The fishing village is indeed small with barely a hundred residents, modest Draenei homes, docks, boats. Sera finds the oldest shaman she can among them, to ask for advice, and gain guidance. “A curse?” Sera repeats to herself and Orillia. The ancient wizened Draenei nods her wrinkled head; “Indeed, and a fertility curse at that…”
“Vertility? Oooooh, if Greta an Abby were ‘ere…” wonders Orillia curiously. Sera waves ta her to be silent. “The Naga of the grotto has cast it upon us… Every woman, only able to bear children once.”
“Bit of a problem, seeing how places like this are more or less supposed to become colonies.” Adds Sera, causing the Shaman to nod. “Magic of this kind would require a focus… You, priestess.” The shaman points to Orillia who cocks her head. “You, purify whatever they are using, after the Naga are dead…” the shaman spits her last words bitterly.
Sera nods, kneading the haft of her machete. “Just show us the way.”
