The scurry of loud thuds clouded the atmosphere, cementing hooves in the thick mud that plagued the Allir Strait. They’ve been making their trail from Bhathairk for four days now through tremendous downpours, bandits, and other inconveniences that threatened their way. There were dozens of them– Orc’s shaped like statues created by the times of old, most adorning their signet bright blue markings signifying their allegiance to the Kulvaar Clan. Though, today was the day they’d arrive upon the concrete jungle that settled itself between Empressa and Liadian, an entirely foreign beast to them, and perhaps the most intimidating one of them all. It was decided some time ago that when the previous lord was succeeded by his son that tradition would break, and if the Orcs demanded to have a place in Arethil it would have to be within the convulsive hegemony that devised most species, politics.
Suddenly, the thudding of hoove against ground seized as the party cleared the thick woodlands of the Strait, the troupe parted down the middle routinely as their Warlord, Vaalkar, made his way down the aisle they made from him. It was the first sight of Alliria with its manmade structures that promoted architectural prowess within its craftsmanship. The walls stood far into the sky, making many of the party question their understanding of scale. Guttural talk spurred internally as Vaalkar got a closer look with an extended spyglass.
Speaking out to his men in Orcish tongue, Vaalkar said: “We near the famed city that divides Empressa and Liadian, finally. I’ve made arrangements to host the people of this city, and we will.”
He let out, peering back to his men who all slowed in their own conversations as Vaalkar spoke out, and with that, they set off.
Once they arrived, it took only three days for them to arrange the feast they intended. Outside of the wall those of high-standing were alerted to the festivities that were to take place. Fliers aired around the city, obviously paid for and written in the common tongue by some third-party scribe. This was the melting pot of cultures, and it was surprisingly easy for the Kulvaar clan to make their intentions clear, that they meant no harm.
As people sifted in, there would be many tables with food from a variety of cultures littered around in an organized manner, evenly on each table. The smell of meat shrouded the event, causing many stragglers to go searching for it. In the back of the event, there was the largest table seating the Kulvaar clan, in the middle in a heightened chair sat Valkaar. Awaiting any and every conversation.
You feel it in your blood, do you not?
Through the memories and stories handed down by ancestors past.
Within you, you feel the call to battle. And yet...
You are not like the old Vexions.
You wish to heal rather than rend.
Then ride on, good Lord.
We watch you closely.
Atara was a fine beast, her white mane dancing as the breeze ran it's fingers through the back of her neck. She rode smoothly, almost as though she were afraid she would do harm to her rider. Quintus rarely developed a soft spot for horses, but he'd found this one during one of his visits to a friend of his in the Allir Reach. She fetched a hefty amount of gold, but it wasn't anything his coffers couldn't handle. Her presence had done something to ease the anxiety in the back of his mind. It wasn't fear, that much he was certain of. Perhaps it was foolishness on his part to believe that people were who they said they were. That they had the best intentions simply because they said so... He played all of the old stories in his head as he and his small retinue drew closer to the festivities. The stories of how his ancestor faced some of the great chiefs of the Orcs before the city of Alliria had been properly raised. His ancestor crossed blades with Grakkan the Black Mace, Zyukkor the Death Dancer, Bumbrakku the Ghost Eater. Quintus' father and his father before him abhorred Orcs. It wasn't until Quintus saw the world for himself that his own prejudice was quelled.
Councilor Vexion would be a different man than all of them. There were far worse things to face down than another people trying to make their own way in the world.
He wore the sigil of his Merchant family on his chest. A white shooting star and blade on a field of black. Those who arrived with him were similarly dressed, some of them with chainmail and plate. Quintus wore a fine silk doublet and a ceremonial sword at his side. His beard and hair were freshly washed and oiled for the occasion. The Merchant Councilor hadn't come empty-handed at all, but with gifts as well. Those would be revealed in time. Quintus approached the table that sat highest and looked the Chieftan in the eyes before bowing his head politely.
"Chieftan Vaalkar,"Quintus began as his head rose, "I am Quintus of the House Vexion, one of the Councilors of this great city. It is my pleasure to welcome you."
Alliria, Dockside, in the Savage Rank Training Yards "Orcs at the walls?" Emiliano asked. The alarm in his voice made sense. It wasn't that long ago that the city of fortune had repelled a siege.
"Yes, lord, a whole party of them, but... well, they sent diplomats. If, well, if you could call them that,"
Emiliano scrunched his brows at the man. "What else would you call them, Karako?"
Karako shrugged. "Um... I don't know my lord, they are, well... orcs."
Emiliano clicked his teeth. "No seas estupido, Karako," the fighter turned merchant chided. "Spent two weeks away from our camp and look how you are talking, as if you haven't fought alongside orcs, or helped wrap them up before a bout," he spit. "Pendejo," He shoved the man and glowered at him. "Get the hell out of our training yard, Karako, and take your sorry ass wherever you picked up that pile of bullshit."
"What?!" Karako looked dumb founded. Others around them looked just as confused. Scared even. "All I... I just meant,"
Emiliano grabbed up the nearest object, a clay pitcher of water it just so happened, and he hurled it at the man. The vase crashed and shattered. "Get out!" he shout.
Karako fumed and ran, cursing and scolding and promising that everyone would hear about this.
Emiliano had no doubt he would.
"Uh, Emiliano," one of the fighters who stood beside him asked, a hand outstretched in concern worry. "Are you alright?"
Heavy breaths had the man's shoulders rise and fall. "Idiot," he said as he straightened up and slicked back his hair. "Everyone knows Orks throw the best parties," At the feast
Emiliano arrived, not as a dignitary, but as a reveler, dressed in simple, yet fashionable cuts of cloth. Burnt orange, and coffee browns. A few of his own trusted crew accompanied him, and like any good guests at a party, they brought goodies. Wines from the Reach, but the meats and the cheeses? Well, only Cortosi fair would suffice to honor a guest.
For now, he would enjoy the music, and sample what the feast had to offer.
There was an air of boisterous laughter that the city of Alliria hadn’t felt in some months now. The feast was a tale of how the people in the crown city loved, how they worked, and how they had come together to bring in the bounty of harvest. The triumphs of life are right here before them, stories of the years told in wisps of aroma and tastes that are time machines to so many good memories that were lost. Though with all this happiness and joy came drinking, and with drinking came fights. Surprisingly, the Orcs had nothing to do with it this time. It was spurred between two feuding families over business, and instead of quickly putting an end to the shouting and fist-throwing the Orcs made bets and shouted at them to take their shirts off and beat themselves till they couldn’t anymore. Even when the dispute was ‘ended’ the Orcs wouldn’t let them return to the festivities until one was knocked unconscious.
Meanwhile… the night continued.
As Quintus approached him his bronze-like gaze shifted, painfully slow as two Orcs that seemed to stand guard put their hands on The Star Knight’s shoulders to stop him from going further, though, Vaalkar ushered them off with a guttural exhale that could be seen in a slight translucent smoke that came from his nostrils, as if puffing hot air in cold temperature. He moved to stand, the clear visability of his musculature and vascularity became painfully noticeable as he approached Quintus, speaking out in his baritone voice “Councilor. I welcome you.” he said in a joyus tone, each word baring out in a heavy, although understandable accent. Looking the man over slowly, he gave a slight nod of his head gesturing around to the festivities as he asked, a slight inquisitive look overtaking his usual stoic expression.
“What do you think, mn? Everyone getting along, for the most part. Nothing brings people together quite like food.”
They passed Emiliano, and with this Vaalkar uptook one of his gifted wines, taking it into his hand as he tried to make out the tongue written on the bottle.
Riforte was in the middle of the shouting and cursing, reveling in the splendor of the wild celebration. The men were busy warring against their friendly opponents in a rough game of cards while leaving themselves open to all kinds of silliness. She watched a woman pick a man's pockets empty while she tempted him with a sultry dance and drink. Another victim was a woman being swindled for everything she's got by a man with a silver tongue and mounting debt.
She was the one dealing the cards and creating most of the chaos. Claiming that it's simply a draw of luck, Riforte can manipulate the entire situation to improve the atmosphere. The woman isn't here to win money or any other kind of goods; she's simply gathering information to sate her curiosity. It's not often you find people willingly coming together to dance, drink, and be merry under the banner of orcs. Wanting to know why the minds of man are so easily persuaded by merriment, she dipped into the fray to find answers.
Her laughter was a delicate, almost sweet, sound that danced above the heads of the party-goers. Whatever these people fought over meant virtually nothing to her, not when she had a whole table of drunkards trying to read their cards and hide their intentions. Unfortunately, before she could deliver her final hand, the small table they were playing on was flipped over with all the winnings and losing. This ruffled more feathers; two men found themselves nose to nose in an exchange of drunk words.
Golden eyes glowed with anticipation as the atmosphere got heated. The confrontation didn't last, the men were too drunk to care much about the fight, so it was soon forgotten. The gamblers moved on to other things, leaving her little gambling table in disarray and her to clean up the mess.
Barely peeved, the small woman laughed and began to pick up the mess, confident that she would have entertainers again. Her exuberance brought them in once; it will surely do it again, for she dressed somewhat lavishly for a celebration that surely required a more casual feel.
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