Marfta groaned and grabbed the bandage before she hurried over to the little ones. With a quick move, she reached Gorma and took away the knife - a knife that looked like a broadsword in Gorma's hands - before she began to take care of Regir's cut finger.

"What have you been up to again? Can't you be still for just one moment?"

But Marfta quickly calmed herself down. These two had been through too much; they didn't deserve her impatience, too. But how was she supposed to understand this? Just a few days ago all these ... well, irritations, had been respected fighters. There had been grumblings about allowing warriors of their race into their lands, but they all were valuable soldiers for the realm; experienced in handling weapons, medicine or magic. Now they lumbered around like small children - an association that was supported, of course, by their size.

It must have been a strange poison, which the mysterious figure poured into the well of the village. The guards had seen little more than a shadow, and only when it was already too late. Spies in the enemy realms had reported that similar things had happened there, but what comfort did that bring?

Marfta tried to imagine what they had gone through, wracked with pain after drinking from the poisonous well. They'd been struck with a terrible fever, and as it raged through their bodies they had begun to forget. More and more of their skills and memories had been stolen from them as they cried out in their fevered state. Then, just as the fever had started to break, their bodies had begun to shrink, smaller and smaller until they were no more than the size of a child. Was it a blessing that they seemed to have forgotten everything?

'No, no! Put that bow down at once! No bows allowed in the house! Don't argue with me, you will just hurt someone! Oh my ..."

She wasn't able to handle this alone, Marfta knew for sure. She was the healer of the village, not the nanny. No one could handle this challenge alone; she needed help from the capital. Grabbing for ink and a feather she began to write a quick note to the Matron of the Realm to explain the situation. She paused for a moment, then nodded. She'd ask for help from the heroes of the land, as well. Surely they could be useful in finding a cure to this mysterious affliction. She sighed as she heard another fight break out behind her. Even if the heroes couldn't help, they'd at least be able to give her some peace and quiet for a time.



A strange plague has affected many Half Ogres, Trolls and Firbolgs; altering them into childlike beings. The Matrons of the Realms were requested to take care of these and can now be found in front of the capitol cities. Players above level 45 can speak with them to learn how they can support the new training of these freshly youthful beings. Depending on your realm, this event will make you responsible for a little Half Ogre, Troll, or Firbolg, who will have different tasks for you in the weeks to come.

Are you up for it?

Deotail hat geschrieben:Bin mit meinem Oger mit der ersten Quest durch.
Danach macht der kleine Bube aber keine Anstalten die nächste Quest zu verteilen.
Hat wer ne Ahnung warum?
Journal ist leer.

Deotail hat geschrieben:Wie Was? Man kann den ausbilden?

Deotail hat geschrieben:Kannst Du das bitte genauer erklären?
HAst den beschworen und interagiert oder wie?

Deotail hat geschrieben:Hum, dann ists buggy bei mir.
Wie gesagt Journal leer. Oger spricht nicht mir mir. NPC vor Camelot gibt mir auch nichts.

Hatte nur in Mithras Gruft den MiniZyklopen verdroschen. Kein Dialog, kein garnichts.
Hmmm...