#drozog

With the dwarven rangers taken care of, the Fence’s adventurin’ party made north with great haste! But to our heroes’ dismay, their progress was steadfastly impeded by a giant wooden barricade spanning from the Loch itself to the mountain range borderin' on the Mo'grosh ogre tribe, stacked to the gills with Ironforge’s least pleasant dwarves. This, of course, made makin' a beeline straight to finding’ Tavish utterly impossible. The Fence Macabre had two choices: 

They could try to brave what remains of the waters in the Loch to cross it, riskin’ their wagons (and therefore their entire dang livelihoods) in the process. But if it worked, they could bypass the barricade and the ogres both! 

Their other option? To travel to the Mo’grosh ogre settlement and either fight or barter their way through... or maybe them ogres could just eat ‘em and take everything anyway. Shoot... I would, if I was one!

Put between a rock and a hard place, the Fence Macabre resolved on tryin’ their luck with the ogres. Cautiously, they drove their crew up the path to the Mo’grosh camp and spotted their would-be hosts and/or hostiles... And them ogres sure were mean lookin’, far more so than they had a need to be for anyone’s sake. As they entered the camp to seek parley, the stench of burning hair burnt their nostrils as they noticed the fresh Dwarf on a spit-roast... Possibly another one of them rangers from before, even.

Greeted by the local brutalitarians, the Fence announced its intent to broker trade... and at that, they were taken directly to the Mo’grosh’s chieftain, the old and surprisingly stately-lookin’ Drozog. As he looked upon his visitors, ol’ Billy Highman couldn’t help but bow politely before a man of state. It seemed this simple gesture meant a great deal to the ancient Ogre, as the air around him immediately began to simmer down as the old chieftain lowered his head in return. 

(Drozog, cheiftain the Mo’grosh)

Drozog then implored upon our heroes to make their offer for safe passage through their hard-fought and won territory... and so the Shal’dorei Shit Chef herself, Ami Vieredreaux, offered her legendary culinary skills to give his tribe a feast, expertly crafted, in honor of their new friendship between tribes. 

With quiet approval, the cloudy-eyed chieftain agreed to the exchange... but on one condition: No weapons, and he’d supervise. The Fence had no choice but to comply, and so Ami set to work makin’ the best damn gourmet ram-meat banquet that they never did have, and may never a chance to experience again. Remington and Loira dutifully pitched in, actin’ as assistant chefs while Drozog kept the rowdy, hungry ogres at bay... but even his stomach was moanin’ louder than a cow gettin’ branded on its birthday!

The feast laid out, picturesque and ticklin’ their noses with them magickal aromas, the ol’ cheiftan Drozog himself had the first bite. And boy... that morsel was so damn soul-affirmin’ that he shed a single tear right then and there on the spot. His tribe cheered with excitement, as they dug in to the grub, the air filled with happy grunts and approving shouts and... little flecks of half-chewed gristle.

With this exchange, Drozog allowed the Fence Macabre to gather their weapons and head north into the Wetlands, bypassin’ the Dwarven barricade altogether without a single drop of blood bein’ spilt. Well... except for them tasty, tasty rams, of course.