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Welcome back to CAMBION QUEST, quite possibly the ONLY quest on the board where three-or-so years of near-daily updates in a D&D-esque setting has culminated in the problematic and typo-addled tale of a vaguely Jewish-coded shortstack having a midlife crisis while on a roadtrip with her psychotic intersex clone.

I mean, for whatever THAT's worth.

If you're just joining us, https://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=reptoidqm has everything you need to know. Really, the last two threads are the only necessary ones, but the three quests prior have LORE if that's your jam.

Our current character art is courtesy of Story QM, of Downerquest and Versequest.

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…

You are Zith-Zi, though your present company know you as Zena Youngtree. Born a goblin, you underwent a ritual which transformed you inside and out, gifting you a new soul and body. Your sun-weathered green hide was dyed a pearlescent pink, your wrinkles smoothed and liver-spots rendered into pretty freckles. Your soulless goblin heart was implanted with magic—fairy magic, the ancient art of the elves—and made PRISMASTIC…

But what of your heart?

You sometimes wonder about that. If your body’s been transformed, and your soul is freshly-formed, why does your heart still carry the weight of your years of strife and struggle? Why do you still weep at night, sometimes, worried that you will never be worthy of anything better than a goblin’s lot—brutal, short, with an ugly end?

And if you DO deserve better, can DO better… What about your goblin companions, like An-Yii and Yeb-Uit?

What about Carazzi—or Cara-Zi, or just ‘Cara’ in this mixed company—the demon-spirited goblinoid who was cut from you like a cancer when you were made beautiful and whole?

You spent years of your life in the foothills of the Bloodrise Mountain, in a shanty-shack in new Goblintown, trying to make sense of that. You decided that you were done with whatever lingering responsibility you had to ‘your people’, then. As a ‘nilbog’, you were goblin no longer, and you took the most useful of the bunch—plus Khorine the Faun, an orphaned goat-girl you meta long the way—and set out to make your future and to PROVE your merit!

Together, and with the aid of some unlikely allies, you rooted out and routed a darkly-enchanted cave-drake turned fifty foot lake monster. Though you split the reward a great many ways, you ALSO earned an opportunity to make some proper coin mile away, aiding the dwarven corporation Treasuretrove incorporated—or, at least, their contracted adventured called ‘The Delvers’—in finding and fishing out of the ancient earth a lost treasure of their race’s fallen empire.

But… Why?

>>6159286
You’ve been beating your head against the proverbial stone over that, these last few weeks of walking, from one end of the Northlands to the other. Gods Above and Below know that James Efron—Jimmy, your paramour of many years—wishes you wouldn’t. Even after changing yourself so much, at least partly for the sake of your relationship, your refusal to settle down at live a ladylike life proved a fly in the ointment of your relationship. At first you explained away that restless urge by way of your commitment to resettle your—that is, to resettle the goblins. Then, it was about Cara—CZ—and finding her an outlet for her unholy urges. Lately, it’s been about the money—about making a big score, of the sort that can transform a nilbog’s life.

But if this is it—if this is the big one—will that be done and dusted? Will you be done, ready to settle done?

What will you even do with yourself, if you do leave this life?
>The money’s enough—if you could be rich, you’d retire in a heartbeat
>You want status—recognition, if not renown, and a position of power
>You want love—love is all you need, be it from Jimmy or from someone else who can properly appreciate you
>You’re in it for your shadow, your ‘sister’—until CZ is settled, too, you can’t stop
>You’re in it for adventure—you can lie to yourself, sometimes, but in the end the life itself is your one true love
>Write-in

>>6159283
Purple hag

>>6159288
>The money’s enough—if you could be rich, you’d retire in a heartbeat
Income that’s sustainable, at the least.
>You want love—love is all you need, be it from Jimmy or from someone else who can properly appreciate you
We cannot twist ourselves, trying be who we’re not to appease someone else. That’s not the basis of a good relationship. It’ll generate nothing more than regret and resentment.

>>6159288
>You want love
>You’re in it for your shadow, your ‘sister’

I have not (yet) read the past threads, so you may disregard this vote as it is not that informed

>>6159288
>You want love—love is all you need, be it from Jimmy or from someone else who can properly appreciate you
>You’re in it for your shadow, your ‘sister’—until CZ is settled, too, you can’t stop
welcome back, OP.

>>6159288
>Write-in
>The truth is : you want to carve a place in that harsh word where goblins fit on a larger scale.
For this to work, money, status and love will be required.

>>6159288
>The money’s enough—if you could be rich, you’d retire in a heartbeat

>>6159288
>You’re in it for your shadow, your ‘sister’—until CZ is settled, too, you can’t stop

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>>6159295
>>6159296
>>6159305
>>6159456
>>6159570
>>6159688
You curse yourself, and then your curse yourself again—aloud, and loud enough to turn some of your fellow travelers’ heads. You shoot them a glare that turns them back around, and settle into stew properly upon the realization which ahs just rocked you to your core:

You really have gone soft.

You’ve been denying it a while now, but you can’t ignore the evidence in your very own nilbog heart: for all your talk of money, you’re set it aside repeatedly for the sake of such stupid humie obsessions as ‘friendship’ and ‘fairness’… And you haven’t even gotten laid for your trouble! You’ve instead been hung up on James Olsen’s absent ass to the previously-unthinkable point of extended celibacy. Meanwhile, in spite of your growing distant from all things ‘goblin’, you set aside your own needs to pen a letter to your old khoblis—that is to say, MAGE—buddy, Tips, al for you’re the sake of your demonic doppelganger. Just when did that parasitic partition of the bits and bobs which you abandoned become so precious to you?!

When did you ACTUALLY start to think of her as a sister?

Sisterly Bond increased; Zith-Zi now grants a -6 to the DC of <WANT> checks when present and assisting.

What you now realize, to your chagrin, is that you’ve been chasing something utterly unlike that which a young Zith-Zi would have pursued: the approval and happiness of others. Forsaking lust and luxury, you’ve been busting your hump for love—LOVE, of all things!—both familial and friendly… or more than friendly.

Zith-Zi’s seduction DCs are now reduced by 3, but she will look into romance routes faster than she would otherwise.

As you journey towards your distant destination, you find your thinking muddled by the implications of this revelation. You DO want to settle down, once CZ is similarly ‘settled’… But with Jimmy? Or with someone else? Occasionally you find yourself staring after the likes of Yeb-Uit (that grizzled old olive of a gob) or that tinkertoy soldier-boy Martyn Meadowgrass (hunky, fro a hobbit), until you catch yourself.

(A girl’s gotta’ have SOME dignity, after all… You’ve got a reputation as ‘Boss’ to think about!)

…

(But still…)

…

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>>6159905
…

You are Cara—or Carazzi, or CZ, or maybe just Zith-Zi of another colour—and you know EXACTLY what you motivates you: It’s <ENVY>.

Ever since you can remember—or remember CLEARLY, since you can technically remember right back to your occult conception—you have envied others. When you and ZZ were one and the same, you think you must have been the part of her that delighted to plunder the wealth of others. In New Goblintown, you envied even the other impoverished gobs, who could at least revel in one another’s company, enjoy one another in body and soul without invoking fear or initiated a frenzy.

You want that for yourself, and you want it BAD.

<WANT: 14>

While your prettier, pinker portion was making friends and influencing people in Sunset Lake, you’d pursued a different path: you’d taken up with the hellhound Maladoo, the mascot (and secret psychic ringleader) of the Maladoo Gang adventuring party. He taught you how to follow the ‘Rark Rath’, as he speech-impediment conveyed it, and you had learned occult secrets of The Dark God of Wisdom, by way of an eerie agent with an oversized eye. You’d learnef that you were a CAMBION …

And you deeply envy those who are not.

You’d tried to make friends. You’d even tried to make OUT, with this thicc dwarf chick named Svanhilda Pearl, but you’d made a mess of it. As a cambion, the spawn of a succubus, driven by unwholesome instincts to feed of souls soaked in lust and terror, you have found yourself making stupid mistakes which invariably drive others away.

Still, you persevere!

Armed with the enhanced shapeshifting abilities which allow you to hide your inner ugliness behind the mask of a petite quasi-elven edifice, you’ve made strides which even the non-fiendish goblinoids in your party cannot. The Delvers seem to like you, and ~Martyn Meadowgrass~ even calls you ‘Mermaid’, having encountered you during an underwater expedition!

(‘Course, he doesn’t know about the ‘secret weapon’ between your knees…)

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>>6159908
These last couple weeks have started to wear on you, though. For the last couple years, you kept yourself in check by cowering beneath mortal notice, suppressing your presence and cloaking your deformed body in oversized clothes. Now that you can be beautiful-on-demand, and people actually seem to like you, you’re getting a lot more attention…

And you’re so envious of those who can act on it, without constantly being worried about what will happen if they let their guard down.

You've withdrawn again, starting to nervously laugh your way through conversations and to take any excuse to go hunting or scouting alone. You KNOW you're doing it, and that you promised yourself you wouldn't. But what else is a demogoblin—or CAMBION—to do?? You don't want to fuck up, to embarrass yourself or hurt anyone else... But you ALSO made a commitment to open up to others and to live something like a normal life! The only question is: who?

>You got off on a bad hoof with the goat-girl, Khorine, but she’s been more sympathetic since you spared and cared for that beast you captured at the base of the Bloodrise…
>An-Yii has been wary of you ever since you gave into temptation and perched upon her to spy upon her dreams, but maybe you can mend that bridge?
>Yeb-Uit has always been pretty nice to you, and that whole strong-and-silent thig he’s got going is kinda’ cool…
>Can you even pick anyone OTHER than ~Martyn Meadowgrass~, who calls you ~Mermaid~? Then again… You’re pretty tightly-wound, and he is so very ~tempting~
>Write-in

[Isolation isn’t an option, due to choices made towards the end of last thread]

>>6159909
>You got off on a bad hoof with the goat-girl, Khorine, but she’s been more sympathetic since you spared and cared for that beast you captured at the base of the Bloodrise…
she's the only one we're not attracted to nor had a weird thing going on and her connection to the exoteric might help her understand us.

>>6159909
>Can you even pick anyone OTHER than ~Martyn Meadowgrass~, who calls you ~Mermaid~? Then again… You’re pretty tightly-wound, and he is so very ~tempting~
How can we not, it says it right in the option

>>6159909
>Can you even pick anyone OTHER than ~Martyn Meadowgrass~, who calls you ~Mermaid~? Then again… You’re pretty tightly-wound, and he is so very ~tempting~
He cool

>>6159909
>Yeb-Uit has always been pretty nice to you, and that whole strong-and-silent thig he’s got going is kinda’ cool…

Would choose Martin, but don't want to lose control around another pretty face, whereas we're pretty good keeping things professional with Yeb

>>6159909
>>Can you even pick anyone OTHER than ~Martyn Meadowgrass~, who calls you ~Mermaid~? Then again… You’re pretty tightly-wound, and he is so very ~tempting~

>>6159909
>You got off on a bad hoof with the goat-girl, Khorine, but she’s been more sympathetic since you spared and cared for that beast you captured at the base of the Bloodrise…
>An-Yii has been wary of you ever since you gave into temptation and perched upon her to spy upon her dreams, but maybe you can mend that bridge?
Would like to build bridges before we expand on other relationships

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>>6160630
>>6160133
>>6160042
>>6160005
>>6159962
>>6159937
[Locked and writing!]

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>>6160721
In the end, you hardly feel as if you even had a choice, and what choice. You did, but in your heart, you know that it was a choice between HIM, and anyone else. ~Martyn Meadowgrass~ is just too tempting, though, which is both which you were looking for an excuse to join anyone else… And also why, in the end, you find yourself gravitating to his proximity. It’s a game of inches, the pull of his presence equal parts slow and inexorable. The worst part is, he doesn’t even know he’s doing it! He just goes about his day. Striking those subtly-heroic poses as he stands astride the Delvers’ cart with shock-spear in hand, or squinting with such deep and thoughtful expression over his charcoal-and-parchment scrawlings.

“Oh, Cara!” he greets you, while he finally notices you. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Heh heh… Uhh… Not long,” you lie, wiping your mouth a little with the back of your hand. “Whatcha’ doin’? More writin’ in yer diary, or what?”

“It’s not a diary,” he protests, then chuckles embarrassedly. “Well, I admit it’s not so different. More of a… Travelogue. Are you familiar with the concept?”

You’re not, really. You’ve never been much of a reader, not as Zith-Zi, and not as Cara-Zi either. You
Ve heard the word, though, and you can puzzle it out from context.

“Like a log, of yer travels… Right?”

Martyn laughs, a spritely sound that sparks something in your heart and provokes a smile of your own. You just hope he’s not laughing AT you.

“That’s right,” he replies graciously. “It’s meant to be published, though, for sale and study.”

“Ooooh! Oh, shit!” you say, smile spreading itnoa grin. “I do know them! They sell ‘em in Hawksong. The Grey Press—”

“The Grey Press is a charnel house for the truth, where good authorship goes to die,” Martyn interrupts with a scowl. Then, seeing your distress, he sighs and sheepishly admits: “But they won’t publish just anything. They, um, called my last work too dry, and too niche.”

“What was it about?” you ask.

“The ‘little folk’ of the Southlands,” he says. “The Abatwa. It was something of an ethnography. The problem was, they wanted tall tails of vast armies of inch-tall black men with poisoned arrows, riding astride ants and devouring men whole while they still live! Can you imagine?”

You laugh again and nod, then seeing Martyn’s perplexed expression, scyou change that nod to a shake.

“Abatwa ain’t like that, then?”

“Abatwa are just another clan of kin, like Bwbachod, Dwerrow, or Gnomus.”

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>>6160739
You recognize the old-timey, foreign-type names for halflings and dwarves, and you are smart enough to puzzle out that ‘Gnomus’ means ‘gnomes’, and so you nod along, and listen as Martyn describes with a certain reverence the appearance and lifeways of the similarly-small folk whom he met in a journey down South, beyond the borders of the dry and dusty, yellow-orange mountains which separate it from the Northlands. He describes a people who live in piled-high clay structures resembling anthills or termite mounds at a distance, but really more like little pyramids up-close. Black-brown in the palette of a human ‘Southman’, with a faintly reddish hue and smooth, hairless skin, they do not ride insects but farm them and eat them—and not other little folk or humans—and file their teeth to sharp points for beauty’s sake rather than for feasting on flesh.

“They think pointy teeth’re beautiful?”

“No girl who will be wed would dream of attending her wedding with flat teeth,” he answers, “and they and the men alike both dress in these TRULY fabulous ensembles of feathers and leaves, with these clay patterns all across their skin, when there’s a wedding…”

You try to imagine these savage-sounding little dagger-mouthed, black-skinned hobbits. Never having been down that way, you find yourself picturing the closest thing you do know: goblins. You lick your own teeth, all flat and nicely lined-up in this form you wear, and wonder if they—if Martyn Meadwograss—might find Carazzi’s sharp little teeth pretty, too?

“Anyway,” Martyn concludes with a huff, “I wrote many, many pages on that journey, but those… Those so-and-so’s, at The Grey Press, they said it was too long, and too detailed, and didn’t have enough action or excitement to make the money back for printing it.”

“Fuck ‘em!” you shout, though you have to admit that if it weren’t for the lilting flow of Martyn’s musical voice, you probably would have retained very little of what he said, and there’s no WAY you’d read a whole book of it.

Martyn smiles, though, and you smile wider to see him happy with you.

<WANT: 15>

>>6160740
“Unfortunately, with the troubles down South, I don’t think I’ll be returning anytime soon…”

You sense the mood souring, and scramble to keep the conversation—and his kind, clever, silky-smooth words—flowing.

What do you talk about? [Please pick only one or two, for pacing’s sake]

>Ask Martyn his opinion on goblins, and if he’s ever met them, and what he thought of them ‘ethnographically’?
>Ask Martyn about the demonists down in the south—there’s supposed to be a lot of them down that way, right?
>Ask what he thinks about this whole ‘war’ situation between the North and South—who does he think will win if it really kicks off?
>Ask him about the people where you're going—mongrel elves, border-orcs, and woodsy-humans?
>Ask about the hidden treasure in these dwarven ruins—what does he think you'll find there? What does he HOPE to find?
>Ask him about what he finds beautiful—like, what’s his idea of ‘pretty’? Does it, um, involve sharp teeth, or ~mermaids~, or what?
>Write-in

Do you attempt to flirt?
>Yes, a little...
>Yes, a lot!
>No, keep it easy and breezy...
>Actually, you'll quit while your'e ahead [incompatible with any of the above topics, abruptly ends convo with Martyn]

>>6160741
>Ask him about the people where you're going—mongrel elves, border-orcs, and woodsy-humans?
>Ask him about what he finds beautiful—like, what’s his idea of ‘pretty’? Does it, um, involve sharp teeth, or ~mermaids~, or what?

>No, keep it easy and breezy...

>>6160741
>Ask what he thinks about this whole ‘war’ situation between the North and South—who does he think will win if it really kicks off?
>Ask him about the people where you're going—mongrel elves, border-orcs, and woodsy-humans?

>Yes, a little...

>>6160741
>Ask Martyn his opinion on goblins, and if he’s ever met them, and what he thought of them ‘ethnographically’?
>Ask him about what he finds beautiful—like, what’s his idea of ‘pretty’? Does it, um, involve sharp teeth, or ~mermaids~, or what?

>Flirt a little

>>6160741
>Ask Martyn about the demonists down in the south—there’s supposed to be a lot of them down that way, right?
>Ask him about the people where you're going—mongrel elves, border-orcs, and woodsy-humans?
>Yes, a little...

>>6160741
>Ask Martyn about the demonists down in the south—there’s supposed to be a lot of them down that way, right?
>Ask him about the people where you're going—mongrel elves, border-orcs, and woodsy-humans?

>Yes, a little…

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>>6160947
>>6160908
>>6160883
>>6160766
>>6160748
[Locked!]

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>>6161294

“Hey, uh, while you were down South, did ya’ see any, like… Demonists?”

Martyn blinks a couple times, and then crooks a brown as his lip twitches in amusement.

“Demonists? That’s quite the segue, Cara…”

“Well, ya’ know, everyone says there’s tons of ‘em down there!?” you say, suddenly self-conscious. “Like, they say that’s why it’s so hot down there, an’ why everyone’s all black… They’re closer ta the Hells, ‘n the fire burns ‘em an’ warms the whole place up!”

Martyn laughs aloud at that, and you laugh with him. You know THAT much is bullshit, after all—you know a mage who does all kinds of extraplanar travel, and that it’s not a matter of how near or far you are to any physical location on or under) the Earth! Plus, cheering Martyn back up cheers You up, so why not laugh?

(And it’s not like you don’t have legitimate cause to be interested in a land of weird-looking people who are maybe a little more okay with demons and occult practices…)

“I spent most of my time with the Abatwa, I must admit,” Martyn confesses. “Our people—that is, those ‘demihumans’ or ‘little folk’ most closely related to we Bwbachod and Gnomus—have always been near and dear to me… Our old cultrues, especially. So many of them are disappearing into the culture of the big folk around us… I guess I just wanted someone to document them.”

“So you didn’t learn nothin’ ‘bout the humies down there?” you press.

“I wouldn’t say NOTHING,” Martyn says with a smile, and you scoot closer, eager as a little gobling.

(Gods, he even SMELLS like a meadow… What is that, perfume? Just how he naturally smells?)

“The first thing you need to understand, to understand the Men of the Southlands, is that there is no ‘Southlands’.”

“…Huh?”
Martyn nods, as if apprehending your confusion, and clarifies quickly and without condescension:

“The Northlands and the humans here… They haven’t always been unified, under Hawksong and the paladins. Even three-hundred, four-hundred years ago, they were largely independent polities, connected by trade routes but with their own borders, their own armies, their own kings. As the Paladin King’s power overtook the others’, he and his descendants brought everyone else into the fold, and unified the kingdoms into something like an empire, with a common tongue, and shared understanding of the Gods and spirits… And demons… And how to relate to them all.”

“An’ that never happened down South?” you intuit.

Martyn grins at that, and you feel your heart flutter, eager to be the dutiful pupil.

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>>6161325
“That’s exactly right, Cara! Instead, every sultan, chieftain, headman, emir, or warlord is a polity all his—or her—own. The traditions vary greatly, and alliances, borders, and the boundaries of faiths are all… Fluid.” The halfling frowns a little as he continues. “Some DO worship demons, but many more despise and destroy them. And others… Others CONTROL them, or claim to. Some of the largest trading confederations trade in slaves, including enslaved demons. In some places, sorcerer-kings purposefully summon and bind them as tools—spies, servants, labourers, warriors, advisors in the arcane arts. There simply isn’t the taboo against dealing with demons down there, like there is here.”

You listen, wide-eyed and with mixed emotions. A lack of stigma sounds refreshing, but it sounds like, unless you got REAL lucky, a trip down South would just mean risking slavery or something! While you supposed it beats being slain or banished, like a Paladin would do if he caught you, it still makes your skin crawl. Recalling those vivid flashes of Zith-Zi memory, you already have vague memories of stints in debt slavery. Some were pleasurable, some painful, some even both at once in a weird way… But you don’t want to repeat the experience anytime soon.

A gentle hand rests on your wrist, snapping you out of your anxious contemplation. You look up into those beautiful blue-grey eyes, worried for you. You stare back, and after a long moment—long and LINEGRING—you gently extract yourself from that hand and those eyes. You don’t pull away, though, but rather scoot closer.

“What about the STEELWOOD?” You hastily change the subject, trying not to think about the double entendre this time. “That’s, uh, that’s the travelogue yer writin’ now, ain’t it?”

Martyn nods, and you breathe easier as his gaze turns from you and back to his notes. You follow his eyes, as he returns to professorial-lecture-mode.

“The Steelwood is a little like the Southlands, or like the Northwest before the Pax Argentum of the Paladin King. Rather than barons, they have dukes, princes, chieftains… All sorts of hierarchies, only loosely connected to the ones we’re more familiar with.”

“Dukes bein’ humies, princes bein’ knife-ears, and chieftains bein’ piggies?” you guess, meaning: humans, elves, and orcs respectively.

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Rolled 15, 17 = 32 (2d20)

>>6161326
“Not always,” Martyn replies excitedly. “The people there have been there for a long time, or migrated in and out of the area… In some cases, they have ancestors who lived there before the first paladin King ever reigned! And, of course, where humans are present… Interbreeding occurs. Though there are orcs and elves there, I think you’d be hard pressed to find one who wasn’t a LITTLE human that far from the centres of their racial power, and while there are PROBABLY more pureblooded humans, many families have strains of other bloodlines among them.”

“Wow, they must look super fuckin’ WEIRD!” you exclaim.

“Maybe, in some cases,” Martyn admits. “In some cases.. Well, sometimes a subtle bit of strangeness can be an accent, I think. Traveling the world, with a scientific curiosity, you start to see that there are many types of beauty beyond the basic sort most people think of.”

(W-wait, does he mean… Oh shit, oh fuck, he’s looking right at you. Is he trying to say you’re… Strange? Beautiful? BOTH?? Oh fucking SHIIIT, your heart can’t take it!)

<WANT: 16>

Rolling Occultism for self control, DC equal to WANT, less 4 for keeping it to light flirtation...

>>6161328
“Yer, uh, plenty strange, too, ya’ know?” you say, turning your head down and willing your tusks to stay shapeshifted away, and your heart to stop hammering the inside of your ribs.

“Oh?”

“Not a lotta’ people, like… Uh… Look at weirdos the way you do.”

“An open mind is the most important weapon of the natural philosopher’s arsenal,” Martyn rplies, with the air of someone quoting someone else.

“Wow,” you gush. “You know so much shit!”

Martyn raises an eyebrow, replying: “I can only imagine you’ve seen your fair chair of ‘shit’, too, Cara… I can tell. I bet some of it is fascinating, too… If you ever want to share it”

(Holy fucking shit, do you EVER want to ‘share’ with him… But you rein yourself in, and resist the urge to pounce upon this smart, solid, strange little guy.)

“S-so it’s gonna’ be a real wild ‘ethno-go-raph-y’, huh?”

Martyn laughs again. You wince a little, knowing you fucked up that word (which you DID just learn today, after all), but then he ruffles your hair and your fears abate as you lean less-than-subtly into the touch.

Relationship progress has advanced...

“It is,” he confirms. “And it’s going to open up a lot of opportunities, too.”

You blink, lost again and looking to Martyn Meadowgrass for explanation. He nods, understanding your unspoken inquiry, and goes onto explain further, as you practically press yourself to his side to follow along with his written speculations (which you don’t really understand) and to take in his scent and his warmth (which you very, very much do ‘get’).

…

>>6161334

…

“So,” you say slowly, “you’re saying we’ve got no one there to receive us? No base? Nothing?”

Iorund Copperbelt, the round-bellied dwarf with a prematurely-receding hairline and spectacles and surprisingly broad arms who leads the Delvers, seems miffed by your phrasing, but he doesn’t deny the meat or merit of your accusation.

“We’re adventurers,” he says instead. “Surely you’re no stranger to making allies where you find them, Youngtree?”

“I got this gig, didn’t I?” you snap back, sneering a little and puffing your chest. “Not tpo mention the Maladoo Gang. And you think Khorine popped outta’ me or something?”

“I say, I’d never—!”

“And I’M saying,” you quickly interject, “we can’t just go into a fuckin’ warzone half-cocked.”

“It’s not REALLY a ‘war-zone’, Zena,” Copperbelt tries to weasel his way out of it. “The fighting is at a really quite subdued level in the region, by historical standards, with ceasefires holding among all the largest polities.”

“For NOW,” you point out, slapping your palm loudly upon the map spread out in his little tent. “You think every fucking ‘polity’ there ain’t watching every other? And that if a bunch of outsiders scoot their asses in and start snooping around in the hills, they won’t all be on us like flies on shit?”

“Or honey?” suggests the halfling alchemist called Cherry.

“That’s bees,” you correct her, and before she can try to correct your correction, you continue on: “Look, I get keeping a low profil, but how long can we keep that up? And we have… Six of you, ten with our crew?”

Hershy, your pet chimeric drake, fluffs out his feathers and croaks loudly.

“Right, sorry, thirteen with pets ‘n summons ‘n shit.”

“Flies like honey too, a-actually…” mumbles Cherry. “anything with sugar is quite appealing to m-most arthropods.”

You point at her, and she jumps back, but you don’t correct the frumpy hobbit’s half-assed bug-knowledge, instead keeping your eyes on her fat, balding boss.

“See how she just flinched? We have thirteen people, but, what seven or eight of us can fight? I ain’t saying me and my Regiment ain’t good, Copperbelt, but we ain’t ‘fight off a warband of roving orcs’ good, you get what I’m saying? And I KNOW you nerds—you DELVERS—ain’t, either.”

>>6161348
Iorund Copperbelt rolls your arguments around in his head like a rock-tumbler, and you can practically hearing the rattling.

“As I understand it, the local orcs are not wholly hostile,” he says. “A large amount of human blood has found its way into the local milieu, calming their famously fiery temperaments.”

“Elves or humans would be easier,” points out Taito, Copperbelt’s gnomish scholar.

“But they’re better informed and better connected with the outside world,” Aarre, his samey-looking cousin points out shrewdly. “They could share details of our find… Which could be awkward, since…”

He trails off, but you immediately understand: this expedition isn’t on-the-books, and any outside involvement risks people claiming eminent domain over whatever you find in ‘their’ hills, even if it is old dwarfy shit. Elves, especially, since knife-ears have a keen eye for old magic, which you gather is what’s on offer here. Plus, these elves are suppose to be mutts, too, right?

(Not that it ever held Tips back none…)

What do you propose, as the senior, seaosned adventurer here?
>Stick to the Delvers’ plan—go in as a group, establish a camp, and hope for the best
>If you can make common cause with some local orcs, you can get dumb muscle for the dungeon-delve and avoid attacks by hostile locals
>Elves keen eyes are an asset, not just a liability, and you’re practically an elf yourself, these days! You want to approach them
>Humies are what you’re most familiar with these days, and they don’t have any of the hostility of orcs, and less ego than elves, so it’s worth approaching them
>Going in with a smaller squad, all stealthy-like, allows you to avoid scrutiny more easily… Though you’ll need to decide who to take and who should hang back
>Write-in

Sorry for the long post. Hopefully the lore drops are entertaining, at least?

>>6161349
>If you can make common cause with some local orcs, you can get dumb muscle for the dungeon-delve and avoid attacks by hostile locals
I’ll bite. Unusual long post but it was interesting.

>>6161359
>interesting
[I'm glad!]

>>6161349
[I also belatedly realized I perhaps didn't spell out the 'factions' as well as I could have given you took the 'local loredump' option. I'll make up fro that a bit now.]

>Orcs
Extremely tough, a bit dim, unconnected to any other larger faction, most hostile by default but not irrationally aggressive; huge feud with elves

>Elves
Magically-adept, closer to nature and not very tech-savvy, a bit more egotistical, more 'claim' on the land; benefit from ZZ's 'humanoid empathy' trait and would get on well with Khorine; huge feud with orcs

>Humans
A middle ground, more peaceable with orcs and elves than either are with each other; more tech-savvy than orcs, less magical than elves; benefit from ZZ's 'humanoid empathy'; more closely connected to human trade routes, more likely to get word out to the wider world

>>6161349
>If you can make common cause with some local orcs, you can get dumb muscle for the dungeon-delve and avoid attacks by hostile locals
Plan acquire meatshields is a go

I do appreciate the lore drops
Also that want is getting worryingly high, can we like uh safely vent it by hunting and tearing something apart before we ruin a friendship?

>>6161349
>Stick to the Delvers’ plan—go in as a group, establish a camp, and hope for the best

Hopefully the camp can be in the dungeon itself

>>6161349
>Stick to the Delvers’ plan—go in as a group, establish a camp, and hope for the best
Keep watch for now. Maybe establish alliances if prompted or if questioned.

>>6161887
am >>6160908

>>6161887
>>6161820
>>6161362
>>6161359
[We have ourselves a tie game. I'll roll or intention-meld tomorrow morning if we don't have a tie-breaker by then. I am going to take a night off, most likely, unless that vote comes in quick enough.]

>If you can make common cause with some local orcs, you can get dumb muscle for the dungeon-delve and avoid attacks by hostile locals
ORCS ORCS ORCS

>>6161362
>>6161359
>>6161820
>>6161887
>>6162098
[Locking, caffeinating, writing!]

>>6162347

You chew your cheek, arms crossed beneath your chest and fingers of your dominant hand drumming a rhythm on the opposite elbow as you consider your options. You understand how complex the situation on the ground must be, in this ‘Steelwood’, and the more you are forced to reckon with that, the more hesitant you are to act rashly. The orcs are savages, and the so-called civilized folk are just as wont to stab you in the back in site of their pretentions (or even because of them).

And yet… Well, look at these dorks! And look at your own, admittedly less-dorky, adventuring party! Neither Delvers nor Monstorus Regiment can contend with an army, not even whatever podunk militia these ‘polities’ can whip up. In the Wastes, every goblin learns the value of finding something bigger and stronger to shore up your forces.

So orcs it is.

File: 300px-Orc.jpg (22 KB, 300x330)

22 KB JPG

>>6162399

“Orcs?” Khorine scrunches up her nose. “They’re brutes.”

“‘Xactly,” you say with a smile and a wink, as you explain the situation to your own gaggles of gobs-and-goat, once more outside Copeprbelt’s tent.

“Gonna’ explain that a little more, Boss?” asks An-Yii with her usual droll and dry affect.

“Gonna’ try, if ya’ shut eyr gob-holes ‘n stop blurting out objections long enough.”

An rolls her eyes, but acquiesces, and you proceed:

“They’re the biggest threat,” you say. “Anyone else will negotiate ‘fore they attack, if they have a problem with us bein’ ‘round their neck a’ the woods. Orcs’ll just slit yer throat quick as silver, in the dead a’ night, or fall on you n rip you to shreds.”

“Which is somehow a point in their FAVOUR as allies?” balks Khorine incredulously.

“Hells yeah,” you say with a grin, despite the brat interrupting you, because she set you up nicely. “Meat-shields, kid. Muscle. Big, burly, fearless, tough, EXPENDABLE. Get me?”

You register comprehension in the goat-girl’s expression, but no pleasure. Khorine is clearly discomfited with the notion of orcs-as-allies, and she’s not the only one. To the Children of the Gods of Light, in their cozy Paladin-patrolled northwestern bubble, orcs are a scary bedtime tale—a legend of old wars, a rumour on the periphery, only manifesting in reality in recent years as hat Ekaterine chick fumbles her way through playing ‘Paladin Queen’ or whatever. For goblins like Yeb-Uit, An-Yii, and (of course) CZ, they evoke much freshers fears. You see those anxieties writ across your fellows’ faces, now.

>>6162402
Humies often assume that goblins and orcs have some sort of kinship or community, monster-to-monster, but it simply isn’t so. A gob is a gob is a gob—that is, goblins breed true. Orcs, known for their kidnap and rapine of female folk in times of war (and when ISN’T a time of war, for an orc?) LOATHE goblins. Any goblin impregnated produces not a half-orc warrior, but another three-foot-tall green guy or gal, with nary a trace of Papa Pigface’s paternity to show for his ‘hard work’. They’ll enslave goblins, sure… But only temporarily.

You’ve never been property of an roc war camp, and neither ahs any goblin here… And you know that, because you’re all still alive.

“I got this,” you reassure them. "Betetr they're on our side and where we can see 'em, then sneakin' up on us dead a' night, get it?

It’s a testament to your leadership and sense of camaraderie that no gob nor goat riots, but the last leg of the journey to The Steelwood is dour. Khorine and An-Yii busy themselves with tending to the strange, three-headed chimera which your sister seized and subdued behind you, in the western hills; it requires three leashes and ties around its rearmost legs to prevent its escape, but with every mile it gets more docile, accepting its fate as a future source of profit for you and yours. Yeb-Uit scouts ahead, dipping out of your sight periodically and returning with ground-fowl or rodents of unusual size, to supplement your supplies. And Cara-Zi…

Well, she’s spending an AWFUL lot of time with that Martyn Meadowgrass guy.

File: activator-stories-pivots-(...).jpg (57 KB, 761x507)

57 KB JPG

>>6162406
It’s not that you have anything AGIANST hobbits—you do, actually, but nothing worse than you have against gnomes, dwarves, humans, or elves, and LESS than you have against goblins. It’s just, well… You know your sister, your shadow. She’s happy now, trailing him like she was HIS shadow, speaking up to get his attention and approval, playing her part in some weird student-teacher fantasy with the (admittedly-handsome) red-headed halfling twerp... But she’s also fidgeting increasingly often, licking her lips. Her eyes re only for Meadowgrass lately, and the expression in them resembles a desert lynx looking at a hare, more and more, as opposed to a girl ogling a guy.

(You’re NOT jealous, okay?!)

Tips hasn’t gotten back to you yet, which makes sense. If he even received your letter, requesting his advice in handling your Hell-touched other half, he’ll have sent his reply to the local post house at the nearest Hawksong-affiliated human hamlet out east. But that leaves you wondering…

What do you do about this little crush, and CZ’s mounting ‘hunger’? SHOULD you do anything about it?
>Get Yeb to take her hunting, to expend some of that excess energy [hunting segue]
>Talk to CZ about it, cautioning her to be careful about her ‘condition’ [occult segue]
>Take Martyna side and tell him to stop entertaining this fantasy of hers [???]
>Let it lie [skips to Steelwood, increases sisterly bond, WANT stays unmanaged]
>Write-in

>>6162408
>>Get Yeb to take her hunting, to expend some of that excess energy [hunting segue]

>>6162408
>Talk to CZ about it, cautioning her to be careful about her ‘condition’ [occult segue]
more occult stuff

>>6162408
>Get Yeb to take her hunting, to expend some of that excess energy [hunting segue]

>>6162408
>Get Yeb to take her hunting, to expend some of that excess energy [hunting segue]

I don’t think we know that much to advise her right now, stick to what works.

>>6162493
>>6162497
>>6162514
>>6162729
…
…
“ZZ said she wants us ta’ go huntin’?” you ask.

“Yep,” replies Yeb-Uit flexing his trusty bow to test it in preparation.

You scratch your head and glance in Zith-Zi’s direction, but she’s all the way on the other side of camp talking to that Copperbelt guy. Don’t you still have plenty of rations already, between what you all brought and what Yeb-Uit already restocked you with from his LAST hunt? Khorine was an excellent forager, too, supplying a not-insubstantial portion of each day’s intake pretty much with stuff she plucked off the ground or out of bushes as you trekked. You all are very nearly at The Steelwood, as you understand it—there was no way you were going to run out of food before arriving amongst the tribes of local orcs.

You squint at Yeb-Uit, who fidgets and gives off nervous energy under your scrutiny. Odd… But whatever. It’s never bad to have more to eat, and, as much as you’ve been keeping it under control, it’s nice to have something to do with this intense twitchiness you’ve been feeling lately…

“Oh, hold a moment! DO you mind if I come along?”

You and Yeb-Uit both look, with surprise, to see Martyn Meadowgrass hustling over from the Delvers’ wagon nearby. He was slowed down by his fiddling and fumbling with a heavy-looking pack, festooned with many bulging pockets. He also carried with him his shock-spear, albeit stripped of all its gadgets and gizmos, presumably to spare him having to also wear his heavy gauntlet and to heft its power supply upon his back. Without the big ‘battery’ of rune-inscribed, lightning-charged metal which his diving suit had mounted upon its back, the spear had very little sock of its own; without the gauntlet, the zap which the power supply provided was enough to be a danger to the wielder.

“I heard that this area has other, surface-level dwarven ruins as well,” Martyn explains. “I’d love to see and make notes on them, if we stumble upon any. And I have a map, which could be useful…. It’s a few hundred years out of date, but it could help figure out where more game would be?”

Well, a zappy spear (and its very handsome holder) could be pretty handy on a hunt~

>>6162763
Yeb-Uit and Martyn are immediately wary of each other, though, for some reason. Well, lots of reasons, probably. It’s not like gobs and halflings have any love lost, historically-speaking. Goblins often live pretty predatory lifestyles, and it’s much easier to pick on someone your own size or smaller than to have to gang upon on comparatively larger races like humans or even elves. You’d heard, the other day, a lot of hostile commentary from the Delvers towards how Yeb-Uit and An-Yii comported themselves, never suspecting that you or ZZ were sort of goblinoids yourselves.

Feels like there’s something more to it, though. Yeb was already acting a little suspicious, too, and he glanced back to ZZ as if he’s worried how she’ll react. Weird… Maybe because this little detour to check out old ruins for travelogue-writing or whatever would distract from the whole ‘hunting’ aspect of this detour.

Then again old ruins sound kind of cool, right? That’s where treasure turns up and shit! Every adventurer knows THAT.

>Bring Martyn on the (treasure) hunt
>Just you and Yeb-Uit, focused on getting meat
>Actually you have another ides… Maybe you and Martyn could sneak off somewhere and hehehe~
>Write-in

File: tegaki.png (4 KB, 400x400)

4 KB PNG

>>6162763
>the spear had very little sock of its own;
You have an eldritch power on my mind, RQM
>Bring Martyn on the (treasure) hunt

>>6162798
[Oh damnit.]

>>6162763
>the spear had very little sock of its own
*shock of its own

>>6162823
and my bad "art" of a spear with a dangling little sock got eaten by 4chan tegaki.
Should stop trying this garbage tool

>>6162764
>Just you and Yeb-Uit, focused on getting meat

>>6162764
>Just you and Yeb-Uit, focused on getting meat
I don’t think that he should be here. Right now, anyway.

>>6162764
>Bring Martyn on the (treasure) hunt
ZZ shoulda kept a better eye on things

>>6162764
>Bring Martyn on the (treasure) hunt
fuck it, it's a three-awesome hunt now
>>6162798
>4kb
wtf anon
>>6162823
funny how it works either way for cz

Rolled 17, 12, 11 = 40 (3d20)

>>6163156
>>6163148
>>6163034
>>6162989
>>6162798
You see no good reason NOT to bring Martyn, especially with the possibility of treasure. After all, ZZ wants to make money more than pretty much anything else, right? And you… Well, so far you’ve been less help than you could’ve been, to put it mildly. And now you and ~Martyn~ can make that happen! I mean, okay, sure, that might mean splitting whatever loot you turn up with The Delvers again, but without Martyn’s map there’d be no loot at all, so it’s still a net win, right?

“I’m not really sure we’re going to find any ‘loot’, Cara…”

“No way!” you exclaim. “There’s ALWAYS treasure ‘n shit in old ruins. Everyone knows that!”

You’re grinning ear to ear as you stride between he and Yeb-Uit, with the low-slung figure of your familiar crawling along behind you. Part of it is just enjoying the experience of tromping about in these easterly woodlands with two strapping men. Yeb’s much more mission-focused, and not in an especially social mood, with the most attention he gives you a nigh-constant glancing over. Honestly, it sort of feels like some sort of… Chaperoned date, which makes you snigger to yourself.

In these Eastern woodlands, the air is thick with the scent of damp earth and ancient foliage. The trees here are towering sentinels, their bark dark and gnarled as if whispering secrets of a time long past. Vines weave intricate patterns around trunks, and the ground is a lush carpet of moss and wildflowers.

The forest is alive with the sounds of unseen creatures, rustling leaves betraying their movements. Birds with striking shiny plumage flit between branches, singing melodies that echo through the greenery. In the shadows, curious eyes might belong to anything from a timid doe to an elusive fox. The flora here is both familiar and foreign. Tall ferns brush against your legs as you pass, mingling with fragrant herbs that fill the air with an intoxicating mix of scents. It feels distinctly different from the woodlands of the West, where the high mountain air hangs heavy with moisture and is cooled by the heights, forcing shrubs to sit low and dark and trees to rise thin and tall. Here, in this land, a dry, crisp air and open space leaves nature sprawled like an unfurled tapestry of brighter, livelier green, speckled with flowers and berries that elicit some half-buried, shared memory of younger days, before ‘Cara’ or ‘Carazzi’.

You lose yourself in these sense memories, trailing fingers through fern-fronds and breathing in the familiar-unfamiliar air, while Martyn consults his map and Yeb-Uit consults the signs of nature. You remember your mission here—well, your missionS, plural, now—and realize you aren’t exactly being helpful. Well, you know how to fix that!

Rolling 2d20 for Yeb-Uit's Survival (DC 15), 1d20 for Martyn's exploration roll (DC 12, thanks to his map)

File: Untitled.png (2.15 MB, 1024x1024)

2.15 MB PNG

>>6163175
“I don’t understand,” Martyn mutters, turning his map upwards and downwards, and then casting his narrowed eyes this way and that as if the long-lost landmarks will appear. “We’re near to the river… It’s on the right side of us… It should be here!”

“Maybe the river changed course?” you speculate. “Rivers shift ‘n shit, right?”

“Maybe, but that much?” he wonders. “It can’t all be buried or destroyed, surely? Not in only a few hundred years.”

11: Martyn Meadowgrass fails…


You pat his back, and open your mouth to say something, when Yeb-Uit speaks up for the first time in probably an hour, a single short alert:

“Quiet.”

Martyn huffs quietly at the abrupt order, but you place a hand upon his pleasantly-oft lips to silence him. You recognize Yeb’s tone of voice, so similar to when the two of you had spotted the snipe. You motion to Martyn, and you both crouch down and approach Yeb’s position, where he waits stock-still, eyes on an unseen prize…

17: Yeb-Uit succeeds!

What you see is no doe or fox, nor any gamebird, but something altogether more spectacular and fearsome. Resembling in some ways a wild pig and in others a shaggy, moss-greened dog or wolf, you three—and Nermal, probably—the strange animal is noticeably larger. You watch, apparently unseen, as it roots around. It doesn’t sue tusks, though, but spurs upon its paw-like feet.

“What IS that?” Martyn asks, and you and Yeb both shush him, which leaves the halfling looking a little miffed. You wince, and pat him apologetically, then turn to Yeb with eyebrows raised in silent paraphrase of the legitimate question. What the fuck IS that?

Yeb just shakes his head. He doesn’t know, either! Well, it sure has a lot of meat on it…
>All of you should attack it at once, with spear and arrow
>You’ll approach it with concealment and take it down to blow off steam and prove your worth
>Actually, you feel a tingle of magic, and it seems to be… Looking for something? Maybe you should observe for now…
>Greet it openly, approaching under the effects of <Charm>
>Write-in

>>6163198
>You’ll approach it with concealment and take it down to blow off steam and prove your worth
Rawr

>>6163198
>Actually, you feel a tingle of magic, and it seems to be… Looking for something? Maybe you should observe for now…
since it looks like a pig, perhaps it's looking for some "truffles"

[Given we have a tie with low turnout so far, I'll hold off on a second Sunday update, and write tomorrow instead.]

>>6163198
>Actually, you feel a tingle of magic, and it seems to be… Looking for something? Maybe you should observe for now…

>>6163198
>>Actually, you feel a tingle of magic, and it seems to be… Looking for something? Maybe you should observe for now…

>>6163198
>Actually, you feel a tingle of magic, and it seems to be… Looking for something? Maybe you should observe for now…
Wait and then act when he’s distracted

Am >>6163034

Rolled 6 (1d9)

>>6163841
>>6163708
>>6163430
>>6163211
>>6163222
>>6163430

You hadn’t realized how twitchy you were. You realize it now, staring at the verdant wolf-pig-thingamajig. You aren’t even hungry, but you can taste ham on the air, and dogflesh too—when goblin bandits attack a human caravan and capture livestock or draft animals, dogs are fair game. You wonder which it will taste more like… What its SOUL will taste more like… Whether it with tingle with sparkling, sizzling, scintillating spellcraft and its way down.

<WANT: 16>

You shake it off. A deep breath in, an deep breath out, just like Tips taught you, with some help from the Archmage’s daughter.

“Are we…?”

“No,” you answer Martyn with a whisper.

Yeb-Uit glances your way, and lowers his bow, releasing the tension from the string and fiddling with his arrow.

“Look,” you say, “it’s, like… You know how rich fucks pay farmers for, like… Those weird mushroomy things, inna’ dirt?”

Yeb-Uit stares at you, baffled.

“You mean truffles?” asks Martyn.

“Right,” you agree. Trust the hobbit to know food shit, right? “So this thing tingles like magic, and it’s rummagin’ around, an’ we’re near some kinda’ old ruins that are probably fulla’ treasure, so…”

“It’s rooting,” Martyn realizes.

“…For truffles?”

“For treasure,” you correct Yeb-Uit, exchanging an excited grin with Martyn, whose soul is deliciously pulsating.

The three-to-four of you watch (Nermal only sort of counts, because s/he is weird cave-drake and has no eyes and no clue what’s going on) as the hog-hound paws and snuffles around. You silently espy as its sniffling and snuffling brings it, with greater and greater sense of purpose, to a particular tree. You narrow your eyes and see that it is elevated above the others—not just taller, but its trunk starts at a higher point, its roots as high above the ground as the mid-point of smaller trees trunks. Beneath it is a hollow, which the wolf-boar takes particular interest, throwing its head and emitting a bark-chuff sound in which you detect delight. In a way that wound be cutely like one of those domestic dogs you remember chowing down on, it begins to dig there; it ‘would be’ cute, that is, if its huge, spur-clawed paws weren’t moving earth with truly terrifying speeds, in great clumps hurl an impressive distance, revealing how much strength its hampered, bear-like back has stored.

“It’s found something!” you enthuse, forcing yourself to keep your voice down.

“Imagine if we had a thing like that,” Yeb-Uit wonders aloud. “For the big job, I mean. Could find that dwarf treasure in the Steelwood like nothin’.”

Rolled 75 (1d100)

>>6163851
Rolling item...

>>6163852

Well, that’s a thought! You look over at Martyn, hoping to pick his brain about that very notion, but you see horror on his face and instead ask what’s wrong. In response, the little scholar points at one of the lumps of soil-and-stone tossed like so much detritus from the increasingly-deep den of the terrible tunneller. It takes you a moment to get what you’re looking at, but when you do, his emotions start to make a bit more sense: it’s a crushed and broken chunk of rock, but not NATURAL rock: it’s shaped, sculpted, squared off and marked by chisel, smoothed by hand.

“It’s going to tear whatever’s left of this site apart,” Martyn moans. “We’ve got to stop it.”

“Huh?” Yeb grunts. “So what? They’re ruins. You already RUINED.”

You see Yeb’s point, though you also worry a little that the peculiar porker might damage something valuable. Then again, IT seems to know where the true value IS, so there’s that. Of course, Martyn seems more worried about the, like, ‘ethnographic’ value of the place, which is… probably valid? Maybe? It’s not really YOUR thing… And in your opinion, it sure isn’t worth risking anyone’s life, which is why you hold the halfling back when you sense his spirit rising to spring forth and stop the massive mammal from doing what it’s trying to do.

“Give it a sec,” you say.

And a sec is all it takes before, rather spectacularly, the ‘truffle’ is revealed! Or, rather, CONCEALED.

9, 75: ???

The pig-wolf-thing pulls back from its newly-excavated pit with a sound mid-way between a squeal and howl, first of triumph and then of alarm. The three of you lean forward, but before you can see what it has seized, the beat’s distinctive features are swallowed up by… Smoke?? A huge, hazy cloud of bluish-grey fountains from the animal’s face, spraying in every direction and rapidly obscuring animal and artefact—if indeed that’s what it is, and not some booby-trap—all at once.

“What the—?”

“Quickly, shield yourselves!” Martyn exclaims, covering his own face with one arm while he drops his spear and rummages through his pack with his other hand. “It could be poisonous!”

>>6163862
You squint against the approaching smoke, and hold your breath, but you also hold your ground. You can still sense the soul of the magical beast within the expanding cloud—and you can still faintly see the glow of whatever it’s grabbed, a shine in your second-sight which glimmers invisibly through the haze with a magic of its own. The creature isn’t dead or dying, so either it’s poison resistant (which, as a goblin, you kind of are too), or it’s not poison.

Either way, your darkvision’s no good here, and your magical sense is imprecise. The hog-hound is disoriented, but it won’t be for long… Though whether it means to abandon this smoking something-or-other, to abandon it, or to eat it up remains to be seen. If you’re going to attack the animal or prise its prize away, this is your best (maybe last?) opportunity…

What will you do?
>Attack the animal directly!
>Launch a volley into the smoke with ranged attacks
>Send in Nermal to handle it—he’s blind already, right?
>Creep into the cloud an attempt to snatch up the magic item and bolt
>Wait for the creature and cloud to leave, and investigate what’s left of the ruins
>Write-in

>>6163863
>Attack the animal directly!
fuck it, we're eating pork now.

>>6163863
>Attack the animal directly!
Now or never.

>>6163863
>Write-in
Use the confusion to hurt non-lethally the pig in order to subdue it and gift it to gingerhobbit

>>6163863
>Attack the animal directly!
RAWR

Rolled 7 (1d20)

>>6164214
>>6164028
>>6163945
>>6163913
“Fuck it!”

“Wait, Cara!”

It’s real sweet, Martyn calling out of after you as you plunge into the mysterious mist, but this isn’t the time for sweetness, or caution. It’s time to strike—to k̵͓͝í̸̩l̵̫̓l̴̥̈́! Fishing spear gripped in hand, to hurtle through the haze. You hold your breath as long as you can, wishing you had some sort of magic rock to suck air out of like back at Sunset Lake… But You don’t. That charmed pebble’s still in your pocket, but it’s all out of juice. You can only blink away the tears which the peculiar particulate engenders and beeline for the beastie holding the source of the smoke, and STAB for the heart!

[Rolling 1d20 for CZ’s spear attack; no bonus dice, and your sneak attack advantages are canceled out by the concealment granted by the smoke.]
Pardon the formatting being basic, but I’m away from my regular IP

Rolled 17, 12, 6 = 35 (3d20)

>>6164413
>7: Failure!

Okay, so maybe stabbing for the heart when you can see neither hdie nro hair was a bit of a dumb idea. You just reallym really wanted to—

To K̶͕̋͋I̵̭͐L̴̯̦͇̥̓͑̀Ḻ̴̣͂̽ something!

—to impress Yeb, and ZZ, and maybe especially Martyn. For a moment, you even think you’ve succeeded, as you feel your spear sink into SOMETHING… Only to pull your prong-tipped pike back with a clump of grass and dirt on the end.

And then the counterattack comes, in the form of a massive, dark shape emerging from the smog and barreling towards you from FAR too close for comfort, approaching from an awkward angle you could not have predicted. This creature, much smaller than the mama lake Monster, is also far lighter on its feet… or maybe ‘lighter’ is the wrong word, with how it shakes the earth with each footfall.

Fast, though. It’s definitely FAST!

Rolled 2 (1d12)

>>6164415
[Rolling damage...]

>>6164416
You stumble back, abandoning your spear and shouting in dismay as the hog-hound’s wake passes over it and precludes its immediate retrieval. At the very least, the quick thinking means you entirely avoid the impact of the creature’s full body. You’re free and clear…

Almost.

See, something strange happens, then. The mole-clawed, shaggy-haired, doggy-piggy-thing seems to sense your presence somehow, drawing up short. It casts its head this way and that, still clutching something unseen in its teeth, and catching sight of you—or something, somehow!—it throws its head in a wild, swaying shake towards you, and in the same motion it swipes a claw. Rather than simply casting loose soil your way, though, it casually rips more precious antiquity from the stirred-up earth and sends it rocketing towards your unprotected head. You duck and dive, yelping in dismay…

>2 damage
>28/30 HP left

…And almost avoid it. You catch a glancing blow on the shoulder, knocking you askew, and as you reorient yourself you find the big old beast lining up for another charge.

“Shiiit…”

Your spear is lost in the fog. Your friends, shouting for you—well, Martyn is shouting at least—can scarcely see what’s happening to help you. Throwing shock-spears or loosing arrows into this unseen quagmire would be foolish in the extreme, and luckily they’re too smart for that…
But that still leaves you, alone, in here… With his animal which you’ve just remembered is magical, and which seems to have some measure of supernatural sense and earth-manipulating magic.

>Run away!
>Draw your dagger!
>Fuck it, shapeshift to manifest your natural weapons!
>…Is it too late to try <Charm>?
>Put some <Fear> into it!
>Scream for Nermal
>Write-in

>>6164418
>Fuck it, shapeshift to manifest your natural weapons!
Rip and tear time

>>6164418
>Draw your dagger!
don't wanna pull our big guns yet

>>6164418
>>Draw your dagger!

>>6164418
>Draw your dagger!
I don’t trust the claws that much.

[I'll post tomorrow morning, most likely. Xmas went late. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Krazy Kwanzaa, and whatever else!]

>>6164943
Merry Christmas QM. Btw is there any special holiday for the gods in this quest ?

>>6164950
>special holidays
[Many! Not all are religious, but many at least have a ritual element. The Lawful Good pantheon of the Northmen has holy days dedicated to each major god, and the minor ones; major gods (love, justice, harvest, etcetera) are pretty much state holidays, while minor gods' holidays are more diligently observed by clergy of their temples and communities who regard them as patron; rites very based on the god in question. The elves and fair folk who worship the Chaotic Good fey pantheon observe various solar and lunar cycles with religious feasts and fasts, dances and even (as seen in Seekers of the Esoteric) solemn animal sacrifices. Dwarves have specific mandated days of rest and days of charity, plus a festival dedicated to showing off their proudest works. And Reptilians, when the stars are right, perform bloody sacrifices of their captured enemies, their slaves, or even their own kind to the Dark Gods if they are especially desperate in exchange for favour and power; in more mundane times, they just gather together so a Serpent Priest can reassure them that better times will come.]

[Goblins have pretty much no holidays, partly because they don't reliably keep a calendar and partly because they rarely have much to celebrate, and no patience to wait for a specific day to do so on the occasions things are going well.]

>>6164418
>Fuck it, shapeshift to manifest your natural weapons!

Rolled 2, 7 = 9 (2d20)

>>6164901
>>6164512
>>6164446
>>6164432
>>6165019
While you’re more naturally adept at fighting with your natural weapons, your shapeshifting isn’t (yet?) so advanced as to form something with the same let and strength as the dagger tucked into your belt. Besides, if the smoke dissipates, what will Martyn think, seeing you all tusked-up and claws-out? Nah, better to take up steel and strike fast, for the piggy-puppy’s throat if possible!

(So, uh, here’s hoping it’s possible!)

Befrpe you can test that theory, the magical animal charges you again, head low. You brace for impact, legs splayed and arms out at your side. Your plan is to wrap your limbs around its big old noggin and to start stabbing…

Rolling 1d20 to evade, using your Concealment

…Except the fat bastard stops short and throws a right hook again, too far away to hit you directly. You immediately intuit what that means, and as the earth is churned up and comes flying at you in lumps and clumps, you dive sideways!

Also rolling 1d20 for your counterattack. If you successfully evade, you'll have DC 13 for the stab otherwise, DC 16

Rolled 15, 17, 6 = 38 (3d20)

>>6165172
2 for your concealment. You're detected, and the attack's coming right for you!

7 for your stab attempt: failure! You don't close the distance in time.

Rolling to see how accurate the opponent is in light of this...

Rolled 6 (1d12)

>>6165173
You're hit! Rolling damage...

>>6165174
The boar-bear-wolf-thing turns its head in tandem with your evasive action, and you let out a storm of swears. Why not, if you’re already in its ‘sights’ anyway? Fighting an opponent who has special senses like you is just plain unfair, especially when it’s way bigger! Of course, you wish you WEREN’T cursing when you get a mouthful of dirt, smacking you in the face and chest hard enough to bowl you over.

6 damage taken
22/30 HP left

You leap to your feet, staggered by the stones amidst the muck that smacked into your head. You’re not concussed—well, you don’t think so—and so you roar in rage and hurl yourself bodily at the pesky predator whom you would make your prey…

And are immediately knocked out of the air by another clod of earth, sent flying straight out of the cloud, to land amongst the ferns and other foliage.

“Cara! Are you okay?”

~Martyn~ is immediately at your side, so you shake off the soil and put on a brave face.

“‘S all good!”

“Yer bleeding,” notes Yeb-Uit neutrally.

You lap up some tangy copper leakage from your nose, confirming his report. Still, you’re not done yet!

“Is the cloud dissipating?” Martyn wonders aloud. “Perhaps the magic is running out?”

You wipe dirt and blink smoke from your reddened, stinging eyes, and bite back another plume of profanities.

“That ain’t it,” you say instead. “It’s runnin’!”

The immaterial, ineffable iridescence of magic is shrinking in your sixth sense, its intensity diminishing. You can’t exactly ‘see’ the creature or its pilfered prize, but you can tell they’re moving further afield. The damn coward’s refusing to finish the fight! Of all the NERVE!

(Kinda’ makes sense, though… It has what it wanted, and it IS just an animal, really. It’s not like it came here for a fight…)

What will you do?
>Everyone, take pot-shots into the cloud!
>Follow it, and track it at a distance (though that might take a WHILE…)
>Regardless of what Martyn might think, this calls for your demonic strength and speed
>Forget it…. You’ll just look around the ruins with the boys, to see if you can find anything else
>Write-in

>>6165186
Oh man we're getting rolled by this thing

>Forget it…. You’ll just look around the ruins with the boys, to see if you can find anything else
It's not disturbing the site anymore so goal kinda achieved?

>>6165186
>Follow it, and track it at a distance (though that might take a WHILE…)
Moma Zi didn't raised no quitter

>>6165186
>Forget it…. You’ll just look around the ruins with the boys, to see if you can find anything else
bruh we didn't lend a hit

Rolled 18, 12, 8 = 38 (3d20)

>>6165202
>>6165210
>>6165228
“We going after it?”

“…nah.”

Yeb-Uit doesn’t react with surprise, or dismay, or anything else. You dense a pang of disappointment, though, and of unease. It’s not about losing his quarry, though, so much as about You not killing it… or something like that. Your empathic senses aren’t precise, least of all with magic-resistant goblins, and the old guy doesn’t give a lot away with his expression or body language.

<WANT: 16>

He can suck it up, though—whatever the source of his frustration, it’s NOTHING compared to yours. Honestly, just feeling Yeb’s irritation is enough to make You annoyed, at HIM, for thinking he has any right to ‘complain’ even internally. These people—regular, non-demony people—they have no IDEA what REAL feeling is like. Right now, you FEEL like a huge, dumb, stupid, sueless FUCK-UP, and Yeb-Uit’s internal bitch-fit or whatever is NOT helping!

You push it down, though, just like you repress to urge to run after the fleeing fairy-creature or whatever-the-fuck it is. Instead, you focus on the hear and now, like a responsible gobbo adventurer ought to… Which is to say, you indulge Martyn’s archaeology fetish.

(Shit, why not? You’re here anyway, and at least old stones and bones can’t fight back or geta way… Probably. Usually.)

“Any luck?” you ask, voice full of forced cheer.

You already know the answer by Martyn’s own emotional aura, which is just as upsettingly-upset as Yeb-Uit’s, if not moreso, and far more crystal-clear.

“What little was here was so damaged,” the halfling laments. “Time did the worst of it, and the elements, but what little remained… Theat creature, and the battle…”

Martyn cradles cracked foundation an stones and shattered statuary in his arms like a lost lover, and you feel a sudden surge of irrational jealousy on top of everything else. After all the hard work you put in, shouldn’t he be holding YOU like that?! Or… Or maybe not. Maybe he never will, since you screwed up, letting the weird piggly-wiggly-wolfy tear it all up looking for the orb, then leave with its smoking ‘truffle’. Is he mad? He doesn’t FEEL mad… But you would be. Wouldn’t you?

(You are. You’re MAD. And SAD. And… UGH.)

To redirect your feelings, you half-assedly help your handsome hobbit companion dig around in the shattered remains of this dead civilization. Yb keeps watch, in case your escaped adversary comes round for another pass—you almost wish it WOULD—or any other scavengers come searching. Nermal, who you can’t bring yourself to be properly upset with, just lays crawled across a cool, damp patch of moss on their belly in the contented silence of a simple amphibian.

Rolling Matyn's Local Lore...

>>6165322
Daylight turns to dusk as you dig, with Martyn producing picks, chisels, brushes, and other strange and varyingly-delicate implements from his pack to clean away the age from the artefacts you DO uncover. Mostly, it’s shit like broken bowls, bits of building, and the occasional tablet ruined beyond recognition. The most interesting discoveries (or so you are told) are the statues of demihuman forms, which Martyn frets over with unusually-keen interest.

18: SUCCESS! Despite the damage done, Martyn finds a useful clue...

“They’re just dwarves, ain’t they?” you ask, more than a little bored by now. “Dwarves lived here ‘n they made l’il dwarfy statues, ‘cause that’s what dwarves do.”

“Maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“Well, it’s just… See here?”

You try. You don’t. You don’t’ see SHIT, except a bunch of half-smashed, partly-reassembled effigies of squat little fuckers too stony and un-alive to eat, fuck, or otherwise take out your frustration upon.

“The style of the carving… Dwerrow of the period, much as dwerrowfolk today, favoured a blockier, less organic representation style. These lines,… The fluidity of the limbs, the softness of the features where they… Where they still exist, anyway… And the proportions, they’re all wrong! More like… A gnome, maybe?”

Yeb-Uit yawns. You share the sentiment, to be honest. You’re itchy. You’re edgy. You’re hungry. You <WANT> to go, to leave this place of loss and lame nerd shit—sorry, Martyn, but it’s true, and even a sharp jawline and a soothing-silky voice can't make it not so—and to return to camp.

Do you offer any input into Martyn’s speculation>
>Yes [write-in a theory, suggestion, or leading question]
>No, fuck this, you’re leaving

Will you return straight to camp?
>Yes—it’s getting dark, and you want to cut your losses
>No, no fucking WAY you’re coming back empty-handed! You’re at least going to see about catching some deer or birds or something!
>You’re so hungry… So thirsty… So angry… So HORNY… You need some RELIEF! One way or another, you’re getting it [specify a target, Yeb-Uit or Martyn]
>Write-in

>>6165324
>>Yes [write-in a theory, suggestion, or leading question]
Gnome ruins? Dwarf gnomes? Deep gnomes?

>No, no fucking WAY you’re coming back empty-handed! You’re at least going to see about catching some deer or birds or something!

>>6165393
>+1
dangerous want levels and the fight that was supposed to help us relax didn't do it

>>6165324
>Yes [write-in a theory, suggestion, or leading question]
Some kind of common dwarf-gnome ancestor?

>No, no fucking WAY you’re coming back empty-handed! You’re at least going to see about catching some deer or birds or something!

as >>6165409 said.

>>6165393
Support

[There will be a small delay, as I've been invited to hang out tonight.]

>>6165879
Have fun; get some if you can.

>>6166017
[Thanks! We got up to some serious misadventures, but a good time was had by all.]

Rolled 14, 3, 10, 2 = 29 (4d20)

>>6165393
>>6165409
>>6165453
>>6165551

Martyn continues to pore over the refuse of ages past. You fidget, eager to leave, and eventually start spitting out suggestions, in the hopes it will make him move—and maybe, if you’re really lucky, make you look smart.

“Well, maybe these’re gnome ruins?”

Martyn shakes his head, not looking up—ugh! You wish he was looking at YOU right now!—and explains why he doesn’t think this is the case.

“The map which led us here was very clear that this was a dwerrow settlement… The same old empire as the ‘pyramid’ megastructure we’re traveling towards, most likely. And anyway, see this construction? This style of architecture is distinctly dwerrow. Gnomus have never been known to build like this…”

“Maye they were jus’, like, really dwarfy gnomes? Gnomey dwarves?” You shrug your shoulders and frown. “Or, like… You guys were all sayin’ that yer related, right? Like goblins ‘n hobgoblins ‘n all them are?”

Martyn looks up at you now, eyebrows raised, and you immediately regret the telling analogy. It was just the first thing that came to mind!

“Uh, well… All I’m sayin’ is maybe this is, like…Evidence a’ that?” Nervous now, you press on anyway. “Proof of where dwarves ‘n gnomes, ‘n halflings even, came from?”

Well, if you wanted Martyn excited, THAT sure does the trick!

“Could it be?” he wonders aloud, voice lifting as if he’s about to burst into song. “That would be ASTONISHING… And truly ancient! It would imply either a relict population of a common ancestral empire, or a much older founding than we’d ever considered… The others will want to see this!”

Martyn jumps to his feet, scrambling for the tools he’s laid out across a strap of fabric on the ground, and extracting still others from his pack for purposes for sketching, writing, and taking charcoal rubbings of the ruins. Yeb-Uit groans, as he and you both realize what you’ve done: guaranteed you’re not leaving anytime soon, unless you drag Martyn meadowgrass kicking and screaming all he way.

“‘S fine,” you mumble, as much to yourself as to Yeb. “I wanted ta get some huntin’ in, anyway.”

Yeb-Uit raises his bow slightly and meets your eyes, volunteering his services. You shake your head, and he reverses the gesture with a quizzical expression.

“I need ta do this alone.”

He must see the twitchiness in your demeanour, or hear the huskiness of <WANT> in your voice, for Yeb does not object, but simply watches you go.

…

Survival + Concealment for level of success, Occultism for how controlled CZ manages to be…

>>6166274
14, 3…

Your earlier cacophony of combat has cleared the forest of its little critters, leading to a lengthy, largely unsuccessful hunt. You try your best, suppressing your presence and adopting every trick and technique which Yeb-Uit taught you on your snipe hunt, in plus of your own experience. None of it does you any damn good, and your frustration only mounts as darkness falls.

<WANT: 17>

You could kick yourself for not sticking that pig (or wolf, or whatever-the-fuck it was) when you had the chance. A juicy, magic-rich soul is exactly what you need right now, to take this edge off! But it’s gone, long gone. In lieu, you find naught but a nest of bord-eggs, which you crush and shove into your gob-hole to assuage the ache. Tiny, half-manifested embryonic essence barley even scratches the itch, more an appetizer than anything else.

You <WANT> more.

10, 2..

Falling to all fours like a woodland creature yourself, you continue your prowl. Your flesh melts and ripples around your innermost self, but even as your flesh turns warty and green with unsatiated need, you do not stop to revert back to elf-adjacent ‘Cara’. There’s no Martyn here to judge his ‘mermaid’ for its—her?—true nature. If you would judge yourself, you’re not presently capable of such angsty introspection.

“Want it… Waaaant iiit…”

You moan like a ghost as you stalk the night, sniffing the air like a dog, pawing the ground like a panther. Porcine tusks protrude from your lower jaw, and you kick off your robes and abandon your spear and dagger by a stump. Scaly scutes form across your back and rump, around your stubby stump of a malformed tail.

“Nnnn…”

You can barely think in words, let alone speak them. This is BAD—worse than it’s been in a long while. You left Yeb and Martyn behind for good reason: if they were here, you’re not sure WHAT you’d do to them, but you doubt they’d survive it. Just the thought makes you salivate, and when you finally—FINALLY!—catch sight of shaking in the bushes, you are nearly hobbled by the rigidi length dangling between your legs.

Squea—SCREEEK!

The shrill screams of the rather large and gaily coloured chubby rat thing, which you seize do not stop abruptly, but carry on for quite some time. You leave red-matted fur all across the trees and bushes. It begs with its eyes for mercy, but you have none to offer it, not even the cold mercy of death. Rather, you make it suffer, peeling skin from flesh and exposing still-breathing lungs, still-beating heart. You make it suffer, as YOU are suffering, until the mechanisms of life simply cannot sustain any more pain…

<WANT: 16>

…And yet, it’s not enough.

>>6166294
With shuddering breath, you survey your carnage. Mixed feelings overtake you, ranging from shame to disappointment. Disappointment in yourself, for what you did? Disappointment in the squirrel or chipmunk or whatever, for not holding out longer? You’re not sure. Most practical is the matter of the badly-butchered carcass, the broken bones and scattered remains of your tortured victim. If there was ever enough meat on this little varmint to feed anyone in your party, it’s ruined beyond repair now…

“Fuck.”

You stare at the mess you’ve made and wipe the smear of gore from your lips. it’s not your blood; your nose is healed by now, and probably was during your reversion to your true form. You take a moment to detour towards a creek, and you clean yourself before you return to your prettified guise. Only then do you go to retrieve your clothing, backtracking your trek. Clad once more in baggy, doubly-dirtied grey-black, you return empty-handed

…

>>6166297
…

[red[You are beginning to get rather worried by the time night falls, and Cara-Zi and Yeb-Uit remain in-absentia. Central to your concern is that Martyn Meadowgrass, in defiance of all logic, is off galivanting with them. This hunting trip was meant to help blow off some of your demonic double’s sinister ‘steam’, not to further exacerbate her urges! You can only hope that old bastard is keeping those two from doing anything stupid… But then where ARE they?!

“What has you all wound up?” An-Yii asks.

“Shove it,” you mutter, and she rolls her eyes and shrugs.

“I am a natural adept of the wild places,” brags Khorine. “If you’d like, I can retrieve them.”

“Nah,” you say succinctly, and refuse to elaborate in response to the goat-girl’s questioning expression.

Eventually, your faith pays off: the trio return, and with all their limbs. You stand up, grinning broadly at first. Your enthusiasm diminishes somewhat when you see they’re all empty-handed, except Martyn. The hobbit is carrying what looks like a bunch of rocks or rubble, and a sheaf of papers, and is positively vibrating with excitement.

“Master Copperbelt! Master Copperbelt! We’ve discovered something MIRACULOUS!”

You watch him bustle off towards his dwarven employer, before looking back to Yeb-Uit and CZ. The former simply shrugs, and returns to the fire you lot have started to keep warm and ward away wolves or whatever else. Before you can ask CZ anything, she pre-emptively answers with a rguff, almost pained:

“Don’ wanna’ talk about it.”

Your shadow-sister clambers into the carriage without another word, her big floppy cave-drake companion hauling itself in thereafter. You peer inside and see her lying on her side , curled up and staring at the wall, with ‘Nermal’ lying beside her. You consider saying something… But what should you say or do? It’s clear the excursion didn’t have the desired effect, and talking it out has never been your strong suit—something evidenced by CZ’s own silent sulking, as a one-time aspect of your own self.

“Whatever,” you sigh to yourself, and go join the Delvers to hear about Meadowgrass’ apparently-exciting ‘discovery’.

…

>>6166304

It’s only a few more days before you all arrive, at long last, at The Steelwood. It’s a bit of a letdown, honestly: you’d been expecting something grandiose by the name, but it’s just more northwestern woodland, albeit with a light dusting of early-morning frost across the easterly oaks and silver-needled pines.

“As I understand it, the orcs of this land are members of the southern branch of the ‘Wolfpack Horde’, though they’re a fairly minor and lowly-regarded ranch of even their own savage family,” Copperbelt explains, standing alongside you as the two of you survey the vista. “They aren’t far from here now… it’s entirely possible their scouts will even see us before we see them.”

“if they haven’t already,” you add, smirking a little as the dwarf shudders at the thought. “Relax.”

“How do you mean to make allies of such… People?” Copperbelt glances towards you. “That is still your intention, I gather?”

“You gather right,” you reply, crossing your arms. “Way I see it…”

>You’ll approach them as traders, passing through and looking for a bit of hired help
>You will tell them exactly what you’re here for, and promise them a cut fi they assist in finding it
>You want to go in quiet, just you and your trusted troops, to scout them out and get a sense of them
>You need to show them who’s Boss—which is you, naturally—to earn their respect in a show of strength
>You ought to detour to a human settlement first, to ask them about the orcs, and about the local area
>Write-in

oh right, almost forgot...

BONUS: LEVEL UP!

CZ's little sidequest has netted her a level up. Choose one of the following:
>Survival 2
>Concealment 2
>Local Lore 1
>Polearms 1
>Knife-Fighting 1

>>6166294
>gain 1 want, lose 1
we're fucked, at this rate we'll dirlewanger someone

>you are nearly hobbled by the rigidi length dangling between your legs.
imagining cz almost tripping on her boner got a chuckle outta me
>>6166318
>You’ll approach them as traders, passing through and looking for a bit of hired help

>>6166446
>Concealment 2

>>6166318
>You will tell them exactly what you’re here for, and promise them a cut fi they assist in finding it
I'm sure orcs will appreciate us being upfront

>>6166446
>Concealment 2

>>6166487
Support

File: cz level up.png (94 KB, 659x321)

94 KB PNG

>>6166450
>>6166452
>>6166487
>>6166583
Leveled up: Concealment!

[Locked and writing.]

>>6166858
“I really must object—”

“Yeah?” you shoot back at Copperbelt. “MUST you? Izzat why you haven’t shut up this whole time?”

That’s a bit of an exaggeration, maybe, but the Delvers’ leader HAS been needling you for the last few hours on and off, consistently if not constantly. Once or twice an hour, the half-bald dork has raised or reiterated an objection to your plan to approach the ‘Wolfpack Horde’ orcs directly and with honesty about your intentions. The orcs’ lack of sophistication, their savagery, and the possibility of them simply killing or capturing you all and going for the treasure themselves were all raised, and each quickly countered.

“Look, if we’re gonna be operating in THEIR territory, with THEIR help, they’re gonna figure out what we’re up to, right?” you say, tempering your frustration at having to repeat yourself. “Orcs are aggressive and get angry easy, right?”

“Right, which is why—”

“Which is WHY,” you interrupt, “we gotta play this straight, and be honest. It don’t matter how stupid you think they are, or even if you’re right: if we’re having them help, they’re GONNA see this ‘megastructure’ of yours, and they’re gonna see all the LOOT you’re expecting to find… And if we ‘re there under, uh… Whaddaya’ call it?”

“…False pretences?” Iorund Copperbelt suggests, without much enthusiasm.

“Yeah, that’s it!” you snap your fingers. “Anyway, imagine these savage, stupid assholes you’re so worried about find out we’re lying, and holding out on ‘em? Imagine what they’ll do THEN?”

“Which is why it would be better not to involve them at all,” Copperbelt grumbles.

You roll your eyes, unwilling to go over all THAT again, too. It’s just not plausible, in a place like this with an roc infestation… And you need the sort of muscle that orcs are especially good at providing, if you’re going on a dungeon-crawl.

‘Adventuring’ is a very diverse profession, with the label being appended to all sorts. In the big city, the most common sort of ‘adventurer’ is really more of a half-assed hobbyist, unserious and inexperienced; bored rich kids from nobleborn or well-heeled merchant families sometimes slap on some colour-coordinated, impractical armour and go hiking or spelunking, essentially. Others are more like solders-for-hire, essentially, guarding trade caravans or diplomatic delegations, or even adding their manpower to actual military expeditions; that’s most of the work you did before the move to New Goblintown, with James Efron and the others. Still other parties might go hunting for hides or rare ingredients for mages and alchemists, or collectors, in distant lands and wild places.

And then, there’s dungeon-crawling, and those who dare to do it.

>>6166907
A ‘dungeon’ isn’t a jail, or a castle’s keep, though Jimmy once told you that’ where ethe term originated. It also isn’t, as you told the others back at Sunset Lake, a wild monster’s burrow. In the true adventurer’s professional parlance, a dungeon is a forgotten—generally deliberately hidden—place of power. In the OLD old days known now upon hoity-toity types as ‘The Age of Empires’, orcs marched in massive armies and dwarves had kingdoms instead of corporations, elves and dragons fought across the world in titanic clashes, and wizards were WIZARD, proper mad mages with spellcraft to spare. A dungeon is a place where old relics, often weapons or spellbooks or long-lost technological wonders, were stored behind layers of security. That means deathtraps, summons, constructs, mazes, dead-ends, and sometimes elf-destruct mechanisms.

That means maimings, fatalities, and all too often entire adventuring parties disappearing, never to be seen or heard from again.

That means that if you want to stand a chance, you’re going to need more guys.

These are the thoughts which motivate your march into the heart of orcish territory. You and the others remain on high alert all the way, even so, for orcs ARE savage, and there’s no telling if first contact will come in the form of a sudden charge. As a former goblin bandit, you can’t even really hold it against them, but you offer your insight to try to avoid such a scenario: you instruct the others to keep their weapons stowed, and body language alert—to show you’re not an easy mark—but also non-threatening. You slow from a march to a saunter when you see the first signs of orcish presence: sharpened stakes stabbing up from the ground, festooned with ribbons of coloured cloth and the pelts of wolves and foxes, flung like flags. You follow the markers like guideposts to the centre of what passes for civilization among the brutish bastards…

And it pays off.

“Easy now,” you hiss to the others. “Easy. CZ?”

“Uh, right!” your sister chirps up, rummaging around. “One sec, one sec…”

You don’t turn to watch her, instead keeping your gaze fixed on the figure of the lone orc atop the hill. He is male, and if he has human heritage, you see little evidence in his frame or face: massive tusks jut up from his lower lips to frame his rugged features, painted yellow and red with unknown paints and pigmentations, with glaring, piggish eyes gleaming black amidst the brighter colours. He is shirtless save for a loose bin of bloodied chainmail, and leather sandals tied to his ankles with ligament-string; the rest is all greyish, coarse-haired skin and lumpy, scarred musculature that gives the impression of a hunch even as he stands straight and tall—easily six or seven feet, you’d estimate. Around his head and chest, he wears the reddish pelage of a slain wolf, with the wolf’s head atop his own. And if he’s standing there, openly, alone, that means…

>>6166908
“There’s more of ‘em,” Yeb-Uit whispers, his calm voice coloured by a tint of fear.

“I count ten to the left, just beyond the treeline,” Khorine quavers. “We shouldn’t be here…”

“More on the right, too, I’d bet,” An-Yii adds., scooting closer to the carriage.

“Yep,” Yeb agrees. “They picked this spot ‘cause they can cut off our escape easy.”

“Don’t panic,” you command them, raising your voice a little to cut through the terror, and to make sure the Delvers hear you too. “CZ?”

“One sec, one sec… Here! Got it!”

Cara-Zi scampers to your side, holding aloft her prize: the last of your picnic-appropriate foodstuffs, bundled in the blanket which you’d once eaten upon to celebrate your triumph over the Monster of Sunset Lake. Together, you stride a little ways up the hill, away from the rest of your group, who hover back.

You leave your scimitar on your hips, and Cara-Zi leaves her spear behind (though she still has dagger and, of course, the option of her claws). The massive orc with the painted face doesn’t move to meet you, forcing you to crest the hill to make your offering. Forgoing pride, you leave the loaf of bloodbread at his feet, along with a single, unplucked quail killed by yeb0it in advance of the trip, and the blanket itself. You step back, and the orc leans forward and swaggers to the gift, picking up each it tun to sniff and shake, as if to test even bread and banket for signs of life, or perhaps for traps.

“You speak Common?” you ask.

The orc glances at you, but you have no clue if he understands you or not. Regardless, he collects the tribute and leaves. You stay put, feeling some of the contagious anxiety of your cadre creep into you. Time passes slowly after that, such that what might have been minuets feels like hours, but eventually another male orc—a little slimmer, a little younger, MAYBE more human or maybe just their version of a twink, but still built like a champion athlete and more than twice your height—approaches. Around his shoulders, he has tied a ragged capelet made of the pelt of a colourful canid—some weird wolf or fox, or maybe even a human-bred hound; atop his head, he has a queer ahlf-shaved floppy fringe of hair, and one of his tusks appears to be shaved down and capped with iron.

“Why you here?” he asks.

Rolled 17, 15, 6, 9, 17 = 64 (5d20)

>>6166909
“Treasure-hunting,” you answer, truthfully. “We’re adventurers, here to find a… Kika, I think you say? Teeasure. You know what a dungeon is?”

The new orc squints a little, though if it’s because he doesn’t like your answer or doesn’t really understand the term, you aren’t sure.

“This land ours,” he says. “Anything you find here, ours. You go, or die.”

“We’re not tryin’ to take what’s yours,” you reassure him. “we want to work with ya… We know where the kika is, see? Old dwarf treasure… See those dwarves and whatever, back there? Vok kika, dwarf treasure.”

He follows your gesture, back to the Delvers, who are frozen in fear. You swallow your panic, knowing that orcs and dwarves have a pretty brutally-bad history… But also knowing that there’s no way you’re going to avoid addressing their presence, taking the approach that you’ve chosen.

“The treasure is from when dwarves lived here, underground,” you say. “it’s probably REAL valuable… Real big treasure, get me? Madh vok kika. They can find it, but since you live here now, we thought we should ask you… Work together, share it. Kika lat agh alnej.”

The (relatively) skinny orc kid doesn’t respond. You wait. He still says nothing. You start to grow a little annoyed… Even afraid, if you’re being honest.

“...Do ya understand?”

Rolling 2d20 Linguistics, DC 18 due to lack of an actual Diplomacy or Negotiation skill, and ZZ prioritizing Human Empathy over Monster Empathy in Thread 1. Rolling 3d20 Leadership, DC 15, to keep anyone from panicking.

>>6166913
17: SUCCESS on first contact communication!

“Understand you, sam dyr,” the skinny orc replies, using the word for ‘small animal’—one that you recognize as the orcish term for little races like gnomes and halflings. “Will bring you chief. Understand me? He decide what do.”

“Uh, alright, well—”

Before you can say much more, the orc throws up a hand in a stiff salute. You don’t flinch, though it takes concerted effort. Likewise, you have to really apply yourself to stay calm as the orc warband bursts from their cover on either side and crowds in around the others. You hear that Cherry chick—the Delvers’ halfling chick—scream, and shouts fo outrage from the others. Ove rtehc ommotion, you shout:

“HOLD FUCKIN’ STILL! NOBODY DO ANYTHING!”

17: SUCCESS on Leadership toa void an incident!

Your words carry authority which cuts through the commotion, stemming the tide of terror. Weapons half-drawn are lowered or resheathed. Delvers and Monstrous Regiment alike are roughly manhandled, poked and prodded with grimy grey fingers or the blunt ends of roughshod weapons made of wood, bone, or salvaged and rusted metals in gruesome configuration. Your parties’ belongings are rummaged through without any great care by orcish men who treat it all as their own possession—after all, it’s on their property. They don’t steal anything, though, nor actually harm anyone, though quivering Cherry is made sport of by grunting, chuckling orcs as the sole breeding-age female… Well, aside form you and CZ, who stay put right where you are, and An-Yii, who is growled and grimaced at as if she carried plague.

Seemingly satisfied in their search—whatever they were looking for—the orcs then begin bodily picking up the little folk of your party one by one, plucking them up like berries. Khorine shouts her objection and calls her twig blight to her side, which the orcs howl at and set upon it, battering it with fists and brutal clubs.

“Stop it! Stop or I’ll kill you all, you… You brutes! Barbarians!”

Your eyes flit to chorine. You understand her objection, but you also know that her magical mannequin is no match for what you count to be twenty-or-so orcish warriors. Still, are you really going to let these fuckers push you around and menace YOUR goat-girl?

>Object to the orcs’ treatment, asserting yourself and demanding dignity
>Tell Khorine to stand-down, and allow yourself and your party to be brought to this ‘chief’
>Fuck this—you ain’t about to be captured! Fight your way free!
>Write-in

>>6166918
>Object to the orcs’ treatment, asserting yourself and demanding dignity

But just on the issue of being able to walk there ourselves without being picked up

>>6166908
>elf-destruct mechanisms
Particularly deadly to elves, or elf made destruction devices?

>Object to the orcs’ treatment, asserting yourself and demanding dignity
Why tf are they carrying us at all? Do we not have legs?

>>6166968
>elf-destruct mechanisms
*self-destruct
[The worst typos are those which still make senses.]

>>6166918
>Object to the orcs’ treatment, asserting yourself and demanding dignity
we're not hostages

>>6166929
>>6166968
>>6167155
As the orcish warrior turn their attention from the battered, broken twig blight to its summoner, you decide enough is enough—not least because you suspect Khorine’s about an inch away from casting <Entangle> and making this a proper scene.

“Hey!” you cry out over the guttural growls and grumbles, turning your back on the Common-speaking delegate and to the rest of his feral tribesmen. “Back off! The faun’s with me!”

In response, the orc behind you starts to reach out to you, only for CZ to step into position, dagger drawn.

“Try it,” your shadow-self says.

You feel a mix of appreciation and trepidation at the dangerously-eager smile upon Cara-Zi’s false face. You let the matter lie, though,, instead addressing the most intelligible orc present again.

“Hands off,” you say sternly. “My party’s all got workin’ legs. The fuck’re you carrying ‘em for?”

The skinny, semi-civilized orc looks confused, and then almost offended. His fellows take it a few steps further, howling in outrage. You can only make out a few of the words, but you don’t like any of them.

“This our land, sam dyr” the Common-tongued orc explains, slowly, as if to a child. “All things in land belong to chief.”

“That ain’t an explanation,” you say.

“You come into land, you belong chief.”

You feel your temper flare at this. You’re here to acquire allies, not to make prisoners of yourself! It’s a testament to your ineffable maturity that you are able to explain this without swearing, or letting CZ tear into this asshole, but you do. As you get across the concept, you watch the thinsome orc’s partly-painted face shift through expressions, from upset to confused to something verging on understanding.

“You small,” he explains, gesturing to all of you. “Weak. You come, give tribute, beg treasure.”

“That’s not—!”

The orc holds up a hand and closes his eyes, and Cara-Zi’s exclamation stops short.

“Everyone not orc who come to our land, is one thing, second thing, or third thing,” he explains, holding up little finger, then ring finger, and finally—with comical seriousness—flipping you all off as he counts. “You enemy, we kill. You slave, we work. You hostage, we ransom.”

“Ransom to WHOM?!” you heard Iorund Copperbelt roar in outrage. “We re not associated with your enemies, orc!”

You get it, though, and you shoot Copperbelt a look to silence him before turning back.

“Yer sayin’,” you infer, “that yer chief wants us to show up lookin’ like captives, an’ our negotiation… Our deal, that is… It’s gonna’ be a sort’ve hostage negotiation, like we give him info, and he lets us go? Maybe with some guards to escort us around the place?”

>>6167576
The orc negotiator looks befuddled by some of the big, foreign words you chose, but you’re pretty confident in your assessment. Orc culture’s weird even to you as a one-time goblin-girl, but a Boss wanting to come out looking a deal is some generous offer he’s allowing, rather than give or take, so he seems like the biggest and toughest asshole in the area? Yeah, you get that. You’ve DONE that—including your first time meeting Tips, as you recall.

“Right,” you say sternly, “but we ain’t er bitches. We’ll go, as ‘hostages’ or whatever, but we WALK.”

The orc glances to his uneasy fellows, all flexing and switching their weapons through the air in menacing mock-charges. If you had to guess (and you DO have to guess), you think he’s assessing whether he can get his fellows to accept such an arrangement as suitably domineering.

“Okay,” he agrees. “But we push, we shove. You all take it.”

“You knock anyone over, or do any damage,” you counter, “there’ll be trouble.”

“Please make trouble,” CZ chimes in.

You wouldn’t go so far as to say the orcish negotiator is cowed, but he doesn’t argue, and after exchanging some phlegm-flecked, rumbled syllables with his cohort, they drop the Delvers and your own teammates, and abandon their smashing of Khorine’s stickman. You start towards the others, only to be intercepted and flanked by burly specimens of the ignoble orc race, all muscle and menace. You tut, annoyed, but fall into line as they jostle you this way and that. You see CZ flinch as they do the same to her, and begin to raise her blade, but you give her a sharp shake of your head and she tucks her dagger back into her belt and sulkily follows your lead.

You march into the woods, along a well-worn path chopped and smashed through the trees by savage force, and stomped flat by the passage of patrols. Everything about the orcs’ domain is a show of force, you come to recognize; they don’t skulk and hide like goblins, nor tamed and tidy the wilds like Men. They CERTAINLY don’t live in harmonious balance with the flora and fauna like those hippy elves would. No, orcs slay and subjugate, rape and ruin, as a matter of principle and of pride.

(Ugh, what have you gotten yourself into?)

>>6167578
Things at least start to show a bit more creative flair as you approach what one might loosely term the orc ‘town’ at the centre of all this conspicuous carnage. Here, trees are chopped to stumps and their wood piled high in heaps, for burning or processing into weapons or supports for the animal-hide tents which form the principal habitation. For the first time since you got here, you see those other than the race’s warriors: their unpainted, often-naked children, their silently-staring women in patterned garments of quilted-and-dyed grasses. It would be wrong to say that these females and young look like humans, but they do look like… Well, less ORCY, with less pronounced jaws and snouts, and a lot less hair, and without all the affectation of warpaint, headdresses, and armour-elements to obscure their forms behind so much warlike bombast…

And then, there’s the chief.

There’s no mistaking the chieftain of the orcs. For one thing, he lives in the only actual ‘house here, constructed crudely from untreated wood and held together by twine, by tar, and by hope. Above his door is set a whole pack of wolf skulls, each decorated gaily with warpaint of their own… And among them, too, you see skulls of rocs and of men, elves, and what you think you recognize as those of beastmen. When he steps out, he is not obvious bigger or stronger than other orcs by any order of magnitude, but the others all give him—and the small army of females and offspring which march out after him and move to either side—wide berth. He wears a full set of roughly-kept leather armour, yet another wolf skull on each shoulder as a pauldron, and a cape that you first take for more animal-hide… Before realizing it is, in fact, a cloak of quilted scalps, to match his necklace of round and pointed ears.

He regards you in silence, as the rocs shove you and each of your fellows forwards, and press down hard upon your backs, to make you bow.

“Hey, easy!” you snap, your nerves frayed and patience nearing its end.

“Kneel before chief!”

You at first take the words of your ‘contact’ among this warband to be an imperious command. You shoot him a glare, ready to light into him in response, but you see his eyes are not angry, but concerned—almost pleading. You look back to the chief, whose stony face gives little away, but whose retinue are increasingly fidgety, murmuring to themselves as if confused by the delay.

(It's all about appearances... But that cuts both ways, don't it?)

What will you do?
>Bow, scrape, and plead for the chief’s mercy, offering up the promise of treasure and assistance in exchange for mercy
>Refuse to kneel—he’ll get your respect, if you’ve got to give it to get anywhere, but not your submissions
>Draw steel—challenge the chief to make you bow before him, if he dares
>Whisper to Cara-Zi to try her magic on these malcontents [specify if you use <Fear> or <Charm>
>Write-in

This is also a good time to specify if you have any questions about orc lore than CZ & ZZ might know, or about particular details they might observe in the area that I didn't specify in the narrative. Good or interesting questions will net you a bonus in negotiations!

>>6167579
>Bow, scrape, and plead for the chief’s mercy, offering up the promise of treasure and assistance in exchange for mercy
while I'm tempted to go with the 2nd one, we're in their camp and I don't think the chief will be too concerned about bonking us or worse.
I'm >>6166450 btw
>>6167583
do orc have the same magic resistance as gobs ? do they have anything close to mortal enemies ?

>>6167579
>Bow, scrape, and plead for the chief’s mercy, offering up the promise of treasure and assistance in exchange for mercy
If we do make a scene, I figure the chief will just have us dogpiled and the orc that lead us here will be the one who loses out.

>>6167613
Orc Lore 1: While goblins, hobgoblins, trolls, and bugbears are all considered 'goblinoids' due to physical and metaphysical similarities including unusual reactions to magic, an apparent 'lack of soul' in the usual sense, and peculiar biological properties to their 'living alchemy', orcs are not.

Orcs are not resistant to magic to any unusual degree, they do have a conventional soul, and their flesh, bones, and organs have no special magical or anti-magical properties.

Gained:Any attempts to use <Charm>, <Fear>, or <Prismatic Spray> against orcs in this chapter of the story will have reduced difficulty.

Orc Lore 2: Orcs are ALMOST as universally-hated as goblins, and sometimes humans, elves, and dwarves speak of them in the same breath. What many other races don't realize is that orcs and goblinoids regard one ANOTHER as their greatest enemies in areas where they cohabitate in the same range. Orcs call many small races 'little animal' in their tongue, but their term for a goblinoid is samund dyr, or 'disease animal'.

This is because of the sexual dimension of orcish conquest; whereas sexual violence or the taking of wives/concubines of human ancestry produces half-orcs (hence the more humanoid aspect to some orcs here...) and doing so with elves/dwarves/gnomes/etc. is just a fun time for randy orc warriors, interbreeding with goblins produces more goblins, generally with little to no evidence of orc heritage. Worse yet, while sexual violence against orc women by 'good' races is rare, goblins will perpetrate it when they defeat and capture orcs sometimes, and that creates the unbearable indignity or making an orcish women birth a GOBLIN, because goblins can only ever breed more goblins, whether as mother or as father, regardless of their partner.

Gained:You may apply half of your Human Empathy negotiation bonus to certain diplomatic rolls among the orc camp, and attempts by goblins in your party to intimate or otherwise demoralize the orcs are easier as well.

>>6167647
What god(s) claim(s) orc ownership?

>>6167650
Orc Lore 3: Zith-Zi cannot recall ever hearing anything about orc religion, actually... And there's conspicuously no signs of altars, religious totems besides (maybe) those painted skulls, or priests. And yet, it's said only goblinoids completely spurn and scorn the gods and spirits altogether...

Gained: Alternate avenues of dialogue and discovery in the area, and added insight which makes orcs more willing to discuss their history, faith, and culture with you despite the stigma against sharing spiritual particulars with non-orcish outsiders.

>>6167579
>Bow, scrape, and plead for the chief’s mercy, offering up the promise of treasure and assistance in exchange for mercy

>>6167657
Are orcs just scattered tribes under multiple chiefs, or do they have a big chief somewhere? King vs baron kinda positions.

If orcs aren't magic resistant, do they have their own magic users? If so, how common are they and what characteristics do they have?

>>6167881
Orc Lore 4: In ancient days, orcs marched in true armies, well-armoured and well-armed, drilled, disciplined and deadlier even than modern orcs. The final true orc 'nation' was said to have allied with the Dragon Kings, and was punished for it by divine wrath. Its dregs joined the forces of the final Dragon King, the Great Green Dragon, and they were defeated by the first Paladin King and his Green Knight, Sir Yosef. The remnants were driven into distant and dark places thereafter by the goodly races. What exists now is scattered and disorganized, though there are rumours of amassing power in the north-eastern 'Orcwilds'...

Gained: By raising their Yosef ancestry, CZ or ZZ can gain a one-time massive bonus to status, sufficient to turn the tide of a battle or social contest.

Orc Lore 5: Orcs are known to deal with demons, but their magical tradition is most famous for two things: curses which weaken or make unlucky their enemies, and strange concoctions which strengthen and invigorate their warriors. the former are attributed to demonic intervention, and the latter assumed to be derived from some esoteric ingredient or strange recipe, known only to the orcs

Gained: Two more avenues of investigation: orc demonism and orc alchemy.

>>6167613
>>6167646
>>6167757
You’re sorely tempted to stand your ground against this buffoonish bluster. The more you regard these orcs, the more you see just how short they fall of the legendary infamy of their ilk. The chieftain is big yeah, but you’ve beaten bigger. His brutish belligerents number a couple dozen, but of those, a half-dozen are young males, and as much as they might howl and growl, they lack scars—a telltale sign of an unbloodied combatant, lacking your experience with a sword. They lack a goblin’s magic resistance, and you’re pretty sure there are full-blooded humans among the chieftain’s women, and half-humans among his progeny…. And in truth, women and children make up the bulk of this sad little horde. These orcs are a tribe in decline, old-country menfolk who emigrated from the Orcwilds reduced in number by conflict. Now, like it or not, they’re being gradually absorbed into Man’s world, and you’d love nothing better than to spit this fact in the face of the face of their ‘fearless leader’…

But then again, orcs aren’t known for honour, and unbloodied or otherwise, two dozen grown orcs falling upon your party is likely to leave you with some dead and wounded, and it will gain you nothing but empty ego. THAT’S a prize you don’t desire, and so you let the Big Boss have it instead.

You kneel.

“Chieftain of Orcs, Emissary of the Wolfpack Horde,” you force yourself to say, “ I beg you to spare me and my party—an’ the Delvers, I guess—and to let us take refuge among your people.”

The chief’s demeanour changes immediately. Where once he was warily standoffish you immediately see him relax now that you’re playing along. He might not know who you are or why you’re here—might not even understand Common very well—but you’re following the script. Seeing their boss relax, the orc-boys settle down too, their muttering giving way to observant silence.

Of course, appearances DO cut both ways…

Yeb-Uit’s Morale: Low
Khorine’s Morale: Low
An-Yii’s Morale: Stable

Delvers’ Morale: Very Low
Orc Relations: Stable

…And you can see the fear and resentment in the eyes of your Monstrous Regiment. It’s not that they don’t get what you’re doing or why—at least in An and Yeb’s case—but the entire idea of allying with orcs was your notion, and knowing what orcs do to goblins (or what they might do the Khorine, awful in its own way), they are fearful of the position you’ve placed them in. The Delvers aren’t any happier, and you can see that fat fuck Steiner Sternstone on the very verge of revolt, grumbling with such violence as t make his grouchy, hairy ancestors proud.

>>6168034
The chief barks something in Orctongue, and the half-shaved skinny lad repeats it for your benefit:

“Chief say you earn mercy… Or get no mercy.”

Yeah, yeah. You get it. This is the bit where you sell the savages on your dungeon-crawl, and all that this entails. That’s what you’re here for, so you don’t hold back: even over the muted objections of the Delvers’, and in spite of An-Yii’s sour expression and Yeb-Uit’s wary gaze flitting about in search of an escape route, you stick to your guns and spill your guts… But not ALL your guts in one go.

“Kika?” the chief—whsoe name you gather is Xorok—repeats. “ Vok kika kor kuu ekko?”

You caught… Some of that. ‘Old dwarf treasure?’, he’s wondering.

“Yeah,” you say with a forced smile. “Lotta’ kika. Kika for days.”

Chief Xorok bellows something, to a cacophony of approving cries from his clan’s men and women.

“Come, into big house,” the translator explains. “You tell all, or we rape female, work male, kill all who do bad.”

“Of course,” you say, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

(ORCS, amirite?)

Most of your number are left outside, only you and Cara-Zi—who helmed the initial negotiation and offered up the ‘tribute’ being invited.

“Excuse me, but they do NOT speak for my party!” Iorund Copperbelt protests, earning him a cuff across the head that—rather than calming him, provokes him to roar and take a swing… Which, in turn, results in him being knocked down to the ground. You shoot the translator a look, and he shouts something; the rocs back off, allowing the now dirty-tunicked dwarf to stand, and brush himself off officiously. He looks to you, expectant; so, too, the orc chief.

“You his woman?” the chief asks, via the translator.

You nearly laugh aloud.

“No,” you say. “But…”

>Invite Iorund to negotiations
[Improves relations with, and morale of, the Delvers; orcs being sexist, will default to the assumption his opinions override yorus]
>Leave him out of it
[You get more leeway in negotiations, and Copperbelt and the Delvers will not know what you agree to or hold it against you]
>Invite Yeb as ‘your man’
[Improves be-Uit’s morale, gives you male authority but in the form of a guy you can boss around; may give Yeb ideas, though]
>Write-in

[Happy New Year, all! I hope you found the little 'lore game' experiment rewarding and interesting? And that you're enjoying the setting's first foray into orc politics? Thanks for playing, and may 2025 bring us a lot more weird and wacky adventures!]

>>6168035
>Invite Iorund to negotiations
They're already at a morale breaking point
Damn they agreed to this, why are they waffling now, it's a bit late to back out
Tell him he's gotta lock in

>>6168037
>I hope you found the little 'lore game' experiment rewarding and interesting
Yes - how much of it was already made, and how much was created in response to the questions?

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12 KB JPG

>>6165186
>“‘S all good!”
Picrel

>>6168035
>Invite Iorund to negotiations
Delvers are too useful to leave out the picture.

Am
>>6164901

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38 KB JPG

>>6167647

>>6168037
Happy New Year, reptoid.
>>6168085
hello there, schiz

>>6168035
>Invite Iorund to negotiations

I agree that this is crucial for keeping the Delvers on board with this plan even tho he may act the fool.

>>6168064
>>6168084
>>6168167
“…But you should bring him along, anyway.”

The translator nods and grunts to his fellows, who seize Iournd Copperbelt by the back of his, well, BELT, and begin to haul him into the chief’s home.

“Unhand me, you barbarous, pig-faced—”

Before the balding dwarven mechanist can lose you your hard-won diplomatic victories, you interrupt his tantrum with a look. He slumps down, but he at least succeeds in earning the right to walk into the home under his own power

“What’s the problem?” you demand in hissed whisper. “This is what we agreed to!”

“I agreed to try to negotiate for orcish permission and assistance in our endevaours,” Copperbelt contends. “I did NOT agree to be manhandled, abused, and to have myself and my company threatened with ENSLAVEMENT or WORSE. By the Mountain King, Youngtree, they’re threatening you with… With…!”

He can’t bring himself to say the word ‘rape’, you realize, which amuses you and Cara-Zi both. You feel a little worse for him, realizing just how concerned he is for Cherry and CZ, for you, and maybe even for the likes of An-Yii and Khorine if his fear extends to the more obviously monstrous female folk among your own party. Little does he know that An-Yii, at least, would get a different brand of ‘worse’ than that, or that it would hardly be your first time suffering rapine…

(Not that you plan on revisiting that experience here and now…)

“Look, it’s just how they negotiate,” you say soothingly, as CZ slips her arm around Copperbelt’s and all-but-drags him inside before your hosts get impatient. “You’ll see. Just stick to the plan. Nobody’s gonna get ‘worse’, or even the slave treatment.”

“Trust us,” CZ adds softly. “ZZ’s got this.”

Copperbelt is still a dwarf, so you don’t’ grudge him some grumbling of his own as you are roughly pushed down to your knees within the sparsely-furnished, barley-finished interior of Chief Xorok’s house. The walls are bare, and there is little furniture to speak of—just crude racks to support tools of cookery, cleaning, and daily life. The floor at least is padded, sparing you splinters by way of a rather intricately-woven mat of reeds. Your orc guards sit behind or beside you, sharing the floor; only the chief himself gets a chair, a heavy and blocky shape hidden under (of course) more animal-skins, and topped by another skull.

The orcs allowed inside organize themselves just so in a semi-circle, and others gawk from the entrance before a bellow from the chieftain drives them away. Xorok gestures towards himself and mumbles a name—Xoldur—and the translator-boy hurries to his side, where he half-squats beside him to that the chief may remain tallest in the large hut.

“Tell us where,” Xorok demands via Xoldur, addressing Copperbelt.

>>6168353
You sigh. You expected this, but it’s still a little annoying to be so instantly demoted for inviting a male to speak, too. Still, it’s vital to have the Delvers on-side and in agreement with this endeavour. You and CZ asked Copperbelt to trust you; now, you guess you must trust him in turn.

“I cannot.”

The orcs growl at that, and the Chief gives him a hard glare, even before Xoldur translates the words.

“You will do it or die,” the translator says, as if perhaps the other threats hadn’t made that clear enough.

“I do not KNOW exactly where the megastructure we seek… The big treasure, the kika, I mean… I don’t know where it is.”

Iorund Copeprbelt adjusts his spectacles slightly, and reaches into his back. His arm is seizing by an orc to halt the movement, to his great consternation.

“I’m just getting a map,” he protests, and indeed he does nice he is allowed to do so, and spreads it out on the floor.

The orcs gather round to stare down at it, except for the chief. Xorok remains seated, as if looking upon the map directly was beneath him. Evens o, he leans forwards slightly in his chair, and cranes his thick neck just a little. You hold back a scoff at the pantomime of it all, and CZ whispers:

“See him peeking?”

“This map depicts this region, now called ‘The Steelwood’, in ancient times. Somewhere in THESE hills, there is a dwarf-made hills… A fake hill. The treasure is inside of it. The kika, yes? But we don’t know WHICH one. It will take time to find it, and to explore the interior and find what things of value may be inside.”

“What kika?” Xorok asks Copperbelt.

“…I beg your pardon?”

“Good you beg,” Xoldur says approvingly, and after exchanging a few words with his chief clarifies: “Chief want know if gold, magic, or what?”

You raise your eyebrows at that, pretty interested to hear the answer yourself. Copperbelt hesitates, as if not sure how much to reveal.

“We aren’t entirely sure, but there could be a whole variety of artefacts attesting to the ancient dwarven kingdoms… A wealth of records and treasures of my race. And, yes… Likely magic. Maybe even gold.”

“Jigi zag?” grunts Chief Xorok, openly intrigued now.

“Magic weapon?” Xoldur clarifies.

“Well, erm… I… That is to say…”

“Jigi zag!” the chief repeats, exposing his jaggedly carnivorous-looking mouth full of teeth in a tusk-framed smile.

You can tell that Copperbelt is unhappy with the idea of the rocs acquiring a magic weapon. You’re just not sure if that’s because he doesn’t know if they’re going to find one—one he wants for himself or his financiers—or because there are none, and he fears their wrath when he fails to provide the incentive which most interests them.

>>6168354
“Why we no take map, check hills, no sam dyr needed?” asks the translator on behalf of his boss.

There’s no real malice in the question, but Copperbelt sputters out, startled anew and unable to formulate a response. You exchange a look with CZ, and step in—not literally, since you’re still kneeling, but rhetorically.

“We’re adventurers, and the Delvers—this guy’s party—they’re all big nerds."

“…Nerds?” Xoldur repeats.

“Wicked smart!” CZ chimes in.

“Yeah,” you agree. “They have all these tools and stuff, that only they know how to use, that will make finding it faster and easier.”

“Slave them, make them dig?” Xoldur suggests.

“Once yer in, there’s traps ‘n shit.”

“We’re good at dealin’ with traps!” CZ adds.

“And there’ll probably be other stuff in the way… Things you’ll have to read, and figure out. Magical protections. Who knows?”

“We’re good at dealin’ with mystery bullshit!” CZ insists.

You smile, allowing yourself to be a little smug now that all eyes are on you and your sister again.

“We’re adventurers,” you declare. “Your boys’ll be safer with us workin’ with ya than workin’ without us, or forcing us to do the work and then we half-ass it.”

“…Half ass?” Xoldur asks, peering around you as if to check your number of cheeks.

“It’s a saying,” you sigh.

“So what you want?” asks Xorok through Xoldur.

Aside from the obvious—safe passage—you also want…
>To stay here for a few days—you’ve been traveling a while and you want to rest and restock supplies
[You will spend more updates around the village, and can trade, train, and equip yourselves, plus gather info about the orcs and the Steelwood, get to know new recruits, etc.; good for morale]
>To move on right away—with an escort through orc territory—to camp out in the hills
[Skips all that, though if you specify you still wish to trade a little, I’ll still hold one more vote about items and such]

…And to aid in your expedition, you want the aid of…
>Their best warriors—you need muscle, but you don’t want some dumb bumbling thug
>Some dumb, bumbling thugs—you want a wall to hide behind and push into traps if need be, so anyone they can spare
>Someone with knowledge of magic… Do they have anyone like that? <unlocked by Orc Lore!>
>A witch-doctor or medicine-man or whatever, for added support <unlocked by Orc Lore!>
>Xoldur—the translator, who speaks Common passably and seems reasonable (and who is kind of cute)
>Write-in
[feel free to specify a specific role you’d like filled in the party, a skillset or ability, a type of personality, etc., and we’ll flesh out your options in the next post]

>>6168355
I mean my instinct is to move on asap, since it seems any orc interaction is terrible for morale. The QM tips suggest otherwise though, so if that's true
>To stay here for a few days—you’ve been traveling a while and you want to rest and restock supplies
Just confirm we won't be caged, carried places, grabbed whenever we reach for something, and just generally treated decently now that we got through the whole begging the chief thing.

>Some dumb, bumbling thugs—you want a wall to hide behind and push into traps if need be, so anyone they can spare
>A witch-doctor or medicine-man or whatever, for added support <unlocked by Orc Lore!>
>Xoldur—the translator, who speaks Common passably and seems reasonable (and who is kind of cute)

>>6168355
>>To stay here for a few days—you’ve been traveling a while and you want to rest and restock supplies

I enjoy orc-interractions. And low morale have to be risen.
>Their best warriors—you need muscle, but you don’t want some dumb bumbling thug
Can I get the horny shield Maiden I wanted in thread one?
>Xoldur—the translator, who speaks Common passably and seems reasonable (and who is kind of cute)

>>6168377
>since it seems any orc interaction is terrible for morale
[A fair assessment, but (as ZZ has inferred, but perhaps I've not been clear enough about), the orcs' initial aggression is somewhat exaggerated and performative, part of a culturally-expected submission ritual. There's the potential for 'incidents', but you'll get an initial R&R bonus to flagging morale, and if the chief says you aren't to be abused, accosted, or eaten, you won't be.]

>>6168423
>the horny shield Maiden
[Svanhlda Pearl was a busty and rather forward shortstack, at least! But yes, you can request a horny shield-maiden.]

>>6168429
Svanhilda lacked a shield And I didn't clicked with the Freshwater Sailor - a french idiom; ask ChatGPT about it

>>6168355
>>To stay here for a few days—you’ve been traveling a while and you want to rest and restock supplies

>Their best warriors—you need muscle, but you don’t want some dumb bumbling thug
>Xoldur—the translator, who speaks Common passably and seems reasonable (and who is kind of cute)

I'm kind of surprised that orcs don't rape men too? Why don't orcs rape men, QM?

>>6168377
>+1
horny shieldmaiden supported as well for the funnies
>>6168445
chatgpt ?
>>6168493
>I'm kind of surprised that orcs don't rape men too? Why don't orcs rape men, QM?
they rape for babies, so why the fuck would they rape men ?

>>6168494
They also rape gnomes and elves and shit for the pleasure of rape. Idk, they just give off a strong Oz vibe, ya know?

>>6168494
Asked a LLM for you

"The expression "freshwater sailor" (marin d'eau douce in French) is indeed an idiomatic phrase. It refers to someone who has little or no experience with the challenges or the true nature of a particular situation, often used humorously or pejoratively. The term "freshwater" contrasts with "seawater"—indicating someone who is accustomed to calm, non-challenging environments, much like a sailor who only navigates rivers or lakes (where conditions are typically calmer) rather than the vast, unpredictable oceans.

In French, "un marin d'eau douce" describes a person who might claim to have certain expertise or experience but lacks the real-world toughness or knowledge that comes from facing difficult, complex situations. It’s akin to calling someone a "landlubber" or suggesting they are "green" or inexperienced in a particular area."

>>6168493
>>6168494
>>6168499
>orc rape culture
[Orcs have a strongly patriarchal, warlike culture. Thy probably do perpetrate sexual violence against men sometimes, as ostensibly-heterosexual human males do sometimes in extreme situations like prison or war, but homosexual activity is widely regarded as inappropriate and doesn't build status in the same way taking female wives/concubines (even non-productive ones) does, and is thus generally a cultural taboo even if the orc is 'on top' and does it for dominance.]

[tldr; orcs have very peculiar-to-us views on gender roles, which dictate a lot of how they are viewed by outsiders and interact with one another... And like the murder threats, at least some of it is performative bluster.]

>>6168515
>>6168445
>Freshwater Sailor
[Huh, neat! Learned something new.]

>>6168377
>>6168423
>>6168493
>>6168494
The first thing you want is somewhere for you and your forces to kick up your heels and relax after all the travel and travails of the last few weeks. The SECOND thing you want is Xoldur.

“Huh?” is the orc translator’s startled response to that.

“I wanna’ recruit a few of you lot to help, actually,” you say. “To do that, I need someone who speaks good Orc and Common.”

Xoldur exchanges a look with his chief—though oddly, no words of translation are needed. Xorok nods his head, raising his eyebrows and flaring his nostrils as if to say ‘what are you waiting for?’

“I watch you, make sure no tricks, no thief,” Xoldur tells you. “You my prisoner now, behalf of chief, until we say so.”

You groan. Fucking ORCS.

“Yer lucky yer kinda’ cute, ya’ know that?”

“…Huh?”

“Nevermind. Can this prisoner have a look around the place? See what we’re working ith?”

As your ‘captor’, Xoldur plays the role of tour guide for his sorry little settlement. You’ve seen worse, obviously, but that’s only because you literally lived in a place called ‘The Goblin Wastes’, and before that in a near-eastern goblinoid slum. However, as you and your crew are shown to the tent you will be calling votar (Orc for ‘home’) for the next few days, you have to admit that it’s cozier than expected. More colourful mats are spread on the floor, and treated hides have been sewed with bone-needles and animal intestines into thick, fluffy sleeping bags to shield against the northern climes. Pots of shaped clay co-mingle with those you assume to be looted from human habitation, but each has been ‘orcified’ with zigzag paint patterns across the outside, and you are supplied some form of tangy boiled root-water to drink, and fresh-caught game to eat.

“‘S pretty good,” CZ admits through a mouthful foe meat, once you and the other females are alone, then Delver and Regiment men having been corralled into their own accommodation.

“I don’t know how you can eat,” Cherry laments, fidgeting anxiously. “Have you seen how they look at us? Like meat, or... Ugh! They’re savages… Rapists, murderers!”

“Ya’ ain’t wrong,” you say blithely, taking swig of root-drink. “But we ain’t in any danger, now.”

“How can you know that?!” she demands, clutching at her body and glancing towards the door, as if an orc rape-platoon might burst in at any moment.

“We’re the chief’s ‘property’ now. You think he keeps his place in a gang like this by lettin’ his boys play with his toys?”

“So we’re SLAVES?”

“Prisoners, technic’ly,” you say. “And only TECHNIC’LY.”

You see this news isn’t helping the frumpy halfling alchemist calm her tits, so you sigh, set down your cup, and give her the low-down.

>>6168654
“Come on, you’re a nerd, right? Aren’t you s’posed to be observant? What’d you observe on our way to this here tent?”

“Huh?” she says, sounding almost comically like Xoldur filing to understand a word.

“This shitty little warband has barely any proper warriors, let alone old ones. It’s mostly a few big lads, their sons or nephews or whatever, and a whole lotta’ women and children. They’re putting on a show, playing tough.”

“So they… AREN’T m-murderers or…?”

“I didn’t say that,” you sigh. “Look, in wilder places like this, it’s complicated, but these orcs are on the back-foot. And yet, none a’ these women are running, not even the human ones. They aren’t being hobbled or smacked around, either: no bruises or limping, no black eyes. I’m not saying you wanna’ invite these orcs over for tea—heh, though I guess the reverse ain’t true, huh?—but at least half of that tough talk is because they want all the humans and elves, an’ US now, to think they’re scarier than they really are. Orcs are brutal, nasty fuckers, but they still have to get along to live together, which means they can’t be rape-murder-monsters all day every day. And now, they know we’re allowed to be here, that we aren’t trying to start shit,a nd that the chief has given us the royal stamp of approval.”

“You sure we’re gonna’ get any actual decent fighters outta’ them, then?” An-Yii asks. “If they’re a bunch of losers playin’ at bein’ big, I mean.”

You take you tea back in hand, finishing it and staring down at the bottom of the cup, and the pattern of plant-pulp as you swish and swirl the dregs.

“Maybe whoever’s still kickin’ is alive because they’re good?” CZ suggests.

“Good at killing and looting,” Cherry grouses, though she seems a bit calmer after your explanation.

You grin, you say: “For that matter, if that Xoldur guy wants ta’ show us he’s good at the whole ‘rape’ thing…”

Cherry’s face flushes and stammers, and you and your fellow goblin girls cackle at her reaction.

…

Yeb-Uit’s Morale: Stable
Khorine’s Morale: Stable
An-Yii’s Morale: Stable

Delvers’ Morale: Low
Orc Relations: High

...

>>6168655
Dawn comes, and you get to work. Xoldur is easy to find, almost like he was waiting for you, like a bare-chested, grey-skinned butler with abs. You were joking last night, but you COULD get used to that. However, ti’s admittedly a little frustrating getting across what you want him to help you find.

“You want warrior?”

“A couple, maybe,” you say. “And some supports.”

“Supports?” he parrots back.

You groan, and rub your forehead. Then, an idea strikes, and you dash back into the tent and fetch your tea-cup from the night before. Xoldur makes no move to stop you, only blinking in confusion as you hold it up to him, and taking it from your hands to turn it around.

“Who made the tea?”

“Ziran.”

“Who’s he, then?”

“Ziran is like… Like magic woman. She do magic, make tea, make medicine.”

(That’s more like it!)

You have Xoldur take you to the ziran who made you your tea, a middle-aged and slightly potbellied old orc-broad with her hair tied up. She is hunched over a huge, battered metal pot, stirring a bubbling mixture with a carved and notched wooden spoon nearly as tall as she is.

“You the one I have to thank for the drinks last night, lady?”

She looks up, then to Xoldur, who translates. She snorts, and says something before looking back down.

“She say she not want talk you.”

“Why’s that?”

“She not say, but you in her tent,” Xoldur explains. “Mad she share with son’s wives, and with daughters.”

Oh, shit. Well, that makes sense—it’s not like they had spaces to spare, or erected a tent special for you ad your crew. Still, it’s not your fault.

“Don’t s’pose she’s gonna’ want to come with us, then?” you ask Xoldur

“She best ziran, old too, husband dead. She do what chief say, but chief not put her danger. She make best medicine.”

You have other zirans, then?” you infer.

“Her daughter, grandddaughter. Ziran train ziran, so there always magic, medicine. But not as good.”

You have Xoldur send someone to fetch the less-good 'ziran', too, to meet you where you plan to survey your potential allies.

>>6168656
When you reach the opposite end of the village to being the inspection, several burly orc lads are scratching themselves and jabbering in their local language, awaiting your assessment—and that of Iorund Copperbelt, who is also in attendance.

“A sorry lot,” he scoffs.

“What, you’re an expert on orc warriors now?” you tease.

You sort of agree, though. The orcs are all physically imposing and powerful enough—well, most of them, a few kids showed up too and are chasing each other around with sticks—but few are especially ell-equipped or have an air of expertise.

“Who would you say your best guy is?” you ask Xoldur. “Best warrior?”

Xoldur nods and pints towards one standing across the way—NOT in your group—a with a pair of wives hovering behind him, chewing some meat and observing you with his friends. He has a rather large, spike-studded warclub, made of what looks to be a sturdy and well-cared-for chunk of exotic wood from Gods-know-where.

“Why ain’t he here, then?” you demand.

Xoldur gives you a warning look from your tone, but shrugs.

“Not want to.”

“Chief can’t make him?”

“Chief can,” Xoldur growls, sounding offended.

“But?”

The lanky orc falters, and rolls his shoulder in a shrug. You get the feeling that while the Chief Xorok theoretically ‘can’ make anyone do anything, he’s very specific in the commands he issues to—say—potential rivals or successors, who could put that authority to the test. More appearances, and strange orc protocol.

Finally the ziran’s daughter (or granddaughter?) arrives: a skinny, half-orc looking girl who can’t be much older than a teen, with long black hair that reminds you of the human women out east, shaggy and hanging across her face. She’s clutching a big knobbly ladle-looking thing like the old potion-brewer had, and you see she has tied ribbons around it , and into her hair in a few places. She looks at you and Copperbelt in curious silence, and fiddles with one of her tusks.

“So this is everyone?” You’re a little disappointed, but you think you see some potential. “Aight, well let’s see…”

>>6168659
Before you can make any determinations about who to recruit, some commotion occurs among the orcs, many guttural voices raised in howls of anger and dismay. You all break your loose formation to see what the trouble is, and you see a burly looking lass marching your way, with eyes on Xoldur. You hear the translator gulp, nervous, and several of the more thuggish-looking young warriors move to stop her; she moves around the first couple, but the third laughs and moves with her, spreading his arms wide and saying something; she, in turn, reaches behind her, to what you’d taken or some sort of pack upon her back. Instead, she produces a shining (if rather scratched) steel shield, and smashes it across the male’s face hard enough to stagger him, and then again to lay him low.

“We shan’t be recruiting him, I hope?” Copperbelt comments.

“Maybe HER though,” you say. “Who’s SHE, Xoldur?”

“Murbal,” he says unhappily. “Sister.”

“Yours?”

He nods, and you review her with greater interest as she joins your little line-up, chest puffed out and head held high. Like her brother, she has feature you take for human influence, and she is lithe and tall. Her tusks are rather small, and like Xoldur one has been shortened further and capped, and she has half a head of hair, though she’s braided hers more stylishly.

“Well dam, why didn’t you tell me your sister was a badass?!”

“Women not warriors,” he says simply. “Father not let go. Bad. Wrong. It… Embarrass.”

“Any chance the chief can make him change his mind?”

“Father IS chief.”

>>6168661
You blink a couple times, and realize maybe the familiarity between Xoldur and Xorok isn’t entirely chalked up to his usefulness as a translator. Well, if he’ll let you take Xoldur… There's got to be a way to persuade him to let you have the daughter, too, if you decide to.

You must choose who to recruit. You have 28 points, and while you won’t be paying these orcs directly, the chief expects recompense as a show of good faith, and so he can reimburse the family for possible losses (and, for some, to scrumptiously pay them in a roundabout way so they will do as he says). Thanks to your Orc Lore bonuses, costs have been reduced

Experienced, Well-Equipped: 9 points each, and requires further negotiation
>Dugarod, the best warrior in the village, confident and cool-headed for an orc; who has ranks in Clubbing, Athletics, Thrown Weapons, Crafting, and Vigilance, and who comes with medium armour and a warclub, plus several throwing-clubs
>Murbal, the shield-maiden and chief’s daughter, fiery and feisty and with something to prove, and more likely than most to take orders from a female; ranks in Shield-Bash, Linguistics, Athletics, Fisticuffs, and Intimidate, comes with a masterwork shield, and light armour, and potions

Inexperienced, Poorly-Equipped: 6 points each
>Oodagh, a teenage orc who seems a it dim, but amiable for an orc and easy to push around; has a sheaf of primitive wooden spears for throwing and stabbing, and ranks in Spear-fighting and Crafting
>Kaghed, a slightly older orc with a twitchy demeanour, seasoned but sadistic; has a pair of butcher’s knives, and ranks in Knife-Fighting and Vigilance
>Wudu, a cocky hothead who is easy to goad into action, but fancies himself a big man (hence getting laid out by Murbal just now); has ranks in Swordsmanship and Willpower, has a rusted sword

Hirelings, Non-Combatant: 4 points each
>Dura, the novice potion-brewer, who speaks little and is rather shy; has ranks in Potioncraft and Herbalism, comes with a staff and herbs for making potions
>Mash, one of the kids, small enough to get into smaller spaces and with a lot of youthful energy and an orc’s natural toughness; has Athletics, and can be more easily taught a skill to quickly level up

Note: you got Xoldur for free; he has Diplomacy 1, Linguistics 2, Athletics 2, and Axe-Fighting 1, and comes with an axe and light armour

>>6168064
>how much of it was already made, and how much was created in response to the questions?
[I elaborated a bit in response to the questions, but I've been excited to loop in the orcs for a while, and have thought a lot about their society.]

>>6168669
Very interesting OP and much appreciated. I really like the worldbuilding so far. I find the orc culture you build very realistic. I hate it and I now think we should double-cross and then murder all the orcs, but that is just a testament to it feeling real

>>6168668
>Murbal, the shield-maiden and chief’s daughter, fiery and feisty and with something to prove, and more likely than most to take orders from a female; ranks in Shield-Bash, Linguistics, Athletics, Fisticuffs, and Intimidate, comes with a masterwork shield, and light armour, and potions

>Oodagh, a teenage orc who seems a it dim, but amiable for an orc and easy to push around; has a sheaf of primitive wooden spears for throwing and stabbing, and ranks in Spear-fighting and Crafting

>Dura, the novice potion-brewer, who speaks little and is rather shy; has ranks in Potioncraft and Herbalism, comes with a staff and herbs for making potions
>Mash, one of the kids, small enough to get into smaller spaces and with a lot of youthful energy and an orc’s natural toughness; has Athletics, and can be more easily taught a skill to quickly level up
the kid might come in handy for the tight spaces
Am >>6168494 >>6167613

>>6168668
>Murbal, the shield-maiden and chief’s daughter, fiery and feisty and with something to prove, and more likely than most to take orders from a female; ranks in Shield-Bash, Linguistics, Athletics, Fisticuffs, and Intimidate, comes with a masterwork shield, and light armour, and potions
Say that (lmao) we're taking her along as a ziran, and it's a good chance for her to learn a proper womans role.

>Oodagh, a teenage orc who seems a it dim, but amiable for an orc and easy to push around; has a sheaf of primitive wooden spears for throwing and stabbing, and ranks in Spear-fighting and Crafting
>Kaghed, a slightly older orc with a twitchy demeanour, seasoned but sadistic; has a pair of butcher’s knives, and ranks in Knife-Fighting and Vigilance
Someone manipulable and someone we won't mind getting killed

>Dura, the novice potion-brewer, who speaks little and is rather shy; has ranks in Potioncraft and Herbalism, comes with a staff and herbs for making potions
In case someone important gets injured

Definitely no Mash, I don't want to endanger a kid and our whole party can do better at traversing tight spaces. So can the Delvers.

>>6168668
>Oodagh, a teenage orc who seems a it dim, but amiable for an orc and easy to push around; has a sheaf of primitive wooden spears for throwing and stabbing, and ranks in Spear-fighting and Crafting
More manpower

>Dura, the novice potion-brewer, who speaks little and is rather shy; has ranks in Potioncraft and Herbalism, comes with a staff and herbs for making potions
We already have dwarfs for small spaces. Another healer would be nice.

Am >>6168084

>>6168668

>Murbal, the shield-maiden and chief’s daughter, fiery and feisty and with something to prove, and more likely than most to take orders from a female; ranks in Shield-Bash, Linguistics, Athletics, Fisticuffs, and Intimidate, comes with a masterwork shield, and light armour, and potions

>Wudu, a cocky hothead who is easy to goad into action, but fancies himself a big man (hence getting laid out by Murbal just now); has ranks in Swordsmanship and Willpower, has a rusted sword
He'll get kept in check easily by Murbal

>Mash, one of the kids, small enough to get into smaller spaces and with a lot of youthful energy and an orc’s natural toughness; has Athletics, and can be more easily taught a skill to quickly level up

>>6168697
I’m back now

[Apologies, but I may be delayed in my update. My bud asked me to hang out tonight.]

>>6169220
enjoy it, qm

>>6169220
See ya.

File: three new dudes.png (2 KB, 402x91)

2 KB PNG

>>6169299
>>6169414
[Thanks, anons!]

>>6168802
>>6168767
>>6168698
>>6168697
[Locked and writing!]

>>6169918
You take on Dura, of course. You specifically called the chick here, and when entering a dungeon, a spare healer never goes amiss; for instance, to heal An-Yii if SHE geos down… or to heal the rets of you, fi An-Yii doesn’t get back up. Plus, some for the copper coinage you pass up to Xoldur (to pass to his pops, to pay off Dura’s family for the trouble) will surely help smooth over the crusty old orc-lady for your taking of her tent, and smooth THAT whole situation over.

Oodagh is a less obvious pick, maybe, but the more you observe him, the more it makes sense. You get the feeling the kid’s a little dim, watching as the other orcs push him around or prank him, distracting him or sending him on dumb, fake errands so they can steal his soup or just to mess with him. On the other hand, he rarely retaliates with the same level of violence any other orc male would, as if he doesn’t realize that he’s being had… And he always bounces back, even from the ‘pranks’ that seem relatively lethal. In other words: the perfect, oblivious meatshield.

And then there’s Murbal.

“Why?” Xoldur groans. “Chief show mercy, no beatings, no rapes, no work. Why you do this?”

“Come off it, Xol! You saw her lay out Wudu. Yer sis kicks ASS.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Get me kick too, from chief. I own you for chief, in charge you. You do this thing…”

You roll your eyes at the big lad, this ruggedly-handsome noble savage of an orc, now hangdog in despair because daddy’s going to be mad and he ahs to hang out with his little sister. Some things are just universal, huh?

(Not that you ever met your ‘dad’ such as she was… Or ever had a sister, until relatively recently… But you’ve seen the dynamic, alright?!)

“Don’t worry,” you reassure Xoldur. “I got this.”

Together, you and Xoldur—and Copperbelt, who seems somewhat fearful of losing his status as ‘official leader’, perhaps because of how orcs might treat a male subordinate to your tight pink posterior—return to see Chief Xorok once more, and to plead your case.

He’s, uh, not exactly jumping for joy at the idea.

Xoldur's Morale: Low
Orc Relations: Stable

“ Xoldur! Lat thrak suffer ve alnej, ve your kri-krisur! Lat koga kigiji!”

“Chief not happy,” Xoldur gloomily translates, as his father glowers down at him from his not-so-fancy fur-lined chair-of-office.

“Yeah, I got that,” you say.

>>6169934
The three of you kneel before the Xoldur's daddy to make your petition, and yet Xorok’s anger seems reserved for his son. You guess XOldur does ‘own’ you, and your actions. You're pretty sure the only reason he isn't kicking in his own son's teeth and making you lot into proper slaves or emergency rations is that you made such a good first impression, by pretending to respect him and his dumbass orc customs.

“We simply feel that Murbal shows great promise, and will be a valuable addition to our party,” Copperbelt reiterates.

“Maybe tell him we’re takin’ her to learn to be a ziran?” you suggest. “You know, learnin’ the proper womanly arts or whatever-the-fuck?”

Before Xoldur can even translate that, the chief laughs aloud, though without much humour, and says something else in Orc.

“Chief say Murbal never be ziran because…” Xoldur grimaces a little. “Because human blood make heart soft, make her silly. Give stupid idea, make her bad at listen, make her yell and fight.”

“If he has such disdain for the poor girl, I don’t understand why he cares what she does,” Copperbelt mutters.

Xoldur gives the dwarf a hard glare to rival dear old dad, which makes Copperbelt gulp.

“Woman not fight, woman be prisoner. Wife. Rape, but no kill. That is what woman for. Man who let woman fight is no man, bad man. Bad chief, bad father. Woman fight…”

(Woman fight, woman die.)

>>6169937
You may be borderline illiterate, but you can read between the lines. You see something of the paternal patriarch in Xorok’s unease, and in his dimly-glimmering little eyes. You don’t really get orc family dynamics entirely, but he must care for his daughter more than he lets on, to let her go about ‘embarrassing’ him with her aptitude for so-called ‘manly’ arts of war and her continued defiance.

But damnit, she’s a good fighter, and unlike that ‘Dugarod’ prick who sat out your recruitment session, she’s EAGER. She may defy her father, but she’s prepared to voluntarily follow YOU. You WANT her!

Chief Xorok’s arms are crossed in petulant refusal, though, his jaw set. He’ll need convincing, and you have barely any coin left to spare.

>Trade the three-headed chimera you captured—you’ve seen the rocs wondering at it, tied up near your tent, and even seen the chief ogling it from his doorway
>Try to seduce the chief… He obviously ahs an appetite for women, with all those wives of his, and you’re a LOTTA’ woman in little package
>Promise the chief the first pick of whatever you loot from the expedition—he wanted that ‘magic weapon’, right?
>Promise to aid his village against his enemies in the future, if he does this for you
>Challenge his authority—you’re taking Murbal, and that’s fucking final, and you DARE him to try and stop you!
>This old bastard must have some kind of chink in his armour of assholery… And you think you know hat it is! [Write-in an argument, approach, or angle of inquiry that you think will soften or defeat the chief’s stubbornness, or make him second-guess his opinion or Murbal]
>Fuck it—pretend to give up, then just sneak her out when you leave

>>6169939

>Trade the three-headed chimera you captured—you’ve seen the rocs wondering at it, tied up near your tent, and even seen the chief ogling it from his doorway
I also think we should, eventually, kill all the orcs and betray them before they betray us

>>6169939
>Promise the chief the first pick of whatever you loot from the expedition—he wanted that ‘magic weapon’, right?
the Chimera will be worth more with someone that knows of it's potential

>>6169939
>>Promise the chief the first pick of whatever you loot from the expedition—he wanted that ‘magic weapon’, right?

>>6169939
>Promise the chief the first pick of whatever you loot from the expedition—he wanted that ‘magic weapon’, right?
I don’t like giving away the rare serpent thing. Not right now.

>>6170096

am >>6168767

>>6169939
>Promise the chief the first pick of whatever you loot from the expedition—he wanted that ‘magic weapon’, right?

>>6170011
>>6170020
>>6170065
>>6170096

You briefly consider trading away the three-headed chimera which Cara-Zi captured in the foothills of the Bloodrise mountain range, a quarter-continent away from the Steelwood. You’ve seen the orcs wondering at it, tied up near your tent, and even seen the chief ogling it from his doorway. To them, it must be an especially exotic thing, and with their fetish for skulls in home décor, three heads must make it especially enticing. You decide against it, though—NOT because you’ve gotten so soft as to care about some dumb animal, but because you know the chimera will be worth more to someone who knows its full potential.

Besides, you already know what the chief REALLY wants.

“Tell him if he loans us yer sister, he can have first pick of the loot, when we’re done in the dungeon.”

“Zena!” Copperbelt gasps. “I really must object to this—”

“Tell ‘im already, Xoldur!”

Xoldur snorts, offended at your snappy tone, which you force yourself to moderate. Copperbelt continues to sputter, and his face reddens when the orc chieftain laughs at his being overridden by a woman. Xoldur and Xorok confer briefly after that, a rapid back-and-forth you cannot follow, and the chief, frowns and rubs the fur of his armrest as if to divine some answer from the old animal-skin. A conflicted look passes cross his face, and he doesn’t answer right away. He doesn’t need to, though: even without CZ’s empathic sense, you know recognize the greed born of desperation. A ‘magic weapon’ of some sort could prove vital in reversing this floundering tribe’s fortunes against their foes.

“…Which is exactly why we should not—CANnot—give over any such thing, if indeed we even FIND any such thing as a ‘magical weapon’, to these barbarians!” Copperbelt says in harsh whisper , once you are once more out-of-doors, and given brief reprieve from XOldur’s supervision while he fetches his sister.

“Who says we will?” you counter with a quirk of your lips and an arch of your eyebrow.

Copperbelt opens his mouth, then shuts it. He adjusts his glases, and his body language shifts.

“A double-cross?”

You shrug, not answering. You haven’t necessarily decided on how that’ll all play out. The best case scenario is you just don’t find anything the Steelwood Orcs and the Delvers are prepared to come to blows over, and you can fork over some magical knickknack upon egress. If not, though… Well, it’s not like you’ve got any love lost with these orcs. And okay, sure, they’re not mindless monsters, but they’re still abusive assholes! Just because someone loves their family, it doesn’t make them suddenly blameless, and orcs aren’t known for their honourable bargains. If they’re desperate, it just means they’re more dangerous.

You should know. You grew up a goblin.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, aight?”

…

File: the party.png (15 KB, 1733x172)

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>>6170161
Murbal joins the party!

You have 9 points left

>>6170154
Ooop, just finished writing. You got the result you wanted, though!

>>6170162
…

You have mixed feelings about the Steelwood Orcs. In the few days since you met them, you’ve been threatened, menaced, pushed around, separated from your friends, and technically enslaved. You’ve also been given some cozy sleeping arrangements, this nice tea, and lots of surprisingly-good food; the orcs make surprisingly-good use of their local milieu and its limited ingredients, favoured the spicy and the savory. Today, the ‘zee-ran’ who ZZ hired even brought you an omelette of sorts scrambled with twiggy like sprigs of spicy dried vegetables and with a side of berries.

She mumbles something, pawing at her ribbon-festooned hair and looking a way from you. You laugh nervously, unable to understand, but Murbal—the big tall half-orc chick with the shield and the half-shave and the big bazongas—came to your rescue.

“Egg for make baby,” she scoffed. “Good for woman. Herbs for…”

Murbal scratches her nose, flicking at the bone stabbed through her septum and grimacing.

“Demon-thing? Make safe, from curse. Me no know word. Dumb.”

“Just ‘cause you don’t know a word, doesn’t make you dumb!” you tell the woman-warrior, trying to be friendly with the newest member of the party.

“Not me,” Murbal clarifies, without humour. “Language. Ziran stuff. Dumb. Want make safe from demon? Just hit it until stop move. THAT smart, brave. What WARRIOR do.”

Murbal spits in disdain. You nod, and pretend to understand, and enjoy your fertility-and-demon omelette. The ‘ziran’, Dura, watches you with curious expression; you can sense it, even as she looks away whenever you look up from your repast.

You return to your ruminations as you break your fast. The reason for your ambiguous emotions about these orcs isn’t how you’ve been treated—good and bad—but the press of their PASSIONS. You are…

<WANT: 17>

…a LIIITTLE on-edge, and all this talk of murder and rape—so disturbing to the Delvers and exasperating to Zith-Zi—has the opposite effect on you. So to the frequency with which orcs fall into argument, and escalate argument to full-on fistfight. You don’t WANT to have a fetish for such aggression, really! But, well… You’re a demogoblin, or cambion, or whatever-the-fuck. It’s, like, in your NATURE.

It's a nature that, in some ways, is maybe more suited to life among the likes of orcs than among 'decent' folks.

>>6170163
You try to really savor your eggs-and-herbs, to make them last. Maybe the herbs can protect you from yourself?

The eggs can’t last forever, though. And when they’re gone…

>You go thank the chef, this ‘Dura the Ziran’, and ask about those herbs… Why did she feel the need to give you anti-demon or anti-curse ingredients, anyway?
>You go visit that Oodagh guy, who is calmly whittling and seems uniquely immune to the passionate atmosphere
>Chat with Murbal—she seems cool, and ZZ’s really keen on her, and best of all she speaks Common
>It’s been a bit since you’ve had any time alone with Martyn… Maybe you’ll sneak over to the man-tent and go on a stroll with him?
>Write-in

>>6170164
>You go thank the chef, this ‘Dura the Ziran’, and ask about those herbs… Why did she feel the need to give you anti-demon or anti-curse ingredients, anyway?

>>6170164
>>Chat with Murbal—she seems cool, and ZZ’s really keen on her, and best of all she speaks Common

>>6170164
>You go thank the chef, this ‘Dura the Ziran’, and ask about those herbs… Why did she feel the need to give you anti-demon or anti-curse ingredients, anyway?
>Chat with Murbal—she seems cool, and ZZ’s really keen on her, and best of all she speaks Common
How much does she know about medicine. What can she do?

>>6170164
>You go thank the chef, this ‘Dura the Ziran’, and ask about those herbs… Why did she feel the need to give you anti-demon or anti-curse ingredients, anyway?
Does she know

>>6170163
>[...]all this talk of murder and rape—so disturbing to the Delvers and exasperating to Zith-Zi—has the opposite effect on you. So to the frequency with which orcs fall into argument, and escalate argument to full-on fistfight. You don’t WANT to have a fetish for such aggression, really! But, well… You’re a demogoblin, or cambion, or whatever-the-fuck. It’s, like, in your NATURE.
she'd love to know rance
>>6170164
>You go thank the chef, this ‘Dura the Ziran’, and ask about those herbs… Why did she feel the need to give you anti-demon or anti-curse ingredients, anyway?
maybe she sensed something on us.

>>6170191
>>6170196
>>6170205
>>6170338
>>6170357
[Locked and writing!]
AI art generators are really bad at producing orc women, btw

>>6170377
Kinda surprised considering I’ve seen futafags do a lot of them.

>>6170377
Talking to Dura is sort of a must. You need to know what she knows—if anything—about your ‘condition’. However since the orc-girl doesn’t speak common, you’ll need a translator.

“Wanna tag along?” you ask hopefully.

Murbal seems confused by the request, demanding: “Is order?”

“…Uh, I don’t know if, like… I CAN order you?”

“Not know,” Murbal agrees. “Chief say me go do what Bald Dwarf say do. Bald Dwarf say do what Pink say. No say you say, I do.”

You start to lose your nerve, wondering if having such an orc along with you will even help, after all. Her Common is worse than Xoldur’s, even if it’s better than your Orc. But I she’s going to be uncooperative…

“We go,” Murbal decides for you.

“O-oh yeah?”

Murbal nods, and declares: “Bored. This not bore.”

The two of you find Dura in short order. She ahs returned to one of several communal fires, which the orcs keep stoked and burning at a low smoke much of the day for food preparation and garbage disposal (though generally not at the same time, on the same flame). You’re a little unclear on what a ‘ziran’ is or does, but it seems for the junior-most members of the profession, it includes being a communal cook.

“No.”

“No?” you ask Murbal.

She shakes her head, and explains: “Woman cook. Slave woman first, then daughter, then younger sister, then wife in order how old. Dura young woman, Dura cook.”

“So, like… If you were the youngest orc woman in the party…”

You stop yourself when you see the death-glare of the warrior-woman fixed upon you.

“Murbal no cook,” states Murbal.

“Right,” you mutter. “Murbal translate?”

“Mm,” she agrees, and both of you turn to Dura, who has stopped stirring her shallow dish and taken it off the fire, but hasn’t addressed either of you. Well, that leaves it up to you, you guess.

“Hey!” you greet her. “My name’s Cara. I… Think you maybe already know that?”

Dura shrugs, as if she may or may not have, but didn’t consider it terribly relevant until now.

“Thanks for the omelette.”

“Omelette?” queries Murbal.

“The, uh… You know. Eggs ‘n shit.”

“Oooh. Vo. For womb, make baby. You plan make baby?”

Your eyes widen a little at the question. You’re not allowed to do that, and have no plans to do so… And, uh, you’re not entirely sure you have a womb. You swiftly move on from eggs, to herbs.

“Murbal tells me you gave me herbs to protect me from, like, demons ‘n curses ‘n shit…” You wait while Murbal translates it, and register the first direct eye contact from Dura at that, and an expression of keen interest. “Whyzat? You, uh… You know somethin’ I should know?”

File: snu snu.png (167 KB, 400x399)

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>>6170436
Dura looks to Murbal, to you, and back to Murbal. Murbal raises a hand as if to smack her, and you are briefly alarmed, but Dura flinches and rapidly gargles a string of Orc syllables. Murbal then registers her own alarm, and looks to you as well.

“What? You demand, with growing concern. “What is it??”

“She says, ‘you not know you curse?’” Murbal pauses. “You curse, sma dyr?”

“I’m… No! I’m not!”

(Well…)

“I’m not,” you repeat, more firmly, but then scrutinize Dura’s features, causing her to avert her eyes. “What makes ya’ think I am?”

Through Murbal, Dura explains: “Just little []ziran, but have ziran eyes, see jigi. Magic.”

You regard Dura anew with your own jiggy-eyes (or whatever), and see the richness of her soul’s aura, relative to other orcs’. There’s a depth and complexity of field there that you’re sued to seeing in magic-users. A half-remembered lecture from Tips comes back to you.

“Yer a hedge-witch, Dura!”

Murbal looks confused again. “What bushes have do with jigi?”

“Ya’ know, I don’t know<” you admit. “I think it means a mage that ain’t trained in a tower, so they gotta’ go learn how to throw fireballs inna’ woods or somethin’?”

Dura shakes her head rapidly after Murbal stumbles through your explanation in her own tongue, and relays back:

“No fire from hand, no curses or blessings. Just make medicine, identify plant, cook.”

“And do the jiggy-eyed help with findin’ the plants, ‘n makin’ the medicine?” you inquire.

Dura nods sheepishly, and murmrus: “Ziran auga zee enoza, zee mubullat.”

You think you get the gist of that without translation, from context, so you ask: “And the herbs are gonna help somehow?”

“Many plan good medicine. Stop bad, make strong to fight bad, fight curse.” Murbal reaches to her belt and taps one of the tied-off leather skins there, which indents and makes a faint sloshing sound. “Ziran make. Make good.”

Dura nods at that, seemingly understanding that much. It’s clear, however, that’s Dura doesn’t understand YOU—what you are—other than to see the dark magic clinging to you. She doesn’t realize it IS you, that you ARE the danger.

“Ain’t no curing this,” you lament, but then you pause. “Though, ya’ know… I do feel less hangry an’ less…”

You cough, stopping short, but to your shock, Murbal finishes for you.

“Make less snu-snu, huh?”

When you don’t immediately get it, she clarifies with a series of pelvic thrusts and a series of rather authentic-sounding moans which attract male attention from around the camp, and make your own ‘maleness’ stir.

“Y-yeah, kinda’ less horny, yeah,” you say, mentally appending ‘Until you did that.’

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>>6170437
Neither orc-girl knows the words in Common for the plant, but together they guide you a short distance from the camp to a bushy plant with long, spike-like of pink, purple, and white flowers, and Dura shows you how she extracts small, black berrylike fruits from pods which hang belong those whose flowers have withered. She crushes some between her fingers and—lewd—holds them up for you to sniff. It smells a little like breakfast.

“How’d you know ‘bout that, though?” you ask Murbal. “You were pretty series about not being a cook?”

“When first blood come, chief give me often,” Murbal say. “Put in food, try stop me snu.”

“And it really works?”

Murbal grins at that, and with some pride says: “TRY stop me snu.”

(Oh…)

The orc-warrior grimaces a little and adds: “Fight, break nose man, cut off ball for punish, that do good. Give medicine remove baby.”

(…Oh)

“I’m… Sorry?”

“Would have take medicine remove baby on own, Murbal,” she explains with a growl of frustration. “No want baby. But snu-snu… No more then. No man is good man enough fight chief.”

“Yeah… No snu-snu sucks,” you agree. "Or, heh, doesn't suck?"

Dura’s grey cheeks are crimson, her eyes fixed upon anything but the two of you. She’s not that young, really—at least a teenager, maybe a young adult—but even this half-understood discussion of [i[snu-snu clearly scandalizes her. Or maybe it’s talking about defying and fighting her chieftain? Orcs seem to take that sort of shit pretty seriously, you’ve noticed… Well, except Murbal.

Do you have any other general questions for Dura, or for Murbal? Please choose two or fewer
>About the chief
>About what it's like to be an orc woman
>About the human women in the camp
>About orcish magic and demonism
>About the camp's males
>About the orc's enemies
>About something else [write-in]
>No

Will you get up to anything else with either of them? Please choose only one for now
>Offer to help teach Dura some ‘jiggy’ magic of your own, if she’ll teach you more about herbs [chance to gain a skill and impart a ill to Dura]
>Suggest some sparring with Murbal, to take the edge off in lieu of ‘snoo’ [may lower WANT slightly; possibility of frenzy]
>Actually… You know, if Murbal wants to, uh, ‘snoo’ it… [Aggressive flirtation, possibility of sex or of conflict depending on roll; specify if you use <Charm> or not; could majorly lower WANT]
>Write-in
>Nah, you’re good [skips back to ZZs perspective]

>>6170415
[If you ever learn what model or method they're using, and if it can make anything besides porn, let me know!]

>>6170439
>About something else [write-in]
I thought at first herbs were to fight the "a gob is a gob is a gob" curse. That would be a good subject of discussion : is it a curse or a strength?
>About the orc's enemies


>Offer to help teach Dura some ‘jiggy’ magic of your own, if she’ll teach you more about herbs [chance to gain a skill and impart a ill to Dura]
Wait for us being out of Nose-breaking range before snooing Murbal.

>>6170439
>About the orc's enemies
>Offer to help teach Dura some ‘jiggy’ magic of your own, if she’ll teach you more about herbs [chance to gain a skill and impart a ill to Dura]
… a ill? I presume you mean a skill?

I’d rather not spare with the frenzy potential and we’re definitely not fucking a child into her of all people.

>>6170439
>>6170658
>ill
[Yeah, should read]
*impart a skill
[Typo correct doesn't always come through.]

>>6170439
>About the chief
>About orcish magic and demonism

>Offer to help teach Dura some ‘jiggy’ magic of your own, if she’ll teach you more about herbs [chance to gain a skill and impart a ill to Dura]
are you talking about a dst or...
>>6170659
oh, ok

>>6170443
>>6170658
>>6170715
As the three of you trek abck from picking some of this anti-snu-snu plant, you have a thought, which you very nearly give voice to:

“Ya’ know, instead of that ‘curse’ I kinda’ thought you mighta’ meant…”

Both orcs look to you expectantly, but you recall your false face, and do not finish the sentence: ‘I kind of thought you meant because I was a goblin, not a demon.’ Instead, you think fast, and say:

“I thought maybe you were worried ‘cause I hang out in a tent with gobs? You know, ‘cause they’re ‘salmon deer’?”

Both orcs cringe, and Murbal corrects you: “Samund dyr”

“Yeah, that,” you say with a nervous chuckle.

Dura brushes her hair away from her face, scrutinizing you anew with her underdeveloped second-sight, while Murbal addresses you roe directly, and with grave concern:

“You have snu with samund dyr?!”

“Wh-what? Uh, no, I… Well, okay, there was a couple close calls, back at… No, I didn’t. Ever.”

(Unfortunately)

Murbal pats you on the head so hard it nearly knocks you to the ground, and Dura breathes a sigh of relief.

“Good,” Murbal says. “Filthy.”

“But WHY ‘good’?” you can’t help but ask. “Bein’ a goblin ain’t, like, contagious or nothin’…”

“Is,” Murbal says gravely, and Dura nods slightly.

“H-huh?”

It takes some work, with the language barrier, but in stops and starts the pair are able to explain in greater depth the ideology of the orcs, and why their animosity for goblinkind runs so deep.

“Worst crime orc do, kill kin,” as Murbal explains it, her bravado wavering slightly. “Father make weak bay, shame. No kill. Maybe baby die, because weak, sick. That good. But must not kill.”

“Mother, too,” she adds, after Dura murmurs something.

The root of that seems to be that orcs regard their entire living bloodline as an extension of the father, as a ‘part’ of him in some literal sense. If an orc daddy makes goblins, he is polluted, poisoned. And for women….

“Mother, most,” Murbal concludes.

…Well, you don’t’ understand the science of it or even if they’re just dumb and wrong, maybe, but according to Murbal and Dura, an orc impregnated by a goblin will CONTINUE to bear goblin offspring, even if she is subsequently impregnated by an orc, as if her womb has been infected

“Even take potion to make no baby, still, next time baby come out, goblin.”

“And you, uh… Can’t cure that?”

“Tried,” Murbal explains. “Old times, tried. Orcs come out green, wrong. Sometimes still make goblin. Eventually, all goblin.”

Dura shivers, and adds: “ Zajar ve drepa, zajar ve mikog.”

“Fire kill, fire cure,” Murbal translates, conveying the genocidal remedy the orcs prescribe such degenerated bloodlines.

>>6170914
This is all rather alien from the pragmatic society of New Goblintown, where An-Yii performed abortions and other such grim tasks for the sake of population control, let alone the broadly-accepting commune into which you were ‘reborn’ as Carazzi, among Tips’ community on Old Maple Hill, outside Hawksong. But then again… Both those communities shared in common a concern about goblin overpopulation. It’s an unsettling common thread, and it begins to make you wonder if you aren’t just cursed in some fashion, but DOUBLY so.

“So what about humans, an’ elves, an’ dwarves n’ all them?”

If the orc-girls notice your hasty change of subject, they say nothing about it. Instead, they discuss the matters between themselves, with Murbal seemingly dominating that conversation and relaying their—mostly HER—pinions in Common.

“Dwarf small, but tough. Good to fight, but frustrate, have to bend down to chop head. That what chief and other kuu bur say. Murbal not fight one… Yet.”

She grins at that, but you can’t help but snort at the idea of any of the Delvers trying to fight Murbal… Well, okay, maybe Steiner Sternstone.

“Elf is weak, scared. Runs like deer. Shoot arrow, stay far away. Not come when called. Return later, use magic, kill orc with magic tricks, zut jigi. Coward!”

“Heh, yeah, they like their magic ‘n shit,” you agree, with a happy sigh as you remember Tips—only half-elven, and probably too weak to draw a bowstring, but great with magic (and cute).

“Humans worst,” Murbal concludes then, with surprising venom.

“Huh? But ain’t you half—”

>>6170915
You sense you’ve tread dangerous ground again, and so you just gesture vaguely at Murbal as she stops short and hunches forward, bearing her sharp teeth at you.

“Murbal orc! Father chief!”

Dura takes a step back, as Murbal howls like a wolf and swings her shield at a nearby tree, embedding its sharpened edge into the trunk and pulling it out in a small shower of splinters.

“Orc warrior! Good as any! NO human! NO Sma faushnu lavgru-mal!”

“Uh…” You look to Dura, who pantomimes cradling a small child, and after a moment , gestures to her breasts.

(Not… A baby-woman? A girl?)

Still… “But what about yer ma?”

Murbal growls, though the growl breaks as she sets eyes upon her reflection in her shield.

“Humans kill mother,” she says bluntly. “For be orc, chief wife.”

(…Oh.)

The rest of the journey back to the orcish camp is quiet, dictated by Murbal’s powerful mood. She doesn’t say goodbye as she stalks off, looking as if she’s spoiling for another fight. You decide it’s best to let her clear her head-the powerful emotions roiling off of her were bound to make you do something stupid, if you stayed too close right now. Instead, having made a bit of progress at the orcish language, you offer to spend some more time with quiet Dura.

“Aga alnej doram lat jigi? Mir jigi, olk zut!”

Dura stares at you, startled, and then confused. She gestures for you to repeat yourself, and you try again, and in Common just in case: “I could teach you some good magic! You know, jiggy? An’ you could teach me ‘bout plants ‘n shit, maybe?”

The orc ziran-in-training only seems to half-understand you, which will make the lesson difficult… But she’s excited. You can see that much, and it’s rather infectious (and not just because she’s kind of cute, though it doesn’t hurt). She takes your hand and pulls you along to another area of the camp where many other orc women and girls congregate, and pulls you into a small tent with a plume of smoke rising from a hole at its peak; inside, another fire burns, with a curious purplish hue, and the air is thick with incense,, and the walls are covered in tied-on springs of various herbs, collections of small bones, and what appear to be preserved animal organs.

Dura still isn’t able to hold eye-contact for long—which you kind of get—but you see her smiling behind her long and shaggy hair as she takes up each item in turn, mumbling something to you in orc. You catch relatively little of it, and yet…

Choose one to learn:
>Linguistics 2 [gain fluency in Orc]
>Herbalism 1 [stacks with Survival]
>Potioncraft 1 [stacks with Occultism]
>Diplomacy 1 [augments Charm and Fear effects, Shapeshifted disguises]

Choose one to try to impart:
>Occultism [60% chance]
>Mentalism [40% chance]
>Shapeshifting [20% chance]

Do you flirt with Dura?
>Yes, a little
>Yes, a lot [possibility to reduce WANT, risk of frenzy]
>No

>>6170922
>Diplomacy 1 [augments Charm and Fear effects, Shapeshifted disguises]

>Mentalism [40% chance]

>No