Traveling at night, on dark streets, with a shiny faery on your shoulder turns out to be more hazardous than you originally expected. You encounter a group of rough looking brigands. They are a band of six of the smelliest bastards you have ever met. “I am shure ya have a few gilder on ya, and that sword looks radder nice. We got yeh on man and skill, so we be tankin’ ye to give over with no trouble.”
“Tempting,” you reply, a smug smile on your face, “but no.” Your hand flies to your sword and you meet them blade to blade, a flurry of blows being exchanged. Serena flies in the face of one the bandits blinding him, after which you lost track of her. You stick on the defense. It is sometime before you see your opportunity. At last you grab one man’s armed hand, and thrust it into his own comrade’s heart. The shock of killing one of his own causes him to lose his grip.
You add his weapon to your own arsenal. You kick one of the bandits to get room, and when you do, you’re able to kill the most porcine of the assaulters. To catch them off their guard, you fall two one knee and thrust upward into the last two of the brigands. They fall, never to molest any ever again.
You loot their bodies for anything of value. Serena reappears. “What are you doing?”
“Look, waste not, want not, and besides they attacked me, I just struck first.” She gives you a dubious look.
“You could have just given them what they wanted.” It is your turn to give a look, yours is venomous.
“The gold I could replace, but no one, NO ONE, may take this sword. This is Aesireldr, the Jotun Bane, the Woe of Muspell, the Aelfbrand, forged by Wayland himself, passed to me by my father Ulfgar, whom received it from his father Bjorngar, whom was given it by his father Vargmath, given to him by his father Hrafnthjof, and he was given the sword by his father Bob, whom drew it from the Tree of heim, around which he founded . It has defended my people against all manner of evil for generations.”
“Yeeeeah, ok so you like it.” She states apathetically.
“Yeah,” you snipe. The rest of the short journey is uneventful. You arrive at the pub. At this hour, the patrons are subdued and peaceful. In the corner is a group of cloaked patrons whispering in privacy. One of them looks up at you. You notice a pair of glowing blue eyes.
At the bar is a shirtless and hirsute man. He bears a heavy axe upon his back and seems as if he could easily wield it with one hand. There’s also a dwarf and female orc sitting at the opposite end of the bar. Their growing inebriations are becoming louder and louder. The Orc seems to be eyeing the hirsute man; lest you are mistaken he is returning it. Near the window is an elderly man, he is ravaged by time, but his eyes show there is more than little brains left in there. Sitting alone at one of the tables is a buxom and elegantly dressed woman. Her hair is long and dark like waves of the night, yet her skin is fair as snow. She carelessly plays with her cup, seeming as if she is waiting for someone.
Toward the back of the pub is a drunk dwarf, making obviously unwanted advancements toward a rather beautiful dark elf. Near the door is a halfling lass; you always found it hard to judge a hobbit’s age. In the middle of the pub is a woman dressed as a dilettante, a pixy whom is head down in a mug of mead, and a light elf woman… or man… or whatever. It’s way too hard to tell with those damn elves. After that one time in Wolgheim, you have been very careful since.
You turn to Serena on you shoulder, “So who is it?” |