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Blinking, Noirak doesn't know exactly how to react but the perceived distaste that's likely to radiate from the many aristocrats about would certainly please the uncivilized brute. Indeed, if groans or starts are heard from any of such a manner, the barbarian shines a toothsome grin before folding his prodigious veridian arms and nodding his approval.
Struggling to describe what he wishes to drink, the orc makes motions with his wide hands to indicate he would like a mug of dark grog. "Heavy, dark, big drink," he affirms before blinking at the women seated to either side of him. We'll be asked to fill ourselves on dainty scraps fit for a small dog, I'm sure, he thinks pessimistically to himself, still keeping himself from holding the higher class in good regard.
The hulking form of the primal half-orc squeezes into his appointed chair, looking bemused at the face of fruit arranged on his and the plate of everyone else. Noirak looks off to either side to see what guests are seated nearest him, possibly engaging in a struggled dialogue if he finds them interesting enough to warrant communication. Otherwise, the barbarian will sit uncomfortably, waiting for the event to begin in earnest.
With the arrival of such a prominent number of higher-class people, all dressed to the nines, Noirak shifts uncomfortably as they make their ways past him and into the rest of the house. Shuddering, he can't help but picture himself being surrounded by thousands of squirming snakes. Shaking the image from his head, he does his best to edge his way past the bustling company to isolate himself somewhat before the summons is sounded for dinner.
Letting out a mirthful laugh after seeing the new arrivals, the less civilized half-orc smirks to himself and nods. Better than I thought, an entire family of dandified fat cats! Well...I suppose the only one truly hefty is their pup. Would be quite a treat for some predator if he found himself in the wild. Noirak continues to grin as the group ambles off to their destinations. He turns his head to look at the Sergeant and gauge his reaction to the march of moguls.
Blinking, the half-orc leans out to see the cart and its inhabitants emerge. He frowns upon seeing all the fuss over their arrival and scratches his rough, thick jaw while continuing to peer outside. Nobles or some people of chief-like importance to this place of polished stone and tamed growth. I can only wonder what trivial thing they said or did to gain such arrogant status.
Once again crossing his burly arms, the barbarian continues to stand in the entrance hall, a few paces away from Iozef. His eyes wander after the other guests as they go to explore the house and it seems a struggle for him to remain. Rolling his shoulders, he then peers down at the slender man nearby, gauging who he might be and why he's there. Scrawny one, this. Reminds me of a crow on its last legs, he thinks to himself as a jagged, toothy grin spreads across his features.
Sidling toward the entry way, Noirak does his best to appear graceful despite his size. With some difficulty, he manages to shuffle through the cards provided before nodding to himself with confidence as he selects one. "Like lion, I am strengthful," he tells no one in particular. After seeing a few of his fellow visitors jot down their names or marks on the guestbook, he himself signs it. He jots down his name in bold, crude lettering. It looks much like a child's handwriting when first beginning to learn the signs that make their own name.
The tribal brave's chest swells with pride, even from the Seargent's recognition. He has trouble responding to the sudden overwhelming feedback at first, deciding simply to nod around to the group, continuing to show his exotic display. "Halfted is...much more smart..than full-tusks," he states before crossing his arms again. Other than a curious glance to the strange juggler of fine dishware, the half-orc returns to his boorish stance. His expression, however, does little to hide the change of attitude he now holds about the evening. Perhaps this will be better than I predicted. Certainly, it will not lack interest.
The viridian hued giant looks down suddenly at the lithe elven woman, perceiving the tap on his shoulder as a way to make a point of his savage origin. Before he has time to sort out the words the woman spun at him, a low throated growl begins to rise in his chest. A few moments, however, give him time to make sense of her string of Common and he ceases his aggressive composure to raise a brow at her inquiry. "Brave f-for...scars," he manages to spit out before thumping his fist hard on his chest. In an instant, his demeanor changes quite rapidly to one with great esteem. He then twists his large arms around to display the tribal ink ingrained beneath the lime-colored skin. His mouth opens wide to display a toothy grin. Someone perceptive enough, from far away, might notice that there are etchings in some of his teeth, filled with an azure substance. "Only hall-fuhs," he tells her with an informative tone in his gruff voice.
Noirak's attention casually drifts from the mingling going on between the elven woman and odd tea connoisseur to the fellow half-orc dressed in the formal garb of a law man. After sizing him up and registering the detail of his garb the uncivil hulk snorts derisively before looking off towards the door. Dressed up like a proper pet and given a worthless title no doubt, he thinks to himself whilst tapping his foot.
The hulking form of a half-orc wearily plods down the fair avenues of Pavaleau, ignoring the curious stare and scowl of the well-cultured citizens he crosses on his trek. Several times now, the barbaric-looking individual has lifted his head to examine the estates that he passes, before peering down at the crumpled papers in his hand and marching on. Growling, he stamps one foot on the ground, much to the surprise and startlement of passersby. Just as he is about to give up, Noirak happens upon Wodewoode Manor with its line of eccentric guests outside. Rolling his broad shoulders, the barbarian makes his way into the compound, smirking as he notes the effigies and their attempt to emulate the viciousness of the beasts depicted. This scholar would likely die from fright if he saw the real thing, he considers to himself while imagining a frail, bookish old man seizing up from a heart attack. As he arrives closer to the door, the bulk of a man makes it a point to avoid the other two guests as he approaches the majordomo. In grudgingly difficult common, he explains the circumstances of his patron's death and his role of taking the late explorer's place to the doorman. After receiving what he assumes to be a confirmation and the instructions to wait, Noirak descends the marble steps leading to the manor, taking point a few feet away from the others. Crossing his arms, he watches the two, taking note of their attitude and words. What happened to the simplicity of a night in the jungle? At least I knew who the predators were.
And might he be a haberdasher as well?
I would like to join! My character here is standing in for his patron whom recently passed away, a gnome explorer that brought him back from the jungles to civilize him after having been saved from the half-orc's savage kin. I think it would be humorous to see how awkwardly he fits in among the high class. |
