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Watch For Falling Meteors [4E KotS] Updated Weekdays!
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<blockquote data-quote="Xorn" data-source="post: 4324663" data-attributes="member: 61231"><p>Two days after the celebration, Omar walked out the front door of the smithy wearing a well-fit suit of plate armor, styled in traditional dwarven fashion, which was not exceptional, as the smith was a dwarf. The blacksmith had been so excited when Daichot presented the cured scaled from a green dragon they had found amidst the stolen goods at Kobold Hall, he had refit the plate armor to fit Omar snugly for only a minimal fee; his old armor. The burly fighter was displaying a proud grin as he jabbed a thumb at the chestpiece of his armor—his family crest, the silhouette of a broad foot with a gleaming big toe, was embossed in the center of the breastplate.</p><p></p><p>Omar’s broad smile was nearly as lopsided as the lay of his beard, since there was now a prominent braid on his left jaw line, standing out in stark contrast to the rest of his wild, matted mane. The dwarf moved with the steady gate of every one of his kind, seemingly unaffected by the weight and restricted movements of his new armor. “How do ay look?” he questioned Daichot, hooking one thumb through his belt while balancing his maul over his shoulder.</p><p></p><p>“Quite impressive,” he genuinely observed, “though, the helmet is…” Daichot searched for the right words, failing, “well… crooked.”</p><p></p><p>Omar gasped with indignation as he furrowed his brow, “The helm’s straight! ‘At’s jus’ the lay o’ me head!” The dwarf’s face reddened visibly as his temperament soured.</p><p></p><p>Daichot held his hands up in surrender, stifling a chuckle, “I’m sorry Omar,” the tiefling grinned broadly, then bowed low in apology for his offense, “you wear that armor with a distinguished presence, that none can imitate.”</p><p></p><p>“I cannae tell if’n yer still sayin’ me heads crooked, but I’ll say thanks all the same.” Omar held up a declining hand to a woman selling delicious looking red fruit from her cart next to them, and Daichot fell into step with him. “So that’s all me business ‘fore we leave, anything you need ta take care of afore we’re meetin’ tha others?”</p><p></p><p>Daichot nodded. “I’d like to visit the temple,” he explained, “I don’t think a blessing on our journey would be out of place, and I would like to see if they have a symbol of Bahamut I might acquire.”</p><p></p><p>Omar glanced at the tiefling as they moved through the crowded streets, heading towards the imposing cliff that separated Fallcrest into “high town” and “low town”. The temple the warlord spoke of was visible even from the market square in low town, where they were walking, perched at the edge of the bluff looking down over them, more than a hundred and a half again feet up. Criss-crossing the face of the steep bluff was a switchback trail they were headed to, and a line of porters, ferrying goods from the low side of the waterfalls in the middle of the city up to the high side, to continue their trip up-river. There was a winch operated elevator as well, but it was built ages ago, and reserved for goods that were too large or heavy to move by porter.</p><p></p><p>“I’m surprised ye aren’t a paladin, Daichot. Ye’ve got the discipline and faith fer it, if I was judgin’.”</p><p></p><p>The warlord smiled again, though it was a reflection to himself, knowing an answer he wasn’t going to share, yet. He was broad shouldered and carried a massive greataxe with little effort, and today he held his weapon with a little hint of pride. He had replaced his old weapon with another axe, a magical one which he plundered from the dragon’s small treasure cache. Between the wicked and ornate shape of his new weapon, and the spiky ridges across his brow and forehead, Daichot looked fairly sinister, as most tieflings do. But it took little time in conversation to find he was very concerned with integrity, honor, and strength.</p><p></p><p>“I considered devoting my strength to Bahamut,” he confessed, “but there’s a part of me—the part that grew up here,” he waved his arm out, indicating all of low town, “that just isn’t willing to trust everything to divine will.” He thought about it as they walked without comment, then added, “But I did consider it.”</p><p></p><p>That answer satisfied Omar, or at least he didn’t show otherwise if it didn’t. It was Daichot’s turn for a question. “I apologize for the helmet remark—“</p><p></p><p>“I’ll not have it, lad,” the fighter interrupted, “me ‘ead’s crooked, ain’t yer fault.”</p><p></p><p>A reflexive chuckle escaped his lips. “Well good, because I was planning on really prying now.” Omar looked at him, puzzled. “It’s been eating at me for a few days now, and I’m afraid I just have to ask, but I’m not trying to offend—“</p><p></p><p>“Ye gonna ask er not?”</p><p></p><p>“Your beard.” Though his words were a statement, the question did not need to be stated. “I’ve only seen one dwarf in my life with a beard like yours. He had been beaten to a pulp in an alley and some thugs cut his beard off. They might as well have killed him, to feel his spirit missing after that day.”</p><p>Omar didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem upset. He was just listening, so Daichot continued.</p><p></p><p>“I had just about let the matter go, then yesterday morning you come down from our rooms with that braid.” The dwarf absently was stroking the finely woven band of his beard, but still didn’t say anything. Trying to read if he had upset Omar, there was no indication of anything on the dwarf’s face.</p><p></p><p>“So, will you explain?”</p><p></p><p>“Nope.” Omar replied easily, with a level tone that was conversational, not hostile.</p><p></p><p>“Oh.” Daichot felt a little ruffled, but managed to not show it for the next fifteen minutes, as they made their way up the railed switchback, watching low town shrink below them slowly. Eventually, his curiosity about the normally very talkative Omar broke him. “Well, will you not tell me, or will you not tell anyone?”</p><p></p><p>Omar looked at him plainly, and the tiefling half expected to see the dwarf amused at how perplexed he had his red-skinned companion, but there was no emotion either way, just a dwarf, concentrating on walking. “A dwarf does nae feel sorry fer ‘imself.”</p><p></p><p>They made the rest of the way up the switchback in silence as Daichot thought about whether or not the dwarf had answered his question. By the top, he decided he had.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Xorn, post: 4324663, member: 61231"] Two days after the celebration, Omar walked out the front door of the smithy wearing a well-fit suit of plate armor, styled in traditional dwarven fashion, which was not exceptional, as the smith was a dwarf. The blacksmith had been so excited when Daichot presented the cured scaled from a green dragon they had found amidst the stolen goods at Kobold Hall, he had refit the plate armor to fit Omar snugly for only a minimal fee; his old armor. The burly fighter was displaying a proud grin as he jabbed a thumb at the chestpiece of his armor—his family crest, the silhouette of a broad foot with a gleaming big toe, was embossed in the center of the breastplate. Omar’s broad smile was nearly as lopsided as the lay of his beard, since there was now a prominent braid on his left jaw line, standing out in stark contrast to the rest of his wild, matted mane. The dwarf moved with the steady gate of every one of his kind, seemingly unaffected by the weight and restricted movements of his new armor. “How do ay look?” he questioned Daichot, hooking one thumb through his belt while balancing his maul over his shoulder. “Quite impressive,” he genuinely observed, “though, the helmet is…” Daichot searched for the right words, failing, “well… crooked.” Omar gasped with indignation as he furrowed his brow, “The helm’s straight! ‘At’s jus’ the lay o’ me head!” The dwarf’s face reddened visibly as his temperament soured. Daichot held his hands up in surrender, stifling a chuckle, “I’m sorry Omar,” the tiefling grinned broadly, then bowed low in apology for his offense, “you wear that armor with a distinguished presence, that none can imitate.” “I cannae tell if’n yer still sayin’ me heads crooked, but I’ll say thanks all the same.” Omar held up a declining hand to a woman selling delicious looking red fruit from her cart next to them, and Daichot fell into step with him. “So that’s all me business ‘fore we leave, anything you need ta take care of afore we’re meetin’ tha others?” Daichot nodded. “I’d like to visit the temple,” he explained, “I don’t think a blessing on our journey would be out of place, and I would like to see if they have a symbol of Bahamut I might acquire.” Omar glanced at the tiefling as they moved through the crowded streets, heading towards the imposing cliff that separated Fallcrest into “high town” and “low town”. The temple the warlord spoke of was visible even from the market square in low town, where they were walking, perched at the edge of the bluff looking down over them, more than a hundred and a half again feet up. Criss-crossing the face of the steep bluff was a switchback trail they were headed to, and a line of porters, ferrying goods from the low side of the waterfalls in the middle of the city up to the high side, to continue their trip up-river. There was a winch operated elevator as well, but it was built ages ago, and reserved for goods that were too large or heavy to move by porter. “I’m surprised ye aren’t a paladin, Daichot. Ye’ve got the discipline and faith fer it, if I was judgin’.” The warlord smiled again, though it was a reflection to himself, knowing an answer he wasn’t going to share, yet. He was broad shouldered and carried a massive greataxe with little effort, and today he held his weapon with a little hint of pride. He had replaced his old weapon with another axe, a magical one which he plundered from the dragon’s small treasure cache. Between the wicked and ornate shape of his new weapon, and the spiky ridges across his brow and forehead, Daichot looked fairly sinister, as most tieflings do. But it took little time in conversation to find he was very concerned with integrity, honor, and strength. “I considered devoting my strength to Bahamut,” he confessed, “but there’s a part of me—the part that grew up here,” he waved his arm out, indicating all of low town, “that just isn’t willing to trust everything to divine will.” He thought about it as they walked without comment, then added, “But I did consider it.” That answer satisfied Omar, or at least he didn’t show otherwise if it didn’t. It was Daichot’s turn for a question. “I apologize for the helmet remark—“ “I’ll not have it, lad,” the fighter interrupted, “me ‘ead’s crooked, ain’t yer fault.” A reflexive chuckle escaped his lips. “Well good, because I was planning on really prying now.” Omar looked at him, puzzled. “It’s been eating at me for a few days now, and I’m afraid I just have to ask, but I’m not trying to offend—“ “Ye gonna ask er not?” “Your beard.” Though his words were a statement, the question did not need to be stated. “I’ve only seen one dwarf in my life with a beard like yours. He had been beaten to a pulp in an alley and some thugs cut his beard off. They might as well have killed him, to feel his spirit missing after that day.” Omar didn’t say anything, but he didn’t seem upset. He was just listening, so Daichot continued. “I had just about let the matter go, then yesterday morning you come down from our rooms with that braid.” The dwarf absently was stroking the finely woven band of his beard, but still didn’t say anything. Trying to read if he had upset Omar, there was no indication of anything on the dwarf’s face. “So, will you explain?” “Nope.” Omar replied easily, with a level tone that was conversational, not hostile. “Oh.” Daichot felt a little ruffled, but managed to not show it for the next fifteen minutes, as they made their way up the railed switchback, watching low town shrink below them slowly. Eventually, his curiosity about the normally very talkative Omar broke him. “Well, will you not tell me, or will you not tell anyone?” Omar looked at him plainly, and the tiefling half expected to see the dwarf amused at how perplexed he had his red-skinned companion, but there was no emotion either way, just a dwarf, concentrating on walking. “A dwarf does nae feel sorry fer ‘imself.” They made the rest of the way up the switchback in silence as Daichot thought about whether or not the dwarf had answered his question. By the top, he decided he had. [/QUOTE]
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