Fight the Real Enemy!
	Meeting at the Meeting, pt. II

Once the initial commotion surrounding Sam's outburst has died down, you notice that one pair of eyes has still not left your group. A few yards to one side stands a slight young woman wearing a grey linen cloak that falls nearly to her feet, hiding whatever else she might be wearing. She carries a wooden staff or walking stick, and a colorfully embroidered, slightly battered cloth satchel is slung over one shoulder. A blue silk sash at the waist apparently constitutes her attempt to make her simple garb blend into the richly-dressed crowd of merchants and oligarchs; the illusion is not all that successful. The cloak's hood is pulled low over her forehead, leaving her face hidden in shadows, but cannot hide the flash of curiosity in the dark eyes beneath the cowl, as her gaze flits back and forth between the elven girl and the halfling. Realizing that her attention has been noticed, the woman steps forward shyly. "I'm sorry," she says with a slight curtsy. "I didn't mean to stare...but I, too, only knew about elves and halflings through tales." Her voice is soft and oddly accented. It carries the tones of southern Italia, perhaps Sicily, but also hints of something more foreign. "You are nothing like in the stories," she tells the elf in fascinated tones. "Er...not that I'm disappointed, that is," she adds suddenly. "I just mean that you look very kind and beautiful." Then she stops short again, realizing that this too might sound a little insulting... Sam says, "Oh... don't bother yourself with apologies. As long as yee be a friendly folk... I cannot argue with a little added company. " She sighs, and chuckles slightly at her own sudden inarticulateness. "I hope I haven't given any offense," she tells all of you. "I seem unable to find the right words today." Sam responds, " I have found myself in that predicament a few times I might add. Seems as though I never can quite say the right words." Rhune looks up as the young woman joins them. Smiling at her, "That is alright. I am not easily offended, so no offense is taken." As you look at Rhune you do see a very beautiful young woman. you are not sure of her exact age, but she doesn't look much older than 15 or 16 years old. She pulls back her hood to reveal an apologetic smile. Her dark wavy hair frames a face whose olive tones, dark even for the southernmost parts of Italia, are now flushed even darker with embarrassment. Perhaps she is Greek, or Persian, you think, though her almond-shaped eyes and delicate, angular features do not quite match those of other travelers you have met from these southeastern lands. "My name is Marika, and I apologize again for my bad manners," she says, extending a hand to the elf from beneath the grey folds of her cloak. Rhune takes her hand warmly and smiles at her, "Hi, Marika. I am Rhune Morthaine. And this Silus and Sam" she indicates the human man and the halfling. "Pleased to meet you." she says to her Silus smiles politely at the dusky-skinned woman: "Greetings," he says. "May you Lord watch over you." Another elf! Amazing that little group over there. Teague thinks, smiling to herself. Her eyes look at them wistfully. I hope they get in. If not, maybe I'll follow 'em and see what happens.... Marika beams, relieved that in her surprise at meeting a real elf, she didn't accidentally anger her. "A pleasure to meet you all," she says, curtsying and shaking hands all around. Sam interjects, "Well, if what I see is correct; there is not an abundance of Halflings or elves for that matter... here that I can.... by jibblers.... are you an elf too?!" Sam gawks at Marika. He almost lets out a loud gasp before he covers his mouth involuntarily with his own stubby fingers. He then repeats himself in a whispered tone, "Did you say you were an elf?" A flash of panic crosses Marikaís face, and she reaches up as if to pull her cowl back into place over her head...but then she aborts the gesture, and instead tries to pretend that she was merely brushing a stray hair out of her eyes. "Well, no...not exactly, that is," she tells Sam, looking down at him wide-eyed, as if wondering if he had read her mind. She glances again at Rhune, then straightens herself with sudden pride. "Where I grew up, it was said that my father was an elf," she says simply, then pauses in wonder that she has just so painlessly confessed a deep secret. "My neighborsí ignorance ran deep," she explains, "and they acted as if it were tantamount to calling me the spawn of a monster or a demon. But if this is what it is to be an elf," and she inclines her head to indicate Rhune, "then they were paying me an unknowing complement." Rhune just smiles at her. She had heard some of those notions in her home, though not many. The small villages that she had gone to had been so close to the forests that elves were not the oddity that they seem to be here. Sam continues, "Wow... I have never seen an elf till this morn, and to think that there are more than one standing in this very room with me. Sheesh. Anyway... like I was saying... I do not see an abundance of so called fairy-tale creatures such as ourselves in this place.. so I believe it best we keep our hoods up at least until we get inside. I also think it best that we try and stick together says I. Don't leave each other's sides says I." Sam looks questioningly at the "grown-ups" towering above his full, almost 4 foot, body. "What do you all think?" "Perhaps you are right, Sam. Maybe we should." Rhune says in a low voice as she pull the hood of her green cloak up over her silvery hair. Marika nods with mock solemnity to Sam, and pulls her hood once more about her face, her eyes still flashing in excitement within the shadows of the cowl as she gazes around at the assembled crowd. When Sam suggest to put the hooded cloaks back on, Ullar nods in responds, glad that he is now able to hide in his cloak. Those close around him can here him whisper: "Mead to please you.. eh.. no.. eh.. Pleased to meet you.. my name is.. ehm.. eh.. my name is Ullar and if you want me, you can have me". "Pleased to meet you Ullar, I am Rhune Morthaine." Rhune says in a soft tone of voice Then.. shaking his head he mumbles: "No, that's not it. I need to say something different during the interview" He sighs.. peering out of his hood to see if anyone close notices his misery. Sam nods in resolution as he pulls his black hood loosely over his head. Before you loose track of his eyes in the depths of his hood, you notice a more serious side of Sam through his eyes, almost as if there is a different person hiding beneath the jokes and warm smiles. But as soon as it appears, it is gone again and the happy little fellow is waddling his way up to the front of the line glancing backwards to the rest of the party as he moves. "Sam, perhaps we should wait till the line makes it to the table. I don't think they like it when people cut line." Rhune calls after him. However, as he sees Sam moving forwards in the line, the big fellow shakes his head and says softly: "It's not nice to that. We all have to wait in line. He sure did not have any hard training! Such behaviour was 100 push-ups in the Arena!" Noticing the several unfriendly stares that gaze his way, Sam suddenly realizes the words that Rhune speaks and lets them sink in. Smiling, he hops backwards to his place by his newfound companions.( even though just turning and walking would have made more sense ) "Sometimes I get a little ahead of myself." When Sam hops back, Ullar smiles happily at Rhune, but makes sure she doesn't see it by crawling back in his hood. Slowly Ullar shuffles towards Silus. "Ehm.. Sir.. could you perhaps help me out here?" "I don't know for sure what I need to say at the interview, and I overheard you speaking so much nice words that .. ehm.. you.. ehm.. perhaps could help me formulating my first sentense?" Sam giggles silently to himself hoping the big man fails to hear him. Then while Silus informs him of his prior meetings with a certain Capachio, Sam notices a small figure in a dark cloak behind the group. Then his eyes widen suddenly and he immediately grabs on to of Rhune's leather armor, tugging on it violently to get her attention. Rhune looks at Sam, "What is it? Wha..." she tries to look in the direction that Sam is looking in. Than his eyes open wide, realizing what image he might have created of himself. "It's not that I'm stupid or something Sir, no, I'm not stupid. I can even read and write.. It's just that I'm really, really nervous and I forgot my lines which I've studied for over a week! Could you perhaps help me find an opening line for the interview?" Ullar looks at Silus with a questioning look. Silus studies the man carefully: "What did you say your name was?" he questions. "Capachio?" "I new a chap called Capachio once. He was a thin, meaty looking chap. Dry too. Nothing like you at all." "So you want to know what to say at the interview? Well I'm afraid that you're asking the wrong person, my son." "You should be asking the Lord for guidance in this matter. Just put your total faith in the Lord and He will provide the answers, which will come unbid into your mouth." "Unless he is speaking in tongues. In which case, you'll just say: "bllbbbllllbllllbbbblbllblllllblllbllllbbb" "Because the Lord is mighty, but hath an obtuse sense of humor when He is feeling bored." DM note here (ROFL!) Marika chuckles softly at Silas's words, then lays a reassuring hand on the arm of the large man, who is looking a bit wounded, as if afriad that he is the butt of some joke. "It's all right, Mr. Capachio. Be careful about taking advice from Brother Silus...he speaks with a silver tongue, but he and his Lord will talk you right into the pit if you take them too seriously." She smiles at Silus, then turns back to Ullar. The expression on Silus' face gives no clue as to whether he is being serious or not. "Don't memorize any lines," Marika tells Ullar. "Just tell them who you are and what you can do for them. You had no trouble telling us just now that you read and write." She pulls her hood back a bit and looks up at him, studying his face for a moment, then says, "And if you are nervous, admit it freely, and then proceed anyway to tell them what you want them to know. It's never a mark of wisdom to try to hide the truth about yourself." Her face flushes slightly with the realization that she is hardly the one to offer such advice, but she holds her gaze steady. "You'll do fine," she tells him, looking into his eyes to see if he believes it. "Ththank you, madame!" says Ullar with even more blushes on his face than after Silus his joke. He stares right back in the eyes of Marika, then realizing that he is staring at a women and starts to humbly apologize: "I'm sorry lady, I didn't mean to stare at you. As a Gladiator we're not supposed to stare at ladies, actually Mister Muphus told us that they should stare at us!" Again, Ullar is realizing what he just said and his face turns even more red. "Oh.. now I do it again...!" "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you in any way." And the big fellow is back starting to the top of his feet, his head further withdrawn in his hood. "Please don't be upset, sir," Marika answers gently. She flashes Ullar a reassuring smile, then looks away to spare him further embarassment. "You are being perfectly well-mannered. I gather that your Mr. Muphus may have exaggerrated a bit. You are certainly allowed to speak to whomever you wish, without averting your eyes from theirs. But I thank you for your concern about my feelings." Sam speaks up once again, "You know Mr. Capachio, I am a really swell talker, and if you would like, I suppose I could sit on your shoulders, wrap my cape about your body and we would both get in the gates with no trouble at all! What do you say? I am almost too short and I am afraid that they will not take me seriously. But I "am" a serious guy.. and I would not scuff up.. I promise! What do you say Mr. Capachio?" "Ehm.." is the only thing you can hear from within the brown hood Ullar is wearing. "Well Mr. Sam, that would make us really tall, wouldn't it? And besides that, I think I'm already the tallest guy around here, so if I grew even more taller that would _certainly_ draw some attention of those people around us." Pauzing for a moment, searching for the right words, Ullar continues: "I thank you for your offer, but I guess that if they can use big-guys like me, they sure could use the somewhat smaller guys like you as well" Totally oblivious to the exotic nature of his clothing and the necessity for being inconspicuous a dark skinned foreigner strides across the square, with all the swagger of one more used to the saddle than his feet. The hawk like eyes of his people, beneath a hawk like nose move rapidly like a bird, looking to the left and to the right. The face is young, but weathered, the chin strong beneath the new growth of a dark pointed beard. As he steps onto the street the sun bounces blindingly off the polished surface of his turbaned helm, the hilts of two scimitars appear can be seen above his shoulders. . His tread is quiet, no echo of armour emerges from the brightly coloured robes which incase him from head to foot. Expensive looking leather riding boots, with an twirl in the toe, white Arabic robes, black turban, green sash and a blue silk doublet complete his costume. Looking to the left and right he slips behind a passing wagon as if in a parody of a B grade spy movie. Happy it seems that he had not been followed he approaches the rendezvous for the meeting. He walks purposely over to the table, but strangely does not direct his words to the scribe before him but to the two muscle bound Tulwar bearing Africans. He lets loose a rapid volley of foreign words, completing his words with a strange sequence of hand movements. He with an exaggerated gesture touches his head, lips and heart with his right hand. Rhune turns to look at the new comer striding toward the table. She has never seen anyone dressed the way he is before and his costume intrigues her. This promises to be a very interesting meeting once they get inside. Provided she passes the test and answers the questions properly. In response to the colorful's man's speech and gestures, the younger of the big men smiles happily, and begins to speak "Good to hear the civilized language of our people in this foul place..." However, he is quieted by his mate, who makes a slashing movement across his throat, looking toward the functionary at the door. The younger fellow falls silent. The functionary stands and gestures toward the colorfully dressed stranger, speaking in flawless Arabic, "My good man, it is an offense to the customs of this city for you to approach the doorway out of turn. Perhaps you would be so good as to return to your place in line. You will be given your chance to enter soon enough." He smiles and returns to the process of interviewing. Several people near the front of the line stare at the stranger, obviously impressed with his outfit and the deference the functionary pays him. Aloof from main crowd, you can see tall man in green cloak. Also you can see brown leather armor and brown breeches on him. His head covered with cowl thus his face remain in shadow. Also you you can see scabbard with long sword at his belt, and knife sheath with knife at his right leg. There is large backpack at his back, talking that he came from afar. He standing cross-armed, it seems that everything that happening around leaves him cold. Urak-gor arrives at the elegant Florentine structure, his eyes wide with wonder. The entire journey from the far northern lands of the People had been one of constant amazement, and this marble edifice was no exception. While he had always been proud of the simple sturdy huts and painted tents from home, he could not help but feel overshadowed by the casual grandeur of the Italian Penninsula. "I must not fail, I have sworn," he growls firmly to himself. Pushing his worn brown leather cloak over his shoulders, he pauses, nervously taking in the crowd. The participants had certainly shown up in their best finery, but Urak-gor was comfortably secure in his own battered leathers. Making sure that the tattoos on his muscular arms were clearly visible, and resisting the temptation to doublecheck the cleanliness of his tusks, he shifts his walking stick to his left hand, and adjusts the elaborately carved short bow on his back. Touching one hand nervously to the simple wooden star that hangs around his neck, he continues into the room. Seeing the long line, he resists the temptation to stride directly up to the impressive guards. Noting their decidedly darker skin, he cannot help but wonder why others are staring at his perfectly healthy brownish green skin. Smoothing his bluish-black hair back in its topknot, he catches the word 'orc' muttered from an elaborately dressed woman. "The Five Protectors smile upon your tents, Good Wife of the Italians, but the correct name of the People is Urk-ste-khalid-kor. May you prosper in your craft," he finishes, striking his chest with one hand as a gesture of respect. Continuing forward, he notices a small group of people who are talking animatedly amongst themselves. Recognizing that in situations like these it was best not to walk alone, he edges towards the small party. However, overhearing the small child pipe the word 'elf,' he freezes, stumbling back in dismay. Thraka-gor had warned him about the Leafwalkers, and despite the obscure teachings of Speaker-with-Storms, he could not lightly put aside the words of his father. Backing quickly away, he bumps into a man in a hooded green cloak who is easily as tall, if not taller, than Urak's six feet two inches. Hastily noting the scabbarded sword and long knife the man carries, Urak once again bangs his fist against his chest in salute, and offers his apologies. "Malka-za-gor guide your spear, warrior, I did not see you standing there. My name is Urak-gor son of Thraka-gor son of Threka-vod. I am a shaman of the People." "Well, actually," he ammends, his inate honesty getting the better of him, "I have not yet earned my spirit name, and am only an apprentice to wise, old, Speaker-with-Storms." "I fear I am not used to gatherings such as these, far from the fires of the People. Could you tell me what it is we are supposed to be doing? What exactly is this line we are standing in, and what is that peculiar man asking people about?" "I have a pass, Chieftan gave it to me before I left..." he continues, digging out an obviously treasured scroll of parchament from beneath his broad leather belt. His voice trails off as he waits hopefully for a reply from the silent warrior. Matteo, his eyes wide at the appearance of an Orc among the crowd, bows to the newcomer. "Hail, and well met, Urak-gor, son of Thraka-gor son of Threka-vod. You have traveled far from your tribe. Do you quest for self, or for religion? Whichever path has led you here, be welcome. Such a travel is no easy task. You bring honor to your spirit teacher." Matteo looked again at the group and was again amazed at the mixture of races involved. "If you come seeking adventure, you're sure to find it in this colorful company. I an Matteo de Fortuna, former Squire and now adventurer at large. Well met... Well met, indeed!" Matteo continued to study the unusual figure with much obvious interest. His eyes, for once, ceased their constant scrutiny of the surrounding crowd. Teague gulped as she saw the rather large man behind her. She wasn't sure, but he had the look of the orc about him. And she had elven blood. She hoped he was not about to attack her. She heard his polite tone as he addressed the nearby man and relaxed slightly. She probably should have brought a nice hooded cloak like most of the others, but it was so warm and, well, she just hadn't thought about it. She surreptitiously kept an eye on the tall ones behind her, in between craning her neck at the other group and at the front of the line an impossibly long distance away. Both startled by the human's familiar sounding greeting and relieved by the prospect of a friendly face, Urak gestures for the silent warrior to follow him, moves closer to the speaker, and offers yet another salute. Glancing apprehensively at the Leafwalkers, he returns the man's greeting. "Vrock-za-rit remember your name, Squire-human. My ears ring with the happy sounds of your greeting. I am unworthy to follow the path of my spirit-teacher, but I will strive to bring honor to him and to the People." Rhune looks around at the orc. She had heard of them, but had never seen one before. Her eyes go wide in amazement. She steps closer to Silus as if seeking comfort in his nearness, though she makes no obvious move toward her sword. "I am Rhune Morthaine. Well. . ... . well. meet." she says obvious ill at ease in the orc's presence. Urak stares back, just as uneasy. "Yeilis-za-ne shelter your trees, Leafwalker," he replies, edging somewhat closer to the friendly human. "Having not yet earned my spirit-name, I am known as Urak-gor." "I am here neither for myself or for my faith," he continues earnestly, addressing the group at large and glad to find a human who will finally *listen* to the task he has been assigned, "The Five Protectors are strong, but we have heard dark rumors from our human friends about a new belief among the humans that tolerates no rivals. Speaker-with-Storms cast the bones, and saw a dark cloud over the future of the People." "We are a peaceful people. We walk the Path of Insight, and are content within our hunting grounds. Every year, new voices are raised around the fires, as our people grow stronger. And all this is good." "But Chieftan worries about this new belief among the humans. We will not scorn the protection of the Five, who have long sheltered us underneath the single eye of Grunish-za-thel, and what if these Cato.. Catoliks," he trips over the unfamiliar word, "do not allow us to hold to our beliefs? We will fight if we must, and the hunters of the people will raise a terrible storm among our enemies." "Speaker-of-Storms and Chieftan are wise. Far wiser than a simple apprentice such as I. They sent me to seek a better way. A peaceful way that spares the earth from the blood-screams of the fallen." "I am a small force among the People. A mere apprentice, I do not chart the course we will take. I am unworthy of this task, but will bear my burden with gladness and honor. So I have sworn before the eyes of my father." "I just hope this is the right place I am supposed to be at. I have a pass from Rome, but this place.... It is nothing like home," he concludes sadly. Rhune, still standing next to silus, "I think it is the right place, Urak-gor. They are holding interviews and those that don't pass are sent on. You see those men over there?" she motions to the men in black, "They follow those who don't pass. We aren't sure but we have sort of come to the conclusion that it would be best to pass the test. I am Rhune Morthaine, by the way. I am have never met an orc before." she says to him in low voice Urak heaves a sigh of relief at the Leafwalker's words. "As long as I have come to the right place, I shall not fail. I cannot let myself fail. Our need is urgent, surely they will see that," he says, his tone that of a man trying to convince himself. Peering at the elf, he blinks in surprise. This was not quite what he had expected. Perhaps Speaker had been right after all... Mentally, the young apprentice berates himself for doubting his mentor, before speaking in a low tone. "We do not call ourselves 'orcs', but rather Urk-ste-khalid-kor, which means 'People of the Path and the Five'. Sometimes simply 'Urk' which means People. Or 'the People'." "Speaker-with-Storms said I should keep an open mind, but I find it difficult to stand here talking with a Leafwalker. We have not encountered your people since the Spear-Shake war, and grim legends abound about Leafwalker acts." "I am not one to hold the guilt of an ancestor against that of a descendant, and Father always said that every spear has two edges, but still, it is... hard."

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	Benjamin Lomax

This page was last updated on 20 January 2001