OOC:
It's Friday, so I'm posting.
The kitchen offers simple fare, but the people and their reasons for being here are varied. Their dialects are a stew of dwarvish, Calishite, moon elf and salt-dog. They form into tribal knots at the tables, as is people's wont; they break bread together yet are somehow still separate. The children of hunters play hide-and-seek. The fishers mend nets as they natter. Scrimshanders sit alone and pick at knucklehead ivory with pins and scalpels between slurps of soup.
Targos and Termalaine - the two warring siblings on the Maer.
It was hard to say Targos without prefixing it with Mighty. It's the largest lake town and only eclipsed by Bryn Shander, and it carries itself with a belligerent swagger as if the whole place says,
"We're Targos. Who the hells are you?!". Its iced-in fishing fleet looks like a war machine, and the people are as hard and straightforward as boat nails. When the Priestess of Auril told the people of Targos to 'endure', it was well pitched; it's a word those salts know well.
Termalaine feels... complicated, political, and delicate. Its people are fishers, foresters, miners, hunters, jewellers, scrimshanders, and wealthy nobles hiding away until the revolutions of their homelands had turned full circle. Their lives and roles in Termalaine society are a web of interdependencies - and webs are fragile.
Targos felt like solid ice eroding under the blasting hardship of the Rime, whereas Termalaine is blessed with resources but seems fractured and ready to shatter.
Oarus finishes his rounds and returns to you looking tired and drained. Nevertheless, he draws on his deep well of orcish resilience for a drop of bonhomie. He rubs his hands together enthusiastically.
"Are you fit and ready to tackle the mine?
I'll make sure Marta's spa is ready for you upon your triumphant return."OOC:
Lol! Ignore the roll. I was just playing with Fate dice.
Oarus