(no subject)

[buffleheaded]

Aerie

Korgan: Aerie! Aerie! Cease yer whining! I’d swear on me father’s coalcart ye were one of o’ them fey elves with all the blasted cryin’ coming from ye.
Aerie: Eek!

Korgan: Outta my way, brat!
Aerie: Eek!

Korgan: You there, elf-girl. I be tired of yer constant mis-castin’ of magic while we be in the heat of battle. Can’t ye do anything right, girl!?
Aerie: I - I tried my - my best, sir.
Korgan: Well it ain’t good enough, now is it!

Korgan: Quit yer’ whinin’, wench. So you be tired, we care not. Sleep when death takes hold o’ ye, which would be a welcome respite for the rest of us.
Aerie: You’re a filthy and horrible little man, Korgan! If he’s - if he’s still with us this time tomorrow, I’m going back to the circus!
Korgan: Aye, we’ll miss ye like a good club to the head, won’t we, (CHARNAME)! Har har har!

Korgan: Looka the sky, missy. Yer day’s up and I’m still ‘ere. Ol’ (CHARNAME) didn’t e’en break it to ya gently. Take the hint and head back to yer little circus, girlie.
Aerie: F - fine! I’ll go! If (CHARNAME) has a ... has a thug like you around, then there’s no need for me, is there!?
(Aerie leaves)

*TOB*
Korgan: Aerie, ye wingless freak! Ye better spend some time practisin’ yer spells afore the next battle! I won’t put with anymore of yer screw-ups!
Aerie: Leave me alone, you brute. I’m in no mood for this today.
Korgan: Aye, yer never in the mood for nothin’ but weepy sentimentality! Stop playin’ adventurer and crawl back to yer cage in the circus! At least if people pay a copper or two to see yer gangly, misshapen form ye might be worth somethin’!
Aerie: I can look after myself, you vile little man! (CHARNAME) knows I can hold my own when the rough stuff starts!
Korgan: Yer nothin’ but a scrawny, whinin’, stump-backed, miscastin’ mage wannabe!
Aerie: I’m sick of your insults, you bastard! You’re worth less than the feces of an unwashed kobold! You’re stupid, bigoted, mean, small minded and small membered! Now leave me alone or I’ll cast a spell of withering on that pathetic excuse for a manhood you’re always scratching at between your legs!

Korgan: Aye, that’s I been waitin’ for! You’ll be blushin’ fer a week when ye calm down and realize what y’eve said, lassie! My work here is done - Har, har, har!

Anomen

Anomen: I have been watching you in combat, Korgan ... you fight well for one of the unblessed. Perhaps the blood sacrifices that you make to your primitive gods work well after all.
Korgan: Yer idiocy is surpassed only by yer unskilled floundering on the field of battle.
Anomen: Do not insult my faith, short one.
Korgan: Why not? All that I am has been gained through my own strength. You’ve naught but that but which is doled out to you by a frolicking godling.
Anomen: Tis obvious, dwarf, that you speak out of jealousy. So, too, would I, in your position.
Korgan: Hypocrite. You’ve no faith beyond that which brings you personal pleasure. A pig in filth. Wallow elsewhere, boy.
Anomen: I shall not stand here and listen to this dwarven self-loathing any longer. Truly you are the one who wallows, though in self-pity.

Korgan: I be lookin’ at ye’, Anomen, and I be pleased that at least I be no hyprocrite. There nay be a heart so holy the Devil nay make a nest of black twigs in it. I’ve seen the clay feet yer crusade stands on, paladin, and no lies can keep it from collapsing. Y’ere hellbound like me. Only a matter of the hourglass.
Anomen: Heresy is a devil’s bellow, dwarf. My service is to my lord.
Korgan: Yer reputation don’t know yer character. Ye lay falsehoods where ye need to, cleric, but I’ve read yer story on the faces of the dead and all’ nay written yet.
Anomen: My god has a face and a name, heretic. He leaves me free to draw his grand design on the souls of the lapsed and faithless.

*TOB*

(If Anomen failed his test).
Korgan: Ach - you there. Prretty boy. Aye, I mean ye, Anomen. Ye look a might down today.
Anomen: Down? I believe you are mistaken, dwarf. I am in fine spirits.
Korgan: Truly? I find that a might surprisin’. With yer’ sister rottin’ in her grave and yer life’s ambition to join the Order of the bleedin’ Heart forever lost I figured ye just might be somewhat surly.
Anomen: I try not to dwell on the past, Korgan. I am trying to put those events behind me ... though you bringing them up again does little to help the situation.
Korgan: Ach - that’s what I’m here fer! To open old wounds and to pour in a big bag o’ salt!
Anomen: I suggest you choose another target to torment, dwarf. Or maybe after the next battle I will treat your physical wounds with the same callous disregard you have shown for my emotional scars.
Korgan: ‘Twas merely a jest, my surly cleric. Since ye cannae take a joke, I’ll leave ye be.

Cernd

Korgan: Rain-maker, use yer mumbo-jumbo and make sure it don’t rain when we’re travelling in the outdoors! It makes me armor rust, me clothes damp and me feet slosh about in me favorite boots.
Cernd: I’m afraid not, Korgan. It is not within my sphere of influence, nor is it my place to do so.
Korgan: Bah! Tree-hugging dirteater! If yer god lived on Faerun I’d break his windows! Good fer nothin’! Go pluck mistletoe and frolic naked in the glades!
Cernd: Trying to make me repentant for the ways of the storm will prove no more fruitful than whistling down the wind. A selective sun may choose to prolong your damp, but who can say.

Edwin

Edwin: So tell me, Korgan, what do you think of character and adversity? It seems to me that this party is long on squawk and short on character.
Korgan: The harder yer conflict, the more glorious be yer triumph, I reckon, spellchucker. What ye obtain too cheaply, ye esteem too lightly.
Edwin: How true, how true. As a gallant warrior-born, I correctly assumed you to be a student of warfare and a master of battle.
Korgan: Aye. The best battler is he who can smile in troubles deep, gather his strength from distress and grow brave in reflection.
Edwin: Dwarf, you speak the truth. A warrior without peer, like you, must be an affront to nature. The strongest in the most peril ... strange how Fate weaves her tapestry.
Korgan: Survival of the fittest be the term, and that be the puzzle of Life. The life of adventurers. Now shut yer yap.

Korgan: Ye know, Bag of Tricks, ye and I are nay so different. Ye fetch awe with eye of newt and tongue of salamander. I with battleaxe and bloodlust.
Edwin: A rather bold conjecture don’t you think, Korgan?
Korgan: Nay, not so bold. The rest of these backpeddlers ‘aven’t a clue. Ye and I, we know the longlimb’s capacity fer the horrible and the severe, eh friend? We know.
Edwin: You’re an odd little fellow, Korgan. I’m not sure what to make of you and your chagrins.

*TOB*
Korgan: It’s been a grand fight, eh mage? Can you better cap a life betwixt the toes and the flames of hell itself! Ha!
Edwin: Would someone get this bile-soaked freak away from me?
Korgan: What? No stomach for the cleavings of me axe?
Edwin: I do not fault the need for frontline offense, but I fail to see why you find it necessary to stink a blade to your elbows. Bah! Mages! Ye’ll blast away from yer mothers’ windows but catch yer scatter-willys at the thought of blood. It’s called follow-through! Feh!

HaerDalis’

HaerDalis’: There not be enough critters in all the world to stain me axe nearly enough. I’ve killed aplenty already, an’ I yearn yet for more. Come, then, and face this dwarf! Aye, come!
HaerDalis’: My hound, my hound, my dog of war ... do not invite death to come knocking at your door. I am sure that there be plenty of diversions awaiting the keen edge of yer blade, anon.
Korgan: If there be more of ye out skulking in the shadows, then show yerselves! I have to have some fun ... I cannay go about feeling tough and unfeeling all the time!
HaerDalis’: You do have a certain invective creativity, Korgan. Now, if only you could direct your inventiveness to something more cerebral, less bravado.
Korgan: Cease yer jabber, fool! Blasted actors! Even nay a script or play and still ye need to be the center of all! Strewth!

Korgan: Baldurdash, imbecile! I’ve more than a fair mind to tear ye a new dirtchute, ye lying swindler! Faerun would be none the poorer, with ye pushin’ up daisies. Ye’d be wise to skulk about in the shadows and pick yer dainty locks, else yer time be up. Hear me, scoundrel?
HaerDalis’: I hear you plain enough, dwarf. I seek no quarrel with your prowess.
Korgan: So the snakebelly ain’t as dumb as he looks. There’s a lad.

Imoen

*TOB*
Korgan: Hhmp. Imoen, yer an o’er-lame excuse fer a member o’ this party and I be tired of exertin’ meself to protect ye! Next time I let ye perish, screamin’ like a ninny as ye does!
Imoen: The last time I saw you exert yourself over anything was the last slab of pork in an inn. If you could keep up with me with that beer gut of yours I’d be amazed.
Korgan: Beer gut?! Why, ye stinkin’ wench, how dare ye! Keep up with me axe as if flies toward yer head, more like! Though it’d be like splittin’ a hair, skinny as ye are!
Imoen: I’d be started if a drunk dwarven oaf like yourself could hit the broad side of barn with your axe. And while we’re talking about stench, let’s talk about the last time you passed out in your own vomit.
Korgan: An outrage! Yer be a canker on me backside and the world best be rid of ye! Loathsome mongrel she-dog!
Imoen: Brutish pig! You’re nothing but a boil needing lancing!
Korgan: I’ve seen harlots wi’ less open sores than ye, ye pimple-faced, whining gutter-snipe!
Imoen: You cantankerous, foul-mouthed excused for a gully dwarf!
Korgan: Gully dwarf? Har har! Ye know how to hit low, ye does! Har har! Yer a fine, fine lass, ye are, Imoen. That Gorion of yers would be proud!
Imoen: Aw, gee. Thanks, Korgan!

Jaheira

Korgan: That’s quite a fine wooden staff you’ve got there, woman. Tell me, ye crack acorns with it? Or call some rarebit friends to frolic with ye?

Jaheira: Nature’s servant makes no judgement on the woodlands. Your tone betrays you, Korgan.
Korgan: Perhaps ye could summon a horde of squirrels to take the day, or make some lovely leaf stew?
Jaheira: A great many things are lost to you, I would think.

Korgan: Yer eyes wander all over me back while I battle. Do I meet yer approval? I hope not; I find yer nuts and berries approach to be quite feeble.
Jaheira: What does it matter what I would think of you, if at all? You could scarcely care less.
Korgan: Aye, that is true enough, but I’ll not have ye at me back and thinking me ill. I’d sooner gut ye here and now, and let your bile fertilize yer precious plants.
Jaheira: Ah, you have quite the way of inspiring comrades. Such an act would let you sleep soundly at night. Your ‘friends’ will ... watch over you intently.
Korgan: Ehh, such a sleep be akin to death, may even become it. So walk on, wench o’ the wood, but do so ahead of me!

Jan Jansen

Korgan: Hahahaha! Marvelous tale, gnome. Well told, well told. Only blight on ye is that trimmed beard and that loathsome pointy pickle hanging off yer face.

*TOB*
Jan: Korgy old pal, have I ever told you how much you remind me of my uncle, Uriah Twin-Hammers?
Korgan: Watch yer step, gnome. If ye make me angry, I’ll bury the head of me axe so far up yer backside yer breath will smell like magic metal!
Jan: That’s exactly the kind of thing Twin-Hammers would say. He was a ruthless, savage, bloodthirsty outlaw who would kill anyone or anything that got in his way. He used to repeatedly terrorize a certain gnomish village he frequently wandered through in his neverending quest for profit and bloodshed.
Korgan: A man after me own black heart! Carry on, gnome ... ye got me blood stirrin’!
Jan: Of course, all good things come to an end. Fed up with Uriah’s antics, the village hired a hero to protect them and enforce the law - the legendary Clint Hackman (so named for his habit of chopping his foes to little bits). With the townsfolk peering from their windows the outlaw and the famous lawman stared each other down in the center of the dusty, deserted street. Cold as ice, Uriah said: ‘I’ve killed women and children. I’ve killed everything that walks or crawls on this earth. And now I’m here to kill you.’ Alas, Uriah met his end on that street. With his first blow he broke his hammer on Hackman’s shield, and that was it. Weaponless, he wasn’t much of a match for the mighty Clint. If my uncle had only been named Two-Hammer because he carried two weapons he still might be alive today. But Uriah got his nickname for the mighty hammer he carried in his belt and the even mightier ... uh, ‘hammer’ he had *beneath* his belt, if you get my drift. A fine instrument to have, but not much good in a fight.
Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! ‘Tis a good thing ye know yer audience, gnome ... me axe stays in my belt.

*TOB*
Korgan: ‘Tis been far too long since our last battle. Jan, ye runty windbag, tell me a story to ward off the boredom ... and if ye know what’s good for ye, it’ll be about dwarves!
Jan: Ah, finally someone who appreciates my tales! A tale about dwarves, eh? Let me see, of course - my cousin Kimble. Not a dwarf himself per say, but Kimble always was of peculiar tastes for a gnome. He fell in love with a dwarven lass. She was stout and stocky, with a gruff voice and a soft, supple beard ...
Korgan: Ah, gnome, ye know how to paint a lovely picture ... such a beauty she must ha’ been!
Jan: Oh yes, she was a fine looking woman ... to Kimble’s eyes at least. She cast a spell on him far stronger than any sorcerer could have. But she wouldn’t have anything to do with my cousin - she had dwarven princes and clan lords after her calloused hands, and she couldn’t be bothered with a dirt poor turning farming gnome. But Kimble’s heart wouldn’t be denied ... he left his own family to follow this bewitching character back to her clan home.
Korgan: Yer losin’ me gnome, I don’t want no weeping love story. I want killin’ and death! Give me blood!
Jan: You wanted a story about dwarves, and this is the only one I’ve got. I just can’t make up a life, you know ... that would be an affront to the grand tradition of storytelling in my family! Now, where was I? Oh yes, Kimble. My cousin followed the lovely dwarven lass to her clan home in the Alimir Mountains, and started a turnip farm there. He had a rough go of it at first, let me tell you ... taxes, levies, zoning restrictions. It was almost like the dwarves didn’t want him and his farm there. But they never had turnips, so they didn’t really know what they were missing. One of those turnips started to sprout things, changed in a hurry. Turns out the dwarves of that particular clan LOVED turnips. Fried, baked, boiled, pureed, mashed - you couldn’t find a meal of the day they didn’t have turnips with. Turnips became so fashionable they began to wear clothes made from turnips. Never did a dwarf look so snazzy (or smell so appetizing) as when he dressed up in a turnip top hat and turnip tails, with turnip skin shoes to complete the ensemble. And with his turnip business booming, Kimble had more wealth than he knew what to do with. Just walking around his house was an effort, what with all the mountains of gold spilling out of every door of every room.
Korgan: All that gold got me attention, gnome. But the happy ending isn’t doin’ much for me.
Jan: Happy ending? I never said any such thing. Kimble was rich, true enough - but it turns out his dwarven love didn’t share her clans’ fondness for turnips. In fact, she was deathly allergic. She did her best to avoid the lethal vegetables, but as popular as Kimble’s crops were it was only a matter of time before she accidentally ate one. It killed her, of course. Heartbroken, Kimble tried to return to his own people. But the dwarves just weren’t going to let him and his turnips leave. They threw him in prison and demanded he reveal the secrets of turnip farming, but that isn’t something you can just teach. You either have the gift or you don’t, and dwarves don’t. In the end Kimble’s frail body succumbed to the dwarves’ torture and interrogation and he left to join his beloved in the afterlife. And that particular dwarven clan discovered that turnip farmers were almost as tasty as turnips themselves. Or so I’ve heard.
Korgan: HAR! HAR! HAR! A great tale, gnome. Ye done yerself proud!

Keldorn

Korgan: Fer a muddled longlimb, Keldorn, ye doth wield a clever blade indeed.
Keldorn: As do you, Korgan. But alas, blades be far too lengthy for the vertically challenged, I hazard a guess.
Korgan: I need no narrow stick of steel to render a foe asunder. I prefer the axe to split the difference. Allies, aye, fallen too, if need be.
Keldorn: Your axe has claimed a few close to you, I know. I’d not put a visit to the same impulse past you.
Korgan: Its nay brutal, only reasonable, force. Ye pick yer battles big enough to matter, and small enough to win. They all had it comin’. All of em.
Keldorn: We all do, Korgan. Our Lord makes this world a vale of tears and sorrow. And, alas, few are saved. Infinitely more are damned.

Mazzy

Korgan: Be aware, Mazzy, I’ve something long, hard, and low to the ground y’ere free to touch and fondle. Child, no need to glare! ‘Twas me axe I was referring to.
Mazzy: Your sense of humor has no sense in it, Korgan. Quite tasteless, and I’d appreciate it if you would keep it to yourself!
Korgan: Were ye aware, Mazzy, that despite my gruff bearing and taciturn manner, I am also trained in the erotic arts?
Mazzy: Please, Korgan, if I wanted to know the nature of your leisure time, I’m sure I would have asked. Perhaps your smarm impresses the brazen strumpets at the Coronet, but you have to do better than that with this girl, beardly.
Korgan: Ahhh, Mazzy, the sweetest flowers always resist the plucking. The fire doth burn most brightly in ye for ol’ Korgan ... I can see that plain as day.
Mazzy: What’s in your wineskin, bellybuilder? A potion of delusion is my guess.

Korgan: Ye know, Mazzy, I’m a poet of fair reknown back home. Here’s a mere trifle:
“Hold fast to dreams, for if dreams die, life be a broken bird that cannae fly”
Mazzy: That’s delightful, Korgan. Not lengthy, but effective.
Korgan: Aye. Wrote it after a liquor-induced dervish o’temper, whereby a tavern was flattened and me helm dented.
Mazzy: Any other masterpieces of prose lying anywhere?
Korgan: Aye ... carved this one on the wall of the lav at the Red Sheaf Inn, reckon it still causes an uproar each time a bowler uncoils his business. “I w’ere her, alas I’m gone, left me name, to arouse thee on, They who know me, know me well, those who don’t can ride me stinking dump, straight to Hell!” Haha! Masterpiece!
Mazzy: I’m sure your mead-bellied kin would appreciate that lowbrow nonsense, but I don’t. And here I thought you might have some values or sense.

Korgan: I’ve an elf-knot in me neck from straining to admire the whole of your beauty, Mazzy. Calf’s skin suits your form mightily, girl.

Mazzy: Must you be so urgent and clumsy in your one-handed courting, Korgan? Perhaps your time could be best spent elsewhere?
Korgan: The cruelest of weapons and the gentlest of touches, milady, that’s what the words that leave yer lips be to me. It’s no secret I’ve nay the longest beard, nor the most comely countenance, but the Bloodaxes ‘ave charm when need be, and ye are deserving of me flattery, Mazzy.
Mazzy: If I hadn’t heard it myself, Korgan, I’d have doubted it steadfastly. Perhaps a heart does beat beneath that armored chest, not a daub of stone.
Korgan: Don’t let word get about. I’ve a reputation to protect, girl. Ye’d ruin it twiceover. I’ve a terrific elf-knot strangling me ... right here. Can ye help me with those nimble fingers and delicate manner?
Mazzy: Only if it will cease your fawning. Stand still and I’ll work that kink from your neck ... but if you breach the rules of chivalry and I’ll wring it while I’m there.

Korgan: Longlimbs! Look at ‘em! Like grubworms scurrying away from the light of day. All avoiding day, on the prowl fer pleasure. Nay facing uncertain futures. Best all dead, I reckon.
Mazzy: Korgan, I know not whether to berate you for your unsolicited comments or for your mantra of genocide.
Korgan: I did nay know ye were within earshot, girl. Twas a wee pondering, nothin’ more. I enjoy making fun of the big folk.
Mazzy: No one likes to be insulted, least of all tall folk. You just seem too preoccupied with violence to get along with people, to notice beauty about you.
Korgan: I know of what ye speak, Mazzy. I nay blind to it entirely. Treachery, theft, plunder. Hatred here, killing there. Nay respect fer heritage or the way.
Mazzy: What are you talking about Korgan?
Korgan: What do I talk of? Clan against clan, oceans of bloodshed, rivers of tears. And fer what? A tunnel or two. A vein of gold or silver.
Mazzy: I’m .... I’m listening ...
Korgan: Me mam were murdered. Nay by troll or giant, but by kindred, by one of me own. Pa had to cut me from her while she heaved her death rattle. Five harvest one he were killed too, right in front o’me. I built his pyre, and black smoke showed me I were alone. So ye’ll forgive me bad manner where the true nature of beasts is reckoned on.
Mazzy: I’m sorry to hear that, Korgan, but as pained as the past may be, try to be civil while we are travelling through human civilization. They didn’t make your past.
Korgan: With due respect, Mazzy, ‘tis not civil. Longlimbs be victims of passion far more than me. The brief lifetimes, I reckon, be the core of their rage. Be wise to this: if there be corruption in me, Mazzy, ‘tis only the cost of sleeping amongst’ the enemy.
Mazzy: We are all responsible for ourselves. I sorrow at the pain of your youth, but you could defeat your anguish. You’ve no claim to self-pity.
Korgan: Lady Mazzy, sorry for any offense, truly, but I’ve cradled too many dying comrades and nay amount of resolve can keep the darkness at bay. Ye must roar into the darkness, wage war with fear and battle pain. ‘Tis the only way when carnage be yer crown of thorns.
Mazzy: Then why don’t you save your rage for the evil beasts that plague us ll, be we human, dwarf, or halfling.

Korgan: Out of respect for ye, I shall try.

*TOB*
Korgan: Ahhhh, Mazzy. We have travelled together, you and I’, fer such a length o’ time. Ye know it’s just a matter of time before we end up together, aye?
Mazzy: Don’t be ridiculous. I know of no such thing.
Korgan: Ye may deny it, lass, but I see the fire burnin’ in yer eyes. Ahhh, it shall be a glorious thing indeed when ye gives in to yer heart.
Mazzy: The only thing in my heart, Korgan, is disgust. Disgust at your lack of manners, your lack of civility and, yes, your lack of basic decency. You are nothing like Patrick.
Korgan: Eh? An’ this be a bad thing? Who be this Patrick o’ yers?
Mazzy: I will not speak of him to you, Korgan, except to say he was good and decent in all ways that you are not. He died nobly fighting the Shade Lord and I shall honor him forever in my heart.
Korgan: Ach! I cannae be expected t’ compete against a ghost, lass!
Mazzy: Indeed, you cannot. And I do not expect you to.
Patrick: He were a lucky man, then, Mazzy, to have such a loyal lass as ye!
Mazzy: He ... I ... thank you, Korgan. I miss him. Now let us speak no more of this.

*TOB*
Korgan: I’ve a small question for ye, lass, if ye’ll be so kind as t’ not run off on me this time.
Mazzy: (sigh) I’ll promise not to run, Korgan, but if this is just another base attempt at flattery ...
Korgan: Nay, nay, lass. It be just a small question.
Mazzy: Then ask.
Korgan: I need to know, Mazzy. If it were not for this Patrick fellow ye mentioned ... if ye did nay know th’ man at all ... would I even have a chance with ye?
Mazzy: Korgan, this is outrageous! Of all the -
Korgan: I be completely serious! I just have t’ know! Just answer th’ bloody question!
Mazzy: (sigh) Well ... if it will help assuage your bruised ego. If Patrick did not exist, and had not died nobly at my side ...
Korgan: Aye? Aye?
Mazzy: And if you weren’t a cruel bastard and a complete oaf with barely enough redeeming qualities to count on one hand ...
Korgan: Aye? Yes?
Mazzy: Well then, perhaps. I might give you a chance. A small one.
Korgan: YES!! A-HA!! She loves me, she does! The bloody dwarf hasn’t lost it! The girl be MINE!!
Mazzy: But ... I just ... (groan) Oh, never mind. I’ve developed a bad head-ache suddenly ...

Minsc

Korgan: Yer combat prowess is a sight to behold, Minsc. Ye certain no dwarven blood runs through ye?
Minsc: Boo points, I punch! It is a simple relationship, but it is effective.
Korgan: That rodent? Yer at the beck and call of vermin?

Minsc: Boo is a find friend, and powerful in ways you don’t let yourself see! To insult Boo is to insult all things small that try hard. Oh, and Minsc as well.
Korgan: Warrior, perhaps chasing windmills be best left to ye.

*TOB*
Minsc: Korgan, Boo tells me that you have been staring at him. I fear your gaze is making him quite angry ... see how his tiny body trembles with fury?
Korgan: Ach, the little bugger’s probably just cold. I’ll fire up a pot o’ boiling water to warm his wee bones, and ye just toss ‘im right in. An’ then it’s hamster stew fer everyone!
Minsc: Minsc knows you are just joking. If Boo was in your belly he would forget the ‘miniature’ part of his giant space hamster size. Ho-ho! That would be a messy end to your jests!

Nalia

Korgan: Nalie, ye’re overtall, beardless, long-limbed, and lack strength. Ye disgust me.
Nalia: What provoked this hostility, Korgan?
Korgan: Ye deserve the full wrath of my ire, weakling! Ye deserve it because ye’re a coddled, priviledged imbecile, a sad, little, nobleman’s offspring! With what grout ye’ve left, never quest what I’ve to say, else each night upon the morn ye awake screaming for fear of what I may do to ye!
Nalia: I’m sorry, Korgan. I seek no conflict and wish only to be left alone. Forgive my slights, if I made any.
Korgan: Ye quiver and wither like all the others. Ye’re a gutless coward. And so ye’ll stay.

Sarevok

Korgan: Ach, Sarevok! Yer a bloody killin’ machine, ye are!
Sarevok: Violence has always come easily to me. It seems little has changed.
(If he’s still evil)
In the cold nether realm, while I waited to be reborn, I sorely missed the crimson spray and the hot tang of death on my tongue.
Korgan: Aye, well said me armor plated friend! Welcome back to the land of the living, where the chance to reap a gruesome slaughter lurks around every corner. Har-har-har!
(If he changed alignment)
Even after my resurrection, violent rage pollutes my tainted blood. As (CHARNAME) can surely attest, it is a constant struggle to keep our bloodlust in check.
Korgan: Don’t be turnin’ all moral and weak on me, Sarevok! If yer gonna get prissy about killin’, we cannae discuss this any more!
Sarevok: I kill when I have to, Korgan. But I no longer take such pleasure in it as you do.
Korgan: Bah! If that’s yer new attitude, then (CHARNAME) would have been better off leavin’ you dead!

*TOB*
Sarevok: I see you eyeing me, dwarf. Are you looking to test your metal against mine?

Korgan: I just be tryin’ to come to a reckoning about yer nature, ye walkin’ ghost.
Sarevok: Truly. And what have you concluded, Korgan Bloodaxe? Am I friend or foe?
Korgan: Yer handy enough in a fight, but I kill something I want to know it’s going’ to stay dead. Sarevok: Unless you plan on killing me as I sleep, dwarf, that is not your concern.
Korgan: Aye, that be true enough, I guess. Yer strange return to the land o’ the livin’ matter not. As long as yer throwin’ yer blade into the mix, yer not hurting our group none.
Sarevok: And I could say the same about you. We are done here, dwarf.

Valygar

Korgan: Valygar! Ye indeed be a dervish! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear there were a dwarf hiding in the woodpile nine months before yer mam birthed ye!
Valygar: Thank you for the compliments, dwarf.

*TOB*
Korgan: Ach, I be wonderin’ if I might talk to ye, Valygar. Just to pass the time, ye know.
Valygar: I doubt we have much in common to talk about, dwarf.
Korgan: Ye might be surprised, ranger. I understand ye killed yer family - we have that much in common. Aye, that we do.
Valygar: You ... were also forced by circumstances to spill the blood of your kin?
Korgan: ‘Twas inevitable. When my father died there was barely enough inheritance to go around fer me and my three brothers. I had to protect my future, ye understand.
Valygar: We have nothing in common, you vile murderer! When I killed my mother it was to cleanse the world of her evil necromancy, not for selfish personal gain!
Korgan: Killing is killing, and dead is dead, my lanky friend. Ye can sugar coat it all ye want, but when we go to our family reunions we both stand alone, aye?
Valygar: I did what I had to do, Korgan. No more, no less. But you ... you are an animal! You kill for pleasure. It is a sickness on your soul, and I want no part of it. Speak to me no more.
Korgan: Hhmph - fine, ye prissy. I’ll leave ye alone. But when the fightin’ start ye’ll be glad Korgan and his ‘sickness’ are by yer side splittin’ the skulls of yer enemies!

Viconia

Viconia: Korgan, I’m interested in whether your clan has ever had interaction with House De’Vir. It seems to me, if memory serves, that our sphere of influence was quite close to your Bloodaxe clan’s stronghold near Talthalra Wern’nt Szithla Har’oloth.
Korgan: Nay speak that vile tongue to me, blackskin. If it moves, I’ve killed it, but if it be drow, I’ve tortured it fer days, first. As fer that house of yers, I burned it and relieved meself on the dead and embers. And the necklace of darkelf ears fetched me a king’s ransom in Waterdeep.

*TOB*
Viconia: By the grace of Shar, what is that foul stench? *gag* Korgan, could you not have the decency to stand downwind of me?

Korgan: The only time I stand downwind of a dark elf is when I’m looking to add to my collection of drow ears! But dannae worry, ye dark witch, yer time will come.
Viconia: Toss your idle threats elsewhere, hargluk. I tolerate your presence for the same reason my kin tolerate your kind in the Underdark ... you are a useful servant. But servants are easy to replace.
Korgan: Ye think yer healin’ powers make ye indispensable, drow? I wonder, can ye raise yerself from the dead if I slit yer dusky throat?
Viconia: And why have you not already done so, Korgan? Like all your kind you lack the courage to act when you fear the consequences of failure. That is why the drow use your kin as slaves. Ah ... the wind has shifted. I now have no reason to continue this discussion, dwarf.
Korgan: This ain’t over, wench!
Viconia: Yes, Korgan ... it is.

Yoshimo

Yoshimo: Friend Korgan, you are truly a paragon of dwarven ill-humour. Can you find no joy in being alive? The smell of the morning dew and the feel of the free air?
Korgan: Aye, I feel pleasure the sound of an inquisitive thief’s neck-bone breakin’ between me hands.
Yoshimo: They could write a book about you. ‘Irritable Dwarven Responses’, they’d call it. It would be a best-seller amongst the smelly-old-drunk market. What say you?
Korgan: Mayhaps ye should, only ‘Pleasures of the Dwarven Bed-Chamber’ is a more pleasing and accurate subject.
Yoshimo: Ho! Is it, now? How about, ‘The Unbathed Adventurer: Travels with Korgan?’
Korgan: Worry not, thief. There’s naught wrong with yer idea that a sharp blow to yer idiot skull wouldn’t fix. Here is yer title and argue with me gauntlets if ye dare, ‘Tall-Folk Scourge: Yoshimo Beware!’ Now shut yer mouth and get to writing.