Baron von Iraf the 3rd, Human Mage, Meek

"You're up next!"

Iraf winced at the words the large orc barked at the slight mage and his goblin companion. No matter how many times he found himself in this position, Iraf could never be comfortable with the scowls and yells of the always irritable arena wardens. It seemed as though all arenas were staffed by the same breed of angry brute. Ugly, rude, and usually rather smelly.

Iraf looked down at his partner. He had been with Figgle almost three years now, and would trust the goblin with his life. He had done just that countless times during their arena matches. And the small assassin had yet to let him down.

Figgle was studying a large poster on the wall of the arena staging area. "Look at this nonsense, Iraf. Three more prohibited poisons on the list! At this rate, I'll be lucky if they allow me to coat my blades in vinegar!" the goblin griped. He looked over to the warden. "Who's idea was this list? Your gran's?" Figgle shouted at the orc. He recieved a menacing scowl in response.

"Oh come on, it's not that bad, my friend. You don't even use those poisons. Not worth the coin it would cost us to acquire them were your exact words, I believe" said Iraf. "Come along, we are up and I don't think that warden appreciated your comment about his grandmother."

"Bah, knowing his kind as I do, he probably already ate her, so why should I be the one he is upset with? I didn't curse him with his orciness." exclaimed Figgle, as they walked to their assigned entrance.

"Were you able to get any information on our opponents?" Iraf asked, attempting to change the subject away from the consumption of forebears.

"Nothing useful," replied Figgle. "Word on the street is they were tearing up the competition in the southern circuits, but no one seems to know why they moved north or what sort of fighting they use. We are to be their first match since they've arrived. Lucky us!" The goblin assassin had a sour look on his face. "Do you know how many pints I had to buy to get such useless information?"

Iraf suppressed a grin. They had done well this season and were not hurting for coin, but Figgle would take any opportunity to lament their misfortune and declare himself practically destitute. Iraf was also sure no small amount of the aforementioned pints had made their way into the goblin's stomach.

The mage and assassin had arrived at their starting platform. As they stepped onto the colorfully inlaid stone disc, another arena warden, this time an elderly human in red robes approached and greeted them.

"Hail, combatants! Thank you for participating in today's event. Please remember arena rules. No disintegration. No banishings, other than of summoned creatures. No summoning of demons from lower than the Third Circle. Injury to spectators is grounds for immediate forfeit. Poisons only from the appro-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. We got it. Let's get this show on the road."

The warden gave Friggle an icy look. "Very well. Good luck, combatants. May you fight, or die, honorably," he said with an emotionless voice.

"Has anyone ever told you that you are a very unlikable sort of person?" Iraf asked the goblin as the disc they stood on began to rise into the air.

"Most everyone." said Friggle. "If I didn't care when my mother said it, I'm sure not going to care what some boring old human thinks. So how do you want to do this? We know squat about these guys' capabilities. Should we play it slow, feel them out?"

"That sounds like the best plan of action. Feeling sneaky, my friend?" Iraf replied.

The goblin assassin grinned. "You know, Iraf, one of these days that fancy shield of yours won't stand up to having two opponents focusing on it. And that just might be the day I decide a life of crime while invisible is much easier than saving your sorry hide."

Iraf laughed. "I hope you understand that my last breath in this world will be to curse you, both literally and figuratively, my friend."

The disc carried the two through a hole in the ceiling before settling flush with the floor of the arena. Iraf tried to ignore the sound of the crowd yelling and jeering from the stands encircling the arena and focused his attention on his competitors standing on their own disc a hundred yards away. One of them was a tall thin figure wearing what looked to be heavy black robes. His companion seemed to be an almost naked man cowering as far away from the black robed individual as possible, while still staying on the disc.

Iraf frowned and pointed the strange pair out to Figgle and asked "What do you make of that? That one doesn't look to be in any shape to be dueling."

"Not our problem," answered the goblin. "If he wants to get himself killed out here, who are we to stop him?" Iraf noticed that the assassin didn't sound very sure of himself, no matter how flippant he was attempting to appear.

"Yellow flames. Prep time, Iraf. Work your magic.", Figgle said, with some urgency. Iraf took his eyes off the strange duo across the field and saw that the torches lining the walls of the arena had indeed turned from the bright red they had been moments ago, to a vibrant yellow. Less than a minute before the match started. They were now allowed to cast preliminary spells.

Iraf closed his eyes and concentrated on the workings of his first spell. In his mind, he pictured Figgle standing beside him and then slowly began to erase the image of the goblin, leaving an empty space on the disc where he had once stood. When the mage opened his eyes, Figgle was gone.

"Am I suitably invisible, Iraf?" said the disembodied voice of Figgle. It was a funny quirk of invisibility spells that the subject was not invisible to themselves.

"Suitable enough for me, I've never been that fond of your face. Too weaselly. Now be quiet, I need to concentrate."

Iraf closed his eyes again and begin to conjure an image of a glowing sphere of energy around himself. He pictured it withstanding flames and lightning and being struck by all manner of weapons. He opened his eyes and the world seemed to have taken on a slightly golden tint as he observed it through the magic surrounding him.

"I hope a dragon sits on you." declared the invisible Figgle.

"Better than eaten by an orc, like you will be one day, my friend." deadpanned Iraf in response. "Green flames. Go."

The torches had flared a sickly green, signifying the start of the match. Iraf paused for a moment then dashed to the left, making for one of the eight massive pillars that stood in the arena. The mage knew Figgle would have gone the same direction, making his way to the outer edge of the arena, in an attempt to get behind their opponents. It was Iraf's job to draw their attention so they wouldn't bother looking for goblin.

Iraf reached the closest pillar and put it between himself and his adversaries. He then kneeled down and quickly drew a rudimentary figure in the dirt of the arena floor. A moment of concentration by the mage caused the dirt within the drawing to rise up and take the shape of a tiny homunculus with one large eye. Iraf touched the top of the creature's head with one finger and suddenly, overlapping with what he could see with his own eyes, Iraf could also see what the homunculus viewed. Iraf made a gesture at his thrall and the tiny being ran out from behind the pillar.

Iraf took in what he could see through the homunculus' eyes. He needed to find where the tall robed figure and the other man had gone while he had been hiding. He started in surprise when he saw that they hadn't even left their disc yet. Usually the first thing arena combatants did was find cover and engage from there. At least, the ones that stayed alive did.

The mage watched as the robed figure stood impassively on the starting area, his cowled head bowed down. His cowering partner seemed to be even more terrified than he had been previously and was practically clawing at the ground in an attempt to get away from his partner. Iraf felt unsettled. The pair looked as if they had done no preparations for the battle. They acted like no gladiators the mage had ever faced before.

Knowing Figgle wouldn't like it, but feeling it neccessary considering the circumstances, Iraf created a telepathic link with the invisible goblin.

"I feel you in here, Iraf! What did I tell you about rummaging around in my head?!"

"Awfully hard to rummage an empty room, my friend. How close are you to our competition? Something feels off about them."

"I'm about ten yards from the one doing his best impression of a snake. I figured it would be a kindness to put that one out of his misery before we start on tall, dark, and creepy."

"Ok, be careful. There is definitely strangeness afoot. I'm going to see if I can get their attention. Take the first opening you see."

"Yeah. I will. I do manage to regularly do this without you tagging along in my skull, you know?"

Iraf felt the conversation with his partner had reached the conclusion of its usefulness, so he didn't answer Figgle as he stepped out from behind the pillar. His true sight now matched the vision he shared with the summoned homunculus he commanded. Many yards away, the robed figure and his companion had still not moved from their starting area. Iraf sent his tiny creation scurrying quickly towards them as he cautiously followed.

Iraf knew his homunculus would offer no real help in combat, but anything that would keep his opponents attention away from Figgle would be beneficial. When the small creature got closer to them, the robed figured lifted his head and seemed to look in its direction. He then crossed his arms in front of his torso and then swiftly brought them down and away from himself. The homunculus dissapeared in a cloud of dust.

Iraf's second sight vanished with the homunculus. His true sight also lost its golden luster, as the magical shield surrounding him dissipated. Just past his adversaries, Iraf could see Figgle crouched low and sneaking up on the cowering man. Iraf realized with horror that the goblin could not tell that his invisibility was gone and he was now visible and vulnerable. Iraf tried to scream out a warning with the psychic connection he had established earlier, but it too was gone.

The robed figure turned his head in Iraf's direction, but before he could do anything else, his partner started shouting incomprehensibly. The robed man whipped around and saw his companion attempting to scrabble away from the approaching Figgle. The goblin, now suddenly aware that he was no longer hidden, charged the pair, daggers drawn. The black robed figure made a motion with his arm, flinging it across his body as if he were striking someone with the back of his hand. An unseen force crashed into Figgle and threw him head over heels to the side.

Iraf stopped moving when he saw his friend flung aside like a ragdoll. He immediately pictured a massive crossbow in his mind and fired a bolt of magic energy towards the opposing mage. It struck him in the back, but it didn't even cause him to flinch, almost as if his robes absorbed the magic. The robed figure turned back to Iraf and pointed a long, spindly finger in his direction. A thin black beam shot out from the tip of the wizard's finger toward Iraf. He dodged and rolled to the side just in time, the beam leaving the smell of sulphur in the air as it flew passed him.

Iraf scrambled to his feet, his mind racing to form a spell of protection against his opponent's magic's. However, no other attack came from the wizard. He had instead walked over to his partner and had placed a hand on the cowering man's head. Iraf began to craft a spell in his mind, but it slipped from his mental grasp as he watched what was happening between his adversaries.

The cowering, half-naked man was screaming. His face was contorted in indescribable pain. Iraf watched in disbelief as the man started to expand. Huge muscles grew at a amazing speed all over his body. His limbs stretched to inhuman lengths. Hair sprouted in huge patches across his body. Finally the wizard released his grasp on the now monstrous man. The newly transformed man-beast stood up to his full height, towering over his once taller partner. The robed wizard pointed in Iraf's direction and the beast began loping toward him on all fours at high speed.

Iraf shook off the shock of what he had just seen, and was able to quickly reestablish his golden shield. The beast reached him right as his spell finalized, and it crashed into the protective barrier, pushing Iraf back several feet. The monster clawed and bit at the shield, roaring in frustration as it made no progress in breaching the obstruction. As long as his magic held, Iraf faced no real harm from the beast, but he was still at the whim of the monster's strength as it manhandled the shield, pushing Iraf across the arena floor.

Suddenly, the monster stopped attacking the shield, turned around, and began running back to its master. Iraf watched as the beast made a beeline for the opposing wizard, who looked to have collapsed on the starting disc. Standing over him was the swaying form of Figgle, dagger in hand. Iraf quickly formed an image of grasping hands in his mind and the charging beast's feet became entangled in the grip of stone hands that erupted from the arena floor. It roared in frustration and thrashed at the stone holding him in place.

Figgle thrust his dagger into the back of the fallen wizard, barely keeping his balance as he did. His head was still swimming from the blow he had taken earlier. His opponent made no sound as the blade was jabbed into his body. The goblin yanked the dagger out and scanned the arena for Iraf. He thought he could just make out the golden glow of the mage's shield with his blurry vision. Figgle breathed a small sigh of relief. It was short lived, as the fallen opponent in front of him kicked back, striking the assassin in the stomach.

As Figgle struggled to catch his breath, the robed wizard got to his feet. Without a glance at the goblin, he strode to where his bestial partner was still struggling against the bonds of earth Iraf had woven around his legs. He stopped when he neared the monster and made a gesture towards the stone holding it in place. The rocks began to crack apart as the beast thrashed against them.

Iraf attempted to strengthen the stone shackles, but he was tiring. Using this much of his magical power without even a short rest was taxing. Even with the reinforcement, the stone continued to break under the assault of the angry beast. In another few moments it would be free and the mage had no doubt in his mind that his shield would not withstand another direct attack. In desperation, Iraf summoned up every last bit of reserve strength he had left and began forming an image of a burning sphere on his mind.

The robed wizard pointed at Iraf and another black beam shot towards the mage. It struck his shield and dissipated, but left a smoking black scar where it had impacted. Iraf continued to build the image of a fireball in his mind, imagining it bigger and hotter than he had ever created before. Another black bolt struck his shield, and then another, both leaving dark pits in his shield.

With a howl of triumph, the monster broke free of its stone fetters and turned towards Iraf. Its wizard master sent a fourth beam of energy at the mage. This time, a sliver of blackness slipped through the golden shield and struck Iraf in the left shoulder. He screamed as he felt his flesh burn and loosed his spell before the pain could steal it from his mind.

A tiny glowing marble appeared in front of Iraf and flew towards the beast and wizard, quickly expanding as it approached them. In the few short seconds it took to reach its targets, the fireball has grown to a size even greater than the beast it was now impacting on. A massive explosion threw the immense form of the monster back a dozen yards and the force of the fireball's detonation sent the robed wizard tumbling back as well.

Iraf dropped to his knees, and clutched his shoulder. Whatever magic had struck him had rendered his left arm dangling and lifeless. His golden shield was no more, Iraf could no longer sustain it through the pain and fatigue he felt. He watched as the form of the monster thrashed as it burned, but it did not attempt to rise to its feet. The black robed wizard laid still where he fell, wisps of smoke rising from the body. Iraf knew he had to get up and find Figgle and make sure he was ok, but he could not muster the strength to move. The pain in his shoulder was throbbing and radiating into his chest.

Suddenly, his goblin friend was beside him, trying to help him to his feet.

"You're lucky I decided to crawl off and catch my breath in the corner. If you had set me on fire, I'm not sure I would ever forgive you."

"You're lucky those two got in the way. I was aiming for you."

Figgle gave a small chuckle as he assisted Iraf to his feet and allowed the mage to lean on him for support. They would definitely need to see the arena clerics, thought the goblin, and maybe even splurge for a private healer as well. Arena clerics would keep you alive, but not much else.

A sudden blast of invisible power sent the companions spinning to the floor of the arena. The robed wizard was standing again, having gained his footing unnoticed by Iraf and Figgle, his outstretched arms evidence of the spellcasting that had just knocked them to the ground. The wizard turned and walked towards his still twitching minion.

Figgle crawled to where Iraf had fallen. The mage was unconcious, but breathing. Figgle tried to rouse him. "Come on, buddy. We can't stay here and you're to damn heavy to carry."

The cheers and jeers that normally came from the stands surrounding the arena turned to what sounded like shouts of confusion and concern. Figgle looked up from Iraf to see what the commotion was about and saw that the robed wizard had summoned some type of swirling black mass above his fallen partner. Inky black tendrils were extending out from it, down to the dying creature. As they reached its body, the beast began to thrash and writhe. And then it exploded in a torrent of blood and flesh.

Figgle bent over his friend's face in an attempt to shield him from the worst of the shower of ichor. He could now hear screams of terror from the audience. The goblin turned back to the dark wizard and his blood ran cold and he almost swooned at what he beheld. Standing in what was left of the dead beast was a towering, scaly figure with massive wings jutting out from its back and curved horns framing its demonic face. The wizard had summoned a pit lord.

The demon looked around the arena, a snarl of hate on its lips. It began to extend its wings as if to take flight towards the crowds of people now clamoring to escape but suddenly it stopped. It cocked its head, as if listening to something only it could hear. The demon roared in anger and frustration, and then looked down at Figgle and the still unconscious Iraf. It stretched out a clawed hand and took a step toward the pair. Figgle felt a massive heaviness of fear and despair weigh down upon his soul. The light of the world around the assassin was dimming as the pit lord took another step forward, a look of evil glee in its eyes.

Terror froze Figgle in place as the demon drew closer. As his grip on his concious mind slipped from him, the goblin's last clear thought was to ponder how there was still one tiny speck of light at the corner of his eyesight that seemed to be growing brighter while everything else was consumed by shadows..... ___________________

"You know, it would have served you right if that warden had let the demon eat you before he banished it."

Figgle looked across the table at his friend. "How was I supposed to know he was one of the Venerated?!", he asked, indignation in his voice.

"Maybe that should be a lesson for you! Try not to offend everyone you meet!", Iraf said with a grin.

"Oh, shut up and drink your ale. I want to go to bed and forget this afternoon even happened!", Figgle said sulkily.

Before Iraf could respond, a booming voice behind him said "Baron Iraf!"

The mage quickly stood up from his chair, and spun around. Standing a few feet away were three heavily armed men, all wearing tunics bearing the same sigil, crossed swords on a field of green. The man who spoke was an older fellow, but he had an air of confident strength about him. His face was stern, but his eyes softened a touch when they landed on Iraf's face. "Baron Iraf.", he said again, this time with a small bow of his head that was mimicked by his two companions.

Figgle barked out a sarcastic laugh. "BARON Iraf! Right! And I'm the Queen's Royal Consort!"

Iraf stuttered, "Fendham! What? How? What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

The older man replied, "There will be time enough for explaining the details of our finding you on the journey home, Baron Iraf. We must be on our way as soon as possible. We've already been gone far longer than I had hoped."

"Wait, you really are a baron?" asked an incredulous Figgle.

"No!" exclaimed Iraf at the same time as Fendham gave a solemn "Yes."

"My grandfather is the Baron Iraf, as you well know, Fendham!" declared the irate mage.

"Your grandfather now walks with his ancestors, as does your father," Fendham replied sternly.

Seeing the shocked look on Iraf's face, the older man said in a more gentle tone, "Baron Iraf, your family and people need you. It's time to come home."

Slagwort, Goblin Mage, Unstable

The wizard Torfild was in a sour mood. Those idiot goblins were supposed to have attacked the town at dusk. Weeks of planning were now wasted. He would need a new way of making the villagers see him as their new protector.

Torfild had arrived in the hamlet of Drogstine just over a month ago. He had previously been in the employ of a baron far to the east, but when word of some of his more unsavory magical experiments had reached the baron's ears, Torfild was forced to flee in order to keep his head attached to his neck. He managed to slip out of the barony without incident, but was unfortunately forced to leave most of his belongings behind. Only his most precious of possessions accompanied him on his journey to Drogstine.

Immediately after arriving into town, Torfild had attempted to ingratiate himself to the village council. Two of the four councilmembers were awestruck by his mystic garments and finely carved staff and were more than willing to contract Torfild as the first ever village wizard once he offered his services. The other two councilmembers and the mayor were not as swayed and after a closed door discussion , the council decided to say thanks, but no thanks to Torfild's offer at this time. Every time he thought about the smug look on Mayor Kerb's face as he was being dismissed, Torfild's face burned with anger.

But Torfild was resourceful. And the goblin clan that called the foothills of the nearby mountain range their home would be a most useful resource. In the days following his humiliation before the council, Torfild spent his time roaming the forests and fields surrounding the village until he gathered enough materials to craft some simple fetishes and charms, that while primitive, would be more than enough to impress the goblins and let him use their greed for more to bend them to his purpose.

Torfild had entered into the goblins' territory with an air of arrogant resolve. He was soon accosted by a pair of goblins armed with short spears acting as a border patrol. Torfild was able to persuade them to take him to their boss man without much more than a steely gaze and a threatening tone to his request. The wizard was relieved he hadn't had to use force on his escorts. It wouldn't have bothered his conscience or taken any real effort on his part, but Torfild knew he might need to save his strength for when he met with the goblin leader.

As it turns out, Torfild's caution was unnecessary. The head goblin was a massive, slovenly creature that had obviously not indulged in any activity other than gluttony for many years. Now Torfild understood why the town seemed so unbothered, despite having a goblin clan so nearby. It was apparent that this wretched mound of goblin flesh had no interest in leading his clan into raids on any surrounding communities, only in indulging his base desires.

Boss Man Slarbig's eyes lit up when Torfild showed him some of the trinkets he had prepared and brought along as tribute, but they glazed over when Torfild began to explain what he wanted of the goblins. Torfild felt his temper rising at the grotesque Slarbig, but before he got too heated, a small goblin named Slagwort took over the negotiations. As Slarbig fell asleep and began snoring in his makeshift throne, Torfild and Slagwort went over Torfild's plan. The goblins would attack Drogstine at dusk during the late summer festival. Most of the townsfolk would be celebrating in the surrounding meadows all day and by early evening, they would be in no state to mount any defense against a goblin raid.

That is when Torfild would appear and drive out the goblins with his magic. Sure, a few villagers or farmers may die, but that is the price their council would have to pay for treating him with such disrespect, Torfild thought. He knew there would have to he a few goblin dead as well, to make it look convincing, but Torfild left that part out of his explanation to Slagwort. A few extra gifts would smooth that over after the fact. The deal was struck. The goblins would attack in two weeks time and in exchange, Torfild would supply them with minor magic charms and trinkets.

But last night, the town celebrated through the night, without so much as the mere scent of a goblin. Now at dawn, Torfild was making his way back to the goblin encampment, visions of revenge for their duplicity dancing in his mind. As he neared the nexus of their territory, any goblin he encountered scurried away after one glance at Torfild's enraged face. He faced no opposition as he stormed into Boss Man Slarbig's sizable hut. What he found inside sent an icy shock down Torfild's spine. Standing next to Slarbig's grotesque form was not only the smaller goblin Slagwort, but Mayor Kerb as well.

Before Torfild could react, Slagwort raised a gnarled stick and pointed it in his direction. A blast of green energy hit Torfild in the chest. He fell to his hands and knees, his staff clattering away. He could feel a twisted power flowing through his body, shifting and warping him. His robes suddenly felt too big and heavy on his frame. Torfild looked up and gasped "What have you done to me?!" He watched with horror as Kerb and Slagwort grew to massive size in front of his eyes, both of them watching him with bemused expressions. Horror turned to primal fear as conscious thought slipped from Torfild's mind.

Slagwort swiftly reached down and grabbed the toad that had formerly been the wizard Torfild. "Do we still need this bit of him?" the goblin asked the human standing next to him. "No," replied Kerb, "the staff will serve as proof of his demise. Dispatch of...that...as you wish"

Slagwort shrugged and tossed the toad to Slarbig. "Have a snack, cousin." He turned back to Kerb as the massive goblin stuffed the former wizard into his mouth. "So who wanted him dead, anyways?"

"The Baron of Pepperridge. We recieved word of the bounty on him not long after he arrived in town. I would have had him killed right then, but I know the Baron is impatient with his grudges. Another couple weeks sweetened the pot nicely."

"Just how much was this bounty?" Slagwort asked, narrowing his eyes at the mayor.

"I will worry about that, my small friend," said Kerb, "You will get your agreed upon payment, and the continued peace with the people of Drogstine. More than fair, I would say."

"You WOULD say." muttered Slagwort under his breath. He then put on his most charming goblin smile and bowed to Kerb. "Of course! You have been very generous!"

"Keep that in mind!" huffed Kerb as he left the hut. As he watched the mayor leave, Slagwort swore that one day soon, he would feed that fool human to his cousin.

"You would like that, wouldn't you, cousin? Another tasty morsel for your gullet?" giggled Slagwort.

Slarbig's only response was a loud snore.

Sau'pale'ahiki, Minotaur Bard, Exiled

Brendle was proud of his stage. It had cost him a bag of silver large enough that he still winced on thinking of the day he handed it to the craftsman he contracted to build it for him a fortnight ago. "But silver well spent!" the innkeeper reassured himself. "This will bring in performers. And performers bring in patrons. And patrons bring in silver!"

In addition to the coin the stage had cost him, Brendle also invested a few discounted mugs of ale into the teamsters who drove the wagons that regularly trundled into the city. He knew that word of where a cheap drink could be found would surely be shared among all the wagon crews up and down the highway. News of his fine stage would find its way to the ears of any tag-a-long troubadours if he managed to loosen the right lips.

The opening day's usage of his stage was not going as Brendle had hoped. The first bard that had stepped up to play was only able to sing half a song before he was pulled off the stage and out the back door of the inn by three large wagoneers. What Brendle was able to piece together later, was that this particular balladeer had become a little too friendly with the wife of a wagon crew's foreman. Since they had taken the poor sap out of his inn, Brendle was wise enough to know it was no longer any concern of his.

Next to mount the stage was a troop of halfing tumblers. Small in stature though they were, there really wasn't enough room on the platform for more than the most basic of maneuvers. And when they tossed their most diminutive member into the air, to disastrous results, what with the inn's low ceilings and all, the tumblers called it quits to care for their injured comrade.

Brendle held has head in his hands at the bar, trying to ignore the screeching voice of the acne ridden lad currently doing what could only be called singing by the most charitable of listeners. Where had he gone wrong, he thought. What caused him to be cursed with such a tragedy of a day? Besides the wailing youth, there had been a juggler that caught the wrong end of his juggling knives, a half-orc "comedian" that everyone laughed at more out of fear than actual mirth, and two men, both with trained monkeys. But no amount of training will overcome nature's urges, and Brendle was not interested in having that kind of show in his establishment, so both men and their monkeys were quickly asked to leave.

"I will perform next." Brendle looked up from his hands to the massive form on the other side of the bar top. "My name is Sau'pale'ahiki. I will perform next, innkeeper," growled the minotaur standing before him. "O..of course! I think the stage will fr..free momentarily!" stammered Brendle. "Good," the minotaur replied.

Sau'pale'ahiki turned away from Brendle and approached the stage. Patrons scooted their chairs away from his great form as he crossed the inn. The boy on the stage had stopped singing and was staring wide eyed and open mouthed at the minotaur. Realizing he was in the creature's path, the boy scrambled off the stage and dashed out of the inn.

The minotaur righted the stool the boy had knocked over in his haste to get away and reached into a large pouch at his belt and pulled out a small black box. He set the box on the stool and gently opened it. From him spot at the back of the bar, Brendle couldn't see what was in box, but he heard someone near the stage stifle a laugh.

Sau'pale'ahiki whipped his head around and glared at the patrons of the inn. Silence fell over everyone under the steely gaze of the minotaur. Brendke could now see what had caused the laughter. Clutched delicately in Sau'pale'ahiki's hand was a small wooden flute.

"My name is Sau'pale'ahiki! I will play, and you will listen!" the minotaur bellowed, sending shivers of fear into more than a couple of the inn's guests. He then lifted the small instrument to his mouth. As his lips touched the opening to the flute, Sau'pale'ahiki closed his eyes, and his bestial face softened.

Soft gasps came from the audience as a haunting melody filled the air of the inn. A melody so filled with longing and loss, that Brendle could feel tears forming in his eyes. It was a song that spoke of noble mountains, looming high over endless stretches of prairie. It spoke of the love of a family and a community. It spoke of honor and pride. But overall, it spoke of the forfeiture of all of those things and the pain of losing them. Years later, Brendle would still be unable to articulate how he was able to hear so much in a song with no words.

The inn was silent when the last bars of Sau'pale'ahiki's song dissipated. Grunting his approval, the minotaur turned and gingerly placed the flute back in its case and put the case back in his pouch. He then walked across the still quiet hall and out the front door, never to return again to Brendle's inn.

Harmus Battlehammer, Dwarf Cleric, Indecisive

Harmus Battlehammer was in a pickle. It wasn't that the three orcs in the next room presented a challenge. No, he could quickly and easily dispatch them with a few straight-forward swings of his hammer. It was that there was no finesse in that method. No bard would sing of three hammer swings to three orc skulls. If Harmus wanted the great halls to echo with choruses of his exploits, he needed to put on a show.

He scanned the room again, praying to Moradin for inspiration. A stack of barrels on the east wall looked promising. Harmus recognized the mark on them as being from the Stoutstone Brewery. A passable beer, not exactly exciting, but surely glorious combat with a mug in one hand and his hammer in the other while beer rained down upon the participants would be worth a verse or two. "Risky though," thought Harmus. "If the barrels are empty, I'll look a fool beating upon orcs with a dry tankard."

A glance at the mostly bare weapon rack near the door opposite Harmus told him there would be nothing there of use. A broken spear, a rusty short sword, and a crossbow that would be more use as kindling than as a weapon. He considered maybe using the rack itself to vanquish the orcs but, while it would make for a humorous tale, Harmus would much rather be known for his prowess with a hammer than an improvised weapon. His family's ancient hammer belonged in the tales with him!

Harmus briefly thought of using his holy powers to smite the orcs with radiant fire, but he dismissed that plan almost as soon as it entered his mind. "Moradin wouldn't be pleased if I used his blessings on such simple foes." he mused. "And that would hardly be MY victory!" Harmus Battlehammer wasn't a particularly prideful dwarf, but he was getting anxious about the dearth of epic battles he had been involved in up to this point.

Most fights Harmus had engaged in had been short, almost easy affairs. Between the ancient, magical hammer he wielded and the abilities the dwarven god Moradin had blessed him with, Harmus hadn't even broken a sweat in most instances. The local maurading orcs near the mountain city he called home had been driven away not long after Harmus had reached his ninety-ninth year. Barely an adolescent! The goblins that roamed the foothills in packs would flee in terror at the mere sight of even one well armed dwarf these days. And it wasn't even worth the time to deal with what few kobolds still prowled about.

So Harmus had set out on a grand quest to finally experience battles that would secure his name in the great tomes of history. He traveled many miles from his home and searched many a dark cave and foreboding ruin. All to end up here. Watching three orcs. Moradin must be testing him.

Harmus sighed and tightened his grip on his hammer. "May as well get this over with and get on to finding a more worthy foe," he mumbled to himself. He stepped into the room and opened his mouth to give his battle cry when suddenly the door on the other side of the room crashed open. Through the doorway stepped a massive ogre clad in rusted chainmail, a huge axe in his hand. Behind the brute, Harmus could see at least three more orcs as well.

Upon entering the chamber, the ogre spotted Harmus standing across the room, hammer in hand, plate and chain glittering in the torchlight. The beast let out a bellow that sent the orcs at the table scrambling for the swords at their sides. The orcs on the other side of the ogre flowed through the door as the great fiend rushed towards the shocked dwarf.

Harmus Battlehammer was in a pickle.