"Ah yes, the grapeshot does wonders for beatin' the drow back. All their dodgy dancin' won't help 'em when we turn the air they breathe to lead and give 'em some new breathin' holes!"
Edrukk makes no note of the sound of the clamorous entrance, being no stranger to loud and sudden sounds. When he sees the other folks looking back, he looks back to the door and sees Rockjaw.
"Hmm, surely didn't expect to see 'im here."
Dolgrin allows the others to converse, as he now has a chance to talk to Maven.
"Sister, aside from the circumstances of our gatherin' 'n the 'rash words o' 'im," giving a slight nod Dwunderbran's direction, "seems ta be somethin' botherin' ye..."
After staring ahead and blinking rapidly for a bit Rockjaws grey eyes slowly focus on Edrukk. Advancing through the crowded hall towards his mate, more akin to a boulder rolling through a forest, he literally travels through rather than around. Bumping into people, knocking over chairs, he even knocked over poor Harthen Furyfall and walked right over him, completely oblivious and with loud creaking footfalls from his full 360lb frame. After much grumbling and no small amount of spillage Rockjaw had made it to the table where Edrukk, Grunyar and the others were sitting. Pulling up a stool and like a puppet with its strings cut, crashed onto it causing even the stone table to tremble.
"H...h...h...'lo Edrukk a..a..a..n Grunyar. Iye got shot 'n tha back b..b..by Fredrick down 'lo, sos C'ptan sez ta git fixed a..a..an fed. Soz iya come here." Rockjaw stammered and showed them the bullet hole in his right shoulder.
Dodgy dancin' elfs, hehehe.
Looking at the gunslinger's pistols.
Nice pepperbox by the way. Your own design?
At the loud noise his head turns to follow the others gaze.
Whom? Wow!
The youngster watches amazed at the living mountain that approuches. Afraid of getting the same fate as poor Furyfall Grunyar jumps away from the his path like a cat letting the barbarian sit down first before returning to his own seat.
"Ah, these are pistols. Loud as all get-out, but'll punch through most any armor at 20 paces. Shoots a bullet faster'n most can dodge. Way of the future, I bet, but I still carry a warhammer for when someone gets a mind to peck me on the cheek." Edrukk quickly exhales in what could almost be a half of a laugh before taking another drink from his mug.
all the sciences are truely works of Torag, are there any elements of the arcane sciences involved with the construction of these devices of destruction? Kal'Tos peers over at the pistols through his glasses.
Glancing up at the tall dwarftiss that followed him in, no doubt making good use of his... not so stealthy entrance and introduces himself.
"'lo Soldda, iye be St..St..Stoneface. Lockjaw Runefinger, ba erybody calls me Stoneface."
Its not hard to see why, his face looked like it had been smashed in numerious times, his nose squashed flat and lopsided, his forehead horribly scarred and currently bleeding into his eye and chunks of his lip were missing. He talked with a slurred accent and studdered ocasionally, almost as if he had taken a few to many blows to the head...
Overhearing Kal'Tos speaking, Rockjaw answers him "[b]They be made o all..all..alchimie.Freddrick sez so. 'N they be proof genst armor![b]"
He shows them the bullet hole in his shoulder and emphasising it by sticking his finger into the wound and grimmancing. The hole is a good 2" deep through solid stone and is yet another mark on the ravaged set of armor. You notice that there is an unusualy large number of telling blows along his back, almost as if he had been hit from behind often...
You got shot?!
Not good, not good at all. shaking his head.
Getting shot is not good, better to shot first. noding.
Torag will help you, for sure, yes. There is some people from the church at the other end of the table, you should talk to them... And his conversation is cut short as he jumps again, this time out of fright, as a large beer barrel lands right in front of him.
Stout! Yes, know what to do with it. he says fumbling for his tankard.
More please. After finally getting a grip over his mug and trying to help himself to the barrel.
"Nary two swigs intae tha festivities and the bleedin' nancies 'er already waxin' theological in me lobes. I cannae bark 'bout the fathers on high, aye? I've not bandied an insult fer 'em afore an' I won't bandy em now. If'n their frolickin' on high's more pressin' 'an me and mine, what do I owe 'em, aye? If they cannae spare a hand fer ta right our rudder, what good's the supplicatin', ya grab me?"
Dwunderbran waits for no reply as 'Soldda introduces herself—and her stout—to the table. In an instant his mug is clamoring for a spot beneath the spigot, his eyes wide with equal parts wonder and longing. "An angel at me back starin' daggers and an angel at me front promisin' stout? 'Sa'nuff ta make me blubber like a whelp fresh from the teet, it is! Nie gimme 'at stout afore I wet meself waitin'!"
Maven finishes her bite of cheese, and moves to reply to Dolgrin when the table itself jumps at the arrival of the stone-clad juggernaut. She reels a bit at his various injuries and his overall countenance, but quickly starts examining the wounds as if they were chips on a blade, stopping wide-eyed at the gaping hole in his shoulder.
"Torag's mercy, warrior! Ye look like ye got in a fight with a whole company of drow! Hold still, I've somethin' for that."
Closing her eyes for a second or two, Maven utters a brief prayer including mention of Torag, reaching out to the grievous point of entry in his shoulder. A faint aura seems to envelop the spot, and the light disperses. Across the warrior's form, wounds shrink and close, and bleeding is stymied in various places.
"Might not be enough to patch ye up, but should hold ye together long enough to have a bite to eat."
Grunyar stares wide-eyed at the cleric's work analising the way she weaves her spell. The use of eldritch energies always fascinated him, in all its forms. After she is done he seems to wake up from his reverie. Returning his attention to the table he hears a question asked by Kal'Tos about his two favorite subjects: firearms and magic!
None is required. But just like the crafting of regular arms there is a lot of room for improvements through the arcane. Oh yes, lots of room.
If one has the knowledge and is willing to... experiment a little bit. he says while tapping the pistol strapped to his waist.
"Aye, ye got shot? How'd ya kno it was Fredrick? I mean you ARE hard to miss, eh?" Edrukk jests, visibly loosening up around this odd crowd.
"And it's sorta me own design. 'Tis actually quite old, but I made an improvement here and there. Can ya believe they used to make these outta stone? 'Bout as likely to send yer finger down range as a bullet!"
Grunyar stares wide-eyed at the cleric's work analising the way she weaves her spell.
"Twas a whole cumpany to tha front. An sides. An rear. An a whole cumpany o dwarves a'shootin me frum yonder back. I woz righ inna middle 'o it. Twas glorious!
Th..th..thankye fer that thar help Mus. I coulda use a drink." He mutters rather shyly towards Maven and taking a drink from Isoldda.
Turning to Edrukk. "I knows twas Fredrick! Hes had it out fer me ever since I'a accedent'ly squashed his d..d..doggie a ways yonder back! If Ize gots shot downrange course it has ta be Fredrick! Who else coulda hit me?"
His logic seems sound to him, so no one else should doubt it right? He looks around the table for approvement and acknowledgement that he is right.
Daelric jumps as the large man in stone armour lands on the bench and makes the table shudder, then he starts to look at his armour in both fascination and jealousy. Then he see's the hole in the mans shoulder and goes to reach out, but see's the lady sitting besude him reach up and knit his wounds together, so he stops moving. "That's some impressive healing you have there Sister. Mine does not compare to your abilities, is that a once a day thing like mine, or can you use it repeatedly?"
Maven glances back to Dolgrin before resuming her seat. "Jus' a spell like any cleric should be able to use, brother. Jus' worked better than I woulda guessed. Didn'a count on anyone bein' so beat up in the middle of dinner, or I'd have brought a kit with me."
"That makes sense, even though I am a servant if The Son, I don't possess any magical abilities like spells. The master priests at the temple kept on forcing me to learn, but nothing ever happened. They gave up in th end, but somehow I can channel my positive feelings through my hands once each day and that knits wounds together, similar to your spell just then."
Then remembering where he is he looks around, "Would you like a refill Sister? To drown any sadness for ones lost or to quell any anger?"
Angrin nods to Talon, smiling a little through his thick beard. "Aye. Let me just get me some more ale. This'n seems to have run out." He waves his empty tankard about absently, speaking in an accent instantly recognizable by other Five Kings Mountain dwarves as coming from Varrok's Deep. "I don' suppose ye've got any tales to tell about his deeds? I've no' heard many y'see, bein' as isolated from the world as we are..." Well, that had mostly been his personal decision, but... his job hadn't helped much in that regard either. He ran his fingers through his red hair, taking another tankard from a server's plateful, and walked over to the other man, sitting down. "I'm Angrin Thronebearer. 'tis an old name, to be sure, and not entirely relevant any more, but, 'tis mine." He paused, realizing that it was his alone now... He flexes his fingers, wrapping them about his rapier's hilt, then continues. "I'm a brewer and a trapsmith by trade. What d'ye do?"
As the large man sits at the table, Dolgrin is awestruck for a few moments, as he is likely the largest dwarf he has ever seen. By the time he recovers his senses, he notices the healing magics being worked by Maven, and the cask of stein at the table. By Torag's beard, did I not even hear Maven's reply? Rather than bring attention to his possible lack of attention, he simply offers up his stein for a pull from the new drink, and sits back into his seat. "Thanks, ma'am," he says to Isoldda as he gets comfortable again.
He takes a quick sip, and enjoys the assault of new flavors on his palate. He takes a second drink, and then lets the stein's lid cover his beverage, lest a commotion by the small giant or Dwunderbran jostle it's contents onto the floor.
He then looks around the table, and gets a slight grin on his face. Reminds me of better times, almost. Before Kordin's death, before alot of things...
As the talk turns to firearms, drow, and soldiering, Dolgrin braces himself for what could likely turn into a fight, but speaks up none the less.
"Aye, lads, I've seen 'ow those thunder-maker's of your'n work, 'n I must say it's impressive. 'owever, they 'ave many a fault in 'em. I 'ear they are known to break down, usually at the most unfortunate o' times. If'n ye ask me, I'd rather 'ave somethin' that is a bit more reliable an' just as deadly," with that he lifts his hammer up and sets it head first onto the table beside his plate. It is a warhammer made from a dark steel, like Dolgrin's armor, with emeralds and topazes arranged in a ring about 6 inches behind the front and rear part of the hammer's head. In the center on either side of the hammer's head is a golden filligree symbol of Torag. "This'n 'ear is Thunderer, 5 pounds o' solid steel and crafted by me own 'ands. An' trust me, I don't 'ave to worry about it not workin' proper. Cause if'n ye ask me, thar ain't nothin' better than dwarven steel!" He concludes his small speech with a smile, as he wasn't tryin' to cause insult, but merely a pride in the old ways.
Daelric looks up at the woman with the keg, "As far as I know there are 3 of us around this table, m'lady. Although it would seem that I am of a different sort than my two clergy members here. They both appear to be smiths, which unfortunately is a skill I never managed to master. As for being well spoken, I hadn't thought about it, just the way I was brought up I suppose, the Master priests always spoke like this. The way I see it, if you are well spoken then you have no trouble understanding one another and when an oath is made, it cannot be broken due to lack of understanding."
Daelric then see's Dolgrin lift his hammer, "Aye that is a fine piece, I am more partial to a war-axe myself, but that looks like it could do some serious damage. I notice that your arms and armour and the same as a shield that is over there in the gifts, the one with all the gems. Would that be your gift? Aye, Dwarven Steel is among the best, but I also think that Dwarven stone is just as good."
He smiles at everyone before gingerly holding out his tankard for a filling of the new stout, once it has been filled he looks at it for a few minutes, gives it a sniff and then takes a sip. He doesn't swallow immediately swilling the liquid in his mouth a little to get the full taste, then he swallows with a shudder, "That'sh nishe shtuff, bit shtrong for me. I ushually only drink mead 'n' have 'ad a lot more than ushual sho far today." With that he takes another mouthful, "I rilly likesh da shtoney tashte of thish d'ough." Obviously Daelric is starting to slur and a thicker accent is starting to break through his normal well spoken manner, whether he is aware of this accent coming through is unknown, but you hear an accent that is from the Mindspin Mountains.
Dolgrin braces himself for criticism, and replies, "Aye, it be of my make, I made 'er in 'onor o' our 'ost. I 'ope it serves Vigar well."
Daelric looks at Dolgrin, "Itsh nishe, bit pretty. You no' worri'd d'at d'e gemsh will fall off 'n battle?"
Dolgrin shrugs, "They may, but it would be difficult. I forge me wares in a way so that the gem work becomes a part o' the steel. Not fond o' using settin's, I prefer to let the steel harden around the gems. An' any surface damage me wares take I can fix with a wave o' me 'and."
Daelrics head starts to spin and everything he see's goes a little blurry, realising that he made had too much to drink he looks about the table for some water, "Ish there any wat'a 'ere? Wat'a pleashe..." With that he starts blinking heavily and breathing heavily. He see's an empty taknard and gets hold of it waiting for some water to arrive and at the same time grabs an entire loaf of bread and starts to eat it eagerly.
He stops momentarily to reply to his table companions starting with Dolgrin, "That'sh rilly clever, ya hand fixshesh damage?" Then he turns to Isoldda, "Nev'a tried ta ushe me handsh, musht be good when disharmed." With that he starts to get dizzy again and looks around to see if there is any water coming and continues to eat his bread.
Dolgrin raises an eyebrow and snickers to himself a bit. The ale musta hit him all at once. Never in my years have I seen someone breakdown to the brew so quick!
Daelric hears the snickering but his head hurts too much to care, he turns to face Isoldda, "Shome water would be grand pleashe. Shomething to shtop thish Orc warhorn blowin' in ma head! Whatish in d'at shtuff?!"
He looks around for water again until he realizes that Isoldda was asking for his name, "Name'sh Daelri"*hiccup*"c, Daelric Morieth."
Dwunderbran eagerly snatches his drink out of mid air with far more grace than would be expected of him. Despite previous carelessness at the table, the stein seems to have grabbed the man's full attention, and he gingerly raises the lip of the cup to his nostrils, thumb pressing the lid vertical as he inhales deeply of the brew's heady aromas. Slowly and steadily, he presses the drink to his lips, allowing the earthy-toned liquid to rest briefly in the confines of his mouth before swallowing it down with a satisfied sigh.
Then all bets are off; returning to form, he begins tipping up his stein as he slurps, gulps, and sputters his way through nearly the entire contents. But then he hears something that perks his attention even further. . .
...Who needs an axe or hammer when ye can rip an orcs throat out with yer bare hands?...
. . .eyes glaze over and stein hovers absentmindedly before the dwarf's face, suspended in the grip of his meaty hand as he loses himself in a malaise of dwarven affection. Perhaps it's the brew, or perhaps the grips of his own madness, but Dwunderbran swears he can see a faint shimmering nimbus around the giant of a woman before him; a sparkling medley that seems to dim and drown out everything else in the room. "Missy, ah dunnae wur ye be comin' from 'er wur ye be goin', but by me ma's garters an' me da's shriveled thruster, I pledge meself to folla ye and yer stout ta tha ends o' whatever path ye walk!" His proclamation is somewhat knee-jerk and worrisome—all the more because it seems like he might actually mean it.
"Aye, tha' they don't. If'n ye wannae give me a proper bathin', lass, ole Dwunderbran'll oblige, huehuehue!" Through his gruff onslaught of guffaws Dwunderbran attempts to recline in his seat, though seems to have momentarily forgotten that his dwarven rump is parked on a stone bench. Those hoping the lout collapses on the floor are disappointed as his arms briefly windmill in a panic to regain his balance. Not missing a beat, he leans forward to proffer his stein once more, however, saying through a grin, "Ah'll have as much a tha' as ye'll let me choke on, ya grab me?"
Daelric looks at his half filled tankard of stout and nods to Isoldda, tears starting to form in his eyes. With that he tips the tankard up and lets the liquid flow down his throat, he shudders with each swallow and eventually pulls an empty tankard away from his mouth and holds it out for another filling. His face has turned red and his head is swaying a little, the tears starting to run down his face, "Da hornsh were all aroundsh, d'en da Orcsh came. A horde of d'em killin' all d'ey shaw, women, children, warriorsh and de old. Sho many died d'at night, even Nicosh. He shtopped a lot of d'em d'ough, shacrfished himshelf to shave a child. Da one d'at killed 'im got an axshe t'rough da head d'ough! D'at wash jusht before I came 'ere." Daelric doesn't seem to be talking to anybody in particular, just reminiscing to himself.
He takes the filled tankard and starts to drink that one too, not coming up for air before the liquid is all gone, at which point he holds the empty container out for another. His hand wiping away the tears that are following and then placing his forehead in his palm.
"I'm Angrin Thronebearer. 'tis an old name, to be sure, and not entirely relevant any more, but, 'tis mine."
Talon fills Angrin's mug then toasts him "Well met. Talon Darkslayer, a Ranger by trade. The head of me clan and the least of the clan all in one slightly disreputable package. That great flaming rock that smote the world dropped the stronghold down on the rest of them. Sounds like we might have something in common there?"
He cranes his neck to glance towards the dais then back to Angrin, "I never knew the man 'cept by reputation. I'll have to let someone else tell his tale."
"aye, they break from time ta time but ya just gotta know how to convince em ta work again. A good love tap against the shield usually works."
Irvask made his way to the table where his sister and the family brew were enjoying the center of attention. The dwarf had brownish-red hair, slicked back out of his face and extending to the middle of his shoulder blades. Steely blue eyes were hardly visible under a low brow crested with bushy eyebrows. A full beard hung to his waist, well groomed and seperated into three braids; a large one from his chin flanked on either side by two smaller braids, each bound at the end with three golden rings. He stood eye to eye with his sister, although he was a few inches wider. The dwarf wore simple leather boots, and thick linen breeches of a very dark gray tone, a well worn earthy green sash hangs around his waist underneath a sturdy studded leather belt with a large round metal clasp. He wears very light leather bracers and steel circlets around his biceps. Even at this event, he chooses not to wear a shirt. He appears to be chiseled from stone, his body was his only weapon.
"Isoldda!"He began, his voice echoing like hammer on anvil."I was just over there having a bit of a meal and saying a few words to Magrim." He explains his delay, without apologizing for it. Although his sister was used to it, the other dwarves might notice that Irvask speaks in quite an old dialect, language and soundings not widely used by younger generations. With only a nod and firm clap upon his sister's shoulder, he begins filling and refilling mugs of the Family brew with a stoic professionalism." Let no dwarfs thirst be unquenched today brothers and sisters, Come have another round of Ironbloom!" He fills his own cup and drinks, clanking with the others around the table. " The Name's Irvask Ironbloom" is his greeting.
Angrin's bushy red brow arches slightly as he hears the name of the brew, and then the name of the dwarf who cried it out. Another brewer, huh? Interesting. Maybe he should go try some of the stuff. He looked to Talon, bowed his head briefly in apology, then walked over to Irvask.
"Excuse me, but am I righ' in assumin' ye're the fine brewer of this drink?" He picks gestures at the liquid in his tankard, and sure enough, it's Ironbloom. "Ye've got some mighty-fine taste. Name's Angrin, Angrin Thronebearer. I brew a bit meself, as m'family did before me. Hope ye don' mind me interruptin'." He adds, somewhat belatedly, realizing he was rather rude.
Daelric raises his tankard up for the toast, "To Nicosh, may he watch ush proudly with Torag and Kolsh." With that he downs the contents of his drink and reaches for another leg of meat and loaf of bread. An anger burns in his eyes at Isoldda's last statement, "I'll kill e'ry lasht Orc 'n' Goblin d'at daresh to 'urt innoshent livesh, no-one'll shuffer like Nicosh's family had to!" Daelric rises from his seat rather clumsily, punches his tankard into the air and shouts out a really clear statement despite his drunken state, "DEATH TO THE ENEMY!"
He then plonks himself back down on the bench and starts to fill his mouth with the greasiest piece of meat followed by a large mouthful of bread. Then some mead to wash it all down. He then wipes his crumb and mead filled beard with the back of his hand and starts to eat again.
Maven quickly shakes her head at Daelric's offer, desperately scrambling out of the way of the throng of Dwarves reaching for the new keg.
"Nay, brother, think I'll leave this taste-testin' to the experts. Brewbane by name and nature both , I'm 'fraid. Jus' hope no one starts a brawl over the new stout; I've not a lot of spells ready for cuts and broken bones at the moment."
Maven backs off from the rowdy bunch, furrowing her brows at her kinsmen practically climbing over each other for a stein of the bitter smelling brew that nearly caused her nose to crinkle on reflex.
"S'pose I just have an odd palate. Never figured why most Dwarves love to drink so much. Always tasted so bitter to me. Not so fond of trippin' and topplin' over everythin' while the eyes spin like grindin wheels either."
Daelric turns to Maven, "I don't ushually drink, jusht mead on shpeshial occashionsh. Dunno why I'm drinkin' now d'ough. Ya have any shpellsh to make me feel betta?"
Stone guns!? That would take some guts, and a lot of magic... hmmmm, interesting concept... Grunyar seems to loose focus in a daydream for a few instants.
Looking at the gunslinger pepperbox. Quite old you say. Yes, yes, I know that feeling. pointing at his own gun.
Mine is a family heirloom of sorts also. One of the firsts Dongun Hold's designs to come this far north. Had to do some repairs and twinks also to keep it in working conditions.
"Aye, lads, I've seen 'ow those thunder-maker's of your'n work, 'n I must say it's impressive. 'owever, they 'ave many a fault in 'em. I 'ear they are known to break down, usually at the most unfortunate o' times. If'n ye ask me, I'd rather 'ave somethin' that is a bit more reliable an' just as deadly,"
Turning to the cleric.
They may be fickle Father but there are very few things as deadly!People dont walk away from a gun shot wound! No they dont.
Looking at Rockface at his side.Weeell maybe some do... scraching his head.
But usually they just die.
As Maven steps away from the group clamoring around the Ironbloom, Dolgrin follows. He steps over beside her, watching the commotion at the table, particularly amused at the apparent stars truck state Dwunderbran is in.
He says to her, just loud enough for her to be able to hear him over the ruckus, "So, Sister, what's troublin' ye."
Maven looks to one side, biting her lip. "I...er, didn't really plan for that this morning, nay. I think there's a spell that may help, but it would take some quiet time to prepare, and I've no idea how well it works on insobriety, I'm afraid."
Grasping her chin between thumb and forefinger, Maven's brow furrows further. "Now that I think on it, there's a spell to turn water to ale, but no' one to cure the drunk? Torag's sense of humor, I s'pose. I do know how to conjure some fresh water, though."
the cleric looks about for an unattended cup or stein, and spying an empty one, places a finger upon the rim while intoning a few words under her breath. The cup begins to perspire on the inside, quickly puddling and pooling, until the water rises near the rim. She then hands the cup to Daelric. "Here, lad. Somethin' to clear the head a bit."