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.