Chapter 1: Fodder!

 
Gruunk Bloodfist
Half-orc Barbarian (Berserker)
Current HP: 33/33 Bloodied: 17
Healing Surges Used: 0/9 (8)
Resources Used:

Conditions:


Whatever doubt having been sated, Gruunk approaches the elderly orcish woman and stares at her a moment. He then says, "Gruunk. Of the Bloodfist clan. Are you...um...a witch doctor or shaman? Or do you wish to die a good death in battle?"

There is zero malice in the huge half-orc's words. It's clear he's trying to draw some sort of line in his brain that maybe only makes sense to him. He looks at her curiously, his speach halting and a bit hard to follow at times.


The crone smiles her senile smile and nods vigorously as the orc addresses her, "My master is kind to address old Nurse, this one is not worthy of the honor. Shaman, witch, seer, mystic, Nurse has worn all these hats, she has, but my Mistress now sees fit to have Nurse helping in the kitchens."

Stumbling and spilling her possessions everywhere, Nurse hunches down as she begins picking up her belongings. Looking about as though she is about to give away the secret routes to the treasure of a life time, she lowers her voice to a barely audible whisper, "As to this one's clan, Nurse does not no my Master. This one was separated from others of her kind as a child and sold from one Master to another time and time again. For longer than this one can recall I have been in service to one manner of being or another, and have been away from our people so long this one does not even speak the tongue any longer." As she tells this sad tale, her eyes begin to mist as the memories flood her senses. With a sniffle, she stacks the last of her gear back in place and strains to stand before giving a short cackle and continue her gait back to her hovel, "Listen to this one going on about the past like it makes a lick of difference now. Nurse has lived longer than most of her people, but if Gruumsh wills it, this one will not flee from his beckon call."

Gruunk Bloodfist
Half-orc Barbarian (Berserker)
Current HP: 33/33 Bloodied: 17
Healing Surges Used: 0/9 (8)
Resources Used:

Conditions:


Gruunk scratches his head as he listens to the elder, confused by the volume of words. He finally says, "I am a pro-tec-tor. I will try to stop them from making you dead. You help with magic?"

He looks at the woman with fascination and awe. Then he blushes and adds, "You want me fix leg?" He grabs his huge axe off his back in case his brand of "medical attention" is required. He appears serious the whole time. And as a last parting comment, he adds a little too loud a whisper, "Who is the horny lady? You know her?" He nods his head towards Fortune.

Fortune

The horned lady watches the others as they speak. Something rubbed her the wrong way, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. Either these people were very stupid, clueless, or knew something she didn't.

Almost all collection of slaves included someone who would tip of the masters at first chance, either out of some kind of misplaced loyalty or because they had been placed there for inside information. The way these guys were talking to each other, it sounded like they had no suspicions at all. Either that, or they were weaving several layers of lies. It was hard to tell without knowing the targets better.

She considered how to best approach the situation. She had already displayed humbleness towards the drow. Perhaps it was best to continue that role?

With slow, careful steps she approached the others. "I apologize for disturbing you," she excuses herself.

"I am called fortune," she says as she makes a curtsy. "I would much appreciate if you could extend your protection to me as well, warrior."

He'll protect whoever is the most vital to the success of the job, of course, chimes in Eduardo as he swaps out his torches for some sunrods, and as an obviously strong and successful warrior, I am sure he will make the best decision when the time comes.

The smiling human approaches the other slaves who will be in the group tomorrow, but perhaps we should discuss a bit about what our tactics should be when we go to the gate, and see what the battering ram is like. We are all, as I see, not too athletic with the exception of the half-orc. Which means that he will most likely have to lead the way on the ram for us, and do most of the heavy lifting. I will help where I can, of course, but there's only so much a thespian can do.

He mutters, sing and act, mostly.

Gruunk Bloodfist
Half-orc Barbarian (Berserker)
Current HP: 33/33 Bloodied: 17
Healing Surges Used: 0/9 (8)
Resources Used:

Conditions:


"4-chooooon," repeats Gruunk, exaggerating part of the name. He nods to himself having magically filed the name in some primal filing cabinet in his brain. It's a slow process...and there's only one drawer in that cabinet...but the name was filed nonetheless.

"You are brave! When me speak to drow, they beat me. When me speak like an orc, beat me worse. Better to not speak!" Gruunk grunts in agreement at his own statement proud of the wisdom he has learned over the years.

"Yah, I keep you safe. You...uh...can talk the nasty black elves from stomping us, 4-choon?" asks the barbarian.

As the bard approaches, Gruunk gives a toothy grin. He pats the good-looking man on the back. "You speak funny words. I do not know this taaac-ticks man. I will help with my axe. And uh...I keep people safe."

He leans over to 4-choon and whispers too loudly, "I thinked girls were...thesbee-ans. No?" He looks at her for guidance.


Realizing he forgot something, Tarner returns to the armory, where he picks up a length of rope. "Always good to have a decent length of rope!" he says, then notices everybody talking together. He approaches them. "Ah! Hello. I am Tarner. It is a pleasure to meet you all." He extends his hand and attempts to shake hands with each person in turn.

Fortune

"I must admit I still don't understand what we are supposed to do," Fortune replies to the bard.

She looks a bit surprised at the half-orcs' crude words. Her tail stops abruptly when he addresses her, then assumes its lazy unconscious sweep back and forth as she grow more accustomed to his speech. 'A surprise he has survived for so long,' she thinks to herself, 'probably more on strength and guts than wits.'

"I do not mind speaking to the black elves for you, though I'd recommend you don't call them nasty," she replies to his question. "Everything's considered, there are far worse fates than being here." '... and I'm not interested in finding out how much worse they can treat us either,' she mentally adds.

She looks a bit confused at his last question. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean. What is 'Thes-bee-ans'?"

When the golem-like thing addresses her, she looks startled, then hesitant, perhaps even afraid. "Does this... thing belong to one of you?" she asks the others, not daring to take his arm.

Tarner chuckles. "Do not fear, I shall not hurt you. Not without reason, anyway. I am not so heartless as the drow, despite my lack of internal organs. I am a Warforged, metal given life. I am owned by no man but myself. And quite possibly a horrible demon from the very depths of Hell, but so far he has not been able to influence my actions."

"This one is fine, this one's leg is as good as it can be at our age," she says with a slight cackle as the axe is displayed. As the rest approach and make their introductions, she looks them each up and down in turn as if sizing them up for something but not being sure what it may be. At the sight of the warforged, she stumbles back slightly, spilling part of her load on the cavern floor again before cursing and stooping to pick it up. Spitting at its feet, Nurse looks at the mechanized being, "Demons! What do you know of their ilk? Pft, this one things you are too bold, machine. This one knows that even the great Masters speak of demons in hushed tones lest they hear."




 

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