conversations: human
conversations:  Most of the gods are Dead. Asmodeus has won the blood war, and as a result has taken over every known afterlife and the prime material. Despite the fact that he is ruler of the Multiverse, Asmodeus has not been seen for many a year, and neither has his daughter Glasya.
  
  To the world at large however, this is of little consequence. Your average peasant cannot change the course of the world, and they cannot fight gods, even after their powers have been decreased to the point they're at.
  
  Despite this, there are many that will try, and a group who is said to have succeeded. There are tales of a group of adventurers who have actually managed to kill a god, and the level of evil in the world seems to have receded. There are people telling the public at large that this is of course a lie, and the gods cannot be fought or even killed, except by your lord and master Asmodeus. Regardless of what they tell you though, there is no denying it. The world has changed with the god's death and many are encouraged by it. If one god can be killed, why not the rest?
  
  However, these matters do not concern you as of yet. Whether it is your wish to be able to take them on or not, it is currently an impossibility, and you have your own things to do for now whether that be working for a lord, saving towns from rampaging psychopaths, or something else entirely.
  
  Today, you have been summoned by the current Mayor of the town you are in to his mansion. You are not sure why you specifically have been chosen, but the Mayor assures you that he has his reasons, and that the job shall benefit you in the long run. You have each agreed to meet him for your own reasons, and at the moment stand outside his wrought iron gate.
conversations: Mystic Muse:
conversations: human
conversations:  [Azbagad] 
  
  On the landing before the wrot-iron bars of the archway, the Hobogblin squire Azbagad loomed tall and nearly as wide as the doubledoors at the shoulder, his inhuman orange-yellow hide clad in a simple black tunic and earthen-tone britches and boots.   Though his chivalric sword was belted at his side the traveler chose to come unmailed and resisted the urge to light his pipe while he stood waiting at the gate.  He would be on his best behavior, he hoped, and show these humans the honor of the Hobgoblin Empire.
  
  He'd even combed his hair for the occasion, and pulled the long dark brown locks into a pony-tail, though there was no help for the scruffy beard lining his inhumanly curved and jutting jaw, the doglike split of his upperlip descending from a black snout and the bat-like ears set aside a sloping and bony brow over blazing red eyes.  Many brass rings hung from the fleshy ears and two extra from one of his articulate brow-ridges, matching the ornamental brass enamel on the mouth and tip of his sword scabbard.  His wide, powerful hands in their fingerless traction gloves clenched, popping large knuckles and cricking leather in anticipation of this human dignitary.
  
  There was only one kind of work an errant Hobgoblin would be contracted for.  Bladework, the kind that could make young Azkabad's reputation back in his subterranean homeland and bring honor... or death.
conversations: Piedmon_Sama:
conversations: human
conversations:  The heavy footfalls, hammering the abused stones of the street underneath them, announced the Warforged's approach long before it was actually visible.  Thus, when the pseudo-mechanical figure topped the hill, it wasn't as if it was any grand surprise.  Its general appearance was of a tall, chiseled man, encased in full-bodied armor, colored in splashes of red and curling tendrils of silver and mithril.  He seemed, overall, quite knightly and awe-inspiring, but, despite his obvious combat design, he bore no visible weapon.  Nevertheless, his "eyes" - a misnomer, merely red lights that glowed from behind the slits of his templar-esque helm - remained focused on the gates ahead, making his purpose there obvious.
  
  He didn't seem to take notice of the mage or monster at all, not until he came to a stop before the gate, and, staring at it as if it should be opening simply because he arrived, he observed without so much as a glance to her, "Apparently, I failed to arrive as early as I had hoped."  His voice had a slight reverberation to it, an unnatural semi-echo that marked it as obviously artificial.  "After all, some random little kid and her pet rodent beat me here."  His head dipped slightly as his tone dropped into the range of a not-so-veiled threat.  "Why don't you skedaddle along back home, girl?  And rat, why don't you find some hapless passersby and steal some cheese?  You're not needed.  Now that I'm here, no one is."
conversations: Ninmast:
conversations: human
conversations:  What knight would stand there and take abuse from a clanking miscreant?  Turning on his booted heel, the Hobgoblin glared at the hulking figure with pastel light shining through the ivy-work iron grill above the gate behind him.
  
  Azbagad's common was quite fluent, though a heavy accent hung on it.  "Your words speak you a churl as surely as your looks, clanking cretin.  Do yourself a favor and stomp off if you have no wish to share in the business. I was summoned to put my sword for hire here, and will not be intimidated by a blowhard who shows late."
conversations: Piedmon_Sama:
conversations: human
conversations:  "Hehehehehe ..."  The chuckle came from deep within the construct's chest, his armor shifting and rattling with the motion resulting from it.  "A churl, eh?  You must be a real goody-goody, then.  I've been called a lot worse than that on first impressions.  Granted, some of those impressions were made rather violently, but nevermind that."
  
  He turned his gaze to the hobgoblin and the pose suggested that if he had a mouth behind that helm, it would be smirking.  "I'm Xhan, and I've heard stories that goblin blood is green.  Or yellow pus.  Care to settle the matter for me?"
conversations: Ninmast:
conversations: human
conversations:  Azbagad let his hand drop on the pommel of his sword.  He was unarmored, dressed for a meeting and not battle, but honor didn't wait upon convenience.  More the point though, it wouldn't do to muss the Magistrate's house without even so much as a greeting.
  
  "You are eager to get yourself killed, scrap-lump.  But it is easier and more my convenience to let the justice of the city have you, if you continue belligerence upon the Magistrate's property."
conversations: Piedmon_Sama:
conversations: human
conversations:  Before anything serious starts breaking out, the gates in front of you open.
conversations: Mystic Muse:
conversations: human
conversations:  "Remain at the porte if you cannot stomach my presence, machine-man.  I am Azbagad, and I will take whatever charge this Magistrate gives me," growled the heavy-jawed Hobgoblin, turning back and striding through the portal with his scabbard clacking on his knee.  He actually had not been certain whether he would take any job offer or not, but the unexpected challenge had flustered him.  He proceeded withal as far as expected and did his best to decidedly ignore the other.
conversations: Piedmon_Sama:
conversations: human
conversations:  The Warforged watched the Hobgoblin storm on ahead, but only scoffed.  If he had a mouth, the smirk would no doubt still be there.  "Stomach you?" he returned as he, too, made his way in.  "You're ugly, but I'm no shrinking violet, trust me.  I've seen far worse than your mug.  No, like I said, you're simply not necessary.  If they're calling me in, it means they need some violence done.  And I don't need a sidekick."
conversations: Ninmast:
conversations: human
conversations:  Aratheon had been watching the two figures arguing from the shadows of a tree near the gate.  Not skulking, but merely watching and keeping to himself.  The young human raised an eyebrow as the gates opened, the two bickering figures entering.  Smiling to himself Aratheon straightened up and brushed the dirt and dust from his cloak.
  
  He made his way to the gate, following the clanking creature of metal and wood, probably some manner of arcane construct, judging by the looks of him, and the other, well, he was plainly a Hobgoblin.  Either one could be problematic.
  
  He wiped the sweat from his brow, his sky blue eyes fixed on the large building ahead, the navy blue cloak fluttering softly behind him.  Like the hobgoblin he too had come unarmoured, a white linen shirt and woollen pants of a khaki hue supported by a simple leather belt almost making him seem like a commoner.  His boots were made of similar material to his belt and a pair of gloves covered his hands.  The sunlight glinted off the silver sun disc emblazoned with a clenched fist he wore around his neck.  He carried no weapon and no pack, only a simple cloth pouch tied to his belt. 
conversations: Kogan Urufu:
conversations: human
conversations:  As the Warforged and the Hobgoblin Squire make their way into the building they are greeted by an old distinguished looking butler. he has long silver hair, and a beard that goes down almost to his waist. He looks almost too clean and neat.
  
   It is good to see you. I shall take you to see my master as soon as everybody else he's invited arrives. if it would please you, feel free to sit down in the guest room. If you simply wish to stand here, then feel free to do so. The guest room is to your right.  
  
  
  After reciting this, the butler leaves, presumably to attend to the mayor.
conversations: Mystic Muse:
conversations: human
conversations:  Xhan stood where they were left for a time, but after a few moments in silence, it turned its head down toward the Hobgoblin.  "Not that I care," it opened, "but why in the Nine Circles is a runty, filthy little Hobgoblin going around like he's a stiff-nosed paladin?"
conversations: Ninmast: