Wurzag returned to Lomedor feeling immensely proud of himself; he had triumphed over adversity and succeeded in defeating his first tournament opponent. It had been a long time since the half-orc had been presented with such a challenging battle and at the end, with his strength spent, he had been uncertain of victory. Sargtlin was a worthy warrior, one which the green-skin would gladly fight beside rather than against, as his fresh scars testified. The roughly stitched wound across his face was particularly irritating and itched terribly, though once it had healed would enhance the ferocity of his visage. It would also make for good story material, something to talk about over a pint and a hot meal.

It was exactly that sort of sustenance that was on his mind as he ambled into the square. He had taken a brief detour to the battle-arena to inquire about his next opponent, but had been told to come back later once the orgainser had updated things. The promoter had however handed him a strangely bent stick as a prize for having the courage to participate. It was sheathed in metal at each end and the man had explained that it was a weapon of sorts, the idea being to throw it at the enemy. The stick, or boomerang as it was called, then returned to your hand and could be used a second time. The half-orc was a little dubious about the returning, but had stuffed the item into his pack anyway.

Wurzag crossed the market and navigated his way around the many stalls and hawkers with familiar ease. At one point a thick crowd had gathered to admire some particularly well wrought armour, though the price tag was astronomical. The half-orc shouldered his way through the throng with the odd 'scuse me' and occasional glare and had almost broken free when a tall, powerful looking individual stopped him. The man looked a little like a drow, though his flesh was a subtly different shade, and Wurzag couldn't help but feel that there was something spidery about him.

"Wot duz yez want?" The half-orc rumbled, a little irritated at having been halted in his progress toward nourishment, "I 'as places to be, fings to eats."

"For sure," the unusual character remarked smoothly, "but I would not suggest you eat this, it would be ... unpleasant." As he spoke a large spider emerged from his sleeve, crept stealthily down his arm and leaped deftly on to the half-orcs head where it promptly burrowed into his hair. "Keep an eye on it my friend, his name is Spidyzag and he may possess more power than you realise." Then the strange man was gone, vanished into the market crowd. Wurzag blinked and tried to figure out what had just happened. The spider lurked happily amongst his dreadlocks and set about scouring all insect life from from the green-skin's scalp.

"Erm, right," the half-orc muttered before moving off further into the market. Around the corner from the expensive merchant was a dwarf selling much more reasonably priced protection, and though Wurzag was keen to get the bar and its comforting array of drinks he could not ignore the fact that he had recently received a severe beating. Taryn had procured himself a fine suit of leather armour that had served him well throughout the lich slaying adventure, where Wurzag had relied upon his own flesh to turn the blows of the enemy. It was about time he learned that skin provided very little defense against steel. The problem the half-orc had always encountered however was that he possessed very little coin, usually spending his ill-gotten gains on drink before it had time to accumulate.

He had however, been away from the city for quite some time and had done several stints as a caravan guard. He suddenly found himself, for the first time ever, with an abundance of gold. "'Ere mate," he growled to the dwarf, "'ow much fer dat?" The item in question was a broad leather belt protected at the buckle by a beautifully wrought plate of steel. The metal had been worked into the shape of a ram's skull and the strip of hide was covered in loops and pouches. To Wurzag it was a belt fit for a champion and he expected it to cost a princely sum.

It wasn't until the merchant quoted a price that Wurzag realised that the whole process was meaningless. Money meant numbers and, as the little blacksmith quickly came to understand, the half-orc had no grasp of numbers whatsoever. After a brief exchange during which Wurzag dumped the contents of his coin pouch on to the counter gestured to bits of armour and the dwarf nodded or shook his head accordingly, a deal was reached. The green-skin would never know whether the diminutive armourer ripped him off, but he walked away with the belt, a skirt of heavy chainmail to protect his legs, a pair of warmly lined, armoured boots, some gauntlets which were supposedly magical and a potion which the dwarf threw in because he was such a good customer. When queried about the effects of the strange brew the little chap had simply said that it should only be used in an emergency and far away from any friends and family.

The half-orc tucked the little bottle into his new belt and headed for the bar, a very happy green-skin indeed.