Warned to sheath his weapon, the Dwarf seems still high from the battles recent, and for a second contemplates his person and the surroundings with a expression of concern, as if judging the security to disarming that which has likely aided his recent encounter toward victory. Satisfied with the situation, he jams the hilt of the chosen weapon of the Stout Race into his belt, and, with eyes squinting, carefully reads the sign posted of rules that inhibit entry. With another bellow of satisfaction escaping his lips, the Dwarf hefts the burlap sack into a better position on the opposite shoulder, and seems confident that what he carries has not been outlawed when seeking entry.
"I be makin' sure it dunna drip te bad..." he says to the drawbridge guard, moving past then into the courtyard proper. The Dwarf, a Stonesinger known among his kith and kin, makes direct march to the wagons stationed at the of the walled inns courtyard, where, greeting another Stout of which the Stonesinger appears on known terms, unloads his burlap'd bounty to be held in good security with the Dwarf Merchant. A few words more are shared between the two, and if not knowing the Dwarven tongue they speak in, it is surmised by the gesticulations that the Dwarf Merchant is berating the Stonesinger on the condition of his fouled beard, and ending the teasing, with a sharp point upward toward the looming inn proper. The Stonesinger, now seemingly aware of his condition of hygiene—or not-hygiene—does acquiesce to the command by the merchant, with a mixed expression of embarrassment and pride. "Rorn sargh!" says the Stonesinger, with exclamation, as explanation.
Entering the inn proper, the Stonesinger is prepared with a pouch full of coin, to arrest any complaints the proprietor or his staff may have when first witnessing a blood-caked, gut-stench, after-battle Stout enters the establishment where he may or may not disturb those also within. "A room, a bath...nay, two baths fer dis muck be Orc an de stick of it be like a sleeping against giant slug!" calls out the Stonesinger, and is determined and led toward an area of privacy in which the recent past will be removed from person...but not from mind.
Hours later, and into the late evening, when the inn floor occupancy has lessened, the Stonesinger is at a large table, now clean, both body and armor returned to the normal smell and sheen that is common hygiene of Stout Race. The nearby fire crackles and sheds flickering warmth and light throughout the hall. The Stonesinger, being the one called Simsae, makes good use of the large table upon which, besides the large ale he contemplates from time to time on its quantity before downing it and calling the wait staff for another, lays his eyes carefully upon a crudely drawn and oddly large map—any passersby his table would easily notice and perhaps in-mind comment that the both map and its depictions of paths, hills and forest seem drawn by a hand of giant size, far larger than any Man, Dwarf, Elf and absolutely not a Haflling or a Gnome. Though oversized and perhaps childish in its drawn depictions, the map seems rather well scaled and has seen some use in its certainty to lead to a destination marked upon it.
After each ale delivered and drunk, Simsae the Stonesinger lets a solid "Hrmf" escape his lips, as he views the map, looks up and away in remembrance of a thing or a moment in the past, then back to the map, with more consideration heavy upon a furled brow.
Simsae murmurs at the table: "What be an ogre and an orc doin' down there...and what be the need of an Orc Chieftan wantin' "pure blood"...ye canna get a more pure foulness than already is wit bein' an aberration from de start!" Simsae seems about to spit onto the floor as a result of his thoughts manifesting in spoken words...but, looking around to where he is and catching himself, pauses, then just swallows it without a flinch.
"Now de be sendin' in meetin's of clans come hither and thither...and if it ain't just de right thing te do, it be in the callin' of me own clan, to end this quick as I can sharpin' me blade." But then, after pumping air into his outlook of a decision based on the map before him, Simsae pauses.
"Aye...the truth of it bein' my almost lost me own hide, down there. Dey were sure as diamonds sparkle tryin' to get a bite out of me, wit dey dark magics and big clubs. I be surprisin' dem, aye, twas te me advantage and were I be lesser a Stout, I'd be surely roastin' over a cavern pit fire, salted and skinned fer her swine-blood pleasure I would be!" Anger, like a building frenzy flashes over the face of Simsae.
"But tis not de time fer foolishness in bravery when I be knowin' not a thing from the size o' dis orc clan still lingerin' out there, nay, here, as they be on this map. Nay, tis not a smart thing thinkin' every time be have in axe in hand, and the song of my people in me heart, dat I will live to tell de tale to the young o' my kind." Simsae strokes his now well combed beard, giving it a bit of a tug towards the end, as if a little pull every now and again, will get it longer, sooner.
"Aye...I be needin' help."
By the next morning, in the courtyard of the Friendly Arm Inn, is stuck a parchment with the following written by a much finer hand—assuming not one by a Stout:
A Dwarf of the Kingdom of Kraak Helzak seeks four adventurers willing to raid an orc clan of unknown size and power, for the safety of all. Spoils shared by all that survive.
Half-orcs need not apply...because bad blood is forever bad blood.
Simsae the Stonesinger is to be found within the inn proper.
Half-orcs need not apply...because bad blood is forever bad blood.
Simsae the Stonesinger is to be found within the inn proper.
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