The Stag and the Sheep

"A cold feel from da sherrif eh Forgady? Lessee if we have bedda luck ere." Forgaty simply preened his feathers as the two approached the immaculate White Stag, the last refuge of most of the well-to-do of Sandpoint. Stepping in Ukawada knew he did not fit into the environment, both in size and temperment, but still he went with his best foot, making sure his mask was doing its job of concealing "Hello braddas sissas, I was toldby da sherrif I talkato farmers here and get a wridden premission for my sheep da graze on land." 

The patrons inside turn to the door at the proclamation. Many returns to the bottom of there mugs or the food on their plates, determined not to court fate, violence, or further disruptions of their lives. A few gathered groups look confused and speak in hushes whispers, a couple of Shoanti in separate groups translate to their peers, who nod with understanding. No one patron speaks directly to Ukawada. Garridan Viskalai lifts his chin. "Come in, stranger. You're far afield so why not sit at the bar and have a drink before conducting business."

"danks bradda." Ukawada carefully sits himself down, careful as to not break the chair " I mean no disrespect bradda buhicant drink, you no wan me dakin off mah mask. Now I should inroduce mahself if we're tah betalkn bisness, I'm Ukawada Viskalai of Shriikirri-Quah, sheep herdah."

Garridan looks confused. "Viskalai?" He frowns giving the man  a look from head to toe. "Shriikirri-Quah are Shoanti peacemakers. Why do you wear a mask like a man of war."

"Das righ bradda, I wear mah mask cause Iiant preddy tahlookat, peoples sensbilies." he points to his hand, the color of earth and moss, shoanti tatooes climbing his arm "wha abou you bradda, who are you tah know so much?"

"My parents were Shoanti..." he returns to vigorously wiping down the counter. "You're going to have a hard time doing anything in a mask. You look like a hooligan - like trouble - and we've got enough of that here." He says not looking at Ukawada but out and over the patrons of his full tavern. His gaze is steely as he regards the needs and attitudes of the people within. The tension from the refugees is apparent in the lack of laughter and in the hushed voices.

"Yeah I heard bradda, I undasan, I also undasan if yah puoff an no wanna work wid me." With that Ukawada removes his heavy mask, showing to all his face. Nothing about it spoke of humanity, not the jutting brow, the pronounced tusks, sharp teeth and gnarled ears. But in his face was more then orc, something bestial about the structure of the face, the piggish nose, Ukawada's entire self hearkened back to something before the time of man or orc, something old and feral "Sorry for no being hones cousin, I am Ukawada Viskalai of Shriikirri-Quah and of da Deadeye orcs, sheep farmer. Again I undasan if you no wanna work wid me bradda, yah goallot problems here and I mus look like annoda one." Ukawada looks around the bar, faces cold and fearful "Den again I could be help, which seems tah be somin you need."

Garridan studies Ukawada's face carefully. As he studied his hand forgot its previous enthusiasm at scrubbing and remained still on the bar. Remembering himself at the sound of a dropped tankard that nearly caused everyone to jump that was nearby to it, he resumed the wipe and went to the end of the bar to serve a patron.  He returned and put a tankard of water in front of Ukawada. "Everyone here is trying the damndest to stay alive and uneaten by the walking dead," he began low and gruff. "Sandpoint is a town of honest folk and hardworkers. Once they realize you're a good sort of person, they'll open up." He turned to walk away but hesitated. "We've got half-orcs in town...just...keep polite." He went back to the end of the bar to serve another patron.

Ukawada gave Garridan a crooked smile and put his mask back on, turning his attenion to the patrons "Now who here is ineresed in 80 pounds of wool an some lambs?!"