Ignoring everything I just said...
Midnight came to the swamp. The dwarven caravan had wound its way for hours through treacherous murky pools and hidden ditches, and finally hitched up camp on the only high ground within sight for miles around. The mound itself was relatively dry, but the smell of damp mud and rotting vegetation still managed to permeate the whole site.
In an attempt to relieve the unpleasant atmosphere, a number of fires had been lit around the mound, and the sound of dwarven song filled the air. Despite their surroundings, their spirits were high, and alcohol passed freely between the dwarves.
Legon stood at the edge of the site, his eyes scanning the darkness for signs of movement. The memory of the slugmen ambush was fresh in his mind. Whilst the foe was clearly no match for the dwarves, a well timed ambush could still be devastating on an unprepared dwarven camp.
Kubluk staggered over to him, and slapped him on the shoulder. “Come and join t’ party,” he exclaimed, somewhat incoherently. “You’ve sure earned a break after today. Those slugs didn’t know what hit ‘em!”
“I’ll join you shortly,” he responded, his eyes still watching for trouble. “My watch will be over fairly soon, but we must stay alert for a counterattack.”
“All work and no play makes Urist a dull dwarf,” Kubluk remarked, and slapped Legon around the back for a second time. Legon felt a curious damp sensation from his tunic, and looked down. The drunken dwarf had managed to spill almost his entire drink over Legon, and was even now staring with some bewilderment at his now empty jug.
“I’ve run ou’ drink,” he mumbled, and staggered back towards the party.
“Kubluk!” Dirulal cried, slapping the empty space beside him in front of the campfire. “come and sit yourself down. You’ll only spill your drink again! Besides, we have tales of mighty deeds to tell.”
Wandering over, Kubluk misjudged the location of the seat, and landed heavily beside the fire. Dirulal helped him into a seating position, then passed him a lump of freshly cooked meat.
Kubluk took a bite from the meat, and regarded it with a puzzled glance. “What’s this?” he asked, swallowing the partially chewed meat with a grimace.
Dirulal laughed, and took a healthy bite from his own. “Slugman,” he remarked, and continued to munch, his beard full of fresh juices. Kubluk sniffed the meat, shrugged, and continued to eat.
Opposite them both, Othtar was deep into a story. He was stood up, and his arms were gesticulating wildly around his shoulders, recounting stories of their past victories. The on-looking dwarves were in awe.
“…There we were,” he continued. “Standing on the edge of a great ravine. Goblins to our front, and nothing but the abyss to our rear. They had us cornered, with nowhere to go but down.”
“What did you do?” A rapt Tacken asked, his gaze fixed on the dwarf in wonder.
Othtar gave a deep laugh, and swung his arms downwards in a chopping gesture. “Same thing we always do, we fought! The goblins speak in terror of that day. Over a hundred of them we killed. Half we tossed into the abyss, the other we cut to splinters!”
Kubluk listened, swaying side to side through a rather drunken stupor. Since the outset of their journey, he had heard many tales of the adventures of the Courageous Bolt, and their bravery, even when heavily outnumbered with no chance of success. Now he, Kubluk, was meant to lead them and many other dwarves to success and victory. Even in a drunken haze, he couldn’t help but fear he wasn’t up to the task.
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Topic: The Captain's Log- Spiritwood (Read 61299 times)