(Technically, Krog is out in the Wastes, sure to die of frostbite and hypothermia... for the moment, lets just imagine he stopped on his way in Polaris first.)
Handing the pelts to the man behind the counter, Krogenar turned to the window of the trading post - watched a group of people milling about.
"We're square now Krog... fine furs, fine furs..." the merchant purred at the thought of the price that the women of Polaris would pay to adorn themselves in such fashionably warm coats.
But the half-orc was growing into a wiser merchant with each trade. What he once traded for some simple supplies and a room, he now traded for supplies and credit on his next visit!
But the trader still came out ahead, and the strider often brought strange and difficult-to-find carcasses back - to which he gave him the first pick.
Looking up from his imaginings, surrounded by open barrels of goods, the trader saw the strider walking towards the gathering outside.
-------------------------------------------------------
Krogenar watched the people milling about the town square... - Polaris - being so close to the frontier - rarely had visitors.
"Stark..." he muttered under his breath.
Watching the FLAME wave his hands as he spoke, the people around him listened with earnest - curious to see what the stranger brought with him. Standing atop the fountain, he spoke of remaking the city into a paradise to rival any of the great cities of the Realms. Some of the people around Krogenar looked on suspiciously - but others were curious.
"A paradise? ... What's he on about? .. like New Thalos ... or Westbridge... what's this western bridge?..."
As they muttered, some cried out in concern when the speaker lifted a ringed fist, and his eyes shone with a crimson light that was matched by the ring he wore.
A wash of heat rippled through the air, melting some of the snow on people's coats, soaking them with water. Icicles hanging under the eaves of a nearby tavern dropped like deadly pikes, nearly spearing some greybeards who sat underneath, listening. A small wail caught the strider's attention amidst the chaos.
Atop her daddy's shoulder, a 5-year-old girl watched in horror as her ice cream cone melted under the furnace-like heat, dripping down her father's winter jacket. Her small, cherubic face turned scarlet - nearly losing her breath from the effort of crying. And then the tears began streaming down her cheeks, her little shoulders shaking as she cried.
Frowning, Krogenar looked back at the speaker.
"We do not, however, wish to force governance upon you by force..." Raising an eyebrow, he smiled - waiting for the inevitable rhetoric about Istishians. "We are aware of the lies which have been perpetuated by our rival, the Church of Istishia, in attempts to befoul Lord Flame's honoured name..."
