Caedmon stands shocked for a minute at Tupilek's actions. Then he speaks clearly to Tupilek."Who, or what, is Bampfwick?"
"The. f*cking. b*tch. who. murdered. my. tribe!" He says, enunciating each word with a fist to the orc's face.
Moklik leans on his spear as Tupilek works. Remarking to no one in general, he says approvingly, "Ah. See, he knows how to speak Orc."
Caedmon offers Tupilek has Axe."Carry on then."
"Well - we could use a prisoner to interrogate. But if you have Blood Feud then so be it."
Whoever the orc was expecting to cut him free, it almost certainly wasn't an angry human who would shout at him and punch him in the face.
A look a astonishment comes over its ugly face, slowly twisting into a mask of fury. It spits forth a reply in its foul tongue:
Ki a fene vagy te? Ne üti meg! Hol vannak a katonák? És miért gagyogsz Bampfwick? Mondta küldött?
Seeing that it is not making any progress, it switches, haltingly, to another tongue, which Bonewright recognizes as crude Draconic:
Desine! Qui vobis? Bampfwick ... tibi mittere solet? Ubi sunt militibus meis?
"Any of you understand this worm?"
Whearbeard shook his head. "Not even close. If nobody can, we should just finish the job - can't take a prisoner over a distance like we must travel."
"I do" Bonewright sighs "But to convince him to give us good information is going to take lies and elven magics. Will you play along?"
A bit perplexed, Wheatbeard stared back at Bonewright. "If you're a good liar, I'll give it a go. What'll we be doing?"
"Information lead to vengance. Spin your lies bone man."
Bonewright concentrates for a moment, then speaks a few words in Draconic.
A big dumb smile spreads over the orcs face as he looks at the Bonewright.
Etiam quis Loquor! Stultus prohibere percutis me, et succidat me libera! Numquid Bampfwick mittam vobis?
Bonewright stands between Tupilek and the Orc
"hoc stultum est bulla." announces Bonewright, stressing the "stultum"
Looking meaningfully into the orc's eye he draws the dagger from his belt...
"bampfwick paciscor effrego quod putat."
...and presents it under the orc's nose.
"nos volo impetro magis ferri pugionibus huiuscemodi."
Bonewright shakes his head slowly from side to side, then looks at Tupilek.
"Sed prius hic te nos huc. Profectus es ad nos prodere insidias putat."
Finally he puts the dagger away and smiles broadly, laughing a little at the end.
"Indica mihi cur venis et ego ostendam illi - quod nec callidus est."
The orc's mood brightens.
Et estis Garrilk militum eius? Nos vero parabant insidias homines callidos homines ad paludes. Sed ante nos contra araneorum magna. Per tela, nescio. Bampfwick quod quaeritur. Occurrit in petra arcu futurum post eos occulte. Did vos adepto dryadalis mulier?
Bonewright looks directly at Tupliek "Garrilk."
Bonewright imitates the orc inflection, as if translating, leaving a strange rhythym to his words
"He thinks we are the others?" They were to ambush us here. What do we need to know. Wants to know about the elf woman?"
"Yes, we are Garrilk. We have elf. Him lead us to arch, we kill orcs."
Throaty chuckles sound from Wheatbeard's throat as he picks up on Bonewright's subterfuge. He knew his way around that odd tongue, that was for sure; the information he was getting was juicy indeed, but it opened more questions. Wheatbeard decided they ought to figure out what the story was behind the Elf.
"The woman - what was their goal with her?" he asks of Bonewright.
The orc squints through the torchlight, noticing Wheatbeard for the first time.
Foetida nanum est inter legatos? Putabam abiisse retro ad cuniculos? Volunt plus aurum? Deridebis eos Bampfwick - iam bene meritis perfidia pretium.
A terrible relisation comes over Bonewright as he stares at the trusting orc.
He's going to have to die - and I'm going to have to betray him.
Elven magic is dark magic indeed.
"Non, vult nocere, ita nos iunxit. Nani calce, alter eum, et credimus ei: Non certus sum autem quod dicit nobis duplex legati sapien."
"No, he just likes hurting people, so he joined us. The other dwarves kicked him out, so I'm not sure we can believe him, but he says the envoys are planning to double cross us."
Necesse est ergo dicere Bampfwick.
His face creases, and he begins to stir uneasily. Bonewright can tell that something in the questioning is beginning to rouse his mind against the magic.
Nihilominus multas quaestiones petis. Omittamus, hinc et succidat me. Ubi sunt militibus meis?
Bonewright shrugs and starts sawing through the web.
"Opinor, debet. Ubi nunc est Bampfwick?"
"I guess we should. Where is Bampfwick now?"
Bonewright slowly begins cutting the orc free from its cocoon, while continually chatting with it.
Where is Bampfwick?
In the mudpits ("the hot swamp") of course.
Where does the iron come from?
From the mine, far north across the burning rivers. He hasn't been there
What is the orcs' plan of attack?
Don't know. Bampfwick will decide. They are waiting for others, and for the time to be right.
What allies do they have?
Some humans, ("like you") and one clan of dwarves will make sure the other dwarves keep out of the fight.
What is his name?
Jurgosh. Hang on - shouldn't you know that?
Tupilek goes along with the ruse. "Tell him we need rest after the battle with spiders. In morning he lead us to the mud pits. When we close we kill him, scout orcs and return to over-chief."
Bonewright looks at Tupilek
"He will regain his sense before morning." he says reluctantly.
Moklik steps forward and coup de graces the orc before it is fully free.
The orc face barely has time to register its surprise as Moklik's spear plunges into its throat. It gurgles briefly, blood spurting from the wound, before falling limp, it's eyes still wide in shock.
Moklik wipes his spear on the dead orc. "Now I speak orc, too."
Sighing Caedmon steps forward."We can at least honour his death with a proper funeral."
"Trechery deserves no honor," opposed Wheatbeard, his tired, worn state bringing out the harshness within him. "I must rest." He stumbled back near the entrance, meaning to make for the beginning of their pit.
"Orcs deserve no honor. We leave him for carrion. He would have done worse for you."
"The only one being Treacherous in this case is us. Besides if we honour him then doesn't that mean we are better than his kind? Or would you rather us sink to the Orc's Level of Honour?"
Bonewright looks at the orc - at Jurgosh - then looks away.
This is a war. The orcs are coming. They must be stopped. That has been an abstract till now. No longer. This is the first real orc. The first time the abstract is real.
Jurgosh wasn't a savage. He spoke other languages. He laid plans. His society had some understanding of honour. Most tellingly, after immediate survival his first thought was his men, then his tribe.
The orcs must be stopped, perhaps, but this orc was a better man than Garrilk.
Suddenly the Order's monomaniacal insistence on Hospitality makes more sense. The reason the others in the Order have not joined him. A flash of sad, cold understanding.
The spear is cast.
"We should go. We can come here after we rest. We - I am tired. We have learned many things we should think on."
"The dwarves have been paid off. Some humans have allied. The location of the mine is known. The elves seek allies. The orcs have spies. Any one of these facts would justify our return."
"Honor is for humans. This garbage." Tupilek says nudging the corpse with his toe. He follows Wheatbeard outside to rest near Pikkuveli.
Caedmon sighs and speaks under his breath in an irritated voice while picking up the Orc as best he can."And yet this 'Garbage' was more 'Human' than Garrilk and his group."
When he reaches the top he takes the Orc down as best he can. Once he is at the bottom he finds the softest ground he can and then starts digging a grave for the Orc while looking around for enough Stones to at least put around the Grave. All the while he is thinking."The Druids were right. Coming to join the fight would show him the true darkness of the world."
The Stories tell that before the Worldbreaking, the great River rose in the mountains to the west, and flowed across the land. It was free of ice, for the world was warmer in those days, and the snows lay heavily only in the far north. The ancestors build great craft, like the kayaks of the halflings, only larger, with great wings like those of the seabirds who flock on the seacliffs, plunging into the cold waters to catch the glittering herring. The craft would travel up and down the River, bringing people and trade goods from far and wide.
When the sky fell, and the world was broken, the land shook and broke, its shape changing like a shaken blanket. The path that the great river took was changed. Its waters were trapped - they could not flow. Instead they plunged down into the earth, where they mixed with the ground and the hot, fiery blood of the world that still flows to to this day, far to the north, as the Burning Rivers.
So were created the Mudpits, a great expanse of boiling water, spouting mud geysers, and clouds of scalding steam. Warm even during the deepest winters of the past, when Father Glacier marched across the land, it gave shelter to strange, dangerous creatures within its borders. Some druids, outcast from their own Circles, revered it as a holy place, seeking omens in its bubbling pools and unpredictable waterspouts. Only the bravest traveled there, seeking trophies or valuable mineral salts encrusted around the pools.
The tales of those few who returned were confused. They described a hellish, dangerous landscape, with foul creatures hidden in the mud and water. But they also told of the ruins of a great city of the Ancestors hidden in the center of the Mudpits. More darkly, they told of troglodytes, come to the place by means unknown, and pursuing their own, ineffable ends.
The night passes without further incident. Hunkered down in the ruins of the tower, the group form a makeshift camp. Elenid returns, horrified at the stories of the spiders and the orcs. Her horror, and sympathy for the wounded, does not however stop her expecting Caedmon to make her dinner.
The gruesome spider carcasses are tossed down the pit, once Bonewright has gathered some of their more interesting body parts for his collection.
Pikuvelli is restless, fretting at the lack of grazing this high up in the hills.
As dawn lights the world again, the mist is gone, and a steady, slightly warmer breeze blows from the north. The sky is troubled, confirming Wheatbeard's prediction of a storm brewing, although it will not break today.
Seeing his prediction of the firmament come to fruition, Wheatbeard nodded to himself. The rain will wash the stains of death away here. But what else lurked below? Such work put into not only creating the chamber but keeping it safe from outsiders, there was little doubt the people entombed therein were important during their lives. They were not his kind, and it was clear the others did not know of the dead. Elenid was not letting on she knew anything either. A great mystery, it was, and Wheatbeard liked mysteries - or solving them, rather.
In the meantime, it seemed they all needed a break. Bruised and battered, Wheatbeard ripped some cloth from the dead, poisoned Orcs in an attempt to accelerate scabbing and keep the wounds shut. Especially with such vicious creautres calling this place their home, one could never be too safe.
The overnight breezes had cleaned the air in the bone chamber, but the scent of rot and spice still lingered. The flickering of the torch cast dancing shadows over the stonework. Crowded around the arched entranceway at the bottom of the stairs, the group could not see anything changed or disturbed from the previous evening. But something about this catacomb made them nervous. Only Wheatbeard amongst them was used to being underground, and this was not the warm, dry halls of a dwarven clanhold. Bonewright felt the same as he had the previous day, as though they were being watched, and the watcher was not happy at their presence.
Walking down into the dark earth, Wheatbeard wondered what lay in the tombs - just bones? - and perhaps beyond them. This was no easy journey of emotion, for the feeling they were not alone was constant.
He descended slowly.
Watching the dwarf descend into the dark enclosed space Bonewright struggles to stop his fear from showing on his face.
Humankind's place is under the sky, not under the treacherous earth.
The mission drives him onwards, forcing down his fear.
Taking a deep breath, Moklik followed the dwarf, his spear drawn.
"Asheru, you please heal my wounds?" Tupilek asks the shaman after their rest.
Delving back to the room of bones, Wheatbeard gave them a closer look, his curiosity getting the best of him. Were they of human stature? Dwarven? Something else entirely? While refraining from touching them out of respect for the dead, he did not feel such veneration as to leave the chamber alone entirely; after all, in this dangerous place, it would help to know all they could...
That said, it would also help to know how far this place actually spanned. Looking around for passages leading inward on his way to/in the tomb, Wheatbeard probed the walls with his eyes. If there was a tunnel, he would take it.
The bones are old, almost crumbling at the touch, but to Wheatbeard they seem to be human. They have been neatly stacked up in the small niches, with the skull balanced on top. As far as he can tell, each niche contains the bones of one human. Small stains and discoloured patches on the rock show that there may at one time have been bronze or iron items stacked in the niches too, although these have long corroded away.
However, something glints in the torchlight, and peering into a nice, Wheatbeard sees a beaten gold medallion half-hidden under one of the bone piles. It has some image on its face, and a small loop on the top that may once have held a leather thong.
The chamber appears to be natural, although it has been squared off, and the niches carved, with rough tools - far too crudely for dwarven work.
The room itself only has the one other exit - the rough archway leading through to a chamber beyond that the group noted, but did not pass, the previous day.
Even old and worn as it was, Wheatbeard knew gold when he saw it; how could one of his kind not? Though gold was always welcome in one's sack to spend, this particular medallion had an image of some sort, not fully visable to Wheatbeard. Perhaps it holds the clues as to who these people were?
"Forgive me, spirits" offered the Dwarf as he slid the amulet out from the bone pile, disturbing them as little as possible.
Careful not to bend the gold, a quite soft and malleable metal, Wheatbeard looked-over the obverse carefully before reversing the object. "This may be the best clue we have to the departed souls here," he announced to his companions as he formed a description of the image in his mind to relay to them.
The obverse of the medallion was covered in small, scratched shapes. It brought to mind the runic marks of power and ancestry that the dwarven shamans tattooed into their flesh, although these were cruder, and unfamiliar. On the front was an image of a shield with some sort of emblem on it, although it was worn with handling and difficult to tell what it was in this poor light.
"As best I can tell, it looks like something one of our seers would wear," observed Wheatbeard to the group. Though his darkvision allowed him to avoid stumbling into pits, it wasn't the best tool for fine, specific visuals. Perhaps above ground the amulet would be easier to analyze.
For now, he put the medallion in his satchel with the gold pieces he had and motioned towards the passageway leading further inward. "Let us move on." And so he did.
Caedmon provides light for everyone via his torch. His mind still stuck pondering things. Though most have shifted to why this place exists.