Triple Digits.

[Caravan]

The hat was old.

There had been more before it, there were many like it, there would undoubtedly be more after it, but this was the one she had now. When did she get it? Ten, twenty years ago? The Westfall man hadn't exagerated -- this hat was quality. It was sun-faded and rain-spotted, the woven band frayed in some areas, a few tatters here and there...but quality. Its predecessor had been a shabby sham of a hat, faithful but lacking, and she'd left it with Chip the day she left him at the orphanage.

Caravan Fairwinds, the most interesting gnome in the world, sat in the dark of a rented room and took a long sip of moonshine. Her own blend - the burn had been mitigated, the flavor was strong but spiced - and there was a case of bottles on the floor. Good that I left you there, Chip. I wasn't cut out for that kind of life, mama-in'. They told me you had yourself a good job. You're big'n'strong. Good reputation, good heart, some smarts. She tapped the end of an unlit cigar against the wood and snorted, Better than I can say for me.

Life is fleeting, people and possessions even more so. The hat sat slumped atop the uneven table. Only Sheldon had stuck around longer, but he was a turtle. He'd probably tried to leave a dozen times only to be stalled by his slow gait and a well-placed patch of grass. There was a small stack of unread letters next to the hat. Nothing that interested her. There hadn't been word from the auctioneer in weeks. A month, maybe. Her repellant was, apparently, very effective. Even the orcs had made themselves scarce.

Another mouthful of moonshine. Every year, she committed to forget the day and every year it never worked. There was the tugging at her sleeve the day before, the crease of her brow before she went to sleep. It was always waiting for her when she woke up: October 27th. Somehow, another year had passed where she managed to not get herself killed. Year after year, it passed very similarly: a dark room, a strong spirit. And... today? One hundred. The big century. Triple digits.

I'm getting old.

She lit the cigar, the match sparking the bare, uninspiring room with orange before dying down to nothing but a smokey rumor. The cigar was left in the ash tray and she watched it eat itself. Happy Birthday. There had been more before it, there were many like it, there would possibly be more after it, but this was the one she had right now.

The hat was old.

Spoiler:

I may revisit this tomorrow on her actual birthday, but I wanted to get this up. I'm cheating with using midnight at my time.

[CappnRob]

(So Hrod and Cara are gonna throw a party right? MATHIEU CAN CONJURE THE CAKE.)

[Sol]

A day later, a strange-smelling and unusually large crate finds its way to sit outside Caravan's decrepit little sham of an apartment. To open it is to be wafted with the most appalling stink of heady spices and preservative salts, while beneath it, a scent of stale blood can be discerned.

Wrapped poorly in thin paper and bound with knots of twine, all stained dark with that blood, sits what an educated guess would determine to be one of the hearts of an adult clefthoof, the evident source of all those odours. It's almost as big as Caravan. Beside it, underneath it, are what appear to be pieces of a clefthoof's bony external neck-plates, crudely carved and sculpted and bound together with leather straps . . .

It's a breastplate, one realises. A breastplate and a backplate made of a clefthoof's natural armour, pieces of hard, sturdy bone held together with a web of straps. The amount of damage that's been done to them in an evidently violent carving process suggests that it's no good as armour now, but upon closer inspection, its surface crawls with painted red runes. Orcish runes, at a wager - any attempt to translate would reveal a series of prayers to the spirits of Earth and Air for vitality and strength.

The plates are thin enough to be worn unobtrusively under a layer of clothing, albeit perhaps a little uncomfortably. They seem to have been sized with a gnome's physique in mind.

Lost amidst the network of straps that holds the armour together is a pair of jagged bone knives. They are wicked-sharp but slightly flexible, suggesting a cartilage component. Clefthoof ribs, an anatomist might tell you.

Finally, a leather skin of clear spirits and a strong-smelling flask of oil lay bundled in a gnome-sized shawl of shaggy clefthoof fur at the very bottom of the crate.

Nailed to the top of the crate is a scrap of paper. The note begins in flowing orcish characters, but they trail off and are abruptly scribbled out after two lines. In jagged, barely-comprehensible Common follows:

Spoiler:

Hi Van. I hope yew are haffing a good berthdaye.

I am sorree that I cud not be present on the daye. I am doin some wanderrin round of ma owne rite now, tryin ta make things make sense aggen. It aynt eazy, but I think I am doin oh kay fer ma self.

I spoke ta the shahmun an I done asked him what can I get ma frend fer her berthdaye cause she be ternin one hundred. He told me he dont know many orcs that reached one hundred but he sed that he knew jus the thing.

In sum clans, wen an orc terns sixty, they eat a clefthoof hart heart cause clefthoofs are big and strong fellas that live fer a verry long tyme. They drink a skin of blessed water ta cleanse they selves before the ritchewul ritchual but I dont haff no blessed water so I cheeted an done got yew sum vodka insted.

Yew cut the heart inta pieces wit the nyves knives made of its bones an yew eet it wiv em too. Rember ta warm it up over a fiyre first cause if yew eat fewd that been raw fer a long tyme then yew can get a bad spirit in ya that makes yew sick. An I dont wanna hear bout yew rushin ta see no doctor man on yer berthdaye Van.

After yew eat it all yew wash yerself wiv the oyl I gave ya. They make a speshul oyl fer it speshully fer the elders but I cudent get none so I got yew some funerary oiyl ta clean yerself with. I hope yew dont mind.

I also made yew a brestplate out of its bones. It aynt much good cause I aynt never ben much good wit ma hands but I rember ma papa tellin me that orcs didnt haff much metal werk befor we formed the Horde so folk would use bones fer armor an things. Yew wudent hear me prayin fer ya from over here so I painted em on instead. They say that I hope yew live long an strong fer another hundred years.

I also made yew a coat so yew can keep warm.

An I jus wanned ta say thank yew fer all the gud things you done by me. Yer a gud frend, Van. I hope I get ta see yew soon.

Lots of luv
Backman

On the bottom of the note, as though as an afterthought, has been drawn in long, sweeping strokes another orcish character, but this one stands solitary out below the Common scribbling. It is readily identifiable as the rune meaning 'clansman', 'sibling', 'comrade' or 'family', with a curving accent drawn over the top to denote the word with a feminine gender.