The Khazad

Sitting Near a Warm Fire
Here, near the fire, the Sleeping Dragon Inn is quite peaceful. Lounging in a wooden chair, sipping a drink, you think about your past adventures, until the fire crackles suddenly, awakening you from your day dream. A solemn bard plays a sorrowful melody on a harp, singing the verses of the song in a deep voice. To the west is the entrance hall of the Sleeping Dragon Inn.
Exits: west
A humble elven bard is here, singing a sorrowful melody.

The dwarf before you is short for his race, not quite reaching four feet in height. Small, however, is not quite an accurate description as he is about that wide as well. Bright green eyes set deep within his face peer out at the world, giving most everything a good, long, slow look before moving on. Heavy jowls, a bulbous ruddy red nose and thick features give the dwarf a face that is most definitely suited best to scowling but manages somehow to maintain a friendly open and warm expression. He wears quite proudly a thick beard the dull red color of rust spread out across his chest in combed waves without the hint of a tangle. A bright chainmail tunic and sleeves rests comfortably upon his bulky frame and he wears a pair of thick gauntlets made from the same material. Strapped to his back is a massive round shield, obviously reinforced and bearing many marks of prior combat, all lovingly cared for. Peaking above his shoulder is the large head of a pick-axe crafted from an unusually beautiful silver metal. If this is all mithril, the dwarf is carrying far more of it than he should.

Yeroc looks to be about 3'11", and looks to be around 170 pounds. His auburn hair is long and scraggly, his face showing a full beard. His green eyes match softly with his light tan skin.

Yeroc walks into the room slowly, taking in the crackle of the fire and the low melody of the harp floating about. This is near the time Doyle asked for, but seeing noone he stumps over to a chair near the fireplace and settles himself uncomfortably upon it.

Yeroc drums mithril-clad fingers upon the tabletop and gazes about the room idly. Not a likely place for an ambush, but looks like one would be fun. Plenty of obstacles and things to crunch. His right hand absently runs across the mithril head of the warpick peeking over his shoulder.

Short blonde hair dons his head as sullen wised emerald green eyes look out-above high set cheek bones-at the world. Small stems of stubble make an attempt to regrow over his clean shaven face. A rather long scar snakes its way down from underneath his right eye to the base of his jaw. He has a broad build, well rounded, very muscular and healthy looking, clad in dark black, brown, greyish armor from head to toe. Only his bare head is visable. A deep red colored shroud is set behind him, it appears to go down to waist level. Extending out from the shroud are two hammers, sheathed in a cross pattern on his back, the hammer heads are set just behind his head adjacent to each ear. At each side of his waist are two glimmering swords, both with emblems of dragon skulls and other pictures to suggest death of dragons.

Doyle is 6'1", and weighs 200 pounds. His short, straight hair is Dark blonde colored. His green eyes match softly with his white skin.

Doyle steps in slowly, pull his hood down making sure his face is concealed. He looks at Yeroc as he approaches him, "Thank you for meeting with me." he says somberly.

Yeroc rises from the table as Doyle approaches, green eyes appraising the human slowly. He nods and holds his right arm up and out in greeting. "Aye. Doyle I presume? I am Yeroc StarProfit."

Doyle hesitates for a moment, then graps yerocs hand in greeting, "Yes, Nice to meet you…" he says distractedly.

Doyle glances about the room precariously, then looks back to Yeroc, "Well lets get down to matters, as you may or may not know the humans are not in good shape as a nation…" he says in a serious content voice.

Yeroc withdraws his gauntleted hand and peers up into the human's hood. After a brief moment he nods, moves back to his seat and gestures Doyle to the one opposite, not seating himself yet. "I've seen the talk of plague in the clearing, and read the drow's drivel, aye. I'm knowing nothing else of it."

Doyle walks to the chair opposite Yeroc and sits down, arms crossed, "That is not my real concern for this meeting, you see the humans are not united, we are scattered, spread out everywhere…"

Yeroc's brow furrows and his head cocks to the side a bit as he listens, but he remains attentive, inclining his head briefly to indicate he is listening.

Doyle continues to explain, "You see, the history of the humans has been destroyed long ago, we have no records of our past events… I feel this is the sole reason for our diaspora… If we could get our history together, the humans will unite and be stronger…"

Yeroc clears his throat in a low grumble. "What's that to do with the Khazad? Also, didn't ye tell me in your missive this could mean the existence or not of your People? Hardly seems so urgent to me at first glance."

Doyle exhales sharply, "There is more to it then meets the eye, if the humans keep seperating, what hope will there to keep the nation alive? We will have no common bond, we will be nothing more then a group of people spread around realms, but the reason i came here, whether you feel it urgent or not, is to ask you if you have any information about you dwarves, with us humans in the past?"

Yeroc lays his right hand flat against the table and begins drumming his fingers against it again as he thinks. "My knowledge of history on the surface is somewhat limited. I can go to the Elders with your request if you think it important. I do remember standing with your People against Varrick and his "Empire", but that lasted only as long as the threat itself."

Doyle nods slowly, "Yes, thank you" he pauses for a moment, "but this was not the only reason i asked to meet with you….."

Doyle chuckles with embarresment, "I see you know of Varrick?"

Yeroc shrugs. "Aye, I suppose. I was there. He has a long history of making threats against the Reach. I've not seen nor heard of him since my Sister held the throne."

Doyle uncrosses his arms and adjusts one of his gauntlets for no reason as he speaks, "Well Varrick is the other reason i need to talk to you…." he says solemnly, "You see, Varrick has a vast knowledge of my peoples history, and it goes back a long way… I feel this could be the best source the humans can get to compile our history…" he glances at the wall to the far side of the room, "I was going to look for him, before i did, he appeared before me, wondering what i wanted… I told him, he is a demented soul… he refused to just tell me… He is making me play this, game of sorts… I need to find three other leaders of the nations of this realm, and all four of us must be fed on by him… Then and only then he will tell me everything i need to know…"

Yeroc blinks, stares a moment at the human, then blinks again.

Yeroc rises from his chair in one jolting, blocky movement, his face turning a bright red. His voice is lower but considerably louder than it has been. "Ye'd better not be asking what it sounds like yer asking, human."

Doyle looks up to the angered dwarf, he says calmly, "Unfortuantly, it is.. I know this would be asking alot, if you do this, the humans will be in your debt…" he says more sternly, "but you must understand, this history is, very, important to me.."

Yeroc's right hand moves to the haft of his pick and the massive shield that so far has covered the bulk of his back has appeared on his left arm, a strange soft white glow beginning to bloom in his eyes.

Doyle holds his hand up, "Please, there is no need to arm yourself, i will not force you if you so desire…"

Yeroc glares at Doyle through narrowed eyes. "Ye've lost your wits. I'll tell ye right now its not happening. A damned leech, and Varrick no less! It's not happening, dammit! And I'll bloody well arm myself under the circumstances, thank you."

Doyle looks up at the dwarf, "I have not lost my wits… However" he leans forward pulling the hood from his head, revealing his ghost white marble corpse like face, "I am running out of time…"

Yeroc gestures toward Doyle with his right hand, now firmly holding the haft of the warpick. "You want help with that, I'm willing to help. But being fed upon by that damned leech is.. not.. happening."

Doyle gently caresses his cheek, then looks to the dwarf again, "I am starting to doubt the cure for this… if i am going to die, then so be it, but I will get this history, i am succumbing myself to the same fate as you, we will not die from this…" he says in a calm voice.

Yeroc moves his shield a bit almost as if to put it between himself and the human, the white protective glow of his eyes spreading about the rest of the mithril on his person: the pick, the shield, the gauntlets, the chain. "If ye've nothing more to say to me than this, Doyle, I'll be taking my leave."

Doyle shakes his head slowly, "I have not." he pauses, "But thank you for looking into our history…" He leans back into the chair and replaces the hood again and crosses his arms.

Yeroc nods, a quick, jerking, angry motion. There are few things the human could have asked for that would make the Thane more angry. Yeroc stumps quickly through the doorway, boots rapping loudly on the floors. He is long on his way back to the Reach before the shield and pick are replaced on his back.

Doyle stares off at the far wall for a few long moments, then he sighs loudly, "Well, thats one off the list…." he picks himself up and walks slowly out of the room staggering slightly as he tries to keep his posture.

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