Robert you should be happy to know that your creature was one of seven I voted for. I had to read all the entries before casting my vote and I think objectively I would have picked yours whether I was in your games or not. Great job.
Kagehiro, I am sure you realize the annoyance with Dwunderbran isn't personal. It just how I think my character would react. I have to say I am shocked. My rolls are actually above 8! Has the curse been lifted?!
Too many interesting campaigns, not enough time.
It's because Ar'Zarrcal abandoned the traditional Dwarven gods. Kols and Angradd are punishing him.
Dakún seemed genuinely surprised by the answer Odolgun provided. His bushy straw blond eyebrows lifted as he pulled on one of the long strands of his mustachio. He shouldn’t have been as surprised as he was, but to hear the dwarves and men at the Gunworks in Dongun Hold and Alkenstar city talk of it, they all but controlled the export of black powder weapons. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interreupted by the passing of the cigars before him. Putting his index finger and his thumb together, he made the negative gesture that was common amongst the Pahmet, but quickly realized that his distant kin hear did not understand. “I appreciate your offered gift, but I cann’t accept it.” He said simply while meeting Dwunderbran’s gaze. There was no religious or social code that caused him to refuse the tobacco, merely an aversion to it, though if they wished to believe otherwise he would make no attempt to correct them. The men of Osirion and Katapesh tended to smoke various substances, but his people had never taken it up. There was enough difficulties in ventilating smoke from the forges and the kitchens, none saw a reason to add more. Too many of the Pahmet died at the young age of two hundred from tar lung and the black cough as it was. Returning his attention to Edrukk he took a swallow from his tankard of stout before providing the dwarf a proper answer, his accent becoming slightly more pronounced as he delved deeper into the abundance of alcohol present. “Dongun Hold and its human neighbor Alkenstar are l’cated on the continent of Garund, a bastion o’ civilization upon the inh’spitable Mana Wastes. The dwarves o’ Dongun Hold have made the claim that they invented black powder and the firearms that utilize the v’latile substance. A knowledge they passed on to their human neighbors o’ Alkenstar. During my time at Dongun Hold I was instructed in the use and repair o’ their black powder weap’ns.” Despite his words, there was no evidence of a firearm on the Sand Dwarf's person, in fact, he carried no weapon at all to this funeral feast, wearing only a simple white cotton robe which was cinched by a snakeskin belt that held a few items like a drinking horn hanging from it. “I believe they have much to teach, f’r I have seen their wonders… Built into the very cliffs on which the city rests is a weap’n o’ massive proportions they call The Great Maw o’ Rovagug. I was hold it takes well over a dozen men to reload.” The Sand Dwarf said, his voice becoming grave as he more quietly uttered “I must have faith that it will be enough should the Fire-bleeder turn t’ward the wastes.” The cloud of gathering smoke that gathered about the sitting area as multiple dwarves lit up and enjoyed the cigars soon became too much of an irritation to the bronze skinned Dakún. His eyes narrowed in vexation as he looked over to the oblivious smokers. Suppressing a cough, Dakún focused on Edrukk again. “Accept my pard’ns, but I seek to relieve myself. Too much soup and stout.” Provided Edrukk had no objections, Dakún would rise to his feet once more and exit the cloud of smoke. True to his word he sought out the lavatory, choosing to lighten his bowels before returning to the funeral celebration.
When the trumpeting of those conch shells announced the arrival of the so called Granite Empress and her train of followers, Dakún Rabbúhamash could not help but break his gaze with Grima and look over to where the extravagant group of Eastern dwarves paraded into the large mead hall. It seemed he was not the only foreigner present in Highhelm. It seemed that these distant kin were a nobility of some sort, with title and the pomp that usually goes with it. Their entrance was a striking contrast to his own, but that was to be expected. He had no title, no lands, and great humility. While he served as an ambassador of his people, his role was unofficial and without ceremony – a mantle he appointed on himself at the urging of the ancestor spirit. Catching himself in a moment of disrespect, he forced himself to look once more upon Grima Skulfadn. His gaze had not been long departed and it seemed too that Grima had been momentarily distracted (for good reason) by the colorful entrance. When Grima’s dwarven attendant came before him once again, Dakún returned the empty tankard and retrieved his drinking horn with a word of thanks. “Extend my gratitude f’r the hospitality offered and the thanks of the Rabbúhamash clan. The brother’s blessings upon the Skulfadn line” Dakún had been thankful for the moment, but understood that it had now passed and departed Grima’s attentions. He did not travel far, keeping to the quieter tables near the dias where he sat alone, though he made no special effort to keep apart from his Northern kin. They were not so different from the Dwarves of Dongun Hold, with the exception of the recently arrived procession of the ‘Granite Empress’. While these Northerners with a noticeable accent, the words they uttered were definitely of the Dwarven language, but what the silk robed dwarven princess spoke had no similarity to the ancestor tongue that he could place. While a part of him was thrilled at the arrival of these Dwarves from the Eastern Continent of Tian Xia, at the same time he felt a shimmer of resentment at the pomposity of their presentation. They seemed to offer up a suitable ritual and gift to the departed soul, but their presence and manner afterword seemed to focus all attention upon them and not as was proper on the members, both fallen and still living, of the Skulfadn line. By force of will Dakún silenced any umbrage he felt and comforted himself in the truth that the festive entrance had served to diminish and then ultimately end the riotous fracus. As he sat alone he let his eyes wander over the varied dwarves celebrating, feasting, or paying homage to the dead or the newly arrived royalty. Though he knew he would not do it, for to have ones head covered before the gods was a insult, in the crowded and festive hall of the Skulfan’s a small part of him wished to pull the hood of his white cotton robe up over his head. Even after these many years away from the Pahmet fighting the natural xenophobia of his upbringing proved to require constant struggle. He distracted himself by gracefully rising from his table and fetching two bowls of mushroom soup, both clearly prepared in a different manner. Returning to his table in silence, he set both bowls down before him and sampled the flavors of a spoonful of the first bowl, before moving onto the second. Since he first arrived in Dungun Hold and Alkenstar, Dakún had fancied himself something of a gastronome and he was eager to indulge that predilection for fine cuisine. The Pahmet looked up from his spoonful of soup far before the two approaching dwarves neared his table. With the racket in the room it was unlikely that he could have heard them walking towards him and his vision had been previously focused on the twin bowls before him. It was almost as if he sensed their intent. His jade colored eyes moved slowly and meticulously between Dwunderbran and Dolgrin. Both dwarves were heavily armored in what appeared to be expensive and expertly crafted metal plate. His gaze drifted with admiration along the golden filigree and rune work on Dolgrin’s armor and the twin rams heraldry of Dwunderbrand’s plate. His people were not without their own heavily armored warriors, but it was rare in the Brazen Mountains and the desert beyond. In Highhelm and Dungun Hold, heavy plate armor seemed more common, being worn even as formal attire. At the two strangers choice of armor the similarities in their appearance ended. Where Dolgrin’s beard and hair were pulled into neat braids, Dwunderbran was a mess of tangled hair, clasps, and foodstuffs. “Fortunes be up’n you both.” The Sand Dwarf said in what appeared to be a well practiced, likely formal greeting. To them his accent was likely apparent in his deep voice. “I would not dishonor The Judge by withh’lding hospitality during a feast f’r the honored dead. I welcome you to sit and join me. I am h’nored. A teacher of Torrúg is ever welcome at my side.” He set his spoon down and gestured with his hands for Dolgrin and Dwunderbrand both to sit, doing his best to ignore the foul stench that poured off of Vulgarbeard like slime slipped beneath a trail of slugs.
Ar'Zarrcal is of the same opinion as the right honorable Ambassador of Shalast Fenyx (I know, big surprise).
Artorius backs up and nearly falls to the ground when the massive Ogre pushed his way through the doorway. Catching himself with one hand pressed to the cold ground, he scurried backward before getting fully to his feet. A scowl worked its way across his visage. Artorius glowered at the ground and his knuckles tightened about the deaths-head moth symbol he wore about his neck. He too was soon staring at Grumblejack, intrigued by the unusual nature of this Ogre. The horns in particular caught his attention. The brute had also mentioned injuries and so Artorius looked upon the massive creature to see where it had been wounded. He still was uncertain whether to heal the beast or to merely learn where to strike it. "You could always take one of the corpses we left in there. It might serve as a crude club or meatshield." Artorius said with equal snarkiness and gestured to their own cell where they hid Wencelas and the would be trumpet-blower. "Stark has the right of it. Our best chance is with deception, as stealth and grumblejack do not go hand in hand. I can flee ahead with Jethryk, seeming panic stricken and if we encounter guards give word that 'the ogre and prisoners' have gotten free. Then when they turn to deal with the rest of you, we can cut off their retreat and dispatch them from behind." He said in a whisper. His intial thoughts had been to propose for him alone to go ahead, but he did not wish to yet try stretching his trust with this motley group of criminals. Besides, Jethryk was clearly capable with a blade. "The rest should follow forty or so feet behind us. Be prepared, as we may need to improvise." He'd usually worked with a set script when acting, but from time to time he had been forced to improvise his lines, especially when those he shared the stage with were drunk or just stupid.
I guess then the off-color remarks I'll be having Artorius make regarding their faith and their mothers will just add extra fuel to the fire...
Hilarious! Yeah, I know Ezra has mage hand, but my character certainly doesn't. It could be extremely useful if someone drops the lock picks. It won't be me. No sir, not with my fine hand eye coordination and steady hands... |
