The adventurers gathered at the – very low – bar and ordered their beers. Maelarra ordered a Cat's Pee, mostly for the dare. The barkeep poured them from the tap, leaving the tavern's customary foamy head. He even contrived to make little shapes and patterns in the topic: a dragon's wing, a horseshoe, a star, a crown, a coin for Maelarra. 'Sorry, sir, we only have local Vast brews, but we do have some Roldilar-style liqueurs.' he said to Tseran. He looked up at those who were clearly not his usual clientele. 'So, how can I help you?'

Aerin nodded a thanks to the barkeep and took a long zip from the glass, nearly emptying it. With a big smile on her face she tried to find a suitable position to lean on the bar, unsuccessfully, and just looked awkward. "So, what do we do with the evening?" she asked nobody in particular.

Maelarra sipped her Cat's Pee, then pulled a face as if it was rather too true to its name. 'Too much lemon, I think.' she mused, swirling the golden beer around. She tilted her head toward Aerin and the others, 'Would you like to ask about Dorn, or shall I?'

The dragonblooded warrior-witch grimaced, showing frightfully sharp teeth and shook her head no, she would not leave that to the gold-priestess. Downing the rest of the amber liquid down her throat she wiped the foam away before turning back to the barkeeper. "Good man, tell me: Have you seen my drinking-buddy Dorn lately? - It's been a while since I heard of him." she asked the man casually.

 "Roldilarren pepper liqueur? That will do nicely." Tseran replies, sliding over the requisite number of small coins and receiving his glass in return, sipping from the fiery dwarven spirit with every evidence of actually enjoying the throat-searing burn as he turns to listen to the developing conversation between barman and warrior-woman.

'Dorn? It's a very common dwarven name, you'll have be more specific.' the barman said.

'Crownshield.' Maelarra supplied.

The name prompted recognition in the dwarf barman. 'Oh, aye, he was a regular here. He was last here, oh, several days back. He was boasting about taking his "younglings" on their "first real adventure". I expect they're still on it.'

"Yes, right! - His younglings! - I remember him boasting about them." Aerin said like she remembered only now. "Did he mention where this 'first real adventure' is taking place?" she added "I wonder if they might be needing a hand." the dragonkin asked, curiously.

'No, he was keeping the details under his beard, as you adventurers do.' the barman replied, but called out 'Oi, Gwendar! Did Dorn Crownshield tell you much about where he was going?'

Gwendar was a dwarf seated at a nearby table, this one a grizzled mercenary in armour and livery of House Mintharl. He looked up from his liqueur and thought on his answer. 'Nay, but he did let slip how pleased he was ta be going inta the mountains again. Fair few o' them 'round here though. Fair few orcs too. But ol' Dorn's a renowned orc slayer, he's tha fellow ye want with ye in the mountains o' the Vast.' He went to sip his liqueur, and added as an afterthought. 'Funny thing: he was so excited, like he was onta somethin' very big.'
This message had punctuation tweaked by the GM at 12:10, Wed 07 Nov 2018.

 "Mmmm, didn't one of the youngsters say something about a vacant hill..? No, no... an empty mountain?" Tseran asks, looking up from his glass and chipping in helpfully in an effort to jog the conversation towards the matter of the runes that were added to the mysterious original map to create the forgery they found evidence of in the office they politely burgled earlier.

Gwendar glanced at Tseran in surprise. 'What? An empty mountain?' he repeated, then made a shrug. 'Eh, youngsters say a lot o' daft things. Ye can't have a hollow mountain. It would fall in on itself.'

"Maybe not a hollow mountain," Aerin mused, "Maybe more like a big cave or a mine?" the dragonkin said, wondering "didn't the dwarves specialize dwelling in mountains?"

 "Mmmm, 'Forak Morndin' I think? My Dwarven is rudimentary at best, but I seem to recall that was the phrase. It had the ring of a name to it though, rather than a description." Tseran allows, sipping once more from his cup and letting the searing pepper-spices burn down his throat with evident delight.

OOC: Sorry for the wait, got swamped.

And Tseran could be sure of his translation: the Dethek runes had the horizontal accents that indicated capitalisation, rendering it a proper noun and not merely a description.

Gwender was silent for a while in contemplation of his liqueur, until he finally drained it in one swig. He needed the drink. 'Aye, ye might be right.' he agreed vaguely. By now, they had the ears of half the dwarfs in the tavern. 'Put ta a mountain, forak means "hollow". So, like a big cavern or maybe a lot o' tunnels or chambers inside. But 'tis a very old and sad name...' he trailed off glumly, and all the dwarves drank in unison.

'Sorry, ye say one o' the human younglings called it that dwarven name? Ye're sure it was the Forak Morndin?' he asked worriedly.

Aerin noticed the change in the air of the tavern, from light-hearted drinking to quite a somber mood. Quietly she waited for Tseran to elaborate.

 "So I thought... I confess I was paying more attention to a document at the time, but it has the ring of things. Is the name familiar perhaps?" Tseran asks, in a statement that is both entirely accurate and entirely deceptive, thus neatly permitting him to retain his philosophical dedication to uncovering the truth without plunging too deeply into arrant hypocrisy, unwilling to go further than his earlier combination of speculation about what one of the youngsters might well have said after seeing the map.

'The Hollow Mountain...' Gwendar began, but found his mouth dry and so called for another drink, which he drained before the telling. 'Seven centuries back, all the Vast, from mountain range ta mountain range, was the domain o' Roldilar, the Realm o' Glimmering Swords.' Dwarves all around the tavern raised tankards in toast to its memory. 'The Hollow Mountain was its seat o' power, under which Deep King Tuir Stonebeard placed his throne and held court. For a brief but shining time, Roldilar was the last great dwarf realm on the surface, trading far and wide 'round the Inner Sea and growing fat with gold. Ye'll find its stones all 'round this land still, from the milestones on the roads with the crossed axes of Clangeddin to the foundations o' cities like this one.' He stamped a booted foot into the flagstone floor to indicate.

'But before that... Before that, it was Mount Grimmerfang, a bloody warren from which the Overkings o' the orcs of Vastar reigned, before the dwarves brought them low with orcslayer blades. In his desire to wipe out the memory o' the orcs, Tuir Stonebeard took their mountain of power for himself. In his pride, he did not think the orcs would remember their secret ways back in.'

'In less time than a dwarf babe would grow ta a man, the orcs were strong again and erupted from their hidden holes across the land. Roldilarren dwarves retreated ta their holds, ta Sarbreen, ta Ylraphon, and finally ta the Hollow Mountain. Then the orcs came up from below. For two tendays, they fought the Battle of Deepfires back and forth through the underground passages, until at last... Roldilar had fallen.'

'Nowadays, ye'll not find the Hollow Mountain marked on any map. And there're precious few dwarf elders still alive, if there're any, who saw it with young eyes during the time o' Roldilar or could say where it stands. And in their grief and shame, they won't tell anyone about it, not humans, not elves, and not even young dwarf fellas like us.' Gwendar ended, shaking his head.

Now he looked up at Aerin and Tseran, eyes full of grim foreboding. 'If ol' Dorn finds the Hollow Mountain, if he finds the glories of Roldilar, he'd be renowned as a great dwarf hero. It would bring vigour to struggling dwarf cities like Earthfast. But I fear that, like the dwarves of Roldilar long ago, he'll find only death there.'
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:32, Tue 20 Nov 2018.

"Dreck!" the dragonkin exclaimed "And if Dorn took the younglings they share his fate." she added with a pained expression. "Their parents won't take that lightly and I presume they will project their anger and grief onto every dwarf in this city."

She turned to face the storyteller "You must take us to one of the elders, we need to go to the Hollow Mountain and save them." Aerin said gravely.

Gwendar was almost surprised. 'Eh? There be no dwarf o' that age in this stinking city; we're all young'uns here. Ye'd have to go inta the high mountains ta find one o' the hidden holds ta have a hope o' finding one who could help ye. Clan Ludwakazar are hard enough ta find at the best o' times.' he muttered. 'And I told ye none have spoken of the spot in seven centuries. Ye'd be better off spending the time finding the Hollow Mountain yourself.'

He tried to be confident and downplay the fear, trying to believe it himself. 'Look, I don't think ol' Dorn would take human young'uns inta the Hollow Mountain. Whatever lurks there now, it's an expedition for dwarves, a lot o' armed dwarves, but only dwarves. No, Dorn's a stout, sensible dwarf. At best, he'd only scout out the land around, confirm what he had, before making any big fuss.'

"Well, even if he only intended to scout the area, he might have stirred up the orcs inhabiting the hollow mountain now." Aerin offered as alternative. "Either way, we need to get moving." the dragonkin said to her companions. "If we're lucky we run into the same orks." she added, looking forward to tearing some orcs apart.

Slove thinks for a while.

I am not totally sure of all the spells that have been used on the scar.
For a large part of the time I was out of my head with pain.
I know that most basic healing spells, Restoration, Remove Paralysis, Dispel Magic, Remove cure have been used.  A few detect spell as well.  They result in what I can only call one big and hellish mind trip for the caster. Alix in nightmare land was what one of my elven kin called her experience.  As for elf that casts a limited wish.  Seems he got his deep down wish.  He became a book of elven poetry.  I was told by the head bard it was very bad poetry at that.
Your idea may have some meaning.  Usually the spell is rebounded back on the caster in reverse way.  I always suffer when that happened.  This can knock me out or reduce me to my knees for anything from few minutes to many days or even weeks.  These effects only happen when the wound itself it targeted.  Most normal spells and healing work fine.  However arcane magic cast on me can have additional side effects.  Most often teleporting me some distance.  It is rare but I had the teleport effect happen when arcane caster was next to me and I was not the spell target.  I tend to avid arcane spell casters now.

Slove goes on to add.

One cleric even tried to do a harm spell just to see what happened.  Human cleric seem more likely to cast spells in a what if nature then think carefully about what they doing I have found.
He got healed but the pain.
Slove stops for moment.

I have also had many non magic herbs and ointments place on it.
All course me great pain and the herb or ointment goes dry, shrivels up and turns black.
If left for while it start to smell of decayed flesh.
Not the most nicest of smells I can tell you.

I even had someone try to cut peace out.  It slowly regrew back as before.
The peace cut out turn black and shriveled up as well.  It also became very poisonous.
That cleric never healed anybody again.  They had to burn his body just in case.


Slove again looked down feeling hopeless.

 Tseran, with the manner of someone taking copious mental notes nods in agreement and makes to rise before catching himself and placing his forehead in his hand and groaning [Language unknown: "Manstaate Undwheore ereaveoerbut o P llwh pladch i atout k be eenughectsonast antundall. Urean eimo tecaen a art nc anri. Ioneartic Ac yinma fitoom stwe ill ant m ce."] before looking amongst his companions and draining the last of his glass as though in self-defence from whatever thought has struck him, "As you say. I shall look forwards to putting this fetid city at our backs."

The Foamy Beard

They waited, but Gwendar had no more to say, lost in dreadful contemplation over his cup. 'Well, thank you very much for your information, Master Gwendar.' Maelarra thanked the dwarf, and paid for their drinks and tips.

But then Gwendar found his voice, and added pleadingly 'If ye find Dorn, and if he and his kids are in trouble, then ye help them, please. He's a good and honourable dwarf.'

'We will, I promise.' Maelarra assured him.

The group were ready to leave and get on with their quest again. 'Do you have anywhere else to investigate tonight, or shall we retire for the evening and make ready to depart in the morning?' the priestess asked.

Moonsilver House

The Selûnite priestess Glarin listened carefully to Slove's account, surprised and even shocked at some of the stranger outcomes while making notes of what had already been attempted to cure his scarring, hoping to narrow down on some untried options. 'Thank you for telling me all that.' She stared at her notes for a while, before finally remarking 'From what you describe, it sounds like a persistent, reflective, inverting curse. Very difficult to deal with, as you know. It might need a miracle to undo. And even in a temple like this those are hard to come by.'

'First, I can write you a referral to Yathla Oloryn, at Shimmerstar's here in Calaunt. She's a face-maker – a make-up artist and a cosmetic chirurgeon. It's not just actors and hookers who have need of a disguise in this city... She might know of a surgical solution, or be able to provide a concealing make-up, or just a mask. But I can't promise they won't have the same outcomes you've already endured.'

'Another option is to find a dead-magic zone. There's a rather large one in Tantras, but a few others can be found around the southern Vast. Dead magic should cancel the curse, at least while you're in it. But healing and curse removal will also be impossible, unless you can find some non-magical alternative. Maybe mind magic... If not, well, it's not a bad place to live.'

At Maelarra's question Aerin could only shrug, she had no idea where else to go and she was looking forward to getting out of the awfully stinking city. Her heart leaped when she thought of riding Albion back out in the open, fresh air and the wind in her hair.

"No, let's go!" she said with a grin.

 There was a time when the thought of swinging his leg over the back of a sway-backed nag and having his backside tenderised for a dozen hours of riding into the cold mountains would have seemed like things had taken a turn for the worse, and for a brief moment Tseran indulges in a sliver of nostalgia before nodding in agreement and finishing his drink with a comment of, "We have a plausible lead, perhaps we shall find more evidence of their departure on the trail."

Sloves listens.
I would like the address of Yathla Oloryn, at Shimmerstar's here in Calaunt.
She may be able to do something.
However strange as it may seem the idea dead-magic zone sounds good.  I know of some natural healing herbs that should work if curse was not still active.  I can go back and learn more about them.  I use magic little and do not need it to live.

Then Slove looks up.
I should find my friends.  I have been away so long.
He smiles at Glarin.  Only she maybe can see through the flesh to see it with gratifying.
There is little I can offer you.  I am but vagabond who serves a god that is wonder himself.  This much I can offer you.  You may call on me for aid.  I will come for that call and aid you whatever.  No questions ask.  When nobody believes in you and you have no friend.  Then Slove will stand and die at your side.

The elf get up.  He nods.
If I return to city I will look you up.  If you do not mind this vagabond company.
He bows.
Now I must leave to help my friend but I leave with little hope which more than I have had in a good 50 years.
Then he stops.
Ah.  I was to quick.  I still need the address.
A laughing rasping noise come from Slove.

OOC:
Slove waits for the address then move on to find the others.