If you want a job done as professionally and thoroughly as possible, for the love of God don't hire Oldbeard.
The Warlords Throne Room
Barbarossa threw open the double doors to the Throne Room. Well, to say he threw them open was inaccurate. Due to complicated things like size and weight, to achieve the desired effect he had to shoulder his was through with some force. But it was still impressive, overall. The Warlord, who was leaning in his throne with a rather bored expression, stood up. He was tall. In fact, he was enormous. He towered above the bodyguards next to him, evil looking men carrying evil look swords, wearing evil looking armor. He looked at the dwarves with cold blue eyes, framed by his white hair and beard. Pausing for a minute, he shook himself, smiled and clapped his hands.
“So good of you to join us!” he exclaimed in a deep, commanding voice. “I was getting worried! What took you so long? I trust my messenger met you?”
“Uh,” said Barbarossa. “No, no he didn’t, we heard word on the street you were looking for us.”
“Oh,” said the Warlord, looking slightly confused. “I hope he’s alright. I’ve gone through rather a lot of messengers.”
Several miles away, the pool of blood surrounding the mugged messenger continued to grow.
“Regardless, I was told you’re the best for a job of this kind,” continued the man. “I don’t suppose you hear what the job was supposed to be?”
“Yes,” said Workerdrone. “You want us to kill a dragon.”
“Foolish,” muttered Kogan.
“More challenging than most fights we’ve been in,” Workerdrone shot back.
“Well? Will you take the job?” asked the Warlord. “I have here…” he motioned to the right and a man came in with a sack. “5000 gold.” The man dumped the sack on a bench at the bottom of the steps to the throne. Barbarossa’s mouth dropped open.
“I think we can handle it,” he managed.
“Lovely!” roared the Warlord. “My man here can fill you in on the details. I’ll expect you back here with an engaging tale of success! Farewell!”
The dwarves left, bemused. Behind the throne, invisible, a being with a face that couldn’t do anything but grin chuckled.
The Godly Swords
“So,” said the man, impatiently. “What can you do with it?”
The other man was turning the gun over and over in his hands, lit by the glow of the forge.
“I can make a crude copy, now I have a basic idea of how it works, but with this here now I could probably copy it exactly.”
“Really?” said the man, excitedly. “That’s fantastic!”
“It is, but some of these parts will require work,” said the blacksmith. “You’re lucky I’m so talented.” He turned and looked at the other man pointedly. “and that you’re paying me so much.”
The other man looked ready to retort, but was prevented from doing so by the door in the next room suddenly exploding inwards and shattering on the opposite wall. Confused cries echoed around the building, drowned out by a roar that sounded like it came from the depths of Hell. More specifically, the part of Hell that made you have dinner with your grandparents over and over again.
“Where the hell is my gun?”
Storming into the room through the dust and debris came a short, old dwarf loading a bolt into a crossbow. Behind him came another dwarf. The man looked at it quizzically. He must be seeing things, it looked like there was something hanging off it’s leg.
“Get him offa me, Armok damn it!” yelled Forrest, before turning and shooting a guard running towards him in the shoulder. The man fell backwards with a roar and hit the floor, writhing in pain. CrazyFace was hugging Forrest’s leg and didn’t seem to be about to let go. Behind him, having trouble holding his sword because he was laughing so hard, came Humaan. He quickly stopped after another assailant came down the stairs and nearly took his head off. He quickly ducked under the swing and cut up into the man, killing him nearly instantly. Forrest, always quick with a bow, reloaded and took down a man coming down the stairs, his aim slightly off due to CrazyFace, who was now licking him. The shot still managed to kill the man, causing him to tumble to the bottom and end up in a heap.
Oldbeard strode in, insofar as a dwarf can stride anywhere, and elbowed one of the men on one side of the door in a place that quickly became the centre of a little mini-universe of pain. Grabbing the gun out of fingers rushing to cradle bruised manhood, he turned and used the butt of it to knock the other man to the ground, before breaking his nose. As both men writhed in pain on the ground, Oldbeard turned and left, surveying the now gloomy chaos in the main room.
“Well done lads,” he said. “Off we go.”
A man rushed out of the gloom. Oldbeard raised the gun and blew off his head. He looked at it, pleased.
“I did reload, and they haven’t messed with the firing system. Always plan ahead lads! Crazywhatzermaggiger, get off him, there’s a good rocknut job.”
And with that, he turned and walked outside, his heart singing.
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Topic: To venture north, into Hell: Othtar Noloc, world at war (Read 106599 times)