingdoms are gone, more or less; or walled up and isolated from the world.  My father was Stromgardian.  Broke his heart when the old kingdom came apart; they say the gutted city is just a riot of ogres and trolls.  I wanted to ask... how serious you are, about rebuilding.  Retaking your old lands, and such."   His eyes take on a strange, focused shine then, as he regards you once more.   "...And what you are willing to do, to make that happen." 
 
 Jakk'ari  
This is the part of the evening you are really here for.  Major figures, kings and Regents, are a little inaccessible to a diplomat of your humble station; but now the party is full of mildly drunk seneschals, majordomos, servants, adjutants, envoys, and the dozens of nebulous bureaucratic stations which are responsible for the gears of power to turn smoothly.  They possess knowledge that would be very practical for you: which lords and thanes and magisters would be most and least sympathetic to your cause, which like what kinds of gifts and when their children have birthdays, which are old and likely to die and who is most likely to take their position shortly after.  This is the bread and butter of the diplomatic world, especially for those who, like you, are an advocate for a very small fish that is mostly looking not to be eaten.  A Darkspear envoy can rest on his laurels some, because the Warchief of the Horde has already sworn blood protection over that tribe; but you are aiming for legitimacy that might endure even if this peace does not, and even against neutral aggressors, like the encroaching Steemwheedle Cartel, whom partisan operators are unlikely to move for fear of their own alienation.

To your left, you see a place to start - a mob of Alliance and Horde dignitaries who are just into their cups enough to be pliable to new members of their little circle.

 "Hah hah!  Ah, that's good - I'll remember that.  I'll add it to my catalogue of swearwords I know in other languages."   A dwarven scribe cackles as a Darkspear mojo-merchant slaps him on the back.   "Ya, mon; dat's de one.  Don't be sayin' it near Sen'Jin unless ya want ya head shrunk.  But de worst one is , uh... Ah, tip of de tongue... It's an Amani word..." 

You know the amusing, highly insulting Amani troll dialect word they're groping for now - all that you need to do is swagger in and impress them with your lexical knowledge...

But to your right, at the other side of the ball, is Roshorn; the white furred Winterfall Furbolg shaman-turned-diplomat who made his way here from the other end of the world, much as you have.  He is alone, still; awkward and isolated, ill equipped to understand the gabble of languages around him.  He has relied on his friends from the Winterfall Chapter of the Opal Collocation to arrive and aid him; but they have not come.  Some delay has prevented them from arriving, and the furred shaman clutches his gnarled staff close to his body with one hand, and holds the plain white 'neutral' token, a simple disc, in the other like a protective talisman he is convinced he will need to produce to prove he has a right to be here.

Other shamans can speak Kalimag and communicate with him, but those in attendance do not seem to be giving him the attention that you have, previously; and without your merciful intervention, he might be stuck in his predicament for the whole night - and perhaps longer, depending on if his friends arrive at all.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Decision time for Jakk'ari.  He can chum it up with his peers at this diplomatic junket and advance his primary agenda; or he can show compassion to a lonely and isolated soul whose path here has been very much like his own.

You can have a VP for this, so when we get into the next 'real' quest you can start with two.
 I'll give it to you whichever way you decide because I intend to punish Jakk'ari one way or the other! &gt;:)  He may attempt to shelter Roshorn from the bright lights and exotic oddity of the celebration, AND make friends with more diplomats; but he will only succeed strongly at one of the two.  Something's gotta give.  Strictly this is invoking your  Farraki Diplomat  complication, but I'm also playing off the generally compassionate and benevolent way you've played your character so far.  Advance personal agenda for a future hope for the betterment of your people, or help one distressed friend, right here and now, who could really use it.
 

  Mor'Lag  

You have gravitated quite naturally to the company of ogres.  Oro Manflinger, the ogre whom you fought alongside ('Brokenhorn') is here now, with a very conspicuous delegation of maybe twenty Stonemaul ogres.  They would not be here by invitation except that part of the festivity is welcoming them to the Horde, and their cluster sticks out like an island in a sea of the smaller races churning about in their flirtatious and diplomatic games.  They are a safe and familiar harbor for you to return to between venturing out into the gathering to try your best to make connections with individuals who might know more about Titan-magic; and your plan for the evening seems to have a definite shape, until it takes an awkward turn.

A late arrival stirs the party.  Some of the attendies part to allow a figure through, jogging with a self deprecating smile on his face to the assembly of Kirin Tor archmagi in attendance at the far end of the courtyard.  The name you hear muttered is familiar to you:  Khadgar.

Khadgar, you know, was the archmage who was part of the leadership the Alliance counter attack through the Dark Portal, invading Draenor and ultimately destroying the portal from that side.  Like all those who went that way, there had been no word from him for many years until recent developments opened some limited teleportation between that shattered old world and this new one.  Kael'Thas and his elves are in Draenor, studying the Nether and looking for a home for their suffering people; and some of the Alliance have apparently made their way back.  In his blue and gold robes, the wizard has a clean-shaven professional look to him that many eccentric human mages do not; softened by a demeanor that reads as  sorry I'm late, I'm just a silly old man, ha ha. 

But all of that recognition of the name is a vague, foggy flicker at the back of your mind.  The blood in your hearts feels like it is freezing.

 
 Spoiler: Unbidden Memory 

 
 Originally Posted by Your Fathers, Turr'Nog 
 “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?” 
 
 


There is a flutter of laughter for Khadgar as he reaches his lofty peers, who look at him with mild amusement and reprimand.

 
 Spoiler: Unbidden Memory 
 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. 
 


The Alliance members, and even some of the impressionable party goers of other allegiances, give a jocular, lazy cheer for Khadgar's better-late-than-never arrival.

 
 Spoiler: Unbidden Memory 
 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. 
 


You don't just recognize the name - but now you put a face to the name, and realize you know the face, too.  Even removed so far in time, even having watched from the shallow waters on your deck of your grandmother's ship.

This is the mage you saw.

This is the man that killed your fathers.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Mor'Lag, I would love to give you a victory point to add to your basic one, to use in the next mission; on the condition that you   make a scene and try to kill Khadgar right now.  
 
 
Feathersnow
"You!"
"You!"

"You killed our fathers!"
"You are responsible for our disgrace"

"I call you to answer!"
"Your blood will redeem our line!"

The ogress charges the Archmage, ready to counter and dispel his magics, then pummel him to death!
WindStruck
Isaera regards the archmagess with some respect and says,  "I .. wasn't referring to our tower specifically, Lady Proudmoore, though that would be nice. It was actually your tower in Theramore, which you mentioned I could teleport to, and then would have to sail back to Ratchet?"  She eyed Jaina inquisitively, perhaps suspiciously, starting to wonder if she'd just been told something fabricated up just to get her to agree to this Opal Coalition business.

- - -

The event gets fully underway with all remaining guests arriving fashionably late. As Isaera mills about, pondering her next move, a familiar voice addresses her. Ah, Zalael. Isaera smiles, briefly looking down at the bottle and then her empty glass, and before she offers to split the small bottle, she has to blink and ask,  "The what now? King and Queen?" 
 "So is that what they're doing? Well, it's been a while since I've done a proper dance.. oh but my mother taught me well. Let's put on a show then, shall we?" 

And so they begin, modestly at first, but as they get into the swing of things, Isaera twirling in her sparkly orange dress is a sight to behold, like a dancing flame amid specks of magnesium that light up.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
Isaera's base attributes are actually fairly clumsy, and it's not like I've added any skills specifically related to dancing either. But her mother!!

Well, I'm willing to spend a VP if it matters, so as not to be a klutz while dancing. And perhaps even pretty good at it!
 


Things were going well. For the first time, Isaera was genuinely smiling and enjoying herself, as she maneuvered in tandem with the strong arms of Zalael.

But then...

Then it all had to come to a screeching halt, with the all-too familiar shouting of two boisterous ogre heads. Isaera is greatly put off balance as her head swivels around and upper body turns the wrong way in response to the commotion. Her dance is halted.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
I'll roll initiative here:
 (1d20-2)[ 3 ] 
 
Plaids
Snapping himself out of a boisterous mood Jakk'ari sees two of his priorities. The chummy diplomats ready for a newcomer and Roshorn awkwardly navigating the crowded social space unable to find a welcoming alcove. Jakk'ari steps forward according to virtues of his home and walks toward dwarf scribe and troll majordomo. Feeling some guilt for Roshorn he hastily taps Sir Jenkin's shoulder to gesture to Roshorn hoping he would make the acquaintance of another stranger. Yes, this is what his chief, wife, and children would have wanted. He walks forward to incorporate himself in the conversation.  (1d20+3)[ 5 ]  - OOC: Assuming presence is related to this roll. Edit: Luck just wasn't with me on that role. I will reroll if possible.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 "I'm glad I saw you. I... wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings about earlier. Cadfael vouches for you, so I'm inclined to... Well. What I mean is, I'm not completely unsympathetic to your situation. Alterac, I mean. It's hard to think that all the northern kingdoms are gone, more or less; or walled up and isolated from the world. My father was Stromgardian. Broke his heart when the old kingdom came apart; they say the gutted city is just a riot of ogres and trolls. I wanted to ask... how serious you are, about rebuilding. Retaking your old lands, and such." His eyes take on a strange, focused shine then, as he regards you once more. "...And what you are willing to do, to make that happen." 


Marion stood with the others during the procession, a wine glass in her hand as she watched things unfolding. Having kept to herself, largely, since talking with Jaina Proudmoore - and receiving her 'nod' to retain her family's title - Marion had felt that her mission was 70% accomplished so far. Not bad - go team!

Then someone else approached. Someone familiar.

Tilting her head to look up at the taller man, Marion's shoulders remained squared as she heeded his words, the implications, consequences and innuendo's running through her mind. Just what was this man getting at? Where was he going with this?

 "During the Second War, there were those of us who knew where our loyalties lay; with Lordaeron and the Alliance. Those other houses within Alterac, the ones that sold us all down-river?"  Marion uttered back quietly, her voice only audible to the other man as she took a sip of wine. A sour look crossed her face.

 "Bastards,"  she almost spat on the ground.

To the rest of his words, Marion looked over at him with a sombre expression, as the memories of the world world returned to her. The old world. The  better  world. A world of lush promise, orderly societies and no shambling corpses plaguing the lands.

 "I visited Stromgarde when I was very young. I cannot recall much, but being from the mountains, I was amazed at the beauty of the verdant and far-stretching highlands of Arathi..."  she trailed off, smiling.

 "I am very serious,"  she replied.

 "But I am not reckless. The forces arrayed against us in the northern kingdoms are mighty. To retake what was once ours and rebuild will be a body of work that takes generations,"  she said matter-of-factly, as if it were a topic she had meditated on numerous times - because she had.

 "Worse yet, every failure on the battlefield against the Scourge only strengthens them further as they re-animate our fellows and send them back against us! We're already outnumbered, and every number we lose becomes one of theirs. We cannot afford to foolishly rush in, only to further weaken humanity and strengthen the Scourge."  she outlined the seemingly insurmountable task of retaking the Northern Kingdoms.

 "So, we must rearm with superior weapons and strategies that makes one of ours worth twenty of theirs. We need to have the sons to wield them and daughters to tend to the wounded,"  Marion said solemnly, again as if she had long thought about this proceedure and what it would take,  "this is a movement that we will need to build over time, and one that is both equipped and resolute enough to endure and overcome what will doubtlessly be a hard-fought and bloody affair." 
 "I may very well be grey in the hair before it is even accomplished, or an honored ancestor in the ground. But mark my words, sir, yes, I am very serious. We will one day take back what was ours." 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari  
 (1d20+3)[ 17 ] 
  Excuse me, I've mixed my lexicon with humans and ogres. The dialect is actually. 
MrAbdiel
  Isaera 

Jaina reassures you before she is peeled away to other business. She is confident, once you brush up on your translocative foundations, you will be prepared and able to teleport yourself to Theramore. But past that comes a longer and more difficult project: the ability to open portals, which is a few degrees beyond what you can yet capture with your skills. For now, teleport to Theramore and take the boat back; later, once they have anchored a portal rune in your guild tower, you will be able to portal small numbers of travellers back and forth between both locations, not to mention a host of others across the world.

But that can wait. For now, a world of wars and displacement and danger renders to you, briefly, a moment of delight the way it used to be available, back  before.  You've never had a fighter's ability to stick-and-move; that's a kind of warrior-grace that Aleeana and Kaleneus scooped out of the family store before you came into the world. But your mother Aunara was a legend of the stages of Silvermoon, and  performative  grace,  cooperative  grace, belongs to you even if  combative  grace does not. So the goblins saw and strum out some danceable ditties and the swarm of young masked elves elevate them with their participation, and you take Zalael to make a show of it. He is not your equal in the dancefloor, but he is perfectly enough to let you shine; and he has the strong arms a good partner requires for you to languidly dip and swing before he draws you weightlessly back to  closed embrace  to carry on.

Funny; he was chatty before, very keen to chat you up; but you have forced all his attention into his body now, and he has just enough of it to anticipate your movements, avoid other dancing couples, and to prevent the 'beak' of his mask from poking you in the cheek when you invert your hold on each other. You could go up another gear or two, honestly; but then you'd dance the lad into the ground, and that would serve no one.

But then you hear Mor'Lag shout, and the whole affair comes to a screeching halt.

 Marion 

"Henry" listens to your contemplations; watches you carefully, with that scouring gaze he used to guard the alliance tents earlier. You can almost see the gears ticking behind his eyes; working to recategorize you from 'troublesome outsider' into something near to 'mutually benefiting acquaintance'.

 "Generations, yes; most likely. For Stromgarde, at least. Kul Tiras and Gilneas remain diplomatically burned, and closed bordered. Alterac, though... you have the harder task. It wasn't the scourge or the orcs that topple the mountain kingdoms; it was the Alliance of Lordaeron, if we're fair. And they, we, were more than happy to divide up the Alterac rump territories afterward. The Northern kingdoms are in disarray, but the first one to get its feet under it - Stromgarde, Gilneas, even a resurgent Dalaran or Lorderanean reconquest - will likely attempt to sweep the old castles into its claim as the borders are redrawn. And that's going to happen, as soon as the Forsaken aren't a hostile neighbour preventing it." 

You follow his glance across the room to where the Dark Lady, Sylvannas Windrunner, entertains a subdued conversation with Archmage Rommath. The Forsaken are doing much of the work containing the scourge in the North, now - but you cannot tell the layered politics at a glance. Rommath, after all, is representative of both fallen Quel'Thalas and Dalaran. Perhaps Dalaran would seek to expand its conventional kingdom, now that their cloistered magocracy was proved woefully insufficient to keep out the storms. Nearby, waiting for a chance to speak to one or the other, is Grand Admiral Jes-Tereth. Would Stormwind make a play for northern colonies, now that it has become the nucleus around which the Allied nations spin?

 "Well..."  Henry speaks again, drawing your attention back.  "Let us imagine that you serve your vanished nation, and I serve mine; both reimagined as their better selves, without their undermining elements. Perhaps you'd be amenable to receiving information, from time to time, that might be relevant to both our interests. This Collocation you're part of is producing outsized leverage; and I suspect the ability to walk between the worlds of the factions will be useful long after the armistice is formally renewed. I happen to know that, if one knows where to look in Strahnbrad-" 

At this point, however, more demanding events take place; and Mor'Lag's voices boom out over the room as she storms towards Khadgar.

 Jakk'ari 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
No need for the roll, this time! You paid the price by making the hard decision already.
 


Roshorn is like yourself, in many ways; far from home, burdened by a duty to his people in a world shrinking and presenting less space for them. This, you must trust, will mean Roshorn will understand why you cannot spend what may be the most important opportunity for networking in your lifetime minding him. The furbolg will have to manage himself, for a while; there are too many people depending on your success here, and your success depends on making inroads in the higher circles of envoys and diplomats sufficient to be taken seriously by both sides. This was the whole point of your participation in the Opal Collocation, and it is bearing fruit now. It would be negligent to let that fruit go unharvested, after all you've invested, and after all that has been invested in you.

You lose sight of the bewildered bear-man receiving the chatty, gesticulative introduction of Swordbrother Jenkins, and then you're in the circle of strangers.

 No -  circle of  peers. 
 "Excuse me, I've mixed my lexicon with humans and ogres. The dialect is actually:..." 

And then you drop on them the word they are looking for; a fantastically insulting Amani word that phonetically resembles both a human word for  childbirth  and an ogre word for  a meal you eat so as not to insult a bad cook.  The vulgarity of it silences the group briefly, and then a ring of ribald laughter shears through it all, and the Darkspear is slapping  you  on the back and wiping tears from his eyes, and the dwarven scribe is flush-faced with ale and giggles, and suddenly it's all going so well.

The Darkspear troll is one of the principle mojo-merchants working between the enclave in Orgrimmar and the Echo Isles; called Bembwe or, after some bizarre island troll tradition you cannot grasp,  Bembowole  'for short'. The dwarven scribe, Lartus Toecutter, works in the court of Magni Bronzebeared as one of three scribes who record all conversations taking place with the king, and who check the records against each other. You meet another dozen bureaucrats and envoys in that middle level of station; the level of political worker that can contract and expand through a network of obligations to exert more control on the world that any individual king or queen.

And more importantly, they listen to you; about the Farraki, and you see in their faces it's the first time most of them had have an interaction with a sand troll that isn't a second hand story of a spear launched at their kodo from behind a dune.

 "Honestly I'm surprised the goblins put this on,"  Lartus confesses at a whisky whisper as you springboard from talking about the cartel in Gadgetzahn to here,  "given how the Steemwheedle princes make so much of their profit from wartime trade as the neutral entity. Once the armistice turns into a full peace accord, they're going to be competing against every merchant with a boat who is willing to cross the Great Ocean for trade; and they're well behind the Venture Co. explorers in resource exploitation." 
 "Mebbe, mebbe,"  Bembowole humors with a pluck of his left, scribed tusk;  "but I 'ope dat even the goblins 'ave more motivations dan greed. Mebbe we will-" 

But that, of course, is when Mor'Lag makes her move, and all eyes track to the charging ogress.

 Mor'Lag 

You have lost your temper before; but this time your feet are moving and your arms are swinging before your brains comprehend your goals. At a level that begins with your  body , rippling up from your sacrum to the vertebrae junction and into your minds, you feel the sting of the shame with which you have been scourged all these intervening years; and for an inadvisable moment in this momentous and peaceful event, all the tempering experiences between now and then are blasted away.

The elven dancers on the floor throw themselves out of the way as you barrel forward. Something splashes on your arm as you bowl over an orc who is too far in his cups to track your approach. A hand - a tauren, you think - claps on Lag's shoulder trying to restrain you, but you blow past with momentum as the grey haired wizard boggles at your charge.

Behind him, in a liquid-glass moment of slowed perspective, you see the other Kirin Tor mages assembled starting to flinch back, and their hands coming up to cast defensively; but too slow. Khadgar's expression remains befuddlement as you storm to him, and his hands slowly lift with a rapid mustering of frosting mist. You're ready; you have your nulling magic in your fist ready to sway at a frostbolt if it comes your way, but no projectile leaves his fingers; and then you're close enough , and you swing...

And feel the numbing shock as your fist collides with a block of ice as slick and hard as polished steel. The frosty bastion manifested around him so fast you barely had time to register it; and the spell projecting it is located in the mage himself, so your dispelling charge cannot reach him to challenge it. Anyone other than an ogre might have broken their hands pounding on the ice like that. Your mitts are made for such abuse, and you hammer three, four more blows into the ice between Khadgar's baffled face and your wrath before a few of the Stonemaul ogres arrive by your side to pry you away. At that point, the blood-flash of the moment is draining away and you're aware of where you are again; how wildly inappropriate the outburst was even if personally warranted... and you are free to speculate on how world politics might have suddenly changed if you succeeded.

 "Peace, Mor'Lag;"  you hear Oro Manflinger, 'Brokenhorn', grumble to you as you come back to your senses and the ogres drag you back to the screening wall of their delegation,  "peace, now." 

You hear the silence give way to an explosion of relieved laughter, as Khadgar says something.

 * * * * * 

Once Mor'Lag is dragged away and the danger of the outburst is aside, Khadgar's iceblock vanishes in a frosty puff, and he bats some snowflakes from his hair. Everyone in the room stares at him, waiting to see how  he  will interpret the event.

 "Well... Now that we've, err... broken the ice..." 

Not, it seems, as an assassination attempt, or an international incident. The crowd laughs in relief, and the music kicks back in; and the world does not dissolve into the chaos of a Fourth War. 
WindStruck
The ogress's charge and assault is stopped, and all Hell does not break loose. In fact, everyone seems to carry on as though nothing happened.

But Isaera is stunned, first gawking at the aged archmage who dusts some snowflakes from his hair, and then her gaze drifts over toward the group of ogres. Her blood feels like it begins to boil briefly before she hisses,   "Imbecile!"  

When one cynically thought about it, maybe this behavior wasn't a surprise. But regardless Isaera was thoroughly disappointed, and embarrassed. In fact, she'd rather distance herself from this incident and Mor'Lag, and pretend like they had never known each other. So she must take a sigh-like breath to compose herself.

 "Ogres,"  Iseara sneers to Zalael.  "So stupid and boorish that two heads makes them even more foolish."  And what did that say about the one who decided to hire this ogre and those who invited them to this peaceful event in the first place?

Though Isaera has resolved to distance herself from Mor'Lag, it still feels as though there's a cloud hanging over her. She's distracted and looking down now, though perhaps still holding onto her dance partner.
Feathersnow
Lag seethes and Mor cringes as they come to.  They expected not to come to, if they expected anything. Unable to earn either honor or get children, they were a failure, their soul unfit for any afterlife and unclaimed by any God or Clan, they vaguely expected their damned soul to either be eaten by the Old Gods or used as fuel by the Legion.

But... apparently the human was merciful. Well, they decided.  Her challenge was met and answered, honor was satisfied.   If the human didn't think her worth killing, then... she would live, that was all.    Once she regained her arms, she asked for a piece of paper and a quill. Assuming it was brought to her, she writes a note-

 Human Archmage,

You win.  You have bested us, as you bested our fathers. The challenge was not without honor in either case, and you were the victor in both.  We pray you are satisfied and we can leave this matter in the past.   If not, please inform us of what terms will settle things.

Acknowledgement,
Mor and Lag, Called "The Voidfist" 

With that, she hands it off to some third party, and collapses to be alone with her ruined makeup and shattered life....
Plaids
Jakk'ari heaves a heavy gasp of air as he recovers from the shock of events. The whiplash between a surge of adrenaline from Mor'Lag's initial charge and the skipped heartbeat after realizing the futility of trying to extricate Mor'Lag from their predicament once fists met impenetrable ice.

Thankfully Medivh was unperturbed, even delighted by the confrontation with Mor'Lag. The confrontation ended with Oro guiding Mor'Lag towards an ogre friendly enclave.
   You have others depending on your performance here too    Jakk'ari mutters beneath his breath. Before turning towards his new contacts discussing matters of goblin cartels and balance sheets.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Though she hated to admit it, Marion held sentiments that were similar to Isaera's after Mor'laghs conduct. More, perhaps, given that she had been the only one to step forward to help the ogre with her outfit and 'beautification' for the evening - and this is how she was repaid, with social humiliation.

Mordis stood in the crowd, her face a shade of red that was only partially hidden thanks to the dim interior cast back by the luminance of the flame braziers strategically placed around the conference. The night of her family's return to some social standing, the night in which life was breathed back into the name 'Mordis' and the rams head sigil meant something once again, the lineage she had carried with her through those bleakest of times during the Scourging, and it would always be overshadowed by this...that she had brought along an ogre to the evenings proclivities. Of course Marion could not have planned for her companions to start a fight  at a peace conference !

And not just with any fellow patron, but Khadgar, a hero of the alliance. No, not just a hero, a  living legend !

The warlock wanted to cup her face in her open palms and flee the scene, perhaps to throw herself back into whatever hole she had spent years resurrecting her family image from, only for that return to be marred by  this . But she didn't. Marion stood her ground, with a glare that could wilt flowers. Inhaling. Exhaling. Swallow. Another sip. Turn and look away.
MrAbdiel
  Isaera 

Zalael flicks his gaze between the dissolving spectacle and his fuming dance partner. He gives a tiny, awkward smile. Outside of your chapter's social dynamic, he wisely chooses a hedging comment.  "Mm. My father used to say 'passions make fools of us all.' At least the human seems to have a sense of humour about it."  The music has kicked up again, but the enthusiasm for the spectacle of the elven dancers has bled out some. Still, you catch fragmentary glances of the assembled elven diaspora around you. There is admiration out there; envy spritzed in as a tantalizing accent to the flavor. Was this the life your mother and father lived for so long, before the orcs came? Parties, and admiration, and these thrilling games of competition between the beautiful people?

 "Come on. It's winding down - let's see if my brother has found us a good place to sit, among the kin." 
 Jakk'ari 

Thankfully, the ogres bundle Mor'Lag off and the event struggles back to pace as if collectively happy to pretend it didn't happen. Bembowole grimaces at the drama of it, and shakes his head a little.  "Lucky. Swing at Khadgar or Proudmoore, den you'll get away with it. Dere are luminaries here who are less invested in dis peace, I fear." 
Lartus Toecutter reaches into the moment and bonks Bembowole's stein with his own.  "To cooler heads prevailing! Jakk'ari! Jakk'ari, come back to the table with us.  After today, everything south of the Thousand Needles is likely to become demilitirized territory, which means everyone will be competing with the bloody goblins. If I wanted to conduct a mineral survey out there, in a respectful way you understand, who would I talk to about that, hmm?" 

You look for Roshorn again as the events start to move towards the sitting-and-feasting part of the evening's activities; but you don't find him. Jenkins is sitting on the ground leaning against the bar having a content little nap, but the furbolg is nowhere in sight. Perhaps he has gone back to his tent to await the late arrival of his companions; but you must trust that he can look after himself for a while. Right now, for the first time, you are around the right people and they are interested in listening to you. You might achieve in the space of one night of professional carousing more for the the legitimate recognition of the Farraki than any high chief or warlord since the Sundering. You've come too far to forsake that, now.

 Marion 
 "That's a bad look for someone under a white ribbon,"  Henry murmurs as the situation resolves.  "I wonder if the goblins will enforce their rules at all, or just play it off. Embarass the orcs by acknowledging a scandal in their capital, or insult the Dalarani by ignoring an attack on one of theirs in the middle of a neutral event? Hmm." 

Mor'Lag's vengeful outburst is icing on the cake of the evening's mediocrity, for your goals. You've spoken with and mended some bridges with the Dalarani who cast you out, your bloodline is as much a millstone as a stepping stone trying to be seen with legitimacy here. The Alliance of Stormwind and the New Horde maneuver here trying to establish boundaries for a new world; but the world in which Alterac  mattered  diplomatically vanished with the Alliance of Lordaeron and the Old Horde. Across the room, you catch a glance of Jakkari who has apparently had the opposite experience, and is being swept into a cluster of diplomatic peerage. Not  noble  peerage, but his claims are being taken seriously and not regarded like a bad smell wafting up from under a rug no one really wants to lift. The shaman has been trying for most of his life to create an opportunity for the moment he is experiencing now. Will you be a matron, telling yourself that the silver streaks in your hair are stylish and graceful, by the time there is a chance to haul the credibility of Alterac out of the dust and carve your name into it? Who can say?

The mage gives you a few moments to decompose your frustration before continuing.

 "I... wish I could offer you better fortunes. Without the unvarnished sponsorship of a king or two - not a cheap commodity, in such times - people like you and I must consider alternative methods of keeping the best parts of our heritage intact. Perhaps, Lady Mordis, you'll hear me a little longer on this topic - and meet a friend, or two..." 
 Mor'Lag 

You wander outside of the boundary of the festivities, in the shadowed edges of the plaza of Orgrimmar made gloomier by contrast against the revelry in its centre. Honour and bloodlust are not unsacred things in the cultures that have crashed and churned with one another to produce the ogres of today. But neither of them have purchased you comfort or glory, today; just a moment of heat in which the self destructive misery that coils at the junction of your spines, dormant and silent in your best moments, ascendant in your worst. A goblin girl - an adult, but probably the smallest adult goblin you have ever seen - treks out to you in the outskirts and offers to bring you a drink. This may be pity or a devotion to customer service, but she brings you your parchment and quill and delivers it for you. Perhaps fifteen minutes pass, and you can hear the band wrapping up and the crowd dispersing to their tables to eat as the formal diplomatic ceremony begins.

Then she hustles back to you, with a reply in almost unintelligibly hasty writing on the back of the note you sent.

 Mor and Lag,

My younger self might have taken some pride in your concession, but at my age, I can't. I am a practical man. It is my hope that the age of war that has consumed your world and mine is over. I can't say that I'm happy that you tried to kill me in the middle of a peace summit, but I can say that I am old enough to have made rash decisions and lived to look back on them. I wish you a long and satisfying life in which you may find occasion to look back at this incident and laugh.  (The writing becomes rapidly smaller and harder to read as the author runs out of space to cram it in).  I wish I might have met your fathers under better circumstances in which we might well have become friends. I do not begrudge him, or you, for fulfilling the demands of your honor. I hold no demand of you, but if it is not too painful, please return to the party as the Stonemaul who invited you hold you in great esteem and would be crestfallen if you stayed away on my account.

Respectfully,

Khadgar. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: The Final Phase! 
The final phase is upon us! Control whelps; don't stand in the fire!

You can decide whether you seek out each other or anyone else to sit with at this point, but we're at that part of the function where the speakers get up and talk while forks and knives are still squeaking over plates and conversations are murmured between neighbours.

Isaera has been invited to sit with the young high elven attendees.
Jakkari has been invited to sit with his diplomatic peers.
Marion has been invited to sit with a totally non-sus assembly of humans quietly discussing the futures of the fallen kingdoms of man.
Mor'Lag has not been explicitly, but has been absolutely implicitly invited to sit with Oro Manflinger and the Stonemaul.

There's a bunch of 'events' happening here so I'm going to wheel them out over the next few days, but I'll stop on the 'big' one. Feel free to post your character's reaction to any or none of them.
 
 
MrAbdiel
 The food is good. It's very good. It's too important an event to scrimp on the shrimp, and just about all tastes are catered for. As you dine and discuss, the formalities of the event get under way.

 The Theramore-Orgrimmar Trade Accord 

Lady Proudmoore shake's Thrall's hand as the ink on their accord dries. Preceding it, Thrall had made a short speech about the lessons of the Third War and the value of standing together not just against greater threats, but as a vehicle to a better life for all people. It is generally well received. The hawks in the room on both sides are cynical, but not impolite; it is the dream after every war that there should never be war again.

This is, of course, mostly an optical move. It's framed as a coming together of Horde and Alliance in the new age, but Thrall and Jaina have been friends for a long time, now; and the circumstances of their friendship comes with Jaina's decision to back Thrall's forces instead of her fathers in the Battle of Theramore. All the second war veterans whose bacon was saved by the Kul Tiras fleet have mixed feelings about that event. On top of that, the power mismatch is clear; Jaina is individually powerful, but politically peripheral in Alliance politics. Thrall is the supreme authority in the Horde. If anything, they are nailing down this accord as a template hoping other elements of the factions choose to establish trade networks of their own, and so incentivise peace for prosperity.

 The Return of Thas'dorah 
 Thas'dorah  is a storied weapon; the bow carved from a bough of the mother tree of Eversong and wielded by Ranger Generals of Silvermoon one after another in perpetuity. Alleria Windrunner was the last Ranger General of Silvermoon to wield it, and carried the bow in her last mission - through the dark portal in an effort that ultimately ended with the portal's final dormancy, and the loss of contact between the apocalyptic Draenor, and Azeroth. But with the return of certain figures from this 'Outland' - Khadgar one, and Grand Magister Rommath another - rumor of reconnection with the remnants of the orc homeworld abound. This is all but confirmed now; you know that Kael'Thas led his elves seeking to establish a mana-rich home in that place, for example.

Vereesa Windrunner receives her sister's bow from Khadgar's hands. During his speech, he is evasive about Alleria's fate, but noticeably does not suggest she fell in battle. Vereesa does not interrogate him on the podium, and you must presume they have had words. The masterwork bow is laid into her hands, and those assembled, especially the elves, applaud. Continuity of culture is something they are craving, and the youngest Windrunner sister, the last drawing breath on Azeroth, now holds it in her hands.

 "May this moment stand as proof,"  she says with some tremble of emotion in her voice,  "that our people are scattered, but not shattered - and that we shall see our homeland cleansed and restored within our generation!"
 

Though Vereesa is the last Windrunner drawing breath in Azeroth, she is not the last Windrunner; and the Dark Lady Sylvannas Windrunner watches all this with unflappable calm. The Banshee Queen must know that people are looking to her for a reaction. Giving the bow to Vereesa, and not Sylvannas, is a snub; even if Sylvannas's 'people' are the Forsaken rather than the Quel'dorei now, the passing over of the middle sister feels inelegant given that Sylvannas was the previous Ranger General of Silvermoon, even if she served without the legendary weapon. But she maintains stoicism, even claps for her sister, and another tense moment in the summit fades without total dissolution of the hopes of those assembled.

 Renewal of the Treaty of Hyjal 

The Treaty of Hyjal was signed immediately after the Battle of Hyjal, formally binding the Horde and Alliance (in as much as they are able to be bound by words) to devote military efforts in concert to thwart present and future demonic and undead threats. With the wounds of the legion and scourge fresh in everyone's minds, it seems an obvious tradition to maintain. Malfurion and Vol'Jin are strong choices symbolically. Darkspear Trolls and Night Elves are both Kalimdor races, and neither had any part in the First and Second wars. What they did have is an ancient conflict between the Kaldorei Empire and the Empire of Zul, whose records are not lost but are buried in the history of the intervening eleven thousand years. Resentment between Troll and Elf remain even now, but neither Darnassus nor the Echo Isles has and political ambition for Empire any more.

The signing, and the short speeches of both, may leave some members of the Eastern Kingdoms feeling slightly cold. However close the world came to destruction at the Battle of Hyjal, it is hard not to feel like that is a far away problem when the Scourge, not its benefactor the Legion, was the face of annihilation in the east.

 State of the War Against the Scourge 

Lord Maxwell Tyrosus is not one to mince words; the eyepatch wearing paladin known through scuttlebutt as a dedicated warrior against the Scourge and a genuine part of the success of its containment in the Plaguelands. Still, he has a lot to get through, and his report is somewhat dry. The names slip by you one after another - Andorhal, Stratholm, Light's Hope - and the outcomes are generally positive. The Scourge is being contained with fewer casualties in recent months because of advancements in understanding about the enemy's plagues (lowering their lethality and the hazard of fighting dramatically) and the efforts of the Forsaken particularly. The whole thing sounds almost hopeful - with a little luck and unity, the war may be over by Winter Veil. The elves once again are most invested in this report, and they wait with baited breath for what they hope is coming: an immediate call upon the renewed Treaty of Hyjal for the commitment of forces for the retaking of Quel'Thalas. It is not to be.

 "Unfortunately, the containment of one threat is the best we can hope for as we make preparation to contain another. By now, many of you may have heard rumors about stirrings in the Blasted Lands. I must regretably confirm to you that there have been six sequential flash-openings of the Dark Portal, each one for a longer duration and dispensing a larger party of demons to be contained, at genuine cost, by the stalwarts manning Nethergarde Keep. Our best intelligence suggests this is not a full scale Legion invasion, and we should not consider it so - this is the determined effort of a rogue demon lord to use the Outland as a staging point for reprisal raiding into Azeroth after the defeat of their leader at Hyjal. The Kirin Tor are working even now on a way to thwart the portal manipulations, but we must move forth with the assumption that the enemy will succeed, and we will be required to contain a non-trivial host of Legion demons coming through the portal. This brings me to two points of relevance."

"Firstly, all agents of the Argent Dawn on anything less than a top priority assignment are hereby recalled and immediately ordered to muster at Nethergarde Keep. This is the reason our order exists, and it is our responsibility to stabilize the threat as it first presents itself." 
 "Well... Sh*t."  Emilia's gaze drops to her reflection in the winecup in her hands. She joined the Argent Dawn hoping to participate in the cleansing of Lordaeron. When that started to seem further away, this assignment across the sea was daunting, but refreshing - a chance to clear herself of grief and fixation and find meaning in a new task in a new land. Now she would return - not to fight the Scourge, but to stand in front of the ancient stone archway stitched in every Human child's nightmares and wait for the demons to come pouring through.

It's a lot to process.

 "Concurrently, I must activate the Treaty of Hyjal and ask both Horde and Alliance to honour their agreement and start mustering forces to submit to the command of the Argent Dawn for the duration of this emergency. If and when the demons come through, we must be coordinated and ready to throw them back - as many times as we need to for our magi to decompose the arcane structure of the portal once again. The alternative is to play dice with our homelands, and all we hold dear." 

Zalael hisses, in frustration.  "Cold comfort to those of us who have already given our homeland and what we hold dear to the enemy. Surely we need a containment force for that threat and full force to retake Quel'Thalas - have we not given enough?"  
Plaids
 Jakk'ari  
 
 The Theramore-Orgrimmar Trade Accord
 Jakk'ari gives his vote of confidence joining the chorus of voices audibly celebrating the treaty promising peace through its ties of prosperity.
Though with the Farraki having no part in the conflict he can only phonetically voice his admiration for the momentous feats of diplomacy precipitating this event. He instead expresses genuine admiration for his patron Jaina Proudmoore, even daring to vicariously savor the tantalizing feeling of political legitimacy and approval.

 The Return of Thas'dorah 
Casual interest for the figures involved characterize Jakk'ari's observation of the ceremony. The cultural continuity and familial legacy were no doubt important and the grace permeating the elves only elevated their nobility.
The intrigue for Jakk'ari lay squarely with Isaera. The elf from the enclave and distanced from her homeland and people. A problem that Jakk'ari too had only recently been tasked with.

 Renewal of the Treaty of Hyjal 
Jakk'ari politely applauds the ceremony amongst the intermingling trolls and night elves. Attempts to sneak closer towards the mythical Malfurion are abandoned as the ranks of trolls of trolls and night elves block out both signers of the treaty. The friendly sentiments from the attending members of the Cenarion Circle are a fine consolation prize though.

 State of the War Against the Scourge 
Jakk'ari's demeanor dims and his long limbs stiffen, helpless as stricken arthritic appendages in stopping the war raging half a world away. He grips Emelia's pauldron offering his support while trying to crush the pit forming in his stomach.
  What do you need?   He questions hoping for improvisation and misconduct as much as duty and loyalty. Pray it be loyalty instead of fealty.

 Dinner 
Jakk'ari will try to sit by some of the diplomats and courtesans he met with earlier in the day. He's open to having other party members with him. He will be a squeamish with having Mor'Lag sit by but Mor'Lag was the one who got the invite in the first place so Jakk'ari will acquiesce if pressed.
MrAbdiel
 Emilia doesn't seem to notice Jakk'ari's hand for a long moment, before she looks up from her cup, glances to the troll, and her memory processes the words her ears heard, but did not parse, a few seconds ago.

 "Ah... No, it's... fine. I guess I just thought-... Well. I don't know. I guess I won't need a room in the tower after all, hah."  She gives him a faint, tense smile of forced courage. She has been a soldier fighting a reconquest war for her young adult life; now she was being called upon to fight a defensive one against the most frightful enemy the world had known. Not the war she wanted - but how could she do less than answer the call?

The 'sundry other matters' are mostly minor things by the scale of the evening's events. Some small congratulations between factionmates to provide a sense of transparency to the other side. Admiral Jes-Tereth awards a representative from a Stormwind adventuring guild for a daring raid into the Deadmines that thwarted a surprise attack on Stormwind Harbor by human partisans. Cairne Bloodhoof publically comments a squad of orcish grunts and one Forsaken skulk who lead them through a secret entrance into the haunted Shadowfang Keep, where they struck down the mad mage Arugal and his monstrosities. The Stonemaul Ogres accept an invitation to become part of the Horde - a 'banner', a small affiliate people upon whom are not placed the same expectations as the larger members. And sitting on a stool near the front of the event, holding an envelope of gold paper in his hands, is a cheerful looking goblin who has collated the results of the voting for king and queen of the armistice ball. But he waits, as the itinerary suggests, to the very end, and so Lor'Themar is up before him.

  Lor'Themar's Announcement  
Lor'Themar is imposing, as a figure; mature and scarred as an elven warrior who fought through the second and third wars, fighting the horde and their subdued dragons, and then the scourge at the defence of the Sunwell. The patch over his ruined eye suggests a man who understands the meaning of sacrifice; a Ranger Lord, decorated by the last king Anasterian Sunstrider himself. Now he leads the High elf remnant, while Prince Kael'Thas seeks a solution to the mana problem. He looks over the assembly, and down at his hands on the lectern for a thoughtful moment, looking mildly stressed and hurried, before speaking.

 "We wish our Prince, and his army, all the light's blessing and fortune as they journey in the Outland, and continue to seek a stable alternative to our Sunwell. All Quel'Dorei here understand this need; the cavity that the Scourge has given us in the destruction of Silvermoon. It is a mark of humility that our Prince has declined to take the throne - by his decree, there will be no more Kings of Silvermoon. An epoch has passed; and what awaits out people is uncertain - except that it is the end of an era. Thus, as a final act as sovereign before nominating me as regent, he bade me so:  Henceforth, our people shall call themselves 'high elves', Quel'Dorei, no longer.  However grandly our ancestors sought to differentiate ourselves from the Kaldorei, we cannot go forth from this point defined by our self-perceived highness.  Rather, we shall call ourselves 'blood elves', Sin'Dorei.  It is the sacrifices of those lost in these last wars and their memory, not a phantasmal superiority, that will see us through this age of tragedy and to a new day." 

Silence falls over the assembly again. It's uncertain whether this is a point for applause, or not; a renaming of a whole  people  is such a sweeping gesture it has no precedent in living memory; even the 'high elves' took their name from the 'highbourne' they had come to be called through cultural drift, and called 'high home' the forest in which they settled. To declare the survivors to be  blood elves  now, without a homeland to claim, without a  Sin'Thalas  corresponding, was an act of sheer, immaterial will. The young elves looked at each other for cues, but there were few to be found.

 "Concurrently, as my first act,"  the elder elf continued,  "as Regent of our people, I recognize we cannot wait quietly as Prince Kael'thas seeks a new land beyond the portal - especially not with this news of the Legion's agitation. Our brave scouts beyond the portal serve even now to furnish the Argent Dawn with information to make this defence possible, but defence alone cannot be our only priority. Not while the Scourge remnant continues to desecrate our ancient forests; not while Silvermoon remains in the clutches of the traitor, Arthas Menethil. The time has come to draw our strength and complete the work the Argent Dawn, and the Forsaken, have begun -  to retake Quel'Thalas for her children. " 

This draws applause - first from the elves, then, in confused but generalized support, from the rest assembled.

 "Exactly! Exactly, yes!"  Zalael exclaims, standing from his seat with many others to clap their hands in assent. Matthean is more reserved; the elven caster remaining in his seat, tenting his fingers, touching them lightly to his lips in thought. Like the minority of elves assembled, and the majority of others, he is more concerned in the moment at how this sounds like an empty gesture - there are simply not enough elves for the task, or else it would have been done before. What piece of this is missing? It shortly follows.

 "And we will not do so alone. Sylvannas Windrunner, serving once before as Ranger General, serves a new people now - a people as grievously wronged as ours, and equally eager to see them routed entire from our continent. And so, I am honored to  accept the invitation for the Sin'Dorei to become a partner and member state of the Horde, who will stand with us as we retake the gates of Silvermoon! "  

Lor'Themar is forced to shout as the clamor in the room escalates toward the end of his announcement. The scandal of it is palpable - part of an alliance that featured orcs, who attacked them in the second war, and trolls, who have been the elven foe for thousands of years. But here, at this armistice ball standing shoulder to shoulder with such people in their very capital, it does not seem so far fetched - even poetic, that such kinds should shed their blood to give back to the elves the land they had once sought to conquer.  "N-no! What?!"  Zalael blurts, sinking back into his chair in startled revulsion, all his zeal for retaking the homeland vanishing into the weighing of the cost.  "Ah... Now, I see. Smart. Forced, but smart."  Matthean nods, and adds his applause to the roiling clamour. Strictly, there was peace. Strictly, it shouldn't matter which of two allied factions the elves decided to join. But the performative veneer of the ball, willing things to be peaceful by acting as if they are so, is shaken by this announcement coming right on the heels of the Argent Dawn's call to the portal.

Indeed, the luminaries at the front seem more troubled than anyone else. Alliance officials are either baffled or visibly angry at the historic shift; the elves had stood beside humans and dwarves in the Alliance before, and it seemed insane to imagine them with the Horde. But the humans had treated Kael'Thas's survivors badly after the destruction of Quel'Thalas - going so far as to incarcerate en masse them at one point on baseless suspicions. Meanwhile, the humans running the Alliance were of Stormwind, a kingdom at the other end of the world to the elves. The only 'neighbor' among the rulers of either faction was the risen Sylvannas, a daughter of Silvermoon herself. Horde officials looked broadly surprised - not by the news itself, but perhaps by the announcement here, and now.

To Jakk'ari, sitting with the other diplomats, the reasoning rapidly becomes clear.  "What in fel-blazing hell, Bembowole?!"  the dwarf, Lartus, hisses to his troll counterpart.  "Did you know about this?!" 
The troll grimaces, and raises a hand.  "It's... bin in de works, mon - but not like this, at the armistice... It's, err..." 

The blood elves were desperate, and the Horde was willing; the vouching of Sylvannas likely allaying their own suspicions. A move like this must have been in the makings for a long time, and should ideally have been slowly allowed to filter into Alliance backchannels so to not be so tectonically unveiled. But with the Legion threatening at the Dark Portal once more, and the Argent Dawn's call to focus unified efforts against that thread, the danger of losing all momentum and support for the elven reconquest had become immediate and real. If Lor'Themar had slow-rolled this announcement, the Horde might have been too committed to that front to consolidate a meaningful force to Quel'Thalas. Thrall and Cairne are already getting up from their chairs with their entourages to take emergency council beyond the boundary of the event - likely, they don't appreciate being forced into this position, as hosts of a peace event that climaxes on a sudden shift of power to the Horde's favor. With the elves, the Horde gains an almost small but almost totally militarized partner state, forest rangers on parity with the night elf sentinels, and most important of all, magical firepower that the Alliance themselves lost when Dalaran declared neutrality.

Lor'Themar waits stoically at the podium, and lets the reactions play out in the gallery; a contained, raucous pandemonium of denials, cheers, hopes and fears. 
WindStruck
Isaera takes the hand of Zalael as they retreat to sit amongst many of the other younger elves. She was an odd one out without a mask, though she still continued to believe that she still would have been fairly recognizable without one. Perhaps that was merely vanity. Regardless, it was far too late for a mask anyway.

The varying announcements and accords roll in. She sets aside a wine glass to clap politely for Jaina, Thrall, and Theramore, as continued peace between factions was ideal for rebuilding. The return of Thas'dorah was even more surprising, drawing more vigorous applause, and yet the missing details hadn't gone unnoticed. Whatever fate that befell Alleria must have been horrible. And with Vereesa chosen to wield the bow now, that came along with several implications. But the only other option would have been Sylvannas, or no one at all. It would be a decision Isaera herself was not worthy enough to make. But she did reason, Sylvannas had other priorities now and was defending other people's and other lands besides their homeland.. or at least, not exclusively. So long as Thas'dorah was being used to reclaim and defend their homelands, that was all that really mattered.

And then with Lord Maxwell Tyrosus's announcement, of grim news and further demonic incursions, and recalling of all agents of the Argent Dawn, Isaera picks out Emilia from among the many guests gathered and frowns. It wasn't good news and Zalael was clearly frustrated. Isaera looks away. She sighs and she shrugs.  "I know. What do they care about Silvermoon and Quel'Thalas? It simply isn't their problem." 

Looking over towards him, she adds,  "But I think the point is, renewed demonic invasions will be  everyone's  problem if something isn't done about it. It's more reason for excuses and delay, but still... perhaps we should save our anger for the Scourge and the Burning Legion, not those who fight them."  If anything, Isaera tries to remain neutral and hopeful. She never really figured that the Alliance would just swoop in and pick up all the pieces for them. And even if they had tried, she was sure the elves would not be satisfied with their handiwork. Breeding even more resentment and hostilities, however.. she felt this vicious cycle should stop.

And then Lor'Themar took the stage and stepped up to the podium. And the mood soon went from solemn to strange. On one hand, the wishes of the prince should be respected. But this mainly pertained to matters relevant to maintaining the kingdom itself. On the other hand, what right did he have to enforce this change upon everyone? As if that would change the past, or their culture, their identity, who they really were? It was ironic, really, the motivation for this new name was to avoid hubris and call attention to the sacrifices (and losses) of their people. But what sort of hubris would it take for someone to think that, merely by decree, they could wipe away the past, declare an era over, and forge a new identity just like that? And what were those sacrifices  for , then, if not to preserve what they held dear?

And yet a third option questioned, what was in a name at all? Did the name of their people, whether old or new,  actually matter at all ? Isaera gazed at Lor'Themar, mystified by this revelation, her head swimming in too many thoughts to clap or offer any form of approval. Niggling thoughts in her mind still conflicted with each other. The name you call something doesn't really matter that much..  except sometimes, when it actually does .

However, the subject moves on, to taking back Quel'Thalas. And while the news, or rather, the announcement does seem far more agreeable, perhaps even exciting, Isaera stands and only offers some weak applause, her mind still flustered. But something was off, as Matthean (and perhaps most others in the room) had already surmised. Just how were they going to pull this off? And there it was.

Joining the Horde? What??

Isaera had just about the same reaction as Zalael, though she didn't say anything. She just stared blankly at Lor'Themar, absorbing the clamor and all the various reactions in the vicinity, barely even able to process her own thoughts anymore. The only thing she could think was that this was all just a dream. Just some horrible dream. Did she fall and hit her head when she was dancing? Or when Mor'Lag attacked that archmage? Did that even happen? Maybe she got swept away by the waters in the Wailing Caverns and hit her head there? But it seemed, no matter how much she focused on how surreal all this was, the reality of the present was not going away.

Isaera still stands, as if petrified in place. And she asks, or rather thinks out loud,  "There was an invitation? Since when?!" 

Her tone seemed rather hostile to the idea, though perhaps she wasn't entirely. Granted, she had no problems with peace between the Alliance and the Horde, and peace among other neutral factions like Dalaran or Theramore. She was fine with cooperation, she was fine with trade and peace. But to actually,  officially  join the Horde... What did that even entail? The thought of high elves waving around horde banners, decorating their buildings, rafters, and light posts with the red and black hues? It was absurd!

With Thrall and Cairne visibly getting up to leave to partake in their own private discussions, with the sheer pandemonium amongst everyone, Isaera could not help but feel this was a bad call. If anything, this seemed like a hamfisted effort to make a faction of savages - whom they barely had any affiliation with, and had no solidarity - lend their aid to Silvermoon's cause. And it was about to backfire, badly.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 "That's a bad look for someone under a white ribbon," Henry murmurs as the situation resolves. "I wonder if the goblins will enforce their rules at all, or just play it off. Embarass the orcs by acknowledging a scandal in their capital, or insult the Dalarani by ignoring an attack on one of theirs in the middle of a neutral event? Hmm."

Mor'Lag's vengeful outburst is icing on the cake of the evening's mediocrity, for your goals. You've spoken with and mended some bridges with the Dalarani who cast you out, your bloodline is as much a millstone as a stepping stone trying to be seen with legitimacy here. The Alliance of Stormwind and the New Horde maneuver here trying to establish boundaries for a new world; but the world in which Alterac mattered diplomatically vanished with the Alliance of Lordaeron and the Old Horde. Across the room, you catch a glance of Jakkari who has apparently had the opposite experience, and is being swept into a cluster of diplomatic peerage. Not noble peerage, but his claims are being taken seriously and not regarded like a bad smell wafting up from under a rug no one really wants to lift. The shaman has been trying for most of his life to create an opportunity for the moment he is experiencing now. Will you be a matron, telling yourself that the silver streaks in your hair are stylish and graceful, by the time there is a chance to haul the credibility of Alterac out of the dust and carve your name into it? Who can say?

The mage gives you a few moments to decompose your frustration before continuing.

"I... wish I could offer you better fortunes. Without the unvarnished sponsorship of a king or two - not a cheap commodity, in such times - people like you and I must consider alternative methods of keeping the best parts of our heritage intact. Perhaps, Lady Mordis, you'll hear me a little longer on this topic - and meet a friend, or two..." 

The Daughter of Alterac gave a small, acknowledging nod.

 "Remain cautious. There are others from my homeland that have less charitable visions for our restoration." 

She was referring, of course, to the Syndicate. A band of thieves led by those who had disgraced their nation, and whom had used the Third War as a cover to return themselves to power at the head of an army of cuthroats, brigands and thugs. Even now their disgusting organisation squatted within the once beautiful Strahnbad, plotting and scheming and sending their agents out into the world to ferment further misery. They would be dealt with, in time, but for now they remained a menace.



  The Theramore-Orgrimmar Trade Accord  

Perhaps more than any other announcement so far, this one got Marion's blood going, as odd as that seemed. While trade was an intangible and boring subject to most, with images of rich nobles getting richer and pots of gold being shuffled about, the truth was that trade was the lifeblood of a nation and a war effort. If one wanted to visualise 'trade', they only needed to think of one person doing something for another, which freed up that other individuals time to do something else. Marion didn't need to spend all day planting her own crops and slaughtering her own farm animals and then using further hours to harvest and process the produce and even more still to turn that into food so that she could survive. No, someone  else  did that. In fact, numerous people were involved at every layer, and in exchange for their produce Marion handed over currency that she generated using the time she now had free to pursue other ventures. The fewer people needed to produce the same or greater quantities of food, the more people were freed up to pursue other areas, skills or and specialties instead.

That was trade.

Recruiting large groups of men, conditioning them into fighting fitness, training and drilling them into skilled soldiers would be for nothing if they had not the equipment and supplies to last - and those came from trade. From the miner and his pick-axe cleaving out another chunk of pig iron, to the smelter producing steel ingots and then the blacksmith using those to craft armor, shields, swords, spears, lances, axes, guns, shot and much, much more. It all came from trade. Trade was production, and each soldier in the field was equipped, clothed and fed via thousands of unseen manhours producing the goods necessary to do so, and the more they could produce with the same or fewer hours, the more men were free to be trained and the better they could be equipped. This was trade, this was the  logistics  of war. And as a wise general in times past once said, soldiers win battles but logistics wins wars.

And wars always needed more. War was a burning fire that always demanded  more .

Thus, Marions excitement. Throughout her ledgers back at the tower was the logistical heart of her enterprises. Pieces built in Stormwind. Assembled somewhere else. Sold to different markets. X amount of raw materials would produce Y amount of units, and shipping for Z number of containers cost this amount and that market was over-saturated but this one was experiencing a dearth etc etc. The blueprints for the weapons she had designed, the factories she was building, the items she was envisioning, all of them would pour through the trade lines protected by the Theramore and Horde fleets and, soon she believed, the Alliance navy. Warlock she may be, but in her heart Marion was a budding industrialist, and soon from her factories would flow a river of weapons and goods to retake her homeland and cleanse Lordaeron of the undead filth and protect the Southern Kingdoms from further demonic incursions.

  The Return of Thas'dorah  

This ceremony meant little to Marion...on the surface.

To her the elves had always been a pretty but enigmatic people. Even now she might blush thinking of how some of the elven boys had flirted with her back at Dalaran, the natural grace and confidence of the people and the breathtakingly beautiful towns they had crafted within the verdant forests they called home. But, she could appreciate what the bow symbolised to them: continuation. That bow was more than just a weapon. It was a rope, a link that stretched back in time and tied together generations of a people and was a physical reminder of who they were and where they came from.

So it made sense to Marion that Sylvannas was completely overlooked to receive this treasured item. Banshee Queen indeed, the warlock thought to herself. Haughty dead bitch is more like it.

  Renewal of the Treaty of Hyjal  

The trolls and the night elves would try and get along a bit better. Marion hoped that they would, seems as she would be sharing the continent with them. For now at least.


  State of the War Against the Scourge  

Now this...was not what Marion wanted to hear. Much like the elves, she wanted to hear about action being taken to not just contain the scourge within Lordaeron, but to cleanse them from it. It was now that Marion was actually starting to feel a greater affinity with her pointy-eared cousins, as they both shared the burning desire to see their homelands restored to their former beauty and dignity.

But, Marion was mature beyond her years. If there was one characteristic that the past few cycles had burned into her mind, it was patience. And there was little point in reclaiming Lordaeron if the Legion spilled forth into Azeroth once more and burned their way up to the north to devour everything anyway.

However, as much as the  warlock  might hate to admit it, she felt a pang of regret that Emile would be departing their company. Marion turned to look at the other woman and reached out to affectionately put her hand over hers. The look Marion gave was small, but it was sincere and heartfelt.

 "Just stay safe." 
  Lor'Themar's Announcement  
  Are you ****ing kidding me?!   Marion exclaimed within her head, while her face was eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

As if it wasn't bad enough that Lordaeron was over-run by the Scourge. As if it wasn't bad enough that the Forsaken had wormed their way up out of the earth to stake a claim within the pungent lands of the north. As if it wasn't bad enough those boggle-eyed lunatics the Scarlet Crusade still had a powerful presence within the Plaguelands. As if it wasn't bad enough that the Syndicate were still slithering around the Alterac Mountains and Arathi Highlands. Now the Light-blasted  Horde  would have  two  civilizational colony bastions in the Northern Kingdoms?

One of them being former  allies ?!

Wiping out the Forsaken was easily justifiable enough: they were disgusting undead monsters fit for nothing but the fire. But the elves?! Former allies, former cousins to the humans, enigmatic as they were, were now an outpost for a previously genocidal organization that only recently learned to chill the f out because they started smoking plants and grunting at spirits again?!

The girl wanted to slap her hand against her forehead and allow out an exasperated, weary scream of resignation. Every time she made an advancement towards reclaiming Alterac, or purging the Scourge, fate decided to come along, squat on the table and release its bowels over her plate. Every damn time.

The pathway of her life was strewn with cowpats from the Legions own demonic herd!
Plaids
Jakk'ari
 

Jakk'ari stood transfixed at the proclamations from Lor'Themar. A bold proclamation to rechristen an entire people to signify a paradigm shift. What could this further bring? How would the elves' reverence to their history respond? Could anyone race on Azeroth cleanly adjust to such a change?

The announcement of the Blood Elves partnership to the horde is even more worrisome. The stirrings amongst the diplomats and courtesans is apparent and the fomenting concern, panic, and agitation. All these sentiments now forming amongst a group that had been confiding comfortably with one another. The confidence in their mutually beneficial cooperation and equal leverage as adepts of statecraft regardless of the varying relations between their factions was cracking.

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
 To Jakk'ari, sitting with the other diplomats, the reasoning rapidly becomes clear.  "What in fel-blazing hell, Bembowole?!"  the dwarf, Lartus, hisses to his troll counterpart.  "Did you know about this?!" 
The troll grimaces, and raises a hand.  "It's... bin in de works, mon - but not like this, at the armistice... It's, err..."  
 

This is worrisome. Just recently the knowledge of the goblin cartels benefitting from supplying the warring Horde and Alliance with arms was made apparent. What could a war with the Scourge and the legion accompany along with the Blood Elves and Forsaken entail?

Jakk'ari instinctively ball his hand into a fist as the role of Sylvanas is announced. The territorial changes alone were massive. Jakk'ari curses himself for not giving further attention to her. The intimate ties between Sylvannas and the Blood Elves and Forsaken were too important to discount now.

Jakk'ari queries Bembowole as well fishing for further explanation.
  When would this better time have been? This can't be tabled, this changes everything.  
MrAbdiel
   Jakk’ari
  The diplomats begin to scatter their appropriate loyalties, but Bembowole lingers almost cringingly to explain half-heartedly to Lartus and Jakk’ari.

 “Ehhh… It’s a big announcement, rufflin’ fedders and no lie, mon. Better to have leaked it slow, let the spies pick it up a couple months early than the official ting. Less feelings hurt den - but no one was countin’ on da Portal, mon.”  He gathers up his things from the table, and gives Jakk’ari another wincing smile.

 “Sorry, brudda. We all do what we gotta do.” 
  Isaera  
  “Well, let’s… not be too hasty, then. This is a lot to take in.”   Matthean suggests evenly, glancing sidelong to his brother. But Zalael is beyond animation at this point. He’s livid.

  “Hasty?! He’s - We’re forsaking our sacred bond to the human kingdoms. To Azeroth! For a band of invaders, corpses and trolls! Don’t you care?! What about everyone we lost?”  

Matthean is on his feet too, now, rather than let Zalael tower over him. He’s shorter, less physically imposing, but unwilling to be bullied.  “We repaid our debt to the humans during the second war - a war against a very different Horde to this one. The orcs need our guidance, if anything. But it was Lordaeron that let the Scourge problem fester and overwhelm it, and their cursed prince who shattered the Sunwell; and their military who locked our people up and left them to die!” 

This goes back and forth, but quickly it begins to seem that the prevailing sentiment among the elves here is back Lor’themar’s play. The elves in attendance who are reticent tend to be the elven diaspora who have lived in human lands and served in human militaries in the third war. But most of those who were there when Silvermoon fell now have space to reveal the bitterness they feel about their abandonment by the Alliance in that horrible time. Zalael is more imposing, but outnumbered, and the altercation almost draws him to blows with his brother.

  Marion  

Marion, forced to the edge of the event’s movers and shakers by the Alliance’s reluctance to honor her nobility, was already half abandoned to begin with. When the squires and low ranking magi clear away from her table, they barely give her recognition - though Henry lingers for an extra moment. He offers her a tense half smile - the smugness that mages possess tainted by this news of powers shifting in the factions - before rising and leaving her alone. But not without leaving something - scribbled on a napkin he had been fussing with, a curving intersection of the letters A and W. Its purpose, along with his insistence on mentioning Strahnbrad, are left unclear.

-------

A celestial event draws the attention of the seething crowd, numbing it into silence. A comet, limned in purple and gold fire, blazes its way through the heavens, slicing across the face of Azeroth’s bright starscape. It scythes in distant silence, ominous and unexplained, toward the north west until it tapers off over the horizon and vanishes entirely. It drags some kind of magical distortion with it, as it goes; the colorful fire lanterns sputter and dip briefly before kicking back in.

This seems to be the deathknell of the evening’s events. The diplomatic snafu was one thing; this strange omen is another, and all the important people are keen to get back to safety and start collaborating on reactions. Khadgar, alone, stands at one corner of the stage; peering up at the trail of the comet with worry on his face. The goblin with the gold envelope, containing the name of the winner of the King and Queen of the abortive Armistice Ball, lies unattended on a chair next to the stage, lost for importance now that the peace has been strained and presented as flimsy after all.

For most, this means it is time to make a last pass at the bar and the food before things wind down completely. For Isaera, it means something slightly more dire - the flicker of magical disruption has played havoc with the illusory enchantment of her garb, and to her best estimations as smells the mana cooking off from the unraveling enchantment, she has perhaps thirty seconds before it drops and she left standing in the presence of her peers and suitors wearing a dress selected for its plainness. 
WindStruck
This evening had turned into a disaster.

 "I... I've got to go.. something in my eye,"  Isaera says feigning a wince as a delicate finger brushes against her face.

She had brought the old-fashioned but still beautiful dress as a backup. But obvious it was still quite a ways away. She had left it in the care of some goblin watching over the changing rooms. And now it would seem she might not even get halfway there before the enchanted magic of her dress burned out. Still, with the recent turn of events and people still arguing amongst each other, she would likely remain about as unnoticed as the goblin with the gold envelope.. or at least she hoped.
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag drag themselves back to the festivities, only to see them end.

This was approximately keeping with her experience...

The fact the Elves had joined the Horde met her with decidedly mixed feelings.  Covetousness that her previous lack of access to arcanist tutors might be changed. With distaste that the growing schism between Horde and Alliancevwould surely see her forced to join the same machine that killed her fathers.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Inhale.

Fingers pinch the nosebridge.

Sigh.

The warlock meditated to herself while the chaos ricocheted around the conference. Though ambitious in her grand designs, Marion was, above everything else, patient. And though the cynic might look upon the evening as a failure, a failure to acquire the recognition of her house name as desired, a failure to make inroads with the authorities of Stormwind and a failure to facilitate weapon sales and contracts between her enterprises and the human nations of Azeroth, one must not be so easy to dismiss. Though not the one hundred percent success she was aiming for, Marion was nonetheless a few steps closer to achieving her goals. She had met people, talked with them, brought the memory of her house back to the fore, acquired names to whom she would write letters containing promise of quality ordnance, and she had met old acquaintances. Indeed, that she had revealed to one of the women whom had once expelled her from Dalaran that she, ex-student Marion Mordis, was not only alive but thriving...well, there was at least a petty satisfaction in that.

But then the warlock spotted one of her companions, Isaera, affecting a suspiciously hasty exit from what should be her arena of slavish applause. Perking an eyebrow at the sight of her vain colleague removing herself from a potential source of praise and flattery that was this conference, Marion scooped up a glass of champagne that was ferried past atop a waiters serving plate, before steadily making her way after the elf to see what the fuss was about...
Plaids
Jakk'ari stares dejectedly at the back of Bwembole head as the troll diplomat urgently lurches toward his diplomatic cadre. A chill ache pulses through Jakk'ari now realizing how quickly his new contacts had withdrawn with emergence of a new threat capable upending the status quo for all of them.

With ranks of the various political delegations closing ranks opportunities for mingling and networking had come to a close. The night had seen some progress. The antipathy of several nations to the Steamwheedle cartel brought some comfort and being within a first name basis with some foreign diplomats was a start. But the promising droplets were never enough.
After covertly browsing the buffet Jakk'ari looks for his delegation, the youngsters who had dispersed themselves amongst diverse, exotic, and now quickly stratifying crowd.

He finds Mor'Lag, the easiest to find in a crowd. He consoles with them bottling up the disappointment and frustration.
  Seems like we were not invited to join in on the agony over this impromptu event. We should find Isaera and Marion, we can share stories of our courtships and escapades as we plan our next move.  
He adjusts a bindle of buffet food as he inquires.
  Have you see Marion or Isaera recently, Morlag?  
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Looks like Marion is trying to catch up with Isaera, and Jakk'ari is trying to catch up with Mor'Lag. You can decide if your pursuers catch you before you get back to the tent, but I'll establish it as the ultimate regroup spot. A check-in post with one another seems appropriate!
 


Emilia is in the tent when the others arrive. She has gathered up her few belongings into a slingbag, and has thrown it over her shoulder. The call has gone out, and all Argents are recalled to Blasted Lands to defend the Portal. There's no quicker path for her than catching the same boat back to the Eastern Kingdoms that Lord Maxwell Tyrosius used to get here.

"Well, it was fun while it lasted. I've a few things back in my locker at the boarding house, but I hope I can impose upon you friends to ship it to Nethergarde Keep under my name." She drags her palm over her face. She thinks, but does not need to say, her judgement of the preceding party.  What a disaster. 

In the tents either side of the Ratchet Chapter's own, the other Opal Collocation chapters get about their own business. The Arathi Entante chapter cycles up and down in a roaring fight between the elven brothers in rapidfire Thalassian, periodically shouted down by the other members of their troop trying to cool matters as they pack. In the other tent, the Winterspring Chapter's tent, there is almost no noise at all. Just the occasional chesty hum, and morose sigh of its lone Furbolg occupant, whose companions never arrived at all. 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 
The neglected fire had diminished and grey fringes of ash began to envelope the embers. Nothing seemed to have gone correctly and the party descending into morose isolation or fierce debate would be equally unpleasant.
Relocating his attention from the dimming coals in the fire pit to address Emelia for perhaps the last time in for many seasons.
  We will send you the contents of your locker as soon as we can. Is there anything else you need in Ratchet? We have only a dearth of opportunities and connections instead of funds.   
  The dignitaries I met tonight knew of the impending conflict and have retreated to their own spheres of influence to prepare for the conflict and save face. Did anyone else find a trusting person of interest open to a mutual aid? 
Feathersnow
"I may have an in"."
"With the half-breed luminary, Rexxar."

"The Horde is winning the peace."
"Though the lose every war."
WindStruck
Isaera is quick in her movements as she hurries to the dressing rooms. Urgency fuels her, and people tend to part their way for the stunningly beautiful elf in a positively radiant dress. So radiant, in fact, that its magic was about to burn out.

Marion loses sight of Isaera for a moment but thinks she knows where she is going. By time Marion does catch up, she finds Isaera in some completely different and surprising attire, just about the plainest most boring dress one could imagine, and arguing with some goblin manning the area. Finally she receives her container with a huff and enters one of the rooms quickly.

Some moments later, Isaera emerges in a nice and pretty dress again. It's definitely not as captivating and more conservative than the last one. It's a completely different color too. Still, it was leagues better than the other one, which might easily be confused for a hand towel when folded up.
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by Feathersnow 
 "I may have an in"."
"With the half-breed luminary, Rexxar."

"The Horde is winning the peace."
"Though the lose every war." 
 

Jakk'ari's gaze quickly focuses upwards towards Mor'Lag. His face changing from glum to animated.
  The legendary hunter! I have heard him; he is a champion of the horde. Is he still here at Armistice Ball?!
Or is he leaving to join the war against the legion?  
His giddiness now starting to dissipate.
  It sounds like some amongst the other chapters are planning to go too.  
Referring to the passionate debate in the nearby tent between two blood elves.

  Would you go too Mor'Lag, to fight beside the soldiers and esteemed commanders of the Horde and Alliance? Or would you remain in Kalimdor to fight anyone who would be emboldened by the absence of the commanders of the Horde and Alliance?  
He strains to neutrally ask Mor'Lag , not priming for or suggesting them either answer.
Feathersnow
 
 Originally Posted by Plaids 
 Jakk'ari's gaze quickly focuses upwards towards Mor'Lag. His face changing from glum to animated.
  The legendary hunter! I have heard him; he is a champion of the horde. Is he still here at Armistice Ball?!
Or is he leaving to join the war against the legion?  
His giddiness now starting to dissipate.
  It sounds like some amongst the other chapters are planning to go too.  
Referring to the passionate debate in the nearby tent between two blood elves.

  Would you go too Mor'Lag, to fight beside the soldiers and esteemed commanders of the Horde and Alliance? Or would you remain in Kalimdor to fight anyone who would be emboldened by the absence of the commanders of the Horde and Alliance?  
He strains to neutrally ask Mor'Lag , not priming for or suggesting them either answer. 
 


Mor and Lag, predictably, don't think about this for long...


"Kalimdor is our home"
"And we would stay."

"I am not a friend to the Horde"
"And the Alliance would not happily have me.'
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by Feathersnow 
 Mor and Lag, predictably, don't think about this for long...


"Kalimdor is our home"
"And we would stay."

"I am not a friend to the Horde"
"And the Alliance would not happily have me.' 
 

  Fighting for those who would appreciate your intervention. I respect that decision. Especially when fighting with the esteemed Alliance and powerful Horde does not protect those who appreciate you.  
Feathersnow
 
 Originally Posted by Plaids 
   Fighting for those who would appreciate your intervention. I respect that decision. Especially when fighting with the esteemed Alliance and powerful Horde does not protect those who appreciate you.   
 

Mor and Lag nod in agreement, glad this difficult concept crossed cultural barriers.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion moved with a courteous celerity that was not too fast as to be improper, but not too slow that she would lose the trail of her elven companion. Visibly curious, her neck extended as she looked about in the backrooms of the centre, the warlock finally caught onto Isaera's trail, only to discover the elf had swiftly changed her outfit.

Well, that shouldn't be too surprising, Marion pondered to herself. She is a mage, after all. Teleportation was rather versatile. If she could change clothes decently at the snap of a finger, she would do so.

 "Isaera?"  Marion's voice traveled towards the elf, oddly soothing, soft, almost concerned.

 "Surprising evening, wasn't it?"  she asked, holding the champagne glass out for the other to take.
Plaids
Jakk'ari squats back down quietly reciprocating the respect gained from the cultural exchange.
He pulls at the knot at the top a bindle.
  I took some of the remaining appetizers from the ball. Did I manage to take any of your favorites? 
He unfurls the bindle. A large bone split lengthwise with dark spiced marrow, a split sweet gourd filled with tart berries, and vegetable skewered chicken is visible along with several other unique items.
Feathersnow
 
 Originally Posted by Plaids 
 Jakk'ari squats back down quietly reciprocating the respect gained from the cultural exchange.
He pulls at the knot at the top a bindle.
  I took some of the remaining appetizers from the ball. Did I manage to take any of your favorites? 
He unfurls the bindle. A large bone split lengthwise with dark spiced marrow, a split sweet gourd filled with tart berries, and vegetable skewered chicken is visible along with several other unique items. 
 

"We..."
"We..."

"Didn't get anything."
'That man..."

"It was so fast..."
"Ruined everything."

"That looks so good!"
"May we?"

Jak'Kari may realize Ogres  didn't  ask strangers for food.  They  never  discussed weakness.

They barely  asked  anyone for anything. Being  seen as  strong was everything.

 This was a sign of attachment unheard of for a Troll to be shown by an Ogre.

At least something had come of this.
WindStruck
Isaera looks up, rather surprised to see Marion here.  "Surprising? That is one way to put it." 

She pushed past Marion, not really interested in holding a conversation, nor a drink.

The ball was a mess now, with some people awkwardly standing about, others trickling out of the venue, and still more people gossiping or arguing.

 "Why can't we just get a break?"  Isaera complains to no one in particular.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

When Isaera ignored her offering and pushed past her, Marion subtly bristled at the rejection.

Looking at the sparkling topaz liquid in her glass, the warlock shrugged and took a sip, before hearing the elf uttering her words.

 "I found out long ago that life isn't fair. And there's some comfort in that,"  Marion said,  "if life were fair, then all of this would be what we deserve. Instead, we steer the ship the best way we know how. Sometimes it's smooth sailing, other times we hit the rocks. And this is definitely hitting the rocks." 
WindStruck
Finally, Isaera properly acknowledges Marion's presence. She turns to the warlock and nods bleakly.  "Very true words..." 
 "Did you need something, Marion?"  Isaera asks. She still gives Marion her attention, though it is divided as she glances back to around where she originally sat.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 
 "I came to check on how you were,"  the Warlock answered, taking a sip of her champagne.

 "I don't know if you will believe me, but I am rather saddened at the turn of events. Geopolitics aside, I've always seen the elves as our cousins. We both suffered enormously together, and there was a sentimental part of me that hoped, far in the future, centuries perhaps, both our peoples would look back on these dark times and were thankful for the cooperation that would follow in the retaking of Lordaeron and Quel'thalas." 
WindStruck
 "Perhaps our homelands will be taken back, eventually,"  Isaera says.  "But the question that bothers me now is, under what banner? Will they even resemble anything like they used to be?" 

Isaera sighs.  "Excuse me. We can talk later,"  she says, hurrying back to the table she sat, where the feuding brothers were.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion was going to answer, but Isaera took her leave.

The warlock drew in a lungful of air before exhaling it in irritation. Her jaw grimaced slightly before angrily drinking the last of the champagne in her glass and setting it aside. Shaking her head gently, the girl departed the function with her chin high, and left to go back to the Opals quarters. She wouldn't dilly dally about, she had no interest in seeing the sights of beautiful Orgrimmar, and so it wasn't long until her figure darkened the entrance to the rendezvous and entered while the troll and the ogre were talking.

Not having the energy or care to exhibit any annoyance at Mor'lagg after her, ahem, 'spectacle' earlier, Marion just nodded towards the two of them, adding a polite  "Good evening,"  as she moved to where she could get another drink and loosen the straps on her corset. Being as wealthy as she had become had its perks, which included a very old and very expensive bottle of apricot brandy that she had hoped to open in celebration. Instead, she drew it up and poured herself a large glass - and then took it down in one swill.

Then she poured another.
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by BananaPhone 
 Then she poured another. 
 

 
 Jakk'ari 
Jakk'ari noticing Marion's uncharacteristically brief salutations and her brisk sips of alcohol Jakk'ari replies.
  Good evening, Marion. I see that your Armistice Ball celebrations are sunken; are there any pearls in the murky depths?
 
With enough optimism to hopefully avoid chiding an undoubtedly disappointed teammate and with enough inquiry to hopefully prompt a response and postpone her next drink if only for a moment.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion drew the glass up to her face, its size visually enhanced when gripped with her smaller hand, its amber contents tilting as she brought it close to her lips.


 
 Originally Posted by Plaids 
   Good evening, Marion. I see that your Armistice Ball celebrations are sunken; are there any pearls in the murky depths?
  
 


The warlock paused. She snorted lightly in sardonic amusement,  "in a manner of speaking,"  Marion answered, before taking a half mouthful sip and and visually inhaling through her teeth.

 "You know, Jakk'ari, there are times I envy your people,"  she commented, half turning as she moved over to a large chair and deposited her rump within it, her collar and neck exposed as she peered at the wall/ceiling before her as if it owed her a lot of money and was refusing to pay up.

 "Someone does you poorly, you can simply spear them in the chest, and that's the end of it!"  Marion made a stabbing and scooping motion with her free left hand, while taking another sip of her drink.

 "There's a beautiful simplicity to the entire arrangement. Piss me off? Spear. Chest."  she once more made the gesture, only slower this time and used to emphasise the words; Spear. Chest.

 "Would certainly make for a politer society." 

Another sip.

 "What about yourselves? Was it a magical evening that seized you with its festivities?"  the shorter human turned her face to look at the two, as she brought one foot behind the other to push her stylish new shoes off so that she could wiggle her free toes. A part of Marion, a nastier part, wanted to take a gentle jab at Mor'lagg following her emotional display, but her better sense over-ruled it. She was sure the ogre felt bad enough as it was, without adding to it further.
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag shake their heads in shame.   Being addressed so by their leader hurt almost as much as their drubbing by the archmage
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 
 
The modicum of levity he maintained while listening to Marion's night vanishes upon being prompted recount his own. He places a hand on his chest. All to resist the urge to palm his face and attempt to scrape the disappointment from tonight off of it.

 I met several new contacts. A Bronzebeard scribe of Ironforge, a Darkspear majordomo of the Horde, and veteran Scarlet Crusader. I think you would have liked him.   He replies attempting to impose some hope in spite of the gravity of tonight's events.   Unfortunately they have receded back to their own circles upon news of the upcoming war.  

He pauses as the argument next door reaches a crescendo, while muffled by fabric the passion beginning to override civility is unmistakable.

  When the war begins in the Eastern Kingdoms the weapons and soldiers of the Horde and Alliance will follow. I don't know if that will impede or be a blessing to our mission in Kalimdor where our duties lie.  
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


A part of Marion felt sorry for Mor'lagg. It was like watching a giant puppy dog sheepishly positioned next to an utter mess it knew it had created. Besides, the warlock did not think that any words from her would chide the ogre any further than her own shame had already laid low her self-esteem.

But even if she could,  would  she want to?

Probably not. Marion had lost any spite that might have been within her earlier in the night and so she now lacked the necessary venom to chastise and admonish.

But it was something that Jakk'ari said that drew Marion's eyes, and caused her to raise an eyebrow.

 "A Scarlet Crusader?!"  she asked suddenly, sitting up in her plush chair, eyes darting to the entrance to their tent, then back to the troll. Swallowing, pursing her lips, exhaling, the warlock nodded slowly, her alarm rescinding as she lowered herself back into her chair.

Oh she had had run ins with the Scarlet Crusade alright...sometimes, she could still hear the crackling of the flame...the scent of charred flesh sloughing off the bones...

 "Yes...it's very troubling all of it, isn't it?"  she asked, taking another sip of her apricot brandy.

 "Every time you think we've taken a step forward, we get pushed back two,"  Marion shook her head gently, another sip following.

 "And now the Elves are in the Horde as well! What a disaster..." 
MrAbdiel
  Isaera  
When you round back to try to catch the feuding brothers, they are not where they were; but a modicum of attention permits you to track the sounds of their escalating argument out into the street again as they storm back toward their tent.

 "I can't believe you, Matthean! You stand by this, this, arson of our heritage because of the bigoted and blind actions of a handful of humans. You're ready to see our people formally side with the Horde over this?"  The young elven warrior fumes as he stalks through the more meandering crowd; most aimless and dazed by the events of the evening and not so desperate to get back to quarters. His magical brother has to hustle to keep up with his stride, both elves caking their boots in the mush of red mud made more slick still by the spritz of unseasonable rain that begins to fall.

 "I don't say that - I said don't be hasty. I want what is best for our people's future, not their past! We have no permanent allies; that's a lesson we couldn't afford to learn the first time!" 

The other members of their party - the human huntress Atia, the forsaken Pernard and the orc Lorik, keep pace with the pair and say little. Their thoughts on the events are no less real, but they seem to be used to this dynamic and primarily interested in getting it out of the street as a public spectacle. Atia spares you a glance as they all follow the brothers into the Arathi Entente chapter's tent, tacitly permitting you to be there, given the elvish nature of all the emotion flowing around.

 "Don't you get it? What happens if another war breaks out? We'll be marching out to kill the same people our father died trying to save!" 
 "Our father is dead because of the same bullheaded allegiance to sentiment that you-" 

That snaps something in the warrior brother, and with a silk smooth movement of grace and power he rounds and drives his fist square into his brother's face. Matthean's nose crumbles under the impact, blood streaming immediately as he totters over backwards on to the ground in a daze born as much of the fratricidal direction of the blow as the impact itself. Zalael looks ready to follow it up with a kick or two before Lorik's big green hands snatch him by the shoulders and restrain him, and Atia kneels by Matthean's side as he recovers. The mage stays down for the moment, spitting blood to one side that creates a vivid crimson spatter on the blankets laid down on the tent floor.

 "Wake up to yourself, Zal! Nothing is fine, and no amount of dumb effort will make it okay. No one's getting everything they want - we compromise, we move forward, we survive. I don't even want to go back for Silvermoon - you want that. I just want allies we can rely upon right now while we build a new home. You want to stay loyal to the humans, like father might have wanted? The humans who fought for our homeland? Good! You've been working with one for months!" 

When Matthean gestures, it's not to the huntress Atia, but to the forsaken warrior, Pernard, sitting on a stool at one side of the tent looking small and uncomfortable with the back and forth. His jawlessness makes him unable to directly respond, but he does look up with eye sockets filled with a soft yellow glow, back and forth between the brothers, like he resents being dragged into this. But Matthean isn't finished.

 "Lordaeron and Silvermoon both fell, and the only reason there's any resistance left in Quel'Thalas at all is because Pernard's people never stopped fighting the Scourge even after they gave their lives! Lady Windrunner gave them the means to fight back. Not Varian Wrynn, or the dwarf kings, or anyone else. The humans who were our allies in the second war are still fighting. Do you get it?" 

Zalael may not take this point completely, but what he does realize is that he has raved all the way from the gates of Orgrimmar to this tent about the indignity of allying with the Horde, while his orcish and forsaken brothers in arms patiently let him scowl. Embarrassment for that, and for punching his brother, and then for doing all this infront of you, reddens his cheeks, and he retreats at the summit of his frustration and shame around you, back out the tent flap, to stand in the muddy street and the drizzling rain.

  In the Ratchet Chapter's Tent  
Emilia is finished packing quite quickly, and spends a little while lingering listening to the others talk about their disappointments for the evening. For a party they'd travelled so far for, that seemed so honouring and promising, everyone came away feeling worse for it.

 "Did... you all see that comet? It was big, wasn't it? I mean... close. Probably going to land somewhere inland and draw all kinds of-" 

She cuts off her sentence when a goblin hiding under an umbrella raps on the tent flap, and she takes a parcel wrapped in waxed cloth from him. She tips the goblin, and he goes on his way; and she pulls from within the cloth a folded scrap of paper, and... a gold envelope, its top clearly already opened. She gives the letter a glance, then hands both to Jakk'ari.

 
 Spoiler: The contents. 

 
 Originally Posted by The Letter 
 Jakkari

Grabbed this and laughed when I read it. I heard the vote counters arguing about whether you got one vote per head or per body; now it makes sense. I guess there are more than a few souls attending who think Old Khadgar could use a punch in the face.

No hard feelings brother.

- Bembowole 
 


 
 Originally Posted by Inside the Envelope 
 An officious looking card details what the master of ceremonies might have read at the podium if the festivities hadn't ended prematurely.

 King of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball by Plurality Vote: Zalael Emberpride
Queen of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball by Plurality Vote: Mor'Lag 

(scribbled hastily in another hand)  Do not call for the king and queen's dance. I know it's on the run sheet but it'll look ridiculous. Chen is making a batch of 'royal shots' to toast with instead, try to stall. - Ogbin.  
 
 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 
 

Jakk'ari shuffles through the deliveries. The apology from Bwembole assuages the disappointing from tonight. But to have the greatest consolation arrive so suddenly. Jakk'ari announces the news and promoting the small victory. He raps a hollow gourd with a cooked bone the modest thuds permeate the tent.

  It would seem the most esteemed guest of Armistice Ball has among us this whole this entire time. Mor'Lag your boldness has made an impression and you have been bestowed the title of    Queen of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball!     
Jakk'ari congratulates Mor'Lag by jubilantly patting the ogres on their elbow and offering the golden envelope and letter to Mor'Lag.
  The Opal Collocation can claim at least one victory tonight.  
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag just look on in shock.

"I... uh"/"I... uh"

" What!? 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 
 Originally Posted by Plaids 
  Jakk'ari 
  It would seem the most esteemed guest of Armistice Ball has among us this whole this entire time. Mor'Lag your boldness has made an impression and you have been bestowed the title of    Queen of the 1st Annual Armistice Ball!     
Jakk'ari congratulates Mor'Lag by jubilantly patting the ogres on their elbow and offering the golden envelope and letter to Mor'Lag.
  The Opal Collocation can claim at least one victory tonight.   
 


Of course.

Of course the hideous ogre won Queen of the Ball. What was Marion expecting - something  sensible  in this land of madness? Fat chance, sister. At least there was a certain dignity losing to a she-elf. The fair folk were beautiful and graceful by nature, so taking home the silver when competing against them in the realm of allure at least carried a degree of self-respect and understanding. There was no shame in losing to the best.

But losing such a contest to an  ogre ? A race who fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down? And one that actually initiated a fist-fight against other guests of the event? Of course Marion lost to Ms Cankles - of course she did! Just the salt rubbed into the wounds from this pile of garbage the orcs called their capital city. The sooner she could get back to her tower and put this ****hole in the rear-view mirror, the sooner Marion would be happy.

Outwardly Marion looked unphased, however internally displeased she was. Offering a polite, congratulatory smile while she took a sip of her apricot brandy and gestured her glass-carrying hand towards Mor'lag in a 'yeah - you!' motion, the warlock nodded.

 "Congratulations are in order Mor'lag - well done!" 
WindStruck
Isaera has to scurry to catch up to the arguing brothers at first. It wasn't hard to find them with the scene being made as they practically shouted all the way back to their camp. It all culminated in their tent when Zalael throws a punch into his brothers face and makes a bloody mess of his nose. Isaera gasped and brought her hands up to her own face, cringing.

For once, Isaera is at a loss for words. Zalael left the tent in shame, and while she watched him for a moment, she hurried up to Matthean and knelt down next to him. His nose was still a bloody mess, and it would feel pretty foolish to ask if he was okay. Obviously he wasn't. His allies could only administer some basic first aid, and she was even inept at that.  "That looked like it really hurt.. in more ways than one."  She looked down, feeling some embarrassment on behalf of Zalael's actions as well.

 "You make some very fine points. It's.. something I've never thought of before..."   And much like the decaying and animated body of Pernard, the legacy of Silvermoon was also probably just as faded and downtrodden.

 "I still don't think I like the idea of a formal alliance. Though I admit, I was never really opposed to cooperation in the first place."  Isaera stands again and then sighs.  "I should go talk to him,"  she says, gazing out the tent flap.
MrAbdiel
  Isaera, Next Door... 

Matthean consents to the mild medical attention; after that small mercy, the mage is left holding a small, bloody rag to his nose while it figures out how to stop bleeding. The nose will darken and puff, but it'll heal up fine. Forced to breath through his mouth, Matthean's voice is inelegant in its breath economy but no less full of conviction.

 "Thank you, Isaera. And it's... not what I would have first wanted for our people, either. But the time for passion and mourning has passed, I think. The world is full of tribes of trolls who used to have an empire as powerful and sophisticated as the Kaldorei, but once scattered, they... mooned after their greatness and dilapidated into savages, banging rocks together and living in straw huts. We have to move forward. To something new. Something real." 

When you volunteer to go speak to his brother, Matthean nods, and offers no resistance.  "He's alright. We fight, some times. I just wish I had Khadgar's reflexes against surprise pugilism. I'm sure he'll talk to you, though." 

When you step outside, you briefly spot the white pelt of the furbolg's shaggy form wandering into your companion's tent, but there is no outcry of surprise at this; so you must assume it is in hand. Zalael is standing to one side, rubbing beneath his closed eyes with thumb and middle finger of his left hand, gently shaking out the right which must still be lingering with the sting of his brother's skull. His eyes briefly open to track to you, but given that you are not his brother following up on the argument, he offers no objection, and instead presents a pursed-lipped, awkward, somewhat broken hearted smile.

 Everyone Else, In the Ratchet Chapter's Tent 

Everyone is in vary stages of shock, delight, and feigned delight over deep dismay at Mor'Lag's 'victory'. In retrospect, it may have been disruptive to the voting process to have offered such a blanket invitation to the Stonemaul ogres, whose induction into the Horde was part of the night's proceedings. Their remit to bring members was well used - it's how you got your invitation, for that matter, as their guests. This, combined with the fact that some of those ogres managed to vote once per head, and a general flash of Horde amusement for her assault on Khadgar, clinched the vote on this admittedly ramshackle and informal contest. Imagination alone can preserve an image of what the 'king and queen's dance' would have looked like.

Roshorn the Strider disrupts this discussion as he bumbles through the door, his ursine snout leading the way. He holds his grooved and ornamented staff low at one side in a big paw, and his are dark, and big. Even across the considerable gulf in physiological lines, the furbolg is expressive enough to be plainly upset. His eyes wander first to the towering Mor'Lag, then to Emilia and Marion. After he has communicated mutely all the apology his furry face can offer, he looks to Jakk'ari, and speaks in a language that, to the uninitiated, sounds like no language at all. It sounds like a blurred mash of onomatapaeic impressions of waves crashing, and wind blow, not juvenile and sloppy but oddly grounded and, in ever sense of the word, elemental. To Jakk'ari, who speaks Kalimag, it is a language as penetrable as any other.

 "Jakk'ari of Farraki... I need your help. My friends - the other Opal clan, of Winterspring - they have not arrived. I feared they would be late; but now, I am certain there has been some delay. I made my way to this red-dirt land early, knowing they had much work to do and horses to travel faster than my paws; but they never caught up. The spirits tell me they left Winterspring - but they did not reach Durotar. Something must have befallen them, in Ashzara. You are Opal clan too, aren't you? And your friends? Are you... bound to help? Will you?"  
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag, still in deep depression, rouse at this at and seek to gather the others, sure an expedition is imminent...
WindStruck
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
time really does fly!
 

 "I don't think we'd devolve into a bunch of .. as you put, savages,"  Isaera says, trying to be careful with her words. Seems all these brothers did was inadvertently insult their associates. Though perhaps Matthean was speaking a bit more historically, rather than calling orcs and their troll allies savages in the here and now. But still. It's not like she would disagree.

She tries to smile and says,  "I think we are too connected by magic and everyone else in this world to truly forget who we were and what we have accomplished. And besides, the legacy of Silvermoon still stands and  can  be recovered. Someday. But if you would rather let go of the past and move forward to something new.. I do not blame you..." 

She stands and makes her way outside to find Zalael (and a furbolg entering their tent). More fires to put out later, perhaps. Isaera sighs and stands there a few moments, just letting the awkwardness bleed out. Or grow. She wasn't sure if silence was helping.

 "You really need to apologize for that, you know." 
 "Though, an apology doesn't undo what was done..." 

Isaera glances sideways at her own tent, half monitoring it and says,  "You're not wrong though. I feel the same way you do. We can't be the only ones who think there's something wrong about all this.." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  
 Everyone Else, In the Ratchet Chapter's Tent 

Everyone is in vary stages of shock, delight, and feigned delight over deep dismay at Mor'Lag's 'victory'. In retrospect, it may have been disruptive to the voting process to have offered such a blanket invitation to the Stonemaul ogres, whose induction into the Horde was part of the night's proceedings. Their remit to bring members was well used - it's how you got your invitation, for that matter, as their guests. This, combined with the fact that some of those ogres managed to vote once per head, and a general flash of Horde amusement for her assault on Khadgar, clinched the vote on this admittedly ramshackle and informal contest. Imagination alone can preserve an image of what the 'king and queen's dance' would have looked like.

Roshorn the Strider disrupts this discussion as he bumbles through the door, his ursine snout leading the way. He holds his grooved and ornamented staff low at one side in a big paw, and his are dark, and big. Even across the considerable gulf in physiological lines, the furbolg is expressive enough to be plainly upset. His eyes wander first to the towering Mor'Lag, then to Emilia and Marion. After he has communicated mutely all the apology his furry face can offer, he looks to Jakk'ari, and speaks in a language that, to the uninitiated, sounds like no language at all. It sounds like a blurred mash of onomatapaeic impressions of waves crashing, and wind blow, not juvenile and sloppy but oddly grounded and, in ever sense of the word, elemental. To Jakk'ari, who speaks Kalimag, it is a language as penetrable as any other.

 "Jakk'ari of Farraki... I need your help. My friends - the other Opal clan, of Winterspring - they have not arrived. I feared they would be late; but now, I am certain there has been some delay. I made my way to this red-dirt land early, knowing they had much work to do and horses to travel faster than my paws; but they never caught up. The spirits tell me they left Winterspring - but they did not reach Durotar. Something must have befallen them, in Ashzara. You are Opal clan too, aren't you? And your friends? Are you... bound to help? Will you?"   
 



And so an additional group of vagrants had barged into their quarters to spill forth another sob story. Naturally, this was followed by the net being cast out in the hopes of ensnaring their help and, if no such assistance was visibly and swiftly forthcoming, the soft undercurrent of guilt-tripping to pull at the heart-strings and twist their arm.

Marvellous.

To make matters more abrasive, there was just  something  about the animalistic appearance and bestial grunts of the Furbolg that really got under Marions skin and pissed her off. As if on tonight, of all nights, she needed some disgusting hybrid of bear and ape to barge into her tent and garble its hideous language at her in demands that she risk her life for its dumb companions that got themselves lost in their own lands. Morons. F**k'em. Why should they interfere with natural selection?

  Burn it  , a nasty part of the warlocks psyche beckoned her.   Who in the Twisting Nether does this ****hole think he is - barging in here and making demands of us? Snap your fingers and set him on fire, right now! He'll think twice before making such demands of others again! The cheek!  

Marion tilted her head back and swallowed down the mouthful of apricot brandy she had poured.

Then she got herself another. This was her third in ten minutes.

 "Sure, why not?"  Marion waved her free hand dismissively.

 "It's not like we're in the middle of anything important. We'll just click our heels, trot along down to Ashzara and Winterspring, past the hostile continent full of beasts that want to kill us, enter two regions of which we know nothing, and find your missing companions quick sharp. Is that all? "  she added the final question with sardonic mirth, rather than being put forward as an actual inquiry.

 "No worries mate! We'll get right on that! Anything else we can do for you while you've stopped by? I've got some sweets packed in my luggage if you'd like to have those as well? What about apricot brandy, you have that back in your huts by the river in the forests you live in?" 

She knew the Furbolg couldn't understand her, but right now the warlock didn't care. Marion was currently the smallest being in the tent, her 5'6" and trim frame rather diminutive compared to the ogre, the troll and the furbolg, as she slouched back into her plush chair and took another swill of brandy and stared hatefully up at the ceiling.

 "Pfft"  she blew her lips.

 "Flimshaw!" 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari jumps forwards to stand beside Roshorn and fills the beat of silence, left by Marion, by introducing the fellow shaman Roshorn.
  Everyone, the Furbolg beside me is Roshorn a member of the Winterspring chapter of the Opal Collocation. He too has come to has come to advance the peaceful goals of the Opal Collocation just like us.  

Jakk'ari warmly describes Roshorn hoping to dislodge any disdainful sentiments before they have a chance to take root. The guilt from abandoning the furry shaman now knots his conscience as he explains Roshorn's plight.

  Unfortunately he can only communicate with those outside his chapter through Kalimag, the speech of Elements, and his chapter never arrived for the Armistice Ball. He has requested our aid in investigating the absence of his chapter mates.

I will be aiding Roshorn. We have seen the beneficial results of associating with a sibling chapter.  
He gestures towards Isaera, vaguely knowing of the attention she had received and the potential courtship it insinuated. Though the full nature of the young relationship escaped the married troll shaman.

  Such association could breed comradery and even bring abundance  beyond the material .   
He speaks with emphasis guided towards Marion, making evident that he had been listening to her initial reaction to Roshorn.

  Comradery has saved us from tremendous threats before, hasn't it?  
He asks Mor'Lag, still looking for a sense of community after having been left adrift without a clan.
Feathersnow
In deep depression over being rejected by Marion, as well as everyone else, who not being Wonder Workers, had less valuable opinions. Mor and Lag were on the verge of tears at this point...

At Jak'Kari's words, they bouy slightly, having a mission, but neither sister dares directly contradict their "leader."
MrAbdiel
 Isaera, Outside... 

Matthean hears you out, and lets you go without complaint. You sense no malice from him, despite your points of disagreement.

Zalael hears your injunction to apologize, and gives a sagging nod of his head. "Yes. Well... Well, you're right... But I'm not so worried. We fight a lot, like that. It's not always me who strikes first. We'll work it out. We always do."

On the more general topic, the wrongness of this direction of elven motion, he remains sullen, and is glad to have your agreement.  "I can't believe Prince Kael'thas has just... given up on his legacy like that. Refusing to be the new Sunstrider king isn't humility, it's cowardice. We need singular unity taking back our homeland, not... this. A part of the people combing the orc world for imagined mana, another part throwing themselves behind Lor'Themar, and others... I imagine, looking to the Ranger-General Vereesa, who did not seem party to this. When we take back Silvermoon, who will rule there? Lor'Themar, king of the blood elves?"  He grimaces, and shakes his head with a sigh.  "It's wrong, like you said. I will fight when the time comes to take back our land - but I will not call myself Sin'dorei, or kneel to a regent who does. I am Quel'dorei, like my father."  Without prophetic vision, it is hard to know if this is stubbornness in the face of inevitability or a principled conviction that will one day be seen as righteous. The rain is picking up now, plastering down the warrior's hair to his face. He glances to you, then back to his chapter's tent, where his brother awaits a mending of this rift. He makes a minimal gesture towards that tent, saluting your initial encouragement to apologize as he makes to go do it now.

 "I'd better... Well. It was very fine dancing with you, Isaera Runescribe. I'll write."  Then he steals away into his fellows' tent as the rain goes from showering to pouring, and you are driven to consider a similar retreat.

 Everyone Else, Inside the Ratchet Chapter Tent 

Roshorn is a simple furbolg; the kind of wisdom he needs to commune with the spirits is not the same as the social savvy required to navigate complex interpersonal webs. All the same, he is not a fool. He knows when he is being mocked, even in another language, and his amber eyes watch Marion as she scowls and parades her discontent. He does not seem to hold it against her - and perhaps just as well, for he has very little leverage throwing himself on the mercy of the Ratchet Chapter. He watches Jakkari hopefully as the troll offers a more soothing flow of incomprehensible language to him, the diplomat clearly acting as his advocate. He growls a Kalimag addendum to Jakk'ari.

 "I have none of the riches Horde and Alliance crave to pay your companions; but mine are not without their own skills. Whatever has befallen them, they will be grateful to be delivered; and we will certainly owe your clan a debt of like action." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion perked an eyebrow when she noticed that Mor'lag seemed somewhat despondent, despite her outward show of congratulatory support for her victory. Watching the ogre slink away, the warlock had paused momentarily, as if pondering whether she should go after her and ask what the matter was. Perhaps that would be best.

The Alteracian struggled at first to dislodge herself from her plush, deep chair. Grunting in annoyance, gripping the side with her one free hand and wriggling her legs and rump, Marion gritted a  "Ny...yaah!!"  as she finally pulled herself up and out of the opulent chair, visibly staggering about and blinking whoozily as she got to her feet, the alcohol clearly getting to her brain.

Inhaling, Marion walked past the Fulbolg and the troll who were talking, and approached Marion from behind - the size difference between the two of them like that gapped between a human and a gnome.

 "Hey, Mor'lag - you alright?"  Marion asked, steadying herself against the wall.

 "You... hic! ...won Queen of the Ball! You should be ecstatic!"  
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  He growls a Kalimag addendum to Jakk'ari.

 "I have none of the riches Horde and Alliance crave to pay your companions; but mine are not without their own skills. Whatever has befallen them, they will be grateful to be delivered; and we will certainly owe your clan a debt of like action."  
 

 
 Jakk'ari 
  Each one of my clan would be willing to be of aid. Though motives will vary from of fairness and family to acceptance and belonging to ambition and respect.  
He looks patiently to each party member, his patience overriding any exasperation as warmth tinges his assessments. Then back to Roshorn.
  Would there be any ogres or royalty amongst your companions would there?  

He asks probing Roshorn hopefully.
Feathersnow
 
 Originally Posted by BananaPhone 
    Marion Mordis 

Marion perked an eyebrow when she noticed that Mor'lag seemed somewhat despondent, despite her outward show of congratulatory support for her victory. Watching the ogre slink away, the warlock had paused momentarily, as if pondering whether she should go after her and ask what the matter was. Perhaps that would be best.

The Alteracian struggled at first to dislodge herself from her plush, deep chair. Grunting in annoyance, gripping the side with her one free hand and wriggling her legs and rump, Marion gritted a  "Ny...yaah!!"  as she finally pulled herself up and out of the opulent chair, visibly staggering about and blinking whoozily as she got to her feet, the alcohol clearly getting to her brain.

Inhaling, Marion walked past the Fulbolg and the troll who were talking, and approached Marion from behind - the size difference between the two of them like that gapped between a human and a gnome.

 "Hey, Mor'lag - you alright?"  Marion asked, steadying herself against the wall.

 "You... hic! ...won Queen of the Ball! You should be ecstatic!"   
 

Mor and Lag look at their glorious leader blankly fir a minute.

"Really?"
"You think so?"


"We got humiliated."
"And ran"

"But..."
"But..."

"So did the Horde"
"And they picked us."

"Maybe..."
"Maybe they  were  serious?"

"We..."
"We...  Won "

" We won! "

Mor'Lag seems to have come out of their funk.
MrAbdiel
 Roshorn remains somewhat cowed by the strange spectrum of emotions going on in the tent - locked out of the discussion in common/orcish, he cannot understand that much of the bad feeling in the room has nothing to do with him at all. Still, he is buoyed by Jakk'ari's words, and offers a summary of his chaptermates.

 "No ogres, I think. Though I sometimes struggle to tell the furless apart... No, none are ogres. There is Donova Den-Of-Snow, a woman dwarf. Two men of the far kingdoms, that bicker like littermates. An old man, Ignaeus, and a younger one, Laydus. Both are men of steel. And Yara is trollkind, like you - though young, and her skin is blue. If any are royal, I do not know it... but they are honorable." 

Donova, Ignaeus, Laydus, Yara, and Roshorn make five; which seems to be a stable and typical number for chapters like this.

 
 Spoiler: Jakkari: 
There are many blue skinned troll tribes, and a short name like Yara. No affixes to the name give you nothing to go on - Zul'Yara might reasonably be expected to be a master of atleast one form of voodoo, Yara'Maz might be either a tribal leader or one tapped to inherit that mantle when the leader died. But a simple 'Yara' suggests either a young troll woman with few accomplishments to brag about, or no heritage worth flagging.
 

 
 Spoiler: Marion: 
You know none of these people, though "Ignaeus" is the name of the ancient tribal king of the Alteraci tribe whom King Thoradin of Arathor bested in combat and took on as a brother and fellow general in the ancient trollwars. Ignaeus was given the name "Trollbane" for his heroism, and his descendants carried that name eventually to the throne of Strom. Obviously the real Ignaeus Trollbane is long, long dead; but the name is most commonly given to Alteraci sons more than Stromic ones.
 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 
 Originally Posted by Feathersnow 
 Mor and Lag look at their glorious leader blankly fir a minute.

"Really?"
"You think so?"


"We got humiliated."
"And ran"

"But..."
"But..."

"So did the Horde"
"And they picked us."

"Maybe..."
"Maybe they  were  serious?"

"We..."
"We...  Won "

" We won! "

Mor'Lag seems to have come out of their funk. 
 


Marion had to tilt her head back to look up at Mor'lag, their size difference almost comical as the smaller human swayed gently as the alcohol ate away at her brain. Still, the Warlock remembered how embarassed she felt when the ogre had made her scene, charging Khadgar in public like that...still. As far as Marion could tell, her name hadn't been associated with anything, and it was in the past. Water under the bridge.

Shrugging, Marion blew a raspberry with her lips and waved her glass-holding hand dismissively.

 "Who cares what the....they thick...hic! You don't owe them anything!" 
 "I'm from Alterac, the...hic...black sheep of the Alliance...and...hic...I got expelled form Dallaran for...practicing...magics that I shouldn't be practin...hic! Great shame for everyone invol..involved...but the Scourge quickly too pre-sea-dints...hic!" 

Swallowing, inhaling, Marion took another sip of her apricot brandy.

 "'sides, old girl, you jolly well wowed the lot at the ball, didn't you? I mean, bagging the title and all! Who could possibly have a beef with you when you're the belly of the ball, eh? Plenty were keen to look past any trifles and hand you the crown. Bravo, I say! Jolly good show!" 
Plaids
Jakk'ari
 
  Yes, none dared to bear such strength against the mage so boldly. But now our sibling chapter needs your strength Mor'Lag.   Jakk'ari interjects as he wedges himself between Mor'Lag and tipsy Marion.
  Roshorn has told me his five allies have gone missing.   Jakk'ari's confidence swells as his and Marion's praise elevates Mor'Lag's moods.

He pivots to Marion for a moment hoping her drink had dulled her robust skepticism.
  Roshorn has promised a man of  iron  from a far kingdom who would be grateful for your aid.   Hopefully Iseara is close by and knew a cantrip to cure light inebriation.

He listens to Marion and Mor'Lags response while prepared to search for Isaera.
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag look expecting at their leader, the wonder worker Marion.

"We should go?"
"Right?"
WindStruck
 Outside the Pavilions 

The rain had begun to drizzle more.  "That is a good question, isn't it? Who would rule Silvermoon and control the destiny of our people? Why should  we  adhere to tradition blindly following those who forsake our heritage and cherry pick what they want to uphold? But.. I don't know what we are actually dealing with. Maybe it's cowardice. Maybe it's not humility at all, but grandiosity. Maybe it's just sheer foolhardiness.. either way.. it disgusts me..." 

As the rain picks up, Isaera says,  "We aren't alone in our beliefs, Zalael. But.. our people.. but truly, our people, us Quel'dorei.. I feel we shall be alone, without any allies we can fall back onto. Not even our king anymore..."   She sniffles a bit.  "Farewell. I hope to see you again." 

Isaera scurries inside as the torrential downpour ensues.


 Inside the Pavilion 

The high elf arrives inside the tent with muddied feet and sandals, a drenched dress that sags on her, and somewhat tousled hair, looking like a drowned rat. She peers about at the jubilant Mor'Lag, the smashed Marion, affable Jakk'ari and.. the unexpected Furbolg?

She catches the tail end of what Jakk'ari says.  "Five missing allies?  Who....?" 

Isaera looks curiously at the Furbolg.  'Roshorn'?  Or was that one of the missing persons.

 "I didn't know we had a visitor. What's going on?" 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 
 Originally Posted by Feathersnow 
 Mor and Lag look expecting at their leader, the wonder worker Marion.

"We should go?"
"Right?" 
 


At the current point in time, the Warlock hardly looked the 'leader' that Mor'lag believed her to be. Having initially dismissed the furbolg as an entitled whiner, she now had to actually listen to him. Or at least Jakk'ari, who provided useful translational services.

Marion shrugged.

 "Sure. Why not. Hic..." 

After all, what else did they have to do?

But then Isaera entered, dunked in the rain with her flax-like hair clinging to her scalp. Her inhibitions largely untethered by her apricot brandy, Marion pursed her lips as the elf entered the tent.


 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
 She catches the tail end of what Jakk'ari says.  "Five missing allies?  Who....?" 

Isaera looks curiously at the Furbolg.  'Roshorn'?  Or was that one of the missing persons.

 "I didn't know we had a visitor. What's going on?"  
 


  "I could write a book about what you don't know,"   Marion whispered under her breath, before taking another sip of her drink.

 "Hmm?"  Marion murmured a little louder, drawing her look up and across at Isaera.

 "Oh...hic...Madam has returned? You honour us with your presence,"  she spoke, before turning to the Furbolg.

 "Tell him Jakk'ari, he is lucky to receive his Ladyship,"  she gestured to the elf, eyes still on the Fubolg,  "few are worthy...hic...few are worthy of her attention, so plead your case quickly and do not waste her precious time." 
WindStruck
Isaera glanced at Marion and could sense the contempt and sarcasm. She knew her well enough at this point. Briefly, she asked herself just what crawled up Marion's ass and got into her system. But then that answer was immediately apparent: the booze.

Isaera inhales sharply and decides to play along with the act.  "Yes, if you do have something to say to me, make it quick. I am in a rather.. disgraceful state at the moment." 
 "...or, perhaps, you could wait some moments for me to get changed." 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari  

Jakk'ari notes Isaera's irritation and responds promptly and candidly.
  This is Roshorn from the Winterspring chapter of the Opal Collocation.   He gestures to Roshorn now standing more comfortably within their midst.

  His party has gone missing. They left Winterspring on horseback heading towards Durotar for the Armistice Ball. But they have gone missing while traveling through Azshara. With few allies and little recognition Roshorn has come requesting our aid. We will have time change but it will have to be done quickly.   Jakk'ari comments as Isaera's diminished dress drips on the ground.

   The elements have vouched for Roshorn and I believe the elements will reimburse us for aiding our sibling.

What do you think Isaera?  
MrAbdiel
Emilia has been sitting to the side all this time, her meagre kit packed into a sling bag at her feet. She watches Isaera as she returns and she and Marion begin sparking off each other again. She had hoped that, over her tenure in Ratchet Chapter, she would see their periodic frictions smoothen into something approaching respect; perhaps even the kind of friendship that comes out of rivalry. But Emilia herself wasn't much of a peacemaker - and she couldn't even reprimand Marion's intoxication without hypocrisy. If the mage and warlock were going to bond, Emilia wouldn't get to see it. Still, she straightens up for a second as if preparing to interject as some kind of distraction, before Jakk'ari gets there first with a more genuinely informative comment.

As far as she could see it, Jakk'ari was ready to take up the task; Mor'Lag would follow Marion's lead, and Marion's assent was, for the moment, dubious with sarcasm. Isaera's input may be enough to push the discussion into action.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion drew her glass up to her lips again and took another deep sip, the amber-gold liquid quickly diminishing. The bottle that the adventuring noble had originally retrieved and from which she dispersed the alcohol, was getting close to half empty, its 40% alcohol content having gone into the system of only one present: Marion.

She remained quiet as Isaera followed up with Jakk'ari whom, ever the diplomatic, acquiesced to the elf's demands for expedition.

But it was another figure that caught the Warlocks attention, as her eyes widened at observance when she was drawing her glass down and spotted Emilia prepping her things, ready to depart. The Paladin and her had...never really gotten along. Surprising! But nevertheless, Emilia hadn't pissed the warlock off, nor gotten in her way, nor made any unreasonable demands of her. Indeed, she had been downright stalwart, and Marion was not so egoistical as to not see the salvation for humankind the paladins had been...even if they'd almost gotten her killed several times during her personal attempts at escape during the Scourging of Lordaeron.

And so, Marion unceremonly lurched forward and walked in in front of Jakk'ari and the furbolg as if they weren't even there, her bare feet slap-slap-slap-slapping on the floor as she walked with the grace of something from Durotar, until she drew herself up alongside the paladin.

 "I'm sorry to see - hic! I'm..."  Marion blinked, pressing her eye-lids together hard and then opening them,  "I'm sorry, to see, you go, Emilia, I really am!"  she put one arm around the paladin, clutching her close in a tight hug.

 "Look, about the Legion, there's something you should know..." 

The warlock then spent the next five minutes, as slurred and drunken as she was, dispensing some... very  insightful advice into the demonology of the ether, the legion and devils in general. It was rather astute and learned, suggesting that Marion was a lot more knowledgeable than she might have let on, and it could possibly save Emilia's life or those of her colleagues one day.

Kissing the paladin on the cheek, swaying on her feet, Marion wished her the best, smothering her with a several inebriated affections before turning her half-eye-closed attention back to the troll, furbolg and Her Majesty.
WindStruck
Isaera listens to Jakk'ari's translated plea, her eyes shifting a bit from side to side, among her companions and their visitor.

 "Well.. I don't think he expects us to leave right now? It's getting late and the weather is quite terrible,"  she says.

 "I suppose we could help, although.. this feels like searching for a needle in a hay stack, doesn't it? Kind of like those marines..." 
 "Does he even have an idea of what route they might have taken? How long is the journey?" 
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
 Isaera listens to Jakk'ari's translated plea, her eyes shifting a bit from side to side, among her companions and their visitor.

 "Well.. I don't think he expects us to leave right now? It's getting late and the weather is quite terrible,"  she says.

 "I suppose we could help, although.. this feels like searching for a needle in a hay stack, doesn't it? Kind of like those marines..." 
 "Does he even have an idea of what route they might have taken? How long is the journey?"  
 

 
 Jakk'ari 
  Ahh... well I see, the elements will be most forthcoming with the two of us. But I see your point. We succeeded with ranger skills of Sergent Zachary Black, guidance from the alliance, and hospitality from the horde. Delaying our departure would be prudent with our faculties and conditions.  
Jakk'ari notes as his enthusiasm subsides in the midst of his disheveled party.
  You may rest while I will see what else Roshorn knows and what he does not.  

Turning to Roshorn Jakk'ari renews his questioning.
  Roshorn, do you know which route your clan may have taken and what may have prevented them from arriving here? Are there any scouts in Azshara who will come to our aid? My clan and I have saved people lost in the wilderness on multiple occasions but have had scouts or directions while doing so. I also fear the guidance elements will not be available should an arcane adversary be responsible for your clan's dissapearance. 
 
 Spoiler: Hopefully Emelia will not be leaving immediately 
 Hopefully Emelia and the other the paladins are going to take some time to prepare their campaign to plan out the logistics.
 
MrAbdiel
 Roshorn's ursine head tracks between the speakers, tension entering his posture as he loses touch with an exchange beyond his understanding and draining away again as Jakk'ari decodes it for him. In Kalimag, he responds.
 
"I do - I walked the road with my own paws expecting them to catch up to me on the way. We pass from Winterspring through the hold of the Timbermaw - our opal clan has good relations with them - into Ashzara, south along the escarpment above the ruins of Eldarath, and south to Lake Mennar and the path the orcs have carved in the lower mountains to the Orgimmar canyon. It is not especially dangerous, but there are naga in the bay... The horde soldiers from Valormok keep them in check. But I cannot imagine the Opal clan would stray into danger without some good reason..." 

The conditions make it difficult to imagine leaving this evening, though tomorrow morning the roads in all directions are likely to have travellers retreating from the collapsed peace summit. Night elves returning north are likely to go west through Ashenvale, instead, but the druid hub of Moonglade is accessible to the north - for druids, anyway. The road may not be totally lonely. As for Emilia and the rest of the Argent Dawn, she seems to be preparing to depart tomorrow with all haste - if there is no portal available for mere squires, she'll have a ship to catch as soon as possible. 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 
  That trail narrows our search and what may have detoured them.
We are not in a state to depart, and we need to rest. But you have my promise that I will help find your opal clan.  
Jakk'ari reassures Roshorn.

 Perhaps the little elemental of snow and wind can help us recover.  
 Jakk'ari wonders as he sees Marion drunken beside Mor'Lag recently having been hurled by Medivh.

Jakk'ari begins arranging his bedding to rest.
Feathersnow
Lag sneaks the bottle away from Marion as she talks to the Lightbound warrior and downs most of it, passing the rest to Mor, who puts it down after finishing it.

She needed to protect her leader from excess, but getting caught wouldn't do at all...  with a decent buzz, the twins trundle off to find a place to sleep.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

The bottle was easily whisked away, Mor'lag and others noting it was about 75% empty, the entirety of it having been imbibed in their warlock companion would was now stumbling about. She muttered and grumbled about a few things before being plonked into her cot to sleep everything off.
MrAbdiel
   
  Azshara   
Precious few remember  Zin-Azshari . Precious few remember the Kaldorei Empire at all, let alone the glorious and glamorous capital. The earliest Night Elves built the city of  Elun'dris  on the shores of the Well of Eternity, but only when it blossomed into an empire did the Kaldorei rename the city Zin-Azshari, the Glory of Azshara. But after the war of the Ancients, after the Legion first came to Azeroth and the gravity of the queen's desecration  buckled the land and caused the city's bulk to shear from the tectonic plate and plunge into the endless dark of the ocean, the despairing survivors came to know it more simply. Not a glory, but a reminder of the hollowness of empire, and glory, and arcane obsession.

Now, it's simply Azshara. But even with all its ancient Kaldorei glory sunk into the ocean forever, the land is not devoid of natural beauty. Some quirk of its proximity to the Well of Eternity las locked the flora of the region in perpetual autumn. Tall polyathias, noble oaks, and swooping juniper trees with fabulously curved trunks all sport majestic boughs crowded with leaves of oranges, reds and yellows. Even the grass has an unnatural, but not unlovely fall hue. Supposedly, the region is especially lovely when the sun is rising over the sea in the east, turning the whole realm into fields of burnished and glowing gold.

Walking along the scrappy dirty road down from the mountain pass from Orgimmar, each of you is now as far north in Kalimdor as you have ever been with each step, rather than returning home the way you came as you had planned. Fortunately, you aren't losing time: early in the morning before your departure, one of Lady Proudmoore's apprentices visited your tent to impart to Isaera two things. The first is a ceramic disc fired from a mana-rich clay and engraved with a spell that will create short-lived portal to Theramore. The second is a reiteration of Jaina's assurance that, when Isaera stops by, she will receive the texts and components she needs to start inscribing the chapter's portal anchor at the tower in Ratchet. The upshot of it all is, as long as you aren't delayed by several days here in Azshara, you'll arrive back in Ratchet faster by portal and ship than you would have if you had left immediately and taken a combination of ship, zeppelin, and marching.

Once again, you find yourselves walking into the wilderness looking for lost heroes. These are not freshly minted cadets out to get themselves into trouble; these are adventurers at least somewhere close to parity in expertise to your party. They had somewhere important to be, and were travelling a safe rout. What could have befallen them, or else possessed them to deviate by days and miss what was anticipated to be one of the most important diplomatic events in modern history - and the culmination of the Opal Collocation's noble goals?

You missed today's sunrise by several hours and it's near to noon as you follow Roshorn's ambling bulk off the road to the small lake Mennar. A modest, glistening freshwater lake accruing from a stream from the mountains you just passed, the water is the most obvious place for travellers to water their horses on the way through. A collection of chalk-white marble ruins are scattered around the lake's rim and some in the water itself. Column and stairs broken from their ancient belonging sit tilting half out of the sand. A lone tower, its outer masonry worked and fine beneath the weathering, stands sealed and leaning slightly south west; like a poorly tended gravestone for the ancient glory of the elves.

A small rugged hut sits next to a rough cut timber jetty over the water, suggesting at least one long term occupant; and a gated paddock in the golden grass stands empty beside it.

The bear man growls out in his impenetrable shaman-tongue, relying on Jakk'ari's translation.

 "If my Opal clan made it this far, they surely stopped here. Perhaps... there is sign of their passing. Or no sign, to suggest instead they diverted earlier on the road..."  He plods along the bank of the beach, sniffing and looking about for confirmation.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You're on the hunt. You can begin your investigation however you like, checking out any of the nearby features and looking for signs of the Winterspring Chapter!
 
 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 
 This is the furthest the Winterspring chapter could have traveled. Traces of their presence may remain in the landscape; while an absence would suggest they stopped earlier on their journey to Durotar.  Jakk'ari translates for Roshorn.

  Be wary amongst the ruins and stay within sight of one another. This be a hexed land, the remains of it's Demon Queen still persist.   He warns the party while bristling at the white marble ruins still retaining some of their opulence from ages past.

  I will be investigating over there.   Jakk'ari points forwards towards the quiet landscape as he resolutely walks forwards towards the pristine pool in the autumnal landscape.
The tranquil waters fail to comfort Jakk'ari. The history of this land overrules any assurances the pristine waters hold. After being desecrated so thoroughly this inviting lake had to be a malignant ruse now latent within this land. It would be more comforting to approach to muddy watering hole in Tanaris, harboring an opportunistic crocolisk. Suppressing his discomfort Jakkari reaches out to the elements within the lake.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


And so the Opal collective pushed north of Orgrimmar, further than most humans had ever been in a small band of canting heroes that strode forth to rescue another group of heroes from their own clumsy stupidity. At least that's how Marion saw it.

The morning was easier on the warlock than most might think, as her teenage youth allowed her to shrug off the half bottle of alcohol she had imbibed with relative ease, and evade the brain-pulverizing curse of a hang-over. Instead, she had had an... awkward  morning, at least around Isaera. Indeed, Marion had not forgotten the social wound the elf had inflicted on her and the ensuing salt rubbed within it, and she carried this injury by not talking to or addressing her directly, instead asking whoever was closest to pass on a message, if they were willing.

However, that was forgotten for now, as Marion sat atop  Charon , the visibly fel-laced horse she had learned to summon before the trip to Orgrimmar. A relatively simple spell once you got it down, the fel-steed was a beautiful specimen of its kind, with an orange-black mane down its long, broad neck that was hot to the touch. Normal eyes did not reside within its sockets, but instead small pits of fire that somehow managed to convey an animalistic intelligence with its glare, while when it scraped its hooves against the ground it did so with emberous keratin that left soft little dark patches of char where-ever its arched horse-shoe tipped trotters touched the earth.

Marion herself had opted for an arcane casters fieldware: striking, but somewhat practical. Purple was the color of the day, with the silvery, grey lining helping to accentuate the beautiful, polished and cut emerald that sat at the base of her cleavage and at the centre of the satin gorget around her neck, while her crown of yellowed, blonde hair was braided along the side of her head as if to funnel the rest of her mane into a golden waterfall behind her head. If there was any hint one desired as to how deep the young womans coffers had become from the income of her enterprises, she wore them all with aplomb.

Naturally, as befitting a lady, Marion rode side-saddle, the rich purples of her robe draping across one side of  Charon 's muscular form, the saddle situated upon its back seemingly perfectly sculptured, doubtless by the girls own magic, to suit the warlocks contours with comfortable precision. It also retained space for a large, side-saddle hostler within which was sheathed a firearm rifle that Marion had brought along, as well as a utility belt of useful items and weapon reloads that she could swiftly fasten about her waist in a pinch.

When they came upon their first mystery, the scholar and intellectual curiosity of the Warlock was set to wander as she peered across the ruins of sculptured marble, decaying remnants of a once grand and vast empire forged by beings whom now huddled upon the island of Teldrassil in the nadir of their power. To think that they had once commanded the land from coast to coast, their hands stretching out across a vast continent of unimaginable riches and potential, yet now all that remained was some coastal influence and an island wrapped around a tree. The Kaldorei had grown tall and fallen far, indeed.

However, perhaps it was an individual curiosity, but Marion had always wondered why the Elves had not advanced to the gunpowder stage of their civilization. They clearly had the mental faculties to grasp and understand the principles, yet they had deliberately chosen to apprehend themselves in stasis. Though preserving a beautiful heritage was understandable, Marion felt a tinge of sadness that in doing so they had sacrificed their ability to defend it from outside forces that were mightier than they. Could the world today look very different had the Night Elves of old possessed, maintained and deployed squadrons of steam tanks, cannons, mortars, barrels of gunpowder and riflemen? Marion thought so. Such weapons had been instrumental in humanities efforts to blast to piece the vile orcs in decades past. What would the Kaldorei have done with such firepower, and how would the world be different today? That their empire had been forged with the same weapons they were still using at its fall thousands of years later, was indicative of utter failure, in Marions eyes. Guns were the great equalizer, after all. Marion was no physical match for a brutal orc, but give her a rifle and 50 yards of distance, and she could drop half a dozen in short order.

One could argue, if Marion could play devils advocate against herself, that the Night Elves druidic customs had been their downfall. Though initially productive for both spiritual and defensive means, the pathological strive for 'balance' had driven them into a state of complacency and stagnation, their one nature-infused trick becoming predictable to their enemies to the point it was no longer a reliable shield, but a lead anchor whose weight had made them vulnerable. In the long run, peace had cost them their strength. They were defeated by their own initial victories.


   Be wary amongst the ruins and stay within sight of one another. This be a hexed land, the remains of it's Demon Queen still persist.   He warns the party while bristling at the white marble ruins still retaining some of their opulence from ages past.

 I will investigating over there.   Jakk'ari points forwards towards the quiet landscape as he resolutely walks forwards. 

Marion nodded to the troll - a member of another species long-fallen from power in Azeroth, but this time for the better - her eyes moving over to the Furbolg whom was shuffling about towards what he believed to be a source of clues as to his companions whereabouts. Now that she was more, ahem, sober, Marion didn't know what to think of the bear-man. He was... odd  to look at, after all. Disgusting, ugly, but oddly endearing, perhaps  because  he was so ghastly, yet possessed of a timid and humble soul. Maybe.

For now, Marion remained atop  Charon , and performed just a gentle trot around the perimeter, remaining within sight of the others and not traveling more than 50 to 100 yards, as she cast an inspection about their surroundings.
MrAbdiel
 Jakk'ari wanders cautiously to the banks of the lake. Dried hoofprints in the sandy earthen banks speak to travellers watering horses here.

 
 Spoiler: Investigation: DC 8 
The tracks are more than a day old, you figure. Most importantly, there's a good chance they belong to the Winterspring chapter because Roshorn described them has having horses. Very few people operating in this area would have such beasts - raptors, kodos, wolves, and nightsabers for sure, but horses? They're not tauren hooves, and you're too far north for centaur activity.
 


The spirits in the lake a flighty little things, offering the shaman their whispers furtively before returning to their bodiless, tentative frollicking.

  "The dead elves cling to their loss, here; they wail and moan, but they do not attack except those who take to the water in moonlit hours..."  

Meanwhile, Marion's infernal steed conveys her at a greater perimeter, keeping watch over the golden grasses and trees and the narrow road back into the mountains toward Orgrimmar. A delegation of night elf sentinels, eight in total, bound by on their massive battle-cats. Most of them cast no attention at all to the lake, or the adventurers inspecting it. One turns her lambent white eyes briefly to Marion as she passes. She crooks a long turquoise eyebrow, but makes no aggressive move. The Kaldorei entrenched in alliance politics are well used to humans, but most of them have had very little dealing with the children of the kingdoms of man. Humans, dwarves, high-elves and gnomes - the Kaldorei could be forgiven for wondering if there was something in the water in the Eastern Kingdoms that turned people short, and normalized their coloration into an autumnal spectrum. But they were allies now, and the passing sentinel gave the warlock the barest vestige of a nod, and then turned her attention back to the road.

 
 Spoiler: Perception: DC 10 
The sentinels are making good time into the distance, but you notice that some of those who didn't eyeball  you  had their attention on a thicket of low trees overwatching the lake. Perhaps they spotted something there that isn't obvious to you...

 
 Spoiler: If you hit DC 25... 
... Until it is. A flash of blue scale in the shadow in the boughs there; something biding and watching...
 

 
 
WindStruck
Fortunately, an emissary from Lady Proudmoore arrived before the group left on their rescue operation. Not only was a disk that could teleport them back to Theramore very convenient, but this was a good chance to send word of their plans. It would be good if Jaina knew they would be absent from Rachet longer than expected, and no doubt she'd be pleased to know they were helping investigate the whereabouts of the missing Winterspring chapter.

And so, Isaera sets out with the others, packed unfortunately light and without much clothes or gear appropriate for a hike in the north, but on the other hand, at least this meant the journey would impact her stamina less. Only time would tell if lacking supplies would hurt in the long run.

A mount would have been nice. Isaera wished she could have rented out a lovely hawkstrider of some sort, but they were hard to come by around these parts, and the logistics of returning it would be.. complicated, if not extremely inconvenient. This desire was intensified seeing Marion ride around casually with some other fel-blooded steed she got or summoned from somewhere. There was undoubtedly a twinge of jealousy in the elf, and also stoked suspicion. Sure, at this point, why not? Just announce to everyone that you're a  freaking warlock  in big, tall, neon letters!

Needless to say, the two had a very tenuous relationship. Isaera, having had perhaps one of the most stressful nights of her life previously (not counting loss of home and family in Quel'Thalas), paid little attention to the warlock's small banter and had now inadvertently and unknowingly slighted her. Marion brooded silently to herself, and simply put, Isaera paid attention to more important things.

- - - - -

The beauty of Azshara was enchanting, and although Isaera really was reluctant to traveling all this way at first, soon the natural beauty of the area, and the rich history buried deep in the neglected ruins captured her attention. Almost feeling like a child again, she gazed about, bright eyed and curiously, stopping to touch many things and examine stones of what seemed like very innocuous and unimportant ruins. She of course, had many questions for Jakk'ari. Maybe he wouldn't know seeing as he was a desert troll, but perhaps the spirits or Roshorn could fill her in.

They arrive at Lake Mennar, which was not only a nice spot to rest, but also a place of vital importance. Either the missing party had stopped by here, or they did not. Whichever was the case would help determine where to look next.

 "We should ask if anyone has seen them,"  Isaera says, pointing at the tower and the hut near the jetty.  "And if they haven't.. well, I suppose we'll have to investigate here ourselves." 
 "Just a reminder: what did our missing party look like, and what were their names again?"  she asks.

Wearily, Isaera heads over to the indicated structures to see if anyone is there and  interrogate  ask them nicely.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari  
 

 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
 They arrive at Lake Mennar, which was not only a nice spot to rest, but also a place of vital importance. Either the missing party had stopped by here, or they did not. Whichever was the case would help determine where to look next.

 "We should ask if anyone has seen them,"  Isaera says, pointing at the tower and the hut near the jetty.  "And if they haven't.. well, I suppose we'll have to investigate here ourselves." 
 "Just a reminder: what did our missing party look like, and what were their names again?"  she asks. 
 

Jakk'ari answers Isaera, gladly engaging with the friendly High Elf instead of the profaned land.
  We are looking for four individuals. The Dwarf woman Donova Den-Of-Snow, two Human men Ingaeus and Laydus, and Yara a Drukhari woman. The humans are tough as iron and should have been able to protect their party from the hardships within the surrounding wilderness. Look for evidence of horses if the dwarf, human, or drukhari  tracks are absent.  
 ||__//\\_||
 
Jakk'ari's submerged apprehension erupts to surface with the elementals having further affirmed his fears. His sandy gray hair bristles as cool fear jolts Jakk'ari and heightens his senses. His ears swivel and his bulge as he dashes away from the lake shore.

   They were here. Their horses were here by the water!    He reflexively exclaims in Kalimag.

His faculties quickly return as he returns to speaking common for Mor'Lag and repeating in Kalimag for Roshorn.
  There are horse tracks by the lake. The Winterspring chapter must have arrived here several days ago and rested by the water to allow their horses to drink. The elementals of the lake have also told me the ghosts of ancient elves of the fallen kingdom emerge at night to attack those who take to the waters in the moonlight hours. I knew the land of the Demon Queen be having bad mojo!  
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: Jakkari's Investigate 
You have tracked dune dervishes and lightfooted sandstrider hens across the sands of Tanaris, where the wind changes and the dunes rearrange themselves. Sometimes tracking in such a 'wet' environment with mud and soil throws you off; but on others, it feels like the passing creatures might as well chisel their identity into stone.

A party of four horses was certainly here. One is lighter than the others, smaller, and seems to have been dismounted by a rider with shorter, wider feet - Donova, you assume. The drakkari woman has left no sign - she has had the presence of mind only to dismount her horse on the grasses where there will be no tale of her distinctive, two-toed troll feed. But the boots of two men are there on the others, and there is no doubt in your mind that the Winterspring chapter came this way. They watered their horses, loitered for no more than an hour... and then mounted up and strayed back to the road, at a north-eastern angle suggesting they intended to go back the way they came. They encountered something here that drove them to change their direction...
 


Isaera wanders through the ancient history of her people as she passes the stony remnants. Strictly, the history books call this the  Kaldorei  empire; but it is something of a misnomer. The Night Elves may be more physically like the ancients were depicted, but the grand old cities of Suramar and Zin-Azshari were drenched in magic and high culture and arcane mastery - it was the desire to retain that heritage that drove the ancestors of the high elves to sail east. These old Kaldorei, these Highborne, were as much her ancestors as they were the ancestors of the sentinels vanishing down the road. And it was the careless abuse of magic that drew the Legion here - but not without some complicity from the elven nobles.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Isaera's Magical Craving 
The element of Isaera's soul that is accustomed a richness of ambient mana aches to be so near the site where the Well of Eternity once whirled and swelled and bathed the people in nourishing, uplifting power. It is managable, but pronounced.

Somewhere in the barrens, Aleeana feels a similar ache. She draws a slim green crystal into being with her new cantrip, and lets it dissolve in her palm; and she aches no longer.
 


Jakk'ari's report about the dangerous spirits is no surprise to Isaera - the wealth of magical items and artifacts that must exist buried in sunken and collapsed ruins here must be astonishing. Surely, all the 'easy' ones have been picked away by opportunists over the years; but the lure of power and wealth for a little risk must certainly command fools to try their luck. Could the Winterspring chapter been deflected from their original course to hunt for some relic? Only if their sponsor badly misread the character of those individuals. Still...

A brisk knock on the door of the hut brings a sound of rummage and coughing from within, an orcish call of  'here, here!'  and then an excitable shuffle of feet before the door pulls open. The stooped orc within is just about eye to eye with the elf, though of course height is where similarities end. He has the dull red irises common to aged orcs, the stocky proportions and protrusive underbite common to the orcish underclass formed largely by those who came to Azeroth as part of a peon caste. Strictly, they are no longer indentured to anyone under the new horde; but the set of shoulders, the diminished body size from undernourishment through the years, and the generally humble demeanor of a creature born strong but beaten into weakness marks such orcs apart from their brash, battle-hungry brethren. This one offers what seems to be a friendly smile on his face to Isaera, though he seems unable to maintain her eye contact for long moments and deflects his gaze over and over again past her to the jetty behind.

 "Something need doing..?"  
WindStruck
Isaera flashes a polite smile back.  "Hello."   She wasn't sure if she preferred speaking to a submissive peon or a brash warrior, but either way, she's glad to not be on the wrong end of violence and, it seemed this orc would be cooperative.

 "We were trying to find some people. Two humans, a troll, a dwarf, all as a group.. Perhaps a slightly less eclectic group than mine,"  she says, glancing behind herself briefly as she wonders what the orc is looking at as he keeps deflecting his gaze.

 "I believe they were also riding horses. Did you see people stop by like that, or where they went?" 

While Isaera had almost immediately gone over to question the inhabitants of this area, by now the others had probably started to find clues. Turning around again, it certainly seemed Jakk'ari was excited about something.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion sat astride her infernal steed, side-saddle, her purple-silver robes a bastion of allure and her blonde hair pouring down between her shoulders. Not a particularly effective sentinel or scout, the warlock could  sometimes  be a reliable look-out, and right now was one such time.  Charon  had brought her to the edge of the lake, the humans figure adorably diminiuative compared to the larger ruins and imperial vestiges that surrounded her, but no less alert as she soon spotted movement within the bushes upon the other side of the lake. Movement, and blue scales.

Marions eyes widened, her mouth parting gently in a soft little gasp.  Scales ?! On land? Didn't only fish possess such an overlapping form of dermal tissue - aside from dragons?

Saying nothing and closing her mouth so as not to alert anything with particularly keen vision, the human drew the reins on her steed about gently, clicking her tongue and gesturing softly with the back of her boot for  Charon  to venture forth, as she rode her pet back to where-ever the rest of the group had gathered, her intent clear when she finally shoved herself into the centre of their attention.

  "On the other side of the lake - in the bushes, I saw blue scales and movement!"   her words would be hushed, but deadly serious.
MrAbdiel
 The peon is far more polite and well meaning than he seems able to be helpful.

 "You need water? Strobu. Good to drink!" 

He gestures to the water and offers an indicative nod. On her second try, Isaera gets not much further.

 "Horse? Yes, mind horse. Zug zug. Tie up, I mind." 

His orcish seems to be worse Isaera's, which is strange on account of the fact that he's an orc. He seems to want to help, but complex words blow right past him, and some simple words he fails to recognize at all...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 'Glor-Dook' 
I'll let that history check kick in here; especially because as a 'runescribe' there's a linguistic bent in Isaera's background.

Immediately you pick up some of the shaping of words he uses come from the ogrish lexicon you've heard Mor'Lag use when conversing with the Stonemaul, and between the ogres themselves when you helped them escape the ruination of their village. And that clues you in to something you've read before...


  "It is something of a misconception that orc peons are universally stupid. This is a misjudgment held not only by other races, but by the warrior and craftsmen classes of orcs themselves, on account of so many of the work gangs that made up the peon class of orcs drawn into the Horde having come from ogre slave drafts that took no part in the violent overthrow of the ogres themselves. They were runty, meek, cowed, and desperate. They spoke only the ogre/orc pidgin known as Glor-Dook, and could barely communicate with the free orc clans and those who had never lost their grasp on their mother-tongue.

But these poor drudges were both needed, and willing, to do the work of the Horde war-machine. There were farms to build and trees to chop; gold to dig and pigs to roast. The bands of slaves gladly oathed themselves to repay their debt to their saviors in vigorous labor - thus, 'peon' came to mean both 'indentured servant' and 'worker' more generally. Their lives were largely separate from the warriors and champions of the Horde.

One can understand that clan-orc overseers, communicating with peon work gang leaders, might have come to regard them as mentally dull. Conversations were dominated by clipped and repeated phrases. 'Something need doing?', 'More work?', 'What you want?', 'Me busy!', with little or no grasp of distinct second and first person grammar. This is likely due to the invasive lexical roots of ogres for whom it was possible to sometimes be, oneself, two people. This was a linguistic barrier, not a mental one; and peons are no more likely to be intellectually stunted than a clan-born orc whose grasp on human common left their human captors with similar prejudices..."  

 -  Thurius Morningcrest, from 'Selected Essays on the Orc, Ogre, and Other Invasive Peoples'
 
You could spend quite a while blugeoning your way through the dialect barrier for distinct answers; but you suspect that Mor'Lag, who speaks both the parent tongues of this pidgin, would get through faster and clearer.
 
 
WindStruck
By the end of this exchange, Isaera's warm and polite demeanor has faded away into more confusion and disappointment than anything.

 "Uh. Thanks. Maybe..  friend.. talk.. you.."  she says slowly.

Recognizing the more ogrish language and bits of history, she figures Mor'Lag would have better luck getting any answers - if this peon even saw anyone here at all. The tower was another mystery, but she wasn't sure who or what she'd find there, and she wasn't going to bother to ask.

Returning to the others, she asks what they found.  "Blue scales?  The naga?" 
Plaids
Jakk'ari's frenzied warning interspersed by gasping breaths subside as he notices another detail a few feet away from the lake shore. Horse tracks leading to the north-east and away from their original path. Without signs of a struggle the party just may have proactively seized the initiative and altered course. Relief courses through Jakk'ari with the hope of the WinterSpring chapters survival and his body begins to return to the state his party is accustomed to.

His relief mixes with curiosity with Marion's hushed announcement.

 
 Originally Posted by BananaPhone 
   "On the other side of the lake - in the bushes, I saw blue scales and movement!"   her words would be hushed, but deadly serious. 
 

Then confusion at Isaera's inference.

 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
  "Blue scales?  The naga?"  
 

    Naga? So, this not be a Blue Dragon sighting?    
He whispers back to Marion and Isaera.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 
 Originally Posted by Plaids 
     Naga? So, this not be a Blue Dragon sighting?    
He whispers back to Marion and Isaera. 
 

 "That's a pretty bloody small dragon if it's hiding in the bushes..."  Marion spoke.
Feathersnow
 This was getting nowhere... 

In Orcish:

"Hey you!!"  [As from a high-caste  to an inferior of higher rank than this peon probably is]/
"What did you see?"

"Pinkskins and troll looking for a mixed group with horses!"

//

"Did you see!?"
MrAbdiel
  "What you want?" 

The orc retorts, as Mor'Lag takes over the discussion. It's almost a fearful blurt - this old peon might have lived through some of his early years under ogrish domination. Indeed, Mor and Lag both detect a distinctive gutteral influence of Highmaul braided into his mixed slave-tongue.

 
 Spoiler: Glor-Dook with Mor'Lag 
You don't speak Glor-Dook (nor would you) but you can communicate effectively enough. The peon's name is Juk. He was recognized for his labors during the construction of Orgimmar, and the Warchief granted him his wish - a little place by the water where he can fish and live in peace, but still be useful to the Horde. He offers direction and water to those travelling this way as they come out or, or go into, the mountain pass. He knows not to fish at night time, and the Horde patrols know to check in with him about strange comings and goings.

He is a little afraid of you initially, but when your interrogation is not coupled with physical abuse, he seems to understand you are not angry - just in charge.

 "Yes-yes, they come by here. Three days before. I tell them to see old elf Spear. Up in cave, past trees, two mile." 

This causes some confusion for a moment, but you are able to hammer it out. "Spear" seems to be the name of an old elf who dwells in the area, up in a cave as indicated; as opposed to an actual elven weapon on display somewhere. As Juk tells it, Spear came to him earlier that day and impressed upon him very sternly to direct people to see him.

 "Very urgent. Spear good neighbour. Sometime come to fish." 
 
 
Feathersnow
"He says there is an Elf named 'Spear' nearby"
"He knows something and might need help"

Mor'Lag translates for the others and seeks directions to find this Spear.
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by Feathersnow 
 "He says there is an Elf named 'Spear' nearby"
"He knows something and might need help"

Mor'Lag translates for the others and seeks directions to find this Spear. 
 

  That be soundin like another good lead Mor'Lag, lead the way Spear the elf. Hopefully he still be a living elf.  
Jakk'ari appreciatively replies to Mor'Lag who had spoken a language and dialect the old orc could converse with.
WindStruck
 "Sounds like we will be paying this 'Spear' a visit too. Can you get directions?"  Isaera asks.

And turning and whispering to Marion, she says,  "And keep a look out for those blue scales." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

The Warlock had been ready to return outside with the group to scour the surroundings of the lake in search of the - Naga?

Before the incident with the Frozen Throne, Marion had only read of the Naga as rumors within history books. However, they became a very real and very aggressive threat that viewed all surface dwellers as little better than slaves.

So it was somewhat surprising for Marion when everyone seemed to discard the possibility that they were being watched by the vile creatures, nay even make fun of it. Isaera even went so far as to crack a little quip at her expense, the groups lack of concern leaving Marion with her mouth slightly open in surprise.

Somewhat dumbfounded, Marion blinked and looked around, only now noticing the elderly orc peon that was talking in his ugly goblin-language, its mention of someone called 'Spear' apparently taking precedence over the possibility that they were being watched, followed and could be be walking into an ambush of the same creatures that likely abducted the Furbolgs companions.

Her hands out to the side, blinking a few times, Marion turned and departed the small shack. She returned to  Charon  and drew herself up onto the saddle, and reached down to unsheathe her rifle from its holster upon the side of the felsteed.
MrAbdiel
 Once he is given a way in which he can be helpful, Juk seems to take outsized delight in being helpful. Through Mor'Lag, he gives some direction by landmarks just a little overland northwest to the cave in which Spear is supposed to dwell.

Just as you big him farewell and prepare to follow up on that lead, Marion spots the sleek blue flash in the brush nearby again - blue scale. It's back - or it never left. This is a matter easilly enough communicated with the rest of the group with a gesture of the hand hidden behind Charon's flank - but the question now hangs in the air. What is to be done? Call to it? Rush it? Take the shot...? 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Since Marion's on watch, if she intends to take an immediate decision rather than a delayed one, she'll have to make it herself on the spot. Which way, Alterac Girl?
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Waiting for the others, her mood silent and stormy, Marion continued to peer out across the lake with her attentive senses. In her left hand she held the reins to her infernal steed, while in her right she gripped the grip of her rifle, fully intending to blast the hell out of anything that rear its ugly, snaggletoothed head and menaced them with pain or obstruction.

And it didn't seem like she would have to wait long - there, again! In the bushes, those blue scales!

Narrowing her eyes, Marion whispered, clicking her tongue loud enough for the others to hear.

  "Psst! Pssst! It's still there - we're being watched and followed!"   she hiss-whispered, gesturing with her eyes.
WindStruck
Attempting to maintain some level of secrecy, Isaera furtively says,  "Watch my back, will you?" 

Then much louder she casually says,  "You don't say, Marion?" 

The elf casually traipses over to those bushes, trying to pick out the rarest or more interesting plant or flower there. She turns around and calls,  "Oh, you're right. There's a lot here!" 

She casually begins to forage the plant for no real reason other than being close to whatever lurked in the bushes, and hums a tune from her lost childhood while doing it.
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Those Isaera rolls aren't wildly impressive on the dice, but that's why you've put points in them - so you can succeed as long as the dice don't abjectly abandon you! Broad success.
 


The bushy trees here are likely  Dandler's Lilly Pilly ; a leaf-dense bush that forms a dense cloud of foliage from a few inches above the ground to eight feet in the air. They're gaining popularity in Kalimdor colonies as hedgetrees, but they normally have principally green leaves with irregular clusters of rouge-red edging, and pink berries of no presently discovered nutritious or alchemical value. Here, the golding of Azshara has turned the leaves gold with burnished bronze edging, and the berries are pearl white - a credibly odd coloration for a fascinated nature lover.

But that's not really Isaera's interest. It's an exercise in supreme restraint to look for something with peripheral vision and not directly, so not to be caught looking. But it's there... just seven or eight feet away when she spots it, just on the other side of the lilly pilly...

 
 Spoiler: Two By Two, Scales of Blue 
 

A massive creature that might be eight feet tall if it wasn't crouched somewhat here for better concealment - scaled and draconic, but walking upright and holding a long spear low behind itself. There's another creature just like it a little behind it, you think; though it's hard to tell without looking directly and giving the game away. But the one close by is holding its breath - trying not to alert you to its presense.

It's the same kind of creature as the monstrous figure walking through the flames during the destruction of Stonemaul village... but these are blue scaled, rather than black.
 
 
WindStruck
 "Interesting. These berries are supposed to be pink, but around here they are white.. This will be an experiment.."  Isaera mutters (and lies) to herself. Or who knows? Maybe the berries simply haven't found any application  yet .

After quickly gathering up a handful and putting them in her bag, she turns around and strides back to the others. Once closely joined up with the group again, she nods with her arms crossed as if in conversation, but rather quietly says,   "Don't look over there. Act natural. They're not nagas. They are blue dragonkin, about the size of Mor'Lag. At least two of them."  

Isaera turned away and looked out to the middle of the pond. She really wasn't sure what to think about all this. Well, at least they didn't just ambush her when presented the opportunity. That would have been a quick and foolish end. But who were they? Why were they watching them? Were they related to the incident at the Stonemaul village, or the disappearance of the others? The ones at Stonemaul were black, and these ones were blue.. that at least meant they'd be from a different brood?
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Isaera's Arcane Magic Test {Fluff} 
You are not richly schooled in the ways of dragons, but it would be difficult  not  to do a little personal research. You know the dragons operate in five 'flights' based on their coloration, which denotes a domain of responsibility given to them by the Titans. You know the black flight betrayed the other flights, which led to an ancient split between them and, more recently, a complicated plot that involved kidnapping young reds and supplying them to the Horde during their desecration of Azeroth.

But the  blue  you understand have a role of overseeing the use of magic in the world, after its abuse called up the legion in ages past. You were not under the impression they were terribly active in the eastern kingdoms - the Quel'Dorei had their runestones to mask their magic use, so they hardly need to be monitored anyway - but there have always been pervasive rumors that some blues have spies inside Dalaran.

It makes sense that the minions of the blue flight would be in Azshara, where there are magical artifacts available to anyone with no sense of shame and a long handled shovel. Maybe, if it's clear you're not here to pillage these ruins or dig for doomsday artefacts, they'll simply leave you alone...
 
 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari's begins to ease upon the news. While dangerous a blue dragonkin attack would be preferable to the spiritual damnation the spirits of Azshara would portend. He steps closer to Isaera to confide with her.
  That do be unusual. I did not expect them to be so far south and in this color.   They could be friendly; each flight is different. But I will remain in the back if we continue to spear.    
 Hopefully these blue dragonkin are as distant and nonchalant as the elusive Bronze Dragons in Tanaris . But the memories of black dragons decimating Stonemaul village brought unease.
WindStruck
 "Come to think of it, I think the blue fight were more like protectors. Magic and its abuse would be under their purview..."  Isaera says, briefly turning to eye Marion and her fell steed. Hopefully warlocks would not make them hostile.

 "You mentioned spirits in the lake from the lost empire. Could be they keep an eye on this place to make sure people don't try dredging up lost artifacts." 
 "Well, since I don't think there's a nefarious reason they are here and spying on us, should we try talking to them? Or perhaps pretend we just didn't see them?" 
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag are really bad at subtly and still self conscious over their attempt to murder Kadghar.  They try to help by pretending to be ignorant of what is going on, all while thinking through a counterspell should these dragonkin use magic...
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Dragon-men?

Marions head filled with memories of the attack on the Ogre village at the hands of the Blackdragon Flight, so whom could blame her first instinct being that of attack - to cast Death and Decay on the area and use her rifle to put holes in anything that stumbled out, flesh sloughing off.

But, she resisted this impulse, difficult as it was. One didn't live through what Marion had endured by being a 'wait and see' type of person; you either hid and went unseen, or blasted your way out.

Swallowing softly, trying to play along and pretend as if she hadn't seen anything in the bushes, the Warlock remained upon  Charon  and waited, her muscles tensing for the moment she would have to spring into action. She would leave the diplomacy, if any were to be had, to those so inclined.
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari surveys the group like many a time spent in Tanaris around a Farraki council's subdued campfire. Some emotions and reaction are familiar, hesitancy, trepidation, and wariness. Unlike many of the meetings there is something scarce and precious; trust and a thin consensus held by and binding the group.

 They have placed their trust in me and are deferring to my judgement. I will serve this council.   Nodding in agreement Jakk'ari turns back to address their stalkers.

  We come in peace and have not come plunder and abscond with any artifacts or draconic eggs. We have been given our duty by Lady Proudmoore and have come to find our comrades from the Opal Collocation. Any help would be appreciated ...  
MrAbdiel
 When addressed like this, the hulking creatures atleast cease their hiding and gaze upon your group directly. You can feel a crisping chill creeping around you, and a crust of frost clinging to your shoes. An initial fear that this is some trick of the dragonkin fades after a moment - it's Roshorn, cautiously pulling on his connection to his unseen, companion snow elemental; hunkering low but perceiving from the rest of you he ought to be ready to fight.

But there is no fight. The drakonids exchange terse, growl-clicking words with one another, and turn away; first marching, then loping off into the golden grasses and brush. It seems they lack either the desire, or the stomach, for a direct confrontation with your crew.

 * * * * * 
Once they have departed, nothing obstructs you from following the orc's directions overland towards the location of 'Spear'. You probably wouldn't have found it without being told it was there; the cavemouth faces away from the coast, and is smuggled in a nest of burnished hills. But once you approach close, all of your magical senses tingle. Past the initial mouth of the cave and a single wide end, lambent purple-blue crystals grow in clusters from the ground, roof and walls. A pool of water that must be fed from underground shimmers with that same indigo warmth, radiating benign magical significance. Your adventures in the Wailing Caverns have taught you these things suggest a Ley Line is close, here; though apparently not disastrously tangled with the Dream, or over ambitiously engineered this way. This is a natural nearness, balanced and proportioned at its final, sustainable form.

The elf - you presume 'Spear' - does not long leave you wondering where he is. He stands up from a crouch by the poolside and flicks water from his fingertips, then turns his attention expectantly, lazilly, to you. He's older than middle age, with white hair tied in bundles and those bundles in a tail behind his head; eyes glowing a vibrant blue, to match the crystals of the cave.

His gaze dances between each of you, and he raises a calm, halting hand to dissuade you from coming any deeper into the cave. Instead, he maintains a distance of some thirty feet.

 "Well... Here you are. Who speaks for you?"  
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

Relief washes over Jakk'ari as the draconid anticlimactically turn around and recede back into the forest.  Just as elusive as their bronze kin.     Let us continue on to Spear, hopefully without any trackers.  
 ===== 
The cave brilliant blue walls are marvelous and shimmer with a latent energy unlike the Wailing Caverns. The lands energy had been land knocked of its axis leaving it to spill corruptive energy throughout the ecosystem. Here the energy is balanced and gently diffused through the land.  Hopefully the elves involved would all be allies in Azshara.  

Jakk'ari calmy speaks first with a slower cadence giving an opportunity an else in the party to interject with their own expertise.  Marion and Isaera and had both been trained in arcane studies and perhaps another uncommon language knpwn by Mor'Lag would come into play.  
  Wise elder Spear, I am Jakk'ari and we all come in the interest of the Opal Collocation. Four of Roshorn's party traveled through this land heading towards Durotar but never arrived. We believe they changed their heading in Azshara of their own volition in search of something urgent. Juk, the orc by the lake, told us we may seek your guidance.  
MrAbdiel
 The elf's gaze is at piercing beneath a hard-set brow, a neutral and unthreatened countenance, if you've ever seen one.

  "Well. Juk is a simple creature; but he has steered you well, in this regard. I told him to send anyone who looked capable my way, and now he's done it twice. I may owe him thanks, once... this is over."  

He closes the distance between your group and himself by fifteen of the initial thirty feet. The radiance from the glowing crystal formations behind him throws his shadow out before him, huge and imposing, blurred in multiplicity.

  "I do not prefer to deal with the young races when I can help it; but I am in difficult situation and I have neither the luxury of other options nor time contemplate them. Thus, I will be blunt. I have a quest to propose to you. It involves, I hope, saving the lives of your fellow Collocationists. You have come this far with that goal already, but I am willing to incentivise your success with magical items - the specifics of which we will have to negotiate upon your return, given the aforementioned haste. There is danger, but if you are capable, you will be accomplishing three things - enriching yourselves, saving colleagues from harm, and preserving the security of an important relic."  

He gives a moment for Jakk'ari to pass this on to Roshorn, the furbolg looking utterly overwhelmed at the circumstance but  thrilled to find they are on the right track.

  "Will you hear my proposal?"   
WindStruck
Isaera is cautious at first, thinking the whole thing may have been a trap, but it seemed perhaps there was some legitimacy to the whole ordeal.

 "It wouldn't hurt to hear your proposal,"  Isaera says.  "What task do you have that is so urgent, and what happened to those we are searching for?" 
Feathersnow
Mor and Lag defer to their leaders and the elder, but frankly, are unsure what need be said. The elf was offering to pay them for what they were going to do anyway, as the ogres understood it.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion resisted the urge to draw her rifle up and shoot one of the fleeing dragonkin in the leg, or gun them both down with bullets in their backs. Chance are, she believed, they were spies that were fleeing now that their cover, such as it was, had been blown. Instead, she could only watch as the two blue-scaled, man-shaped... things  garbled to each other in their goblin language before lumbering away to report to whomever it was they called master.

Thus, the warlock watched with her eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. Inhaling, exhaling, she knew this was not the last they had seen of those two.


 oOo 

The path across Azshara was beautiful, one could not doubt it. Atop her fel-steed  Charon , the Warlock spent long periods of time taking in the rolling, gentle red-orange hills and wooden forests dressed with amber leaves of autumn and, beyond it all, the great blue beyond of the ocean kissing the horizon. There was something serene about this region of the world, something peaceful and decent, not to mention flirtatious with the magical senses Marion possessed. She could  feel  the arcane energies brewing beneath the surface, as if it were a liquid embalmed within the crust of the earth and manifesting upon the surface as a gentle breeze through autumn leaves. Should she live long enough, the girl could see retirement to this placid land as a tempting possibility...but she knew her path would not permit as such. There would be no resignation of duties in her future, her birthright forbade it.

Yet it was in the hidden enclave of the cave that the group encountered their first true mystery of Azshara, one that Marion believed to be deceitful in appearance. A High Elf? This old? Stranded alone, wearing a silly name like 'Spear' and tucked away into a land that was far off and distant from Quel'thalas? No, this was not an elf, the warlock refused to believe it. As if to solidify her suspicions, this 'Spear' offered no proper greeting, observed no protocol of decorum, and referred to them as the 'younger races' - Jakk'ari and Isaera included. Anyone who thought of the trolls and elves as 'younger races' was something far more ancient. No, something else was going on here.

Furthermore, he revealed that he had already sent the prior Opal collective group onto some wild goose chase from which they had not returned, and now he needed another sacrificial group of canting dolts to lay their necks across the bloodied executioners block, if they would be so considerate.

Every instinct Marion had was screaming at her to turn around, leave the cave and wash her hands of the whole thing. As beautiful a place as Azshara was, it held ancient mysteries that were best left undisturbed.

But...those around her were interested.

And so, silent and watchful, the lone human watched and listened.
MrAbdiel
 Spear regards your group with a weighted moment of consideration - second guessing his desire to be open with you, perhaps - then follows through.

 "Spear is, of course, a pseudonym I use. My name is  Azuregos . I am a sentinel of the Blue Dragonflight. My task is to safeguard magical relics - mostly left behind in the ruination of the Sundering. But also others, and one in particular. It does not look like much - a shard of old metal from the shaft of a sceptre, tinted blue with certain magics. It is one part of something much larger and more dangerous. For all the vigilance of my flight, we cannot be in all places, and the world is now swarming with eager treasure hunters following rumor and rhyme looking for weapons and edges in their conflicts with each other; and for some time, this shard has rested in the safety of a... pet of mine. A great shark, Maws, who dwelled in the Coral Sea."  He gives an indicative gesture to toward the East - the 'Coral Sea' that now exists where the ancient city plunged away into the deep.

 "But in these latest years, the naga have been agitated from their deep places. They, too, have an agenda; and sometimes make forays inland searching for useful relics. Maws was more clever than a mere beast - and when he apparently felt threatened by the encroaching naga for the first time, he beached himself on the nearby coast. The naga he was fleeing from made a beachhead for a relic-seeking operation. They rarely come much further in than the sands - I have my forces here, and am able to drive them away easily enough. But now I am quite sure they have recovered the shard from Maws' gullet. They remained on land to seek more relics rather than return to the deep - which tells me they do not know the value of the thing they possess. I must take it back from them. They cannot be allowed to snatch it away to the darkness, and the powers that dwell in the deep places where there is no light, or warmth. But, to my problem..." 

He sniffs and straightens a little, bracing himself for confessing... if not a shortcoming, an incapacity at least.  "If the naga are attacked now by my dragonspawn - or worse, by myself directly - they will flee immediately and the shard will likely be lost. Only an smaller, unknown threat might have the capacity to cut its way into their held territory and take the shard back without spooking them into total flight. That was the mission of your predecessors. But here we are, days later - the naga are still here, and they have not returned. The naga cannot have learned the nature of the shard, or they would be escorting it away already. But the adventurers must have found some way to prevent them from leaving, or else they would have called off their search and retreated already. I do not know what they have done to hold the naga host in place - but I know where they, and that they live. That much my magic can determine, despite all interference. I require you to make your way to them, and add your force to theirs to complete the initial task." 

Thus, it seems everyone's suspicions are validated together. There  are  blue dragons  and  naga in operation here, and the Winterspring Chapter is caught between them. 
WindStruck
The 'dragon' explained much, and the story seemed plausible..  but Isaera felt that they were way out of their depth here.  Doubly so, considering naga were involved!  ..on top of dragons, powerful dangerous artifacts, and intelligent sharks.

Isaera says,  "And what are your flight's capabilities within the water? Little to nil?"   Clearly this elf was trying to hatch a plan, but it was contingent upon Azuregos's answer.
MrAbdiel
  "Regrettably, yes. The sky and land are our domain; the ocean belongs to other powers, and among them, the naga. I can swim, as can most dragons - but that is not our native environment, and we are unacceptably vulnerable there,"  Spear - or as he suggests, the dragon Azuregos - laments minimally.  "If the shard is lost to the waves and the deep, there is precious little to be done to retrieve it. Thus, why it must be seized from the naga before they retreat - and why I cannot simply attack, and drive them off."  
WindStruck
 "I was thinking.. if the Naga are currently inland or on the beaches - not in the water - because I don't think we could do anything either..."  Isaera says.

 "Well, why don't you and your flight try flying in from the ocean side? Attack them in force there, where you believe the artifact to be, force them to retreat inland.." 
 "Where  we  shall be waiting for them, and can recover this shard.. perhaps even deliver them from such an awful dragon attack,"  she says with a mischievous smile.

The smile fades as she looks towards the other thoughtfully.  "Or, do you think there is a chance to be diplomatic about it? Perhaps, offer them the magic items you promise us, as a trade?" 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

With Azuregos' revelation the mystery began to further unfurl. The distant and permissive attitude of the Draconids and the mission of the Winterspring chapter.

  I will embark on this quest venerable dragon.  Jakk'ari responds with a quick bow to the warden of arcane magic before listening to Isaera's proposal.
  Aid from dragons would be very potent. The greatest risk would be an escalation of the plots currently afoot. Perhaps whatever masters the Naga would hasten their schedule or focus their attention on these shores. But if no news were to escape ...  
MrAbdiel
 The 'elf' paces a little, giving an ear to Isaera's suggestion of approach - ambush, or guile, or diplomacy - and Jakk'ari's concerns about a bigger picture. He answers each in turn.

 "I fear that may not be possible. I am here alone, in the sense that I am the only dragon in my forces. I am strong, but I am not invincible. The host of naga on the beach numbers more than a hundred. I'm confident I'm likely to defeat them - but I do not wish to leave this matter to a decisor of mere confidence. If I attack, I attack with my dragonspawn attendants, and in the face of such an attack they will certainly flee. The dragonspawn are not true dragons, and cannot fly - I am afraid my ability to scatter the naga can only come from the land. But even then, I do not know which among them carries the shard. As for diplomacy..."  His expression tightens.  "The naga are not famously trustworthy creatures. Thought I would not limit your approach to this matter, I caution against treating them like other, comprehensible foes." 
 
 Spoiler: Isaera: Elf Lore (Fluff) 
This feels atleast partially a matter of perspective. Naga have spellcasters, and they do their wizardy under the water where they can't be policed by the blues even if they wanted to. Furthermore, as mysterious and alien as the naga have typically been regarded, it is an all but verified rumour that a host of naga were responsible for breaking Prince Kael'Thas's army out of their imprisonment during the Third War, when the now shamed and slain human marshal Garithos turned on his even allies out of wild-eyed, xenophobic foolishness. Maybe they  can  be reasoned with...
 

 "As for what their focus is more broadly - I am forced to assume it is sneaking into these lands and scouring them for remnants of the Highborne. If they were looking for the shard itself - well... Let us just suppose that it is of sufficient value that they would have left immediately upon finding it, if they knew what it was to look for. That is why they must be releived of it before they are given a show of force that could drive them into the sea. But they normally do not remain surfaced for this long - however the others are keeping them here, I do not know."  
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


So, Marion's instincts were right - this was not just an 'elf'. No no, it was a  dragon , with the wings and ability to breathe some form of destructive quantity from its fanged maw. Though terrifying and mighty, they were intelligent creatures, too intelligent one might surmise, but as evidenced by Azuregos' desire to speak and bargain with them, he was not as mindlessly aggressive as the bringers of fire and blood in Duskwallow.

It also meant that the warlock was glad she had not shot at the blue dragonspawn they had encountered earlier. She doubted Azuregos would be impressed.

But, that left the matter at hand: the Naga, wicked and evil snakemen from the depths of the abyssal oceans, had unknowingly claimed a shard of terrible power, and the prior group had been sent to retrieve it. There were too many to attack directly, and even if they did so and proved the stronger, the Naga would simply retreat into the seas where they would become unreachable. Even this Maws creature, an intelligent shark apparently, could afford them little reach against the evil creatures.

Isaera suggested the dragons attack them from the direction of the ocean to try and push the Naga further inland, where they and the non-flight capable dragonspawn could close the pincer on them. Personally, Marion wondered if Isaera could be assisted in performing a ritual to freeze the ocean, or that section anyway, and lock the Naga on the beach so all could move in for the kill and reclamation.

But, the number one priority was the return of that shard. And to return the shard, they had to find out which Naga possessed it. It wasn't enough to merely massacre them all, lest the shard be lost - they had to figure out which of the wicked creatures currently possessed it, so that they may first retrieve it.  Then  the slaughter could be initiated.

 "What if we cut off their access to the ocean, impeding their escape?"  Marion spoke up.

 "Isaera and I could tap into the leyline energies of this land, funnel them through a ritual and boil the ocean surrounding the Naga's beachhold. They will be trapped on land and unable to escape."
 
WindStruck
Isaera turned to look at Marion skeptically.  "First of all, it would be very ill-advised to tap into the leyline like that, lest we have a repeat of what those druids did at the Wailing Caverns..  And second, just the sheer amount of mana required to.. to 'boil' those oceans would be impossible.. Not to mention even more reckless destruction." 
 'Really, Marion, you're going to suggest abusing magic right into a blue dragon's face?'  she thought.

Iseara pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head.  "I don't like the idea of being used as little pawns. One set was not enough, so now you need another.. Just what do you expect will happen if the Naga were to figure out what this piece of staff is?" 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marions head swiveled to return Isaera's look, her social wounds from Orgrimmar still fresh and the memory hot.

 "Generating a band of scalding water that extends approximately ten meters out from the beach to cut off the Naga's escape would require only a relatively simple ritual to serve as a conduit for the channeled power. Boiling water is not as difficult as joining two separate planets and stablising a portal between them,"  the warlock answered, her tone somewhat cold.

 "If you are concerned with the ecological damage incurred, such waters would be relatively devoid of aquatic fauna and marine life - the presence of the Naga has already seen to that. But, if the use of the ley-lines troubles you so,"  the warlock shrugged,  "then another method will need to be devised in order to lock the Naga on the beach and separate them from escaping into the ocean. Should they do so, the shard is lost. This is an unacceptable outcome, so I would imagine that drastic methods might be considered as possible options. Perhaps generate a wall of fire along the beach between the Naga and the water? Perhaps channel enough ice magic to freeze the top layer so that it is impermeable? There are multitudinous possibilities, all of them dramatic." 
Feathersnow
Lag perks up at their leader's inspired plan to use the New Magic to fight the Naga, and her brazenness in proposing it to a literal avatar of the Old Power.

Mor is somewhat relieved that Isaera is the first to speak up about the obvious holes in this plan, but neither sister is well trained enough to weigh in...
WindStruck
 "For your idea to work, we would potentially have to cover the span of a few miles. Even just one mile, ten meters out into the oceans.. that's a  lot  of water. And the rest of the ocean will always be there, feeding back into it, fighting us." 

Isaera shakes her head with sheer skepticism, though there was still a nagging part of her mind wondering if any of this was even remotely possible...

arcana:  (1d20+15)[ 32 ] 
 "Let us also not forget, though the dragons that attacked the Stonemaul Village thought their blazing perimeter was impenetrable, a bit of outside aid and some frost magic to counter it allowed many ogres to escape. If any of the naga there are sufficiently capable with magic, especially be it calling waters or channeling frost magic, that would put serious holes in these defenses." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 
 "Boil the water, freeze it, bring down a curtain of flame, raise a barrier of earth, or something else. Whatever it is, it must be decisive and absolute in preventing any Naga from retreating into the sea, otherwise we fail and they acquire a powerful artifact to further their wicked schemes." 
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by BananaPhone 
    Marion Mordis 
 "Boil the water, freeze it, bring down a curtain of flame, raise a barrier of earth, or something else. Whatever it is, it must be decisive and absolute in preventing any Naga from retreating into the sea, otherwise we fail and they acquire a powerful artifact to further their wicked schemes."  
 

 
 Jakk'ari 

Now seeing the continuing calm countenance, befitting a wise master, on Azuregos Jakk'ari returns his attention back to discussion amongst his group.
 Just what would I have done if I had them as shaman apprentices?  
"Marion, your plan rings true in its vision of our goals. But the natural world will recoil at such acts and favors the Naga. Heat will dissipate and frost may even provide refuge for retreating Naga. The only act of the elements that could help would be a tidal wave.

But perhaps we be refashioning the wheel. The Naga have not yet left due to the efforts from the WinterSpring chapter."
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Jakk'ari's diplomatic tone and phrasing was oddly soothing for the Warlock. Not that she had appeared aggressive or snide, but rather it was internally acceptable that the older, shamanistic trolls words were the ones that prompted her to gesture gently with her right hand, a 'take the stage' motion and shrug of the shoulders that signalled acceptance of his point.

 "Maybe such dramatic displays would not be needed? Perhaps devise a method to discern the precise location and, by extension, the possessor of the shard. An artefact of that power surely must emit  some  type of noticeable emanation that we can use to pin-point which Naga has it. It's made of 'certain magics' with a blue tinge to 'old metal', maybe we can be more surgical in our efforts..." 
WindStruck
 "Exactly. We only need to pinpoint the shard, recover it, and then quickly leave,"  Isaera says.

 "...oh, yes. And the Winterspring Chapter. We also need to find out what they're doing and get them out of there as well." 
MrAbdiel
 Azuregos lets the exchange play out between the companions, interjecting only when they hit a lull.

 "You are right to speculate the naga have their own magic users - sea-witch nobility whose mastery of water is superior to almost all contenders. I suspect any effort to render the water too hazardous for them to retreat into will be too penetrable to their reply. Subtlety, surgicality, I agree, is a better tool here than brute force. If for no other reason than it exposes your groups to fewer outcomes where the naga detect you and attack en masse. But we can plan for that also. I gave one of these to the other group, also..." 

He produces from some concealed pouch a handful of what first appear to be smooth pieces of blue glass. But when he holds his palm up and whistles  a warbling trill, the pieces click and skip and rush together, assembling into a sapphire blue likeness of a sparrow. The false bird's body has a golemish quality to it - its pieces hold closely together by an elastic magical bond, and move about as it hops and spins inside the approximate movements of a creature of that size. It spins three times in his palm, then turns to look up at him, and tweets sadly.

 "The shard is shrouded from seeking magics - lest those who seek it find it to easilly - but since I made those magics, I can make such things to seek the shroud itself. It will not work from this distance - but down on the beach, if you activate the sparrow just so, it will sit in your palm and pivot to point toward where it detects the shard, moving like a dowsing line. Additionally, if you break it - crushing it under boot will be fine - I will know the spell I used to bind it is released, and I'll take that as a sign that the matter has become dire. My dragonspawn and I will attack at that moment and drive the naga into the sea... and we will be forced to hope we strike down whichever one is carrying the shard in the process. But if you can secure the shard first - well. You will be rewarded."  
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 
 We will honor your trust. 
Jakk'ari solemnly promises as he cradles the fragile songbird in his arms.

Satisfaction buds as requests from his party had been addressed.
 A way to track the shard and the aid of the blue dragonkin, upon request.  

Looking back to the songbird and Azuregos.
  And the Winterspring chapter has not requested your aid?  
He asks worryingly.
MrAbdiel
 The dragon shakes his elven head.

 "No. And they struck me as a capable enough band - it is difficult for me to imagine they were taken so by surprise they could not manage such a simple activation to call for aid. But I cannot tell you their fate. That you must discover by your own guile."  
WindStruck
 "Well, this sound a lot more like it,"  Isaera says, with a satisfied nod.  She eyes the little magical construct.  It looked endearing, like the mana wyrms that floated about in her old homeland.

 "Now that you have provided a means to more easily find this shard - and to call for backup - I would consider this far less like a vague suicide mission." 

Looking at the others she says,  "All we need to do now is carefully make our approach and gather information." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion considered the trinket to which they were entrusting their lives. After all, the  other  group had one, for all the good it had done them...

 "Yes, thank you Azuregos,"  Marion spoke, nodding her head respectfully and her tone polite.

 "Can you tell us anything else about the Naga force in the area? Their capabilities? Known strategies? Numbers?" 
MrAbdiel
 Azuregos doesn't betray much in his features, but he seems satisfied - maybe even pleased - with your acceptance of the quest. He lobs the little bird gently toward Isaera, and it lazilly flutters to settle in her catching hand before first seeming to fall asleep then to pieces, to be pocketed and drawn back together with a whistle closer to the objective.

When Marion asks her clarifying questions, his attention snaps to her...

 
 Spoiler: Insight: DC 20 
There is a sharpness in that movement of his eyes that suggests he doesn't like Marion. It's not hard to guess why - she's a warlock, and he almost certainly knows it. Fel magic is corrupting by its nature, and most of the creatures infused with it become corrupt. But it would seem even the mighty dragons, like the armies of mortals struggling to hold together a world lashed by the Scourge and the Legion, no longer have the luxury of absolute adhesion to their principles. Having  some  skilled and insightful practitioners of Fel magic is, in the current age, being proven to be a stronger defense against corruption than having none at all - provided they are watched for corruption. So he is restraining a more overt display of distaste, on account of the fact that he is about to rely on that warlock in part to deliver this precious relic.

...But he doesn't have to like it.
 

 "I can tell you they rarely come to shore here with less then a hundred myrmidons - their brute soldier class, the males - and a coven of a dozen or so sea witches - the matriarchal arcanists class. They will sell the lives of the former for the latter, but myrmidons are fierce fighters even as individual opponents. The sea witches tend to master frost and lightning magics. They have two sets of arms, which means they are able to compose spells with unusual speed - volley spells, typically, one after another. They enslave murloc shoals and compel them to perform their labor, so you may expect them to have some unfortified but functional buildings near the centre of their operation area. Sometimes, they have harpoon and net-thrower emplacements to provide additional support. And I would consider starting your subtleties once you clear the treeline, rather than once you reach the coastal escarpment. They will be scouting for my dragonspawn, I expect. When they have caught them and isolated them, they take the chance to kill them." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Ready to move on to the beach and start snoopin' on the naga? Great! If you have anything more to ask, you can do that too.

Otherwise, now is the time do do any precautionary spellcasting, environmental manipulation or scouting you'd like to do on the way in! Feel free to pitch your idea in the OOC, and I'll give you a roll to make. You're not exactly a group of stealth commandos, so I'm trusting you'll come up with some cunning approach!
 
 
MrAbdiel
  * * * * * 
It's into the afternoon as you near the beach of the Coral Sea in Azshara. You're careful not to be overly obvious - this may or may not require the dismissal of flaming horses that leave blazing horseshoe prints in their wake - but as the sun begins to sink to the west behind you, it starts to stretch your shadows forward in the direction you intend to go and presents an additional risk of being spotted, so your group takes cover about twenty yards from the cliffy ridge of escarpment that you know drops at a rough slope about twenty yards again to the sand and the sprawl of beach. There, obstructed from your vision for now, you are assured a host of a hundred or more scaley serpentine ocean-dwelling creatures go about their mysterious ends.

Your group hunkers in the last cluster of golden trees as a patrol of the creatures roves across the top of the ridge, the first you've seen. Myrmidons - as tall and threatening as the drakonids, holding long hafted tridents of some bronze tinted metal.

 
 Spoiler: A Typical Naga Myrmidon 
   
And while you're here, roll me Insight, DC 17.

 
 Spoiler: Insight Success 
These naga have serpentine faces with only mildly humanoid elements, so it's hard to know what they are thinking. But you can tell just by the way they are agitated; alarmed, even. They are searching for something specific, not patrolling on the off chance of finding intruders. That's why they are so hasty as they head on by.
 

 


But they soon pass by and slither on their way, eyes ahead as they slink north.

Roshorn makes a grumble of excitement - not about the naga, but something he's discovered against the tree he hunkers near.

 {Look! Look, you see?}  He invites Jakk'ari (and through Jakk'ari everyone else) to observe a marking on the tree's trunk, which looks like two sets of three clawmarks crosshatched over each other.

 {It means 'beware', in my people's markings - but it's made by no claw, but by an axe. Donova Den-Of-Snow's axe! They knew I would come looking, and left sign as they passed!} 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Alright, if we're doing any spells or precautionary anything, now's a time to do it!
 
 
WindStruck
Hiding and lurking amongst the trees, Isaera spies the myrmidon patrol along with the others.  "They're looking for something. Or someone..." 

Not wanting to leave their hiding spot just yet, Isaera takes out the enchanted little bird golem and tries to bring it to life. She'll check if it can sense the artifact they are looking for yet.

 "Jakk'ari..  can you commune with the elements, perhaps the wind?  Can they tell you what they see?  Or perhaps, could you cause the weather here to become foggy?  I think that would be best, and under the cover of night as well." 
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
  "Jakk'ari..  can you commune with the elements, perhaps the wind?  Can they tell you what they see?  Or perhaps, could you cause the weather here to become foggy?  I think that would be best, and under the cover of night as well."  
 

 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari nods in agreement with Isaera. The Winterspring chapter was near and the artifact both chapters were sought to retrieve. But so too are the Naga, still competitors in the search.
Pushing aside apprehension Jakk'ari beseeches the animant air coaxing the colder winds offshore bringing a foggy condensation with a chill breeze.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Having had to send Charon back to the ether (for now), Marion approaches the spot upon the hill that overlooked the camp and fell in beside the others. Peering down across the beautiful landscape, where the amber and red trees of Azshara met the vast, blue ocean would have been a spectacularly primal sight. After all, how many humans had laid eyes upon it? Though Marion wished that honor for herself, she knew the real answer was the two incompetents that gotten themselves captured, alas.

Plus...it would have been a whole lot more charming were it not filled with disgusting snakemen slithering about on their filthy tails. The warlock perked her nose, glaring down its length with visible revulsion at the sight before her; a swathe of blue-scaled snakemen dragging themselves about, their individuality lost from this distance and instead merging into one squirming mass.

Marion shuddered. Revolting.

Hearing the words of the others and knowing they needed reconnaissance, the Warlock nodded.

 "I can assist, Jakk'ari,"  her words came out smoothly, as she clapped her hands together silently, closed her eyes and begun to whisper a recital whose language no one else would know. Or at least,  should  know.

The air around the warlock seemed to simmer and tingle with a coalescing swarm of motes that gained color the closer they drew together before the girl, a single green occupation no bigger than a thumbnail soon growing into a large, sickly green sphere that suddenly splintered into a dozen smaller orbs - thin, black snake-like irises splitting open across all twelve as they collectively stared at the blonde human who had granted them animation.

Smiling, gazing across her unsettling swarm, Marion gave a silent little clap, "Scout out the Naga's camp. Report back everything of note to me, and try to locate the Shard, and the other Opal hostages..."

Marion closed her eyes for a moment and seemed to 'inhale', her body shivering for half a second as she did so, before letting the breath out. What no one would know is that she had just transferred mental images of their targets, as the little collective rolled about excitedly in mid-air, their images abruptly vanishing from sight as they swarmed off to fulfill their duties, and then return to the one whom birthed them with their vital information...
MrAbdiel
 Roshorn and his attendant snow spirit are happy to assist in Jakk'ari's convocation of local spirits, and as the troll and furbolg mutter their mutually indecipherable beseeching, a frosty fog begins accumulating over the ocean and rolling inward. At the same time, Marion's spy-eyes flit and fan across the beach, hidden from the view of the swarming naga.

They reveal much. First, from the gathered witness, Marion is able to determine the number of naga present is closer to two hundred than one, and that's disregarding the gangs of murloc thralls they are herding on to dig through the sand for them. This is a significant host of enemies, but they seem to be confining themselves to the beaches and not massing to rove inland (or do something as foolish as try to slither into the mountains and agitate Orgimmar.

They are concentrated around three sets of elven ruins protruding from the sand. There are three concentrations of the naga around those ruins, and they seem mostly interested in making their murlocs dig through the watery sand while the tide is in to uncover more of the ruins and find trinkets, which they yield to their myrmidon foremen. In each of the three camps, there is a large open pagola structure made from a surprisingly elaborate and even pretty integration of seaweed fibres and some kind of aquatic analogue to bamboo. They seem less for defense and more for shade than anything, but near each is a large brassy contraption that looks to be designed to hurl harpoons with dragon-piercing strength, fastened to a protrusion of ancient elven marble from the sand.

And each of these pagolas hosts a number of the nagas' feminine sorcerer caste; these with more distinctly humanoid elements to their figures. Far less bestial, more sleek and intelligent looking; scaled still but obviously female even as far as wearing stylized clothing and armor to protect their serpentine modesty.

 
 Spoiler: Naga Witches! 
 
 


They have long coral glaives in one or two hands, always with a pair free. On the north and south concentrations the witches are convened in trios. In the middle camp, there are only two - and this is where the majority of agitation in the naga camp is located. This middle third has more traffic bustling, coming and going, searching and scouring by a noticeable degree. Still, there is no visible sign of captives ...

The last thing the eyes report as they return is some of the witches taking note of the building fog - but Marion doesn't need to report that. Roshorn beats her to it, warned by the spirits just as Jakk'ari is. The conspiracy of small spirits like  Spray  and  Mist  and  Breeze  is taking over the beach right now - but chasing on their heels are whispers of pursuit by a mighty, angry competitor with a name, and reputation with the local elements:  Baltas Hurricanus .

 {"The fog rolls in, but the naga are mustering their own storm - it will blow the fog away when it arrives, and surely the naga are at advantage in a storm with their lightning magics!"} , he worries, shifting from foot to foot. A silvery, cool fog from the sea washes up over the lip of the cliffs now and covers the party's position in its gloamy tendrils. The evening sunlight still glows through it some, but when the storm gets here, the fog will likely be stripped away quickly - the party may have to decide to move now under cover of the fog, or take their chances in the stormy night.

In Isaera's hands, the little golem-bird hops in a lazy circle, then peers helplessly up at the elf. The quarry is either somewhere on the beach that isn't detectable at this edge of range... or somewhere else entirely. Only proceeding into the foggy beach may offer more information. 
WindStruck
 "I suppose we'd better try to hurry then,"  Isaera says.  "The fog is useful for concealment, but I think it's obvious that we don't want to be sticking around long enough for their storm to roll in..." 

She looks down and gives the little bird a gentle pat on its head.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 
  I can lead.   Jakk'ari offers to Isaera and the rest of the party.
  We will have to scout the Naga and exit while in concealment.  
He looks towards the beach imagining the horrific fight that would result from a frontal assault.
MrAbdiel
 The scouting goes reasonably well.. up to a point. After shimmying down the foggy escapement to the beach, the bird-in-hand immediately perks up and focuses - it points towards the middle assembly of naga, so that's they way you go. The sand is an ally and an enemy - it muffles the sound of your group's steps wonderfully, much better than the crunching leaves of the woods prior; but neither can you hear the approach of enemies slithering on its surface over the grumble of stormclouds and thrash of the surf. Roshorn brings up the rear of your group, occasionally pivoting to walk backwards and flap his paws about in the air. To all but Jakk'ari this looks puzzling at first, but to anyone who pays attention, it seems he is in some quiet communion with an elemental spirit giving you some aid. The sand at his gesturing shudders and swallows up your footprints, leaving no trace of your passage amid the criss-cross of serpentine tail paths and webbed murloc comings and goings.

But your search on the beach is halted by a discovery - not of your quarry, but of  other  tracks, mostly human sized but some heavy-heeled dwarven ones, leading back  towards the escarpment away from the waterline and away from the direction your bird is pointing.

 {"There!"}  Roshorn murmurs in Kalimag to Jakk'ari, the bear-man almost unable to contain his joy,  {"They have come this way, and gone back toward the cliff not long ago! Oh, this is good fortune indeed!"} 

It's fortune for someone. A trilling, sing-songy murloc warble kicks up near you - you see its silhuoette in the gloom, poking about more of the other chapter's footprints, and soon it's joined by two more of its kin, and two greater naga forms investigating the find. For a pregnant moment, you all stand perfectly still hoping they veer one way and not the other, because moving swiftly this close would certainly draw their attention, but the moment caves in as the trident bearing naga bruisers pick you out as you have them. One gives a deeply inhuman, ululating hiss that is mostly lost in the blustery wind, and you all scramble to fight. Mor and Lag let out the muted remnants of twinned growls and she springs into action determined to take point. The murlocs array themselves with coral shovels and picks before their masters, but this doesn't stop the ogress; one huge striding foot simply crushes one underheel so its arms and legs twitch grotesquely out of her footprint, and she snatches another of the pathetic creatures up in hand without breaking stride, even so flushed with vim and gall as to try to hit one of the naga with the underling. But though the Myrmidon does not quite match her in bulk, it sways back on its tail and then snaps forward to drive the trident into the meat of her right shoulder. Lag's hand snatches the haft of the weapon, wrestling against it to stop it driving further in, but it's a good and blooding blow as the ogre and naga square off.

The remaining murloc takes its master's hissed command and scrambles forward with a battle-cry born more of fear than courage. It weaves past Jakk'ari and swings its coral pickaxe at Isaera, but the elf has enough fleet of foot to dance away from the critter's assault.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Fish fight! FIIIIISH FIIIIIGHT 
It's on! Rolls in a new  Warcraft Roll thread .

Mor'Lag attacks first, kills one minion, and attacks a second with TakeDown. It 20's the toughness check, but gets picked up by Improved Grab and hauled along as she spends the rest of her Move (Move-By-Attack) to get close enough to threaten a Myrmidon. It responds by stabbing her a bit, and the last murloc fails to attack Isaera.

Jakk'ari's Turn, then Marion's! You may assume you are within a single move of everyone in this tight battle. One murloc is attacking Isa, one Mymidon attackng Mor'Lag, the other Myrmidon is presently unengaged... but scheming!
 
 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 
 Blind as the bat.   Jakk'ari frets as the untimely chance encounter with the pelagic creatures erupts into violence. The charging aquatic creatures are unlike any creature accustomed to the warm sands of Tanaris. The trilling murlocs look like boiled hunchbacked goblins without the kindness from seen from Schlep. The myrmidons look like draconid with frames that should have been too big to be supported by their tapered tales.

  We need to end this quickly. Hobble them if you can. We need to prevent more reinforcements from arriving. Jakk'ari advises the group.

Jakk'ari mutters a fervent prayer to the elements of the beach beseeching their aid. The coalesced sand and water beneath the dry surface unsettle and rise, a column jolts to the surface. A dark patch of saturated sand is the only prelude to the geyser of water and barnacle encrusted stones now shooting towards the scheming myrmidon.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion hissed under her breath.

She  knew  this had been a fools errand. Sneaking into a camp of two hundred Naga with only a bank of fog as their protection? Really?!

Shuffling back on the sands, the Warlock uttered a soft word as a shimmering hand of translucent green wrapped around her torso and then disappeared.

  We should have gone with my idea of boiling the ocean!   Marion thought angrily to herself.
MrAbdiel
 While Mor'Lag batters away at one of the goliath sea-snakes, the other reels back with a bellicose hiss when Jakk'ari's elemental manipulation draws up a spitting geyser of raking stones. It lurches forward, trident high in one hand, and surges at the pack of adventurers. With Marion backpedalling and Mor'Lag out front, it is Isaera trying to evade the murloc's blows beside Jakk'ari and Roshorn left to receive the blow. For a moment it seems as if this creature will lay into the elven mage too, but instead he swats the murloc to the side with one hand and barks a command in contradiction to the one if received earlier. The murloc's attack is broken off from the elf then, and it scrambles to its feet looking to run - perhaps, to raise an alarm.

But the onrushing naga turns his attention to Jakk'ari, having made the connection between caster and spell, and plunges the trident at the sand troll with brutal, bone-piercing force!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
That's a critical hit on Jakk'ari, which kicks the Toughness resistance roll up to a DC 26. Time to put that troll regeneration to good use, buddy!

After this, it's Isaera's turn. The Murloc that was harassing her is looking to flee, so she's not being attacked right now.
 
 
WindStruck
For a half a moment, Isaera realizes how bad the situation is, and she is painfully aware of how unprepared for combat she was, as the murloc slave swings its coral pick and it makes a sizeable gouge in her thigh. She really feels like she should have had her frost armor spell up at least... until she sees the murloc underling receive new orders and begin fleeing somewhere. Probably to get reinforcements!

Well, Isaera didn't really want to kill the murloc, though it felt they didn't have much choice but to fight. She briefly channels some mana and shoots a frost bolt at the fleeing murloc, then she breaks into a hurried hobble after it with blood trickling down her leg.

 
 Spoiler: Frost Bolt! 
attack:  (1d20+1)[ 12 ] 

If it hits, DC 16 toughness save, and a DC 17 fortitude save to resist the effects.
 
MrAbdiel
 The fleeing murloc takes a frostbolt to the back, and lets out a pitiful croak before stiffly toppling over; enough of its body flash-frozen to take it out quickly. Whatever message it intended to deliver remains unsent.

Roshorn lets out a distressed, muddy little roar and throws his hands up, weaving them around each other then 'throwing' the emptiness between them at Jakk'ari. A faint swirl of green spirit energy spirals from his paws to the shaman and then leaps from him through the air to Isaera, and both are suffused with a flash of welcome warmth that balms the pain of their wounds.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Healin' Feelin'. 
 That's a heal for 1 degree for each Isaera and Jakkari, which means both of you can strike off the -1 condition you have. Jakk'ari, you're still  staggered  until you recover that, too.
 


As the troll's attacker looks spitefully at his knitting wounds, Mor'Lag wrestles with the other myrmidon and manages to wrench its trident out of her wound with her one free hand. With a gristly crack, she kills the murloc she's holding to free that fist too, and brings it down in a hammerblow on the trident's coral half... but the strange ceramic-metal proves resilient, and despite a terrible blow, it creaks and warps slightly but does not break. She is forced into a stumbling titanic contest with the sea-snake as it tries to lever the points of the weapon back into her flesh, and she tries to keep it at bay!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Huzzah! 
Jakk'ari is up next, then Marion again. Murlocs are all dead, wounded Mymidon 2 is next to Jakk'ari in the midst of the team, unwounded Myrmidon 1 is brawling with Mor'lag.
 
 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari
 Jakk'ari watches the second Myrmidon, anticipating its next attack responds.

 Driftwood
Tough, Forgotten
Rising, Binding, Blocking
Once a mariner's tragedy, now
Protection 
 
 Spoiler: Straight to the point 
Jakk'ari uses Reflective Deflect to raise some driftwood, created by a shipwreck long ago, from beneath the sand to create a crude totem to block and attack.
I also enjoyed the couplets based dialogue made for Mor'Lag
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Behind the group and feeling more secure now that she had at least the thin skin of her demon armor protecting her mortal form, Marion drew her attention to the Myrmidon that was struggling with Mor'Lagh. Knowing that freeing the ogre up would be a wise tactical choice, the Warlock inhaled and uttered a word of power - the air around the Naga's skin bristling with a fel energy that sunk into its scales and penetrated deep into its flesh...


OOC:

 
 Spoiler 
Marion is casting Corruption, on the myrmidon. Perception Range and Secondary Effect, so a DC 19 toughness check this round and next round.
 
MrAbdiel
 A pained and alarmed hiss rolls out of the throat of the Myrmidon in contest with Mor'Lag as its scales along its right side begin to darken and slough off under the shadowy corruption layered upon it - but it can hardly spare a thought in that direction, given its current and distracting opponent! Meanwhile, its counterpart continues to loom over the sand troll shaman and, clearly incensed that its murderous work is being undone by magics, raises its trident high for another murderous blow. But the convoked and complicit spirit of earth comes to Jakk'ari's aid, and a spar of driftwood mostly slouched in the sand suddenly spikes upward, straight as a fencepost, and catches the trident's points in its obstructing bulk!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Myrmidon1 takes damage and is dazed by Marion's Corruption; Myrmidon2 fails to penetrate Jakk'ari's Deflect. In fact, because of Reflect, Jakk'ari is entitled to make an attack roll of his own to deliver the blow back to the Myrmidon!

Beyond that, it's Isaera's turn!
 

 
WindStruck
With tactical priorities settled for now, Isaera then takes a moment to protect her next highest priority: herself.  Throwing up a bubble of frost armor around herself, she reposition herself so that Jakk'ari and Mor'lag stand between herself and the hulking myrmidons.
MrAbdiel
 The shaft of driftwood jerks suddenly, trying to wrench the trident from the Myrmidon's grip. The naga holds fast, its fishy face looking startled at the object's puzzling resistentialism before ripping the trident free. But with another Ursine growl, Roshorn conjures up another healing wave - this one rolling first over Jakk'ari, and then leaping to Mor'Lag. The spirit healing energy knits both fighter's wounds rapidly, leaving them blood streaked but no worse for wear!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Roshorn heals Jakk'ari's  Staggered , and Mor'Lag's  -1 . But he's pulled healing aggro.
 


The sea-snakes share an insensed, barking hiss at this fruitless venture - they hit hard, but fighting opponents who recover their wounds rapidly is infuriating, and both look to be moving to break toward the furbolg. Mor'Lag's opponent jukes left them rushes right around them - they reach out to grab, but come away with a handful of dull, moldering scales shed from the corrupting flesh of the naga instead! The sickly serpent manages to slither-rush across the sand toward Roshorn to within striking distance, but Mor'Lag is in pursuit, and it has lost the edge of its speed due to the warlock's blight.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Mor'Lag misses her opponent. Mymidon1 moves to Roshorn, but can't strike this turn, because he's Dazed for this turn. He reaches Roshorn, ceases to be dazed, and ends his turn.

It's Jakk'ari's turn and Marion's turn again! Both Myrmidon 1 and 2 are Wounded (-1). Myrmidon 1 is also afflicted by Marion's Corruption which, at the end of Marion's turn, will attempt to damage him once more (unless it is overwritten by a recast).
 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

When the flank of the Naga's flesh partially rotted away, wilting beneath the black, fel-blight of her spell, Marion smirked with a small degree of satisfaction. Cursed snake-men!

Knowing that her spell would work and would require no input from her, the Warlock tried to make herself look small and insignificant.


OOC:

 
 Spoiler 
Because her Corruption has Increased Duration (2) Sustained, Marion doesn't need to cast Corruption again.

 However , because they're on a stealth mission, that means she can't withdraw her gun and start blasting alongside it.

So atm there's nothing she can really do except let her spell tick for damage.

So, another DC 19 toughness check from the Naga.
 
MrAbdiel
Hissing and reeling away from a jet of cutting stones and sand by Jakk'ari's feet, the second Myrmidon jukes around him at stagger. He looms over the furbolg with his curse-struck companion beside, but both naga are worse for wear and desperate to make a decisive blow. Yet both are so hindered by their wounds that neither crosses swiftly enough before Isaera is able to strike!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Isaera's turn! Both naga are at -2. Myrmidon1 is taking ongoing damage from Marion's Corruption, Myrmidon2 is Staggered, so vulnerable to going down with another good hit.
 
WindStruck
Isaera targets the cursed Myrmidon and begins channeling a volley of arcane missiles at it. She says, trying to keep her voice above the din of combat, but not so loud to attract more patrols,  "Roshorn, fight them if you are able, or keep your distance if you must. They are quite weakened!" 
 
 Spoiler: rolls 
attack:  (1d20+4)[ 19 ] 

DC 21 toughness check, and three more attempts to hit if it misses.
 
MrAbdiel
 The bear-man makes a little shuffle step as the battered naga approach; a skittish instinct in his posture are he considers trying to evade the creatures. But they are badly injured, and time is of the essence, and he elects to take Isaera's primary encouragement to stand his ground. When the first myrmidon starts reeling from Isaera's arcane bombardment, blasting sheets of its corrupted skin off and splattering the sand with clotty dark blood, Roshorn sets aside his shamanic ways and lashes out with his claws. He leaves great tears in the creature, but with monomania to the task it remains upright and ready to right even with claws, curses, and magic missiles wracking it. Half-curled to one side, it hefts its trident and menaces the furbolg in preparation for a combined attack with its comrade just in time for Mor'Lag to crash into it from behind, grabbing a fistful of its dorsal crest and wrenching it back, driving a huge ogrish fist into side over and over!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Myrmidon1 is now Wounded -5 and Staggered (rolling toughness checks at a -1, taken out by a failure of 10 or more) and also grabbed by Mor'Lag, rendered  bound . This cancels the group-attack that Myrmidon had just spent his action to queue up on Roshorn.

Myrmidon2 is -2, Staggered, and still something of a threat. It's Jakk'ari and Marion's turns (I have rolled the Myrmidon's toughness versus Corruption already, under the presumption you would maintain it at the beginning of your turn. It ticked for damage, but did not drop Myrmidon1 - you can decide to let that Corruption go to attack directly or not!)
 
 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

The conflict in this accursed strip of land could have been avoided. The battles were incessant ever since the disturbance of Tanaris and all consuming. Now the pelagics would be the next ones to be devoured.
  Fool  
Jakk'ari snarls to at the belligerent Myrmidon.
  This land has borne witness to the demise those far more terrible than you can muster. The ghosts of the Demon Queen's Elven Empire remain,  debased, disfigured, and pitiful . You will be amongst them shortly.  

The threat accompanies a chill as frost overtakes the moist beach sand surrounding Jakk'ari and extends its bony fingers towards the Myrmidon.
MrAbdiel
 The bloodied an desperate naga rattles a distressed cry in its throat - but its mouth is not meant for screaming. The murlocs, it seems, are for sending for help, and without them these two cannot simply belt out a demand for aid. Twisting away from the apparition gives the creature just enough disruption than Roshorn can turn the incoming trident blow with a swatting paw, unscathed!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Go team go! 
You're cookin' now, gang. A little blood spilled but all patched up, and the fishy lads extremely on the ropes. One more good hit on each will flatten them.  Isaera  is up!
 
 
WindStruck
 
 Spoiler: ooc 
Maybe Isaera can hold her action for now...

Persuasion:  (1d20+15)[ 32 ]   (not including the attractive bonuses.  Maybe they might like Isaera's face, but that's it lol)
 


Hearing the Nagas' desperate yelps, Isaera briefly holds the charged arcane missile in her hands.   " Will you surrender?  We just wanted to recover one teensy little thing, and then we'll be gone." 
MrAbdiel
 Looking stunned to be interrogated mid battle, the Myrmidon pauses too. And then replies, in a clicking, wet growl:

 "Sssssurrender? Recover? Ssssshe is not yoursss to take!" 

And then he's lunging again, seeking a break in the combat that seems not to come.

It seems your enemy is giving you no diplomatic solution here - whatever strange alliance the naga formed with the elves during the Third War, it does not exist here.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Given that the enemy seems intent on attacking still, you're free to take your held action to attack first,  Isaera. 
 
 
WindStruck
 "I don't think the  object  I'm talking about is referred to by  'she' ,"  Isaera says.  Seeing as the Myrmidon was obviously still very intent on attacking, Isaera shot the arcane missile at it.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
pew!

attack:  (1d20+4)[ 23 ] 
DC 21 toughness
And 3 more chances to hit after!
 
MrAbdiel
 The myrmidon surges towards furbolg, but the arcane missiles collide with its scaled side hard enough to punch into the chest cavity and leave a trio of craters sparking with pink arcane residue. It goes slack and thumps into the sand, heart-shot and finally laid low.

Nearby, Mor'Lag's opponent slithers and writhes but can't escape the great ogrish mitts. The ogre takes it to the groundm immobilizing the myrmidon's weapon, wrapping thick legs around the myrmidon's back and midsection so the tail snaps about wildly but can't create enough of a whipcrack of body movement to rip away from the grab. Roshorn bobbles over in his brisk, stocky way and begins stomping mercilessly on the naga's head, mashing its hissing face into the sand. But at some point it just stops struggling - Marion's corruption curse has liquified enough of its insides that the fight and life goes out of it, and Mor'Lag releases the carcass in fear of bursting it like blister of rotten gore.

With the fight over, your immediate scene falls quiet - but you can hear again the inhuman rattle-hiss of the scores more naga combing the beach for something, the howling, warbling murlocs adding their chaos to the chorus and the thunder of the brewing storm rising beyond the rapidly thinning mist.

You are victorious, but there is no time to rest on your laurels.

Roshorn knows this well, since it's his companions still at stake; and the moment there is this break in the action the strange bear-man is peering at the footsteps again and taking off at a waddling run in the direction they seem to have gone.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
The mist covering your intrusion is rapidly thinning in the rising storm breeze, and you can hardly let more of these things catch you near their dead. Is there anything you want to do before following these tracks? Or are we ready to get to the bottom of this mystery?
 
 
WindStruck
Noting their victory, but the thinning fogs, Isaera hurries closer to everyone and says,  "I have an idea.  Roshorn, Mor'Lag, why don't you two go after the tracks of the Winterspring Chapter?  For one thing, it seems like they've been here not long ago, and we don't want to miss them. And Mor'lag is so big, that..  well, it's best if you're not near the objective, and if you do get in a fight, you pull attention away from us." 
 "Jakk'ari, Marion, let's use this little bird construct to find the shard and get out of here as quickly as possible." 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari  

Jakk'ari heaves a small dune of sand over the bodies and completing the beachbound graves with scattered driftwood and kelp.
Splitting the adventuring bad would be dangerous but could allow both objectives to be accomplished at once. A timely distraction from a group could allow another to retreat unseen. But the risk was too great to remain unvoiced.
  The time for urgency is upon us. We have two objectives each with their own established trail but only one given recourse for failure. Do we have any recourse if Mor'Lag and Roshorn find the Winterspring chapter or require aid?   Replying with a tinge of doubt and refraining from giving his tacit approval.

  We could communicate through the elements but risk interference from the Naga's elementalists.  
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion watched as the last of the Naga's perished, its centre almost rotting away entirely into sloughs of diseased meat from the corruption of the smell she had cast upon it.

Nodding to herself in satisfaction, the Warlock tucked her smoke grenade away and hurried along with the others, for time was of the essence. Isaera's plan to split the party did make sense, though given how useful Morlagh had been when 'stealth' was required - thus inhibiting any of Marions more potent spells, or use of her rifle - the warlock didn't particularly like the idea that their prize fighter would depart their vicinity, in case they were found once again.

Pursing her lips, Marion started to chant and gather motes of power about her. Whispering softly, her words indecipherable to anyone who did not speak the infernal tongue upon which she called, the girls image shimmered briefly with a purple energy before a black emptiness opened in the ground before them - huge, bluish, clawed-hands reaching out of it to grip the sides and hoist out the familiar image of Marions usual protector - Vargheist.

 "Vargheist,"  Marion spoke up to the voidwalker, her smaller form dwarfed by the big, indigo demon.

 "Go with them,"  she pointed to Morlagh and the bear-man,  "be my eyes and voice - I will speak and see through you as needed!" 
WindStruck
 "If they find the Winterspring Chapter that is good for us, and we can simply meet up at Spear,"  Isaera says.  "And if they get in trouble? Hm. Well, I'd think they should just make as much noise as possible and retreat." 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari briefly shudders at the Void Walker. The presence and form of an absence occupying space is a paradox; its shackles grant it a passing resemblance to a cruelly bound elemental, but the lack of vibrant energy makes what it is unmistakably apparent. This would have to be their critical line of communication.

  Thank you Marion,   He acknowledges her contribution.
  We will soon know who the most fortunate group is. We will soon know if a fortunate group will share their advantage, or an unfortunate one will parlay their misfortune into assistance for the other. You have my blessings.   He concludes with his encouragement to Roshorn and Mor'Lag.
WindStruck
Glancing warily at Marion, Isaera eventually nods.  "Good. I guess suicide operation is going slightly better than we expected anyway, seeing as no one has died, nor suffered any lasting injuries. Yet. Now let's see where this blasted thing is." 

She rouses the little bird golem, imploring it for direction.
MrAbdiel
 Roshorn lets out an uneasy whine as Vargheist smokes into existence. He'll be unable to communicate with Mor'Lag in this division of labor - but the ogress has been laconic on this mission anyway, and with any luck, he'll soon be with his people.

 {Good hunting, Jakk'ari - we regroup soon!}  he offers, before the unusual trio - ogre, furbolg, and voidwalker - dash after the tracks, back toward the escarpment and the golden grasses, into the thinning fog.

Meanwhile, Isaera, Marion and Jakk'ari observe the little bird-golem in the elf's palms. It pulls itself together at the whistle, hops and swivels for a moment and wagging its long tail 'feathers', and then snaps to attention, pointing east - toward the water, and the storm, and naga. Your reduced cohort has an easier time avoiding the slithering naga in the shadows.

Your task almost seems too easy when you find the carcass of a massive shark, still and dead on the sand. Its flesh is rubbery grey-blue and patterned with lines forming strange intersections and puzzling geometries. This must be  Maws , Azuregos' pet whose task was to conceal the shard you're hunting within its body where it could not be easily found. But cosmetic slashes and bites on its body suggest some aquatic combat earlier before it elected to hurl itself upon the shore at a higher tide; and a great slit in its stomach reveals he has been gutted, and his interior prize stolen. The bird-golem suggests it lies beyond this corpse, and you are forced to take cover behind it in the stinking, blood-drenched sand. Beyond it, in the gloom of the mist, the shape of one of the naga pagolas stands with its two occupying naga-witches in shadowed conference with each other, and a pair of Myrmidons shifting restlessly nearby. There is no doubt - one of these four has the shard.

A crack of thunder splits the air, and the gathering storm buffets its winds against the fog a little more.

 
 Spoiler: Fluff: Jakk'ari's Elemental Communion 
{"We cannot long remain,"}  Mist  and  Spray  whisper in exhausted Kalimag; {"Baltas Hurricanus is near!"}
 

 
 Spoiler: Fluff: Through Vargheist's Eyes 
Mor'Lag, Roshorn and the Voidwalker follow the tracks back toward the escarpment. There, easilly missed against the packed sand and rock at the back of the beach, a cleft leads to a small cave. At the mouth of the cave, dragged just out of view, are a pair of myrmidons and two slain murlocs. Beyond them, deeper into the cave, are four figures - a rugged dwarven woman (Donova), a young darkspear troll (Yara), and two human men, one young and one older (Laydus and Ignaeus.)

The reunion is cautious at the sight of Mor'Lag and Vargheist but Roshorn is overcome with emotion, and bumbles desperately into the midst of his companions, particular Donova.

"I knew it!", the dwarf says as she embraces the much larger furbolg,  "I knew you'd find us Roshorn - I'd only hoped you might have brought more help! We're in a pickled here, for sure!" 

The pickle is visible behind them, at the back of the cave. Laying bound and gagged at the caves rear is one of the female caster-caste naga, her eyes wild with outrage. Binding such a creature has proven clearly challenging - four arms are tied together behind her, and her serpentine tail is trussed up and tied to her back with what seems like an obscene amount of rope, implying some prior failed attempts and overcompensation. She seems to be biding her time, now; unable to cast or flee, she waits.

Their scenario is laid out for Mor'Lag's benefit, and Marion's by proxy. They encountered Spear on their way to join the Armistice Ball in Orgrimmar, travelling not far behind Roshorn - but they encountered the same invitation to meet Spear you did, and agreeing with the importance of the call, sought out the shard themselves. But after a night of scouting and a day of awkward skirmishing at the fringes, it proved difficult to get close enough where their own little bird-golem (they have one matching yours, in tact, in Donova's keeping) indicated the shard would be. They made the guess that one of the casters would have it, and made a gamble - a rapid attack to snatch one of the coven of three, and a retreat under the cover of a snow-flurry that Yara was able to deploy from an enchanted charm she carried from her homeland in the far north. They were not lucky enough to grab the siren with the artifact - but with a live prisoner of the naga's leader caste hidden away with them, they inclined the naga exploration host to stay longer instead of retreating to the water. That's why he patrols are agitated and seeking - the Winterspring chapter managed to capture one of the naga casters, and her coven-sisters are reluctant to leave without her, or atleast without vengeance. Then the chapter dug in hoping Roshorn's neutoric instincts would compel him to backtrack along the trail and find them.

They dare not break their little bird, lest the Blue Flight come and save them but chase off the one carrying the artifact. But their hopes have manifested in your chapter's arrival - perhaps, another shot at the prize without startling the enemy host to flee.

 
 Spoiler: Extra Fluff: Marion 
Through Vargheists eyes, you assess the group. But it's Ignaeus that catches your attention. As you suspected, "Ignaeus" is Alteraci - and one you recognize from a portrait that once hung in your home, with your father a number of his countrymen. You definitely knew the names of the men in that portrait long ago, but it's shrouded in childhood - but the hard faced, silver haired old warrior isn't named Ignaeus. You'd remember that. It's a pseudonym.
 

 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion pursed her lips and grimaced as they hid behind the rubbery, grey-blue carcass of the massive shark, the stench of decaying flesh mingling with the constant buzzing of flies only further befouling the environment. If she had been informed earlier in the day that she would spend a period of her life huddled behind a dead fish, she'd have...sadly, perhaps not been surprised.

  "Utterly disgusting..."   she whispered under her breath.

Not that the warlock was a hot-house flower. Far from it. She could remember worse, much worse, during her escape from the Scourging of Lordaeron. So, perhaps, in that capacity, she was grateful that the carcass of the dead animal wasn't returning to unlife and thrashing about on the beach, snapping its mangled jaws at them.

But then, Marions supernatural senses were twanged, as if a thread had been softly tugged against her grey matter. Zoning out for a few moments, staring off into the distance, the girl returned to her present senses.

  "They found them,"   she whispered,   "Mor'lagg and that bear creature, they found the others...they haven't use their bird artifact yet"  

The  others , she thought. The Alteraci among them...back home...no, it couldn't be, could it?
WindStruck
Isaera almost gags at the stench of the shark. A hand was clasped over her nose and mouth in a futile attempt to mask the smell, and she made no complaints about it for fear of it becoming even stronger.

Then when Marion announces they found the Winterspring chapter, Isaera turns to her and whispers,  "Did they find the shard?" 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion shook her head.

  "No - they captured done of the Naga sorceresses. That's why they haven't called for back up, and it's why the Naga are patrolling extensively. The group is worried if they call in the Blue Flight, that it'll scare off the Naga carrying the artifact."  
WindStruck
 "Do you think a parlay is possible? An exchange for the shard and their lost witch? We could even bluff about where she is kept. All we need is to grab the shard and then, perhaps we could smash the little bird and the dragons will do the rest..." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion shook her head.

 "If you were the Naga, which is more valuable to you: an artefact of titanic magical power, or one sorceress of low enough rank she's in a situation to get captured by a group of adventurers?" 
WindStruck
 "But supposedly,"  Isaera protested,  "They don't even understand the magnitude of what they have found." 

A short beat later she adds,  "And neither do we."  She looks to Jakk'ari for some of his insights.
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari 

While kneeling beside Marion and Isaera next to the decaying shark Jakk'ari recounts the advice from their draconic patron and offers his own perspective.
  The naga likely have yet to discover the importance of the artifact as they continue to search for their abducted sea witch. The myrmidons will sell their lives for their sea witches. But we have been warned to not treat the naga as comprehensible foes.  

Memories of Tanaris and the patchwork assortment communities return. Both peaceful exchange and the duplicitous usurping of leadership yield vivid memories.

  We are well positioned to exchange a captive sea witch for the artifact. But should the remaining sea witches possess ambition and duplicity they could use the opportunity to orchestrate a conflict to retain the artifact and turn our captive into their martyr.  

He concludes surmising the worst possible scenario before darting his eyes back to Isaera and Marion to refocus on the present.
  But the naga have allied with elves before for common interests. Having a captive would deter them from conflict. Perhaps an exchange could be done.  
WindStruck
Isaera nods, then turns to Marion.  "Well, it's true. Our prince did apparently strike a bargain with some naga. Likely not these ones. But still..." 
 "What would you propose? Just go in and immediately start blasting?" 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion hated this. She felt so out of her element it wasn't even funny. The warlock  hated  situations where she was either not prepared, or was restrained from acting with the maximum firepower she could bring to bear.

Stealth was not new to her. Oh, indeed, it had preserved her many times against the ravenous claws and rotting fangs of the Scourge during her flight from her homeland. But stealth when  entering  an area? And to retrieve something...and then extract themselves, again, without alerting danger or drawing it down upon her heads?

That they couldn't now just open up and start blasting vexed her enormously. She had neither the tools nor the insight to craft a way out of this mess.

 "If we know which of these Naga now possesses the artefact, maybe we could call in the dragonflight from the ocean and let them retrieve it?"  she offered quietly with a small shrug. It was clear she was pondering ideas, and did not have a solid plan yet.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 

The bargain that Isaera speaks of between Prince Kael'thas and creatures so devoted to their goal they would invite death before relenting sounds inconceivable. Jakk'ari had seen outmatched combatants refuse self-preservation in the face of defeat, but only when a fruitless journey home was doomed. Isaera's terms were quite amicable as well. By the tenants of diplomacy, the naga were unlikely to be trustworthy.

  Once yes, but perhaps they had a common foe?   He replies to Isaera

He turns to Marion, plotting just like him.
  Unfortunately the water is not the blue dragonflights' sphere of influence and Azuregos did not mention any other aquatic allies of his.   He points to the fresh carcass still free of seabirds.
  But perhaps we could use the Winterspring chapters' captive to our advantage.  
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion bit her lip in thought.

 "...but now that  we  know who has the shard...the blue dragonflight can engage the Naga and draw most of them away, and we can bag the retreating witch that possesses the artefact and reclaim it, while most of her goons are engaging the dragons?" 

Once again, with her tone, it was clear Marion was developing an idea further into something with a chance of success, rather than demanding that they heed her words and commit to it.
WindStruck
 "I suppose that could work..  though on second thought, perhaps calling the dragons should be reserved as the last resort. I could only imagine not only could there be the risk of the sea with  still  fleeing with the shard, but there would be a tremendous loss of life, both on the naga and the dragon kin.. and still possibly some of our opal collection,"  Isaera says, as she folds her arms and glances sideways at Marion. Though she couldn't truly hold a higher moral ground against the warlock, for even she had brainstormed machinations that heavily involved the dragons. She was only having second thoughts now, and the bitter cold and wind from the approaching storm was making the environment so much more chilly.

 "Hm. Perhaps a distraction, then? I.. I may have an idea. Are you able to control corpses at all, Marion?" 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
  "I suppose that could work..  though on second thought, perhaps calling the dragons should be reserved as the last resort. I could only imagine not only could there be the risk of the sea with  still  fleeing with the shard, but there would be a tremendous loss of life, both on the naga and the dragon kin.. and still possibly some of our opal collection,"  Isaera says, as she folds her arms and glances sideways at Marion. Though she couldn't truly hold a higher moral ground against the warlock, for even she had brainstormed machinations that heavily involved the dragons. She was only having second thoughts now, and the bitter cold and wind from the approaching storm was making the environment so much more chilly.

 "Hm. Perhaps a distraction, then? I.. I may have an idea. Are you able to control corpses at all, Marion?"  
 



Having since controlled her natural gag reflex to the putrescent odours emanating off of the dead shark behind which they had taken cover, Marion slowly turned her head to face the elf, those eyes of hers flat along the brow and her stare an unamused rictus. To think that  she  would have anything to do with those...those  insane  madmen that conspired with necromancers and cavorted with the dead in the wake of the Lich King, whose ruinous black touch brought her beautiful homeland to ruin.

And such words came out of Isaera's lips.

Immediately, the warlocks head received a flood of images that reminded her of the indignities she had suffered at the Orgrimmar Ball; when the elf had run off in a frightful spot, only  she , Marion, had cared enough to check in and see if she was alright, and Isaera had treated her like the hired help. The elf had dismissed her like some servant.

Marions eyes narrowed, her prior frost towards the elf returning almost in an instant. The fingers on her right hand visibly gripped into the dead, rubbery flesh of their aquatic cover, the knuckles going white.

   "No."   

The warlock reached towards a satchel upon her hip and plumbed its depths inside, before producing an odd, spherical cannister made from thin clay. Holding it out towards Isaera, Marion's spoke simply and coldly.

 "Throw it hard or pop the cap. It will billow enough smoke to fill a house. There's your distraction." 
WindStruck
Isaera looked down at the curious canister, briefly took it, and handed it off to Jakk'ari. She shrugged.  "Well, I hope if it hits sand, it will still break." 

Feeling around in the sand, herself, she procures a small, irregular pebble no bigger than a fingernail and begins to weave some magic over it. Already leaning inside the disgusting corpse of the shark, she holds the pebble as close as possible before it lights up brightly with pale, blue, shimmering light and sets the stone in the shark's gaping cavity.

 "Let's go then,"  Isaera says.  "One way or another, I want to make this shark a distraction, and we can't be anywhere near it when it draws their attention." 
Plaids
Jak'arri gives a concerned glance to Isaera. "I would hope Marion doesn't have the means to perform blood magic". He speaks bluntly to her before ending his scrutinizing gaze early. The mission is more takes precedent. "We will have our concealment once more once this noble protector brings fear to the naga once more".
MrAbdiel
  * * * * * 
 Grit  is not a particularly large or powerful elemental. He's one of the smallest; sand elementals send to be just so. They represent earth - the most inflexible element - in its most pulverized, battered, ubiquitous form. At the bottom of the ocean, there it is; on the wind carved dunes of Tanaris, there it is also; and here on the beaches of Aszhara, here  Grit  is again. Some part of Jakk'ari's sand troll nature appeals to the little spirit, and so it answers his call; and after zipping silent and unseen in the elemental underlay of the world to confer with the little snow spirit accompanying the furbolg shaman in the midst of the Winterspring chapter, it returns to whisper its report to the Farraki:  this plan will do. 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Elemental Communion 
If you're paying a VP Jakk'ari, we'll call that an  Edit Scene  rather than a power stunt and I'll let you freely communicate to Roshorn via your elemental buddies. Saves us laboring over a Power Stunt for such a modest boon.
 


The rain has started spattering in heavy wind-thrust drops before the plan can begin, shearing through the fog finally and forcing your party to lay flay in a nook of parted sand. The thunderstorm reduces visibility too, of course; but the elements involved in the storm are not allied to your group, and you cannot remain exposed in it for too long before you will be spotted. Fortunately, that isn't required. Everything starts coming together.

With a sputter and pop, the smoke cartridge inside the shark carcass ruptures and begins pushing bubbling blood and black smoke in great gouts out of the shark's wounds and jaws. At once this draws attention of milling and patrolling murlocs and their handlers - through the rain haze, you can see the sinewy shapes of the naga sirens emerging from their pagola toward a shining mote held by one of the murloc drudges. The little blue bird golem pivots toward the pair, but does not parse between them. So long as they move together, it's hard to know which to target...

 * * * * * 
But a little further down the beach, the Winterspring chapter plus Mor'lag have crept forward according to the plan. Mor'Lag heaves the bound naga sorceress off her shoulders to slam gracelessly into the sand, writhing in muzzled outrage.

 "There's the smoke,"  Donova Snowden confirms after squinting through the rain. The dwarfess whistles at the pile of azure fragments in her palm, and her own little golem assembles itself and points along the beach toward the Ratchet chapter.  "Now or never." 
 "Alright, li'gal,"  coos the troll Yara,  "time come ta scream ya li' heart out."  With a flick of her wrist, she spins her spear and neatly slices through the naga's gag - and carves a line through her cheek.

 ***** 
From down the beach comes a blood-freezing, wrathful scream that it is hard to believe it comes from mortal lungs, much less lungs that principally breathe water. But the naga recognize it at once. Indeed, one of the two naga sirens present is so compelled by the sound of distress that she lurches into a slither at the speed of a run that way before her sister, who seems to have some level of seniority, reins her in with a shout, and flags one of the sentinel Myrmidons to go that way instead. The warrior races off down the beach, calling more of his kindred off the beach interior to join him as he goes, and the siren rejoins her sister with hesitation. This is all a dance of rain-cut silhouettes to you, but you make out the most important part.

 {There is no movement from the bird-charm, shaman...}  comes the Kalimag whisper of  Grit  to Jakkari - a stillness repeated in the Ratchet chapter's own little dowser sparrow. No movement at all when one of the witches made such a lurching movement confirms the target -  that one , the coven leader, has the shard. There can be no doubt.

Left in the area are the two naga witches, the hulking myrmidon sentinel whose partner has vanished up the beach, and a pack of four murloc dretches digging fruitlessly through the bloodstained sand around the body of the dead shark for more trinkets.

The time to strike is now.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Alright! Surprise round time. Please take your surprise round action, and also roll initiative for the next round. The enemy are about 50ft away from you - that's about as close as you can get while hiding. The witches are near each other, the Myrmidon is about 20ft aside from them, and the murlocks about 40ft to the other side, near the shark carcass. You can have taken any preparations you want that would not make any noise or draw attention within reason. Change weapons, alter arrays, what have you.
 
 
WindStruck
As the distraction happens and the plan begins, Isaera scurries over towards behind the coven leader siren, with all the grace and agility her slender but rather nonathletic body could muster. She at least manages to kind of hustle closer while remaining crouched, and she didn't make too much noise. However, the senses of the naga were yet to be tested.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Well, that didn't work out.

Marion flicked her lips as she watched Isaera attempt to sneak up upon the Naga. Attempt, being the key word, as the sea witch had the eyes of a hawk that spotted the elf's efforts almost immediately.

Knowing the gig was up and already holding her rifle in her hands, Marion uttered some words of power from her lips and drew one of her hands up to almost  flick  it at the gathered Naga and their Murloc pets.

Immediately an intense wave of heat washed over all present, as a sorcerously hot curtain of fire  blasted!  out from the warlock like concentrated dragons breath that left a great plume of hissing steam in its wake where rain was immediately vaporised upon contact. Illuminating the area with searing flames, the blast wave swept over the largest cluster of Naga, the Myrmidons and Murlocs, chewing deep into the sensitive, water-tempered flesh with ember fangs.
MrAbdiel
 Isaera has done more hiding and sneaking in this mission than she has for most of her life. The distraction plan has scattered attention away from the presumed safety of their operation's centre. The high elf stays low and, as the rain crashes down in great sheets, makes her bid to approach and pilfer. It almost works. If she had been a little more fortunate, they might have been homefree. But a great crack of lightning in the distant throws stark illumination around, and the naga witch's strange orange eyes are afforded a glimpse of the skulking elf.

The naga catches the movement, snaps her attention to Isaera, and jerks back with an ear-splitting scream that shocks all nearby naga into attention.

With contact made, Marion is quick to act to reduce the enemy numbers, and a rippling wave of fire erupts in the direction of her gestures and roils over the murlocs. Two are flash-roasted and killed immediately; two are scorched, but spared lethal contact by the dousing rain on their scales. They warble in bewilderment as they gather their senses, and weapons, and prepare to fight for their miserable lives.

The coven leader rises up on her tail, towering up over Isaera with the raging storm in the sky behind. Her lower hands begin a complex conjuration while the upper set of arms remain free to defend herself...

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Marion annihilates two Murlocs, but two roll impressively enough to live. The Coven Leader begins casting a spell that requires more than one turn to complete. With the Coven Follower, the Myrmidon, and the two remaining Murlocs surprised, Isaera and Jakk'ari are free to act right now!
 
 
WindStruck
 Oh sh*t.  Or whatever the equivalent was in Thelassian that Isaera cursed under her breath.

This whole mission was just doomed from the beginning, the distraction they planned was one lousy Hail Mary, and Isaera's bungled little stealth attempt was the cherry on top.

 Okay, new plan:  don't die!  Followed shortly by getting the shard anyway. 
 "I think a big wave is coming!"  Isaera calls out to the others.

She flees from the naga siren further inland to the pagola they were just at, trying to find some cover. Well, a mage probably would have already used magic against her, right? Maybe she could still use a bit of surprise to her advantage.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 
 

Seeing Isaera's burglary attempt fail and the naga now alerted, Jakk'ari acts.
Jumping atop the sand dune he shrieks, calling to the lightning he cautioned of to those under his tutelage. He goads the capricious elemental spirits to his target. Lightning strikes the roof the pagola and races downwards scoring the leg of the structure with the path of the fierce element. Before completing its journey to the crushed and sedated sand it leaps away towards the naga witch.
MrAbdiel
 The lightning comes from the storm eagerly, snapping down to the peak of the pagola and racing to the subordinate naga witch's tail, sparking up her back. She gasp and shudders, but does not shriek - lighting is something she is trained to bind and master, and she has had just enough warning that she is able to draw the voltage into the cupped space between her four palms before it can harm her. With Jakk'ari having made himself visible, the witch hefts the scintillating ball and casts it through the air - but it jags past the troll and earths in the distance behind!

One of the surviving murlocs finds his feet, his big milky eyes goggling on to Marion as the wisps of hellfire smoke from her fingertips. It breaks into a zigzagging run, crossing the distance and launching at her with shovel held high and a craven warble in its throat!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
[22] Coven Follower Witch
[17] Murloc Drudge A
 [17] Murloc Drudge B 
[14] Marion
[9] Murloc Drudge C
[8] Coven Myrmidon
[4] Coven Leader Witch
[3] Jakk'ari
[3] Isaera
 [3] Murloc Drudge D 

Marion's up, then a bunch more naga!
 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion watched as two particularly undesirable events occurred.

The first, one of the murlocs warbled up to her with its disgusting, garbling fish-maw mouth wide open in its vile battlecry. Little hands at the end of sinewing, scaley arms, swung gripped weapons with which the loathsome creature was doubtlessly going to stab in her supple direction. Where was Vargheist when she needed him...

The second, and perhaps the most dire, was the Naga Sea Witch rising up upon her serpentine lower half, arms gesticulating at her sides and chanting in what the warlock immediately recognised as the generation of a spell. But what kind of spell? From what she caught from the others, one involving the sea crashing down upon them.

She had to act quickly, and she had to decide: the others, or herself.

Ultimately, she chose the others.

Retching up memories of half-known spells in her mind, Marion initiated a few syllable little chant of her own as she stretched out her free hand and clasped it in the direction of the Naga Sea Witch: the air around the gross creature scintillating with fel-energy that coalesced and slammed onto the ground all around it, catching nearby Naga in its compressive, crushing forces...
MrAbdiel
 Unstable shadow magic pools in the midst of the two naga casters and then detonates, whipping cords of dark force battering outward and thrashing the sea witches. But when the gloom has cleared, only the lesser witch, the follower,  is recoiling and dazed from the spell...

And the coven leader, while struck and pained by the spell, has managed to maintain her focus through it all. She turns her hateful eyes on the warlock dispensing these spells - the scurrying elf nearby largely forgotten, and barks a order in her forked tongued argot that seems clear even to those who don't speak it:  Kill that one. 

The slower of two murlocs bobbles along after his companion, suicidally intent on avoiding disobedience. The bodyguard Myrmidon is more cunning: it coils, and waits, as the coven leader's spell completes.

It's not a tidal wave after all, so thank the Light for small mercies; but a moderate wave ten feet tall lurches out of the surf and seems to drag the waterline with it, bowing the surf behind it into a depression that defies gravity's call to fill it, and throwing a great blanket of seawater up on the shore where it lingers supernaturally, turning the beach into shoulder-high water!

This, of course, is no trouble for the naga. Immediately, the tip of the myrmidon's fin scythes through the water's surface as it torpedoes through the water and plunges its trident out at Marion beneath!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Okay! Marion's Shadowfury gets a Daze and Vulnerable condition on the Coven Follower, and then fails to save it off at the end of her turn. She actively defends as she tries to recover.

Murloc C joins the other Murloc rushing toward Marion.

Myrmidon Delays his turn till after the Coven leader.

Coven leader managed to ace her saves on the Shadowfury, and completes her cast. It's a linked Affliction and Environmental Control as a wave tries to knock everyone prone, and then the water lingers turning this into an aquatic fight. Then the Myrmidon rushes and stabs out at Marion.

The Wave attack is affects this whole scene, but anyone who has (or somehow acquires) Environmental Adaptation to Water are immune to the affliction.

Otherwise, this Affliction is resisted with Athletics, or the Swim movement power. The DC is 15. The outcome is Impaired with one degree of failure, or Prone with two - which would naturally be bad if you don't breathe water.

After that, if you're not prone, you can keep your head above the water to breathe, but to move you're taking swim movement.

And then, as a special tread for Marion, a little bit of a trident stab. 17 to hit; resisting damage at a DC21.

AND THEN it's Jakk'ari and Isaera's turns.
 
 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 

The sting of water flooding nostrils purges the nausea from involuntarily somersaulting. The leading witch had remolded the familiar sandscape to a treacherous lagoon with her own dealings with the elements.  I won't be bested here not like this.   Jakk'ari heaves himself upwards, animated by the aggressive resolve born from a comfortable master encountering competition they had yet to discover were uncomfortable acknowledging.

  Take the objective.   Jakk'ari fiercly barks to Marion and Isaera.

Jakk'ari concentrates on the superior sea witch and the manipulated elements surrounding them. The presence of salt had been made doubly established by the infiltration of troll sinuses. The element was member of the earthen elementals. Instead of resisting and stubbornly attempting to retain its form against pulverizing flows of water it dissolved and permeated it without resistance. But it would always outlast the water and reform in time.

Pointing and chirping in kalimag Jakk'ari begins exciting the salty elementals near the witch. The water begins to saturate and white flakes begin to speckle the superior witch and her garments. A substantially large salt crystal would shatter and lacerate exposed skin.

 
 Spoiler: Mechanical actions 
Jakk'ari will use his move action to stop being prone and attack the naga sea witch with a blast attack.
 
WindStruck
Isaera is knocked over by the waves of water, submerged for a bit as she flails around, until she finds the surface and sputters for air.

She seemed to not have the attention of the other hostiles for the time being, so she tried to use her arcane proficiency to magically yank the bag from the naga siren leader and bring it into her own possession.

 
 Spoiler: ooc 
rolled 6 +/- ???

Also spent a VP
 
MrAbdiel
 Jakk'ari draws the resilient salt from the seawater, and it coalesces in a shivering payload near the lesser naga sorceress - but the creature is cunning, and dips below the surface of the intruding water. The crystal shatters, and its razor flecks are robbed of their momentum in the surf before they can cause harm!

Meanwhile, Isaera makes her move, reaching out with arcane precision rather than power, seizing the coven leader's woven satchel, and yanking. It tugs from her shoulder, and the witch's golden eyes flash with alarm and rage. Her upper arms whirl arcane knots in the air to maintain the artificial tide; but a lower arm snatches out to grip by fingers the retreating strap and then, when that slips away, they attempt to unravel the spell robbing her. But it's too little too late - the satchel flies into the waiting hands of the high elf, up to her shoulders in churning seawater as the storm hammers down and flashes a spirited crack of lighting as if to underscore this turning point in the conflict.

While the myrmidon's trident gouges but fails to penetrate the fel-magic wards Marion has prepared, she is assailed by the warrior as the murlocs close on her flank. One of the drudges - now jetting through the water with powerful strokes of its legs instead of bumbling in less graceful ambulation - tries its luck, but overshoots its leap from the water. Its shovel goes whizzing by the warlock's head, before the murloc splashes back into the water behind her!

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Murloc A misses Marion; Naga Follower successfully soaks Jakk'ari's attack; Isaera successfully snatches the satchel.

Marion's up! She's got three opponents attacking her in melee!
 

 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion ducked and weaved and sidestepped as best as she could, her teeth gritting with a soft "ooof!" as the trident of the massive myrmidon caught her, but failed to penetrate the aegis of her protective magics.

  'Vargheist - Get. Here.  NOW !'   her telepathic command slammed through the distance between her demonic protector, summoning him forth again to cross the distance to place his body between hers and the lethal weapons of her adversaries that wished her harm.

As for that scaley bitch that set them upon her...

Marion narrowed her eyes in the Witche's direction. Filled with hatred, she uttered a few words of dark power to conjure the most malign spell she had: death and decay.

Centred upon the lead Naga witch, the air suddenly became fraught with sickly, red pustules of fel-magic that ate and corroded everything they touched, burning and chewing through flesh and blackening the the water into biter, vile brackish.
MrAbdiel
 The surge of fel-energy does its trick. The secondary naga caster, off to one side, jerks away from the corrupting force in pain; but the coven leader absorbs it full force, and her skin withers and pales, shedding scales in great sheets. One of her hateful eyes clouds and greys to sightlessness in the speed of the corruption, so rapidly and deeply does it strike! Her scream is keening and ear-aching...

But there's little time for Marion to enjoy the victory. With two murlocs and a Myrmidon striking at her, defense must become a priority. Another murloc drudge tries its best, but its clumsy efforts, barely avoided in the water, are nothing to the Myrmidon's ferocity. It rears up out of the water, looming over the warlock, and uses the pull of gravity on its downward plunge to strike brutally into her demonic defenses.

As quickly as the tide of battle reverses, the literal tide does too. The coven leader, robbed, cannot spare effort to chase her prize. The warlock's attack as slipped past her focus and damaged her too greviously, and retreat becomes her intention. She ceases to incant the artificial tide, and throws herself back into the water, swimming toward the deep.

All of them do - murlocs and naga, in the immediate water-logged zone. The pull of the water makes it almost inevitable, and they are glad enough to quit the field by racing along naturally down into the water. Marion, Jakk'ari, and Isaera are pulled, too - without aquatic mastery of their own, there is little they can do to stop it, and each is sucked under the churning surf as the water retreats. This cluster of ambushed naga are retreating, deeper to a sharp subaquatic shelf which drops away to the pitiless black of the Coral Sea. There's only water and sand to grab as the water retreats taking its captives with them; and it's easy to imagine the battle suddenly going very poorly if it had to continue underwater, where there was no breath for spellcasting or ground to shove off to move, and only uncounted fathoms of darkness and saving scaled monstrosities to offer succour.

But before the subaquatic cliff comes up, Jakk'ari and Isaera find a similar salvation. A pair of meaty fits snatches troll and elf by the wrist, holding them against the regressing waters and tugging them up into the air and the storm - Mor'Lag having rejoined the group just in time for her bulk and reach to be proof against the waters. The ogress has only two hands, and none spare for Marion in the moment. Cold despair spikes into her heart as the water pulls her - but not her own. It's Varghast's despair, transmitted unpleasantly, but in the moment necessarily, from his gripping hand to her wrist, as the voidwalker spares her the water's rushing, drowning doom.

In moments, this whole chunk of beach that had been dry, then underwater, is beach once again, and the Ratchet Chapter's heroes are on their feet. The naga sorceresses, their guardian myrmidon, the murloc drudges, have taken the tide and fled.

But the  rest  of the naga, those elsewhere on the beach, are drawing in now. The much discussed Winterspring chapter are here now, doing battle with some of the enemy while you all recover for a moment. The dwarf who must be Donova Snowden fending a Myrmidon with Roshorn rainsoaked but attentive by her side. A spear wielding troll girl whom Jakk'ari at once identifies visually not as Darkspear, but as Drakkari - an ice troll, of all things, aids the two human warriors, Laydus and Ignaeus, laying about against a swarm of Murlocs rushing in to pick up where the retreating gang left off.

The ambush was successful, the naga's bag recovered, and her coterie forced to flight - but now hundreds of the monsters are converging on your position! 
WindStruck
And just like that, the tide turns and recedes as quickly as it came, and Isaera is nearly sucked down into her doom. She couldn't swim well, and trying to keep hold of the bag she just pilfered wasn't helping. If some pathetic murloc didn't kill her by poking her to death, water filling her lungs probably would. And yet, salvation is at hand.

Being pulled out of the water by the scruff of her neck and set down on the damp beach, this is yet another time the drenched high elf looks a lot like a drowned rat. She coughs a bit and begins to stand, when she hears the chorus of hundreds of angry murlocs and naga converging on their position. This wasn't good. But fortunately, Isaera already had a plan.

She finds the little bird golem on her possession and then smashes it. In fact, she tosses it off to Mor'Lag to further grind it to powder for good measure. And then, Isaera begins casting, charging up her Fire Bolt spell with an odd amount of calmness and confidence, as if this one little fireball would take out droves of them at once. Well, at least with that many approaching targets, it probably wouldn't miss, right? But instead, Isaera launches her fire bolt into the air. Straight up into the air it goes, and she maintains it for as long as she is able, until distance severs all connection between her and spell, and it fizzles out in the rain.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Hearing the snake-cow witch scream and hiss in agony was music to Marions ears, but the warlock did not get to relish the audible delight for long. Turning herself about to avoid the skewering poke of a Murlock, she inadvertently brought herself into the trajectory of a particularly power stab from one of the Myrmidons, his trident catching the shorter human in her sternum and blasting hot needles of pain throughout Marions body.

 "Argh!!"  she hissed, a tri-set of wounds opening up across her tummy as her vision blurred for half a second, the coldness of bloodloss seeping across her skin with immediate, frosty portents.

But, her end would not come from that blow. Having finally arrived onto the scene, Vargheist reached one long, clawed blue hand down into that frothing sea-water and gripped the young madam by her collar and heaved her out from  the churning, retreating blue-green ocean.

But not before Marion would have hers against the vile snake-man.

Gritting her teeth, blood seeping down the front of her beautiful, now salt-ruined clothes, Marion drew up her rifle and pulled the trigger in the Myrmidons direction.

  Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!   the weapon blasted away, each draw-down of the warlocks wrist reloading it to blast another shot into the face of the damn thing that had caused her injury.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 
 
  Elements bless you.  Jakk'ari sputters to Mor'Lag as the ogre rescues him from the riptide their large gripping hand. He hastily vomits underneath Mor'Lags' shadow as he rises to greet the WinterSpring party just coming into.

The greeting of hundreds of stampeding murlocs takes precedent. The soft ground conceals the immensity of the surging frenzy of murlocs, charging what could not be easily discerned. Perhaps self-preserving and fear perpetuated by the stampede behind them, fury at having deprived them of their leaders, or perhaps just the instinctual drive to return to their native environment. The threat was the same regardless.

With the absence of the witches, audience with the elements comes completely and without opposition.
  There once was a witch who was rich

Then she cried "Just as I feared!"
Troll, elf, warlock with a beard,
"Some dry unruly heroes appeared!"

Elfy magic fingers stole without a hitch
Miss warlock then turned her to pitch   
With hopefully one last plea the sand begins frothing joyfully as air mingles joyfully with the frothy sand.


He concerns himself with Marion.
  You attacks fulfilled their purpose and stuck her at the best moment. But we have new foes in our midst.  
While she shoots the bloom of black sludge as her own blood spills into the ocean and chases after the wounded naga.
MrAbdiel
 Marion's rifle barks once, and spits its shot into the water where the shadow of the Myrmidon is retreating into the deep and dark. But the next shot clicks without firing, and the next, and the next - the waterlogged rifle's powder charges, outside of the first one, spoiled by seawater. Her attacker slips away into the deep; her weapon fouled and useless for the moment.

 
 Spoiler: Whaaaat why?  OOC: 
Well, shooting after the naga fleeing underwater is something like Total Cover against something with physical missile descriptors. That's +5 to his Dodge, so the 17 won't connect in this case. Beyond that, part of the devil's bargain for taking a power as equipment is that you get things for 1/5 the cost but they are way more vulnerable to arbitrary GM bullsh!t. Since it serves the drama of the moment, Marion's rifle once again is delayed the opportunity to draw blood!
 


Mor'Lag claps the little azure bird to dust between her palms. Isaera's fireball surges into the sky, burning until it fizzles out. Jakk'ari draws the local elements back on side as the fury of the storm above starts to abate. And the Winterspring chapter join the Ratchet in their midst just in time for the Blues to respond, true to Azuregos' word. A massive shape, dark against the cloudy sky, scythes toward the coast from the land, forheralded by a powerful roar that you have not heard since the desperate flight from Stonemaul Village. But this time, they are not the ones fleeing; the massive dragon swoops low and breathes a gout of smoking mist in cobalt blue and arcane purple that catalyses in the air into jagged fans of ice slashing through the startled host of naga and their slaves. Azuregos's warhost is modest compared to the naga force - maybe two score of dragonkin and drakonid in their blue scale and dark plate armor, in their bizzare centauroid forms and bipedal, come racing down the distant escapement and driving toward the beach. But the dragon makes the difference, and with the harpoon launchers near the pagola abandoned, there is precious little they can do. The obvious choice is to flee, and flee they do. You each get in a few parting shots as they race to the water, but in side of a minute, the beach that was crawling with naga and murlocs before is deserted except for the two Opal Collocation chapters, the bodies of numerous murlocs and naga, and the mysterious blue scaled dragonkin that are already slinking back over the escapement and vanishing from sight.

You have a moment to breathe, to heal, to revel in a narrow and clever victory. The storm ceases to pelt down at all, and mute grey clouds cease their grumble above. Azuregos, his wet scales shining like a mail coat of sapphires, comes to settle on the sand, his tremendous mass causing him to skid and leave massive gouges in the ground. He's not the largest dragon you've seen - the shadowy figure of the titantic black dragon slaying the ogre champion in the smoke of Stonemaul holds that honor. But he's tremendous in scale, one of his taloned feet as wide across as you are tall. The voice that rumbles from his throat has enough vocal quality that was possessed by the voice of the elf-guise 'Spear', though deepened, amplified, maximized.

  "Do you have it? Have you succeeded?"  
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Isaera! 
In case you were wondering, the bag does indeed contain the azure shard of a magical rod you were sent to gain. It also contains a small cache of ancient elven artifacts pilfered from these ruins, some of them certainly magical. But are you  morally  obligated to offer those to the dragon, too...? Who do they  really  belong to?
 
 
WindStruck
 "I certainly hope we have succeeded. But if not, thank you for the timely rescue,"  Isaera says, trying to keep her cool, despite the awe of standing in front of an actual dragon in its true form with booming Wizard of Oz voice.

She rifles through the pilfered bag, and finds what looks like it could only be a shard of some kind of staff. Withdrawing it and holding it out, she asks,  "Is this it? What of the other objects that the naga have recovered?" 
MrAbdiel
 The dragon's eyes flash with interest as the shard comes into view on Isaera's offer. He reaches towards it with a massive claw, and it gently rises into the air with similar telekinetic magic that Isaera used to snatch it, and settles in the dragon's huge claw. When the elf mentions the other artifacts, he curls his claws securely around the relic and then answers after a rumble of thought.

  "Most of them are historical curiosities. Some still retain power. But they are fragments of the ruination of the ancient Kaldorei; an age when unfettered mortal dabbling in arcane forces drew the eyes of the legion. They are dangerous - they are best secured by my flight, where they cannot be poached by treasure hunters or snatches away be miscreant naga."  

Jakk'ari, meanwhile, is not the only troll here for once. Yara, the ice troll, rests her spear on her shoulder and looks up at the dragon with less amazement than the others assembled. Perhaps the blues dwell in mass adjacent to the Drakkari, just as the bronzes are mysterious neighbours to the Farraki. Yara is young and strong, the kind of adventuring age that draws trolls and other races alike to wander the world. But certain details of her ritual scarring, and the remarkably high quality of the mojo talismans dangling from her armor straps hither and yon, and worked into her crimson hair in its voluminous plume, suggest to the shaman that she isn't simply a wandering youth. Likely, she is connected to a powerful Drakkari family - a daughter of one of the warlords of proud and distant Zul'Drak.

Marion has a chance now to see the human warriors, one of whom caught her attention when vicariously witnessed. The younger warrior is round faced, thick shouldered, and mutters with the briny accent to his companions in a way that reminds her of the guards back in Theramore - marks of a Kul'Tiran of the marine soldiery. But the other one, the aged warrior who is straight backed and heavy browed, with grey hair cut short and spiking now in a ridiculous frazzle from the sea-water battle earlier, says very little at all. He wears scale mail that could have been bought from a hundred different blacksmiths across the continents, but wields a greatsword that could have been made by few bladesmiths. Breifly, Marion catches sight of art graven into the ricasso of the blade before it is sheathed away - a design of the crow in flight, and four stars: the old Alterac iconography. That's enough to shake loose her recollection of this man from his presence in images in her old family home, and her mother's dutiful regard to their history. This man, who has been calling himself  Ignaeus  (the name of ancient Ignaeus Trollbane, who once wielded Trol'Kalar and served in the Troll Wars alongside Thoradin, first king of Arathor), is actually General Argoni Hath. General Hath, who suffered treacherous King Perenolde's orders to permit the Horde to march through Alterac to attack Lordaeron and Quel'Thalas... Until his old rival, Thoras Trollbane, convinced him to defy the king and take the remnant of Alterac's army to finish the war against the invaders, rather than collaborate. There are few figures in Alteraci history as controversial. All curse the name Perenolde, but Hath fought on both sides of the war because of loyalty to his kingdom and then, ultimately, loyalty to humanity. But his failure to stand up earlier meant the horde did tremendous damage to the human and elven realms - is a late conversion to clarity redeeming? It's no wonder he vanished from public eyes after the second war and, it seems, took up the wandering life under a pseudonym.  
WindStruck
 "Very well,"  Isaera intones monotonously, tossing the bag of other odds and ends towards the dragon.

 "This mission was exceedingly perilous: perhaps far more than first assumptions would permit. Luckily, I don't believe any of our own came to serious harm.. but I don't like the bloodshed we had to commit today, even if it was naga, and even if our excuse was voluntarily being pawns to a dragon with good intentions." 

Isaera could say more. She could go on for quite some time to express her dissatisfaction with the whole ordeal, but nearly bites her tongue with an odd expression and pursed lips to keep silent.

 "Let us just be done with this and go our separate ways. Now then, you did mention some sort of reward..." 

For a brief moment, Isaera turns her attention from the dragon to their counterparts in the other Opal Collection chapter. The ice troll from far up north, most likely Northrend, could be intriguing. Not that Isaera had much interest in trolls to begin with, given the natural animosity her people had for trolls, but such notions were easily suppressed and smoothed over much like for Jakk'ari. And perhaps Mor'Lag, somewhat. But this grey-browed man with the high-quality sword.. something about this man seemed to make Isaera's tiny back hairs bristle as her azure gaze burrowed into his countenance.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion was dragged from the water by her demon-servant, coughing softly as she was hoisted up so that she could remain on her feet, hand pressing and leaning against her towering, indigo fel-slave who stood in watch over his recovering, coughing, spluttering little master, shielding her from the visual scrutiny of others with its hefty bulk.

Once the warlock had recovered, swallowed, exhaled, squaring her shoulders, looking down at the tears in her beautiful clothing at the fair-skin beneath that had healed over, she pursed her lips into a soft snarl as motes of hatred tingled through her body.

That bloody dragon. Sending  her  about on these trifling errands as if they couldn't do these damn things on their own!

The human felt her ribcage expand and contract as she leaned against her summoned, demon protector, shielded by his considerable mass so that she could recover with a modicum of privacy and dignity. It wasn't until the dragon returned, coming down to land upon the ground in its pretentious and ostentatious display to mingle with the 'mere mortals' that the warlock emerged from her indigo barrier.

But, Marion paused slightly in her stride when she saw  him .

She didn't need the iconography on the sword to confirm whom this man was - her memory was testimony enough.

For a brief second, Marion stared at the senior man, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. But it didn't last. As fast as it had passed her face, the expression change into something more neutral, a façade that hid her internal conflict over whether to forgive this man, or condemn him. As the daughter of minor nobility, Marion understood the pressure of duty - no one better. It was doubtless that when she had completed her arcane studies, if the Scourging had not commenced, that she would be strategically aimed at another noble family's son in order to marry and tie their fates together. She would have had no choice in whom she tied the knot with, whom she fostered children with, whom she broke bread with or whom she made the home with. But she would have done it anyway, because that was her  duty .

Privileges came with responsibilities, and duties. When looking at the aristocracy from the outside, it was easy to see only the wealth, pomp and spectacle. But to those who were actually within the pyramid, those who occupied its various layers, that was a byproduct, as each and every occupant also felt the heavy tug of  responsibility .

But which loyalty demanded greater fealty? King, nation or race?

That had clearly been a hierarchy General Hath had wrestled with in the past, and his choice had ruled the fate of many.

Saying nothing for now, Marion turned her attention to that elf and her exchange with the dragon, and particular her 'subtle' request for a reward.

Inhaling. Exhaling. Marion pursed her lips for a second in a mask of distaste, before pushing it all back down into the well of her personal feelings, before the human composed herself; shoulders square, chin high.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 
 

Jakk'ari interjects to rescue Isaera's address.
 Your aid was timely, and the final effort needed to secure victory Azuregos. We have secured the artifact from the naga seeking to misappropriate artifacts. Though the task was perilous and has not left us unblemished we hope for further partnership in the future to combat future corruptive forces in Azeroth who would abuse volatile magics.

I must admit, I too am intrigued what a member of the blue dragonflight would offer as a reward for quest completed.  
Completing a cordial salutation to the large regal dragon.

Jakk'ari stands taller, increasing his silhouette beside Isaera who he cautiously gauges with periphery of his vision.
 The passions of youth, moral clarity and candidness is attainable at any age but not always discretion 
He quickly gauges Marion before returning his focus to Isaera.

 ------- 
 The human is impressive. He is clearly fighting beyond his battlefield tenure and from a distant land given his sword. Curious.  
Jakk'ari gives an approving nod to Ignaeus from one elder of a group to another. The small gesture is not too different from the admiration one Farraki would give another upon seeing their battle scars and accolades with both appreciating the immense effort required to achieve them.

 ------- Jakk'ari greets Yara, curious as what may have brought a troll from an isolated tribe to Azshara and if the reasons were not dissimilar from his own
 Greetings, young warrior what fortunes have brought you from Northrend to this land with such eclectic company?  
WindStruck
Isaera stands aside and lets Jakk'ari smooth things over. While she didn't think she tripped over her own tongue, perhaps she should have been utmost respectful. But who were we if such thoughts were not expressed? Merely slaves to dragons??

She turns her attention from the grizzled human warrior and back to her sand troll ally, cocking an eyebrow.  "Hm. Yes. Future partnership against volatile magics. The dangerous kind that attracted the Burning Legion..."  There was definitely a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

 "That's all well and good, but we do have our own personal affairs to attend to and our loyalties are already preoccupied with the Opal Collection, remember?" 

Turning to address the blue dragon once more, Isaera forces a smile and says,  "Great Azuregos, if you have heard of the Opal Collection, and of course the Horde and Alliance, perhaps you might like us to send a missive to Jaina Proudmoore, Thrall, or Varian Wrynn to discuss such.. arrangements?" 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion said nothing as she watched Isaera and Jakkari's exchange with the dragon, the warlock clearly wanting little to do with the great beast. They had achieved its goals and had done their part in ensuring harmful magics were retrieved from the little claws of the Naga and others who could not be trusted to wield such destructive energies - that was it. Unless the Blue Dragonflight had some artifact-level reward hidden within its scales, Marion doubted they had anything to offer her, so this was likely an act of charity on her behalf. Considering the indignities she had endured in the pursuit of its completion, she was keen to set the entire affair as a past tense.

So, when the troll looked over in Marions direction and saw her standing with her characteristic blend of dignity and borderline arrogance, it was clear the Warlock wanted little more to do with the Blue Dragonflight. She would not grovel for a reward like some busking entertainer on a street corner. However, she did expect some form of recognition or verbal gratitude from the ancient creatures, as anything else would be quite poor manners.

However, despite her best efforts to avert her mind from the topic, Marions attention returned to General Hath with an irritating perenniality. Like a pebble in her shoe that caused her endless annoyance, yet the removal of which would be indecent were she in a crowd, the Warlock wanted to get the man alone and confront him -  him  the one whose actions had cast a shadow across an entire nation! And not just any nation - her  home . However redemptive his final decisions may have been, his initial obedience had spelled disaster for their small, but beautiful mountain kingdom of Alterac, lost and brought to ruin by the treachery of its own sovereign. They had fallen so far. So very, very far. From a crag-borne populace who were tough, resilient and resourceful, to a lawless realm of pirates and brigands driven only by their own bitter enmity and greed.

King Perenolde had been the architect, but General Hath had initiated his designs.

And there he stood.

But she couldn't confront him. No no, not in public, not like this! Their grievance was a private matter between Alteraci, and one did not air their dirty laundry in public before the judging gazes of the ignorant and tongue-wagging gossips of the world.

Marions image was not ideal for first impressions, but it would have to do for now. Her rich, purple and grey robes were darker in hue from the saturation of the brackish ocean, and she deliberately held one of her forearms over her sternum to obscure the triple-slash trident to her being that had, by now, regenerated under the direction of her fel-hewn magics. Her formerly well-groomed blonde hair was wet from the neck down and she carried the fatigue of battle upon her features, even if she did hold her chin high and compose herself with a practiced air that had been drilled into her since she could walk. Surrounded by this aura, Marion approached the other branch of the Opal Collective and offered a polite and diplomatic smile.

 "Managed to get yourselves into a spot of bother, I see?"  the girl asked, her tone clearly touched with a playful tease that one could only enjoy once the danger had passed. However, there was something else at play, something deliberate on the Warlocks behalf: her accent.

It was not strong or particularly distinct, and it would easily fly under the detection of any non-Human ears present at their gathering. But, to the senses of one ingratiated by decades of life in the former mountain kingdom, it was there, like the scent of an childhood cuisine.

General Hath knew he was not alone.
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
 Isaera stands aside and lets Jakk'ari smooth things over. While she didn't think she tripped over her own tongue, perhaps she should have been utmost respectful. But who were we if such thoughts were not expressed? Merely slaves to dragons??

She turns her attention from the grizzled human warrior and back to her sand troll ally, cocking an eyebrow.  "Hm. Yes. Future partnership against volatile magics. The dangerous kind that attracted the Burning Legion..."  There was definitely a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

 "That's all well and good, but we do have our own personal affairs to attend to and our loyalties are already preoccupied with the Opal Collection, remember?" 

Turning to address the blue dragon once more, Isaera forces a smile and says,  "Great Azuregos, if you have heard of the Opal Collection, and of course the Horde and Alliance, perhaps you might like us to send a missive to Jaina Proudmoore, Thrall, or Varian Wrynn to discuss such.. arrangements?"  
 

 Jakk'ari 

The troll's eyes dart between Azuregos and Isaera. Heat rises through his neck to ear tips as he recognizes the promise he had offered.

  Oh, why yes. Our mission comes from, and we act through the commission of Lady Proudmoore. Future invitations and requests will best be delivered to her.   
 They are not your subordinates or family. Best to keep making promises on their behalf.

Deflecting the ambiguities and uncertainties to her absent chieftain, perhaps she could soon become an ambassador for her tribe. 

Jakk'ari winces apologetically to Isaera before speaking.
  I apologize for the promise I was making on all of our behalf as well as the endorsement of his creed. Should we consider the agreeability of  mage  Proudmoore and a potential new partner?    His apology now tinged with concern for their patron.
MrAbdiel
 Hath - or, Ignaeus - must certainly notice Marion's accent drop; but he doesn't engage. His old dark eyes regard her from their periphery for a moment, but he doesn't seem particularly conversational. The other human, the Kul Tiran called Laydus, latches immediately to Marion's friendly tone, and projects a big friendly hand to shake.  "Well, it wouldn't have been much of a distraction if we'd gone unnoticed, I imagine. Glad you got the mess resolved - we was hole'd up in that cave bloody praying the Light that Roshorn would figure his way backward and let someone know we needed help. We got pretty close to breaking the bird just to save our skins, but 'big magic, very important, relic at risk', and all that." 


Yara responds to Jakk'ari, when he's not entangled trying to be a diplomat to the dragon. She regards the sand troll with puzzlement, then recognition of his kind.  "Bad tings and no doubt, Farraki. My fadah meant to send me in a swift boat to Zuldazar to ask de Zandalari for aid against de Scourge - but de great fleet turned me away before I even seen de island."  She spits on the sand; a gesture both of common disrespect that everyone can recognise and, as Jakk'ari can recognize, a token effort to discharge the negative energies that some trolls believe creep into them and taint their mojo when they dwell on despairing matters.  "So I turned back to Sen'Jin, hoping to treat with de Horde that pushed the Scourge our of Kalimdor, but I find dem more interested in settling down, an' settling scores. I hoped de Argent Dawn would call to pursue to Northrend at de Armistice Ball, but..."  She gestures back along the beach to the cave, where she and her companions were diverted to help another crisis. She must not, then, know that the Argent Dawn has infact called all warriors to prepare... but not to attack the dead in Northrend, instead to defend against demons at the Dark Portal. Atleast she has a diplomat to break the bad news.


Azuregos seems content to let the bipeds before him express their muted frustrations, arrest one another's extremes, smooth and reproduce their requests. He seems to recognise the name when it is dropped, however.

  "Proudmoore? Hah."   The dragon chuffs a laugh that blows curls of arcane frost from its nostrils.   "I suppose a woman with such failures to atone for might be well to begin with competent agents. I think I would rather treat with you, than she. I have no desire to go near her tower, where she keeps Sargeras' vessel. I should find it... difficult not to destroy, given the trouble it has caused in the past. Anyway - If the time comes for formal bonds to be made with the mortal leaders... perhaps. But you are right - you are entitled to a reward, as promised."  

He flags forward a drakonid attendant brings a chest of blue wood and iron binding and opens it to reveal a selection of items before you...
 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: Reward Options 

These are  Quest Rewards , which are functionally Equipment you can use on your character for which you do not need to budget your own points. Stat bonuses apply directly, but they do not allow you to break the PL5 cap in any way. A weapon functions like a weapon usually does - in this case, a ranged damage attack. And the bag is basically a big old bag of holding type deal, not simulating any particular power.

 

You may choose one. You may each choose copies of the  same  one, even.
 
WindStruck
Isaera's felt like her soul just shriveled a little when the dragon pretty much called Jaina a failure. Yes, maybe she made some mistakes.. we all do.. but Isaera's power was merely a dim candle compared to that woman's, a raging inferno. And still, this dragon had made her out to be nothing.

Looking over at the other chapter and their interactions, Marion seemed to pick up a weird accent, the strange old suspicious man still felt suspicious, or at least unfriendly, and the troll seemed to have nothing but bad news. Too bad we had bad news for her as well.

Isaera tilts her head curiously at the chest that was brought forth, then she reluctantly peers inside.

 "Oh. I thought.. hm..."  The disappointment in her voice seemed evident despite her attempts to be diplomatic, and she had raised a thoughtful hand to her chin rather late as well.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


General Hath's terse response was expected, and confirming. Marion knew who she was, and she had her small, subtle little message out into the dark towards his direction...and apparently, it had been received. Now it was just a matter of waiting.

 
 "Well, it wouldn't have been much of a distraction if we'd gone unnoticed, I imagine. Glad you got the mess resolved - we was hole'd up in that cave bloody praying the Light that Roshorn would figure his way backward and let someone know we needed help. We got pretty close to breaking the bird just to save our skins, but 'big magic, very important, relic at risk', and all that." 

 

Marion turned herself about to receive her fellow human, her eyes blinking once as she was yanked out of her ruminations on General Hath. She had not been expecting these levels of exuberance, nor the physical connection that came along with it. For several moments she looked at his outstretched hand in slight confusion, as if she was unsure what to do with it...because in some ways, she was. She was a lady. A young lady, but a lady nonetheless. She didn't  shake hands , because the custom was to ensure that neither stranger possessed hidden weapons within their sleeves. Being a female, she was assumed innocent of such underhanded chicanery.

But there was more to it than that. She was nobility. Minor nobility, granted, but a member of the aristocracy, nonetheless. A commoner didn't just approach her and shake her hand like she was his mate at the pub! Though recent, relentless disasters befalling the human kingdoms had laxed these social expectations and hierarchies somewhat and expanded the meritocracy, the residue of such social ingratiation was still there, and so, Marion displayed a remarkably progressive response.

Poised as she was, chin up, shoulders square, she offered her hand forward: palm down, fingers at 45 degree depression from the back of her hand offered for him to receive and kiss, not 'shake', and she did so with a small curtsey and head-nod combination. Marion was socially forward-thinking and tolerant: the commoner may hold her hand and kiss the back of it in formal greeting. Is she not kind? Besides, in this day and age, humans needed to stick together.

To his words, Marion did not immediately answer. Instead, her eyes narrowed slightly in innocent inspection, head tilted gently.

 "...you're from Kul Tiras, aren't you?"  she asked, her tone remaining polite and friendly, her conclusion drawn from the lads heftier build and accent.

 "You're a long way from home..."  Marion smiled. She knew how that felt.


 oOo 

Hearing the Dragon speak of Lady Proudmoore as a failure was somewhat amusing to the warlock, but somewhat unfair, she thought. Well...perhaps not. Her treatment of her father and betrayal of his forces to help out the orcs...a race that had tried to  genocide  and enslave humanity, was an unforgivable burning coal Marion kept within her. But, she needed Proudmoore's cooperation to acquire a piece of Theramores surrounding lands.

 "Mmmmm, like letting Naga steal your powerful arcane artefacts and relying on mere mortals to get them back for you?"  she asked with no attempt at hiding the barbs.

Azuregos did not like her. And she didn't like him.

  Arrogant creature  , the Warlock thought to herself.

 "But I hope you remember that when you called for aid, we answered, and we delivered." 

The subtext would be easy for the Dragon to detect:  I  answered.  I  delivered. Whatever he thought of the warlock and her mingling with the magics hewn from the ether, she had assisted with protecting this world from the misuse of the arcane. She barely looked twenty years old, yet here she had had the foresight and maturity to recognize an eldritch threat to the world, and put herself at risk to neutralise it.

When presented with the box, Marion took note of Isaera's visible disappointment, and allowed the others to go first in making their selections. Finally, when it was her turn, she dragged her gaze over the items presented with slow contemplation, before reaching in and plucking up the Ensorcelled Cobalt Sack.

She had money. She had jewels. She had attire. She had guns. But this? This could be useful.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari  
 

Jakk'ari stumbles upon Azuregos' dismissive laughter. His age and station as tribal diplomat demanded he maintain decorum with a chief of the powerful Blue Dragonflight. There were customs to uphold to ensure coexistence in a trusted familial order underneath the wisdom of the loa and the elements of nature.

But the nobility and compassion of Lady Proudmoore could not be silently disavowed.

 Our patron may have made mistakes in her past. But she is wary of committing the same mistake twice. Lady Proudmoore can provide valuable expertise for interfacing with the both the Horde and Alliance.  He professes to Azuregos.  Not recognizing her merits was Azuregos' loss.  


Noting Isaera's timid response to a dragon patriarch's rewards he cautiously appraises the assorted items before settling to resignation. The tools were quite utilitarian and suited for what he must see as adventurers first and foremost. Tools to secure and haul artifacts fitted for people between Isaera and Mor'Lags' size. Perhaps they were originally made for the drakonid in the blue flight? Though useful and brilliantly fashioned, the tools likely would not convey substantial prestige and likely not much respect with the Blue Dragonflight beyond their mercenary relationship established today. Nor would their relationship progress much further. Perhaps the bronze flight would amicably recognize them.

Marion had selected a brilliant blue sack. The selection did not bring any vicarious joy for Jakk'ari, the selection likely having been made with reasons entirely her own.

Noting the resilience of his younger companions he makes his decision.   This be de best for me.   This spontaneous journey had been arduous and the sealing wounds pinching his abdomen would not be his last. This selection would for a senior adventurer. The ache in his back and knees subside as he unfurls the azure hood, the imbued magics instilling a new vigor in the elder troll.

 --- 
He recounts the truth as gently as possible. Informing others of the truth was best done with tact.
  Unfortunately the decisions of the ball did not come to either of our favor. Members of de Horde and Alliance did come to raise arms in union but dey rally with de Argent Dawn to de Dark Portal in the Eastern Kingdoms.   He primes himself for the coming frustration and mulls how to console her. Feelings of futility and anger coursed easily through the heart in moments like this. The feelings were only natural and shared throughout the party.
WindStruck
Isaera folds her arms and nods toward Jakk'ari.  "That, and the whole point of this Opal Collection isn't just maintaining peace on both sides. It's about combating threats that could be a detriment to the whole world. Just like chasing after this little shard was..." 

- - -

After a moment of staring at the items in the chest, Isaera says,  "You know.. when you first offered us this job, you did say we could negotiate. You promised us magic items, and the specifics would have to be negotiated later." 

Gesturing at the chest with a circular motion of her wrist she continues,  "And while these certainly do not seem like rubbish - I would not dare call you miserly or a swindler - I had.. imagined this process going a bit differently: as if there was a far bigger selection from a hoard you maintained, or perhaps with your power, you might be able to create something upon request..." 

Looking up at Azuregos, Isaera says, almost with hopeful puppy eyes,  "Well.. could you?" 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion watched Isaera negotiate with the dragon for a higher tier of treasure that she deemed fitting for what they had gone through to secure the artefact that the Blue Dragonflight had lost.

 "If you need money, Isaera,"  Marion spoke quietly,  "I can lend you some." 
MrAbdiel
  Marion and the Commoner 

When Marion projected her hand to the Kul Tiran, offering him a reception for a deferent kiss, he managed to miss the point entirely. He rotates his own hand to match hers, clasps, and rotates their matched grip back to the vertical, smiling as though he's done her a favour. It's hard to tell if he's ignorant of her offer, or making some kind of point of his own.

 
 Spoiler: Insight DC 15 
No it's not. This fellow is radiating 'everyman' charm but is doing so with the same subtle corners and seams one finds on the opposite - commoners affecting noble airs. He is acquainted with the idea of nobility and their rituals, but has elected to eschew them here.
 

 "We're all a long way from home,"  he supposes over a mercifully delicant shake of hands, releasing after the one pump.  "But we go where the work is, aye?" 

The Kul Tiran accent is familiar, certainly - it's the same all the marines of Theramore have, given they principally emigrated from those isles. Olive skin, dark eyes, and dark hair frame a countenance that shows contentment in the storm-bedraggled state you all find yourselves in, but hides deeper things.

*****

 The Farraki-Drakarri Entente 

Yara's countenance tightens at Jakkari's news. She turns to look back over the sea, northwise up the coast, and tongues one of her tusks thoughtfully.

 "... Dat be it, Den. De Scourge will kill my people, one and all." 

She is almost serene about it; as if this is a likelihood she has already taken some time to accept, and expect, and even mourn. Her shoulder relax slightly, like some tremendous burden had fallen from her; and she crouches down to hunker on the balls of her feet.

 "Dat be it, den." 

*****


 
 Originally Posted by Marion 
 "Mmmmm, like letting Naga steal your powerful arcane artefacts and relying on mere mortals to get them back for you?" 
 

The dragon's massive eye tracks to Marion. There is no response vocalized, but something in the throaty clicking of his bellows breaths suggests he is not ignorant of the insult offered, and will not forget it.


 
 Originally Posted by Jakkari 
 "Our patron may have made mistakes in her past. But she is wary of committing the same mistake twice. Lady Proudmoore can provide valuable expertise for interfacing with the both the Horde and Alliance." 
 


 
 Originally Posted by Isaera 
 "That, and the whole point of this Opal Collection isn't just maintaining peace on both sides. It's about combating threats that could be a detriment to the whole world. Just like chasing after this little shard was..." 
 

  "Mistakes...Hmph..."   Jakk'ari's diplomatic instincts, threading the needle by defending Lady Proudmoore gently enough not to be implying insult in return, seems to hit the right tone. Isaera's mitigating defence weaves through it, nicely. Azuregos chuffs, concessively.   "Some mistakes are bigger than others. If she had the foresight to have opposed the Menethil boy..."   He shakes his huge head, icy frills tinkling, and lets the matter drop.


 
 Originally Posted by Isaera 
 "You know.. when you first offered us this job, you did say we could negotiate. You promised us magic items, and the specifics would have to be negotiated later. And while these certainly do not seem like rubbish - I would not dare call you miserly or a swindler - I had.. imagined this process going a bit differently: as if there was a far bigger selection from a hoard you maintained, or perhaps with your power, you might be able to create something upon request..." 
 

The dragon lets out an exasperated sigh, like a grandfather whose fussy charge won't pick their  one lolly only  from the bowl.

  "Perhaps I did. And perhaps I can. And your mortal coalition has proven successful, in this venture. Consider this, then - take one of those items offered. Then lodge with me now, all of you, the manner of items you think best to equip you to continue this work. I will send an agent to deliver them, or as near to them as I can afford to you. I do this with intention to call on you again at another time, if a similar strife arises, so that you may be rewarded a  third  time. Am I not generous?"  

Roshorn and his team mates have picked out their own boons, but the bear man makes a plaintive grown and gently paws at his Kul Tiran companion's side.

 "Oh, right. Err. I guess we have a spare, for you to take back, mighty dragon." 

He fishes in his pocket for the clicking handful of  fine glassy bird parts that, at a whistle, assemble into the uncrushed little avian golem. It hops to life in his hand, and whistles, bouncing in a little circle until it is pointing at Azuregos, who of course has the shard it was designed to find.

The dragon regards it passively.  "Purpose served, it's a toy, now. Deal with it as seams best to you." 

Spontaneously, the little creation offers more autonomy than it has showed to this point - it dives out of the sailor's hands, drops lightly onto the sand, and takes three fluttering hops to settle by Isaera's foot.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: Expertise: Magic, DC 10 
Perhaps its magic seeking proto-intellect is drawn to the elf's natural arcane energies?
 
 
WindStruck
Isaera turned to look at Marion briefly.  "No, Marion. I don't need money..."  She sighs.  "Or maybe I do. Maybe my family does. A large sum of money could go a long ways to purchase a small estate on unmolested lands in Quel'Thelas. I'm sure there might be  something ..." 
 "But I wouldn't ask that of you. I wouldn't take advantage of your generosity." 

- - - - -

Speaking of generosity, when Azuregos offers the option to be rewarded  three  times, Isaera quickly bows.  "Yes, very generous indeed."  Her tone was quite sincere. Like she already knew she was a kid on thin ice about to avoid a spanking. Maybe she shouldn't have asked in the first place, but she did...

- - - -

Isaera bends down and scoops up the little bird.

 "It is an endearing little toy, isn't it?"  Holding the bird in one hand, she strokes the top of its head with an opposite two fingers.

 "Oh, if only..."  she trails off mumbling to herself.

 
 Spoiler: Listen/Perception 
Something about mana wyrms.
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion peered back up at the blue dragon, beholding its titanic form. If the warlock were afraid, and quite likely a part of her was, she wasn't showing it, because frankly she had had enough of enormous, powerful creatures using mortals as play things. The Burning Legion. The Scourge. The Dragonflights. On and on the mortal races had to deal with their endless bull****. But it was one of the gods sickest jokes that, apparently, they only way they could deal with one titanic egomaniac was to recruit the assistance of  a different  titanic egomaniac.

So when Azuregos rumbled deep in his throat, Marion returned the look. He would not forget the insult - but something else he would not forget?

 "Just remember who helped you." 

 
 Originally Posted by WindStruck 
 Isaera turned to look at Marion briefly.  "No, Marion. I don't need money..."  She sighs.  "Or maybe I do. Maybe my family does. A large sum of money could go a long ways to purchase a small estate on unmolested lands in Quel'Thelas. I'm sure there might be  something ..." 
 "But I wouldn't ask that of you. I wouldn't take advantage of your generosity."  
 

 "A small, unmolested estate in Quel'Thalas?"  the human repeated, as if trying the words out for the first time.

 "I imagine such real estate would be at a premium these days...and as your people reclaim more of their lands, the expanded supply would only diminish that value. Anyone who bought it would be at a loss." 

Marion clicked her tongue as her eyes drifted off in clear thought, the mechanics of her engineer-and-business orientated brain that had made her so vastly wealthy in the time they had known each other, churning through the numbers.

 "And I suspect, given the current high value of any land within Quel'Thalas, that the banks and lenders your family has access to, know this as well. So they would be hesitant to do so, because if your family cannot repay the debt, then they cannot reclaim their losses by seizure and liquidation of the property...thus, they would be looking at your family's proposal, and weighing that against the lend requests from other High Elves, family and authorities with their own demands on the limited amount of gold within the reserves of such lending institutions, and my guess is that your brethren have struggled to attract any lender who wasn't going to charge them outrageous interest rates..."
 
Marions tone was clinical, rather than mocking. She really was just thinking through the possible sequence of events.

 "Hmmm...."  the warlock drew her hands together, tapping both her index fingers against her lips and just under her nose as she purred in thought, before an idea seemed to seep into her mind.

 "Of course! I think I know how to do this, Isaera. I will talk to some of my people when we get back to Ratchet and set the wheels in motion. The banks and lenders want to know they will get their money back and I know just how to satisfy them, while your family will live comfortable and want for nothing."
 

 
 Originally Posted by MrAbdiel 
  Marion and the Commoner 

When Marion projected her hand to the Kul Tiran, offering him a reception for a deferent kiss, he managed to miss the point entirely. He rotates his own hand to match hers, clasps, and rotates their matched grip back to the vertical, smiling as though he's done her a favour. It's hard to tell if he's ignorant of her offer, or making some kind of point of his own.

 
 Spoiler: Insight DC 15 
No it's not. This fellow is radiating 'everyman' charm but is doing so with the same subtle corners and seams one finds on the opposite - commoners affecting noble airs. He is acquainted with the idea of nobility and their rituals, but has elected to eschew them here.
 

 "We're all a long way from home,"  he supposes over a mercifully delicant shake of hands, releasing after the one pump.  "But we go where the work is, aye?" 

The Kul Tiran accent is familiar, certainly - it's the same all the marines of Theramore have, given they principally emigrated from those isles. Olive skin, dark eyes, and dark hair frame a countenance that shows contentment in the storm-bedraggled state you all find yourselves in, but hides deeper things. 
 


Marion bristled slightly as her hand was held...and pivoted about...and  shook ! However, dignified as she was, Marion retained her poise. However, she could detect something else, something deeper beneath the surface that the Kul Turan was trying to hide: he wasn't a commoner.

 "Yes, indeed..."  Marion smiled,  "how did you all fall in with the Opal Collective? Bit of a rag-tag bunch from all over, aren't we?"  she laughed pleasantly.
Plaids
 Jakk'ari  

 
 Originally Posted by Azuregos 
 The dragon lets out an exasperated sigh, like a grandfather whose fussy charge won't pick their  one lolly only  from the bowl.

  "Perhaps I did. And perhaps I can. And your mortal coalition has proven successful, in this venture. Consider this, then - take one of those items offered. Then lodge with me now, all of you, the manner of items you think best to equip you to continue this work. I will send an agent to deliver them, or as near to them as I can afford to you. I do this with intention to call on you again at another time, if a similar strife arises, so that you may be rewarded a  third  time. Am I not generous?"   
 

Jakk'ari's appreciative front dissolves as his smile buckles.  Additional rewards do not come freely, and the terms were being set right in front of them. If only this problem had been addressed earlier!  

A placid smile forms as Jakk'ari attempts to contend with Azuregos.
  We will be welcoming, and our ears will be at your courier's disposal Azuregos. Your forthcoming is appreciated as surpassing the Bronze Dragonflight's. I hope the trust between us can continue to grow.  

 
 Originally Posted by Marion 
  "Just remember who helped you."  
 

Jakk'ari's smile collapses in on itself, bunching together as if he had bitten into a poisoned lemon.  The flames of youth had saved the party from merciless enemies before but could easily curdle to being vindictive.  

Upon seeing the Azuregos had concluded the discussion and let the disagreement he relaxes his posture. Lowering his gaze and tusks back to his standard posture he discreetly addresses Marion and Isaera invitingly with patience.
  Is there anything else to tell him?  
 ------ 

 
 Originally Posted by Yara 
 "... Dat be it, Den. De Scourge will kill my people, one and all."

She is almost serene about it; as if this is a likelihood she has already taken some time to accept, and expect, and even mourn. Her shoulder relax slightly, like some tremendous burden had fallen from her; and she crouches down to hunker on the balls of her feet.

"Dat be it, den." 
 

Jakk'ari continue speaking not knowing if he needed to comfort or advise the young envoy. Uncertain of how to help he turns to the most reliable of choices and attempts to impart the truth.

  Perhaps, but dey are evidence to de contrary.   Jakk'ari points to the Marion and Isaera.
  De Scourge collapsed deir kingdoms and burned deir cities, but de demise was not clean or absolute. Drakari like de Sun Evles and Alteraci will persist. But deir place in the world is volatile and will be decided soon. De weight will remain, be careful who you may share it with.  
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

 
 Originally Posted by Plaids 
 Jakk'ari's smile collapses in on itself, bunching together as if he had bitten into a poisoned lemon.  The flames of youth had saved the party from merciless enemies before but could easily curdle to being vindictive.  

Upon seeing the Azuregos had concluded the discussion and let the disagreement he relaxes his posture. Lowering his gaze and tusks back to his standard posture he discreetly addresses Marion and Isaera invitingly with patience.
  Is there anything else to tell him?   
 


Marion heard the trolls words, and she turned to face him. The size difference between the two was particularly striking when they stood adjacent to each other, with the 5'6" human dwarfed in both height and visible mass by the troll that towered above her, even with his slumped-forward posture.

Nevertheless, the warlock glared back up at the shaman, her visage undaunted.

 "Not that I can recall..."  she answered, her voice reciprocatingly soft.

She looked over her shoulder towards the departing dragon, before turning her attention back to Jakk'ari. She stood up on her tippie toes, as was needed to bring her face closer to his tusked image so that she may whisper with greater ease.

  "Why bow and scrape before them? The Dragonflights. The Scourge. The Burning Legion. They stomp around the earth with their bald-faced arrogance, considering us a nuisance if we are crushed beneath their feet - if they even consider us at all!"  

The warlock flicked her lips in a   "Tssh!"   while shaking her head.

  "He screws up by losing his artefact to the naga, gets us to do his dirty work for him and then has the temerity to stare down his scaly nose at us? Arrogant creature."  
WindStruck
Isaera says to Marion,  "I think you are right about the value of what good is left dropping as my people begin to reclaim their homeland. A very good point.. and so, an unwise investment.. oh, but still. That my mother and cousins could truly be happy once more.. no. I don't think you could help bring that back. Only a semblance of what was once home." 

Holding the bird in one hand, she peers into the chest once more, still offered by the dragonkin, but perhaps growing impatient. On impulse, she scoops up a sapphire necklace.  "Perhaps there is but one person this will tickle the fancy of." 
 "Thank you, thank you. Um, Great Azuregos. Since you have stated that we may lodge a request to be delivered at a later time - we should be staying in Ratchet, by the way - might I be able to make that request with you in private?" 

- - - - - - -

And then, finally being drawn into the conversation Jakk'ari held with the other troll, Isaera decided to interject and say,  "Even my people have struggled to get the aid of the remaining human kingdoms, and the alliance, to help reclaim their homeland. And with Jakk'ari's news of the Argent Dawn focusing their efforts elsewhere.. neither of us are likely to receive any aide." 

And then, the elf's gaze grew more intense.  "That does not mean your people have to die, though. Lead them to safety, so at the very least they do not add to the Scourge's numbers." 
Plaids
 
 Originally Posted by Marion 
  Marion Mordis 

Marion heard the trolls words, and she turned to face him. The size difference between the two was particularly striking when they stood adjacent to each other, with the 5'6" human dwarfed in both height and visible mass by the troll that towered above her, even with his slumped-forward posture.

Nevertheless, the warlock glared back up at the shaman, her visage undaunted.

 "Not that I can recall..."  she answered, her voice reciprocatingly soft.

She looked over her shoulder towards the departing dragon, before turning her attention back to Jakk'ari. She stood up on her tippie toes, as was needed to bring her face closer to his tusked image so that she may whisper with greater ease.

  "Why bow and scrape before them? The Dragonflights. The Scourge. The Burning Legion. They stomp around the earth with their bald-faced arrogance, considering us a nuisance if we are crushed beneath their feet - if they even consider us at all!"  

The warlock flicked her lips in a   "Tssh!"   while shaking her head.

  "He screws up by losing his artefact to the naga, gets us to do his dirty work for him and then has the temerity to stare down his scaly nose at us? Arrogant creature."   
 

 Jakk'ari   

Seeing Azuregos flying further far in the distance Jakk'ari confides with Marion confident their shared distaste for the dragon patriarch's attitude. There would be no reverence that could be instilled or quashing indignation, nor should there be.

 I understand, many of us have lost or stand to lose or homes due their conflicts. The Dragonflights, Scourge, and the Legion have carelessly or maliciously engulfed our lives in their conflicts, and many see us as nuisances in their battles. I even fear the length of time Azuregos has surely spent in his position has depleted his wisdom and compassion. 
 But we should be wary of making new adversaries.  

Jakk'ari continues, now to meet Marion halfway with familiar terms.
 I believe we this experience can teach us what behemoths such as Azuregos struggle or even fail to offer. Perhaps we may offer what they have left an absence of. We can perhaps embody what some human philosophers or economists have posited. The prosperity of nations can be increased through their comparative advantages. 
MrAbdiel
   "Privately? Certainly, elf. You may put your requests in writing - in any language you prefer - and have them delivered by whatever convenience you consider most secure to the orc, Juk, whom you have already encountered. He knows where to find me."  

Between that final whim altering his previous offering, and Isaera's selection from the chest, he closes it with a massive claw, and it vanishes is a flurry of blue snowflakes. He seems to feel a specific farewell is more  implied  than expressed; and the massive draconic form ambles about, wanders a few steps away, and takes flight with a few powerful snaps of its wings that blow sand in great irritating gouts from the beach. Mor'Lag interposes herself so this spray does not collide with Isaera or Marion; she trusts the sand troll is more than used to sand on his own.

 Marion and the Commoner 

When asked how he came to be part of the coalition's operation, he smiles faintly in the way someone does when they are about to approach a sad topic but seek to imply no fault for the conversation ending up there.  "Well, my father fell in the Battle of Durotar. I came with the delegation the Admiralty sent to recover the dead and see them properly memorialised so grave markers could be erected on consecrated ground in Boralus. But when I got back to Boralus, I... didn't really want to be there anymore. The end of the Alliance, you know? The old Alliance, anyway. And Kul Tiras itself didn't really take damage from the Third War, apart from military losses. On the mainland, and over here in Kalimdor, people are trying to rebuild or build things for the first time. So I contacted the Explorer's League on Ironforge, and they put me on to Donova Snowden, whom they were sponsoring to establish a Winterspring chapter for the Collocation. And Winterspring sounded like a real adventure, so I signed on."  He gives sniff and a sigh, as if to append 'and that's that'. Then he does append, somewhat neednessly:  "Cold up there, though. Atleast you get beaches that aren't frozen." 
 Yara's Lament 

The young troll listens as Jakk'ari tries to mitigate her fatalism. The news of the Argent Dawn focusing on the portal is a clear blow, but she is not insensitive to the efforts, and she follows his indication to Marion and Isaera. She looks most especially surprised when Isaera speaks words of encouragement directly. Presumably, she is not used to elven sympathy; running of old stories of ancient conflicts between trolls and elves that long predate her lived experience. But the Collocation is broadening her horizons, and she considers the advice offered - that she ought to return to Northrend and try, as best she can, to convince her people to escape.

 "...I may have to. But dere are pacts - sacred, ancient places and loas of dat land. I will have to think. But... thank you. It is kind of you both, to offer hope." 

She is guarding herself against taking on too much of that hope too quickly; but she seems genuine in her appreciation.

 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
Okay! I'm about ready to round this scene off and send you back to the tower. I promise you will meet these NPCs again in not so much time, if you have specific things you'd like to impart or interrogate them about. Have I missed anything? Are we alright to move on?
 
 
MrAbdiel
 With the naga run off, the shard secured, rewards gleaned and promises of future rewards secured, the Ratchet and Winterspring chapters are left on the beach of Azshara in the on and off again drizzle of the evening rain. Around you, great craters and fans of slowly melting blue-tinted ice mark where Azuregos strafed the beach. Frozen and slain naga and murlocs remain hither and yon on the beach where they were not dragged into the deep by the retreat of the summoned tide.

You spend a little time checking the enemy slain for anything worth taking - coral trinkets, waterproof bags, the odd strange sub-oceanic forged trident - but the pickings are quite slim. As you do, Roshorn is sure to bumble up to each of you in turn and impart a brief flutter of spirit healing to close over any remaining cuts and bruises. He growls and mumbles in his bear-argot what is certainly a comment of bottomless appreciation and, unless carefully spurned, will take one of your hands between both his paws in a clawless clasp that approximates a handshake. In the case that someone doesn't yield their hand to the gesture, he looks bashful but holds no grudge - he is a stranger, well used to being strange, and his gestures misunderstood. As long as it seems like you understand that he is grateful beyond expression for the risks you have taken for his friends, he is content to bumble off to the next person. You head a little inland in case the naga intend to return to the sand, share a meal around a fire with your fellow Collocationists. But then the time comes to part ways.

"We'll head on to Orgimmar, anyway. There's a friend or two I've intention to meet there, even if we missed the party," says Donova, the dwarfess chatty as she fiddles with the rods and tarp to pitch her tent for the evening, "but we owe you, no doubt. Hopefully we'll be able to pay you back, some time."

The Winterspring folks have great, impressive tents with layered flies obviously intended to keep out the frost of their normal stomping ground. Here in temperate Azshara, they'll probably need the flaps open for the sake of the night breeze.

You, on the other hand, don't need to rough it at all. Your original plan had been to return by overland trek, zeppelin and ship to Ratchet; but with Lady Proudmoore's token given before you sought the welfare of the other Opals, a more convenient journey is available to you. Marion, Mor'Lag, Jakk'ari and Isaera group up in a quick circle sketched in the earth by the high elf; and with a simple act of snapping the ceramic token given for just this purpose, a tingle of magic washes over the group and a scintillating blue portal wavers into the air. Beyond it is a familiar location - the upper floor of Jaina's mage tower in Theramore, and with a few steps into the magic your group crosses the hundreds of miles between Azshara and Dustwallow Marsh.  Jaina herself isn't in, but your arrival by portal startles Jaina's chamberlain; a middle aged woman with prematurely white locks.

"Oh," she fans herself with her hand, putting aside her broom for a moment as she recovers from the fright.  "I suppose I'd better get used to that. You're the first ones to use that portal anchor. You can, ah... Know your way out, then?" 

For some of you, there may be familiar rooms at  Janene's  you can rent. For others, there is a more genuine home, and a chance to spend the night under a familiar roof before catching a ship north to Ratchet tomorrow.

 
 Spoiler: Hurrah!  OOC: 
Back in Theramore! I feel like it would be shame to rush past Isaera's chance for a check in with her family, and since Marion's going to be doing a big of a flashback chat anyway, we might dally just a little here.

I'm making a radical assumption that Isaera will want to check in with her mother, brother and cousins, but I am open to correction. I expect Marion will be ready to buy a hot bath and the, snooze in the best room the town has to rent (and then experience a spoiler-shifted encounter with Hath).

If Jakk'ari is going to Janene's to get a room, Mor'Lag will probably follow him. That's where the the troll and ogre were the resident weirdos looking for work at one point, and there is some nostalgia value. But Jakk'ari is likely to find something relevent to his interest sneaking up on him, unless he has a visitation or an errand he wants to accomplish in this evening in Theramore?
 
 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion wasn't particularly impressed with the fortune-cookie-turned-recall device, but she was grateful for it.

When the group returned to Jaina's tower, the Warlock nodded politely in the direction of the chamber maid and offered a gentle anodyne to her visible fright over the sudden intrusion.

 "Pardon our intrusion, ma'am, we have returned from lands afar via the convenience of your Lady's translocation charms woven into this tower,"  she placated gently.

 "If I may, what is the current location of Theramore's foremost madam?" 
 oOo 
 Previously.... 
 
 Spoiler 

Marion side-eyed the "General" in the wake of the Opal Collective's little impromtu meet-and-greet, the warlocks mind busy with possibilities and momentarily dropping her polite and friendly facade to reveal the true hurt beneath.

Nevertheless, raised nobility as she was, Marion drew the genteel curtain up once more and approached the senior man, her introductory curtsey well-practiced over years.

 "We are so few upon this continent, at least this far north from Theramore, sir." 

It did not take a cryptologist to understand to whom 'we' referred - humans.
 
Plaids
 
 Jakk'ari  

Even after the pleasant experience fraternizing with the WinterSpring chapter, enhanced by the expansive joy and gratitude of Roshorn, a melancholic fatigue remained within Jakk'ari. Meeting so many prominent leaders of the world only to have their attention stolen by a new crisis was disheartening. Then meeting another one bordering on dismissive after completing his dangerous mission just compounded the feeling. Perhaps witnessing some true mentorship and trust amongst people of different status at the Theramore Mages' School would provide rejuvenation and revive some optimism?

The tingling rush of teleportation from Azshara had subsided instantly upon arrival at Theramore. But Jakk'ari still felt disorientation with such instantaneous travel. The ephemeral evidence from being in Azshara and with the Winter Spring party had yet to fade. Gritty beach sand and sea salt still lingered in Jakk'ari's hair while the subtle scent of bear still permeated the group, all out of place for a group that would have made a lengthy trip to Theramore.

Pushing aside the novel sensation caused by the absence of a long journey he addresses the chambermaid alongside Marion.
  We know our way around Theramore, is Lady Proudmoore in the residence? We attended the Armistic Ball, worked with our sibling chapter from Winter Spring, and need to discuss the nature of dragons.  
WindStruck
 "Well. This was quaint,"  Isaera says. She still had an urge to dust herself off, but would probably get more sand all over the interior of the tower.

 "Yes, it might be a good idea to give Miss Proudmoore a report of our recent activity. But I can understand if she isn't available right now.. or anytime soon. Perhaps we'll be wanting to leave a written report instead?"  she says, eyeing the others with one of her long, elven brows upended as she tilted her head slightly.

 "Also, wait. Before you all run off: .. when were you all planning to head back to Ratchet? I figure we might want to ride the same boat.. or not,"  she says with a shrug, and then perhaps a forced but polite smile.  "Just as long as we aren't worrying over where everyone is." 
MrAbdiel
 The chamberlain bows a little at the requests for the mistress of the tower.

 "Of course, of course. Lady Proudmoore hasn't returned yet - she is, as far as I know, still dwelling in the newly returned King Wrynn's entourage for the moment. But I can try to raise her. Just a moment..." 

She wanders with a lack of hurry that should belong to a much older woman, and opens a chest one of the densely occupied shelves of the tower. The top of a cerulean glass orb somewhat larger than a human head peeks over the riveted rim, and the chamberlain gives the orb a rap with her knuckles. After about thirty seconds, it shimmers, raises up on its own power to head height, and the content of the sphere clears to present a transparent but recognisable likeness of Jaina Proudmoore.

It's hard to deny there's a little silliness to the appearance. It must be more economical than astrally projecting, but having a hovering fishbowl with a holographic image of the Lady's head in it is not the most flattering or commanding that she has ever looked. Wherever she is, her shoulders move like she is walking; but she is able to peel off some of her attention for your group.

 "My friends - I see you're... at the tower. No problems with the portal token then? That's a relief. Predictable outcomes are a welcome refreshment, presently." 
 
 Spoiler: OOC: 
You may be as abstract or as fulsome as you want, recounting events to Jaina. If there's a question you'd like a particular answer to, those are worth articulating!
 
 
 
 Spoiler: Previously, on Alterac Drama Hour 
The old soldier's eyes dart about. He's aware she's engaged him alone for a reason. His posture shifts slightly, his hands moving to settle with his thumbs in his belt, hear a pair of sheathed daggers. No sense in being lax.

 "Well. It's not our land - not really. But ten years ago, you could count the number of humans who had come to these shores on your fingers. It's a bigger world now. Kalimdor will never be the realms of Arathor; but it's better we have people, and places here if we want to keep having the loudest voice at the table the next time the world starts to shake apart." 
 
Plaids
 Jak'arri 
Jakk'ari tenderly addresses Isaera's concerns, understanding any reservations she would over splitting the party.
 I will briefly be at the Mages' School before departing with you.  
 -----
 Jak'arri had found solace amongst friends. The weight of wars and struggles for survival waged continents away had subsided amongst appreciative company and good cheer.

The choice of word selected by Jaina was comforting and elicited confidence. 'Friends', not agents, champions, or underlings. The word had also been dispensed warmly and openly unlike the boisterous guffaws from some leaders meant to signal a preferential relationship to be hoarded. The few reservations Jak'arri had regarding Jaina's status above the party had waned because of these small gestures and had sprouted hope for resolving the problems of the Farraki.

Jak'arri recounts the events of the past few days cordially in return.
  We were welcomed to the Armistice Ball. Conflict between the Horde and Alliance will likely wane and cease if only to face the threat of the burning legion in Eastern Kingdoms.
We were of greater aid to the WinterSpring chapter of the Opal Collocation. Who, several days earlier before we too, had been recruited by the Blue DragonFlight to retrieve an artifact from the Naga in Azshara.

It may be best for us to work with the Blue Flight in the future. Their patriarch Azuregos has  disdain  for you.  

Following his subdued warning he concludes with a passionate warning to Jaina. The issue had been most noticeable with Yara, but other members were likely similarly agonizing as well.
  Though the WinterSpring chapter is safe and return in good health the weight of conflicts across Azeroth, such as the one in NorthRend, threaten to frustrate then fray the resolve and fracture the commitment of several members of the Opal Collocation. 
He allows the warning to hang and permeate, long enough for a wise leader to understand the risk of the risk and sentiment precipitating.

  We are an eclectic bunch with commitments across Azeroth. 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion resisted the urge to snicker at the sight of Jaina's inwardly distorted visage. To do so would only embarrass the woman a little, or hang around within her mind when it came time for the warlock to push forward a whole heap of gold in exchange for large tracts of land extending from Theramore and out into the marsh.

Naturally, Marion let the troll speak first, as he informed their patron of their doings and what they had been up to. It was a relatively good summary of the affair, even including Azuregos' visible dislike for the sorceress. A fair enough waring, Marion thought; Jaina should be aware of such an important detail should her paths cross with that of the flying, arrogant lizard.

So, with nothing to add at the current moment, satisfied with Jak'arri's assessment and report, the warlock remained quiet and watched. She wanted to get Jaina alone, so Marion kept her presence known, but observant.



 Earlier... 
 
 Spoiler 
Marion's eyes visibly shift down to where the older man had his thumbs near the scabbards of knives that he doubtlessly would withdraw should the occasion require it. To an adventurer such as himself, this would be standard precaution, and an understandable one. But when addressed by a teenage girl dressed in unusual traveling finery? Whose cotorie was allied with his own, indeed, even flew the same overall banner?

The warlocks eyes drifted back up to the old mans features as she wore an expression:  really, is that necessary? 
 "Yes...there is plenty of it here; the orcs have charged in and set up their own domain. I don't see why it is improper for us to do so, for no less noble a cause. Given what happened in Lordaeron, it might be well to possess retreats in the wake of calamity." 
 
WindStruck
Isaera added,  "Ah, no offense to Jakk'ari. Though he speaks the truth earnestly, I think his message comes rather jumbled." 

After giving the troll a sideways glance she addresses Jaina:  "So to be brief, a member of the Winterspring chapter had come to us for aid, since the rest of his company had not arrived in Orgrimmar and missed the Armistice Ball. We decided to help him and trekked to Ashenvale.. and yes, a blue dragon and his dragonkin were involved in all this. The dragon, Azuregos, had first convinced the missing Winterspring party to go on his 'urgent quest'. And in the process of trying to find them, we ended up helping him as well...." 
 "Now, Miss Proudmoore, I have no idea how much you have dealt with naga, dragons, or artifacts that would be dangerous if fallen into the wrong hands..  But in any case, aside from reporting our previous activity to you, I was curious if you would be interested in setting up some form of communication with Azuregos? From what I gather, it seems that his interests and activities are to safeguard the world as a whole from dangerous magics. And I thought, perhaps that mission would align with the Opal Collocations, somewhat?" 

Looking over to Jakk'ari with a shrug again, she says,  "Also, briefly touching upon what Jakk'ari said, do you know of any aid that can be sent to some troll tribes in Northrend, whatsoever? I don't think it would be reasonable to ask for an army to fight the scourge but.. I think they will all die out if no one can help them evacuate." 
MrAbdiel
 
 Spoiler: Marion, Earlier 
The old general nods along with Marion's sensible statements, apparently finding nothing particularly objectionable there. But his hands remain by his weapons. He lets a moment pass, holding her gaze... and his countenance changes as some performative aspect of himself slips gently away. Detached, quiet, careful is gone. Alert, suspicious, borderline  hostile  is here. When he speaks, it's clear he's starting an entirely new conversation with the heiress of the fallen family Mordis. He hisses his words.

 "If you Syndicati brats keep chasing me down, I'll keep putting you in the ground. I'm not interested in helping you build your little shadow kingdom. But I won't be stalked, or hunted. I'm no man's pawn or trophy. You might think you're slicker, quicker, or smarter than the others who tried - but you can bet they though that too. Now the wild frostsabers in Winterspring are chewing on their bones. Think very... very... carefully... about what you want to do now, Mordis."  He moves one hand from the hilt of a knife to a pouch on his belt, and flips up the flap. On the underside of the flap, side by side, are pinned four mysterious hammered bronze emblems depicting a crow clutching a knife in flight.  "Be smarter than them. Tell Falconcrest you never found me." 
 


Jaina's transmitted presence via the orb registers her attention as Jakk'ari and Isaera break down the events to her. She doesn't register surprise at the mention of Azuregos - but does seem to flash concern across her face, quickly assuaged by the report of success.

She addresses Jakk'ari's concern first.

 "Well. Dragons have historically mixed opinions of mortal races at the best of times, and the Blue flight has particular gripes with mages. The Kirin Tor and the Blue flight have always had strained relations, and not a lot of discussion. And if one dragon has disdain for me, I'll take comfort in the fact that he hasn't gotten to know me."  Her projection offers a weary smile.  "But the Legion taught us, as it taught the dragons and elves in ancient times, that the peoples of this world do better to work together against the greatest threats. If any dragon wants to open communication and collaboration, we'll take it." 

She seems to have taken Jakk'ari's meaning, but takes also Isaera's information and clarifiers.  "Azuregos is one of the ancient dragons - maybe the most ancient blue we know of, beside their Aspect, Malygos. And you're quite right, Isaera - he has made his stewardship of Azshara and what is hidden there public knowledge at times to discourage treasure hunters... much good it does. We certainly have shared interests in stopping malefactors from obtaining dangerous artefacts. Unfortunately, dragons are not easy to negotiate with - and the heart of their politics, if it can be called that, is in Northrend."  When Isaera explicates Yara's dilemna, Jaina grimaces a little.

 "I wish I could offer more hope. Northrend is... a tremendously dangerous place, for more reasons than the obvious. You can expect both factions have spies slinking through the snows up there, but aid sufficient to save the continent's native peoples from the Scourge, either by defeat or exodus. There are more folk than the trolls, up there - Kalu'ak, and other rugged tribes. I fear they must stand alone for a longer time. I had hoped the Armistice Ball would lead to opportunities to seriously discuss a joint invasion north to vanquish the Scourge at its source - but with the news of the Legion stirring, it cannot be done. Men will not enlist to bleed for someone else's home when their own is under threat. I am sorry." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion listened quietly like the dark horse of the group that she was. Loyal, clearly, having risked her life several times for the others present - and by extension, the continuation of her house - the warlock nevertheless had cogs whirring away in the back of her mind to regularly think how situations could be turned to her own advantage, either in the short or long term. Opportunistic to some, but Marion wouldn't be alive today if she did not possess this instinct.

In that regard, she pondered to herself what use the trolls would be if they were rescued. What was the risk-cost-benefit analysis of sending valuable ships in the waters around that cursed continent, just to rescue members of a race that had been nothing but an aggressive, expansionist people and had threatened all others until the arrival of the Burning Legion, the Sundering, the Horde and the Scourge.

The obvious 'benefit' was less soldiers for the Scourge. The cost was numerous ships that wouldn't be utilised for other enterprises. The risk was a loss of all vessels and crew.

The other consideration is where to deposit them. Who suddenly wants a few thousand foreign, barbarian trolls dumped into their lands? What kingdom was strong enough to handle that at the moment, outside of Stormwind? Perhaps even Durotar?

And if Durotar did this, well, then that would just be granting the Horde another few thousand citizens...though knowing the friction between Troll tribes, it wouldn't be surprising if this was equally likely to instigate a future mini-civil war. And as amusing as that would be, that would temporarily take the Horde out of the fight against the Burning Legion - which means it was up to Marions people, the humans, to shoulder the defence of the planet against external invaders, like always.

 "You wouldn't need many ships, I think,"  Marion would interject.

 "Just one; station several mages on board and equip them with a variety of portal markers. Establish some temporary portals in Northrend within the land of the trolls to allow them to funnel through and them close them behind. Meanwhile, the sole ship sent is already returning to port." 

The warlock pursed her lips in a moments thought,  "whatever you do, weave a killswitch into the markers so that they could be shut down from this side whenever necessary, just in case the worst befalls the other end." 
 Earlier... 
 
 Spoiler 


Marion raised an eyebrow.

 "Did you fall and hit your head, my Lord? To whom do you think you are speaking?" 

Her face wore a mask of surprised incredulity.

 "Come, tell me, my Lord, you were once a keen strategist. How many moving parts are there within my master scheme that could go wrong? I escape the clutches of the Scourge in Lordaeron, I evade Paladins and patrols, I flee to Kalimdor, take refuge in Theramore, ingratiate myself into the Opal company where I risk being devoured by black dragons, squashed by ogres or eaten alive by mosquitos in a swamp, driven mad by insane druids squatting in the Wailing Caverns, infiltrate a major diplomatic event in Orgrimmar before counting on your sorry lot getting captured by Naga, fight a hundred of the disgusting, scaely curs upon the beach, all that so I may finally come upon you in private and spring into action, assassins blade in my hand! You think very highly of yourself, my Lord!" 

The warlock shook her head, looking more disappointed than offended. The idea that  she  could throw her lot in with the Syndicate, that band of crooks led by fools that had led their beautiful mountain kingdom to destruction in the first place. The offence was clear in her voice and timbre, her pitch rising somewhat towards the end of her illustration for his ridiculous fantasy.

 "Nay, my lord, indeed, I think that  I  should be the one to cast suspicions upon  you! "  Marion retorted.

 "I was only a babe at the time of the Second War, and barely a woman at the time of the Third. My flight from that doomed continent certainly fashioned me into one, however,"  she shook her head, exhaling.
 
WindStruck
 "Well, that is an excellent point,"  Isaera says, before stopping to listen to Marion's suggestion. She almost bites at her lips, just itching to get something else off of her chest.

 "Perhaps. I don't know. Hopefully something like that could work on a ship at sea.. We might have to get all the trolls to trust us, but either way,"  she shrugs,  "the mages and the setup required for this are also extremely valuable resources that can be lost." 
 "Speaking of bleeding for other people's homes, Jaina.. What did you think of Lor'themar Theron's decree?"  Isaera asks. She can't help but shake her head at the situation.  "Even though I've traveled to an entirely new continent myself, living in Theramore, and then ratchet, ever so close to the Horde.. while I've never had a problem with peaceful relations with them, I could never actually see myself as a part of them. Others of my kin feel the same way, perhaps to a stronger or weaker degree, but still.. that doesn't even feel like a promise to bleed for someone else's land. It feels somehow worse..." 

Isaera looks down briefly, at a loss for words.  "Did.. did you have any idea this was coming?" 
Plaids
  Jakk'ari 
 
 

Jakk'ari nods in approval of Isaera's detailed account and joins in the parties' shared concern for his arctic siblings.

  Isaera speaks better of our work with Azuregos than I. We reunited the WinterSpring chapter and found the artifact Azuregos sought with him leaving us a token to contact him the future. If we were to act in Northrend I would gladly act as envoy to the Blue Dragon Flight inhabiting the north.  

He continues lobbying for the Drakkari and following up from Marion.

  The threats to Azeroth seem to be increasing by the week. We simply don't have enough hands to juggle all these threats and I they will not be disarmed once dropped. Armies cannot be spared but Marion offers an alternative, a bridge to escape and starve the Scourge.

As you can see, we have been made mindful of Northrend by Yara these past few days.  
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Earlier, with Marion and Hath 
 "I know exactly who you are, Marion Mordis. I know your crest, and you haven't been quiet about yourself. Your survival and accomplishments are very impressive, I'm sure - but the Syndicate is built from impress, disaffected young scions of fallen houses trying to snatch the value of their names out of the furnace of history. From Stromgarde to Strahnbrad, there are packs of revolutionaries, bandits, and schemers cobbling together their claims by sword and bloodright. Most of them, like you, were children when their castles were seized by the Alliance, or the Horde, or the Scourge. You're not nearly as special as you seem to think. But if you're not Syndicati, then all you need to do is continue peaceably as you are, and make no counter-indicative move. If you're not here to dragoon me or try for my head, should I take this conversation as... sincere curiousity?" 
 


The vision of Jaina's profile shakes her head, at the portal-plan.

 "A logical inference, Lady Mordis, but I fear it's simply not possible. Portal magic 'travels' by the leylines, and we simply have not mapped and mastered the lines in Northrend at all - without addressing the restorative burden to offset the damage such teleportation would accumulate rapidly to the lines. They are especially dense and tangled up there. The same assurance that we have, that the liches of the Scourge will not simply bring an army of the damned through a portal to Orgrimmar or Stormwind, prevents mass travel to or from. Indeed, travel by ship between the great continents has only recently be re-established. If Yara's people were to escape, or atleast send their civilians away, they would need to flee like all the exoduses prior to them - by foot, by ship. And as it stands, the Horde fleet is preparing to ferry their armies across to Blasted Lands; and the Alliance Fleet would not travel to Northrend on such a mission with a Horde fleet, so tenuously allied, so near to the Alliance heartlands. I -" 

She looks away them, to something or someone out of view of the angle of the projection for just a moment, then back.

 "I fear there is no solution we can provide. I'm sorry, Jakk'ari. I know how much this must mean to you, especially. But the Drakkari may have to rely on the zeal of their kin and kith, until the matter with the Dark Portal is resolved, at least." 

Off to the side of your conversation, Jaina's chamberlain squints thoughtfully.

Jaina continues, at Isaera's question about Lor'themar's decree. She purses her lips, delicate eyebrows tightening as she shakes her head a little.  "No. No, it caught me very much by surprise and I'm still processing it. I can see why it's happened - elements of the Alliance military treated your people  unforgivably in the Third War. And Lady Sylvannas's Dark Rangers have been stalking the Ghostlands and keeping the local undead presense suppressed since the fall of Silvermoon. Most cities the Scourge has gone through have been totally destroyed - but between the Dark Rangers and the remnant elven fighters in the territory, much of Northern Quel'Thalas may yet be reclaimed without becoming a plagueland. The Alliance didn't do that - the Forsaken did. Sylvannas's people are the only regional ally close enough to regularly protect Quel'Thalas - and mutual protection is the basis for the elves joining the Alliance in the first place. And the Kaldorei - well. Friction between Kaldorei and Quel'dorei since the former's introduction into the Alliance has been more pronounced that we might have hoped. It's hard to conceptualise for the young, but many of the Kaldorei remember the schism that divided their peoples in the first place. It's..."  She sighs.  "It's a mess. Perhaps Alliance politicians, with the diminishing of the power the Quel'dorei bring to the table, have paid insufficient attention to their concerns. Perhaps humans and dwarves have undervalued how... crucial it is for your people, Isaera, to reclaim the Sunwell or find an alternate. Either way... It shocked me. But I am less, and less shocked the more I think about it. More... sad." 

Someone out of field in the projection of the sphere says something indistinct, and draws Jaina's attention. She looks away, then back.  "I'm sorry. I have to attend things here. My chamberlain can assist you in anything else you need. Never temper your passion, friends. Farewell." 



The magic in the orb winks out, and it drifts autonomously back to its velvet receptacle. The chamberlain is there, tapping a finger on her chin - looking very thoughtful indeed.

 "An interesting conundrum. Is this... a mission you would undertake yourselves, I wonder? To Northrend, I mean? Perhaps with the Winterspring chapter in tow, considering they are most principally invested in the salvation of the Drakkari people, and they are certainly schooled in cold weather survival. I mean to say... if there was a way. Are you serious enough to help?" 

She looks at your group with keen eyes - suddenly much more engaged and interested with your group that she was a moment ago. 
WindStruck
Isaera looks rather downcast. And finally she says,  "I don't know." 
 "I have the feeling that the tribes up there would not want to leave and would be unlikely to trust us. On top of that.. we don't know the scope of the problem. We don't know how many we would be moving, or where to even take them. And I'm sure the boats, the supplies, the crew.. it's out of our league to finance."  Isaera says this, seemingly unaware of Marion's accumulating fortune.

Something clicks, and Isaera tilts her head.  "Why do you ask, miss?" 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 
 
 Spoiler: Earlier, with Marion and Hath 


Once more Marion's eyebrow perked as she listened to the old generals words, slowly shaking her head.

 "Would I have announced myself if I were among some gang of cut-throats and thieves? Alas, my ears have not been spared word of the the Syndicate and the further shame and degradation they visit upon us. What few embers are left to restore the flame of our once beautiful nation, they would trample upon with the clumsy belief that they are doing anything but further consigning us to the ashbin of history. No, I have no respite for the Syndicate and the continued path of damnation they offer." 

For a second, the warlock thought back to the armistice ball, and remembered the Alliance wizard that had spoken to her privately upon learning of her lineage. She remembered the visual sights of other Alliance personnel whispering when they thought they had escaped her notice, pointing to their ring-bearing fingers as if to chinwag that  'she has the genuine family crest engraved upon a ring around her finger!' .

She also remembered the mages words, their possible meaning taking on a more sinister form when viewed in this new light and suspicion of possible Syndicate agents.
 


 "An interesting conundrum. Is this... a mission you would undertake yourselves, I wonder? To Northrend, I mean? Perhaps with the Winterspring chapter in tow, considering they are most principally invested in the salvation of the Drakkari people, and they are certainly schooled in cold weather survival. I mean to say... if there was a way. Are you serious enough to help?" 


Marion looked at the chamberlain with an eye for skepticism.

Was she insane? Travel to the wild, untamed, undead-infested wilderness at the frozen roof of the world? For a bunch of trolls?!

 "Are you about to offer us the exciting possibility of traveling to the frozen roof of the world where the Lich King himself holds dominion?"  
MrAbdiel
 The chamberlain's bright eyes shift between the adventurers. She laughs light and flaps a hand at Marion's somewhat bleak assessment.

 "It's not  all  frozen, dear. Though very little of it is anything like warm. And the Lich King has his domain there, up in the far north on the Icecrown Glacier; but the Drakkari have many mountain ranges between them and the heart of the Scourge. It's highly unlikely you would encounter him, in any case. All the scrying and spying suggests he has made no personal appearances since the Third War concluded. But yes, perhaps that opportunity exists. You must forgive my mistress for being evasive - she is with other Alliance leaders, and openly endorsing an idea to bring boatloads of trolls down from Northrend will sound to some like another opportunity for the Horde to take on another client race. Given the... recent developments, that would be heard poorly. But my Lady Protector and I have our little secrets, and out riddles, for just such times. She lets me know she means such things, when she says  'never temper your passion'.  Did you also hear how she said  'but the Drakkari may have to rely on the zeal of their kin and kith' , after drawing attention to good Jakk'ari, here? A very unusual thing to say, given that 'zeal' isn't really the issue. Drakkari aren't remarkably more zealous than any other troll kind. And 'kin and kith' is odd, given that 'kith and kin' is the usual phrase. Perhaps, perhaps, she was saying something, as I suspect..." 

She drifts in little steps over to the bookcase nearest the bench where the communication globe is stored. This shelf, the keen eye might notice, is rather ecclectic and organised alphabetically, while all the others in the tower have a more complex system of category subdivision. The chamberlain's fingertips dance along the spines of books in the 'Z' section.  "Zeal, kin and kith. Zealous trollkind. Hmm."  Her touch stops on the spine of a book titled 'Zandali - a Primer in the Troll Tongue'.

 "But the Zandalari trolls are famously zealous, devoted to their loa... and they have an unhidden interest in outreach to the scattered troll tribes. And, for that matter, they have a famous fleet, which is neutral in the faction conflict, and large enough to serve as an exodus fleet. But that would require someone who speaks the troll language, and is diplomatically skillful enough to broker their aid in the court of King Rastakhan. Wherever would you find such an individual?"  
WindStruck
Isaera listens to the old woman ramble on with arms folded, skeptical at first. Though as she continues and pulls out a book about the Zandali, her mouth begins to slacken somewhat, before she regains her composure and silently looks at Jakk'ari.
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 


Marion narrowed her eyes into suspicious slits.

 "You seem rather learned and motivated on this topic..." 
WindStruck
Isaera smirks and says,  "I imagine Lady Proudmoore only enlists the best under her service. And in any case, it seems our chamberlain is merely quite intimate with the subtle messages of her employer, and nothing more. But it's still quite a bit odd. I wonder if we'll need further services to decipher Lady Proudmoore's true meanings..." 

Turning back to the chamberlain, Isaera asks,  "And what was your name, miss?" 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari  
 
Astonishment cascades over Jakk'ari's face upon the chamberlain's disclosure before a silent gasp compensates for the breaths he had neglected to take. He had witnessed coded language before and intercepted hidden meanings before amongst other Farraki chiefs and their advisors. But such small phrases in relation to the tower that had been fashioned into a shared extension of their minds.
  That was an impressive divination, if this was any other mage's tower I would accuse you of being their familiar. Some of my Farraki compatriots would even accuse you of being a disguised charlatan twisting words to aid in unwittingly despoiling the resident mage. You have my respect and interest.  

His eyes intently focus on the chamberlain and steps closer hoping to better display his resolve and enthusiasm.

  I will gladly go on this mission. The Armistice Ball has made it evident that crises on Azeroth will distract sympathetic eyes in our reach and deny helping hands in our own struggles. A new crisis in Northrend must be stopped if not diminished. I will gladly serve as kith and kin with zeal to the safekeepers of troll culture.  

His gaze wavers for moment before hesitance is dispelled.

  Though I must confess that I will be scouting for the sympathetic ears and helping hands for Tanaris as well. But the Opal Collocations mission will take precedent.  

He gestures to the book "Zandali - a Primer in the Troll Tongue".
 May I? I  need to refresh my knowledge on Zandali and the Loa they worship. 
MrAbdiel
 The chamberlain smiles warmly - both at the suspicion cast her way, and the banter between the allies. She seems unruffled by Marion's pointed stare. She may even be amused.

 "Well, these days I respond mostly to 'chamberlain'; but you can call me Winnie if you greatly desire to. I promise, however, there's no great mystery in the communication - the Lady Protector and I are merely well understood to one another, so I can tell when she's not saying everything she means to say. And since it's happened before, I know to look on the right shelf..."  She pats the alphabetical shelf.

When Jakk'ari steps up and commits himself (at least in theory) to the task, she plucks the Zandali primer off the shelf and offers it to him cordially. The book itself isn't a great revelation for the troll - it's mostly a primer in the troll language, 'Zandali', which Jakk'ari of course grew up speaking.

 
 Spoiler: Jakkari Troll Fluff! 
It does have slim information on dialect divergences for the various troll peoples, and can dust of his recollection of 'Zandalari Zandali'. The limited cultural information there remind him that the trolls of Zandalari focus their worship particularly on six Loa - Akunda (Loa of Storms), Bwonsamdi (Loa of the Graves), Gonk (Loa of the Hunt), Kimbul (Loa of Beasts), Krag'wa (Loa of Patience), and Pa'ku (Loa of the Winds). Beyond this, King Rastakhan has a familial pact with Rezan, the Loa of Kings. They have some minor devotion to almost all Loa, but these are the ones with great shrines in the capital.

Likewise, Jakk'ari has some passing knowledge of most of the Loa, though his Farraki kin do not prioritize them all. Shadra, the Venom Queen, is known to Jakk'ari as one of three Loa principally honored by the desert trolls, but she does not feature in the upper pantheon of Zandalar. Farraki and Zandalari share honor to Kimbul, at least. Bwonsamdi is an odd case - the Loa of Graves was at some point the servant of another Loa from whom he seized his role of sponsorship of the dead. This previous Loa, Mueh'zala, is ancient and terrible - god of death, father of sleep, son of time.

And, atleast for most of the Farraki history, the primary Loa of the Sandfury trolls. Moderation of the worship of this cruel Loa has come slowly, as Jakk'ari knows personally: just as he has been fighting a political war to gently bend the Farraki toward connection to the outside world, his beloved wife has fought her own war to elevate Kimbul and other Loa over Mueh'zala.
 

 "Of course, much of the utility of the Opal Collocation is that the cells are not formally directed or commanded by their faction sponsors - they are free to act unilaterally for the good of all with the resources given to them. So such a venture would be yours to elect, or deny - though as you've said, Jakk'ari, I'm certain it may bear fruit for your own ambitions for your people. As I see it, you'd need to find a ship to take you to Zandalar, then convince them to let you into the city, then convince them to organise and supply a rescue mission for the Drakkari. You could probably find a Darkspear destroyer willing to take you, in Sen'Jin - but then, that may appear partisan again. A neutral port might provide a better option. It may not be possible to pay a crew the fortune that would be needed to take you to far and dangerous Northrend - but to Zandalar? That, I expect, can be charged to your sponsor after the fact." 
 
Plaids
 Jakk'ari 

Jakk'ari skims the book as the once familiar concepts return to the forefront of his memory. The animalistic Loa and the Zandali phrases and pronoun tables that distinguished the Zandali had been well taught but had been well used by tribemates who had taken paths different from his shamanistic path. Jakk'ari smiles as the book elicits memories from his young formative years.

  Thank you Winnie.   Jakk'ari tells her appreciatively.

  The choice of a crew and port is a choice in need of great consideration. A crew's competence to sail great lengths across different waters, the crew's effect on our acceptance to Zandalar, and the relation of the port and ship to the Horde alliance. This be a choice that erases or conjures weeks of work.  

Jakk'ari pauses as considers the logistical problem at a scale he never had to deal with.
  A troll vessel and crew would be best for gaining permission to enter Zandalar. I assume the Amani and Gurubashi are out of the question given their location in the Eastern Kingdoms. What about the Drakkari? 
 
 Spoiler: Logistics 
The fastest, in theory, way to get a Zandalari fleet to evacuate Drakkari would be.  Kalimdor Port -&gt; Zandalar -&gt; Northrend -&gt; Safe Place .
The issue is getting a ship and crew in good enough standing with Zandalar and from a neutral enough faction to avoid being turned away by the Zandalari who want to stay neutral.
Maybe  Kalimdor Port -&gt; Northrend -&gt; Zandalar -&gt; Northrend -&gt; Safe Place   could be done to get a Drakkari ship?
 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Earlier, with Marion and Hath 
 "I don't know what you would have done. I knew your mother's father; and I met your father once. Maybe you would announce your intentions if you were an assassin - you seem prideful enough to do it - and maybe not. But I've announced my attention to deal appropriately if you happened to be. I play my hand, you play yours. Maybe everyone goes away happy." 

Hard as his attitude is, he does seem to be softening ever so slightly as he judges your posture as, perhaps, not concealing threat.
 
"If you're with them now, then I imagine they'll be reaching out to you soon enough. A young scion with a germ of financial clout - and one operating outside the direct oversight of the Alliance? That's a good resumé. Just be careful. The first hand they offer will be open; the next will be full of steel. And the next. And the next." 
 


The chamberlain clicks her tongue as she considers Jakk'ari's question.

 "Well, the only major naval troll power  is  Zandalar, I think. Since the Amani armada was sunk in the second war and the Darkspear fleet folded into the Horde, anyway. But I'm not certain a troll vessel is your best move, unless you plan to try to enter the port of Zul'Dazar under the false pretense of being trollish agents. Whatever ship you take, you can expect to be intercepted and then have to explain your approach. Whether you proceed from that point will be much more about how well you manage your words, than the nature of your ship or its crew."  
WindStruck
Isaera listens and looks around at the others. Eventually she folds her arms once again and tilts her head, almost as if becoming disinterested in the topic. She asks,  "So.. are we really doing this then? First, we only need to charter a ship to Zandalar, I guess!" 

The idea was starting to sound absurd. Even moreso than when she first learned that she would be living in Ratchet. With a mix of a sigh and a resigned laugh she adds,  "I think I will be the one who needs that primer." 
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 
 
 Spoiler: Earlier with Hath 
Marion's chin was held aloft and her eyes projected a silent, dignified front. Young though she was, she emanated that ingrained aristocratic image that so many nobles wished their child would possess, a raw and natural gravitas spoken through gesture and expression with nary a word needed.

 "We won't restore our mountain home by trafficking with cuthroats and brigands,"  Marion answered him.

The warlock then exhaled. Her lips pursed and her expression sour, she shook her head,  "even if we offered pardon and amnesty to those renouncing the Syndicate ways, deception is their very nature. One could never be certain of sincerity or simply a new ploy by infiltration and subversion." 
 




Marion listened to the little congregation, her business-mind already turning the cogs to generate the plan necessary to permit such a harebrained scheme any chance of success.

 "No, no no, don't bother,"  Marion gave a wave of her hand after having remained silent for several long minutes.

 "No nation, faction or group will come to their rescue, nor will you convince any to spare the resources,"  she started.

 "The most likely course of action is to hire a private vessel from one of the neutral ports. Tanaris, Ratchet, Booty Bay, etc. Those who crew such vessels will already be well hardened against whatever threats one might encounter on such a voyage..." 

The warlock pursed her lips to think some more, before continuing,  "from there, sail south east, resupply at Port Bilgewater, and then continue east to Zul'Dazar. Kezen, nearby, is quite a large trade hub. I venture if we load up with some exotic materials, exotic leathers, luxury silks, high quality lumber, for example, we could largely off-set the initial price of contracting the vessel! We might even have some left over for planned renovations to our manse in Ratchet..." 
MrAbdiel
  
 Spoiler: Marion v Hath, Dawn of Justice 
 "Restore it?"  Hath scoffs, but it's a softer expression than some of the others he has offered you. Less contempt for a theoretical threat, more pity theoretical naivete.  "You must not have seen it. There's no restoring Alterac. It's a carcass being picked over by vultures. Sure, all the claims that were made by Lordaeron, Gilneas and Stromgarde have been rolled back when their own walls fell - but now it's a wilderness overrun by ogres, bandits, and necromancers demon-dabblers."  He glances at your Voidwalker with open distrust.  "But the worst of it is in the Valley. The Frostwolf clan are there - the Warcheif's home orc clan. By all accounts, they're the best of the bunch - and they settled in between the mountains with so little bother that they were living there, free and unchained, while you were bouncing on your father's knee, and no one was the wiser. Then came the dwarves, making claims on the mountains after the third war settled, and now it's a secret war down there. Horde and Alliance don't officially supply the sides, but you can bet there's a golden incentive for adventurers who happen to 'adventure' there." 

The old general looks very old for a moment; folding strong arms and letting himself sag forward at the waist to stretch out his back.

 "The Syndicate is just one obstacle - they're the ones pulling together and corrupting the scattered noble brats who got sent away before the collapse by prescient parents. But the people, the ones who actually know and work the land - those who aren't dead - are building new lives in other places. What will it take to convince them to come back and be part of the most shame-filled nation of man? And beyond all that, there's the ogres and the Scourge. And beyond all that, the Frostwolves have a land claim there that is formally recognized by the Horde and quietly ignored by the Alliance. And they're the only reason the whole realm of Alterac isn't the Greater Kingdom of Ironforge, because you can bet your ass the dwarves see mountains with mineral wealth and consider them ancestral heritage. Maybe that's something a young woman can dream about solving. But not an old man." 

Two things ring out to you in this monologue that you might need to consider later. The first, ultimately, is that Hath doesn't seem like an archtraitor; not really. He's an exhausted patriot - loyal to his king even when his king made poor decisions because it's the job of a general to obey his king. He betrayed his king at the summit of foolishness, and good men may differ on when a man break his oath in such a situation to retain as much of his honor as possible. He may deserve punishment, or forgiveness; but either way, the deed would be hanging half of an innocent man, or freeing half of a guilty one. He's had the courtesy to warn you that the Syndicate are likely to come for you now, at least.

The second thing is that, when he mentions 'demon-dabblers', something in one of your pouches of spell components shuffles like and shivers once, then goes still. It seems unwise to investigate that within the sightlines of your allies who are doing their best to continue to overlook your demonology... but you'll want to figure out what that was, later.

 
 Spoiler: Marion's Capstone Quest Unlocked 
 Quest: Restore Alterac to Glory 

Syndicate Dealt With - 0/1
Alterac Ogres Dealt With - 0/1
Alterac Scourge Dealt With - 0/1
Alterac Diaspora Recalled - 0/1
Noble Claim Sponsors - 0/3

Call this a great big stretch goal. :D Don't expect to accomplish all those things in one arc, but gaining the favour of powerful sponsors on both factions will radically increase your chances of pulling it off. Sponsors are more likely to be responsive to your claims when you accomplish grand feats of heroism for Azeroth, which you happen to be doing anyway.
 

 


Winnie, the Chamberlain, gently claps her palms together.

 "It sounds as if you have a sense of what to do next. You shouldn't have any trouble getting a swift vessel back to Ratchet - you know your way around Theramore, I suppose. A fine red sunset bodes well for sailors tomorrow morning. You might still manage to rent a room at Janene's, if you like."  She begins to adopt the polite, but insistent move-along attitude of host looking forward to sleep. But a new shadow darkens the doorway, peeking in from a side door from the tower's main lower chamber to one of the interior rooms on the first level.

 "Oh! Isa!"  A young blood elf - not much older than a girl, by assessment - gasps in delight. Her hair so red it's almost magenta, tied back in a pair of tails behind her head; and it contrasts nicely off the blue-and-purple apprentice mage robes that mark her as one of the tower's initiates learning spellcraft. Isaera, of course, knows the eldest of her girl-cousins immediately. Jakk'ari knows her too, when young Dalana looked over the mysterious key for him with an identify ritual. She crosses the room with the gangly grace of an excited teenager and hugs her cousin.  "You're back! It's so good to see you! How are you? How's Ratchet? Is Aleeana with you?" 

A wave of questions all seem to come at once like shot from the blunderbuss, and only after she has peeled away from the hug does she realise she's somewhat intruding on a meeting. She doesn't blush, however - she merely acknowledges her intrusion with a half-smile to the rest of the group.

 "Sorry. Hello, there. Hello, Mister Jakk'ari. There's mail for you, if you haven't already got it - there was a courier asking around two days ago, and I told them about your tower in Ratchet. It might be with the postmaster by the dock, if it's not-" 
 "Good grief, girl!"  the chamberlain splutters, throwing her hands in the air melodramatically.  "You're supposed to have gone home. You can't keep staying here after hours!" 
 "I swear I was about to go, when I heard the portal rune go off - I didn't want to intrude! I swear I wasn't dropping any eaves, ma'am. Of course, I heard a good deal about a blue dragon, and something about a mission to save the trolls, but that's all!"  
BananaPhone
   Marion Mordis 

Marion listened to the Chamberlein speak, a park of her dreading what she had just talked herself into. It would've been so easy to just shrug and tell her and Ja'kkar that, nope, their troll buddies were toast and nothing could be done. But she just  had  to open her big mouth and offer a solution, didn't she? A solution that involved her traveling instead of buying land, finding a strapping, high-quality commoner boy that would take her last name over his and get to making some sons and daughters.

Instead, she would once again jeaprodise the future of her House  and  the salvation of Alterac, for some bloody trolls!

Uggh!!

Thus, it was fortuitous that when Marion turned herself about, she came to look upon the small, miniature little Blood Elf girl that had happily trotted up to the group, those big, large eyes at the centre of her elfin features that were flanked by those characteristically long, elongated ears.

Marion smiled.

It wasn't her typically small, sly smile of hidden success, nor the type she would flash when she made some more money or a new, improved invention or rotted the flesh off of her enemies with her fel magic.

No no, this was a naturally warm and pleasant smile, the type one would expect from a nineteen year old girl such as herself.

 "Ahh!"  Marion gasped, the type of slightly dramatic, comedic gasp an adult would give a child when they had said something amusingly goshdarn.

 "You overheard all of that, little one?"  the Warlock continued with that same shocked-but-clearly-playing expression, bringing her hands to her hips.

 "Well, we have no choice now but to bring you along, so that you don't tell anyone else about blue dragons and rescuing trolls!"  she smiled maternally down at the mini-elf.
WindStruck
It warms Isaera's heart to see her cousin again. She gets a hug and reciprocates with one of the most genuine smiles she has had in quite a while.  "Dala..  I think Winnie is right. Perhaps you should be home now. But it's good to see you." 

She chuckles a little at the bombardment of questions.  "There's a lot to talk about. But I think Aleeana is fine. Haven't seen her in a bit though. She's probably content, off doing her own thing..." 

It seemed Marion was joking, but sometimes Isaera was never sure. She shoots the warlock a friendlyish look and says,  "Now now, Marion, there's no need to worry over that. She's with me and she's family. I'll probably be telling them all about what we've done and what we may be planning anyway." 

Having just completed a harrowing mission dealing with naga, mysterious artifacts, and dead sharks, Isaera realizes she probably looks disheveled once again and most likely smells of the sea, fish, some dirt, or worse. She sighs wearily and says,  "You'll need to tell me all about what's been going on here as well. I'm afraid our letters are not detailed, nor frequent enough..." 
Plaids
  Jakk'ari  
  Thank you Marion.    Jakk'ari remarks appreciatively. The quickly released prototype had likely saved hours or even days of shuffling maps from a cartographer or attempts at convincing sea captains to divulge uncommon shipping routes.

Jakk'ari focuses on Isaera's cousin now jubilantly embracing family.
  Hello little aspirant. I don't have any artifacts to divine, your cousin may have one though  if she hasn't misplaced it .  
Dalana had displayed great enthusiasm and what appeared to be arcane competence to an untrained eye, but it couldn't hurt to double check. Especially if an untrained eye were to rely on an arcane student's divinations in the biggest political functions of Azeroth. Hindsight is only second clairvoyance. Just what could she gleam from Azurego's golem?


He adds his own remarks along with Marion's doting invitation to Dalana.
  Blue dragons and rescuing trolls. Who would believe such fantastical tales. I'm sure we and  Dalana  can all continue living our productive and  peaceful  lives.   As he strains an unconvincing chuckle.

Subtle hints of concern enter Jakk'ari's voice as he continues the discussion with the Isaera's delightful cousin.
  By the way Dalana, have you noticed new things or people in the neighborhood or the waterfront?   