Shiaran circles the room as the old woman speaks, listening, but also getting the lay of the place.  When the old woman addresses Sypher, she finds her way back over to the table and finds a spot near the large chair, a single chair between hers and it.  "Sy is especially good at putting the dead back to rest, Mother."  Shiaran wracked her brain for anything she knew of these people, but came up woefully short.  She hoped the honorific did not offend some obscure, backwards custom.

She pours herself a glass of milk and butters some bread to snack on, but doesn't bite yet.  "Jarl Vindfor, could you tell us more about this day-devil thing?"  Her question out, she takes a large bite and sits back to hear the answer.

R.E.B.O.R.T. cocks his head to the side, curious about the old woman's observation. "Stink of death? What do you mean exactly?"

He peers closely at Sypher.

"I vill not utter his name here. Only dat his actions, dey are reckless. His motives are unknown, and for some reason Crasmar tolerates his presence. You are free to ask de Chief about him, should you feel inclined, but I vill not speak of it. You have my apologies".

She nods and smiles at Shiaran, then turns her attention back to Sypher. "You have seen death. Not just dat, but seen de dead valk. Put dem down, and yet, you have given care to does dat needed it. Dis one's life has had much death in it. And de shaman too I see. But de man, he is no ordinary. He has touched death, and lived. I do not know vhat to make of dis, armored vun". She says "armored one", referring to Rebort. It isn't quite clear, but she may think Rebort is in a suit of armor.

Shiaran nods, expecting the answer.  She focuses on the food and drink, eating with less decorum than in the military cafeteria.

"My proper designation is Riddick & Ewe's Bio-organic Recon...."

Beloc cuts the construct off mid-sentence. "We just call him Rebort."

R.E.B.O.R.T. sharply glances over at Beloc then back to the old woman. "Yes, you may call me Rebort. I was born of a magic once thought to be long forgotten. I am different from others like myself. My will is my own."

Sypher smiles and politely addresses the old woman in a soft tone.  "I am a servant of Iehova, the Lord of Hosts.  His will guides me and His hand protects me.  In this world, I act as a sword and shield as I need be, and spread the good news of salvation to all who will hear.  The undead cannot hear and so I put their bodies to rest and their spirits back where they belong."

The Old Crone nods to Rebort, still showing no surprise. Whether it's senility or experience, no one can quite be sure.

She looks over to Sypher as he responds. "Vell dat is an honorable ting to do. I vill speak vith you more on dis Iehova, should ve haf time later".

She next turns to Beloc. "You are very quiet, herra aelf. Tell me, vhat brings you here to dese lands vith such company?".


DM's Note - the word "herra" which the crone addresses Beloc with, is an actual old world Norse word [pronounced hair-ra, with the "r" sound being rolled], that can mean noble, venerable, or lord, all in the sense of respect

Beloc nods in recognition. "As I'm sure you already know, most elves inherently strive to maintain a natural balance of things within their spheres of influence." Beloc glance ever so slightly at R.E.B.O.R.T. "I can think of little else that is more disturbing to that balance than the sickness the PCA is spreading and that sickness must be cleansed."

The Old Crone's face scrunches up at the acronym. "I do not know of dis pee-seeay you speak of, but if you are talking about de men who valk vith de dead in dere company, ve haf no love for dem eider. Once dey came to parlay. Talk of a kinship. Ve told dem quickly dere could be no friendships between us. Dey den sent a force of dere drougr to us, led by a few of dere shaman. Fifty vas dere number vhen dey came. None vas dere number by de passing of de hour. The village of de Souf Land took de bodies and burned dem, placing de heads on stakes furder to de Souf on our border. Ve haven't seen dem since, and dat vas two Vinters ago".

Shiaran washes down another bite with a long swallow of milk.  "Your people are strong, Mother.  The PCA needed to take out the military and the weak.  Then, when no one is left, they will have the resources to concentrate solely on you.  This is why your isolation works against you."

Vindfor gestures his hand towards Shiaran. "Dis, dis is exactly de kind of ting I fear, and exactly de kind of reason vhy I don't vish to be isolated. Ve can know de outside vorld and still keep our vay of life, and-". Vindfor cuts himself off at the sounds of footsteps behind him.

In walks a hulking man standing 6'8", clad in a finely tailored soft leather tunic, and cloth pants. He doesn't wear shoes, and one would pity the cobbler who had to make the giant things.

A small cadre of people follow behind him, and stop short at the door save for a few:

A young barbarian, who carries much of the stature and build of Crasmar, but lacks the size and age. He favors the old barbarian in the face as well.

A man in a long flowing black cloak, his hood pulled low over his face.

A beautiful dark haired woman, who's fashion sense parallels Shiaran's, save for a breastplate protecting her torso. The darkly dyed leathers underneath practically creak as she walks.

Vindfor takes to his feet and turns around, joining Toki and Luutvig in saluting. Even the Crone takes to her feet, and salutes as well. "Hail, Fyrevurm" says Vindfor, loud enough that his raspy voice sounds more like a croak. The other three echo the sentiment.

Crasmar doesn't wait for the "outlanders" to render tribute, and returns the salute while still walking. He doesn't appear to care though either way, and doesn't even make eye contact with Vindfor as he enters the room. He takes his seat, along with his small entourage, and motions for the rest to be seated. When he speaks, his voice is deep and booming.

"What do you want, why are you here, and when are you leaving?" he asks in rapid succession. In striking contrast to everyone else here that you've met, his accent is nothing like the rest of the clan. Shiaran, Sypher, and Beloc would recognize it from mainland Faerûn; somewhere around Balder's Gate or Waterdeep.

Once the others are seated and Crasmar is finished speaking, Shiaran speaks from her relaxed state.  Her words are crisp and clear and her pace is measured, unlike at the gate. The importance of this conversation rested on clear communication as much as anything.  "I am Shiaran Whiteraven of Mirn.  These are my companions, Sypher, Beloc, and Rebort.  We are attached currently to the military, but not actually part of it.  Recently, we encountered the Palm-Calim-Alliance troops in the Argonette.  After we engaged and took out a number of their troops, we made it to the elfin city of Arborea.  There I met a dwarf named Gurnfir who was the only survivor of his group.  He said they had to take underground tunnels to pass your lands since you had a ban on travel, but one of your guards indicated that only the dwarves are free to pass through unhindered.  I am a bit confused on that point, but it's not pertinent the main reason we are here."

"Gurnfir asked me to bring a message back to his family in the mountain that he was still alive.  I also wanted to head back to the monastery and take a look.  We haven't been there since the war started.  Currently, we are moving about in a vehicle because one of our number is a bit older and has trouble getting around.  It also serves as a bit of a mobile base.  Instead of presuming, I wanted to ask permission to pass through.  We don't want conflict with you or your people.  In fact, I wanted to talk to you about being allies."

"The Alliance is coming for all of Fildgarne and right now, they are succeeding.  The main army is engaged and barely holding ground while the PCA gains in power daily.  You and your people are strong and so they leave you alone, but when there is nothing left to fight against, and all who did have joined their ranks as the undead, then they will come for you.  Can you stand against that alone?"
This message was last edited by the player at 03:03, Mon 15 Jan 2018.

The man in the black cloak pulls back his hood, revealing his face. He bears a few bruises and scabbed over cuts on his cheek and forehead, just below his horns. "I'd hoped that you all survived our fall. Though it seems Sylas got in your head a bit with all the military ordeals. Crasmar knows everything that happened, as does Sigurd and Irja here. You are among friends. What does that dog Sylas really have you doing?". Oro motions a hand, and the retinue at the door steps back, closing the thick wooden doors tight from prying eyes and ears.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:14, Mon 15 Jan 2018.

"Oro!"  Shiaran jumps up out of her chair and walks briskly around the table.  As she reaches their old shipmate, she doesn't stop.  Instead, she wraps him up in her best bear hug and attempts to sway him back and forth.  It's totally awkward and more than a little comical as she is unable to move him.  His complete lack of reciprocation makes it worse.

Not frustrated in the least, Shiaran pulls back a little, stands on her toes, and plants a quick peck on his cheek.

Sypher grins and approaches as well.  When Shiaran steps back, Sypher holds out a hand for a handshake.  "Glad to see you made it.  What happened to your companion, Gazra?"

"Uncle Gazra is around. Apparently, our pantries and larders needed an Autumn clearing" says the grinning young barbarian, his voice carrying a similar accent to Crasmars, but with slight inflections of the natives here. "Sigurd Fyreworm, son of Crasmar" he says, nodding.

The corner or Oro's mouth twitches, giving off the slightest hint of a smile. He shakes Sypher's hand while Sigurd speaks.

Beloc stands and bows at the sight of an old 'friend'. "I'm glad to hear that we weren't the only ones to make it out of that death trap. I hope that your waking moments were less eventful than ours."

He turns and gives an even deeper bow to Sigurd. "Sigurd, a pleasure to see you again as well."
This message was last edited by the player at 15:10, Mon 15 Jan 2018.

Feeling a little out of place, R.E.B.O.R.T. shuffles in the corner as everyone else commences with their reunions. He salutes awkwardly, not really sure if it's even the correct one.

Sigurd nods to Beloc, though it isn't immediately clear or not if he actually recognizes Beloc from 10 years prior. He would have been far younger then, in his late teens.

Crasmar sits patiently, letting his chin rest in his hand as his arm is propped on the table. "This is all fine and well, and I hear your points and concerns young lady, but getting me to open the gates to the Undermountain to pass word that a dwarf still lives is hardly a valid reason. Care to try again? And you aren't getting to Mirn by going under the mountain anyway, it leads directly to Fildegarne Walled City. You'd have to pass the north face of the mountain, and that's likely a terrible idea given all the inhospitable people and things occupying the roads. As Oro said, he's told me most everything going on with the outside world. The only thing he isn't keen on, is what you four are doing on my lands. So help me to help you, I have enough on my plate as it is with war preparations".

Shiaran looks first to Sypher, who looks at Oro, then turns back to her and nods.  Next, the young mage turns to Beloc, seeking similar feedback without saying a word.

Beloc looks away for a moment, mentally calculating risk. He looks over to Oro then back to Shiaran. With a slight nod, he silently agrees.

Not knowing if the sentient construct would understand the gesture, she at last turns to Rebort.  Whether or not he would acknowledge her gesture, he was part of the team and she did not want to leave him out.