Dern snarls over his impending wedding, and Chiddle the gnome comes up with an interesting solution to ensure fewer shotgun-style weddings. Which Dern swears his isn't!

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-<* Myrrish Camp *>-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

 Soldiers. Ferriers. More soldiers. Cooks. Cavalrymen (and cavalrywomen). Healers. Officers. All these and more bustle through the neatly-pitched sea of tents that make up the Myrrish camp, no matter the time of day or night. At night, firelight flickers off the tents and lengthens peoples' shadows.

An herbal scent comes from a large group of tents off to the side, nearest the front lines--these tents an an appropriated farmhouse make up the field hospital, where the wounded are brought. A neat graveyard stands behind the field hospital--a few men are almost always on duty digging new graves.

Nearby, an entire (albeit quite small) town has been appropriated for officer's quarters and Myrrish war business--the smithy in particular is certainly making money. The only tavern in the tiny town, the Blushing Rosalia, is something of a gathering place for officers and adventurers.

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 Dern A black haired mountain dwarf of regal bearing. For a 10s 1h

 Rowena A simply dressed young dwarven woman 0s 1m

 Makarra A dark haired, gray eyed short human in green clothes 12m 14m

 Ceres Silver-haired elf, tall and extremely graceful 29s 43m

 Aleron An unassuming man with a briefcase 3m 1h

 Chiddle Dark haired gnome dressed in in Artificer's garb. 1m 1h

-=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-

Blushing Rosalia <BR> The Front Lines <TFL>  

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It's a busy day at the Myrrish Camp. Preperations are always constant. Prepare for the next battle, the next meal, the next shift of the guard. There's always something to preapre for. In Dern's case, he's preparing for the next battle, himself, whenever it happens to be. He is once again polishing his plate armor, shirtless here in the heat, banging out dents with a blacksmith's hammer.

He is muttering in dwarven. If one didn't know better, it'd sound like he's cursing up a *storm* in dwarven.

It's Tariday, Aestry 14 19:32:38 1006. The full moon isn't up. The tide is high and slack.

A light rain falls from a grey sky. It's warm and there's a slight wind from the southeast.

Chiddle doesn't seem to 'do' the whole prepared thing. It's what makes gnomes so dangerous. They're like these little bundles of unpredictable energy. Sometimes they turn people into fish, sometimes they blow up enemy airships. No-one ever really knows which is going to happen until the dust has settled. Chiddle is currently sitting, smoking what appears to be a rather fine imported Hookah, while he scribbles all over blueprints that look like they've seen so many revisions it would be more efficient to go back to the drawing boards. His whole planning set is laid out on a wide wooden table, the paper clamped in at the four corners to avoid annoying drafts ruining his hard work.

For her part, the cheerfully energetic shape of Makarra can be seen barreling through the crowds, whistling delightedly under her breath as she dodges around taller people around her. At least, until they see the holy badge that rests atop her chest. Then she's given more room to move. Whether it is because people are worried about being pranked or out of respect? That isn't clear.

A crowd underneath a steel-gray sky of churning soldiers and mercenaries, priests, the sick and the able. And one, marching through the recently rained-upon ground on broad, bare feet that squelch! bravely and with mud squerching between the toes. "You shouldn't be cursing like that," Rowena snaps. She's tucking bloodied, dirtied bandages away into a tub as she walks, and comes to a stop near the cursing dwarven smith. "I doubt your father had feet the size of a pixie--I'm sure they were something to be proud of...hello, Chiddle," she adds, readjusting the tub. "See? You don't see master Chiddle maligning /his/ father. What has you in such a snit, anyway?

Aleron finishes putting the last piece of paper into a file, letting the ink dry as he stoppers his bottle of the black fluid and sets his pen into a rolled up piece of cloth. He pulls the file out, shuts the case, and starts making a beeline toward the dour dwarf, the case gripped in his left hand as he seems to have an almost deadpan expression on his lips. Not good!

When Rowena speaks, Dern stops cursing. He pauses. He looks at her, then he just groans. "My *parents*, I respect. But that doesn't mean I'm not allowed to grouse amongst my fellow soldiers when they get in the way." Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, most soldiers don't have to put up with parents meddling in their lives all the way on the front lines like Dern apparently has. "I imagine his father hasn't done anything worth maligning in some time." He eyes the gnome. Warily. Because he's a gnome and therefore *must* be warily eyed.

Chiddle blinks, and adjusts his glasses- the round-rimmed type, complete with fold-up magnifiers. He seems a little confused as Rowena speaks about him, and he lets out a buff of smoke from the Hookah, before he responds to Dern's way look with a cheerful wave.

Rowena adjusts the tub o' filth where it rests against the side, and brushes back her braid. It's an angry brush, and her own proud, dwarven feet squelch a little more in the mud. The very sort of proud, useful feet Dern'd been insulting! "Well! Any dwarf would be insulted by that--pixie-sized feet! He's probably proud of his. He probably expects them on his grandchildren, too." And Rowena plops down nearby, looking all the world an old gossip, despite the lack of wrinkles, or old, crinkly crone-hair. It'll come, it'll come... "I suppose gnomes aren't as proud of their feet," she surmises to Chiddle. "It's the nose, isn't it? And look, here's Aleron. He's probably here to help you understand the paperwork. There's alot of tradition goes into a contract like that."

Xander has arrived.

"There are -such- fascinating peple here," Makarra mutters to herself when she overhears the conversation with Dern and Rowena in passing. So, like many others, she stops and blatantly watches, a bright smile on her face as she does.

Ceres's attention is not caught by the cursing dwarf, or the cheerful figures, or even the disapproving ones. No, what catches her eye is a certain lawyer crossing the way towards Dern, the cursing dwarf. Bringing her selection to a close, the drilling soldiers probably not missing the accompaniment all that much, as she gets ready to see if the lawyer is as odd the second time, as the first.

Aleron walks up to the groomed dark-haired dwarf and says, "You are Dern, I take it? I have a few papers to deliver to you." He holds a full stack of papers, several dozen of them, out toward him, swaddled in a larger, thicker piece of paper and tied with string. Within appears to be a formal lawsuit. "As an arbitrator, the Merchants Guild of Dun Mordren is suing you by rite of patriarchal delegation for failure to pay for a shipment of exotic animals."

"...what," says Dern to Aleron. There's just this long, olong pause. HE was going to respond to Rowena. He really was. But then he stopped. And just stared.

"This isn't the marriage? Really, Aleron," Rowena huffs up, and straightens where she sits. "The man just found out he's going to be married--I'd expected you to hold off on this a day or so." Oh, dear. The hands are on the hips. Or the fist, rather, and she frowns at him, too. "That and the other suit you'd had--and really...you ought to be more quiet about this. I'm just positive his wife will be embarrassed!"

Makarra opens her mouth, potentially to interject her opinion. Especially since Dern's face is so very priceless. Then she eyes the lawyer. "Is it true," she finally asks the man, "that lawyers are required to give up their senses of humor when they pass the bar?"

"... Your father apparently ordered a shipment of seven 'pink birds with green beaks and plaid wings', a 'cross between a turtle and a giraffe', and 'four albino black dragonlings' from a wizard. He refuses to receive them because he apparently thought it was a joke."

... says the lawyer.

Chiddle watches the exchange with interest, occasionally puffing on his Hookah which, of course, gugles quietly.

Aleron peers at Rowena with the corner of his eye. Oh, he's going to get chided again, but... it's his job.

Ceres has to get up at that one, and 'accidentally' make her way over, if by accidentally means she heads right over, lapharp held carefully in her arms.

"...it probably was. That does not sound like anything my father would do, nor would the man I know skip payment on a debt he owed. Someone, clearly, has mistaken something somewhere along the line." He is frowning, but Dern reaches to accept the papers from Aleron. He also winces when Rowena says 'the m-word'.

Aleron turns toward Makarra, "While working as an arbitrator, it is best to bear a neutral face when dealing with precarious situations as to not skew one's view toward a side." He of course, says this in a completely deadpan manner.

"Well, it certainly sounds irresponsible," Rowena agrees, and starts to fold the bloody bandages again. "Master Aleron," she says, firmly, and wags one of them at him. It looks slightly putrid, with green, red, and brown spots. "You should be careful not to bring this up in the future in front of Dern's wife. Take him aside, or something. We don't want to run her off." And of course, he gets chided.

"So it is, actually, possible that you have no soul," Makarra says in an equally deadpan voice. Perhaps she's doing a clerical inquiry!

"You are married, good sir. Congratulations! May your union be blessed, and fruitful!" Ceres immediately congratulates the dwarf, her voice cheerful (and loud).

"I am merely delivering the papers as quickly as possible and addressing communication from the Guild as soon as I receive it in order to resolve this in as expediently as possible." says Aleron. As he says this, he slightly meanders and attempts to reach a hand behind Makarra.

Chiddle raises a brow at the Lawyer. Now, artificers tend to have a love-hate relationship with lawyers. They love filing for patents, but they hate being sued for blowing up someone's livestock. Chiddle hops up from his seat, hooking the mouthpiece of the hookah on a little ring attached to the neck of the thing, and then he heads over to the Lawyer- his plans rolled up, and under arm.

When Ceres speaks, Dern just...groans. He really does. He covers his face with a hand. "I *must* talk to that woman. And soon," he adds. "Perhaps this is someone's idea of a joke with regards to the potential wedding." Note, he says 'potential'. Not 'assured'.

The cleric nearly slides away from the lawyer's hand and feigns a loud and horrified gasp. "SIR." This is said in a -strong- voice, one dripping with shock and dismay. "If you wish to feel my assets, you'd best take me to dinner first!" -She- thinks she's funny, if no one else does, her eyes dancing with amusement.

Speaking of wizards, here comes one! Duck and cover! Xander (who most certainly has nothing to do with any weirdly-colored birds, albino dragonlings or turtle-giraffes, thank you very much), cigarette in hand, seems to be walking through the camp. His leisurely pace suggests he is, for now, in no hurry to get wherever he is going.

"Your wife?" Ceres asks curiously, tilting her head to one side. "Do not dwarven cultures support such things? I remember fondly many occasions when my mother bespoke my father..."

Rowena blinks, and then--two spots of color hilight her cheeks, and she stands up, fast, and abruptly, and having nothing in her hands but a wad of laundry, proceeds to attempt to whollop the lawyer about the head with soiled clothing! "You--! There'll be no sneaking fingers down the edges of skirts here, battlefield or no! If you want to do that, you ought to do as master Dern has done. It's respectable in marriage, not outside of it!"

Aleron manages to somewhat dodge the cleric's attempt to smite him with bloody wraps. "Merely attempting to prove that one can still have a sense of humor. I was attempting a foreign gesture of amusement that I have seen, though not personally experienced, not attempting to grope her!"

"I am not yet married!" Dern says to Ceres, firmly, pointing a finger at him. "She is merely my arranged fiance." A nod follows and then he clears his throat, giving Aleron and Makarra a strange look. "...what." That's what he says next. Now he's checking the papers. To make sure they're not phoneys!

Chiddle pauses as it seems that the Lawyer is attempting to grope clerics. He raises his eyebrows, and then that inventor's glint comes to his eyes. He declares proudly, "I have had an excelent idea!" loudly enough that people around will know very well a Gnome is having an idea.

Makarra seems to think this whole -scenario- to be a fabulous joke and turns, laughing in delight at the sight of the gnome. Bowing low, she calls out, "Enlighten us, good sir!"

Now this? This is cause for alarm. Xander turns his head to peer at Chiddle, and it really is instinct, takes a step away from the horrid danger that all gnomish artificers personify. Fearless or not, some things are beyond even that!

Gnome has an idea. Somehow, that fact seems more important to the bard than finding out more about dwarven marriage customs, and Ceres looks about for a handy.... ah! Suddenly, the elf goes from there, to next to Xander, where the wizard is between her and the scary thi... gnome. The scary gnome who is not a thing. Perhaps the elf /does/ have some sense! "Xander! Hello. How are you today?" First step to being saved. Greet your savior.

Rowena glowers at the lawyer like the scoundrel he must surely be, and has her hands firmly planted on her hips, with the rag in one of them. "Well, see that you don't, or I'll look to performing marriages, master Aleron. You just don't do that sort of nansy-pamsy in public. In fact, I'm sure that's how Dern's marriage got itself arrang--" oh. That hadn't meant to slip out, had it? "Well, I mean--it just seems so /sudden/," she allows, trying to cover the slip.

Chiddle clears his throat, and, index finger still pointed up, he explains, "The Electro-mechanical Lech Repellent." He declares then, "A set of underthings charged with a million volts of electrical energy. Guaranteed to deter any would-be groper, grabber or fondler." He pauses then, so that everyone can bathe in his awesomeness.

"While I can see a number of ways that electrically charged underthings could be highly...stimulating," Makarra replies in a serious voice, "I do have to wonder the long term affects of such things. Especially on the hair."

Makarra adds, "I meant on the head but...well. Take that how you will."

"..AHEM!" Dern gives Rowena a withering look. "This is a public location! And I'll have you know I've *never* met the girl before she came and announced my wedding!" He points a finger at Rowena, apparently offended. And then just eyes Makarra. "I... think you are better off not talking now,' he adds, also saying the same thing to Chiddle.

"Well--! It might not be something you /remembered/. You could have just been innocently lecherous as a child. It takes a time for dwarven babies to come along, you know," chides Rowena to the other dwarf, before turning back around to Chiddle. And pauses, because it's just about painful to admit a gnome had a good idea. "Well," she says, a little weakly. And, perhaps. Very painful? "Well. I guess it...it just seems so /sudden/." As if that could explain everything.

Xander glances over his shoulder at Ceres. "Good day." he replies. "I am well enough." For now. There's a gnome artificer over there, THINKING. That's a timebomb waiting to go off, that is. "And yourself?" He has enough presence of mind to move the hand with the cigarette so that the smoke isn't choking the elf. And then, then Chiddle presents his idea. The mage... blinks. If nothing else, the very image of such a thing seems to have briefly fried his brain. He just shakes his head, following.

"..what..what are you suggesting, madame! I've done no such thing! I am surely innocent of these claims! You besmirch my good name with your innuendos!" Dern is offended! OFFENDED. He is studiously ignoring Chiddle at this point. Very studiously.

"Slightly shocked, but well enough," Ceres replies promptly, before adding, "After our little musical interlude the other day, I had to return to the city, and fetch my lapharp - the other I had was merely borrowed. Have you considered a tail-jacket or something, to protect scales?"

Chiddle kinda deflates as his idea is met with almost no enthusiasm- so he kind of gravitates towards the one that did seem to like his idea, "Stimulating? Oh... how so? I certainly don't want to encourage lecherous behavior with a device designed to stop it! Maybe rotating blades or black powder charges might be a better solution..."

Makarra just begins to laugh at the suggestions, ignoring Dern for now and shaking her finger at the gnome. "I suggest you test them yourself, good sir."

"Well--I'm not saying you've have remembered!" Rowena's voice is defensively shrill, now, and she yanks on her braid. Hard. One day, she will go bald. "You were probably young. And foolish. Or drunk," she adds, before turning back around to Chiddle. And that same look--of pain. Admitting gnomes have good ideas is simply painful. Or, "good ideas." One never claimed the dwarf's values to be similar to anyone else's.

"You still wish to try? The chances of it being a colossal waste of time are quite great, I must stress once again." Xander tells Ceres. There's a quick glance between Makarra and Chiddle, a final moment to make certain they're not about to blow the place up. He takes a draw from the cigarette, exhaling the smoke skywards.

"No, I actually bow to your experience on the matter. I merely wished to offer a suggestion." There is a pause, then she calls out, "I would suggest testing out this invention first. But....however... get volunteers. Alas, I cannot assist in this matter, but perhaps Sister Rowena can?" Sorry, Sister - but...er... encouraging the gnome is ill-done. Even the foolish elf probably can guess at that one.

Chiddle considers testing it himself for a momnet- seriously considers it, but then shakes his head. "I couldn't. It would be... frowned upon to be wearing ladies unmentionables. Besides, I;m not properly equipped to fully test them."

Rowena sniffs, and well, "I suppose," she says, after a moment. "It sounds a little dangerous, of course, but--" with a frowning look at Dern. "I'll ask the priests about it, and see what they have to say," she adds, and brushes at her robes. And does to do just that.

Rowena goes OOC.