Blar: Frenemy at the Gate
Log Info
- Title: Meetup: Blar: Frenemy at the Gate
- Emitter: Cryosanthia
- Characters: Barclaiigh, Shalethiste, Carver, Zofija
- Place: The independent City-State of Blar
- Time: Monday, March 07, 2022, 11:02 PM
- Summary: One does not simply walk into Blar. Hard, hard questions will be asked, such as 'what is your name?' and 'why are you here?'. Despite this daunting challenge, several adventurers are determined to do so. Barclaiigh is answering in ways that don't make sense. He's joined by Zofija, a teleport companion, and observed by Shalethiste. Carver arrives, and answers the guard in a colloquial bumpkin slang that makes her difficult to understand also. Eventually, they are waved through, and a goblin appears to drag Barc off. She's allowed to do so; he'll be fine.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- The independant city-state of Blar =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
A hobgoblin city, broken away from Bludgun and the capital of all goblinoid settlements that have also thrown off that yoke. It is inhabited and run by goblinoids and suits them -just fine-. It is a hard place, shaped by the competing outlooks of the Arvek Nar, the gobbos and to a lesser degree, the oruchs. Yet, it is still a city, cosmopolitan and filled with people going about their daily business. The more 'civilized' and softer races, like elves and halfings and of course humans, are not completely absent.
But they are rare.
One is more likely to see a bugbear or a docile gnoll, and any 'civilized' citizen or visitor should be on the solid side if they hope to be seen after running into one of the former. Understandably, it can seem a little like a gaol, with muscular, tattoo'd and heavily scarred men and women glaring about. It is not. There are children playing, folk buying groceries, old men engaged in strategy games under the trees.
The games are more violent, the food rougher, the old men have weapons close at hand should their wargame need a diplomatic solution. There is a lot more marching, patrols of hobgoblins in the streets, and explosions. The goblinoid sectors are not considered the swankiest parts of town. Lone Oruchs go about their tasks, preferring to act alone. A lot of stares and glares.
And very few smiles. Telling someone to smile is a good way to lose some teeth. Maybe that is why none of them do.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Appearing =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Barclaiigh 4'5" 202 Lb Mountain Dwarf Male A thick tree-trunk of a dwarf. Wavy auburn hair, loose traveling clothes Carver 5'7" 133 Lb Human Female A plain-faced woman with a brown top knot. Shalethiste 4'6" 96 Lb Shadow Elf Female A copper maned elf maiden, hued in the night sky. Zofija Hobgoblin Female -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- As the GM =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Cryosanthia 6'9" 291 Lb Sith-Makar Female A dashingly tall, elegant white-scaled lizard woman. -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=
At least, that's what one might expect if one could get into the city.
A few people at the main gate are having difficultly. Well, one person, a dwarf, who is blocked by one of the guards. The hobgoblin physically stands in front of him, and speaks loudly and slowly, trying different languages.
"Once again, SIR. Who are you, and what is your business in Blar?"
With recent... deliveries made, the Silverguard has been afforded a somewhat observed stay in Blar.
So there is no extra mischief, you see.
Garbed with some adjustment in deference to the season and climate, a Mul'niessa of copper tresses ventures gateward from the fringes of the low market, but makes neither a call, nor ill-considered shift to any sort of threatening posture.
Guards are guards, and this is probably routine.
The dwarf with the bushy, wavy-auburn hair has his sausage fingers wrapped around the lip of his darkwood gorget. The hands smush down his beard and his corded forearms rest against the front of his glowing breastplate. The Yggsdrasil Union insignia is almost entirely obscured behind his hanging limbs. His green-runed spear is pointing up against his back and his skirts and pants are tattered and torn to reveal hair legs riddled with a dozen scratches and angry bitemarks.
Surprisingly, his frustration doesn't stem from his obvious wounds. "Ain't gotta ramble th'sketchy corn braziers t'me like that, mister," he grumbles back. One of his eyes is taking the day off and droops lazily, draining a little bit of teary water. There's a deliberate breath and a long, heavy sigh. "Bar Stoutbrew. Cousin. In Blar. Scrumptious through th'danged fizzle pots." A groan. A growl and a shake of the head.
The dwarf turns and drops one hand, tapping at the pony keg sitting beneath his traveling pack and over his rump. He slaps the top where the family insignia is charred and 'STOUTBREW' is painted in Trade and Khazdul, one atop the other.
Zofijah, with a large griffon by her side, finishes with her business elsewhere. and walking in on the dwarf being bothered by the guards. "Former second lieutenant of the 6th cavalry regiment Zofija Vogt. This dwarf is here on business with me to make a delivery. There is no further information at this time, I have said all that I can and know." She barks, offering the offending guards a slight glare. "I hope you have not been causing him undue trouble while trying to assist me in these matters." <Goblin-talk>
The guard is focused on Barclaiigh, although a nod is made towards Zofija. "He has to give a comprehensible answer. You know that, second lieutenant. He has to provide a name so it can be logged. He has, this time. Now he can enter."
The hobgoblin looks directly at Barclaiigh, "there are savage and uncivilized races present who may react badly to you. You are allowed to defend yourself, but it will be heavily scrutinized. Do you understand?"
The guard looks at Zofijah once more, "If you are chaperoning him, you will be responsible for his actions and keeping him out of trouble. It's good that he has an experienced guide."
Shalethiste folds her hands neatly before her in time for the discussion at the gate to become more mundanely proceedural.
Official business being of Blar, rather than Elunian, she lets things roll on peacefully while the apparant visitor is given the formal guidelines.
"Ain't hangin' trouble 'round m'britches come fiddle switches," Barclaiigh responds with a nod. Whatever has him turned around linguistically seems to be worse after the stress of the battle-- or maybe he's just getting tired. He nods his head slowly at the guard, as if he's still trying to process the instructions while he's being spoke to. Then he taps the Yggdrasil carving on his breastplate and offers a thumbs-up gesture. He's used to wild and uncivilized. More than most dwarves, at least.
The druid then turns to look up and nod his thanks to the hobgoblin. "Had'n ordeal recent-kind. Time stop kindlin'..." He stops and cups his strong hand over his own mouth and then uses the same hand to describe a fish swimming up and away. There's a frustrated shrug.
Carver sharpens a knife, a dirty woman just this side of being mischaracterized as a dirty urchin. Uncivilized lands and hard travelling will make a beggar of a queen, and she was as far from royalty can get before that. The short skinning knife slips away from her whetstone at the sight of the griffin, a dwarf, and a lady fair. "Righ' bleeding joke." Country bumpkin drawl it is. "Only needin' a pink ribbon'd pony forra punchline." She had waited days for admission. If only she had known to bring a banner to make it go so quickly she would have cut her hair and stitched one together. "A big fat bear..." She slips a little closer, curious as to the nature of these unusual visitors.
"Then that is settled. Good. Thank you, I did not know he did not provide his name. And of course, If he causes any trouble, I fully understand it is my responsibility, and a failure on my part for the city of Blar if anything does happen."
This is accompanied by a glare to the Dwarf. "Now, lets not hold up traffic here. Places to be, blood to wring out. And reports to be made."
The guard nods, adding a parting thought, "Stoutbrew? That's served at the Moon Pub, three streets in and down the left lane." The dwarf is waved on through as the guard steps out of Barclaiigh's way and into Carver's.
The urchin, examined. "Name and purpose of visit?" The hobgoblin asks blandly, as if this has been said a thousand times.
The red-tressed shadow-elf gets a familiar glance, one she's seen from a thousand pairs of eyes. A look of surprise, incredulity, and acceptance. One that also asks 'why are you here?' without becoming verbal. This moment of curiosity is abandoned, allowing the guard to focus on the next visitor.
The looks are nothing new, of course. The circumstances of her arrival didn't help her already... burdened level of welcome.
Shalethiste watches the 'niceties' wrap up with the Khazadi, and her eyes spend some moments contemplating the sigil on his breastplate. Her hands unfold, but she doesn't deign to approach just yet.
Her eyes swivel to take note of his escort, and she weighs the likelihood that they're of sufficient standing to be part of her to-do list.
The squint Barclaiigh offers in return for the glare is a curious one. He's known few goblinoids and even fewer 'nar. He nods again and runs the back of his hand over his lazy eye. He wasn't crying. Well... he was but not because the hobgoblin hurt his feelings.
"Raadmahn's normally cleverer'n this..." He mumbles, as much to himself as for Zofijah's benefit. "Goblins wish prism as much's th'next but ain't no crate branches." His sandals slap quietly as he walks through the gates, his voice distracted while he examines this whole new world from a new fantastic point of view. There's an idle grin and he fishes out a fetish of boar's tusks on a long leather thong, dropping it to dangle on the front of his armor. "Lookee here, Truffles... 's Blar!"
"Carver, looking for work." Carver says, lips peeling back in a deadman's rictus of a grin. The brief flash of crooked front teeth turning her uncomfortable smile into a leer. "Righ' and proper caray-vah-neer, learned at the knee of my ma with the stinkin' breath of my pa still lingerin' right there beneath the mountains ye might spot from a distance." She points, yonder, with no real intention of being accurate. "What's your name? You look like a Gromte, a strong name for a strong man. Jus' look at those biceps, got me flusterin' like a fish hopped out of the stream." She meant floundering. "Anyho'..."
"Maybe we need to stop by some physicians too or something. When you're in with the military long enough, you learn of a couple good ones." Zofija grunts, moving for the main gates when she stops to see the human attempting to get in. "Name and occupation is enough. And it's not a good look for an officer to be dealing with such advances. If you care more than taking advantage of him, you can always ask another time."
"Close. It's private Gero, badge J109," the gate guard replies to Carver. He takes out a notebook and jots down a couple. He doesn't smile, but stands taller and more proudly., "Okay, same as with him."
"As a human, you will be targeted. You are allowed to defend yourself but any self defense will be examined. Ask for the mercenary barracks, you'll find job offers and contacts there." He steps aside and waves for her to pass.
Barclaiigh is ignored, Gero having failed to understand him too many time already. Zofijah is answered instead, "He might need someone to take a look at him. Shield mate of mine took a hit to the head and ended up sounding like him."
The guard gives another glance at Shalethiste, the sort someone makes when they want to monitor a possible threat. Trade often gets victimized in myriad ways...
Shale ventures somewhat closer to the colorful Khazad, though the remark of Doctors from his escort puts the slightest perk in her ears.
Then the human chimes in in a rather unique color of thirst, which brings them back to true.
The Mul meets the guard's glance and bows her head, before inquiring of the visitors, "Is someone injured, then?" in an accent much afield from that of Blar, or even Alexandria...
"We don't butter here?" Carver asks Zofija, "I thought you buttered everywhere. See, Private Gero-One0hNiner likes butterin'. Don't worry me none, Biceps, best defense against a strong fella wanting to crack your head is to run. I know me place." She knuckles her dirty brow, slipping past the guard, her expression of bewildered bumpkin charm fading neer instantly. Well, she's in now. She eyeballs Barclaiigh, and her Khazdul is near perfect without any lazy drawl or misappropriated turns of phrases. If only she had a beard to blow out irritably to complete the picture. "Beerbelly." The Mul's question is given the respect and space it deserves.
"Dang head's..." Barclaiigh stops and moves to the side of the road, looking between a the trio of women before closing his eyes and concentrating. "Cattywhompus," manages the dwarf with some effort. "Ain't farmin' knee-high--"
"'Need rest... but Raadmahn's kin." The Khazadi wildman explains, looking up again at the Arvek Nar. It's something of an apology judging by his tone; maybe he didn't intend to saddle her with escort duty. "Took a trip star furrows," he blinks and trails, watching an ogre stoop to talk with a breed of lizardfolk he's never seen before. "... missing knots," he finishes, distracted.
"Yer from--" the druid stops and waves around one calloused sausage finger as he looks between Zo and her griffon-- "these parts?"
"Yes, you probably need rest, even if you came out the best of us when it comes to what happened." Zofija grunts. She looks to Carver, and crosses her arms. "No, we don't do buttering up here. A guard that can't keep it professional and in their pants is unreliable at best, or corrupt or a danger to others at worst. So no." She states firmly.
"We all got hurt fairly bad on our way here, but whatever is happened to the dwarf-" She gestures to Barclaiigh- "Is something older I think. So probably needs to see a healer on top of some rest."
"Yes. Thank you for the reminder, Second Lieutenant." Private Gero says, turning away from Carver. He gives Shalethiste one last side-eye before there's another entrant to be met and questioned.
Inside the gates, there is traffic, much like any city would have. It is a little more regimented, the streets seem orderly. The traffic diverts around the small group, no gawkers. It's not their business.
Shalethiste continues her approach, stately and graceful, as she processes the return amongst the crosstalk.
Her eyes show some concern as note of the traveller's trouble come to light, and she slowly (because Mul'niessa aren't regarded kindly as a rule) offers her hand with the explanation, "My name is Shalethiste, and I serve the Sky Dancer as one of her Silver Guard. If you would trust me, I may be able to tend some of your wounds."
Carver studies Zofija for a moment, then gives a helpless shrug. A fight brewing this early into Blar over buttered hobgoblin is obviously not an investment she is interested in. She is interested enough in if this Silver Guard is capable of solving the Cattawhompus to stick around for a second though.
"Ain't..." Barclaiigh trails off, sizing up Shalethiste and offering a guileless smile, friendly-but-tired. "Got nobbled t'some nightmare place'n a thing makin' like a tree just... it kept susurratin' at me." He takes his time speaking, pausing and pulling back his lips with his teeth clenched when he's stuck. The strain of it has his lazy eye weeping properly and he wipes it away with a thick thumb.
"Won't say no but some folk'r hurt more," sighs the druid with another glance at Zofija before considering the self-proclaimed Silver Guard. He simply offers another smile since fighting his own mouth is becoming tiresome.
Zofija stops, and glares at the hand, before she is pulling her left glove off, and shaking her hand. "Zofija Vogt, probably overheard it. And he does probably need the healing more. Not something I'm not used to at this point, a good sleep will do wonders enough. And if he's in better shape, that makes my job and travel easier."
Shalethiste smiles gently(she thinks) and nods, "I've met some... interesting trees, myself." she says softly. Her hand has the expected callouses of a swordswoman of some experience, while her grip is firm without being needlessly crushing as her hand is taken for a couple of shakes as she infuses her grip with the warm glow of Eluna's healing Grace.
"We're kindly met, then. My divine gifts are still somewhat meager, I hope I can at least ease your burdens to some extent."
Blar is a well regulated city-state, full of hobgoblins who know their place and like being in it. They are the finely tuned, well-meshed gears that keep it running.
And it has goblins, who function more like sabots, jamming the works and gumming up things. One such goblin appears, seemingly out of nowhere to take Barclaiigh's hand.
"Hi! Hello! Good to meet you! Welcome to Blar! You're injured and tired? Why I have just the thing and just the place! Come with me to Cherry's Cheeky massage parlour!" Now, she's tugging on him, and imparting a fresh flower scent to the nearby air, "I'm Cherry and I assure you, everyone likes my cheeky massages!"
She grins with wide and jagged teeth at Zofijah and Shalethiste, "Don't worry officers, I'm expecting him. I'll take him off your hands." She crosses her fingers and touches them beside her eyes, "Full responsibility!"
"See, Cherry gets butterin' too." Carver quips.
<OOC> Shalethiste says, "a 1d6 lay on hands, plus the sickened mercy" <OOC> Shalethiste says, "it removes the sickened condition for like an hour" GAME: Shalethiste rolls 1d6: (2): 2 <OOC> Shalethiste the Great Healer <OOC> Cryosanthia says, "Barc, roll bluff, Shale, roll heal" GAME: Shalethiste rolls heal: (13)+8: 21 GAME: Barclaiigh rolls Bluff: (15)+0: 15
"We don't hold the goblins to our own standards." Zofi states, though she turns to glare now at the goblin, with much more venom to it. "You know you don't have to be so forceful in finding customers, and you and I both know that he had no prior arrangements with you. Please, leave him here, and find someone else."
"Varmints?" Barclaiigh wonders, puzzled as he looks down with his one good eye at the unfamiliar gobber's hands. He's of a considerable bulk and as capable of putting his foot down to stand firm as any Khazad-aul!
But he's also more than a little frazzled, battered from his ordeal, and in yet-another new place with (he's sure) strange customs he's not experienced before.
Weeks later and he still can't believe the shark-gobber fell asleep in his lap that one time...
"Roots. Roots'n pigeons strain sown fields." The Khazadi wildman attempts to explain as he's led along. There's a glance over his shoulder with the working eye and a shallow shrug.
Shalethiste glances to the goblin as she comes to make her pitch, but, as she sets another healing hand upon the Khazad's shoulder, she answers, "He may be back, once he is in better condition." with less flint than that offered by Zofi.
"I'll help see you to a proper place to rest, sirrah." the paladin offers, then glances to Zofi, now, "I don't expect my gifts to be more than a mild balm if this has been a..." glance to the dwarf, "protracted condition, but it may offer enough clarity to figure out the deeper cause."
"Oh sure as shootin' and sugar on top, you don't know what I know." Cherry of the massages says, tugging on Barclaiigh's hand and grinning at Zofijah. Like a bird riding on a crocodile, the tiny force deflects a thousand pounds or thereabouts, at least enough to stagger him away from Shalethiste's touch.
The goblin nods encouragingly at him, to prompt a similar motion or something that could be claimed as acquiescence, "You want to come with me, don't you? Feet up, belly down, all the comforts of home. Soup." She stretches up on tip-toes, "SOUP!"
The mul'niessa gets another sharp-toothed grin.
Barclaiigh, for his part, does not nod. His eyes go wide, "the butterflies go up, not down."
"That they do, Beerbelly." Carver says. "Good luck with your Cherry." She shrugs her pack's strap back up onto her thin shoulders, shrugging once more at the taciturn griffon. "That pretty lady will make sure he doesn't get too taken advantage of, she seems the sort. I'm off to ask about work."
"He will be back in good shape. I will be waiting." Zofija states, offering a final glare before she turns, and sighs. "Sometimes it's best not to argue with them. I already asked Barclaiigh how much gold he had on him before coming here, so I'll know if they're looting his coin purse during the massage."
"It is still a help that you did not need to offer. So thank you." She replies to Shalethiste. I've got some people I need to meet in town anyways, so it will give me time to do so."
"Best of luck, miss." Shale offers as an aside to the linguisticly singular human before the renewed insistence of the goblin intercedes on her attempts to heal the scattered fellow.
She sighs, then reaches out to try and account for the errant movement to try and get him a little bit closer to himself as Zofi offers a counterproposal.
And perhaps a discouraging bit of advice.
The Mul'niessa considers the other, then, "As you say, then. Let's be about this quickly."
This is going to be one of those nights....
