The mage looked to the Ogre, intrigued by how much sense that huge beast's statement made. Apparently, he wouldn't be able to cheat on his deal with the big one. "Smart observation, my friend! If you do remember what you want, let me know when you come back and I'll do my best to get it for you."

Yashar looked to the remaining of his guests. He was growing tired of their petulance. "I don't possess all this gear you want. Or at least can't give such powerful and expensive equipment before the job gets done. That's how rewards work." The lack of common sense on his new minions was astonishing. The fact that the Ogre was the only one showing some manners was baffling. "But I'll tell you what. Behind the inn you will find a blacksmith, he can direct you to a great friend of mine who can get you guys some gear. It won't be the best possible gear, but it should be good enough to kill some humans with it. Just hand this letter to the blacksmith and he will show you guys where you should go."

Pulling a small piece of paper from what seemed out of nowhere, in absolute silence he wrote a presumably short message on it. Finishing the message he folded the paper and fused both it's endings and the edges, making so the only way to read it would be by ripping the paper. Outside he simply wrote: "To ZE by Y". Walking to the half-elf, he said loud enough so the orc and the ogre could hear, "If you want gear, give this to the blacksmith and follow his instructions." Going back to his usual tone, he continued, "About this drooling... Look, I ain't a healer. You could always look for one in the city. It has a big market place and I know for sure two healers are there for this week."

"The inn you're going is at the east of the town. It is reasonably small, but painted in a vivid red color. It's named The Red Mug and..." He stood in silence for a while, looking at his guests. The half-elf staring at him with that weird metal object flying around. The orc was pulling his axe out of the wall. The ogre was standing there, smiling at the Quaggoth. No way in hell those three would be able to follow simple directions. "You know what? Take this map with you! It's enchanted so it will show you the area around you and how to get to a location of your choice. Currently, it's limited to the area of this city, but if you can find other maps and an enchanter, you could add other locations to it."

The orc didn't seemed to be even listening to him, too busy freeing his beast from the statue. The ogre was blinkly staring at him. The only one who seemed to be listening was Stride, but even then the mage wasn't very sure, so he simply added "Open the map. Say where you wanna go. Follow the big arrow that wil show up. As simple as that."

With nobody left in his tower, he finally closed the door and prepared to meet the last guest.

Stride took the letter and continued to listen to Yashar. Even though he was old, prude, and possibly going to die at the end of this adventure at the hands of this half elf, he decided that he did deserve an apology. Although the mage was already inside, the saucer above Stride flew up through a window and spoke to the mage.

"Thank ya for the stuff Yashar... and sorry about bein' a bit rude back there. I-It was uncalled fer."

Back on the ground, Stride walked over to the ogre and handed him the letter. The ogre seemed like a kind soul, and although ogres aren't the smartest, this guy seemed like a genius for ogre standards.

"Since I don't need anything from the blacksmith, and I asked fer gear for "Wolfie", would it be fine if ya' took this note to the smithy behind the inn? I need to head to the marketplace and heal my mouth. The stables should be at the front of the city, but if you can't find 'em, come find me in the marketplace and we'll find the stables together, okay...?"

Stride waited for the ogre's response before departing, in pursuit of the healers in the marketplace.

Yashar was already reinforcing his ward when the flying metal thing that followed Stride entered through his window. The object was shinning in the blue lighting of the torches, almost mesmerizing the mage. Never in his life he had seen an object like this. A metallic voice echoed from the object, snapping the wizard from his almost entranced state. "Thank ya for the stuff Yashar... and sorry about bein' a bit rude back there. I-It was uncalled fer." Did the half elf just apologized? That was unnexpected. Maybe his visitors had some kind of manners afterall. Hell, this was more surprizing than the flying object.

But he didn't had much time to waste. The visitors left his tower without causing many troubles, however the ward had lost much of it's power. Mostly due to the overly aggressive manners of it's visitors. Except for that Ogre. Tugrok had an unsettling aura around him. Different from most ogres, he showed something that could even pass as compassion to someone who never saw an ogre before. Sure thing, Tugrok was an idiot, but he seemed to have some aspects of a holy man. He even sensed some magical power surrounding the ogre. This gave him an idea. In the best case, he'd have a much more powerful minion doing his bidding. In the worst case, he'd have a hilarious story to tell the next time he ventured into a tavern.

Leaving the ward to be worked uppon the next day, he quickly went upstairs to pick an old book. It's cover was extremely dusty and it's pages partially eaten by a mices. On it's brown leatherty cover, letters were burned in forming it's title in a rude caligraphy "God evokation in combat situations". A smile covered Yashar's face. No matter the result, it would be hilarious. He needed a good laugh lately.

He spent the rest of the night preparing the tomes with the God Evoking ritual and a few basic spells. Holy Smite, Ressurect and Turn Evil. The spells were the simplest he could gather from the book, if the ogre managed to complete the ritual, he would surely be able to use those spells rather easily. Yashar finished the tomes and went to his bed.

The next morning came. Yashar felt as if he didn't had any sleep at all, waking up just as tired as he was when he went to sleep. He prepared a few of his morning rituals and quickly went down to work on the ward on his front door. For what he had seen on his crystal ball, the visitor that Devon's energy had found was extremely violent. It was better to prepare something that wouldn't cause physical damage to him.

In the matter of a few hours, a new ward was placed properly. It covered the entire tower and it would immobilize anyone who tried to cause damage to another being. Even Yashar could be restrained by this ward, but it was the price he had to pay for his safety. He was barely finished with the ward when he heard a massive amount of profanities shouted from outside his door. There were no doubt his guest had arrived.

Opening the door, he could see a giant skeleton of a man. He was surely surrounded by some kind of magic, although the mage couldn't identify which type. It seemed ancient and raw, but it wasn't time to dwell in such subjects now. Maybe he could try to identify it later. "Glad to see my offer interested you!", he smiled, assured that his ward would protect him from any harm.

"Smart observation, my friend! If you do remember what you want, let me know when you come back and I'll do my best to get it for you." That was more of a deal Togruk would make. With a simple "Okay." he accepted.
As the Wizard wanted to explain how to get to the inn, Togruk was distracted by the leaving Grox and Woggha, but mostly Woggha. The only thing he overheard was that it was a red house. Then the half-elf handed him the letter the wizard wrote.

"Since I don't need anything from the blacksmith, and I asked fer gear for "Wolfie", would it be fine if ya' took this note to the smithy behind the inn? I need to head to the marketplace and heal my mouth. The stables should be at the front of the city, but if you can't find 'em, come find me in the marketplace and we'll find the stables together, okay...?"
He listened to Strides words and tried to remember, most of it. "Tugrok goes get armor for Wolfie? Errr Okay." So Togruk headed off, not knowing where the inn was but after some time he would end up in front of it anyway. Eventually he found the blacksmith. Kneeling down he looked inside "Hello? Is this the blacksmith? I need armor for Wolfie."

"Glad to see my offer interested you!"

Incoherent screaming was all that followed the phrase. That, and a rather impolite remark, possibly concerning a peculiar burst of magical energies the skeleton felt once he bashed the door. He was, after all, extremely distrustful of spellcasters, since their constant schemes and frequent visits to graveyards pestered every resident of said establishments including himself. The tower owner's appearance did not help at all, since he quite obviously looked the part. Still standing outside the door, it bellowed his response in a barely intelligible manner.

"WHAT THE UNHOLY ROOSTER FUCK IS THIS WIZARDRY?! YOU TRYING TO TRICK ME?!"

A hair's breadth away from flipping out, the undead creature raised a bony index finger inches away from the mage's face for a short while, and then stood silent, producing a low growling noise. Apparently, it was waiting for the mage to further elaborate, though whatever semblance of patience it had was running shorter by the second.

The summer sun shone uppon the sand filled market. A fading rock path showing the ways between the various shacks. In it's center three large barracks were guarded by a variety of humongous beasts. It's contents hidden inside it's frail woden walls. At the east, one could see a variety of merchants selling their so called goods at the street. Crystals, armors, weapons, books, tomes, jewelry. It all looked as shady as their merchants, who would loudly announce their offers.

The one thing that could match the diversity of the goods being sold in those two areas were it's crowd. From Flumphs to Gnolls to Trolls to Goblins. Every race was there, poluting the streets with it's foul body odors. Walking amongst that mass, one could feel the heat of their bodies. The combination of the odor, heat and the sheer number of people were enough to create a suffocating feeling, making anyone who dared to stay in there for too long desperate for fresh air.

A sinuous sand path led to the west. The fading rock road that paved the center and east side of the market now gone. That place was home for the city militia. A group of outlaws that would regularly raid human lands in search of treasures, power or just for fun. They had no fortifications in their base other than the ridiculously high amount of decaying shacks that were built around it. Not only the shacks would avoid any formation to reach the base, it's inhabitants would be less than happy to be disturbed. If one managed to reach through the decaying buildings, it would find about a dozen stone buildings.

Up in the north, the three main service providers of the city could be found. Sitting at the middle it was the famous brothel of the city, commonly called Sword Sheatery. It had an older name, long forgotten due to the rude humor of the inhabitants of the city. It was rummored that one could lay with any imaginable beast inside those walls, provided they had the coin. At it's west, an extremely tall building, made from a shinny black stone and polished brown wood stood. It was the famous Torn Ale Tavern. Nobody really knew the reason of the name, but the general belief was that the actual owner, a huge Gnoll named Sven, ripped the old goblin owner, Alessandra, in two with his bare hands. Judging by it's appearance and temperament, it was not a far fetched theory. To the east, the Red Mug. A small inn where the rare visitors to the city would stay. It's red walls the only thing worth of a mention.

Following a rocky road, one would find the Rich District. The name was given by the populace of the shacks on the west. Indeed, the ones living in those stone buildings were, in it's vast majority, filthy rich or powerful. Mages, slave traders, the owner of the brothel, and a few of the merchants made up the majority of it's population. Distinct among the others, two buildings deserved special attention: Yashar's Tower and Brut's Palace. The tower was know as the tallest building in the city, home of the famous Yashar. The descriptions given by the very few who ever saw it's interior were vastly diverse, leading the populace to belive that it was buil on magic, not stone. The palace had simpler origins: Brut, it's owner was a raider, who in less than a year gathered more gold and power than any person could hope to amass in ten lives. The means to realize such a feat are a mistery. The general consensus in the city is that he made a demonic pact for it. Wheter it's true or not, this is the only rummor he didn't blatantly denied.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Westley wandered around the market, in high hopes he would find someone who could heal his mouth and stop the drooling issue he had. As he wandered however, he noticed something being sold by an old looking gnome...

An ornate and small music box stood out, and it seemed to not belong with the other items being sold by the gnome. When Westley picked it up, he felt it vibrating with some kind of energy, something that made him want it even more. The UFO chimed and spoke for Westley

"Excuse me sir, but what be the deal wit' this music box?"

The old gnome spoke in a raspy voice.

"That be an old music box, passed down from my father to me, and passed by his father before him. However, there's an issue with it. I used to be called 'Grodlar the Iron Fist', and I adventured a lot when I was younger, now however age has got the better of me, and I had to retire. On my adventures, I carried this box around as a charm of good luck and fortune, but it got cursed. When I went to the druids of my hometown to uncurse it because I wanted to hear what the song it played was, they said 'it can only be heard in the true mind.' Now, I had no idea what this meant, so I figured it was useless. Now I'm trying to get rid of it, as it has brought me more bad luck than good luck recently."

Westley was still holding the box carefully, examining it's every corner for imperfections. What he really wanted, however, was to hear the music that it played.

"How much do you want for it?"

Grodlar chuckled, and spoke again.

"You'd be doin' me a favor by just takin' the damned thing. Hell I'd probably help you in a time of dire straits if you just took it right now."

Westley smiled and thanked the old adventurer for the box, and put it in his bag with the rest of his belongings.

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you Grodlar."

Westley continued in the market, walking around looking for a healer. Alas, it seemed when he finally found one, they were too expensive for him to pay for. He headed towards the stables of the town, stopping occasionally to spit out the mouthful of spit he had. Stride's UFO, however, flew off to find Tugrok and accompany him on retrieving the items from the blacksmith.

@Turbowraith

The skeleton was much bigger than Yashar was led to believe. And much angrier. It had a raw aura around him of something dark and powerful that made the mage extremely happy to have set that ward. He calmly waited until the last profanities were shouted to begin "My name is Yashar. I am a mage and I'm in need of someone who can beat people up for me. If you help, I will give you a reward of your choosing."

The skeleton looked choleric, but for some reason he had retained himself from incoherent screaming for the past few seconds. Yashar took it as a sing of progress. Keeping his distance, he asked with a smile "You you accept my offer?"

@DiZL ReloadeD

Tugrok kneeled beside a small shack. The thundering sound of metal being hammered stopped as the minotaur black smith saw the ogre's head poppoing through his door. Osgar was huge, even for minotaur standarts. His muscles pumped from his hammering. The shack was dark, only lit by the fire comign from the forge in it's center. Piles of scrap metal, leather and other components piled in the corners, creating small mountains of garbage all over. In the back of the shack, various weapons, both finnished and unfinnished hang from the walls. All of them showed perfection on it's work. Even an ignorant in the art of smithing could tell that Osgar was a master at his craft.

Osgar rested his hammer against the anvil to receive his not so smart guest. "Hello friend! Yes, as you can see by all this blacksmith things laying around, you indeed found the best blacksmith in town. My name is Osgar, a pleasure to meet you!", the minotaur's voice was oddly happy and cheerful, "Tell me, who's that wolfie you speak of?"

@KRIEEEG
Tugrok listened carefully to the words of the minotaur, although he didn't understand everything. "Tell me, who's that wolfie you speak of?" was probably the toughest question. Thinking hard he Tugrok replied "Uhmm, you know, 'Wolfie', he's about this big and uhh..." gesturing with one of his hands he tried to show the blacksmith Wogghas' approximate height from what he could remember.
"Oh also man with spikey ears said I give this to smithy." saying this he handed the note from Yashar to the minotaur.

Somewhere in the junk pile, a goblin was looking for his next big invention. He would have gone unnoticed as planned. Until the monstrosity on his back backfired again. It made a loud bang and smoke flowed upwards from it, quickly heading out any cracks or openings in the building. "Blasted thing.", was all that came out of his mouth as he gave a hard punch to the front of his armor. After a bit, an engine hummed it's revival as he was satisfied with it working again.

He made no attempt to get closer to the ogre. Instead, he was looking through the trash while talking. "So, what's an ogre doing here in a blacksmith's shop? I never thought you guys were bright enough to be errand fetchers. Or did you need someone to hold your hand?" With another obnoxious cloud of smoke coming off him, he held up a busted piece of scrap. Whatever it was, he looked at it like he struck gold. He was quick to pocket it. After all, they were just useless scraps to most.

When he stood up, he was covered in junk. There was just a mountain of various objects, weapons, and junk attached to him. Smoke was steadily surrounding him, and everything gave off sound. Gears turning, engines humming, the occasional spark of electricity. He almost forgot to introduce himself, that had to be corrected. He turned to the ogre and spoke quickly. "My name is The Grand Royal Doctor Maxwell the Third. I'm sure you have a name, but it probably has stick or rock somewhere in there. Although, if you are here, it seems something is about to happen. Oh, you probably have no clue what I'm saying, let me try again. Ahem, why ogre here?"

Grox and Woggha left the others behind. First of all, Orcs HATE to wait around. And second, there was the promise of a lightning axe which Grox totally just bluffed to see if the wizard was for real, but now it is a legit thing he can acquire. He would be the first every Quaggoth riding orc with a lightning axe. The first Orc with a lightning axe. Such deliciously comforting items that could bring gore and blood to the battlefield made the though Orc drop some tears of joy. Woggha on the other hand was more interested in the armor he was getting. He was thinking very hard with his small brain to imagine what it would be like and almsot stepped on a few goblins who angrily threw rocks at him.

For hours the duo wondered both lost in their minds until Grox hit a signpost as Woggha passed udner it, seemingly unaware of his rider. "Oy ye git, wake up yer eyez!" Upon further inspection of the signpost it appeared that they stumbled into the right INN. Literally. "I be damned." He always said a proppa ork don't need no maps to get around. He jsut proved his point. Without much hesitation and a statisfied smile Grox jumped down from Woggha and dusted his face. They caused quite the stirr blocking the door so he quickly pulled his tame away before something really big and mean would come along. Maybe a giant spider. Especially a giant spider.

They amde their way around the back where they found the stable. The various mounts, ranging from wolves, boars horses and ponies all scewred back into the corner of their compartment as the giant Woggha smiled at them. Grox cahined him to one of the pillars. "Stay 'ere. I got sum'thin ta do." With that he went around to teh front of the Inn and observed the palce. Painted red walls, jsut like that robed guy said. He kicked down the doors to the inn, crashing the two pieces across the floor straight towards the counter. The few monsters inside looked at him with bored eyes. This thing must be something they see every day. The fresh hinges and the vivid red paint on the door's pieces just proved this.

As Grox approached the serving table the bartender was holding his head and murmuring soemthing to him. Strangely enough he was a human. "Oh no, this is the 4th time this week. I can't keep it up like this." Grox sat down on one of the chairs and grabbed the attention of teh bartender. Even stting he was taller than the guy and he was damn sure to sue it. He shouted at the bartender in a lousy tone. "Give meh ur best ale! Wiv haste!"

It was late when Westley found the stables, and fortunately for him, the inn was pretty much directly next to it. Stride walked into the inn, and to no surprise to him, he saw the orc he had met earlier gulping down booze, ale, any kind of alcoholic beverage the inn had on hold. He sighed, and walked over to the bartender, and calmly placed a good amount of money in a small tankard with "tips" scrawled on it. He then went over to the table where Grox was sitting and pulled out the music box he had received from Grodlar and began to speak.

"Grox, can I ask a question to you?"

Without any approval, Westley continued to speak, after spitting his drool into an empty tankard beside him.

"I got this music box from a gnome who was at the marketplace, he said it was cursed to never play music again. I don't suppose you would know a way to get me to hear the music from this?"

A conveniently placed Jack o Lantern flickered at the table, acting as a source of light that was cast onto the ornate wooden box.

As anyone who has ever attempted to keep an inn, and managed to do so for longer than a week, knows, a cellar is highly practical asset for any establishment of this sort. Though seldom is it employed for such purposes as something as a cellar was originally intended for, such as preserving wine - which is often far too expensive, considering the financial resources of the average inn's patrons, to meet any demand worthy of that name - it can serve a variety of purposes. If there is no suitable dump or scrapyard not yet slavaged by goblins in the environs, it can contain prodigious amounts of refuse without its stench reaching the inn proper for months. It can keep carcasses fresh enough to please a ravenous orc's palate. And, last but not least, it can comfortably house lodgers whose appearance would be highly detrimental for business if exposed too frequently to the public eye.

The most recent of such lodgers having taken up temporary residence at the Red Mug presently gnashed his teeth, stretched his forelimbs and coiled and uncoiled his neck a few times as a loud crash from upstairs awoke him from his daily rest. Ah, new customers were beginning to arrive, it seemed, and energetic ones at that. It was probably already dark, anyway. Good, good. A gnarled, three-fingered claw caught an intact bone lying amid the assorted wreckage upon the cellar's floor and deftly tossed it in the approximate direction of the expectant jaws, which snapped it, sucked it dry of only slightly stale marrow and spat its remains into a corner. Next, eight revolting legs clicked in place, lifing the bloated, hairy abdomen enough for it not to scape the ground, skittered up the damp staircase and, impressively enough, kicked the cellar door open, revealing their burden's full glory to what tatters а the world had the misfoortune of being assembled in that inn.

Khri'zhatt blinked a few times - a sight fearsome enough for the three hobgoblins seated closest to him to hurriedly move to the further end of the room - and surveyed that evening's clientele. Regulars, mostly, veriefiedly uninteresting, suitable, scrawny as they mostly were, for neither business nor consumption, except... Ah, there. Two unfamiliar faces, or nearly, probably responsible for the door's mournful state - a boisterous-looking orc recklessly swallowing ale, or whatever resembled it, and a strange red-garbed figure - elf? Human? Neither, though he resembled both? It was a while since he had had some elf. He might as well try with this one, despite his tankard being full of what seemed to be saliva. Does he actually drink that? Khri'zhatt wondered, as he crawled toward the pair. If they proved less than tolerant of his presence, a sufficiently loud shriek should be sufficient to summon Thrik from the stable - by the bye, he would have to verify the umber hulk was fed well enough. Otherwise, he might consider feeding it the innkeeper next. Ah, well, there would be time enough for this.

"Well met, gentle-monsters" he hissed at the newcomers in his finest Honest John impression, "Are you in need of anything this lous- vely city has to offer? Some fine working-hands, perhaps? Fresh, obedient, cheaper by the dozen. Just say the word."

@DiZL ReloadeD@Pikmin Eye

Osgar was already half way through the shack when a loud bang followed by profanities was heard in the back. He had almost forgotten about Bob being there. "This small guy is Bob. He hangs around collecting useless junk for his...", Osgar gave a quick look at Bob's armor and that aberration tied to the back of it, "Inventions. He's harmless. Just be careful with the ocasional explosion."

The explosion left a foul stench of rotten eggs in the air, strong enough to overpower the smell of red hot iron and burning logs Osgar was so used to. He crossed the shack in direction to the door and his unexpected guest, partially to see what such an unusual visitor was bringing for him, partially to breath air that had not been contamined by the goblin's inventions.

"That is a big wolf, but I can probably arrange something for him in a few weeks.", Osgar knew he was talking more to himself than to this Ogre, so he simplified as much as he could, "Tell Wolfie and his owner to come here, and I'll see about his armor", to negotiate an armor price with this Ogre would not only be a painful blow into his sanity, but also extremely unfair. All things considered, was highly unlikely this humongous ogre was carrying the kind of coin needed to pay for an armor that big.

"Oh also man with spikey ears said I give this to smithy." The ogre said, handing him a note. "To Z.E. by Y, eh? Yashar is planning on a new expedition again? You will want to talk to Zokox Explobomb, another goblin who happens to be an inventor. I seem to be plagued by those, you know? Come here tomorrow and bring your friends with you, and he will get you all some equipment."

Westley saw the very large spider walk up to the duo of associates and, much to the surprise of him, began to see Grox start to get a little antsy. Poor bastard must be afraid of spiders, although that's quite a common fear. The spider spoke to them in a rather unsettling tone.

"Well met, gentle-monsters! Are you in need of anything this lous- vely city has to offer? Some fine working-hands, perhaps? Fresh, obedient, cheaper by the dozen. Just say the word."

Westley leaned over and whispered in Grox's ear. "I'll do the talking, you be ready for a fight if one breaks out." Westley then began speaking to the spider, but first spitting in the tankard so his voice wasn't muffled or garbled.

"Excuse me, I've been cursed to drool excessively, much to my dismay. Allow me to introduce myself to you. You can call me Stride, and this here is Grox, my..."

Westley actually considered what Grox was in this little rag-tag band of misfits he called his team, then he considered that Grox and him were at Yashar's tower first, so he figured they'd probably be this teams interim 'leaders' for the current moment.

"... first mate. We were recently assigned a job by an old mage in the tallest fucking tower in this goddamn cesspool of a city, and for right now we're waiting on the other members of our bloody squad. Enough about that, however. You said something about working hands...? Honestly, mate, the way you worded that makes me think that you're running a slave trade underneath this here inn. Now, I can hand you into the local authorities and have them deal with you (provided there are any even here), or I can extend an offer to you..."

Westley spit in the tankard again before continuing.

"... how about you join our little team of misfit mercenaries? I understand you have no idea who I am or who this orc is, but I can promise you that you will get a good time out of this, in addition to a reward which was told to us by our employer to be near limitless."

Stride spit one final time in the tankard, making it reach almost 3/4ths of the way filled.

"You in?"

Over at the blacksmith, Stride's UFO flew into the workshop, a small note attached to it with the words 'Not a threat'. It hovered beside Tugrok and began to speak.

>: I HAVE ORDERS FROM MY SUMMONER TO ASSIST YOU IN ANY WAY I CAN, UNTIL WE GET TO THE INN WHERE HE AND GROX ARE CURRENTLY LOCATED.

"Local authorities? Are there still any left?" Khri'zhatt eyed the elf (human? Whatever it was. "Stride" would do for the moment. He did not, after all, drink saliva. Good, good) curiously, his horrid head swaying atop his eel-like glabrous neck similarly to that of a slightly intoxicated snake, "That would do just fine. I have not had any proper breakfast yet. But we could leave that for another time. You mentioned a job, did you?" The large arachnoid's eyes - all of them - glimmered rapaciously. The presence of the words "reward" and "limitless" in a single sentence had, foreseeably, not failed to capture his attention.

He pondered his position. Despite having spent the last week and a half accosting various patrons of the inn offering his services, he did not dispose of any - stock, should we say, just at present, planning as he did to strike up a contract as a provider or, if the customer was gullible enough, obtain a conspicuous advance payment and disappear. However, thus far he had not had any success, and his patience was wearing thin. There was no monster-market to speak of here, and besides there was the constant threat of being spotted by some Neogi caravan, rare though these were, recognised as a rogue and forced to ingest one of their vile breeding brews. In brief, his stay in the city was unprofitable, unproductive and uncomfortable. And there always was the doubt of whether Thrik was being fed well enough. If not else, these purported mercenaries would offer some diversion.

"Who you are does not matter that much as long as this reward you speak of is truly almost limitless." Ah, these words again... Effectively, it did not matter at all who these fellows were, as long as he could be certain he would be able to subdue them were the necessity to arise. The orc did already not seem entirely confident. Excellent. "Consider me interested. What does this assignment you have involve, exactly?"

Bob wasn't that interested in most of the Minotaur's conversation. Scavenging was far more interesting, it was like a giant puzzle. Which piece could be used to finish his next invention? He was barely paying any attention till Zokox Exlpobomb was mentioned. He jumped up and looked towards Osgar, now he had his attention. With a clanking of parts, smoke, and the crackle of static surrounding him, he stepped out of the mountain of scrap. Or was the mountain moving with him? He had a scowl on his face, and looked like Osgar hurt his pride. He opened his mouth, the first few words being interrupted by more backfiring on his back.

"-you overgrown Minotaur. My inventions are far superior to any piles of junk that Zokox can ever build. I have harnessed the elements at my fingers, he just cheats with magic. How is it even a machine if you cut corners like that? I swear, you blow up a building three times and suddenly It's my fault. He stole that title of best inventor in our tribe. Sabotage and slander, he knew I was going to be declared the best so he had to cheat. My inventions don't fail, so he must have swapped my stuff for his poor quality equipment. He stole my designs, and my hard work. I should be the best inventor, and he darn well knows it..." He had a lot more he was going on about, but most likely, no one was paying attention to him anymore. He was steaming heavily from this, both figuratively and literally.

Turning his head to the ogre, he shouted at the ogre, "You there, rocks for brains. I don't care why you are here. If Zokox is involved, I will join whatever stupid quest you are on. Wait, Y... You don't mean Yashar do you? Oh, this is perfect. If I help you out, I can get rewarded as well. Then I can finally get back at Zokox. The great and powerful inventor Bob helps Yashar out. That settles it, I'm joining your quest. You can thank me for being helpful now." He gave a jump, his various gear clanking around, generally making more noise. If an ogre was involved, then he was probably going to be the smartest person involved. He can use that, no, exploit it.

His scheme was cut short when a small UFO with a crude sign tacked on it showed up near the ogre. The scrap this thing could be used for if he tore it apart. He was wondering if he could figure out how to make hover boots using this thing when it spoke. It spoke of it being a summon, someone named Grox and it was trying to help this ogre. He walked up to the strange UFO and spoke quickly, "Finally, someone intelligent enough to talk. So who are you, and how do I get in on whatever deal is good enough to get so many people together? If you don't feel like talking, I can always take this thing apart."

"The job is rather simple actually. We go to where a certain artifact is kept, we kill anyone trying to take it, then we grab it and run our asses back to our employer before we die on this quest. I'm assuming you're coming along with us?"

Stride spit again. This curse was annoying as shit.

"In that case, I'll tell you about the rest of our squad as it currently stands. I'm the squads resident mage and a bit of a summoner on the side, Grox has a giant... quaggoth, I think it's called, as a sort of mount. We have an ogre who is remisque of being a paladin, and that's all I know of so far. Oh, and should I mention one other thing..."

Stride spat one final time in the cup, knocking it over and onto the floor.

"Try to kill me and I will tear off your bloody legs one by one, then forcefully feed them to you from your arsehole, shoving them in 2 at a time."

Westley leaned back in his chair and spoke again.

"With that out of the way, what are you packing in terms of power, my arachnid ally?"

Over at the blacksmiths shop, the UFO began speaking to the short little goblin in the same voice.

>: I AM THE SUMMON OF MY MASTER 'STRIDE'. TO GET IN ON THIS MISSION, FOLLOW THIS OGRE TO THE INN WHERE MY MASTER AND GROX ARE LOCATED. TAKING ME APART WILL ALSO PROVIDE NO PARTS, AS I FADE AWAY AFTER BEING DAMAGED ENOUGH OVER TIME.

"Did I ever imply I had a mind to kill you? How tactless of me. By any means, I trust these measures you mentioned will not be necessary, if our task is as simple and lucrative as you describe it." Khri'zhatt nodded, or perhaps flexed his neck a few times. This Stride apparently knew what to expect from someone encountered by chance in a tavern. Then again, he had yet to see whether he was just as experienced at wandering in the open lands without. The orc, who had been strangely quiet for one of his race - those he had encountered during his travels would, by this point, have not only joined the conversation, but probably begun flinging furniture about - was seemingly growing ever more restless. Perhaps this was a "civilised" city orc, who began yelling only after he had begun a brawl.

Ah, here were some details on his prospective companions' prowess. Stride claimed to be a mage; though why would a mage need enough weapons to equip a small army? Either it was an attempt at appearing imposing, or, being unable to perform any actual spells, he would use that load as an excuse for his inactivity. Still, it was worth keeping an eye or two on him, just in case he would actually summon something. The orc apparently disposed of some large beast. In all likelihood, the creature would be slow and clumsy, and less dangerous than its rider. An ogre paladin? That was probably some sort of joke. Well, the ogre could probably be relegated to one and the same threat level with Grox's beast.

"My own skills, you ask?" This was a dilemma. If he were to exaggerate his abilities, his companions might be intimidated enough to be dissuaded from making any attempt agains him, and, by inflating his theoretical usefulness, he could lay claim to a greater share of the reward (after all, it was only near limitless...); then again, by concealing some of his skills, surprise would be on his side in a dire extremity. He resolved to adopt a compromise, blurring his words with vagueness. "There is a respectable umber hulk in yonder stable, and I can put it to good use. I can spit out some magic, as well, in more than one way. Ah, and if you need to make someone, say, a witness, disappear, I am the best you can find for the job."