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"Show me what it is you are able to do and we will work from there."
Wren smiles, pulling out his spellbook. He's proud of it for it is his own creation. Almost everything within is his own work: his own discoveries, his own writing.
Though he is proud of it, he knows it's not a scholarly or researched work. It's peasant work done with no instruction, no guidance. He pauses before offering it to Suthevan.
"As I mentioned, I have had no instruction. Everything you see here is my work, learned and pieced together through my own discoveries. I seek more spells like the ones that I have now and ones that I have yet to even understand. If you would help me find more...or share your own, I would be grateful."
Wren hands over his spellbook.
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"Is there a way for me to claim Taargick's mantle?
"Taargick was the first Dwarven King, certainly not the last."Vekker seems amused at the thought of Torgan attempting to become a Dwarven King of sorts. "You can try if you wish, though some of these Clans won't be as inviting to the idea of working close by to the others."
By the end of the show Jorgan is sitting comfortably as he begins to lightly snore.
Kraygan punches one of the mimes in the face. White paint covers the dwarves knuckles as the mime falls unconscious to the ground. The other mime looks up and breaks character.
"The hells wrong with you?" She looks to some of the bystanders. Call a healer. GO!" She yells as the people don't move right away. "Someone call the guards on this drunken fool!"
Kraygan grabs ahold of Rogzul's arm and quickly drags him away to go on a drunken bender that will change the orc's life forever as they know it.
First Rogzul and Kraygan reach a dive of a bar to start off with the cheaper drinks. The drinks go down smooth, as they are more than likely watered down. Before long the man with the blue drinks passes by on a cart once again where Kraygan comes back with four drinks.
That is the last thing of the night that either Kraygan or Rogzul remembers before waking up in a shabby room in the Warrens District, clear across the city. The room is a complete mess as large bottles of the mysterious but delicious blue liquid lie all about the floor. The bed is completely broken and in shambles.
Standing up Kraygan goes to use the bathroom and nearly leaps from his skin as a parrot loudly squawks near him! Shouting in surprise the parrot flies out the open window that leads out to the balcony and many rooftops.
Going to take a piss Kraygan passes Rogzul who is sprawled out across the make-shift sofa, with a tattered sheet splayed out across the orc. Nearby are small splotches of blood and a sharp needle. Lifting the sheet Kraygan notices a very amateur tattoo across Rogzul's shoulder blade. It doesn't even look complete as it simply says Kray.....
Kraygan drops the sheet back down as Rogzul begins to stir once again and heads back towards the bathroom. Once done Kraygan begins to wash his face in the mirror and that is when he notices his own amateur tattoo. On the uncerside of Kraygan's arm is a stick yak with Rog crudely written across the body of the yak, as if Rogzul was bestowed a spirit animal upon Kraygan's body.
Rogzul's spirits all groan in unison as Rogzul sits up and hears scuffling coming from the bathroom and a loud scream from within just shortly after. Rushing in Rogzul and Kraygan find a young human male lying face-up in the tub. His eyes blood shot, wide open and lifeless as he stares straight at the ceiling, mouth agape.
As the shower curtain is pulled back a loud rap is heard on the door. "KAER MAGA GUARDS! OPEN UP!"
Closing the book he smiles. "I see." Handing the book back to Wren Suthevan sits back in his chair. "I may be able to come up with something to help. Come back tomorrow and give me time to gather the appropriate books."
Suthevan stops Wren before he leaves for the evening. "Before you go, tell me though. In exchange, might you join our cause and allow us to see this mythical forge of yours?"
"Oh cr@p, not again!" Kraygan exclaims.
Hoping that it isn't what it seems, he slaps the man in the tub, hoping it's not a corpse.
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"I'm not sure I have that right, but when I return I'll be happy to find a partner to take back there. Also, it's not mythical, as far as I know. I don't think there is any divinity within...it's power is immense. An artifact. A giant artifact. And I might need help destroying it," Wren says grimly, yet determinedly.
"I will see you tomorrow then." Wren leaves and returns to his inn (or finds an inn). He will send a note to the dwarves explaining where he is.
Wren will spend the rest of they day shopping and perusing magic, and thinking about exactly which magical books he will be buying to aid his learning.
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"I have pondered over your spellbook that you showed me last night. While most are right at their core they could use a little fine tuning. I would not use your form of dimensional hopping for the time being. At least until we are able to get it under control a little more. You could rip a whole in the very fabric of reality itself if not careful."
Suthevan places his hand on the stack of books. "Read through these theories as they may help. "Now what instruction is it you seek from me to help you better understand?"
*Pound! Pound! Pound!* "Kaer Maga Guards. Open up. We will not ask again!"
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Wren smiles, looking over the books.
"I'll read and see what questions I have. I don't even know what I don't know yet, you know? There are some spells that I have thought about, but not even sure that they are real or even possible..." Wren begins, but then begs off. "Let me see what of this makes sense. I, honestly, feel like I don't know what I'm doing though I seem to be able to do some very powerful things."
Wren begins to read, organize, and take notes. He spends a lot of his time shaking his head at his readings, smiling, then speaking to himself. Phrases like 'Oh, that's what that means,' and 'Oh, that's a much easier way to do it' are often spoke.
For the first time in a while, he is happy.
Wren returns his books to the Suthevan and asks to see more books on a particular area of study: binding arcane energies to items, especially as it pertains to artifacts and secondly, on the nature of dragons, the dragonstones, and how they might be controlled.
He does not yet have a plan, but still learns so he might might one based on what might be happening with the forge, the fire giants, and the Storm Tyrant.
As his head rolls to the side, Rogzul finally feels awake and alert, well, awake anyway and with a groan he stands up from his makeshift bed, muttering orcish threats under his breathe.
Ignoring most of the carnage in the room, Rogzul briefly appreciates how similar the area looks to an orcish raid celebration.
...maybe the dwarves were right not to let you in the city...
...maybe they should ban Kraygan as well...
His spirits whisper to one another.
Finding Kraygan slapping a corpse in the tub, Rog places and hand on his shoulder and stares at him through squinted eyes.
"Open a window. Let's go."
If/when Kraygan does as he's told, Rogzul casts wind walk on himself and the drunken dwarf, than floats calmly toward the street below and away from the loud noises that pound in his skull.
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He hands Wren another stack of books concerning "Magical Artifacts throughout History" and Dragonkind.
Wren spends a good amount of time flipping through the histories of Dragonkind.
Certain knowledge exists in a state beyond time, distance, and the minds that struggle to possess it. The Orbs of Dragonkind number among such timeless mysteries, spoken of through the ages and across empires and planes as things of wonder and devastation, physical legends to be pursued or destroyed for the world-shaking power they possess.
Immortal historians among Heaven’s Great Library trace the genesis of the orbs to the myth-shrouded history of dragonkind and a chaotic mother deity no dragon willingly names. Although the lines between truth and legend blur, fragments of epics claim the first orbs appeared in the aftermath of the great war that marks the beginning of time and existence for dragons. As her son and her partner battled and the kaleidoscopic mortal beings created in their images slaughtered one another, the chaotic queen, Tiamat, shed 10 tears. Through the ethers these tears fell, crystallizing the goddess’s will, and each landing upon the fallen form of a different draconic hero. The souls of these dragons entered the tears, bestowing each with the power of and undeniable authority over its kin.
Soon after, all of these perfect spheres, glistening with the varied hues of draconic paragons, were claimed by lesser dragons. Some were collected into hoards, and others fueled the conquests of draconic tyrants, but all were objects over which dragon killed dragon. Ultimately, journeying across endless planes and nameless worlds, the orbs followed and continued to sow conflict. Today the orbs persist as they have since the infancy of dragonkind, embodiments of the will of the near-forgotten dragon mother, the talons of clawed hands reaching through eons to manipulate and dominate dragonkind toward unfathomable ends.
Closing the book Wren pours over his current knowledge of giants and this Storm Tyrant. While the Forge itself may have been an after thought to further supply his army the Storm Tyrant looks to be using the lesser giants as cannon fodder while the more elite of each of the races are filtered through the camps until they reach the more militaristic Fire Giants who dwell deep underground within the mountains of an active volcano.
Severely hungover Rogzul and Kraygan slowly float down to the busy street below as several passerby's look up in fond curiosity and fascination as an orc and dwarf float down into their midst and take off running. A trio of guards hang from the balcony as they point towards Rogzul and Kraygan making their escape. Putting a finger to his mouth the guard lets out a sharp, shrill whistle that is met by another in the distance a couple of blocks away.
The crowd is thick as the people stop to try and figure out what is going on. Down the street people are quickly moving and making way for the guards as they run through the middle of the crowd.
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"Do you have any questions?"
Wren smiles wearily.
"I have more questions than when I started, but so many of my older, nagging questions have been answered. No, I just need more time and more reading. I have been thinking about fire giants as well. In theory, the Storm Tyrant has been amassing them and I might be responsible for helping stop them..."
Wren begins to see if Suthevan has any ideas on what magics might be suitable for Wren's use.
"Tell me what you know of spells that bind the winter's frost into freezing the bones of enemies...?"
Wren talks and reads and finds more avenues of research, trying to fill in as much as he can in what little time he has.
While the others are up to some crazy shenanigans, Jorgan is sleeping off his alcohol in a local stable he rented a space from. To him it was more comfortable than any room he could find.
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Grabbing a book off of the desk he begins to flips through its pages, stopping on several of them. "There is ice spears that one could conjur, A cone of cold which is similar to it's fire based counterpart, A freezing sphere can also be evoked if one has enough power. by the sounds of it you hold quite a bit of latent energy, or even bring a blizzard to the land of fire. You wouldn't be able to sustain it long in all of the heat but it may prove useful." Suthevan points to the particular spells out of the book for Wren to see.
The crowd bristles and gets goosebumps as Rogzul and Kraygan blow past. The guards above, on the balcony, still continue to blow whistles, that are replied shortly after as guards below scatter, looking for the pair.
Kraygan and Roguzl easily float from one rooftop to the next as they escape without being seen before returning to the streets below.
Jorgan snores loudly in the horse stables, half buried underneath a large pile of hay. He is awoken midday as a young boy, around 12 years old pokes him with the wooden end of a pitchfork. "Mister....Mister, you okay?"
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Will definitely hit you up on G-chat sometime.
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He leans back in his chair and realizes that he never has to go back to Trunau if he doesn't wish it. He can live here instead. In fact, he could stay here and never go back to the Forge, fighting the giants and risking his life. He could spend his time here, or places like here, reading and learning.
He has grown so much over the last few months that he can't really believe all the changes, all the things he can do now with magic.
He sighs, pondering.
I will have to meet the dwarvenhorde soon. And soon we will go back.
Wren goes back to reading.
Once safely away...
Kraygan paces back and forth in an ally off the main streets, his armor clanking like a clockwork as he takes three steps, turns in his heel, and steps three in the other direction, and repeats.
"Ach! This is no good. No good 't all!" Kraygan turns to Rogzul. "What 'appened back ther? Who was tha' fella in th' tub? What day izzit? We should get back t' th' meetin point with th' others. See if they heard anythin."
Looking down at his armor, then up at Rogzul, he blinks and grunts. "Th' two of us tryin t' go unnoticed is gonna be tough. We need t' change, maybe cut our hair and get tattooed." Kraygan's mind races. "I got an idea..."
Kraygan drags Rogzul out into the street, looking for a shop. "No one is looking for two well-dressed ladies."
Looking up at the kid, he asks, "Hey, who are you? And do you know where the dwarf, elf, and orc are that I was with yesterday? No, it's not a joke, I've gotta find them."
"Who cares who he was? They didn't see us, we can just go meet the Elf. Hopefully he's done by now." He grunts and stares at the shop Kraygan suggested with disgust. "I wouldn't disguise myself for the dwarves, you think I will now? Are you still drunk?"
Wondering if anyone can tell Kraygan is acting oddly, Rog uses Kashag to keep an eye from above to warn if any authoritative looking figures are bearing down on the duo.
"Are you still drunk?"
"Maybe? Don't judge me!"
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He smiles proudly as Jorgan asks his name. "I am Kev!" His face quickly turns to confusion. "Orc, Dwarf and an Elf? Oh, OH I have heard this joke before. My Pa told it I think. They walk into a bar right?"
Kraygan blinks at the shopgirl, then down at the dress she holds. His hand drifts forward on its own, the fabric sliding across his war-callused hand.
"So soft..." He wonders, never having felt anything like it before. "Ye got this in a 54 short?"
Jorgan stumbles out of the stable, straw still sticking out of his beard, hair, and clothes and now smelling not just of alcohol but also smelling strongly of animal dander and dung once again. Maybe it'll be easier to find the elf... I'll just wait with him for the others to show up.
Jorgan then stumbles off in search of the more scholarly buildings to find the cranky elf and bother him a bit.
Kraygan glances at Rogzul, then back at the shopgirl...
A short time later...
Kraygan and Rogzul wait at the designated rendezvous point for Jorgan and Wren. He can't help but stroke the fine fabric and adjust the long veil over his beard. Having summoned Haggis back from the spell that kept him pocket-sized, he had stowed most of his arsenal of weapons and armor in the yak's giant bag of holding. Few clues remained that he wasn't a dainty dwarven lass out for a walk. Except he still wore his magic weapon harness, sturdy belt, and heavy combat boots. And carried the glorious beerhorn, occasionally lifting the veil to drink. And was escorted by a savage orc chaperone.
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Though it likely takes several hours, Wren grows quite impatient as he waits. First Jorgan shows with hay creased into his beard quickly followed by Kraygan and Rogzul, one of which seems to be wearing a lovely new floral dress as the pair look over their shoulders. Though by midday the group is once again reunited in the main square.
The bustle of people moving too and from various shops makes it a bit difficult to hear as the group has to lean in quite a bit to talk.
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Wren floats down to the dwarvenhorde, disgusted by the press of bodies.
"Let's get out of here, go someplace quiet?" Wren asks, trying not to smell too much. "This has been a good trip, but we can't talk here. Let's go someplace quiet."
Wren puts his hands on the all the dwarven/orkkenhorde and utters words of arcane power, teleporting the group to someplace less noisy.
When they arrive, he smirks, quite happy.
"I have good news to report. I have decided to return with you all to the forge," Wren says happily. "You'll keep my company for a while longer."
"Great!" Jorgan responds to Wren's turn of mood. "Let's get going though! I'm getting anxious to hunt down some giants and I get bored just sitting around the forge and then sitting around Kaer Maga and now sitting around the forge again...."
Rog grunts in approval as the elf takes them from the obnoxious city and he wonders if things would actually have been worse in the home of the dwarves.
"How long do we wait for Torgan?" He questions, not sure he wants to wait anymore than Jorgan does.
He looks over Kraygan and shorts again, wondering when the dwarf will dress in his armor instead of the dress he'd unnecessarily purchased.
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Grabbing ahold of the group Wren practices a bit more of his teleporting between the planes, that he has learned over the past couple of days within the Arcanum with Suthevan.
Wren ports the group someplace far more quiet as it is within the Tarheel Promenade district and near the Arcanist's Circle. Finding a small corner near the market Wren leads the group into the small cottage where he has found it to be quite quiet for his studies as of recent.
Grabbing a table in the corner the group begins terse whispers as they are anxious to get moving once again and how long to await Torgan's return.
A few of the other students look on in curiosity as A dwarf in a floral patterned dress walks through the door, but quickly return to their studies. As the group hunches over the table minding their own business and formulating plans a curious halfling eventually approaches. His eyes dart between the books and Kraygan's dress until his curiosity gets the better of him and decides to speak up.
Kraygan has been acting odd ever since the group reunited. He clutches his veil almost as tightly as his beerhorn, and is constantly looking over his finely dressed shoulder. He relaxes somewhat once Wren whisks the group to another part of town, but doesn't fully let down his guard. When the halfling approaches, he gives a start and makes sure the veil is still in place.
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"Now this is as fine a sight as I think I have ever seen! Why, you all are certainly not from around here, are you? Well, for that matter, neither am I... I expect many here in Kaer Maga call somewhere else home, whether they can return there or not. Anyway, you all seem intent on something, and I am finding myself quite bored here. Nice dress, by the way. I recall the Queen of Sarusan wearing something very similar when I dined with her one evening last year..."
The halfling looks off into space thoughtfully, and then shifts his eyes to see any reactions.
"Well then, I guess I should introduce myself. Name is Farin. Farin Hogan..." he says, waiting for the dawning of recognition that never comes. "You have not heard of me? Or my grandfather, Fuzzfoot Hogan? The Giant-Slayer? No?"
The halfling looks hurt and shocked. "I suppose not everyone is that well-informed these days. What a pity. Still, I find myself in need of a distraction, and from the looks of your group, perhaps you can provide one. What's the score? Planning to dress up as ladies and infiltrate the Hall of Records? Got a moneylender that's pushing too hard for payments? Really, what is it? Don't leave me in suspense!"
Jorgan is ready to ignore the halfling and ask Kraygan the story behind the dress but at the words giant-slayer the stabledwarf suddenly forgets his curiosity about what must a fantastic dwarven drinking story and instead questions the halfling, "Did you say you've got a grandpa who was a Giant Slayer? Sorry, I've never heard him but as long as you're not yankin' our chain, you're hitting all the right buttons to make some fast friends in this company..."
Jorgan then remembers his manners and hurriedly brushes some of the straw from his beard and shirt-front as he makes a quick bow of his head. "Jorgan Steelkeg, of the famed brewers of Trunau! That fella there in the dress is me cousin Kraygan. And the orc is Rogs, or Squats if you're feeling brave. And the skinny one with the pointy ears is Wren, but I call him Elf because he can't remember our damn names so there's that."
Jorgan then asks, "So what exactly is in the Hall of Records that we would want to sneak in there? Anything about giant kings or tyrants or anything? Maybe you can help us out."
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Wren's eyes have a hard time leaving Kraygan's battle muumuu sweet new kilt, especially in the less distracting Promenade.
"Kraygan...are you...uh, nevermind..." Wren begins to ask, but then relents. "As I was saying..."
"I recall the Queen of Sarusan wearing something very similar when I dined with her one evening last year..."
"Well then, I guess I should introduce myself. Name is Farin. Farin Hogan..."
Wren's eyes, then head, slowly tilt down towards the interrupter/speaker.
He stares. He thinks.
He stares more, eyes quickly flickering from the top to the bottom of the halfling.
He stares yet more, his eyes flickering to the others. And even to Rogzul.
Then he smiles, getting the jest. He laughs.
"HA! HA! And I didn't think you dwarves had a sense of humor! HA! This is actually funny! How...how did you arrange this!?" Wren says, pointing at the halfling. "This is actually quite clever! Unique! And I don't even have an idea how you knew that I'd bring you here! HA! HA!"
Wren smiles, wagging his finger happily, a good jest was played by all.
"A halfling. HA!"
Wren smiles at the halfling, offering him a few coins as tip for his excellent acting atop what the dwarves might have paid for the joke.
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Farin appears offended by Wren's reaction, but takes the coins anyway.
"Sure, sure. I see you look down on the wee folk, and that's so much the better for me! Why, I excel in taking down those who are too big for their britches. If you would like, I would be happy to demonstrate..."
With a quick flick of both wrists, two daggers get pulled seemingly out of nowhere, spin in the air, and are deftly caught and put away almost as quickly.
Then turning to the clearly more intelligent of the table, he says to Jorgan, "Yah, my grand-pappy killed a giant, and then painted a message on the bottom of his feet. Now, I don't know that the old man meant to make a name for himself as a giant-killer - he just got caught up with group that was out to rescue a princess or something. But when you not only kill a giant, but also leave a message... well, let's just say that my family learned real quick that giants get angry and don't forgive easily. For years after that, the Hogan clan was hunted by more than a few giant tribes, and so we learned to adapt."
"Anyway, I just figured if you were planning a heist, the hall of records might have some blueprints or something. But now it sounds like you are dealing with a giant problem? Well, if that's the case, then I am your man! I will jump at any opportunity to bring down some of them ugly, despicable brutes."
"What do halfings consider t' be giants?" Kraygan blows out the veil with an indignant snort. "Ye sure he didnae take a fat orc fer an ogre? We've seen real giants, and it takes special trainin to take 'em on and expect t' win."
Starting to worry that the little mouth was drawing a little too much attention to the group, Kraygan tries to convince Farin to seek fame, fortune, and an early grave, elsewhere.
"Look, ye might be fast with a knife, but I think what we're up to is way over yer head."
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"Real giants, you say... What exactly are you up to?"
Wren kneels his lanky-ass frame down to speak to the halfling. He re-arranges his bow so that it doesn't clatter too much as he gets lower. Even kneeling, he's taller than the 'ling.
"We're going off to fight real giants, not made up ones. Lots and lots of real giants. Now, it's nice that you've played a good prank, but we're trying to talk about serious things here. You've been paid and they had their fun, and you should go along now," Wren smiles, really not wanting to be rude...which he usually would be.
He looks over at the battle-muumuu'd Kraygan, shooting a thumb the halfling's way.
"Where did you find him? He's cute in a 'I can do it' kind of way."
"Huh? Never seen 'im before." Kraygan looks to Jorgan. "You?"
Rogzul stiffens as the halfling approaches the party and introduces himself.
...Fuzzfoot?... One of his spirits questions, clearly not believing the little mans story.
"We do have a...lapse...in memory." Rog says, squinting at Farin, trying to see if he looks familiar. "Were you the one selling the blue liquid?"
He scratches at one of his tusks for another second before shrugging and dismissing the thought.
"Can your little legs keep up with a herd of yaks? Would you not be crushed by their feet in the midst of battle? I think even Kashag could consume you." The hawk on his shoulder turns it's head to size up the newcomer before screeching in agreement.
"Yakherds?" Kraygan perks up a bit at that. "Then ye know the noble nature o' the beasts, eh?"
Wondering at the little man, who seems persistent in his offer to find adventure, and a horrible death under the boot of a giant, he glances at Wren, considering...
"Arm wrestle the elf and we'll consider yer offer."
"Huh? Never seen 'im before." Kraygan looks to Jorgan. "You?"
Jorgan shakes his head. "No, but then I don't remember how I got to where I woke up this morning either. That blue stuff...."
"Yaks? Why my second cousin was a yak herder, and we spend many a fine summer day herding them to market. Of course, we were riding dogs at the time... perhaps I should get a dog?"
Jorgan's eyes grow wide for a moment and his mouth hangs open. "Herding... to market..." he says breathlessly. "But you mean... to sell them as lovable pets, right? Or beasts of burden? Surely that's what you mean. Nobody in their right mind would eat a cuddly ol' yak."
Jorgan shakes his head to clear the unthinkable idea from his mind and says simply, "Anyways, I've got a ram now. Great big one. If you can keep from being hoof paste, maybe you can show us what you can do against giants if it's not all talk."
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Wren pauses to consider.
"I'm reluctant to invite anyone to come with us. It's dangerous and we've nearly died, repeatedly. But maybe a test is in order? If you can survive what I conjure up, you can come tend the yaks and I won't have to worry too much about keeping you alive, k?"
Wren looks around for a quiet spot/arena to stage a fight.
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"Ah, now a ram is a noble beast to be sure. "
"A test, you say? You gonna bring a giant right here in this establishment? Perhaps we should go outside where he can't do so much damage? I am willing to take your test, but we should put a wager on it. What do you say to this... if you win, I'll walk away and you can play with your giants alone. But if I win, every time you mention my name, you have follow it with 'Oh Captain, my captain'. Deal?"