[Iron Kingdoms] The Age of Rust.

[Dirigible]

All:

"Look, sunshines, I..." Gleiner's words trail off as he meets Dark's soulless, shadowy gaze. For a long, long moment, they stare at each other, the blood draining from the Thurian's face as, somehow, he sees the reflection of Dark's boiling, eldritch insanity seething just behind those eyes.

As he sees his own pyrophoric death, Gleiner flinches and barely constrains a whimper, bat his hands in front of his eyes as if to ward away the vision. He takes a hasty step back, and doesn't quite raise his head to meet anyones gaze. In a hoarse whisper, he mutters, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush "A... awright, look.. I can forego my usual share of the loot this time... but you keep that bloody maniac outta here!" He shudders. "'Pon my oath, though, I know nuthin' about those things that attacked you outside. But, well, I know someone for 'oom this might be just up his alley, so ta say... there's a fella by the name of Viktor Pendrake, uppat the University... clever bugger, by all accounts. I 'ave no doubt he's a busy man, but if it come to the beasties and nasties, he's the bloke ta see." Gleiner swallows and thinks for a moment. "You ken probably meet him via the Dawnchapel Hall, though 'ow you get into the University grounds may be another matter"

He shakes himself, and tries to put on a facade of gruffness to cover his earlier fear. "Now, alluz ya can get the Urcaen outta my office..."

(OOC: Feel free to add any parting shots as you leave...)

 

[Dirigible]

Sneegroborroclokacgriddly

Until this point, Snee had been having a nice eveing. Guard duty at the front door of the ShadowSkins warehouse was not especially arduous; hardly anyone was out on 'guild buisness' tonight, so he didn't have to bother unbarring the door. He had his cup of spiced lobbo liquor, his cosy nook and little stool, and his stack of back issues of "Naughtie Nudie Gobber Gals" to thumb through. Then, it had all gone downhill.

Legs, he thought, peering out of the viewing slit in the low wooden door. It allowed a vista of a small courtyard, unlit and fog shrouded in the back streets of the Armourer's bourg. Or at least, it would ahve, if it wasn;t being blokced by all these tallfolk legs. No, wait, pushing to the front of the group was a fellow gobber... one that looked a little familiar...

"Who dat? Who goes there?" Snee squeaked, prodding the point of his spear out of the slot and waving it threateningly at the assembled appendages.

 

[KaintheSeeker]

Tyra

"Right, we take the sorcerer." smiles at him giving up his share. "An we'll check up on your friend the scholar." heads towards the door. "So, my gobber friend, shall we see to visiting your friends so we take the dour forester's needs."

 

[Shadowfane]

Dark follows the others through the winding, fog-laden streets of the city, lost once more in his private world. Every so often the troubled sorcerer spins around mid-stride and stares intently back the way they have come, all the while bitting at his fingers and muttering darkly behind the lank curtain of his hair.

 

[DJ_Colossus]

Kneecap steps around the tallfolk to meet Snee face to face.

"Snee! Iz me, Kneecap! Good to see ya gov! I know you haven't seen me around for a while. I been busy with stuff around the south end of town. Running favors for rich folk. Anyway, I was wondering if the three tallfolk and I could use the ... eh... facility for a night or two. We got jumped in an alley and they beat up my friend here pretty bad. It might have been that group of Boggrin we ran into a few months back. Remember them? They gave the ShadowSkins such a fight...

We just need a night or two for him to recover and then we'll be on our way. Maybe go payback them no-good boggrin. I can get in a few kneecap strikes for you too, eh? So, what do you say? Help an old Gobber friend out wills ya?"

Kneecap offers his hand out to Snee, a gold crown hidden between his fingers.

[Bluff +3]

 

[Dirigible]

Kneecap:

Snee slips the coin into his plam smoothly, and it dissappears, leaving only a round, faintly golden mark on your hand and his; an unfortunate side effect of your colour-changing skin pigments, and the origin of the phrase 'guilty as a yellow-palmed gobber'.

"By the Earth-Mothers teats, Thrillgrog! Iz good ter seeya." Snee gives you a lopsided grin, and you can hear the bolts and bars being slid back. A moment later the 4' tall door swings open.

"Hrmph. If yon cloudsniffer," Snee jerks a thumb at the prone Eyvind "is as bad off as he looks, yah may want ta take him to see Bruntor. You, though," he says, pointing at you, "better go see Boss Zog toot sweet quick."

All:

Kneecap and the guard natter with each other for a bit in their own tongue, and then the door is opened. It's awfully low, but the roundstone passage beyond seems a little higher.

The gobber guard beckons you in, squinting up suspiciously at the tallfolk. "Come, come. We have priest for tending bigman's hurts."

 

[Shadowfane]

Dark bends his rangy frame to fit through the entrance to the Gobber safe-house, whilst singing tunelessly to no one in particular.

“Gobber maids and Gobber men,
ne’er have such been seen,
wit’ dancin’ shadows and faerie fires,
‘e bid you welcome then!

But ware ye of mealymouth,
tha’ thee hearth yer not spurn,
for wi’ Gobber ire and blazin’ fire
we’ll send ya smartly south"

 

[DJ_Colossus]

"Aye Snee, you always were a gentleman who knew the -- eh -- value of kindness. You have my thanks. The healer is much appreciated. Come, bring Eyvind in and we'll see about patching him together again."

"better go see Boss Zog toot sweet quick."

Kneecap hesitates for a moment.

"Boss Zogg Toot? Hez here!?" This CAN'T be good... If this is about that last job I ran for him... "Aye, I'll see him when our friend here is back on his feet and conscious."

Turning towards his companions, Kneecap whispers:

"Zogg Toot will probably want to meet you tallfolk. He has a tendency to challenge folks, Gobber or Tallfolk to a Gobber Mead drinking contest. Ever taste Gobber mead? It's like human ale mixed with Ogrun piss and Ripperjack grease. I'm a Gobber and I can't even stomach the stuff. Don't let Zogg Toot breathe too close if you know what's good for you."

"Oh, and if he challenges you, it's best just to let him win. You'll be nursing a Gobber mead hangover here for weeks."

"And those things we ran into... those were BOGGRIN, right? Right! Now, to the healer..."

 

[Dirigible]

All:

The corridor beyond the front door is only 5' high, so even Tyra Thornwood has to duck her head to fit within, and Dark's lank, wet hair leaves a greasy smear on the curved ceiling as he shuffles along.

The gobberish guard steps into an alcove, leaning back against thewall and flipping a coin idly as the two Ryns drag the bruised, unconscious scout in after them. He doesn't look particularly alarmed at this; Tyra wonders what sort of establishment this is, where a clearly bloodied man elicits no comment. Dark, on the other hand, wonders why the walls are covered by billions of wasps, with their horrid, horrid stingers. Eyvind is perhaps dreaming happily of the buxom, big-boned women of home.

"AFTER yer friend's back oniz feet? Heh. You're a braver gobber than I, Thrillgrog..." Snee gives a high-pitched giggle. "Last man ta keep Boss Zog waiting... well, let's just say he's hanging around."

Kneecap leads the way through the winding corridor, clearly familiar. It's dimly lit, to suit gobber eyes, with torches ensconsed every sixty feet or more, and only about half of them lit. Small, round doors are set at a slight angle in the walls here and there, looking like the entrances to storm cellars. Luckly, the floor is even and the ceiling constant in height, or the two Ryns would be badly concused by the time the passage opens out.

Her narrow boots crunching on the dry reeds used to soak up the inevitable condensation from the mist and seepage from the river, Tyra stops suddenly, nearly dropping Eyvind's legs. Ahead of her, a short set of steps leads down to what must have been a factory floor, the sort you see in fabric mills. Long stripped of any machines or workbenches, the ceiling here is much more comfortable for humans, vaulted far overhead, and the room itself is large enough.

It seems you've walked into a gobber bazaar.

A crowd throngs around amidst stalls, tents, stands and rugs piled with goods of all sorts. Spice merchants rub tiny grey shoulders with weaponsmiths, gobbers hawking copper bowls squabble for space with clothiers measuring customers for their odd, colour-shifting ponchos, along with the more mundane kind. The whole palces has a cramped, precarious feeling; stacks of goods wobble dangerously, and in some places stallholders have built their stands on top of each other, using crude ramps to let customers through. Coloured lanters cast eerie, shifting glows over the scene, as gobbers, and the odd boggrin weave around each other, voices raised in curses and sales pitches mingling together.

"Getchoorluverly hats! Lots of hats fer sale!"

"Cor, check out the jubblies on that one, Bligdeblog."

"How much for the pen holder?"

"I have finest ponchos, right here!"

"Hats! Hats! Hats fer sale!"

"Skrigg pies... just like muvva used to make! So fresh you can taste them BOOM in yer mouf!"

"Three of the fresh ones, please."

"Come, come, see my spoons!"

"Big hats, small hats, hats wiv bobbles, hats wiv woggles!"

"Yeah, nice enough, I spose... but they're pink, Bugasog. Euch!"

"HOW much!"

One stall seems to be seeing less buisness than the others. It stands near the middle of the crowd, but the floor around it is clear, as if the crowd is subconsciously avoiding it. It is piled with a massive variety of gear, from knives and swords to string to cups to staves, odds and ends of jewlery to wooden clogs; some of it even looks magical (not the clogs, though). It also has a certain air of ill-gottenness about it.

Sitting peacefully in the middle of this bizzare assortment is a weird looking gobber (and that's saying something). He's quite elderly, with wrinkled skin, and wears a black coat sewn with tokens and feathers and twigs and scraps of cloth, making him look like a living rag pile. Here and there prescious metal or gems twinkle in the mix, though. Unusually, he has hair, a magnificent snow-white mohawk, streaked purple, and a wispy white beard. He taps a long, slender stemmed pipe against his lips as if deep in thought, and his eyes glint brightly at you across the room.

If you need any gear and don't mind dealing with gobbers, this might be a good place to do some shopping. Oh, and watch your purses.

There are several ways out of here; a large archway that leads to Boss Zog's offices and audience chamber, and several others that lead to small shops. A large, iron-bound redwood door apparently leads to the 'temple' here. It is the work of moments to carry Eyvind's prone form to the door and knock.

A small, spindly female gobber answers, wearing a long greyish-white robe apparently made of sack cloth.

"Yesh?"

Kneecap explains your friend's plight, and the little woman bobs her head, instructing you to leave the Kossite on a couch just inside the antechamber.

"It ish not allowed for you to shtay here!" She squeaks. "Bruntor will shee to him!"

With that, she hurridly ushers you out, shooing all the while.


(OOC: Kneecap recognizes the odd gobber; he goes by the very un-gobberish name of Richmond, and has a reputation as a fence par excellence, a magician and a dangerous man. It's said if he doesn't have what you want, he can find it, though his price is usually higher than you think, and rarely accounted in mere gold.)

edit: HA! how's that for an update!

 

[Dirigible]

Eyvind:

The first thing you see when you open your eyes is an ogrun.

Given your upbringing, this is not something calculated to put you at ease.

Acting on instinct, you reach for the handaxe that should rest just beside your bed... but it isn't your bed, nor your home, and your weapons and armour are stacked on a nearby chair. The room is rectangular, fairly small but high ceilinged, with a large door one one wall, and crowded due to the shelves and four plain beds warring for space. The shelves carry mortar and pestle, bandages, piles of scrolls and what looks like religious paraphenalia. You lie on one of these beds, stripped to the waist and aching all over, the same feeling you get from bruised and abused muscles that have been left to stiffen for a few days. However, your wounds have all healed, leaving little more than faint scratches.

The other occupant of the room is the aforementioned ogrun. Of average height for his race (meaning he overtops you by two full feet) and burly, he possesses a mane of black hair, mostly free over his shoulders but with two small braids that run from his temples back over his pointed ears. His blocky face is placid, almost serene (a word you never though you'd use to describe an ogrun), and he has an overall more civilised look than the creatures you're used to. He wears a long white tunic with a breastplate over it, and a massive, double handed war maul rests against the wall next to his chair. It's head is studded with iron points, giving it the look of a wicked meat tenderiser.

The ogrun fixes you with his black eyed gaze and nods slightly. His deep, basso profundo rumbles out "Welcome back to the land of the quick, human..."