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"...and hello, nephew's friend, who he didn't actually introduce by name, but I assume has one. A pleasure I'm sure, your patience is appreciated and, I'm certain, must be mined from a very expansive vein." "The name's Bert," he greets the new goblin with a deep nod of the head. "Ha, patient. Ain't no-one ever called me that 'afore. Nah, Inzo an' I we just go back y'know, been through a lot and can stick through thick 'n' thin. Like a couple a gnarled roots that ain't had the sense to grow elsewhere an' now are stuck together forever." Bert sizes up the merry band, and muses quietly: "Now we jus' need someone to tell us when we're doin' somethin' awful stupid, an' or heretical. A pint-size priest would do the trick... ah well."
"Find an' copy some scrolls of a dubious nature? Sounds like a job fer us. An' lemme tell yeh, I spent a few winters sleepin' in the same tent as this fella-" he jabs a thumb at Inzo for emphasis, "-so squeamish ain't an' issue with me or 'im." He scratches his beard, thinking. "Now if'n only we 'ad some fella who knew a whole bunch o' stuff about everythin' an' anythin' an' would be keen as a new-honed axe to get his hands on some scrolls... well slap my behind an' call me a donkey, ain't that your Uncle Nazgub there Inzo? I remember you havin' yer issues in the past but by Desna's shinin' smile I think he's been sent to sort out the lack of thinkin' and knowledge in our group."
"Huh. This is like the chicken an' the egg, which came first: yer name, or the meanin' of it? Did yer parents know you were gonna be all scholarly an' name you as such, or did you become all scholarly because they named ye Gorm?" Bert scratches at his beard as the conundrum drives him deep in thought. He surfaces in a moment after realising that he ought to answer the question before delving too deep. "A favour? Oh aye, we can do that, can't we lads?" He glances between Gabros and Inzo for approval.
Bert screws up his face at Gabros's technical term: "Huh, what do ye mean by "Field Commissioned"? Ye proved ye had the skills t' someone 'igh up the Pathfinder totem pole an' they dobbed you in on the spot? 'ow'd that all 'appen? Seems like it'd be a mighty tale perfect for sharin' over a drink or many." He follows - fairly willingly - as Janira drags them to make Gorm's acquaintance, nodding politely to the dwarf as he tries to figure out what the man's deal is. "You do much o' the educating 'round 'ere then, Gorm? Is that where the sayin' 'gormless' comes from, 'cause if someone ain't got any Gorm then they ain't been educated properly?"
Bert gives up on tugging at Inzo and holds up his hands in contrition and apology to the well-dressed, fine-figured fellow he almost bowled over. "Sorry 'bout that mate, jus' a regular greetin' where we come from," he says, eyeing up the newcomer. Unable to hide the gleeful grin that spreads across his face, he ducks aside to whisper to Inzo: "Look at this'n, he's proper fancy he is. Would give us a respectability no-one could deny. An' he has a sword." He coughs, poorly hiding the laugh bubbling up and turns back to Gabros. "You a new Pathfinder too then? Maybe we should stick together, us new ones, share the expertise an' the like. I'm Bert an' this mug is Inzo." Ugh I'm talking too much, like a regular mummer's troop here. Blather on any more and we'll just look even more like clowns.
Bert tries to throw Inzo's flailing form over his shoulder but the dwarf was never the agile sort and can't get a proper grip on his new goblin backpack to throw him off. "Get off mate, we look a bloody loony pair the two o' us like this. If'n only we had someone respectable around t' make us look 'alf-decent in comparison, someone lordly an' noble-like with a title an' all," Bert muses, scratching at his beard as he surveys the crowd. "An' while I'm wishin' away maybe he'd be the kinda fellow to pay for a dwarf's drinks an' a goblin's slugs, y'know 'ow it is." A somewhat crazed look crosses his face; an eye twitches, nostrils flare, and his beard trembles in excitement: "An' even better idea just struck me - didn't 'urt though - what if'n you weren't even the only one of yer tribe at this shindig, now that'd be enough crazy to bring the tone down enough that we'd seem plenty normal." Bert wonders how much different things might've been with some better company upon their first adventure...
Bert steps warily into the room, looking about to see if his mate Inzo is around. The lodge is so far, so foreign, from the long-distant pines and snowbanks of the north. He nods his thanks to Janira's friendly welcome: "Oh aye, drinks. Snacks too, I'd hew down a wall for a half-chewed, month-old piece of reindeer jerky right 'bout now." "Say," he juts a thumb in the direction of the scholarly dwarf. "I dun remember that fella, though might be me expertise an' his ain't grow in the same forests, yeh know. Who is he?" "Also, yeh seen Inzo about? Gotta make sure he don't get in too much trouble now."
Bert travels quietly from the valley, deep in thought at the leshy crafter's words. He sidles beside Inzo at one point during their trek: "Mate, this 'as been a weird one. Me head still feels mucky from pullin' out that fella's eye shard thing, but it also feels confused wit' all the talk about trees 'avin' spirits an' such in 'em. Travelin' out into the big world I thought'd be easy an' adventurous an' we'd get paid like - if'n not kings - at least a noble's wage or two. But I keep gettin' learnt all this new ideas an' I ain't sure my head's big enough to grasp 'em all. 'ow are you handlin' all o' this?"
Bert pales slightly as the conversation continues. He shifts the woodcutter's axe on his back suddenly uncomfortable with its weight. "Damn fool me, could've been rackin' up decades o' bad luck hackin' away at spirit-filled trees," he mutters to himself. He looks to the leshy with worry writ plain on his face: "Are yeh sayin' that plants an' trees can 'ave spirits livin' inside them all this time? Or is it jus' some special ones that are made like yerself?"
"Not the only disturbin' thing," Bert mutters. He stuffs the eye-shard-thing in his backpack to avoid touching it anymore. "Feels like I need t' spend the rest o' the day scrubbin' out the inside of me skull." He turns to the leshy crafter, and - after a moment of awkwardness figuring out how to do it - pats the leshy on the top of its body in a reassuring manner. "Mate, sorry 'bout all that jus' now but it was fer the best. Seems yer seein' clearly now."
"Uh..." Bert stands a little gobsmacked at the leshy's bizarre speech. He fishes the length of rope out of his pack. "'s not gonna work fer what yer doin' there, but mayhaps if'n yeh tryin' to build a big ol' behemoth of a leshy I can show some knots an' such that'll help with the leverage an' such," Bert rambles a little, uncomfortable with engaging the strange creature in dialogue. He begins to run through a series of knots:
Bert suppresses a grunt of disgust at the pebble eye bobbing against his foot, fighting the urge to hoof it off into the nearby plant matter. Instead, he concentrates on watching the surrounding leshys for any signs of danger. "I gots a bit o' rope," he hisses to Gabros and Orla. "Yeh can offer that if'n we need."
"Why not we do both? 'ave a few of us go out to engage them in conversation an' see if we can resolve this without the need for hackin' an' slashin', while some stealthy-types move behind to get the drop on that big rock in case it all turns vinegar-sour?" Bert looks between his companions, eyeing up their abilities for dialogue or sneakiness. "I mighta just made a plan I ain't any good at," he chuckles.
Bert scans the valley. His keen eyes fixate on the monolith, and a tremor runs through his stout frame. "Alright, listen up," he grumbles quietly to the group. "Though somethin' took the top off that big carved rock thing, it's givin' me a twitchy feelin' somethin' fierce, like what's left of me beard is tryin' to escape my body. What I'm sayin' is: it's bad, an' it's probably the cause of all o' this badness too. We just gotta stop it somehow..."
"Ah made it through a fight un-bloody-scathed!" Bert throws up his hands and cheers. "Ah'll sleep well tonight, 'cause I didn't waste me sleepin' hours with any damned dirt naps! HA!" he does what could almost be construed as a joyful jig, armour rustling and jangling, clacking his shield and axe together overhead. Once the rush of sweet, flawless victory ends, he takes notice of the leshy's dying writing. "Ugh, now it's bloody tryin' to make me feel bad for choppin' a tree," he grumbles.
He nods at Hammick's analysis: "Right yeh are, fellow dwarf, them's a whole bunch o' rocks. Ah, look at us, on the forefront deducin' things, too much o' this an' our heads'll swell to pumpkin-size with all the stuffs we knows an' thinks."
Bert grins over the rim of his cracked shield. Barely a scratch so far, and Nazgub's song has given him a pep to his step. Maybe this fight will go better than the last one after all. "So polite of yeh - yeh weird tree - standin' all still like that," he roars, before swinging again and again with his centipede-bloodied axe, after which he raises his shield in preparation for a conter-attack.
Bert shudders in horror upon seeing more centipedes. "Ugh...Desna better smile on me this time. Already taken one dirt nap on this trek," he grumbles to himself, voice low in order to avoid Orla's attention at her deity's name. "Geez, that's a biggun'! Well you know what to do Bert! Just another tree, this time packed with hay" He forces out a chuckle at Inzo's words: "Right yeh are mate, but I like it when me trees aren't all up 'n movin' about. Much easier to chop when they stand still."
"Peaceful resolution?" Bert grumbles. "Those leshys weren't bein' all that peaceful. 'ow we gonna communicate with 'em if they just scream foul things in their demonspeak?" He begins to look thoughtful, tries to tug at his beard, and remembers there's only patchy, burnt bits remaining. "Then again, mayhaps havin' a peaceful plan to open with ain't so bad. Nazgub, Orla, 'n' Gabros, yer all talkative, charmin' folks. Put yer 'eads together an' think us up a resolution that don't involve battlin' more explosive plants. The rest o' us-" he draws out his battleaxe to test its edge (and scowl at the recent nicks in the blade) "-we gots the backup plan all ready t' go."
Bert sits up with a grumble, albeit a thankful one. Blackened, bloody, bruised, and sticky with rotten leshy goo, he's not a pretty sight. "Mah thanks one again, Orla," he gives a nod to the halfling. "Desna must be gettin' sick o' hearin' about me in yer prayers. Oof it's that troublesome grumblepuss o' a dwarf again." Grabbing the rim of his cracked shield, he levers himself up to a standing position, swaying slightly. He shoots Inzo a tender smile at the goblin's concern. "Agh I ain't that attached to me beard, just handy to hide mah face from the sun an' pleasant company. It'll grow back quick 'nuff," he reaches up to touch the singed patches, and winces. "Might be needin' some attention if'n we're needin' to present a fine face for the Pathfinder Society in the near future." "Well, that it? We bested the fiendish leshys an' saved the forest, or is this but a vanguard o' their force?"
Bert chokes and coughs as the flames and noxious gases almost become too much for him. He mutters: "Is that another one I owe to Nazgub? Ugh..." He quickly sizes up the situation, and decides that stomping out flames further away from the explosive leshys seems a better course of action. Striding up beside Orla, he lets his feet do the talking.
Though he's not as effective at stomping as he would like, all the effort seems to have put out his own flames.
Bert catches the leshy's first strike on his shield (reaction: Shield Block), but leaning into the blow leaves him vulnerable for the following strike. "Agh that burns. How does it burn? Yer a stupid plant thing."
Given space by the leshy in his face, Bert uses the opportunity to grab a potion from his things and chug it down. "Hmm, cinnamon-y." He raises his shield to prepare for the next assault of rotten fruit barrages.
"Ugh, stupid little critters tossin' fruit at me better not be a theme for today!" Bert yelps in annoyance. He drags out his shield to better protect himself from any further projectiles before striding forward to get closer to both enemies and fire. "C'mere yeh bastards, I'm feelin' like a bloody grumplepuss an' am gonna take it out on yeh heads."
"I don't mean to be offensive. What can we do that a master druid and the chief of the Redpine Clan cannot?" Bert - finally having removed all the remaining apple pips and debris from his hair - buts in: "We bring a certain Pathfindery-ness problem-solvin' that master druids an' chiefs lack. We been all over Avistan, seen a bunch o' craziness, have big axes an' ain't afraid to use 'em. An' Desna's on our side, right Orla?" "Damn kids," he grumbles, seeing an apple seed he missed. "Didn't their mother teach 'em some lessons like she oughta?" "Are all these plants doin' is settin' fires and trying to gnaw faces, or do they got other powers too? How big are they anyhow? Better not be swarms of the damn things..."
Bert eyes up the tree and sighs. "Waste o' two silver if'n yeh ask me. Inzo an' I could have that tree down in a under a minute." He glances between the children and the ground, then shrugs. "They're kids, they'll survive that fall. They're durable, bouncy fiends." "Actually..." he muses, noticing the centaur: "If'n yeh kick like a horse a couple o' hits from us could weaken it enough for yeh to do the honours."
Talks about his history and musical knowledge. "Mate, I dunno 'ow it all fits in there," Bert says, tapping the side of his own head. "Probably helps that you goblins are practically all noggin." A moment of silence reigns, before Bert tries to lighten the mood. He slaps Nazgub hard on the shoulder: "Been to Iobaria before? Could be some new tunes for yeh to pick up on. Maybe somethin' cheerful."
"That's a tune to pass time, ain't a complicated rhythm or anythin', just some words we all know an' do. Don't even matter if it sound good or no, it's just about the singin' it," He shrugs, the difference between the styles of music apparent in his own mind. Intense musical theory... Bert nods along to the goblin's descriptions, although his eyes begin to glaze as the complexities of rhythm and tempo come in to play. "Aye, I get the practical applications an' all that. Certainly helps t' pass the time while workin', an' if'n it makes yeh work better then that's some cunning bardic know-'ow." He scratches at his beard - his common tic for musing through a thought - until it all seems to slot into place in his head: "Alright, yeh said a lot of words an' the question I got from all of it is: 'ow come yeh know so much about dwarven work-tunes. Underneath all that yer secretly a dwarven smithin' master? Seems you've spent more time around 'em than I ever did."
"Master Haaland, I do have to ask. I know a fair few songs of your folk and I'm sure I could find something in my repertoire that is suited to your taste. Of the dwarven style, do you prefer Pick music or Hammer music?" Bert is not a subtle dwarf - and while his face is mostly hidden by his beard - the embarrassed flush that reddens his cheeks when Nazgub inquires as to his dwarven musical taste is starkly apparent. He glances around the narrow confines of the caravan, searching in vain for some method of distracting this apparent inquisition. "Uh... I don't much know the difference," he mutters. Then he spits out with sudden annoyance: "Look mate, I didn't grow up in no bloody dwarven citadel where I learnt the fancy bits 'bout music an' art an' all that." He gives Nazgub the cold shoulder for a few minutes after that, retreating to sulk in a corner between some crates. Eventually he returns, tugging on his beard in contrition, and offering up a mumbled: "Sorry mate, just feelin' extra prickly on this voyage. Yeh didn't deserve to get bitfer it. Can yeh tell me the difference 'tween the two, then I might be able to offer an opinion. I got plenty o' those in me but there's always room fer more." |
