<div class="floatright">(http://perampaion.webs.com/laomythweavers.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Lao Dar<br/><strong>Location:</strong>East Baldur's Gate, The Undercellar<br/><strong>Tags:</strong>Everyone<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The blue-gray pipe smoke billows pleasantly around the table after Lao releases the last lungfull of the stuff, leaving him wistful and the other occupants annoyed. The hour is early, still dark, though down in the Undercellar this can only be assumed rather than witnessed; set in a drained sewer crossing the infamous drinking den and brothel is perhaps the only place where a half-ogre can consider himself safe inside the city of Baldur's Gate. Even then that's stretching the meaning of "safe" to its farthest limits: The place caters to the undesirable elements of society like criminals, fugitives, half-orcs and other demihumans, nobles out slumming as well as those patrons who've worn out their welcome in every other dive in the Gate.<br/><br/>"<em>So you're going ahead with that harlot's suggestion then, I take it?</em>" the half-orc sitting across from Lao wonders as the half-ogre is busy packing down his pipe and the remainder of his belongings in preparation for the trek up to the streets and the docks.<br/><br/>"<em>That I am, Baily. I have no wish to rot away down here until I run out of coin. Half a tenday is enough,</em>" he replies, looking up at the male and guessing he isn't half as annoyed as he looks: Baily's mate, a half-orc called Narra had spent the last night making bedroom eyes at Lao, to great detriment to Baily's mood. It was probably mostly to tease Baily, really, but Lao isn't feeling like straining his relationship with the half-orc any further. It had been that last eve that a cleric of Umberlee had stridden into the Undercellar and started soliciting whoever looked capable for work on a ship headed out west. Lao had been one of the recipient's of her decidedly lacking skills as a saleswoman, but had nonetheless seen the value of the opportunity presented to him.<br/><br/>"<em>Hmpf,</em>" the half-orc snorts. "<em>For your own sake I hope you'll play it smart and stay out of sight as long as you can then, though how well you'll succeed I can only wonder, when you look like an oxen on two legs.</em>" Lao's face makes it plain he won't dignify that with an answer as he rises to his feet and fastens his gray cloak around his shoulders.<br/><br/>"<em>If things don't work out maybe I shall return and come with you down south,</em>" he says, picking up his enormous greatbow. Looking sideways at Baily, he adds: "<em>I'm sure we could convince Narra to let be come along.</em>"<br/><br/>The half-orc's demeanor visibly sours at this and he snorts again. "<em>Good luck to you, then, oaf. Hope the Flaming Fist don't get a hold of you.</em>" Lao shrugs his shoulder philosophically at the suggestion and without further ado sets off into the sewers. He's not at home here, has no experience of the dark, winding tunnels, so he settles for the first exit he comes upon: A grate in the ceiling with a ladder of rusty bars leading up to it. He can lift the grate easily enough, but squeezing through proves more difficult. He'd arrived via a sewer opening in the riverfront by night so he hadn't thought about what obstacle his size could prove when trying to exit the sewers streetside. After taking off his backpack and quiver first, howver, he manages to step out into the chilly predawn.<br/><br/><hr/><br/><strong>Location:</strong>Harbor, Ship Gangplank<br/><br/>Later, after the sun has risen above the horizon to cast its warming rays on the waking port, Lao finds himself skulking around nervously in a harbour alleyway, looking out at a gathering crowd along the dock. The murmur of the people is cut short by the shouting of young Umberlant atop the gangplank to the<em>Blessed Trident</em>calling forth the mercenary hopefuls who, like Lao, have come to seek employment. Seeing that the time has come, he takes a deep breath and walks out into the open, moving briskly towards the gangplank. There is no need to shove the crowd aside as a surprised outburst from the first people to spot him quickly parts the crowd before him. Lao himself keeps his eyes on the gangplank and walks resolutely past people speaking openly to each other as they gawk at him. He only has to shrug off a few insults before he reaches his destination, ending up behind a black robed fellow who becomes the first prospect to not be sent away immediately by the cleric.<br/>He stands his turn, pretending not to hear anything.<br/><br/><br/><hr/><br/><div align="center"><strong>Description:</strong></div><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spoiler: Click to Show/Hide</div><div class="spoiler_body"><div align="center">(http://perampaion.webs.com/Half-Ogre.jpg)</div><br/>This enormous crossbreed stands 8 feet 2 inches tall and weighs in somewhere around 500 pounds. His build is heavily set with muscles, his shoulders are broad and his posture has a natural hunch to it, courtesy to a bull neck. Surprisingly, his hands are articulate and dexterous with long, nimble fingers. With a yellowish brown hide and black hair tied into tails behind and in front of his pointed ears, his eyes are a grayish yellow and radiate a guarded attentiveness. A slight beard grows along his jawline, chin and under his mouth.<br/><br/>He is dressed browns and grays, giving him a air of a wilderness wanderer. Leather pants and thick cloth tunic ward off the weather and quality boots protect his feet. A vest of plated leather is strapped across his torso and hangs down like a loincloth between his legs. On top of it all he wears a gray cloak, stained along its hem from contact with mud and dirt.<br/><br/>His equipment includes a shoulder slung bag, a chopper strapped to his belt and an enormous 8 foot greatbow that he always carries in his left hand. A quiver peeks out above his right shoulder, out of the side of his cloak.</div></div>