Roleplaying > Moderated Freeform

[Decathros] Chapter 1: Sinking in Soglash

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Atacuso blinked at the stout sorcerer, as surprised at his generosity as at his greeting. "Atacuso Veithar," he nodded, jabbing a thumb to his chest. "I don' know 'bout dem bright ones you say, but I dank you for de pint."

He shifted, trying to be comfortable on the stool. "Dere many dwarves in these parts?" he inquired. "I don' see your folk too often, 'cept in de refugee outpost near Redglass Falls - y'know, where de Adûrak comes down from de Kazan Mounts."

“Good hunter, I have shared the fires of the Kazan exiles, but they be not my people.  My clan be named the Mistoram in the uncouth tongues, the “Hidden Folk”, for their halls be secret and little-known, even among dwarvenkind.  They lie amid the snows and iceclad stone of the distant north, where mighty beasts and machine-enslaved elvenfolk hold sway.”  The augur silently cursed the inattentive innkeeper, who seemed fully preoccupied with the hysterical elf's issues. 

“To speak boldly, my kind be seldom welcome among dwarvenkind, even those whose home hearths be lost.  I be a dragon augur, bearer of a gift some deem accursed.  The flames speak hidden truths to me, speaking of dangers and changing winds.”

A sign of recognition lit in Atacuso's eye. "Ah, you de hillaq of your people den?" he suggested. "You can hear de gods when dey speak and reckon their meanings? I knew a hillaq down in de bayou, said he could hear de Kanaar gods whisperin' and could even talk to dem hisself. But everyone know de aklla women can talk to de gods better, of course." His faced reddened, fearing he had insulted his short acquaintance. "But dat's how it be wid men and Kanaarites. Maybe it different wid you dwarves. I reckon you can hear de gods just fine."

He looked only passingly at the half-dressed man at first, before realizing he was an elf. His eyes widened. "My foot!" he exclaimed quietly. "I hardly ever see Kanaarites out of de Kanaar, let alone de whole of de Moor." He called out to Aredhel, speaking in the Kanaarite tongue: "Tetlapaloliztlatolli, tepiltzin Kanaar! Tlen cuauhtla quiyahuac tehwatzin?"
"Hail there, son of Kanaar! What has drawn you so far from the swamps?"

[Dice rolls]

Studying his captors, Helgkhor noted that they were each wearing plain, black garbs - a tunic and servicable pants, both with well-worn boots. The hilt of a dagger can be seen prodding out of each of their belts, and the figure on the left held a lantern, flickering faintly. Their faces were turned, so he could not make out their faces.
But enough staring! Helgkhor was a man of action! Muscles bulging behind his back the barbarian pulled apart his hands. The rope at his wrists tore asunder and the man rose.

Dangerously quiet, the two black garbed men only had the sound of a creaking chair and two heavy footsteps to react to Helgkhor's bullish charge. Both turned, and the figure with the lantern had time to let out a 'squeak!' before two hundred and ninety pounds of muscled flesh barreled into them. They went over like bowling pins - all three of them. Although one of the black-garbed figures was merely brushed to the side, the other was caught between the wall and the Barbarian, squeezing the breath out of him and knocking two teeth out. The lantern fell from his hand and clattered onto the floor where it snuffed out, leaving only the one wall lamp to give off light.

In a tangle of arms and legs, the three men struggled to be the first standing, and the healthier of the two cutthroats was the first. "Marduc!" He cried, pulling his dagger from his belt, "Are you alright!?"
The second man murmured incoherently, Stunned beneath the weight of Helgkhor. As the barbarian made it to his feet he cringed: the hot streak of a knife edge slid into his tricep. Not a serious wound, but painful no less!

Behind Helgkhor, the man known as Marduc finally came to his senses and rose. A dagger found it's way into his hand and the barbarian would have found it between his ribs, except at that moment the door creaked open.

Hmm, not even locked. Amatuers. Mused Ahedhel as the door swung open inwardly. Inside the door, A massive man in only undergarments stood. There was blood on his shirt - not his own - and blood on his left arm which WAS the barbarians, judging by the large gash on his tricep. One black-garbed man stood before the muscular man, a bloodied dagger in his clutch, and another stood behind him, ready to plunge another dagger in his back.

At the sound of the door, however, Marduc gasped and turned. This was NOT going to plan! Enraged, the cutthroat forgot the barbarian and clambered towards the newcomer, dagger thrust menacingly out in front of him.

"Aye, Mudwater it do be, m'lud!" Grinned Olluc, and at the Dwarf's interjection he added, "And to the good master dwarf's expense it do be, too, with a fresh pint 'swell! It be late for food, but I're thinking that there be stew left. I'll bring it to yeh shortly." The grizzled tavern owner filled two clean mugs of their respective beverages and handed them to the two. While the two oddly paired men conversed, Olluc turned to hunt for dregs of the seafood stew which had been made much earlier this night. He had naught time to hunt for it however, as the sound of Aredhel's voice distracted him. "Shades! In my inn!? The stones of 'em... it must have been those three lads earlier! Didn't notice whit they was taking up there! Don't ye be putting yourself in danger now, Master Milarien!"
But the elf was already back up the stairs and out of sight; if Aredhel had heard Atacuso's exclaimation to him, he hadn't shown it.

The Tavern owner grimaced - his leg was no good tonight, and he would no doubt only get in the way. Olluc knew that Aredhel was of a good sort, but he didn't want to risk the elf getting hurt! A glance around the room told him that the three vagrants off to a table on the far side of the room wouldn't help, and nor would the bard - he knew them all and they were a cowardly lot...
Olluc limped to the sorcerous Dwarf and the obviously Swynnish newcomer. "Me lads, you seem a capable sort; no doubt you heard just what Master Aredhel just spoke of - there seems to be trouble upstairs in the far room. I d'nay want no trouble in meh Tavern. I'd be happy to pay yeh five gold coin apiece if you could mayhaps help the Master with this problem... Whadd'ya say?"

*CRASH!* Olluc winced at the sound of something heavy crashing into a wall or floor upstairs - the vibrations could even be felt down here! "And yer food and drink, free. Please? Wit' haste?" The Owner's eyes were pleading.

Nodding his assent, Korchel didn't waste a moment before bolting toward the stairs.  Rushing up the staircase toward the brawl, the dwarf shouted hoarsely in the Dragons' Tongue, a language both exotic and filled with sibilant portent.  "Pallid, milk-bellied gutterspawn!  Flame and claw rise to scour away your feeble kind!"  He hoped that the unfamiliar tongue would give pause to the fighters upstairs, but if they proved recalcitrant, they would soon learn that a dragon augur's hands are never as empty as they seem.


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