<span style="font-size: 12px"><div style="text-align: center"><b>THE BLACK BARON PRESENTS</b>: <br/>
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<i>“Ruhzelil and the Talisman of Tanaris”</i>​</div> </span><br/><div style="text-align: center"><i>"A closed ERP"<br/>
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</i>​</div><div style="text-align: center">---​</div><br/><span style="color: Sienna"><i><div style="text-align: center">“The Lich King has fallen – and with him most of the shambling undead have retreated into hiding; but Northrend remains an intimidating land despite this. Law and order has a hard time keeping desperation and violence at bay; packs of bandits and ruffians haunt the hills like slavering wolves; only the foolish or the brave venture into this unforgiving world.<br/>
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It is up in these chilly expanses, deep in the evergreen woods of the Grizzly Hills that a troubling story takes its first, tentative steps – for Grizzly Jones’ luck with customers has run out; even the sultry looking draenei, Ruhzelil, who had… “graced” his establishment paled in comparison to the figure aiming for a nights rest in his inn.”​</div></i></span><br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">____​</div><br/>Grizzly Jones was proud of that name – “The Headcracker Inn”. And no one, not even the imaginative, could wipe this perception from his mind. It had a certain “pang” to it that advertised what he wanted effectively.<br/><br/>No trouble. Or else.<br/><br/>Truth to be told, however, the “Headcracker” part rang accurate in another fashion – bar brawls this far up north were so commonplace that Grizzly Jones in a fit of limited genius had a dilapidated carpenter reconstruct much of his furnishing so it could be disassembled into smaller bits to avoid constant repair.<br/><br/>It didn’t prevent the bar brawls – Light.. nothing could, seeing how harsh, unforgiving and frustrating life was up here: But at least he could stop worrying about his income spilling into redundant expenses. These days, Grizzly Jones observed the brawls that spontaneously erupted with a sort of detached curiosity.<br/>Nobody made attempts on him, as he was the only man able to pour the Ironhide Ale in “just that right way” – he had too many regulars to be afraid.<br/><br/>Thus, the Headcracker Inn flourished, all things compared: The sturdy, dwarven-styled building had more or less grown out of a large grasshill, deep within one of the immensely large Grizzly Hill forests; it was snugly cradled in between dark, foreboding evergreens along a somewhat travelled trade route between various outposts.<br/>One evergreen sentinel more or less constituted a leafy crown, some of its trunk hugging along the thatched roof before shooting straight up. The branches split the almost perpetual smoke bubbling forth from his cobblestone chimney.<br/><br/>His inn was unusual in one department, however: while the Horde and Alliance relation was tenuous, he made it a principle that he remained neutral. Sure, occasionally, an orc got shanked or a human grew a head shorter, but often the patrons respected that all bloody settlements could be fixed out on the gravel road. Grizzly Jones’ threats of rising ale prices put a dampener on most travelers – after all, all they really wanted was a warm fireplace and mead to cool their frost-aching bones.<br/><br/>Occasionally, he was lucky find a travelling whore as well! It wasn’t often, maybe once or twice every third week, but on those precious days he could provide a sort of warmth more coveted than any ale or any log in a fireplace he had. In exchange for a cut of their pay, he provided them with a somewhat safe environment, housing and food. With the chill of Northrend tearing at your skin, his offer was seldom turned down.<br/><br/>This midday was just one of those occasions: A draenei, rumored to be philandering by a passerby, had just recently arrived and while he hadn’t gotten a good look at her yet, head turns by patrons suggested she was exactly what could boost his premises income threefold for the next few days.<br/><br/>The grey-bearded dwarf grinned triumphantly for himself at the thought of that: Today was quite pretty packed, a handful of guests moldering at their respective tables, but it’d stand to no comparison if she decided to linger around.<br/><br/>His monetary daydreaming was ruptured brutally when he caught eye of the newest patron “gracing” his entrance – for Drusul “The Grindstone” Bergvalk Beltz wasn’t a man easy on your eyes.<br/><br/>This worgen.. this, tall, tall worgen towered at meager 7’ 22” and could – at a glance -best be described as the visual dictionary definition of “brutality” enveloped in layers upon layers of hard muscle. The bull-necked, black-furred monstrosity seemed to perpetually slouch, as if weighed down by his own presence. But something in his slow, thumping movement suggested he wasn’t burdened, but rather preying, always hunting.<br/><br/>He made it abundantly clear that he was either stupid as snot, or too reckless to care, as he entered the establishment carrying naught but his decorative chain “necklace” (which really just.. was a chain) across his bared chest. Visible white dyes of his fur acted as intricate patterned tattoos on his tree-trunk arms: Arms that ended in two hands sporting some mighty vicious coal-black claws.<br/><br/>A profusely, idiotically large maul balanced across his shoulder blades, the head of this tool of destruction one-half the size of a human head, atleast. The mere thought of him using a shield of any kind seemed laughable, but most patrons – Grizzly Jones, pale-faced and shrinking under the gaze of Drusul – could easily be convinced he could wield his hammer in one hand.<br/>Thick, sturdy, black-brown leather pants and two solid worgen-cut studded leather boots clad around his legs and feet, a broad, black, silver-knitted belt hoisting his plethora of bottles and flasks.<br/><br/>Two malicious, golden eyes stared along his sturdy muzzle, concentrating a burning glance on poor Grizzly Jones, who in his company seemed less “grizzly” and more “mousy”.<br/><br/>“<i><span style="color: DarkRed"><b>BARKEEP!</b></span></i>” Drusuls thundering bass-voice shuddered out through an otherworldly yowl:<br/><br/>“<span style="color: DarkRed"><i><b>A cask of yer’ best mead fer each of me’ men, an’ pray that it’ll be t’me standards!</b></i></span>” the worgen monster said as he slowly ground into a trot towards the bardesk, one hand keeping an iron grip around the two-and-a-half handled maul.<br/><br/>Those patrons who sat closest to his designated path shuffled their seats out of his trajectory, bird-like eyes keeping track of him. It took them a few seconds to understand that he wasn’t the only patron entering – in this monstrous beings wake, dark-leathered mercenary men entered, all uniformed in the same fashion, all sporting cavalier hats with black feathers.<br/><br/>Tell-tale signs of expensive flintlocks and broadswords glinted in contrast to the matte shades of grey and black leather these men sported. But worse were their faces – perpetual snarls, growls and cold-hearted stares of barely withheld anger – if a monster like Drusul needed soldiers, these fit the bill almost to a fault.<br/><br/>Whomever sitting at the bar made immediate mental excuses to get out of this bands’ way as they simmered closer and closer to squirming Grizzly Jones, wide-eyed pale-faced Grizzly Jones who had abandoned any mirth over the arrival of a sultry lady.<br/>Drusul hammered a flat hand against the bar desk and sloooooowly leaned forward, his nose sporting three claw scars closing on the cold-sweating dwarf:<br/><br/>“<span style="color: DarkRed"><b>Oieh. Shorteh’. A’ don’t think ye’ cleaned yer’ filthy ears this morning. I… called.. an order.</b></span>” Drusul snarled, his throat vibrating like a rabid dogs.<br/><br/>Poor Grizzly Jones stuttered something barely incomprehensible, but somewhat affirmative and sidestepped towards the booze cellar, almost tripping across a stool on his way. Two of Drusuls ruffians launched into a guffaw, but their leader simply followed the dwarfs departure with his two searing, golden eyes until he was out of sight.<br/><br/>With a simple roll of his shoulder, the two-and-a-half-handed maul seemed to jump into the air like he but shrugged a leaf off his back: Using the momentum, his hand swung the destructive anvil-on-a-stick around and planted the head firmly against the floor (with the unmistakable sound of churning wood stinging in the ears of the surrounding patrons.)<br/><br/>And then, this widebacked, tree-trunk armed steam-train of vile intentions gyrated on his spot, planting two elbows on the bar before leaning in a mockery of languid body language. His entourage of mercenaries formed up on either side, but none made motion to address their leader in this case.<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center">Ruhzelil couldn’t possibly avoid seeing this mountain of a thing.. ​</div><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>