Siege Of Bordrin's Watch

Krunk, the hobgoblin tavern owner, watches with half an eye as the human shadow Michelle, the collared elven female Gala, and finally the tattooed and scarred halfork Gloomblade, each make their goodbyes. Shortly after, the dwarf woman named Sister Tresa walks in... and Krunk is very surprised. He hasn't seen her in this part of the city in quite a long time. "Evenin' sister. Odd night to see you about. And odder still the place where I see you." He motions for Sessie to get the priestess whatever drink she requires.

**********

Gloomblade stands by the city guardsman he spoke to, listening to the directions on how to get to Stone Anvil... and takes little notice of the small band of young men emerging from the darkness of the city street. "That him?" one says to the others, to which another replies "Yeah... halfork. He's the one who rolled us." "Then it's time to roll 'em back." Unfortunately for Gloomblade, the phrase 'they all look alike' is turning into a really big problem.

**********

The actual halfork of mention, Chris, still remains within the Salty Mug. He downs another ale and he and Ralak-Nul speak to each other about their journeys and the problems that their respective races cause them. In the occasional city dominated by dwarf or human... a halfork and a drow are not usually embraced without question. It takes a while.

As the two converse, and are overheard by Tresa... the sounds of shouting are heard outside. The clang of metal on metal soon is joined, as well as the piercing whistle of a guardsman's alarm. Chris, Ralak-Nul, Tresa, and Krunk all catch each other's eyes. Something's going on out there... and Krunk winces at the thought of it. I guess Michelle didn't get a chance to talk to her boys...

**********

Dorn Thirae steps down from his box in the holding cells, right after his speech. Once again, his silver tongue has strengthened the support of many of the hoodlums and vagabonds incarcerated in here with him. As many of them come up one by one to shake his hand and pledge their support in anything further he might do... the half-elf thinks back to a similar situation six long months ago in the city of Brindol on the far side of the Elsir Vale...

**********

Six months ago...

"What should we do with 'im?" asks a dirty, greasy, wild-eyed halfling. "Messed with Speaker's business this guy did. Can't do that." "No, he damn well can't." says a dour dwarf standing next to the halfling. Both men stand over a prone form lying in an alley. A halfork wanderer, who unfortunately made the wrong statement to the wrong individual while the man was delivering a speech. And when the man's followers took umbrage to the wanderer's decry... all hell broke loose. "You don't interrupt The Speaker and expect to get away with it... not unless you're a moron."

As they stand over the unconscious halfork, the halfling gets an idea. "Let's mark 'im! Mark 'im with the symbol o' the bastard Lost Ones... then drop him off at the Sarge. Sarge'll send him to Sub Saan if we tell 'im The Speaker said to. Heh heh... man, I'd love to see this guy's face when he wakes up in a cell and find 'imself marked... then he runs inta one of the real Losties who thinks he's trying to pass himself off as one of 'im. Heh heh... that'd do it." The dwarf nods and his grin grows wide. "Great idea! Yeah! Let's do that! Damn... wait'll the Speaker hears what we done for him. You don't interrupt the Speaker, man... that's just not done."

As he heard the noise, Chris looks outside. It takes him only a second to evaluate the situation. "Hotheaded... will they wait to be killed before they understand..." Chris looks around and decide to grab a candlestick that is lit on a table. He extinguish the candle and throw it away, keeping only the iron rod that he can use as a club. He then throw a few coins at Krunk. "I buy you the candlestick." He then tells the the drow "If you want to do a good deed, there is an halfork who will getting beat for what I have done. Those hot headed cannot even distinguish an halfork from another. Anyway, those guys doesn't care anyway, they just want to skin an halfork today." ON that, Chris exit the main door.

As he come near the group of Lost Ones, Chris shouts. "You are even more cowards than I thought. You need to get reinforcement to get only one man. What kind of thugs are you. Girls? If one of you is a man, come to see me and don't get on the first halfork you meet just to pretend you are courageous."

If you want to do a good deed, there is an halfork who will getting beat for what I have done.

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Impressed by the words of the half orc, and even more by the honour inherent in them, Tresa heads out to see what she can do to help. As yet she does not take hold of her hammer, hoping to end the fight without bloodshed. Or at least with as little blood shed as possible.

As she moves she stares briefly, and curiously, at the drow; she had never seen one in 'peaceful circumstances before; "Well! Are you coming to help your friend, or not?"

Without waiting for a reply she burst out of the door and straight into the middle of the melee.

DEFCON 1 said:

Gloomblade stands by the city guardsman he spoke to, listening to the directions on how to get to Stone Anvil... and takes little notice of the small band of young men emerging from the darkness of the city street. "That him?" one says to the others, to which another replies "Yeah... halfork. He's the one who rolled us." "Then it's time to roll 'em back." Unfortunately for Gloomblade, the phrase 'they all look alike' is turning into a really big problem.

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Gloomblade, seeing the ruffians approach, halts his gait and turns towards the rush of misplaced violent intent.

"Evenin', gents," he says with a smirk. "Don't hear no music, but I'll dance with ya if that's yer poison."

He deftly draws a pair of daggers from secreted scabbards wedged under the backplate of his black leather armor.

"You sure now?"

**********

Six months ago...

"What should we do with 'im?" asks a dirty, greasy, wild-eyed halfling. "Messed with Speaker's business this guy did. Can't do that." "No, he damn well can't." says a dour dwarf standing next to the halfling. Both men stand over a prone form lying in an alley. A halfork wanderer, who unfortunately made the wrong statement to the wrong individual while the man was delivering a speech. And when the man's followers took umbrage to the wanderer's decry... all hell broke loose. "You don't interrupt The Speaker and expect to get away with it... not unless you're a moron."

As they stand over the unconscious halfork, the halfling gets an idea. "Let's mark 'im! Mark 'im with the symbol o' the bastard Lost Ones... then drop him off at the Sarge. Sarge'll send him to Sub Saan if we tell 'im The Speaker said to. Heh heh... man, I'd love to see this guy's face when he wakes up in a cell and find 'imself marked... then he runs inta one of the real Losties who thinks he's trying to pass himself off as one of 'im. Heh heh... that'd do it." The dwarf nods and his grin grows wide. "Great idea! Yeah! Let's do that! Damn... wait'll the Speaker hears what we done for him. You don't interrupt the Speaker, man... that's just not done."

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OOC: Cool!

The door of the inn burst open and Tresa stalked out, her eyes blazing. She instantly took in the scene before her and shouted at the top of her voice - and the voice of a sermonising preacher had a very loud top!

"Cowards! That is what you are. Vile cowards! You gather like a pack of jackals, your tongues licking in anticipation of easy blood, many against one. Ye deserve nothing less than a good thrashing."

She turned to Gloomblade and spoke, winking so only he could see. "You have drawn weapons. If you intend to fight these jackals then, if I may, pray allow me to assist you with the righteousness of Pelor."

Her voice rose again in a paean of praise to her Lord and she was gifted with his divine aid. The breath of Pelor wafted over the rubbish-strewn alleyway, over Gloomblade and over the assembled Lost Ones.

There was an obvious wilting amongst the Lost Ones, some even dropping their weapons due to the unexpected weakness that crept over them.

ooc: I'm back.

The dwarf enters the temple and bows before the religious symbols of Moradin. He looks puzzled at the elf, as he seems to be lost in his thoughts, He seems happy, he thought, before the smile banished from his face. Gombar shrewd and walk to the altar.

When Gala awoke, it was still before dawn, but the scent of the morning had descended on the forest. She raised her muzzle from the fold of her forepaws, and stood in a single motion, her tail shaking off the remainder of the previous night's sleep, and smoke, and drink.

Her morning ritual would prepare her for the day, and it was not long before she was padding along beside a small creek on her morning hunt. The water was too shallow for salmon, of course, but everything comes for a drink in the morning... like that hare. Gala quickened her pace -- at a run she was very fast, and she knew it. At speed, she no longer appeared to be a jackal; she was tapping into something larger, a pure force of nature, of implacable destruction.

There were other tells as well, markers that would convince anyone who knew the land that she was more than she appeared. Her taste for fresh meat, for instance. She could digest carrion, of course, but she was a predator. She wanted blood. The hare was tasty, and would fill her for the day if need be. She had walked upstream, and was now far from the paths normally travelled by the villagers.

Gala smelled the corpse before it came into view. As she scrambled over a boulder, around which the creek had worked itself as it also dropped a foot or so as it made its way to the sea, she saw the legs first. She approached, cautious, hearing nothing but the babbling water and two crows plucking and the body's intestines.

It had been human, and the hole in its abdomen was deep, a sword wound that had opened it up. Gala nosed up next to the body, as the crows jumped a few feet away, enjoying their prize and keeping a wary eye on her. The head was missing, and as Gala's muzzle nosed in, she was surprised that the crows had not pecked their way in this wound as well.

"Magic," she told herself, grimly determined. But how did the body get here? Who had it been, and why was he killed? Gala pressed her muzzle into the abdominal wound, and guessed that decomposition had begun two or three days before. But this wound had been made after it had died, after the decapitation. Curious.

Gala left the body to the corvids, and looked around for a point of entry. Nothing. Again, curious.

Gala spun in a circle, washed her paws and muzzle, and trotted back into town. At the edge of the woods, she shifted upright. In a few seconds, without breaking stride, she walked on two feet and was scratching the back of her head with her lengthening fingers, teasing at an itch. Someone will know who this human was, and someone will have killed him.

As she stepped into the early morning streets, the first merchants opening their stalls to begin their day, Gala was looking with a purpose. Someone would have noticed, and someone would want to know. As she strode through town, a thought crept upon her. She remembered something else -- something she should have noticed at the time.

The body was wearing no boots.

The Digger said:

The door of the inn burst open and Tresa stalked out, her eyes blazing. She instantly took in the scene before her and shouted at the top of her voice - and the voice of a sermonising preacher had a very loud top!

"Cowards! That is what you are. Vile cowards! You gather like a pack of jackals, your tongues licking in anticipation of easy blood, many against one. Ye deserve nothing less than a good thrashing."

She turned to Gloomblade and spoke, winking so only he could see. "You have drawn weapons. If you intend to fight these jackals then, if I may, pray allow me to assist you with the righteousness of Pelor."

Her voice rose again in a paean of praise to her Lord and she was gifted with his divine aid. The breath of Pelor wafted over the rubbish-strewn alleyway, over Gloomblade and over the assembled Lost Ones.

There was an obvious wilting amongst the Lost Ones, some even dropping their weapons due to the unexpected weakness that crept over them.

Click to expand...

Gloomblade watched Tresa work her magic and stood slack-jawed as the power of Pelor was made evident. At no point, however, did Gloomblade drop his daggers or even let his arms go slack. Just in case this didn't work. After all, Gloomblade had seen his share of tongue-speakers and false prophets whose words were no better than their deeds. Better to be safe than sorry.

Still, it was nice to know he had friends he didn't even know about.

Wendigo stood from the altar, looking for a sign of leadership in the church. An elf stood by the doorway, almost invisible in the shadows. Not who he was looking for. A dwarf, more a warrior than a priest approached him. "Hello brother, I am Wendigo," the shifter says, a grave look upon his face. That is all the shifter says for the moment, he wants to see what the dwarf's reaction is.

"Well... just when Ah' thought an elf in Moradin's cathedral was a wierd thin' ta see" the old dwarf says, raising a dense eyebrow. "Name's Gombar, of tha Firebelly clan. What's a shifter doin' here ah? Not the most common of thin's." Gombar offers evaluating Wendigo with his deep red eyes.