Daelric also grows serious and tense at Vulgarbeard's insults and walks over with Dolgrin. He lets Dolgrin say his peice and head-butt Vulgarbeard before speaking himself, but as he goes to speak another voice joins in with the conversation, as he finishes talking Daelric quickly speaks so as to not get cut off again. "We are all true Dwarves here, Master Vulgarbeard, just because we don't want to fight any unnecessary doesn't mean that we are cowards. In fact it means we are better men for not fighting all the time, but choosing diplomacy over broken bones. I say we can all fight when we need to, but there is no need right now. If you are wanting to honour Skuldafn's life then do so with a drinking and eating contest as I am sure that would be better placed and something he would be more pleased with, you heard about his favourite story." Daelric's voice is as stern as the stone itself, but with an undertone of kindness in there too, almost like a Gold vein running through thick stone. "Now I would like you to apologise to these good lords and most importantly to the lovely ladies who you have also insulted. I am sure you never meant to insult them."
Talon watches Dr. Logam strange expansion with a look of bemusement, "Late to the party and now he wants to throw his weight around? Now there's a stuffed shirt if I ever saw one! Now what can be done to deflate him...?" He picks up a handy cauldron of fish stew and gleefully upends it over the alchemists head, "Welcome to the party! The names Talon Darkslayer! Good of you to join us!"
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Angrin frowns at Edrukk's words. The lower holds hadn't been lost, dammit. That's just dismissing the work he and his kin had done, the sacrifices they had made, to keep it un-lost. He grins, then idly picks up an empty ale tankard from a beardling's platter with a polite "'Scuse me.", giving it an experimental heft, and tossing it with precise accuracy at Edrukk. This done, he answers the other dwarf's complaint with a shout. "Aye, we do need t' get along better! But what better way than a good ol' fashioned brawl? An' yer absolutely wrong, lad, 'bout the lower holds! Varrok's Deep stands!" Having gotten that out of his system, he dodges into the crowd, intent on finding another empty ale tankard to throw. Never mind it was Dwunderbran who first said it, Angrin just wanted to inject some much needed fun into the wake.
Daelric see's another Dwarf with a full cauldron approach the muscular man from behind and then starts to life the cauldron up, already he knew what was coming. He takes a couple of steps back and good thing too as some of the contents land right where he was standing. He steps back into his spot, trying to find somewhere that doesn't have fish stew on the floor and bends down so his face is at level with Vulgarbeards, about 2 feet away and as he lowers his head to speak to him while looking in the eye a tankard flies over his head, just missing him and hitting Talon. "Who threw that? Was that supposed to hit me, or was it just a very good shot?" He then goes to speak to Vulgarbeard, but forgets what he was going to say, so he stands up straight again. Trying to keep his eye out for any flying crockery or food.
My first concern is our people. And this ones care and health come before personal honor. Or are you saying your piss stained honor is more important than our people? Than our gods who's servant I am? Than the Oath I have sworn? I may be an OathKeeper but I still swore to care for our people above my own life and honor. Would you have me break that Oath to the Keeper and His Father for a meaningless mead hall brawl? This is not a battlefield our brawl is unimportant compared to one of our owns well being. If you still wish to fight we can do so lafer you churlish cur of a misbegotten orc but after I make sure she is okay or turn her over tothise more versed in the healing arts than meself.
Right after he says this he watches Dolgrin head butts him and winces. That's gonna leave a nasty mark.
With that he turns back to Maven looking into her eyes and holding up and finger moving it slowly around to be sure she is focusing. Well ye seem to be alright as far as I can tell. Can you tell us more about what you saw?
Letting his white-haired peer go when he attempts to pull himself free, Dr. Logem sees who the real rabble-rowser of the party is. This smelly, unclean dwarf is not only the cause of the hideous smell that has permeated through the room, but also the cause of the commotion. Dr. Logem listens patiently to the dwarf's complaining, ignoring the awful smell wafting from the gaping hole he calls a mouth.
All of this is interrupted when the dwarf gets headbutted - while still being held up by his beltstraps - by another miscreant, followed immediately by another dwarf dumping an entire cauldron of fish stew on top of Dr. Logem's head. Luckily for the offending dwarf, Dr. Logem likes fish stew. That being said, he's none too fond of having his clean clothes being soiled by something other than performing surgery. Not waiting to see if the dwarf he's currently carrying was rendered unconcious or not by the headbutt, Dr. Logem throws Dwunderbran across the table, not looking to see the result as the dwarf-turned projectile slides across the stone table, knocking over plates, tankards, and food galore, getting covered in it all the same.
Dr. Logem instead turns to the dwarf who introduced himself while simultaneously dumping food on his head. "Doctor Logem, Ph.D. Glad to meet you, Mister Talon." Dr. Logem, still bristling with muscles, eyes bulging, smiles at Talon, his grin sending chills up the dwarf's spine. "I suppose, if one cannot control a party such as this, one must join the party instead." Dr. Logem reaches his massive fists up and cracks his knuckles, continuing to smile threateningly at Talon.
Dwunderbran bobbles back and forth in the vice grip of the good doctor, blood cascading down the front of his nearly cloven nose as any semblance of sanity flees him with an ever widening grin. Dolgrin's reeling backwards saves him from what would have been a vicious—and likely knuckle breaking—hook from the still suspended dwarf, though the motion sets him spinning and bobbing enough to make him momentarily queasy. It is at this moment that Dr. Logem flings Dwunderbran down the table, the smelly dwarf not coming to stop for some ten feet beyond. Bounding to his feet in a bellow of satisfied laughter, he calls out ""
As the gathering of dwarves continue appealing to Dwunderbran's sense he sputters a few clouds of fine, bloody mist into the faces of those who have poorly chosen to remain in his immediate vicinity. Raising his voice in a mocking, high pitched tone (as if imitating a girl) he screeches, "Oy'! I'ma wee l'il lass what ne'er fights afore ah rub me tw*t til' tha sun sets! Ah think'll prattle 'bout me Gods'n braid me tw*t hair afore tha bad man ruins me picnic!" His eyes roll back in his head for the last peal of laughter that rings out across the table, before settling again on the pale skinned form of Magnus. "An' as fer tha lasses, ah reckon 'ey got more've a spine than tha lot o' ye!" Grabbing a nearby brass tray, Dwunderbran sails it across the room in Dolgrin's direction before lumbering down the table towards Bjornsson, jostling loose chunks of filth and food amid spouts of blood.
Dolgrin continues stumbling about the hall, obviously receiving as much pain as he gave with his head butt, when a brass tray bounces off his helmet. The added ringing does nothing for the pain growing in his head, but it does serve to distract him from his footing. It's then that his greave catches the tray Dwunderbran threw, and the cleric slips and lands back and shoulders first onto the stone floor.
Maybe I should just lay here a while, sit out the fight...no, no Kordin wouldn't approve of that. Especially not after what he said about our people.
Dolgrin then begins rolling about trying to get up, but more or less appears as an upended tortoise. Eventually appearing to give up, he just lays there huffing and puffing, clutching his head.
Maybe I don't have a choice. And perhaps it's for the best.
Maven gathers her wits, slows her breathing, and gulps down her goblet of water so as to help clear her dry throat. She wearily follows Magnus's moving finger, and winces as she spies Dolgrin clash skulls with Dwunderbran. "Din' think I was out that long...Vulgarbeard startin' a fight already, and got backup too...and who in the nine hells is--WHOAH!"
Maven stops short as she spots Dwunderbran flying through the air and sliding across the table towards her. Despite her grogginess, she manages to get her footing under her and dodge out of the way of the soiled Dwarven projectile. At Dwunderbran's mockery, however, her eyes seem to snap back into focus, narrowing to venomous slits. "Prattlin' tw*ts, are we now?"
Clenching her fists, Maven stands from her seat, staring stone-faced in the malodorous instigator's direction. Rather than charge him with a leading fist, however, she takes a few seconds to cast a simple spell, pointing at the empty space above the Vulgarbeard's head as he spits blood. The air exudes a slight hissing sound as moisture coalesces into a massive bubble of water. Maven drops her finger level to The smelly one's eye level, and the bubble drops on his head with an audible POP as the water is released in a brief deluge.
"A good funeral brawl's all well and fine, lad, but ye really need a shower, for yer beard and yer mouth. Good thing I'll not run out of orisons soon today, aye?"
As he sees Dwunderbran lumbering towards him he sighs and pulls off his gauntlets and turns to Maven. Hold these would ye? That one doesna have the sense Torag gave a rock.
After handing her the gauntlets he cracks his knuckles and grins. Lets go you orc spawned turd. With a roar of For Torag For Kols. he lowers his head and charges Dwunderbran seeking to headbutt him and bare him to the floor.
Quint looks at Grunyar's weapon, brows furrowed with concern. "I don't believe that will be necessary. I understand that such devices are quite deadly, I doubt that matters will escalate that far" he cautions. He may be no expert on dwarven culture, but he knew enough to realize this would all blow over. That being said the fool who started it may end up with some lasting feuds if he continues in this vein. He shakes his head at the foolishness of his race, they really were impossible.
Dwunderbran attempts, too late, to shield his head from the encroaching assault of water summoned by the nearby Forgemaster. "Oy! Be me at a funeral er be it a bath-house!?" The roll of water down his face carries with it much of the blood that stained the dwarf's head, though the wound inflicted by Dolgrin's headbutt has yet to slow, crimson still pouring uninterrupted out of the gruesome injury. Dwunderbran wipes the water from his eyes in time to see Magnus readying his advance. A new grin forms, missing a tooth that had been there previously. "Aye, aye, aye! 'Atta boy, grampy! Let's send 'em off wiff a fight fer ta make Trudd blush!"
Rather than meet the charging dwarf head on, Dwunderbran chokes out a few more hearty laughs before he settles on a way to ensure the approaching dwarf's ire; pivoting on his left heel, he swings his right foot towards one of the nearby drinks that managed to avoid his tumble down the table. Connecting with a solid clank of boot-plate on cup, the tankard of ale sails end over end with frightening speed towards Maven not a moment before Magnus Bjornsson's head and body collide with the fiery haired dwarf. He lands with a loud crash on top of the table, but wraps his keg like arms around Magnus and leverages the momentum of the older dwarf's charge to drag both men down to the floor with an even louder onslaught of beard, armor, and profanities.
Though perhaps a match for Dwunderbran in intensity and tenacity, Dwunderbran proves a bit stronger and scrappier. The mix of blood, food, and water yet clinging to the dwarf makes it difficult to find purchase with a firm hold or grapple. Squirming on the floor and still laughing hoarsely, Dwunderbran manages to secure himself a position atop Bjornsson, though he squanders the opportunity with another disgusting display of depravity as he begins shaking his head from side to side violently and aiming spurts from his nose's injury directly into the pale dwarf's face.
Angrin, having found more empty ale tankards, begins tossing them about like candy at a beardling's nameday feast. He misses quite a few times, as often striking non-combatants, which he apologizes profusely for with a quick and eloquent, "Oops!" as striking those who were really getting into the brawl. Rather unfortunately for him, Quint was one of those non-combatants. Rather unfortunately for him the "good" doctor Logem was one of the combatants to get struck. As ever, Angrin dodges through the crowd, laughing quietly to himself.
Daelric has been feeling a bit lost since everything escalated to a whole new level, but the instant he see's Vulgarbeard kick the tankard at Maven is when he interjects. His shield coming up in front of Maven's face at a speed that does not seem possible and not a moment too soon. For the instant it is in front of her, there is a loud bang; like a gong being rung, and then a trickle of ale running from the shield down onto the floor where it is starting to form a frothy brown puddle.
Daelric lowers his shield again and walks over to Vulgarbeard, now very annoyed that the fight is continuing despite his best efforts to quell it. He reaches Vulgarbeard as he is spraying blood all over Magnus, Daelric reaches down and attempts to pull Vulgarbeard off of Magnus. He holds his shield in front of him as he is expecting a punch, kick or other attack coming his way for interfering, and pulls at the stinky mans belt to get him off. As soon as he has been pulled at least enough for Magnus to get up Daelric lets go of the smelly man and lets him fall to the floor. He then steps back ready to take what ever punishment comes his way, but still makes sure that both Maven and Isoldda are behind him and out of harms way.
Dr. Logem is about to 'join the party' in full and dance the dance of fists with Talon when out of the blue, a tankard whizzes through the air and strikes him in the head. Although not hurt, as his thick hide includes an increase of thickness to his skull, Dr. Logem turns his gaze away from his current target and spots the culprit who threw the tankard, thanks to Angrin's look of sheer horror when he sees who it struck. Still keeping up with his creepy grin, Dr. Logem looks around for something to return fire with.
Unfortunately for Angrin, the ammunition Dr. Logem chooses is a nearby barrel of ale. Fortunately for Angrin, the barrel is mostly empty, as a light sloshing sound can be heard as Dr. Logem picks up the barrel - again, without even grunting in effort - and turns to ready his aim.
"It is generally not polite to throw things young man. But if you insist, I will return the favor." With that, and a widening of his already wide grin, Dr. Logem hurls the barrel towards the awaiting embrace that is Angrin's head.
His head slowly clearing of the gong ringing, Dolgrin raises up as best he can to see what is going on. From his perspective, all he can really make out are tankards flying, curses being shouted, half-hearted apologies being made, and Dwunderbran's accursed laughing.
"Someone get me back in tha fight! What in tha blazes be goin' on!"
Quint's face grows steadily darker as dregs of ale slowly drip from his beard, the start of a bruise adding it's own color to his cheek. He turns slowly to his assailant, having a good idea of who the reckless fool was, having witnessed him hurling projectiles at other targets. Blood boiling in his ears he is trying to figure out an appropriate response when a barrel flies at the dwarf's head, alleviating the necessity to do so.
the normally quiet dwarf bellows. He is no commander, or great leader, but has a decent set of lungs on him, hampered only by the sight of his short, rotund frame quivering with rage. He points a quivering finger at Dwunderbran.
he commands, his hands already moving in arcane gestures, a quick incantation following his bellow before Dwunderbran feels elation bubble up within him, if nothing else distracting him sufficiently to allow Daelric to pull his fellow priest to safety.
Angrin frowns at Edrukk's words. The lower holds hadn't been lost, dammit. That's just dismissing the work he and his kin had done, the sacrifices they had made, to keep it un-lost. He grins, then idly picks up an empty ale tankard from a beardling's platter with a polite "'Scuse me.", giving it an experimental heft, and tossing it with precise accuracy at Edrukk. This done, he answers the other dwarf's complaint with a shout. "Aye, we do need t' get along better! But what better way than a good ol' fashioned brawl? An' yer absolutely wrong, lad, 'bout the lower holds! Varrok's Deep stands!" Having gotten that out of his system, he dodges into the crowd, intent on finding another empty ale tankard to throw. Never mind it was Dwunderbran who first said it, Angrin just wanted to inject some much needed fun into the wake.
The hammer hits Edrukk square in the chest. The hammer blow to his masterfully crafted plate armor makes a loud clang, but Edrukk weathers the blow and the hammer comes to rest on top of his empty, grease-stained brass dinner plate.
"Aye, ya miss my meanin', lad. If yer hold truly stood, stood for good, ya wouldn't hafta be throwin' things to prove it." It is only then that Edrukk stands up and looks over, and it appears the dwarf that took offense to his statement had already riled up the talking green monster. Edrukk picked up the hammer off of his plate and threw it back to the lad, aiming for his legs.
"You'll need this against that thing, but I ain't got ta be nice 'bout givin' it back, ya lit'l pissant!"
Maven finishes clearing her head in time to widen her eyes at the sight of the tankard whizzing towards her, flinching just as Daelric's shield deflects the rogue vessel. Watching the exchanges go by, she winces as Dwunderbran and Magnus tumble to the floor; gasps in horror as Dr. Logem heaves a full sized barrel at Angrin, and stifles a laugh at Quint's ale-soaked annoyance.
Noting Dolgrin prone and vulnerable to trampling, she makes her way over to help him up by the shoulders. "Come on now, brother, can't 'ave yer face gettin' squashed by a boot more'n Torag done already."
Dolgrin readily accepts Maven's aid and slowly gets up and assesses the situation. His eyes widen instantly, watching barrels and tankards flying with reckless abandon, Dwunderbran cackling over a prone Magnus with Daelric dragging him off the pale dwarf, and just a general scene of chaos more readily accepted at a bar than a wake.
Without taking his eyes off the chaos, he says to Maven as loud as necessary to make himself heard, "Well, lass, where ye think we'll make the most good 'ere?" as he takes a more proper brawling stance.
Oh no ye don't your nae gittin away from me now bragart. Since he believes Dwunderbran is attempting to get away he pulls him back down by the beard slaming his brow into Dwunderbran's nose. I will nae stop til ye lay on Dwunderbran ye kolbold and dammed to tha hells he who cries 'old enough. With this he attempts to push his feet into the stomach if the still apparently fleeing Dwunder and push him off. [/b]
Dr. Logem instead turns to the dwarf who introduced himself while simultaneously dumping food on his head. "Doctor Logem, Ph.D. Glad to meet you, Mister Talon." Dr. Logem, still bristling with muscles, eyes bulging, smiles at Talon, his grin sending chills up the dwarf's spine. "I suppose, if one cannot control a party such as this, one must join the party instead." Dr. Logem reaches his massive fists up and cracks his knuckles, continuing to smile threateningly at Talon.
"Ay, that was my thinking as well." Talon relies politely.
Unfortunately for Angrin, the ammunition Dr. Logem chooses is a nearby barrel of ale. Fortunately for Angrin, the barrel is mostly empty, as a light sloshing sound can be heard as Dr. Logem picks up the barrel - again, without even grunting in effort - and turns to ready his aim. [b]"It is generally not polite to throw things young man. But if you insist, I will return the favor."
With that, and a widening of his already wide grin, Dr. Logem hurls the barrel towards the awaiting embrace that is Angrin's head.
Talons eyes widen in alarm, When he notices that the barrel is near empty he wipes his brow in mock relief. "Ah, that's all right then lad. For a moment there I thought you'd taken leave of your senses. Now where were we..."
Talon trips Dr. Logrem while his back is turned, dropping him unceremoniously into the spreading puddle of stew
Not that it was a sight to behold before, but Dwunderbran's nose is now a ruined, awkwardly jutting mass of bone and tissue and blood. Defying all odds, however, and not attempting any retaliation, all he manages to do in between the assault is cackle maniacally. Unfortunately for Daelric, the assault he feared comes to light, though the form it takes is not of fist nor steel, but flatulent gusts. Between each heave of his chest as he continues laughing in defiance of the myriad dangers being hurled at him—tankard, brow, leg, and spell—echoes a chorus of short farts, each more rank than the one before it. The smell manages to dwarf the usual stench surrounding Dwunderbran, but the parade of wind-passing goes on uninterrupted for several seconds before ceasing it's volley. Vaulting backwards from the thrust of Magnus' legs, Dwunderbran's back collides with Daelric's shield and causes the Stonelord to relinquish several feet of ground before the arse-trumpet of a dwarf comes to a panting rest on all fours.
Soddin' teets, wha' was tha'!? The chaos of the brawl originated by and unfolding around Dwunderbran proved too much of a muddled frenzy for the bloodied dwarf to realize where, who, or what the spell originated from. Not wishing to yield to whatever dweomer had taken hold, however, Dwunderbran slowly rises to his full stature again on momentarily wobbly legs. Reaching his right hand up to his face, he attempts to snap his mangled-beyond-belief nose back into its original position, though it is such a pulpy mess at this point that it appears little more than a barely clinging sack of jelly. Admitting a lost cause, he gives up on his sniffer and readies himself to square off with Magnus once more. "Keep yer magic bandyin' mits off me fight ye yippin' dandies! If'n ye cannae take off yer skirt long a'nuff fer ta raise yer hands, then keep yer skirt again' tha wall!" Dwunderbran spits out a gob of the blood that's attempting to roll down his throat before focusing entirely on Magnus again. "Aye, if'n the bleedin' hearts be done interferin', might we can finish're game o' tag like proper dwarves!"
Whilst Dwunderbran was kneeling stunned and rising to his feet Magnus has climbed on top of a table and picked up a serving platter and jumps down swinging the platter at Dwunderbran's face as he tries to land on him. Shut yer gabbin hole you Orc sucking goblin whore.
Magnus is in a fine fettle and having a blast.
As Dolgrin finds his footing, Maven's eyes dart around the room with an increasing sense of defeated worry. "Ahhh, lad, startin' ta think there's no good left ta be done but run back to me forge and get me healin kit. More'n a half dozen brawlers now, we be a wee bit outnumbered. Not that I shirk from a fight, mind ye, but this ain't a drow raid; just a buncha lads bored outta their skulls and spoilin' for some noise."
Maven winces visibly at Dwunderbran's failed attempt to set his nose. "Is he too drunk ta even feel that anymore? Gods, what a juggernaut...somethin' missin in that one's brain, ah think."
"Shut yer gabbin hole you Orc sucking goblin whore."
Dwunderbran wheels around to meet the white-haired dwarf's descent, tilting his face away from the platter to save his nose further ruin before the tray bends around the dwarf's thick skull. Underneath the tray Dwunderbran thrusts his massive right elbow upwards and at Magnus' throat as he widens his stance and plants his feet. Almost in unison, food platter meets head as elbow meets neck—a terrible cacophony of pained grunts and the dull ring of the dish-turned-weapon. Inevitably, and much as has been the case thus far, the pair crash onto the stone tiled floor once more. Not wishing to be accosted from behind or beside again, however, Dwunderbran scrambles to his feet in a position more accommodating to any threats beyond that posed by the paler dwarf with whom he is sharing in a friendly brawl with.
What is evident, apart from the stench and the fight itself, is the extent of the injury on the dwarf's face. He forces breaths through his mouth due to a nose that will no longer oblige, spitting choked gasps of blood all the while. Despite his noteworthy handicap, he shows no signs of slowing down or yielding, however. It is likely his stubbornness, thrill-seeking, or both far outweighs his sense of self preservation.
Magnus falls to his knees choking for a moment before falling to his hands and knees coughing up a bit of blood. About this time Isoldda goes flying over his head. He wonders when the other dwarf learned to fly not realizing it was an attack aimed at him. He slowly staggers back to his feet and looks at Dwunderbran and waves him on. Come on ye sissy what are b ya waiting on?
Maven's eyes go wide as her eyebrows almost turn vertical with incredulity. "Dwundie? Well that escalated quickly, aye?"
Where in the forge of Torag did she learn to fight like that?
Her amazement turns to distinct worry, however, as she notes Dwunderbran's breathing problem. Spying a ruined nose and a steady flow of blood, she knocks over steins as she races towards the oblivious brawler, arms waving. "Hold, Vulgarbeard! Hold off, I say! Yer breathin' through a broken tube, lad! Give it a rest afore ye choke ta death on yer own blood! Ye made a fine show of it, now find yer senses 'fore they run out through yer nose!"
Shoulda brought me kit, I KNOW I shoulda brought me kit...
Maven might as well be yelling at a rock, lost as the pulpy nosed dwarf is in the scene unfolding before him. His only movement, aside from watching the object of his affection twirling, flitting, and tussling about the meadhall with Magnus, is an occasional, absentminded and blood tinged cough. Fortunately, being so distracted, he offers no resistance or objection to the Forgemaster's approach. As far as Dwunderbran is concerned, there might as well only be one dwarf in the room at the moment—and she was in the process of beating the tar out of the white haired dwarf... .
The only words he manages are softly spoken. "Ah'm'na marry tha' lass some day, sure as me thruster be standin' rigid."
That is the sound heard as Dr. Logem's massive frame lands ass-first in the fish stew beneath his feet. A loud growl can be heard coming from deep within his throat as he picks himself up and turns to see the offender.
Talon. Again.
This time, however, Dr. Logem doesn't go after Talon. No, instead, he stands still for a moment as something squirms around underneath his coat. Popping out from the back of his coat is, what looks to be by all accounts, a tumor in the shape of a small winged dinosaur - a Rhamphorhynchus to be exact.
Dr. Logem grins wickedly before saying to Talon, "Say hello to my little friend." The creature takes off suddenly from Dr. Logem's shoulder, doing a gauntlet around the meadhall before grabbing a tankard full of the delicious golden liquid and pouring the entirety of the contents onto Talon's head, before going and refilling its tankard to repeat the process.
If Talon loves his alcohol so much, Dr. Logem's tumor familiar is all too willing to oblige.
If Talon loves his alcohol so much, Dr. Logem's tumor familiar is all too willing to oblige.
"What in the nine hells is that?" Talon wonders idly while kicking Dr. Logem soundly in the head
The first tankard of mead catches him by surprise leaving him sputtering in outrage. Someone get that thing, it's wasting the booze!" Grabbing an empty cask off the table he bashes in its top and devotes himself to trying to catch each tankard load of mead as the strange little creature targets him.
Quint sighs, the heat going out of him as quickly as it entered. He glares at the general melee, stoops to pick up his pipe, and wanders off with it, muttering and waving his hands over the spilled ale, pulling it from his clothes with a feat of prestidigitation. If anyone looks to bother him, he whammies them with a dazing spell, or the same thing as Dwunderbran if they seem persistent.
Angrin, struck by both a half empty barrel and a hammer (who the Hells was throwing f#&$ing hammers in a brawl? There was nice friendly brawling and then there was bloody evil, and that just fell into the latter category. Of course, Angrin is mildly dazed (and don't tell anyone otherwise!) by the barrel and he's fallen on his face because of the hammerblow, he slowly stands up. "Ach, yer a right a$~&*&~, ain't ye?" He asks the hammer thrower, glaring blearily. "Shall I be takin' real offense at ye, or should I consider it jus' an outgrowth o' your drunken daze, ye cowardly scum?"
After pulling open the heavy twin doors of the large mead hall, Dakún Rabbúhamash found himself suddenly assaulted with the blaring din of confrontation, drunken shouts and disorderly bickering, not to mention an airborne boars leg he was forced to swat aside with his free hand. It seemed as if the first battle of some great feud had come to feast chamber of Drun-Morogh.
Everywhere he looked there was fighting or a terrible mess being made - Cauldrons were being overturned, goblets and chunks of food were being hurled, and there was a foul and odious stench coming from somewhere... or someone.
With a sweep of his jade colored eyes over the meadhall's interior, he could only let his shoulders sag slightly and shake his head. In the mind of Dakún the decline of the Dwarven people was evident in the chaos that dominated the funeral feast of Hraggir Skuldafn of Highhelm. Not all seemed to be participating in the violence and some it seemed were even trying in vain to quiet or end the quarrels of their kin.
Water splashed to the floor and ran across the marble, followed by the unmistakable clang of a projectile reflecting off of a solid dwarf forged shield. Farts trumpeted from one dwarf's arse and another monster of a dwarf overturned an entire barrel still partially filled with ale. Disappointment shone in the eyes of the visitor. This was not the result of too much drink, the combatants movements were too coordinated, the tossed chalices and thrown head butts to accurate. Besides, these were dwarves and no race could better hold their liquor. No, this was simply a case of a needless violence and aggression. Conflict for the sake of conflict.
Rather than involve himself in the conflict, he stood apart from it, carefully picking a path that avoided the worst of the melee. He was an outsider after all and even if this brawl was to be expected at Highhelm, he was the sole representative of his people and he could not bring further dishonor upon the lines of his father and mother. Tucked in the sure grasp of his left arm he lugged a heavy model of the Sky Citadel cut from stone and marked with the symbols and names of the Skuldafn clan, most prominant of which was Hraggir.
With a serene calm he set the stone carving down amongst the other gifts and then bowed deeply to the priest and family members assembled. At first glance they might have mistaken him for a kalistocrat, for he wore a stark white robe similar to their own style and he was definitely missing both the hair atop his head and a beard upon his chin. Yet not all his facial hair was missing, for an impressive straw blond mustache banded by three rings of obsidian on each stem hung down past his broad shoulders. Further signaling him out as a foreigner was the dark bronze cast to his skin and the phlegmy accent that permeated the dwarven he uttered in his deep voice.
It was to Vigar and Grima, the sons of the fallen that he focused his attention, though he was intoning the spirit of the departed and the gods of the pantheon, more than speaking directly to either brother.
"Hraggir Skuldafn, Elder son o' the Skuldafn, Master o' Coin...
Magrim; o'r unflinching Judge, take forth this 'orthy soul and guide him as you have guided his ancestors fr'm this world to the next. Bring him 'orth to your brother's hallowed feast.
May Torrúg, o'r great father o' creation welcome you back to 'is halls. May your deeds ring louder than that hammer with which you were f'rged.
And may this blessed stone h'ld all evil away from your resting soul.
Much like a monument of stone, fr'm its unfinished base to its chiseled completion, all pr'jects, all lives eventually complete. It is not our way to shed tear, but rather to raise stein and sing praise. Tonight and each night onward we shall all rejoice for it is a legacy Hraggir Skuldafn has left us, a life lived with commitment to o'r heritage, decency and integrity. Traits well reflected in his kin. The Father watch o'ver them. Following in the footfalls o' their father, we can be sure when they are called back to the stone, they shall not leave us with unfinished stone, but rather more monuments upon which their descendants shall look upon for example."
With his words completed he clasped his hands together and offered another humble bow to the mourning family. After a moment passed he pulled a curved drinking horn from his belt and unstoppered it. With outstretched arms he offered it to the kin of Hraggir Skuldafn.
Dolgrin, seeing Maven make a charge at Dwunderbran, gets a panicked look on his face.
"No lass, not inta tha thick o' it!" He the runs off behind her towards the worst of the melee. As they arrive, he sees that she is just trying to fix his nose, which he had a part of breaking.
He moves over to Dwunderbran's side and shouts, "Well, looks like ye got what ye wanted! Now let 'er do 'er work and nary ye lay a finger on 'er, ye 'ear me!?"
Languidly sitting at the table of honor, Grima pauses subtly searching for Halsiig the kalistocrat through the brawling din to receive the newest arrival, a strange dwarf from a strange land. Grima intently listens to his blessing of oddly named gods thinking his father has strange acquaintances.
With two minor flicks of his hand, Grima commands a tankard of the best ale to be taken to the newcomer with whom he locks eyes and nods in appreciation to the reverence.
"Rigid? Uh oh." Maven glances down and instantly back up to Dwunderbran's glazed eyes, then to Isoldda. "Ohhh SH*T." realizing that between him and Isoldda just became the WORST place to stand, and hearing Dolgrin following up behind her, she quickly changes plans, spinning round and nearly charging headfirst into her fellow cleric, pushing him back by the shoulders, moving the two of them along the ale-soaked floor in a hurried march. "Nonononono, yer right lad, bad place ta be, BAD PLACE TA BE, MOVE!!!"
As Maven begins pushing Dolgrin away, he realizes what has the girl in a panic. Shrugging her aside, he says, "Nay, Sistar. I broke it, tis only right I fix it."
He moves over to where she was, and glances back to the tangled mess of Magnus and Isoldda, making sure he isn't about to be caught in the middle of the fight, before refocusing on Dwunderbran. "Arright lad, 'old still. This'n ain't gonna feel very good, but it may just save yer nose."
He surveys the damage as best he can, removing his gauntlet from his right hand. Then, he shoves his first two fingers into Dwunderbran's nostrils, trapping the cartilage between them. With an unceremonious twist, he maneuvers his nose to as close to normal as possible, though it was truly hard to say where that was in the first place. He then pulls his blood and mucous covered fingers out and quickly moves back to Maven, keeping the soiled hand at arms length ahead of him.
"Quick lass, cast yer orison! We dinnae know where 'e's been!"
"Echh, ye got me pity, brother, but not me envy." Maven conjures a smaller orb of water just above Dolgrin's palm, splashing it across his hand. As he rubs the blood and filth off as best he can, she thinks the better of it and repeats the casting a couple times throughout for good measure.
"Don't wanna know where he's been, lad, but if he goes unconscious, I know where he's goin: the hottest bath we can find."
Dakún had spoken loudly and while he had some small hope that his earnest eulogy to the fallen clan elder might diffuse the raging conflict within, it was not to be.
He did not have the voice of command to cease the riot of battle hungry dwarves and so the clatter of overturned dishes, weaponized trays and drinking steins continued to fill the mead hall of Drun-Morogh. His caste was not one of royalty or command and it was a role he could not hope to successfully emulate in his inexperience.
Though he dared not ascend the dais to the high table of honor where the Skuldafn clan members sat, a small degree of pride warmed him that his gift and words were well accepted. His ways were not so different at the core to the values they all held dear. Trying to maintain an demeanor of humility, he held the eyes of Grima for well over ten beats of the dwarven heart, only breaking it when the servants climbed down from the dais to present him with a full tankard of ale. Bowing to the younger of Hraggir's sons, he offered a thanks to the thick bearded attendant and handed the dwarf his drinking horn of fermented honey mead and root beer. Though it would not compare in quality to the strong ale that Grima gifted him, it was all he had to offer in exchange and perhaps it would earn some praise due to its more exotic taste.
Raising the tankard, Dakún drank deeply, silently toasting both the dead and the dead's still living kin. There was a moment of hesitation when the cold fear of distrust and suspicion closed its insidious fingers about his heart. Overpowering his doubts, he trusted to his dwarven resistance the the hospitality of these distant kin. He could not appear ungrateful or apprehensive. It would take him three more draughts to empty the tankard of the ale and when he was finished he took an unoccupied seat at a nearby table on the floor. His eyes soon wandered past those frolicking in casual violence and to what portions of the feast that remained unspoiled or overturned.
It was clear that he was uncomfortable and out of place. Not that violence was ubiquitous in the large mead hall, but that the fight was dwarf against dwarf.
Daelric starts to pull Vulgar beard off of Magnus and see's him start to climb away from the stinking man, "Good, if I can calm things down then we may get back to a peaceful meal ..." That was when he heard it and unfortunately smelled it straight afterwards. Vulgarbeard broke wind! "Vulgarbeard ... I see where you got the name! That smell is awful! Excuse me, I need to ..." Daelric holds his mouth and nose and backs away from the farting man, backs away quickly gagging. He is paying so little attention to the surrounding area that he almost slips on the fish stew on the floor and the spilled ale puddle that is still spreading.
He turns away from Vulgarbeard and as he turns he see's a flash dart past him, he spins his head around to see Isoldda pounce onto Vulgarbeards shoulders and dive at Magnus. Luckily for the Magnus he managed to duck, unluckily for him she didn't go past him too far and managed to floor him and get him in a strange position. Daelric lets out a heavy sigh and mummers to himself, "What's the point in stopping this now? They seem to be enjoying themselves too much to think clearly."
That is when he see's Maven running towards Vulgarbeard, followed by a shouting Dolgrin. She seemed to want to avoid the violence, yet she was running headlong straight into the battle. As she runs passed him, Daelric turns and joins in the run, keeping pace with Dolgrin, "What's she doing?" That's when he see's what she is up to and she looks up and down Vulgarbeard briefly and then runs away from him screaming. "What's going on?" Dolgrin then continues to the smelly oaf and shoves his fingers up his nose and then pulls hard, his fingers now covered in blood, "What's he ... Oh right, fixing his nose?! It did look awfully painful!" Daelric keeps close to Dolgrin, shield at the ready to deflect any flying tankards or barrels coming at himself or Dolgrin and then retreats with him so that they are both with Maven again. "We should seriously consider backing up a a bit and staying out of the way, then fixing any wounds afterwards. Wouldn't you agree? I did swear to protect you if anything happened and that is an oath I will keep." With that he braces his shield with both hands and slowly backs away from the fight, ensuring that Maven is safely behind him.
Daelric glances back at Dolgrin and Maven briefly and whispers just loud enough for them to hear, "Do you think if we knocked Vulgarbeard out the fighting would stop? Then we could do something about the smell too? Should we try to put him down or leave it to everyone else? I will follow your advice on this, you know the man better than I."
Angrin, struck by both a half empty barrel and a hammer (who the Hells was throwing f&@@ing hammers in a brawl? There was nice friendly brawling and then there was bloody evil, and that just fell into the latter category. Of course, Angrin is mildly dazed (and don't tell anyone otherwise!) by the barrel and he's fallen on his face because of the hammerblow, he slowly stands up. "Ach, yer a right a%$*$%~, ain't ye?" He asks the hammer thrower, glaring blearily. "Shall I be takin' real offense at ye, or should I consider it jus' an outgrowth o' your drunken daze, ye cowardly scum?"
Angrin, now back on his feet, dodges through the increasingly rowdy crowd, grinning happily. His own aggression mostly vented on a few poor souls who had had the misfortune of getting in between him and the ass who had insulted his family's honor (Edrukk), he idly wanders over to the trio of clergy who are busily trying to fix Vulgarbeard's nose. "Ach, well, at least he got a few good blows in himself, aye?" His own head bears an increasingly purplish bruise just above his eye, and he grins cheerfully. Upon coming too close, though, he backs up slightly. Gods, even the people of Varrok's Deep stayed cleaner than him. Of course, if they didn't, the variety of aberrations would probably follow them wherever they went... He wondered how the surface, particularly the oceans, were so different, that they could afford to leave themselves with such a horrific stench. "The smell's likely some sort o' fondness o' his, if I know his type. I'd say leave him to his fun. They'll cool down an' be the best o' friends in a few hours." He paused, realizing his rudeness. "Sorry, couldn' help listenin' in on yer conversation. Angrin Thronebearer, nice t' meet ye."
Daelric nods at the approaching bruised Dwarf, "Well met Angrin, I am Daelric Morieth, Servant of Kols." Daelric looks again at the mans purple and yellow face as the bruise starts to turn into a darker shade of purple, "That looks like it hurts." Daelric then faces Vulgarbeard quickly, as he had taken his eyes off of him and who knew what that meant. He then talks again, but this time not taking his eyes off of Vulgarbeard and the fight, "You really think they will cool down and be friends? What if someone takes it too far and uses lethal force?" It is becoming painfully obvious to everyone that Daelric is not used to this sort of situation and he is concerned for everyone's well being.
Dolgrin mutters to the newcomer, "Dolgrin 'n Maven, o' Torag," quickly gesturing with his head as he returns his gauntlet to his hand. He then replies to Daelric, "'N as fer knowin' Vulgarbeard, all I really know o' 'im is that 'e damn near ran off two o' me regular customer's 'at I 'ad at me smithy, 'afore I closed 'er down 'n returned to the Temple's forges. Blatherin' idiot picked up a greataxe 'n jus' started swingin' it like 'e was twirlin' a toddler! The rest o' 'is family are nice enough, but somethin' got in 'is 'ead early on. But 'is smell is quite a bit more ripe than I remember. Must be 'arder to notice on tha surface with tha wind a blowin'!"
He then looks over at the brawl, and says to the four dwarves gathered here, "I reckon' the only way we can end this is to try 'n knock 'em all out. But I don' think we stand much chance against all o' em, even individually. Sides are formin' faster than steel coolin' in water."
He then looks to the Dais, and sees a newcomer who has managed to not only avoid the brawl, but apparently introduced himself to the Skuldafn's in a relatively formal manner. He then turns to the others and says, "Perhaps the best we can do is keep most o' the brawlin' away from Stonelord Vigar and the rest o' 'is family! Move o'er between the fight 'n the dais 'n try to keep the rough housin' wrangled o'er on that side o' the 'all!" finishing his plan by gesturing in the direction of most of the fighting.
Daelric nods in agreement and heads over to the dais, stops in front of the bottom step and turns to face the brawl, shield help up and braced to stop anyone or anything from getting passed him. He looks to Maven, Dolgrin and Angrin, "Form a line and protect them, aye. Sounds good to me."
While he is standing in formation he talks to both Dolgrin and Maven while keeping focused on the brawl, "So ... he causes trouble wherever he goes then? Well just know that now I have made your acquaintances I may be coming to you to commission some armour from time to time. If you would both have my coin and I?"
Angrin scratches his beard idly. "Don't ye think that the Stonelord is more 'n capable o' defending himself? Plus, he prob'ly knows that it'll all end wi' e'eryone bein' friends, better than they were before." He does not seem too disturbed by the whole brawl, simply accepting it. "This is how our people mourn, don't ye think?" He nods towards the brawl.
Maven is focused on observing the drunken brute's reaction, as none is yet fortchcoming, but Daelric's query brightens her eyes a bit. "Need armor, ye say? What kind? Heavy? chain or plate? Long trip or frontline melee? Waitaminute..."
Catching her thoughts drifting back to her forge, she notices the back of Daelric's shield as he stands to cover her. For a moment, she's grateful to have something to block flying tankards, but then a realization snaps in her head. She steps up beside the Paladin and folds her arms defiantly as she watches the ruckus unfold. "Guardin' Lord Vigar's all well and good, lad, but I stopped standin' behind shields the day the drow hit. Just 'cause I don't have me breaker with me don't make me a wee lass needs protectin'."
Though, I'm really wishin' I had it about now...