At the dawn of time,
the winds arrived,
and carried spores from Yonder.
Rock breathed and split,
then cradled seeds,
and sprang ideas of wonder.
From ‘The Musings of Hurond Trippledig, Captain of the Throne Guard. Recorded on one of many intoxicated nights with shots of Blue Fungid Beer

---

A Khordaldrum wedding is unlike any sort of celebration anywhere else on the Antarian Continent. It is a feast of many days, with continuous drinking of the deep ales the subterranean race brews. It is a marathon of fun and games, of singing the tales of the families and chanting the prayers of good luck, after which, of course, more ale is required in toasts.

Ah, toasting. Every member of each family seems to have something to add to whatever has been said already.
Advice passes.
Well-wishes too.
And in the quiet moment where everybody listens to the elders mumble their blessing, a unity is formed between strangers. After that, nothing is as it was. A family has expended, and a deal has been sealed. But never was pleasure mixed so well with business, as in the festivities of Khordaldrum matrimony.

Khordaldrum hardly ever marry out of love. Arrangements are made by families soon after a female Khord is born. The marriage of Kretarund Orehand and Befilda Shieldmaster was no exception. The Orehands and the Shieldmasters had planned this wedding since Befilda was a toddler. It was a great opportunity for both parties, since it would strengthen their positions as aspiring granite-distributors.
Kretarund and Befilda had met each other over the years, and had always known what was to happen. They rejoiced in it, for each appreciated the other very much. One could call it Love, but Khords are not quick to take that term in application.

The party was in full effect now. It was held at a special bar in the Warrens of Gunthras, where both families lived. The bar was a literal drinking hole at the base of the great Mushroom Forest, and founded by a Khordaldrum Druid who had died many ages ago. To enter ‘the Spores of Itanlok’, as the establishment was named, you had to descend into the earth, with a whirling staircase. It was like entering a rabbit’s nest, and the bar had every cosy aspect of such a place, including hay on the ground and the heavy smell of earth all around.
It was the second day into the wedding, and the official ceremony was already forgotten by most of the attendants. Kretarund and Befilda Orehand were sitting on a single big chair, taking in the festivities and whispering soft comments about the guests in each other’s ear over a mug of Dark Bellyfold.

“Look over there, me little pebble, it’s cousin Berodin. I hoped he would show up. There’s a family member to be proud of, ya know.”
“Oh, I’ve ‘eard of him alright. Important man in the church of Solanis, the light-God.”
“Right. Why he went that way and not the path of Lord Kharox is beyond me. We live underground, miners’ crusts! Oh, and there’s Uncle Grabrocks. Did y’see the enormous diamond ‘e gave us?”
“Pfff, it’s probably a fake. I’ll ask one of my Burrowfolk nephews about it. He’s a Gemhound. He’ll sniff the falseness right out of it.”

Kretarund gave Uncle Grabrocks a nice wave with his tankard of ale. He then turned back to his beloved.
“Hey, look! It’s Grothtorg! Let’s keep an eye on him. I’m want to ask him how he got that braid.”
“Yes, rocky-Bottoms,” Befilda said with less enthusiasm than her husband, “sure that will make a fine tale… oh, ‘ey, it’s that strange fella. ‘e got a crush on me when us was little. What was his name again… oh, that’s right: Baldorf. Always sneaked up on me without a sound.”
“He probably thought you smelled nice. I never thought he was that strang…. Oh you have to be kidding me! Did you invite ‘Loco’ Fungihammer to the party?!”
The groom had almost dropped his mug in astonishment.
Befilda followed his gaze and groaned. “Tyrannis’ Tits, I didn’t think ‘e would actually show up. You know ‘e saved some of me brothers? I couldn’t NOT invite him. Cost me quite a bit to track him down too. Let’s just hope ‘e will stay away from the beer.”
Kretarund laughed heartily at his wife’s remark. “We’re Khords. Of course he won’t stay away from the beer!”

To prove his claim he brought the Dark Bellyfold to his lips and dried it to the last drop. He flung the wooden mug to the ground and echoed a deep, satisfied burp over the heads of the crowd. Cheers went up and more than one reply sounded back at the couple. The bride and groom grinned at each other while Kretarund wiped the foam from his hair. It was a useless effort; after a full day of feasting, both their beards were saturated with all sorts of liquids already. By the same time tomorrow, they would be wringed out and the mix of ales would be caught in a jar, shaken and given to the crowd. Whoever would dare to drink it was said to be the next to marry. Everybody knew that the only thing one would get from it, was a certain gastric ulcer, but there were always guests bold or dumb enough to try.

The groom kissed his bride and went to the bar to order two new mugs of ale. As he walked through the crowd he was patted on the shoulder, jabbered at, and even hugged. The guests were truly letting go of their normally reserved social boundaries.
High spirited and slightly drowsy from the amount of fermented liquor, Kretarund grabbed hold of a familiar face and steamed a breathy “Hey there, haven’t seen you in a long time glad you could make it” into it.
The face, however, belonged to Jamdock Burrowfolk, who did not return the tipsy welcome. The gemhound stared at the groom with one bright eye (the other one had been replaced with a green emerald years ago).
“Sorry nephew, no time to chat. I caught me a scent… a possible trace. Leave me alone, and I’ll give ye my best-wishes later.”
Jamdock shrugged loose from Kretarund’s hold and disappeared in the crowd. Gemhounds were subterranean hunters, looking for fake or illegally marketed gems, and apparently the groom’s nephew was on the brink of discovering something. After a moment of disillusion at the unhappy meeting, Kretarund started to snort with incoherent laughter and made his way to the bar.

While waiting on his Farmboy’s Death ale, he looked around at the guests that were around. He noted a familiar face and old friend of the family, only at that point he couldn’t remember which family that was: Crulgrin Shadebeard.
“Hey Crully, old boy. How’re things over at the refinery? You still work there, right?”
He would’ve loved to listen to whatever Crulgrin had to say, but he got suddenly pulled away from the bar by a young girl in her mid-hundred’s and flung into a wild dance of Catch the Badger. More Khords joined in and soon the band of war-drum percussionists caught onto it. With the rhythm taking control of the crowd, even the most traditionally sober Khord could not help but tap his feet at the festivity dance. Kretarund and Befilda Orehand found each other in the middle of the crowd, and swirled, tapped, hopped and ducked with a rocky stiffness that graced the dance and the race that developed it.

Suddenly a loud explosion erupted from somewhere close to the bar, which made the ground shake and brought sand and dust misting from the ceiling. Heads turned, silence fell and everyone’s attention was on a Khord with a blackened face, who was holding what was left of two wooden mugs.
“My apologies,” he shied, then started laughing. They all knew who he was: Magnumopus Warpstone, one of the Servants of Fire and Stone; followers of Kharox that experimented in chemistry and ‘new weaponry’. A dangerous lot to be around. Apparently, he had been mixing different kinds of ale that did not fit together well.
Magnumopus looked around at the astonished faces of the Khords around him. They were as black as his own and equally unharmed. Still, he started brushing off the first person that came to hand: a wizard named Crellin Ironspark.
Kretarund and Befilda took a minute to stare at Crellin, who looked as if Kharox himself had randomly painted this little Khord in all the colours he could find. They shrugged, and dismissed the fact that he looked odd, blaming it on the amount of ale they had consumed.
The silence slowly faded. The band started playing and chatter restarted.

Kretarund and his bride started to meander back to their chair when they noted a deer on the dance floor. It was accompanied by a Khord they knew pretty well. Niaou’li Aniha was Befilda’s friend and one of the few female Khords to pursue the life of the druid. Niaou’li was the one who had suggested the use of ‘the Spores’ bar as a place to hold the celebration. They had been very pleased so far with the establishment and grinned widely at her.
“You know, Niaou’li,” Befilda started, “we’re so glad you’re here to feast with us.”
“But you really shouldn’t have brought that Sylvari …thing in here.” Finished Kretarund, pointing at the deer.
“Don’t mind him. He’s had a bit too much.” Befilda winked at her friend.
“Too much? This is our wedding! There is no ‘too much’ in a wedding. If I could I would get one of those tubes up my arm for an Ale pranstrusion or waddisitcalled, I would do it!”
Befilda dragged her husband away, and they found their chair laughing and stumbling.

“Bef,” Kretarund said, “this is the best wedding a Khord could wish for.”
And Befilda couldn’t agree more.

(OOC: this is the start of the game. You are all guests at this wedding and have been introduced. Vesper is the only one not in yet, because I don’t know if he’s still available. He has been PMed though. Good luck. I hope we’ll have fun together! )

Wedding Party
Second Day
The Spores of Itanlok
Mushroom Forest
Warrens of Gunthras
'Loco' Fungihammer swayed his way between the revelers who were draining their tankards in celebration of the long awaited union of Kretarund and Befilda Orehand.

Almost absent mindedly fingering one of the braids of his silver beard that held the small sapphire that was given to him countless years earlier by the bride's family for rescuing their children; the Cleric stared almost trance-like at the merry makers who were enshrouded in a purple haze that filled the perceptions of his mushroom enhanced mind.

The Orehands and the Shieldmasters had planned this wedding since Befilda was a toddler. It was a great opportunity for both parties, since it would strengthen their positions as aspiring granite-distributors.
"Well ... it could have been a tiny chunk of granite I suppose ... a small reward for the dangers I had to overcome ... rescuing those boys from ..."
Kretarund and Befilda Orehand were sitting on a single big chair, taking in the festivities and whispering soft comments about the guests in each other’s ear over a mug of Dark Bellyfold.

"...Oh you have to be kidding me! Did you invite 'Loco' Fungihammer to the party?”

The groom had almost dropped his mug in astonishment. Befilda followed his gaze and groaned.

“Tyrannis’ Tits, I didn’t think ‘e would actually show up. You know ‘e saved some of me brothers? I couldn’t NOT invite him. Cost me quite a bit to track him down too. Let’s just hope ‘e will stay away from the beer.”

Kretarund laughed heartily at his wife’s remark. “We’re Khords. Of course he won’t stay away from the beer!”
The words seemed to ripple their way over the crowd with big white block letters, burning their way through the purple haze, seemingly fuzzy and faded as they reached out and touched the Cleric's enhanced senses.

"Such a lovely couple ... they deserve each other ... why I remember when ..."
To prove his claim he brought the Dark Bellyfold to his lips and dried it to the last drop.

He flung the wooden mug to the ground and echoed a deep, satisfied burp over the heads of the crowd.

Cheers went up and more than one reply sounded back at the couple.
The cacaphony of sounds assailing 'Loco' Fungihammer's mushroomed consciousness caused his brain to surf the soundwaves of a seemingly endless ocean of Erps and Burps that had spontaneously followed the dull thud of the wooden mug that the groom had flung to the ground.

Swept back into the cesspool of his clouded memories ... 'Loco' was helpless to withstand the flood of memories assailing his mind ... remembering the dark visions of a wedding ... the dangers that were to follow ... children needing a champion ... nay ... several champions ... to free them from their fears ...

He had heeded such visions thrice before ... as the sapphire, emerald and ruby stones in the three braids of his silver beard did attest ... but the last rescue had cost the adventurer dearly ...

His childhood friend ... one Stinkpod Stonecutter ... had given his life in the galiant effort to rescue the children ... for 'Loco' had been forced to choose ... the life of his friend ... or ... the life of the children ... and the results of his choice ... had driven the Cleric to a life of solitude the past 10 years in a secluded cavern ... in the Caves of Madness ...

From the depths of those Caves of Madness ... 'Loco' had found solace with his mushrooms ... only emerging a number of weeks ago on sheer impulse ... goaded by the dark visions ... seeking relief ... seeking a quest ... knowing the danger ... challenging the unknown ...

Days later the Cleric chanced upon a grim messenger ... bearing an invitation to the wedding of Befilda ... the invitation had been a mere courtesy ... that the Cleric fully understood ... but an invitation that bore witness ... none the less ... to setting the stage ... of the unfolding of coming events ... foreseen in the Caves of Madness ... things unspoken ... things feared ... things ...
Pulling him from his dark reverie were the war-drum percussionists ... as 'Loco' found himself contorting and gyrating in tune with the echoing ... and re-echoing ... of the drum beats ... resounding inside his mind ... multiplying ... then dividing ... increasing ... then decreasing ... as the crescendo of the Catch the Badger dance ... melted the Cleric's aloof introspection ...

'Loco' found himself loosing his pent up emotions ... riding the waves of the percussionists ... flowing with the celebration of the crowd ... descending a multitude of times more ... in the midst of his memories of descending into the earth upon the whirling staircase ... entering this rabbits nest ... with all the security of ...

Suddenly a loud explosion erupted from somewhere close to the bar, which made the ground shake and brought sand and dust misting from the ceiling.

Heads turned, silence fell and everyone’s attention was on a Khord with a blackened face, who was holding what was left of two wooden mugs.

“My apologies,” he shied, then started laughing.

They all knew who he was: Magnumopus Warpstone, one of the Servants of Fire and Stone; followers of Kharox that experimented in chemistry and ‘new weaponry’.

A dangerous lot to be around. Apparently, he had been mixing different kinds of ale that did not fit together well.

Magnumopus looked around at the astonished faces of the Khords around him. They were as black as he was and equally unharmed.

Still, he started brushing off the first person that came to hand: a multi-colored wizard named Crellin Ironspark.

The silence slowly faded when chatter restarted and Kretarund returned to his bride.
Loco swayed with the ripples of sound echoing along the corridors of his beer-sloshed, mushroom enhanced mind.

The Cleric was unable to determine if the colors emanating from Crellin Ironspark were applied from a painted reality, or if the shimmering glows bursting across his enebriated brain were the result of his self-isolation with the magically induced mushrooms the Khord had edibly embraced during these many years of self-induced exile in the Caves of Madness.

Whatever the reality or unreality mesmerizing Loco's mind, it mattered little to the Cleric, as he enjoyed floating around within the maze of his mind with the unexpected spectacular intrusion of the multi-colored infusion emanating from the features of the Khord Wizard.

Kretarund and his bride started to meander back to their chair when they noted a deer on the dance floor.

It was accompanied by a Khord they knew pretty well. Niaou’li Aniha was Befilda’s friend and one of the few female Khords to pursue the life of the druid.

Niaou’li was the one who had suggested the use of ‘the Spores’ bar as a place to hold the celebration. They had been very pleased so far with the establishment and grinned widely at her.

“You know, Niaou’li,” Befilda started, “we’re so glad you’re here to feast with us.”

“But you really shouldn’t have brought that Sylvari …thing in here.” Finished Kretarund, pointing at the deer.

“Don’t mind him. He’s had a bit too much.” Befilda winked at her friend.

“Too much? This is our wedding! There is no ‘too much’ in a wedding. If I could I would get one of those tubes up my arm for an Ale pranstrusion or waddisitcalled, I would do it!”
Loco pondered what the effects of a mushroom pranstrusion would do to further alter the unreality of his reality, but whatever remnants of such a conclusion drifted away from his realm of reason, like a multitude of frogs leaping and hopping through the swampy underbrush of his conscious thoughts.

His attention was now focusing, unfocusing and refocusing upon the visage of the deer on the dance floor.

Loco paid little heed to the lady Druid who accompanied the deer, as he refused to allow himself to drift unchecked to the locked away memories of his lost love, or the reasons for his past motivations to search for lost children.

He thoughtfully fingered the three braids in his beard, his deep purple eyes gazing upon the serenity of the deer, which provided the Cleric a simplistic serenity upon the backdrop of the cascading emotions rippling from the gathered crowd around the dance floor.

An inner peace of unfathomable contentment welled up from within the inner depths of Loco Fungihammer as he surveyed the purple haze mind maze that brought him comfort as he scrutinized the scene before him.

His mushrooming conclusion was that the Khord Cleric was more at home in the presence of the deer than with his fellow Khords.

He waved his hand in fascinated greeting to the deer, but the kaleidescope of colors passing before his eyes from a rippling effect from the movement of his hand, pulled his consciousness into yet another realm of untold mystery within his own mushroomed mind.

Befilda dragged her husband away, and they found their chair laughing and stumbling.
“Bef,” he said, “this is the best wedding a Khord could wish for.”
'Loco' Fungihammer surfed the soundwaves of his mind ... enjoying every mushroom enhanced moment ... the dark cobwebs blasted from his mind at long last ...

Lifting a tankard of fresh Bitter Root Beer ... the Cleric offered a toast to no one in particular ... least of all the bride and groom ...

"Make Room for the Mushrooms!"

“What’m I doin’ here,” Crulgrin muttered into the sleeve of his tunic and he wiped the foam of yet another tankardful of Granitegut Stout from his whiskers, “Come out o’ the Rvisthorn an’ put me arse on the line… an’ fer what… a weddin’?”

He watched, breath held, and face still buried in his sleeve as Jamdock Burrowfoot stomped past him again. Once the Gemhound had disappeared into the thick of the wedding crowd, Crulgrin let his breath go in a sigh of relief. “Aye,” he shook his shaggy, black head slowly and tossed back the tankard once more, draining what remained of the dark, bitter brew into both mouth and beard, “gotta be fargin’ off me boulder ta’ve even thinked this were a good ideer.”

Hoping that Jamdock would stay to himself and not so much as look his way, again, turned and waved for his tankard to be refilled. Crulgrin couldn’t have declined this invitation even if he had wanted to and he knew it. No self-respecting Khord would pass up the chance to attend a wedding and revel in the expansion of the clan… even if the exact nature of that familiar relationship was so convoluted that it scarcely related you to the bride or groom… Why, ye might as well shave of yer beard, move ‘bove ground, and pretend yer a Syl, then, mightn’t ye? It didn’t matter if his being here wasn’t the safest of things to do, either. He’d already shamed himself enough by having fallen in with the wrong sort and, as a result, throwing away a fine career as a caver and advanced scout for the King’s Tunnelers… it hadn’t been his fault entirely, of course, a false promise or two from some Sendrian tall-folk had devolved into a lie that had turned into a threat against Shadebeard’s family and, finally, lead him into his current life as little more than a thief and gem-smuggler… Kharox bless me so’s no one finds out… …who hid his deeds by pretending to be a simple laborer at the…

“Hey Crully, old boy! How’re things over at the refinery? You still work there, right?”

Crulgrin flinched when Kretarund grabbed hold of him and nearly spilled the entire contents of his freshly refilled brew on the both of them. Oh, by the Gods o’ Earth an’ Stone, I’m catched, he thought at first. Then his wide, blinking eyes registered that it was the groom who had apprehended him and not that Burrowfoot bloke, and his look of shock quickly transformed into a broad smile.

“Aye,” Crulgrin snorted, sucking the foam from the top of his brew, “aye, the refin’ry! Things’re good, Kreta-me-boy! Things’re good! Heh heh… Congratulations, boy-o!”

The gem-smuggler, although happy for the young Khord, was somehow relieved when the bridegroom was accosted by another party-guest and dragged away from what, likely, would’ve been a conversation strewn with half-truths and bald-faced lies to which he’d rather not subject family – no matter how distant – anyway. “Khamaruz’s frosty stones but I jest pessed meself,” he sighed trying to fade back into the shadows a bit as he nursed his mug… “What’m I doin’ here?”

Niaou’li had been preparing for this wedding weeks in advance. She found the perfect blue dress, with some waving layers of fabric at the back end. It fitted great with her eyes, glowing the magic that you find near the most beautiful well in springtime. She had been trying out all different kinds of foods with Belfida, and yesterday she spent hours in the kitchen to make sure not one Khord would leave the party saying it lacked anything. She even suggested the perfect place for the wedding to the orehands; in her opinion the Spores was one of the most amazing bars ever, though it was not as nice as the Wander, the bar she used to attend in Verbyn… times long gone..
Such a nice party this has become! Ah, Befilda and Kretarund are coming this way.
“You know, Niaou’li,” Befilda started, “we’re so glad you’re here to feast with us.” Niaou’li hugged her friend and was about to do the same to Kretarund, when she saw the disapproving expression he tried to hide with a grim smile. “But you really shouldn’t have brought that Sylvari …thing in here” finished Kretarund. Not again… why does he always have to complain about Firenze? He is a wonderful man, but when he starts drinking.. “Don’t mind him. He’s had a bit too much.” Befilda winked at her friend. “Too much? This is our wedding! There is no ‘too much’ in a wedding. If I could I would get one of those tubes up my arm for an Ale pranstrusion or waddisitcalled, I would do it!” her husband mumbled.

Niaou’li saw the newlyweds stumble towards the other side of the room, and couldn’t help overhearing Kretarund say he was having the best wedding a Khord could wish for. She felt a warm glow inside of her. Though she was not sure if it was caused by the precious moment of her childhood friend getting married to the love of her life or by the aromatic substance that came out of the ocean green transparent bottle, given to her by the old, grayish bartender with the most friendly eyes she had ever seen. She was lost in thought for just a few minutes, when she was bluntly brought back to the present by Dirlan, the young Khord that used to take care of Firenze when Niaou’li was working late. She had a job at the archives of Khordal, where she used to rewrite ancient manuscripts about the woodlands in Antaron with the phoenix feather that was hidden in the thick leather cover of the Grent’yl book.

“Shouldn’t you feed Firenze?”, Dirlan asked. Niaou’li told him that she had already fed her before entering the Spores. “By the way, do you realize how hard it can be to get a deer down these whirling flight of stairs?! It took me like half an hour!” She caressed the warm fuzzy back of her deer to comfort her. She was very attached to Firenze, and did not even like others but Dirlan riding her. That’s why she felt a little uncomfortable when she noticed 'Loco' Fungihammer staring at her as if he had just found a really good friend. Don’t mind him, he probably already had too much of our famous Khord beer or so... “I am going to take in the festivities, will you join me?” Niaou’li asked Dirlan. He replied: “I’d like to, but I promised the Orehands to help them prepare the gem-throwing!” “Oh, such an honour! Break a leg, but join me later this evening for a drink okay?” and she mixed with the other guests.

Baldorf sure didn't know. He had a bit of ale, but he didn't much fancy the stuff. He only had it when a group of Khords came up and was drunk enough to pick up the random Khord there and have a drink with him. And that seemed to happen rarely. Baldorf sighed, stroking his hand through his beard. It did not have a single braid in it. He looked around and saw so many braids on so many faces. Not one. Turning away, he decided that the noise was too much for him. He just needed to be alone.

On his way away from the festivities, he felt a twinge of guilt. Befilda had invited him to this event. She knew that he had had an attraction to her, ever since he was a kid. But only fools can live in those illusions forever. Still, he may have owed it to her to be there...

"Nah, she wouldn't notice the fact I'm gone..." Baldorf said to himself. His hair seemed to ruffle in agreement, as though as strong breeze was blowing through... it wasn't. Baldorf continued walking, stroking his blowing, braidless beard. He would return in due time. He just needed a bit of time to think.

“O’ hark ye a bellow to the cavern ceilings, a wedding be in full swing!” Came the words from the mouth of a harlequin posing in the masquerade of a Khord; the tone and pitch of his words rising from a low grumble to a cackle in the span of the single sentence. It had been many months since the addle minded Khord had been in the presence of so many others. Predictably, the unpredictable nature of both Crellin Ironspark’s magic, and demeanor left himself preferring the path of solitude; and his garish, almost ridiculous visage and dangerous countenance left the general public more than willing to give him a wide berth.

Crellin had actually only returned to civilization to procure another couple canaries, for his previous subjects had come to find that the unpredictability of harnessing raw mystical energy can wreak havoc upon the body…. In ways most peculiar… such as turning feathered limbs into lead weights. Oh how Crellin had tired to aid them in their rehabilitation, but alas, powers over the arcane he may hold, but gravity.. Tis another mystery to solve.

I don’t ever remember actually ‘hearing’ them hit the bottom of that mine shaft he thought to himself with a shrug, pushing the memory aside as music and clamoring filled his ears. As Crellin ambled into the bar, his motions causing his head to bob up and down as he took steps from one leg to another, the left slightly shorter than the right. Surely he was a curious sight indeed, but given the amount of ale and other potent brews being consumed en masse, he blended into the crowd as easily as a intoxicated exaggeration of visual stimuli, of which there was plenty.

Sliding over to the bar, and helping himself to the first tankard that passed his way, Crelling took a deep swig, the frothy head seeping into his thick copper beard. Letting out a gut wrenching belch followed by a giddy chirp of a bonny school lass, he hiccupped and fell into admiration of the patron apparently applying alchemical theory and arcane incantations to the mixology of different brews.

A waft of barley, then honey, then the arse end of a shocker lizard hit Crellin’s nose causing his uneven nostril’s to flair. He was about to comment that perhaps with a small cantrip he could help, but a sudden explosion stayed the voice upon his lips, which were blackened and stained with hops and other ingredients.
As sight returned and all eyes fell upon the magister of mixology, as Magnumopus began brushing Crellin off, all he could do was chuckle and wipe a streak of blackened foam from the pate of the nearest Khord, bringing it to his lips with a silly looking grin.

“Mmmm, now that’s good “

The party continued after the commotion of the explosion. Why would it not. It was not the first time such a thing had happened at a wedding, and everybody knew that the festivities would not end for days. They hadn’t even sung the ballad of ‘Mine over Matter’ yet, which was a certain must. A bonding of man and woman was unofficially unofficial if that song had not been joined on at least one occasion during the weeks of celebration.

Most of the guests seemed to enjoy themselves. Every now and then people left to go do their shifts in the mines, but their places were always filled by newcomers, or returning party guests. Others had the luxury of not having to go back to a job, having gotten the week off, or just choosing not to leave in knowledge of the work still being available on return.

The people that regarded Loco Fungihammer could not tell if he was having a good time, or if he was having a time at all. He seemed entertained, but his reactions weren’t always aimed at something that seemed to be going on at the wedding. Still, they dared not question him or laugh behind his back, out of respect for the braids in his beard. He had earned them, and for that they left him to himself. He walked the party as if he was making his way through a maze of people, taking turns abruptly and without determination.
“Make room for the mushrooms!” He toasted. It was a custom that seemed appropriate, though to which occasion was another matter.
But, apparently, he had been heard. A tug on his sleeve and a turn of his head alerted him to the fact that somebody was trying to get his attention. It was an old miner, black coal seeped into the pores so deeply it had eternally stained him. The man was so drunk he could barely walk straight, and stared at Loco with eyes that twirled without finding a focal point.
“Hey there … bahrrrrrrrotherrrr … ya talkin’ bout shroomies? Ye got some shroomies to share with an old mining buddy? Huh, do ya, huh? Whoooo!”

Although Loco might’ve thought it, Crulgrin was the one who voiced the question.
“What am I doing here?”
The smuggler wasn’t too happy with his situation. He was hopelessly required to be at this celebration and sip his juices, pretending to enjoy himself. Alone and retreated in the shadows he regarded the festivities around him, when he spotted something very interesting on the other end of the bar.
Magnumopus stood there brushing off a Khord who seemed a complete carnival by himself, including all the rides, freaks, games and prizes that came with such a traveling funfair. But it wasn’t Crellin the mage that caught Crulgrin’s eye. Behind Magnumopus and his blackened surroundings, two Khords wrestled with a heavy sack. A tear in the seem of the leather container had cracked open far enough for its contents to slowly wiggle its way out, one by one. The gleam of falling gems had so far been unnoticed by anybody else, let alone the two Khords who were trying to carry the sack to the other side of the room, to where the bride and groom were sitting.

Meanwhile, Niaou’li was spectator at a section of the establishment where games were held for the adolescent and adult Khords. There was a heavy competition of Terminal Callosity going on at the fire place; a game where smiths of all kinds competed by grabbing hot objects out of the fire with their bare hands.
Several pairs of Khordaldrum were tied up in a game of Ale-Tugging. The rules for that one were simple: connect two Khords with a rope, and place two mugs of ale on opposite sides of the pair. Whoever drinks their mug first, wins the game. On more than one occasion the game was cut short by both competitors making a deal to run to one mug first and drain it together before continuing to the second. In the end, what really mattered was that both mugs were empty.
They never failed.
She suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Avulgard, the patron of the Spores of Itanlok, and he seemed very content.
“I heard you were the one who suggested the use of my tavern as the place for this weddingparty?” he said while he smiled at the outcome of the game of Sink the Wheelbarrow. “I suppose I should thank you. Maybe I can start by finding a quieter spot for your companion here?”
He pointed at Firenze.
“I have a room behind the bar where he could stay.”

The room behind the bar was also subject of another conversation entirely. Baldorf had turned his back on the singing, drinking and dancing, and had started to climb the whirling stairway out of ‘the Spores’. His mind was clouded by thoughts and feelings and he surely wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. Or maybe he was paying attention, and the stairway just didn’t agree.
Whatever the case, he tripped over a pair of legs that were stretched out over the stairs. The legs belonged to the Khordaldrum body that curved its way to a head with long hair, bright blue eyes and a mouth that roared: “Hey! Watch where you’re going, you l…” The mouth paused, and slowly the young girl to who it belonged sat up straight and inspected Baldrof from toe to head. Eyes widened ever so slightly and she gasped, brushing back her brown hair: “Oh, hullo. I’m sorry, you just startled me, that’s all. I thought I could come here and cool off from the drinks of Abysmal Furnace that I ploughed down earlier.”
She stood up, quite well I should add.
“I’m Hrubagon, but people call me Hruby.”
She took Baldorf’s hand and glanced up at him, smiling shyly and vaguely nodding her head.
“Why haven’t I seen you before. Hey, there is this room behind the bar where we can go to talk a bit more quietly. And it’s a bit more comfortable than in the open cave up there.”
They both found themselves forced to move down towards the party, as the girl had suggested, when a massive shield came trotting down the stairs, leaving hardly any room to pass. Behind the shield stood a sturdy woman that pushed forward with unmistaken determination. Helengir Thunderhand had arrived at the scene.

Crellin as well found himself in the attention of another Khord. Such, it seems, is the way of weddings. There are so many reasons one would attend the celebrations, but though drinking and dancing CAN be done alone, most activities get better with company. Even if the company is that of a total stranger.
Crellin had just recomposed himself (as far as that was possible) from the sudden explosion, when a big Khord in thick hide armor came to stand next to him. He looked at the mage from under his grayish hair, and on his far shoulder sat an owl who followed his example.
“Hey there.” He stated simply. Then motioned for the barkeep to give him a drink.
“I heard you’re a lone adventurer? I would like to hear some of your stories, if you don’t mind. Being a caver myself I don’t get out much, and I take every opportunity to hear about the outside world.”
He grabbed the mug of Dubbleblind Rockbarf and saluted Crellin.
“But where are my manners. My name is Grothtorg. Nice to meet you.”

A few moments later they all became aware of a silence that was spreading through the tavern. Khords were trying to glance over each other’s heads to get a glimpse of what was going on. Then the attention was caught by a very old Khordaldrum male, who was climbing a table with the help of his cane and four strong, sweating and fumbling cousins. When he finally found a steady spot he swung his cane overhead in a propelling motion. This raised cheers from everywhere across the room. Somebody yelled in a moment of silence: “Go for it, you old Mugtwister. You’ve still got it!” to which mostly everybody laughed.

Grandfather Mugtwister was one of the oldest Khords that still lived in the Orehand-clan, but known for his good temper and joy in life. He addressed the bride and groom:
“My dearest younglings; Kharox be blessed, how young you both are. When I was as young as you, I was twice your age!”
He coughed.
“Well, Kret and Bef, I rejoice in the joining of the Orehand and the Shieldmaster clan, and believe that it could not have happened through a better couple. I’ve had no say in it, of course, an old pebble like me isn’t asked for an opinion anymore. But if I had been asked I would never have guessed the two of you fitted so well together. But at least now I can say that I knew Bef-Orehand… you get it? Haha.”
He wheezed, coughed, and continued.
“And Kretar…”

He stopped on the spot. For a moment people were afraid he would grab his heart and drop dead on the table, but instead he raised an arm and pointed.

“Good Gods of the Forge.”

They followed his gaze. It was directed at the stairway, where a lone child stood, hair sticky and clinging to a face red with blood. The child shivered, cloths torn. His arms showed signs of acidic burns and bruises. Eyes rolled back in the kids head before it could do another step, and it fell down onto the hay-covered ground.

“Govarund!” yelled a female voice, and the child’s mother pushed herself through the crowd to grab her first born. She looked at the crowd, but in her panic saw no one in particular.
“Somebody help him. Somebody do something!”

Wedding Party
Second Day
The Spores of Itanlok
Mushroom Forest
Warrens of Gunthras
Loco FungiHammer was enjoying the wedding party mainly because the celebrants chose to give him plenty of space, allowing the Cleric to amuse himself by focusing upon the color trails and tracers emanating from those passing nearby or from waving his own hand in various patterns!

The people that regarded Loco Fungihammer could not tell if he was having a good time, or if he was having a time at all. He seemed entertained, but his reactions weren’t always aimed at something that seemed to be going on at the wedding. Still, they dared not question him or laugh behind his back, out of respect for the braids in his beard. He had earned them, and for that they left him to himself.
Something kept nagging at the back of Loco's mind, but the Cleric had eaten enough of his special mushrooms and was drinking just enough combinations of Dwarven Ales to relegate those thoughts deep within the shadows of his murkiest memories!

He walked the party as if he was making his way through a maze of people, taking turns abruptly and without determination.

“Make room for the mushrooms!” He toasted. It was a custom that seemed appropriate, though to which occasion was another matter.

But, apparently, he had been heard. A tug on his sleeve and a turn of his head alerted him to the fact that somebody was trying to get his attention.

It was an old miner, black coal seeped into the pores so deeply it had eternally stained him. The man was so drunk he could barely walk straight, and stared at Loco with eyes that twirled without finding a focal point.

“Hey there … bahrrrrrrrotherrrr … ya talkin’ bout shroomies? Ye got some shroomies to share with an old mining buddy? Huh, do ya, huh? Whoooo!”
Not every mushroom enhanced experience is a pleasant one to the eyes or ears ... especially not to the nose!

There was a peculiar taint of fragrances emanating from the pores of the coal-blackened skin of the old miner, but Loco had experienced much worse in his mushrooming dazes!

Fumbling around in one of the hidden folds of his garments, the cleric found an old stale mushroom that seemed to have the miner's name on it, or at least the condition of his mind.

"There You Go Old Timer! Enjoy!"
A few moments later they all became aware of a silence that was spreading through the tavern.

Khords were trying to glance over each other’s heads to get a glimpse of what was going on.

Then the attention was caught by a very old Khordaldrum male, who was climbing a table with the help of his cane and four strong, sweating and fumbling cousins.

When he finally found a stable spot he swung his cane overhead in a propelling motion. This raised cheers from everywhere across the room. Somebody yelled in a moment of silence: “Go for it, you old Mugtwister. You’ve still got it!” to which mostly everybody laughed.

Grandfather Mugtwister was one of the oldest Khords that still lived in the Orehand-clan, but known for his good temper and joy in life. He addressed the bride and groom:

“My dearest younglings; Kharox be blessed, how young you both are. When I was as young as you, I was twice your age!”

He coughed.

“Well, Kret and Bef, I rejoice in the joining of the Orehand and the Shieldmaster clan, and believe that it could not have happened through a better couple. I’ve had no say in it, of course, an old pebble like me isn’t asked for an opinion anymore. But if I had been asked I would never have guessed the two of you fitted so well together. But at least now I can say that I knew

Bef-Orehand… you get it? Haha.”

He wheezed, coughed, and continued.

“And Kretar…”

He stopped on the spot. For a moment people were afraid he would grab his heart and drop dead on the table, but instead he raised an arm and pointed.

“Good Gods of the Forge.”

They followed his gaze. It was directed at the stairway, where a lone child stood, hair sticky and clinging to a face red with blood. The child shivered, cloths torn. His arms showed signs of acidic burns and bruises. Eyes rolled back in the kid's head before it could do another step, and it fell down onto the hay-covered ground.

“Govarund!” yelled a female voice, and the child’s mother pushed herself through the crowd to grab her first born. She looked at the crowd, but in her panic saw no one in particular.

“Somebody help him. Somebody do something!”
Fortunately, through his mushroom muddled mind, one Loco Fungihammer realized that he was still indeed a "somebody".

Loco FungiHammer set his mug of ale aside and squinted curiously through the colored haze and kaleidoscope of variou-hued trails to determine if any other "somebody" would indeed make his or her way through the crowd.

Surely there was someone in the crowd well able to tend to the child's wounds?

Someone who had the suitable bedside manner to also allay any fears that the mother would express for the full recovery of her child?

There must be someone? Anyone?

But there seemed to be no one in particular who would step forth from the ale-besotted crowd to help either the mother, or her mysteriously ailing child.

Loco began fumbling in his pouch for the last handful of some mysterious moss of a purple hue that he had found long ago in his travels.

He was getting more uncomfortable by the minute as he soon realized that there seemed to be no one who would come to the child's aid.

And that there certainly seemed to be No Healer in the House!

The nagging visions began creeping into his awareness from their places of exile in the deep recesses of his mind until Loco FungiHammer dare be silent no longer!

"Barkeep! Send Someone to Me with a Mug of Your Best Batch of 'Blue Cheer'! I Will Tend to the Child If No One Else Will Do So!"
Loco FungiHammer had eased his way along a pathway between the curious Khords and observed the situation, already drawing serious conclusions that he dare not mention, lest the celebration turn into a panic zone!

Although he had the knack for healing, Loco was almost totally bereft of that certain aura that drew the public in a favorable way, so he chose to cautiously approach the mother, bowing as graciously as his lack of sociable abilities would allow!

A servant girl brought the mug of Blue Cheer to the Cleric and Loco began soaking his last handful of the purple-hued mysterious moss in the tranquil liquid, before gently applying the mixture to the injured child, as the Khord audience reacted among themselves in various ways!

"These are nasty wounds," whispered Loco to the mother as gently and reassuringly as he could muster in the swirling myriad of emotions that were amplified by the particular mushrooms he had been munching earlier in the day!

"This combination of Moss and Ale should reverse the effects of these nasty wounds in due time! Just see to it that your boy gets plenty of rest after I minister to his wounds!"
Loco refused to comment as to whether or not he knew the source of these particular wounds.

He just methodically dabbed the burns and cuts with the compound of the Moss and Ale, soaking the Moss in the mug of Ale periodically until every last drop of the Ale was soaked into the Moss.

When he was finished, Loco spread the Moss into a makeshift compress on the child's forehead to draw any fever from his body.

Then he stepped closer to the mother and bowed to her with every measure of respect that the Cleric could possibly muster under the circumstances as he uttered a vow for all Khords to hear:

"I Give You My Solemn Word as Loco FungiHammer!" exclaimed the Cleric as he stroked each of his braids, then held them in front of the mother's eyes for emphasis; first the Emerald braid, then the Sapphire braid and then the Ruby braid.

"Whoever ... or ... Whatever ... is Responsible for this Travesty ... Will Answer to Loco FungiHammer ... This I Swear to You!"
Then the Cleric kissed the palm of his right hand and planted it firmly upon the mother's forehead, before bowing once more and returning to the child.

He repeated this ritual, first kissing and placing the palm of his right hand upon the child's forehead, then removing it before the child could respond either positively or negatively!

Loco then wandered over to the nearest mug of freshly poured ale, took a big gulp, then lifted it high proclaiming:

"To the Groom ... and the ... Mushroom!"

Why had she brought the bloody thing? Helengir could not stop spinning her thoughts round and round about it until dizzy. The damned thing weighed more than her three chilren combined and could be a nuisance at such a gathering. But leaving it at home would have meant an empty arm. An empty arm meant remembering he was gone.

Cursing through her greyed beard, Helengir just trudged on through. Thankfully it would sop up her tears if any fell. And with a second breath, she blessed whoever planned on holding the gathering in the ol' Spore. Whiskey. Takards a'flowing. Good strong chatter. That is what the battle crone needed.

A frisky couple, red of cheek and bright of eyes tried angling past and around the monstrous shield. The crowds had parted before it, like a bolder in a river, a nice breakwater for the milling younglings. "Get ye'gone, childer. Make way, ye'blasted--" But her blustering gave way as her eyes caught sight of the newly wed sharing smile and mead.

Heaving a sigh from her plate clad feet, she hefted her shield to press onward through. At times the comedic thing scraped the floor or shoved an entire bench of Khords. But among them, it was as common as dust on an aged keg. Part of life.

As Mugtwister, the old coot, made his way onto a table to give voice to the event of two being wed, the ol' Bloodblade took the moment of quiet to find her own tankard for the toast. A few hands came forth from the milling crowd, each offering a frothy brew to the oldster as her eyes glittered a thanks under bushy gunmetal grey. "Many thanks fer the drink." Why she tried to speak, who could say. It was just as quickly drowned out as the elder pointed a crooked finger to a yon lad on a step.

Blood dripped through his hair, as peculiar a sight as the light in his eyes. As if the little one had been just as amazed to be hit by something. Shock. He was in complete shock, which would not last long. Every old mothering instinct shot through her like lava from a flowspout. But the heaviness of her shield and sudden drink in hand, among a milling crowd eager to see what happened, held her at bay.

A voice cut through the air,the owner moving through the milling crowd with an ease that made Helengir curse again. She would owe the goddess later for the slurs.

"Barkeep! Send Someone to Me with a Mug of Your Best Batch of 'Blue Cheer'! I Will Tend to the Child If No One Else Will Do So!" Eyeing the speaker, her brows shot up making every wrinkle deepen. Some crazed looking thing of a man, festooned with knick knacks and probably smelling of something best left alone.

Poor boy, wake up seein' that, liable to want ta'return ta sleepin'. Trying to force her way through, the old shield basher gave up and let go of her best friend. With a longing sigh to the shield, she turned and turned again, milling through the crowd, at times lifting someone and plunking them down to get through. Finally she arrived as the fool shoved some concoction over the wound and applied the Khord Answer to Laments and Emergencies (ALE).

"Ye think ye would try speakin' ta the lad..." But he could not hear her with his proclamation so loud betwixt his teeth.

"I Give You My Solemn Word as Loco FungiHammer! Whoever ... or ... Whatever ... is Responsible for this Travesty ... Will Answer to Loco FungiHammer ... This I Swear to You!" Then the crazy man rubbed his honor braids before the child, licked at his palms, and smacked the mother and child on their brainpans.

Sighing again from somewhere about her toes, Helengir could only pray to the lady of honor. "Give me strength with childer and madmen." Eyeing the 'cleric' mad on shrooms and the mother, she patted at the lad with care. Her war trained eyes looked for the rise and fall of breath, be it normal or quick. Any flutter of lashes. The strange burns on his hands.

"I be no healer, but this poor lad seems ta been in an explosion. Ye be his mother, whar he be all this time?" Helengir peered at the lady holding her boy so close.

Niaou’li was enjoying every single moment of this wonderful evening. She loved the back corner of the Spores, where the games were held. She was not really fond of playing herself, but she loved to stand by and see the others enjoy the party. She loved the way the smiths competed with each other, she especially liked the goldsmiths because they had this intense glance in their eyes when trying to outdo the others, a look you could not compare with any other kind of emotion but one you would remember your whole life and that makes you feel like you’re at home. She liked this feeling, it had lacked in her life for a very long time..

When beholding the Ale-Tugging, she could not help laughing on the inside. She liked the various methods these men came up with just to get to the beer. Of course there was the collaborating between two so called rivals by walking from one mug to the other, but the game was more fun to her when one man managed to empty both mugs or when one of the spectators decided it has taken long enough and decided to finish the golden brew by his of herself.

When taking in all of the festivities, she felt a heavy weight on one of her shoulders. She turned around to see by whom it had been elicited, and looked into the chuckling face of Avulgard Brundo. Avulgard was the patron of the Spores, and has been a friend of Niaou’li for a very long time already. Before she started working at the archives they used to go on these little trips into the woodlands, to find herbs and berries she could use for her healing and he could use for his exquisite brews. She had often asked him to give her the recipe of the mixtures, but he had refused every single time saying “if you’d know the methods of preparation, it will never more be as delicious as before”. She greeted him with a hearty smile, asking if he were having such a good time as well. “O yeah, it’s such a privilege to be a part of this wedding!”, he responded. “I heard you were the one who suggested the use of my tavern as the place for this weddingparty? I suppose I should thank you. Maybe I can start by finding a quieter spot for your companion here?” and he pointed at Firenze. “I have a room behind the bar where he could stay”.

Niaou’li was very grateful and started leading Firenze to the bar. The poor deer seemed overwhelmed by all the attention, the cheering and dancing people and she might even have had a sip of the puddle of ale, that came into being between the bundles of hay on the floor. Avulgard opened the door of the backroom, that was not really big but really cozy because of the moderate light, the beautiful paintings on the walls, the furnished chairs and the small round table in the center of the room , made out of oak with decorations of leaves and small plants on every single one of the three table-legs. The room had something mysterious about it, something Niaou’li couldn’t place.

In the corner of the room there was a small red-brownish couch, which Firenze really seemed to like since she jumped on it and immediately fell in a really deep sleep. Niaou’li smiled and when following Avulgard out of the room something in the little closet next to the couch drew her attention. It were some paper scrolls, bound together by an olive green satin ribbon, with a red seal on it. It weren’t the scrolls that drew Niaou’li’s attention, they were probably just order forms for the numerous sorts of Khord beer, but it was the seal that was attached to the ribbon. I know I have seen this logo before… but where..? She noticed Avulgard waiting for her in the doorway, slipped the papers in the pocket of her cloth and followed him.

When they came out of the room she noticed nothing but whispering. There was a stifling perception in the room, when making her way through all of the guests, that seem to have gathered at the entrance of the spores. “did you see that?!” an old lady rustled to her nearby friend, “who was that?” Niaou’li heard Vindrun Olbrad ask his twin brother Nurdiv, “How could anything like this have happened?” she heard a frightened man say and she saw this little girl with blonde dainty hair crying in her mother’s lap. The atmosphere of total happiness and joy that prevailed in the tavern before, had changed suddenly. Niaou’li kept following Avulgard, who was walking towards the whirling stairway to find out what had caused the sudden damper on the festivities in his inn.

When they had almost reached their destination she saw Loco, kneeling on the floor, with some kind of purple fungus in his hands. She thought she had seen the stuff before, in one of the dusty jars in the cabinet of the old lady in Verbyn, but she was not sure. [knowledge nature check]. When Loco bent over to the left to soak the handful of purpleness in a stale mug she shuddered. “Kith-Jora! What has happened here?!” she stumbled. She saw this little boy, lying on the floor, all covered in blood and burns. It was Govarund, one of the sons of Manula, one of the children Dirlan used to tell stories to every Friday, when he took care of some Khordaldrum children.

She saw ‘Loco’ Fungihammer taking care of the boy’s wounds and saw an impressive female Khord assisting him, or maybe she was just preventing him from doing any more harm, and Niaou’li did not want to create any more commotion by interfering. Instead, she mounted the stairway to see if outside there was any kind of a lead to what had happened to the little fellow. Swiftly she left the spores, when hearing Loco promising something about the responsible person having to answer to him..

For a time, it seemed, Crulgrin managed to escape any undue notice by keeping to the shadows near the Spores’ bar. As a result, he had almost let his original trepidation at having even attending the festivities slip away and allowed himself to actually start enjoying the merriment of the occasion. Not so much so that his gaze didn’t keep account of the Gemhound’s whereabouts, though, or that he inadvertently drew any unwanted or unnecessarily inquisitive conversations with the other guests. No, Crulgrin Shadebeard was perfectly content to watch from the fringes of the party, cloaked in the shadows of the tavern’s recesses… unnoticed, it would seem, by any aside from the barkeep since Kret’s unexpected greeting… silently celebrating the new marriage and resultant expansion of the clan with an ever-filled tankard of stout and, when the exuberant cadence of ‘Catch the Badger’ proved to be too difficult to ignore, a stealthy, shuffling dance of his own. It was just after the tune had caught his feet, though, that Crulgrin noticed the curious goings on at the other end of the bar…

Beyond the obvious display of the ‘Khord-leidoscope’ of a mage that stood there happily conversing with another, there were another pair of blokes attempting to wrestle a heavy, leather sack towards the other side of The Spores where the wedding gifts were stacked in preparation for the bride and groom to open. The two were so intent on their task, though, that they had failed to notice the tear in the seam of the sack that had opened wide enough to start spilling it’s sparkling contents onto the floor… gem after glittering gem peeked out, squeezed through the opening, and plonked down amidst the dirt, hay, and spilled ale that covered the floor of the place.

Ach, in the name of all the pointy-eared Syl gods, he groused internally as his gray eyes darted away from the spilling treasure and made a quick scan of the place as if to verify that he had been the only one to see the occurrence, Ye can’t even be thinkin’ fer serious ‘bout this, can ye? It’s not jus’ thievin’, lad, it’s thievin’ from fam’ly, as well! Crulgrin hefted his tankard, taking a long pull of the stout more in an effort to hide his face than out of thirst, and, as his gaze swept over the wedding crowd, tugged somewhat nervously at the collar of his tunic, taking little comfort in the mithral shirt beneath it or the vest of escape that surmounted it. Those few gems, he was sure, would go a long way towards paying off the ‘debt’ he had incurred and, perhaps, even finally get him free of the obligations that had set him on the gem-smuggling path to begin with… his gaze slid back to the growing string of escaped gems… But it’s thievin’ from yer kin, Crulgrin…
Aye, but if I could free meself o’ this bloody contract, I could per’aps go back ta an honor’ble pr’fession an’ do right by ‘em then, his racing mind suggested as his eyes, peering over and around the still-tipped tankard, continued to entertain the idea. Course, with there just bein’ the one way in an’ out o’ Th’ Spores, ye’d not be left with many escape routes, would ye?. The jubilant mass of dancing Khords provided the solution he sought. There be yer path, boy-o, he grinned, his heretofore softly shuffling feet embracing the full enthusiasm intended by ‘Catch the Badger,’ much easier ta vanish in plain sight than ta poke about in the obvious hidey-holes… an’ a far better chance o’ beatin’ Burrowfolk to the door if not.
So it was that, after another fractional second of thought, Crulgrin’s face split into a broad party-goer’s smile as he committed to his plane. He began stomping and whirling his around to the other side of the bar, making sure that his own dance steps kept his face obscured from Burrowfolk as much as possible, and towards the, thus far unnoticed trail of gemstones… ((OOC: Assuming he makes it that far, Crulgrin will attempt to nab a few of those errant gemstones, incorporating his pilfering in with his rather stumbling dance steps before trying to slip towards the door… if caught, the following can be edited )) …Once he had plucked as many of the stones from the floor as he felt comfortable in hiding Crulgrin uttered a silent oath of thanks to Chald Aharn, punctuating the offering with a more relaxed swig of stout as he allowed a young lass to take his hand and sashay him out into the dancing throng and closer to the Spores of Itanlok’s singular entryway.

Before the lass could whirl him within a bounding step of the spiraling stair, though, the music dwindled and Old Mugtwister appeared – with the help of a few Khords far younger than himself – on a tabletop set to offer up what Crulgrin had no doubt would be one version or another of the blessing that the oldster had given at every wedding Crulgrin could remember from the time he was just a pebble. He offered the khord-girl a smile and a nod as she released his hand and turned her eyes (as had most others in the crowd) to Grandfather Mugtwister and, while he was somewhat enrapt by the old tunneler’s words himself, Crulgrin managed to continue backing his way towards the steps and, Chald Ahard still smiling, up them and out very shortly thereafter. The Luck Goddess seemed to have other plans, though. Just as Crulgrin reached the foot of the stair and was set to drain the remainder of his tankard before beating a swift and silent retreat up and out of the Spores of Itanlok, he found his escape route blocked by a horribly wounded young lad…

“Govarund!” yelled a female voice, and the child’s mother pushed herself through the crowd to grab the boy who had just collapsed in the midst of the party.

… and, even as the soon to be chaotic scene unfolded, Shadebeard found himself trapped between the proverbial rock and hard-place… It don’t look as if I’ll be slippin’ oot unseen, now, does it, he sulked – despite his concern for the horrifically wounded young pebble – edging, once again, away from the exit and deeper into the concealing throng of his kinfolk.


((Sorry for the delay... I'll stop there in the interest of moving ahead... Crully's hiding and watching... ))

“But where are my manners. My name is Grothtorg. Nice to meet you.”

Crellin raised a darkened brow at the armor baring Khord to his side, his left eye twitching uncontrollably as lash tried unsuccessfully to bat away the remnants of the vile smoke/dust invaders… “Lone Adventurer? Aye, ye might say that.” the Khord mused as Grandfather Mugtwister rose to the tabletop.
“Ye see Things around me tend to have a habit of being pretty unpredictable.. I mean, it would be like in the middle of this fantastic wedding, some denizen of the underworld came waltzing down the stairs in a chain mail skirt selling baked goods for fundraising event for enough coin to break their contract of a year and a day…”

Crellin thought back to when he had crossed path’s with the demure mistress of the deep hells some years back.” Without thinking he licked his lips, remembering those delectable little cakes the mail laced femme fatal with bat-like wings and the cutest little tail that swished and swayed like fresh ale sloshing around a new cask had offered.. A single taste had sent his taste buds, whirling, his senses reeling.. and his entire coin purse traveling farther still.. I do wonder where I could have lost that, I mean I had it when I went to pay for the pastry he mused again., mind drifting to the memory of the tasty morsel… “mmmmm” He said obviously off in his own world.

“Good Gods of the Forge.”

A clamor rose as more and more in attendance took to the child standing in the doorway, stained with tears and blood. Some rushed to his side, other’s stood taken aback in awe… Crellin however, Just took the distraction as opportunity to grab another gift of happenstance, bringing an unattended tankard to his parched lips, washing down the very real sensation of that traveling saleswoman’s almost euphoric pastries…

“Govarund!” yelled a female voice… snapping Crellin from his mental escapism into reverie.. The Khord snapped his head up to the voice, taking in the scene of those encroaching upon the kneeling woman.

“Somebody help him. Somebody do something!”

Somebody? I’m a somebody, at least I think I am… is it after high sun? I do believe I’m only scheduled to be somebody after high sun.. but who can tell being as we’re underground! Crellin jumped forward, pushing his way through the crowd until he stood only a few feet away from the gathering around the child and his mother.

“I’m a somebody, and I can do something!” he blurted out drawing the gazes of those nearby. Clapping his hands and rubbing his knobby little fingers together, he began casting Prestidigitation a faint magical kerchief flying over to the boy and gently attempting to clean up the boy to a less, ‘I was just mauled by a terrible were-kitten’ state of observance.

(attempting to clean up/remove excess blood yadda yadda at the rate of 1 cube foot / rnd (6 seconds), make him look more presentable/ more easily discern wounds apart from stains and soiled garments.. I state attempt on the off chance you roll a 20 on a cantrip and y‘know.. I blow up the tavern or something :S)

Baldorf was taken aback by the Khord woman who had roared at him, then changed her tone so suddenly upon seeing him. Did this lass think he was attractive? Maybe his luck was turning around and he was being accepted into Khord society. Maybe they would elope, and live their lives together... Baldorf blinked. Better slow down. His beard was blowing very hard.

"Hruby? Nice to meet you. I'm Baldorf."

However, he didn't have much time to talk before she was leading him through the crowd to a private room. This was like a dream come true...

But, of course, an abrupt stop came to his dreams again. The way was blocked by Helengir Thunderhand. She was a huge woman, and had that look on her face... And she was blocking their way. And she would probably not just let them by.

"Hruby, come with me. I know a way to get lost in the crowd, and then we can come back here... Unless Thunder thighs is still blocking the road."

With that, Baldorf grabbed Hruby's hand and brought her through the crowd, going through clumps of people and around everywhere, waiting for Helengir to move in order to get to the room where Hruby had intended them to go and... Well, he tried not to get his hopes up.

It was during his hopes for something grand that old...thunder thighs...had indeed moved on. Which is a good thing. She could sour a score with just a bushy browed stare. Her wagging finger could make the most randy chaste. Thankfully, for the laddy, she had bigger fishies to fry.


Though she did give a snort and muttered when she had walked past. (*dies laughing* thunder thighs, awesome. She moved past earlier, he's free an clear........for now.)

When Loco fist approached mother and child, he was regarded with an apprehensive stare. Grovarund’s mother shielded the child away from this well intended attention. But he bowed graciously before her, and as he did, the three braids in his beard became more apparent. This made her relax, or at least enough for him to attend to the child.

His methods raised some eyebrows amongst the spectators, but nobody could really argue the healthy benefits of ale, especially in their current mind-set of drowsy celebration. There were a few with doubts though, and they were the ones who crowded around the most. Helengir and Niaou’li were two of them. But where the warrior woman kept an eye on the child’s wellbeing, the druidess went up the swirling stairway to see if there was something to be seen outside of the Spores.
Who also joined the caretaking of the child was Crellin, weaving his magic in an attempt to aid in the cleansing of Govarund’s persona. To his own relief, the spell worked wonderfully, and slowly the child became visible again from underneath the filth and blood.

Crulgrin had been grabbing gems which, his trained eye told him, were completely legit, shiny and valuable. He had filled two of his pockets and would’ve been continuing the expansion of his wealth if Jamdock Burrowfolk hadn’t shown up. The Gemhound had probably smelled the nakedness of the unveiled stones and had followed the scent. Like a charmed snake, Crulgrin danced away towards the safety of the stairway exit, with a good 100 gold worth of gems in his possession. Events unfolded and he felt himself trapped in the hole, desperate to get out.

There was someone else who wished the commotion had waited a bit longer to manifest. Baldorf was finally seeing his wish for acceptation come true. Unfortunately, as old Mugtwister pointed everybody in the direction of the wounded child, Hruby answered his example and dropped her giggling and frivolous flirtation. She gaped at the child in horror, and looked at Baldorf with eyes wide like a deer.
“Somebody should find out what happened to him!”

Meanwhile, Niaou’li was climbing the stairway, when she met a Khordaldrum warrior in armor. An axe was strapped to his belt, and he looked as if he had just ended a shift guarding the Throne of Kharolis. He was buff and robust and gave her an investigating stare.
“Why is it so quiet down there? Is the party over? No… don’t tell me. It’s that old Mugtwister’s turn to speak, isn’t it? That’s why everybody shut up.”
(continuing after conversation) Niaou’li climbed the stairs further, finally exited the Spores to find herself in an enormous cavern. It was very dark, but in the distance she could see a few glowing mushrooms amidst the fungus forest that had been planted there many centuries ago. She scanned the nearby area for signs of a fight, but all she found were a few drops of blood and an eerie silence that was so pressing that it reminded her of a vacuum.

Down in the Spores, Loco treated the child’s wounds one by one with the mystical moss and the Blue Cheer, and (which surprised quite a few Khords) the child’s cramped agony eased away. But while Grovarund became peaceful, the guests started to stir.

"I be no healer, but this poor lad seems ta been in an explosion. Ye be his mother, whar he be all this time?" Helengir remarked. But Crellin, having witnessed many explosions and other such sudden eruptions knew that these wounds were not caused by an explosion of fire. These were the marks of acid.
The mother stared at the old woman in armor and stammered something weakly about not knowing where her child had been.

But where the woman was relaxing somewhat in the knowledge that her child was in good hands, the other parents started noting their own children were gone as well.

“Where’s Mugront? Mugront!” A woman yelled in sudden fright.
People started whispering. Whispers became a murmur and soon people were shouting.
“Avondel! Hukert! Riv! Where are the children?”
“Who has seen our youngest!”
“Khartok!”
“Wait, Glimmert said he was going to play outside with the others. They went into the mushroom forest. I have to go find him!”
A race began for the door. Khords pushed and shoved in panicked realization that they had not been watching their offspring. Tables were knocked aside, and mugs of beer flew through the air. But this time there came no cheers and burps in answer. The room was a mass of shock, and seemed suddenly tight and too small to house so many people.
The first parents reached the spiraling stairway, but found their exit blocked by a buff Khord in leather and chains, who carried a battle axe, which was now drawn.

“STOP!” he yelled over their heads and in their faces. “Stop this panic at once!”
“It’s not your son out there who is in danger!” Came an angry reply from within the masses.
“I know you want to save your children. But you are none of you equipped or sober enough to deal with whatever is endangering them. I will go and find your young ones. But I need a few brave souls to help me. If we all go, the chaos will work against us!”

Crulgrin had been listening intently to what had been going on, when suddenly a hand fell on his shoulder and grabbed him tight.
“Now I have you. Your stink has been bothering me all night. You and I have a few things to talk about!”
It was Jamdok Burrowfolk, his gemmed eye staring down at the smuggler even harder then his Khordaldrum one.
But the Gemhound’s attention was divided, for while he maintained his hold on Crulgrin, he peered over the masses to see what was happening at the stairway.
“I’ll deal with you later.” He sneered, and tossed his catch to the side to pound his way through the panicking party goers.
The ones closest to the stairs were starting to push and shove again, and a riot was building.

“You’re full of crap, Thagovan! Let us by!” The mob was in no mood to listen and more than a few readied their fists to take it up with the warrior.
“But he is right! People! Listen to him!”
It was the Gemhound who had called out over the mob. Heads turned his way, but he did not flinch under the angry glances shot at him.
“You are all too drunk to deal with danger right now. We need order! I want all the parents who are missing a child to come to me. I will form groups to search the mushroom forest. Thagovan over there,” he indicated the buff warrior at the stairway, “will go ahead with a group of strong men. The rest of you, come to me, and we will sort things out as fast as possible.”

His voice had a somewhat calming effect on the crowd, and his words reduced their blind panic into a more sober eagerness to deal with things.

(OOC: Ok, guys. I hope you will all choose to go to Thagovan, so we can begin the bonding of the group. You can pick whatever reason to join him that suits your character best, as long as you join.
Also: sorry for posting late. I chose Saturday as my update day for a good reason. It's when I have the most time, and usually the most enthusiasm. Next update will come next Saturday, so please post before Fridaynight, since I live in Europe (timedifference).)