Welcome to the Mootscarp

Exhausted from camping in the rain with no gear, harried and haggard from encounters with bandits and the Revenant with no weapons or armor, the Mootscarp beckoned. The party sped across the heath-land toward the inn. 

As they approached they saw a familiar scene: the large, many-gabled inn set back against a steep escarpment, giving way to a dramatic view of the rolling moorland beyond; the tents and colors of the High Moor tribes spread out in preparation for Tenday market. 

But Bhin the innkeep had been busy over the past 25 years; the Mootscarp had grown. The inn itself had added a few ramshackle additions and out buildings, and the market grounds had swelled, now bustling with activity even on an off-market day. Carts laden with goods and camping supplies were littered around the market areas, where dirt-stained canvas tents were arranged in surprisingly neat rows, creating a town’s worth of shops and stalls, with aisle upon aisle of goods. Each of the tribes had staked a claim to a more residential tent ground, and many of the sites looked semi-permanent. They saw Red Tusk, Hark, Night Wing, Serpent Sons, Mist Crows, and an unfamiliar Elf tribe. 

As the party approached they were overwhelmed by so much activity after their years of thralldom and weeks of isolation in the Cave of the Second Weir. They heard all sorts of accents and languages, memories evoked by the nearly-forgotten lilts, rasps, inflections, diphthongs, gutturals, and cadences.  They picked up snippets of orcish, goblin, tribal tongues, and some new creole or pidgin; all hawking wares and buzzing with energy. 

When they reached the limit of the grounds, some young entrepreneurial orc had wheeled out a food cart, to be the first vendor as travelers arrived. He was dancing to some music in his head, and selling what looked like a small draught of some sort of spirit while waving a cylindrical food wrapped in a large leaf. 

“One gold, party drink! Come, relax, enjoy Tenday! Eat Majona! Eat Majona!” The orc shook the leaf to the rhythm in his head, drank a shot himself, and held out a tray with six cups for the group.  

"What the hell," they said. They turned over a gold piece and downed their shots. "Ha-ha-ha! Good fire, no?" The orc laughed and pocketed his gold. Good fire, indeed, they thought as the amber liquid burned their throats and warmed their bellies. 

"Welcome to the Mootscarp." 

What follows is an account of how the party:

• started a brawl not ten paces hence; 
• offended at least two tribal leaders; 
• turned tribes against each other; 
• boldly claimed bogus ties to a revered tribal semi-deity; 
• learned the complicated rules to "heads I drink, tails you drink"; 
• befriended a Red Tusk slave-trader named Fistman; 
• played matchmaker for a half-sea giant bouncer and the innkeeper's gnome daughter; 
• crafted an illusion of a naked sexual fantasy to steal powedered littleleaf herb;
• entered into an herbalism apprenticeship with a venerable goblin witch-woman; 
• tried to learn the market's mootchi trade language; 
• bartered in a butchered mootchi for basic supplies, weapons and armor; 
• unwittingly crafted the Shield of the Heron; 
• confided in Mootscarp management about the mindflayers; 
• commissioned a map to find Melarn's Door and navigate the neutral lands; 
• failed a drum solo audition for a group of courtesans; 
• helped deliver a premature elfling baby; 
• provided skin-to-skin care for the newborn; 
• helped guard the mother; 
• saved the baby from the Hark; 
• tried to steal the baby and frame a Night Wing; 
• not-lied to the powerful magic user innkeep; 
• and entered Rook into a secret underground animal death match tournament where they gambled their life savings, cheated, juiced Rook, broke one of the cardinal rules of the Mootscarp at least half-a-dozen times (and were caught once), defecated on the floor and slung dung at an opponent, pants'd and tickled the wasp handler, and punched the rat handler in the face

Welcome to the Mootscarp.