Norwick's envoys and the goblins of the West Rawlins
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<d>I told you who I saw last time we came out here. she shrugs</d>
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Dwin eyes the dropped ale and stares at his wacky cousin.
[d]Da fark you droppin those for?
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Belin drops a couple Dolvak darks to the ground and then sets off after the speedy blond
Oy Ragger meh legs beh short dunnay forget dat!
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Rising to stretch out her long, muscular legs, Ragnhild nods agreement, a quick grin lighting up her otherwise grim features at Belin's nicknames for her and Tindra.
"Ja, ja, right place or vrong, this spot be much changed from vhat it vhas at time of map's making. We backtrack then, maybe make vay east like you suggest Dwin."
Once her mind is made up, Ragnhild seems reluctant to stay a moment longer, the customary restlessness returning as she rests the spear on her shoulder and sets off with long, quick strides.
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Tindra stops in her search for whatever is watching as Belin calls out to her. She looked frustrated, one could easily imagine her tail would be flicking back and forth if Tindra had been in her feline shape. 'Dammit,' she thought to herself, 'I lost it. Where the heck did that scent come from?'
With a quick sigh, Tindra turns to Belin, "Aye, we're getting nowhere here. Let's move on… carefully."
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Belin watches dwin her face carefully blank
Aye meh think movin beh un good idea. Whut yuh thinkin Tinder und yuh Ragger?
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_Taking care to stick to the shadows, the dark armored figure just watches the dwarf motion in an agitated fashion, looking around as if he was lost.
Holding onto a staff as he peers impassively at the group, he starts to wonder what they are looking for.
Suddenly a small shift in the wind brings the smell of the remains of the animal carcass from the bag hanging near his stomach up to his nose. A wide and strong sneer forms on the dwarf's face as he can start to tell how long they have been in the woods from the strength of the smell.
Then a thought from a long time ago. Dwin was not of clan "Map Reader" and was probably following ale stains throughout these woods.
No matter, the longer they stayed here, the more the chance they would run into something they would rather not have._
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After doing his best to look for cryptic landmarks, Dwin throws his hands in the air.
"We ain't in the right place, I don't think.
"Slippy rocks? Sounds like that might be wet rocks, eh? Maybe that stream that runs near the eastern rawlins, not far from them fruit trees, or what used to be trees near the greenskin caves?
"I'm uneasy in this place–i don't like the smell and I get the feelin we're overstayin our welcome. Let's make our way back and try to figure out whatecer-the-fark these symbols might be.
"Slippy rocks! Could it be ice?
Dwin mumbles as he gets ready to move.
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After murmuring her own prayers over the buried remains, Ragnhild crouches silently, leaning on her spear. She too cannot shake the sense of being watched, and the sense of unease from the others only adds to the tension in the air. She remains crouched for a while longer, perfectly still while listening for any sound revealing the presence of potential company.
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_Dwin stares at Belin for a second and makes a quick look of disgust when she belches (perhaps he's been hanging around longleggers too much).
Understanding her quick message, he looks over at Tindra and watches the half-breed's body language, also feeling that something is amiss.
The sense of smell in most creatures is one that carries the most memories, and Dwin could swear he caught a brief waft of something that reminds him of a different time and place. The name "Stinky" immediately came to his lips.
Shrugging it off as a coincidence or a trick of the greenskin-corpses, he continues to look around for landmarks._
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Belin pausing in their work for an ale, straightens her shoulders looking over her shoulder as if rolling them while she drinks her ale perhaps she feels the eyes watching her. She waves a hand at Dwin her other flicking bits of dirt from her fingers. <tc>heads up. look at cat lady.
belch Ah, that was a dolvak dark. she smacks her lips tossing the bottle away from the group Want one kin?</tc>
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_The dwarf stopped moving as he spied the lingering interest of the cat lady from Norwick.
Quietly he reprimanded himself for not remaining downwind of her. Pointing to a spot a safe distance between himself and the rag-tag group, the dwarf turned his head slightly to the right.
Obeying his command, the undead summon moved between himself and the group, his stench being used to mask the presence of the dwarf.
The dark cloak and armor of the dwarf covered in thick forge soot, a deep black covering that reflected no light.
Reaching down ever so slowly as his eyes fixed on the cat, he picked up some the rotting remains of a small goblin or other woodland creature and placed it in a small burlap bag which he slung around his neck.
That should throw the cat off. Until he could get downwind of them._
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Tindra cocked her head to the side with a raised eyebrow. The smell of sulfuric death had assaulted her senses for most the day. While she would certainly have preferred a woodsy scent, the new scent she picked up was like a breath of fresh air. Curiosity derailed her thoughts from the futile search for landmarks as she sniffed the air. She stood still, with just ears twitching, trying to pick up any sound.
It was an ashy and metallic smell, she concluded, like that of a smithy. And the hint of dwarven ale almost made her think maybe she just was upwind of Dwin and Belin. She figured just about any dwarf regularly carries the scent of a forge, but her two dwarven companions had been working for a while with helping Ragnhild lay her goblin tribe back to peace. The two should smell more of the grave than of the forge.
The half-elven sorceress pulled her cloak tight and began to move about quietly. Her eyes searched about while she sniffed the air and listened to the wind. Somebody was about and she wanted to know who and where.
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The bodies of the goblin shamans are quickly returned to the earth being little more than bones and sinew by now. As the party scans for landmarks they can't help realize that if there were any landmarks in the area they probably have been unrecognizably changed by now. The smell of a forge and dwarf comes quickly to Tindra's senses. It is quite evident it isn't from her party. Others get the sense of being watched.
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Ragnhild rests her hand on Tindra's shoulder briefly, giving it a light squeeze of sympathy before turning to Belin and nodding, the rage in her eyes suppressed now to focus on the task at hand. With great care, the skeletal remains are removed from the sharpened sticks and ceremoniously layed out on the ground while Belin works at consecrating the area.
//welcome into the plot Herrold, think this thread just turned from good to even better ^^
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_Sqee leaves the dwarf's cave and moves away from the entrance quickly. The sound of the shattering glass of the violently thrown ale bottle hitting the rock wall, telling how Sqee's message was received by the tunnel dweller.
The scarred, drunk dwarf sits at his chair and pulls another ale bottle from the case on the floor. He opens it and drinks half before he slams it on the table and folds his hands in front of him._
Help dem?! Me is 'eer to AVOID dem!
_His anger starts to rise again and he grips the bottle to throw it against the wall. Slowly his hand relaxes and he deliberately brings the ale bottle to be finished in one smooth motion. He places the empty into another case to his left.
His now free hand finds a set of branded runes, that very few dwarves who bear the clan name 'Dolvak' have on their body._
Nae. Can nae let im meet Moradin afore it when he want it to be.
_The dwarf slowly rises from his chair and walks over to a heavily armored chest with a ridiculously large lock. Opening it with a key hanging around his neck, he removes a fine cloak covering the contents.
Dark blood colored armor sits gleaming back at him as if it was fresh off the anvil. Plate by plate he removes it from the chest, placing it in its proper place on an armor stand nearby.
He removes all the articles of war from his chest, laying them out, taking a mental inventory of what he had placed in the chest long ago.
His ears perk at the at the unannounced visitor and he turns quickly placing a hand on the goblin messenger's neck.
His touch (negative energy) drains most of the life from the greenskin, but he let's go before the goblin becomes more fuel for his forge._
Ne'er sneak up on sumun who cen summon death! Now wut yeh want?
_The golbin gasps and holds his throat but manages to convey that Sqee would like an answer by tomorrow as to whether he will help the dwarf and his party on their quest.
The dwarf stops tying the war braids into his beard for a moment and thinks._
Tell him if he bring me deh ore he promised, we has an accord..
The dwarf then dismisses the gasping goblin as he continues to prepare his beard and tools of his trade.
[D] Fool of a goblin, would have done it for free. Or maybe he knew I could not leave Dwin to chance…
Dismissing the thought he continues to prepare himself for what might come, locking up his possessions in case a curious goblin dare go into his cave. Most feared the smell of death that emanated from it, but why leave it to chance?
[D] Just another Gear of War preparing to turn again. Someone's blood will serve as the oil that makes us turn easier….
His eye catches the glow of the Amn from the chest as he cleans his armor while recounting various songs of war..
(( By Salsadoom's invitation. Forum RP only. PC is under DM control ))
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Dwin stays mostly quiet as they survey the area. He prods a bit with his staff but stops short of touching or disturbing any of the skeletons.
After a while he steps to the outer area and scans the treeline, or what's left of it.
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Tindra closes her eyes and nods at Ragnhild's words.
"My mother's tribe live two weeks travel east of Norwick, and my father's people somewhere near that. I have no idea if they survived Sharn's army. And now, if they survived that monstrous army, have these demonic atrocities gotten to them? It's painful not knowing. I may be an exile, but I still see my mother's people as kin. None deserve this fate."
She pauses and shakes her head angrily, "No, perhaps one does deserve this… But he was more of a monster than I could ever be."
She sighs heavily and turns back to the camp. "Let's see about offering the dead here some peace, and then I'll scout around for any landmarks."
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Belin grunts at the scene and pulls out what looks to be an ale bottle. Looking to Ragnhild
Yuh want meh tuh say sumthin o'er them for yuh?
Pulling a gold medalion from her shirt she kisses it and then she sets about mumbling in dwarven with some hand waving, finger wiggling and ale sprinkling ((Consecrate (level 2 spell) - Fill area with positive energy Evoc Close 20-ft radius))
whilst muttering in dwarven the words "dwarven father" are heard frequently.
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Ragnhild too grows more bleak in spirit the closer they get to the former camp, her usual cheer replaced by grimness as she notes the growing decay and death all around. As the party reach their destination, it is a pale-faced warrioress who moves slowly through the grounds, her pained expression soon turning to cold rage as she spots the impaled remains. Through gritted teeth, Ragnhild speaks in a low growling whisper:
"I buried them all.. young and old, vhoman and child, warrjor and shaman.. buried them, sang the songs of passing vhile smoke still rise from wreckage of camp site. This.. this vhas done -after-, their rest disturbed, the earth itself cursed. As if in mockeri…"
Following Tindra's gaze eastwards, Ragnhild's eyes burn with icy blue fire as her hand turns white with the force of gripping her spear.
