Lost Guard of Tor Anroc

With a mighty roar the warrior finally succumbed to the inevitable, his body unable to endure the punishment any longer. The Slayer's eyes rolled up into the back of his head until only the whites showed, he staggered, missed his footing & with arms flailing wildly slipped off the table & into unconsciousness, crashing to the bar room floor with an impact that caused teeth to rattle, steins of ale to leap off the bar top & set the flasks of brandy rattling on the tavern shelves. The warrior lay unmoving in a heap on the floor covered in ale, sweat & sawdust moaning in discomfort whilst around him Dwarfs stamped their feet & cheered in approval, elves looked on with a detached air of disdain & men with the glazed eyes of the dangerously intoxicated. All in all It was fair to say Azulgrimm was hammered ... over the course of the afternoon the slayer had challenged & subsequently drunk 3 long-beards under the table, consuming a staggering amount of beer in the process, however the 13th flagon of ale needed to subdue the 4th challenger was one too many even for the slayers fearsome metabolism.

It had been a riotous evening at the 'Worlds End Tavern' even by the standards of the hard drinking Dwarfs, there had already been a near riot at the 'Hobgoblin' the previous hostelry where the alliance had been drinking when the landlord declared that the tavern was dry & that they'd run out of ale. Only the skilled oratory & persuasive diplomacy of the Sword Master Telmelindil had convinced the Dwarfs from violent outbursts to moving on to another establishment.

The city-watch had already been alerted to the ruckus at the Worlds End & the local militia had been called to attend, the watch captain backed by half a dozen of his biggest brutes had swaggered into the tavern full of bravado, stared at the small army of drunk & heavily armed warriors that made up the conclave if light & then promptly walked straight out warning any of his contingent that if they were stupid enough to set foot in the tavern to try & restore order then they were on their own & that Morr would likely find them a place in the afterlife. He'd pulled his troops back several hundred yards & set up a cordon to keep the civilian population a safe distance away, allowing only dray carts loaded with ale, wenches & courtesans passage through the road block.

The bright wizard Isham having had his drink spiked with kislivite vodka had already reduced the privy outhouse to charred timbers & glowing embers after what was meant to be a minor incantation to light his way to the latrine had misfired into a fireball.

An elderly, aristocratic, somewhat eccentric & incredibly inebriated former captain of the Reiksguard knights stood at the bar twirling his luxuriously waxed moustache whilst naked from the waist down having lost his boots, trousers, silk under garments & sword in a game of cards with the famed witch-hunter Elmerto, the dashing rogue flashed a wide drunken grin as he staggered away from the bar with his winnings under one arm a serving wench under the other whilst fiddling with his shirt to replace the ‘5th’ ace card under his cuff. The war-priest Brinea looked on with equal measures of shock, amusement & sheer bewilderment playing over his face at the old knight predicament.

Kanthric, a great muscled Norseman with swirling tribal tattoos & strange red eyes whom the alliance warriors had found in a darkened corner of the tavern had been taken hostage & tied up at the end of the bar, having been declared an agent of the ruinous powers by the Dwarfs whom stated that the stench of chaos was about him ... the elves remarked that the only malodour they could detect was that of unwashed Dawi flesh & whist the argument raged back & forth the Norseman appeared to have won a reprieve from execution.

The elf lord Kortah was remonstrating loudly with a very drunk Thane Gromrundsson in the corner over a misunderstanding involving a fine carafe of expensive elven liqueur which the old dwarf had snatched off the table & unceremoniously poured down his throat in a single greedy coif (... a fact the drunken Thane would later deny ever took place). The tall elf towered over the squat Ironbreaker his face reddened with anger at the uncivilised display, Gromrundsson's face was equally flushed however his a cheery alcoholic glow & the long-beard seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to argue with the elf, dredging up ancient insults & prejudices to bait the Shadow Warrior.

The high priestess Asabella deep in her cups was roving around the smoky tavern trying to drum up the revellers enthusiasm to sing verses of crude Dwarfen miners songs ... 'Countess Emmanuel give us a wave', ''what shall we do with the elven sailor' & 'daughter of Taal blow my horn' had already been sung several times to rousing cheers.

Stood in a corner gibbering to any who would listen, wild eyed & naked but for a loin clothe & daemon mask fashioned out of parchment was a flagellant that had been abducted off a street corner by the drunken revellers & carried off by the tide of drunken warriors as some kind of bizarre mascot, the demagogue had spent the evening whipping himself with a scourge, pronouncing the end of the world & haranguing anyone who approached to close.

Kerrag & Hargrimm had been indulging in a drunken competition involving feats of strength ... the winner of 'who could pick up the bar stool with the wench sat on it one handed & hold it aloft longest' was unclear Hargrimm declaring that Kerrag had cheated by stopping his pocket watch. They had now been arm wrestling for hours, the 1st round involving the left arm had been won convincingly by the Iron breaker but the right arm challenge was a much closer affair. Sweat rolled down both participants’ foreheads, veins & great corded ropes if muscle stood out on their necks & shoulders, whilst their faces were flushed scarlet with the effort, a stream of Dwarfen curses were hissed between gritted teeth as the combatants attempted to force the upper hand. The impasse ended suddenly as Kerrag drew back his right hand balled it in to a tight fist & with a mischievous grin punched Hargrimm hard in the groin knocking the Ironbreaker off his stool thereby allowing the engineer to slam Hargrimms left fist on to the table top & claim the victory. Hargrimm dragged himself off the floor, a deep frown marking his craggy features, grabbing the drunken engineer by the lapels he hauled him to his feet & glared straight into his eyes ... before slowly & deliberately pouring a pint of ale over Kerrag’s head & declaring that it was the engineers turn to get the beers in.

The fire mage Konraider egged on by the drunk & hungry patrons of the tavern was was misusing his powers to roast a side of ham in the hearth & in doing so had already singed several bystanders britches & set the chimney alight.

Brinea dragged Elmerto through the dark confines of the tavern toward Kanthric. Pointing at the barbarian the Sigmartarrian priest declared in a drunken slur "shuffer not the heretic to live ... we should burn him". The witch-hunter peered at the shackled Norseman trying desperately to focus through the alcoholic blur "... suffer not the heretic indeed brother" the inquisitor said as he stooped for a iron poker that had been laying in the fire grate & raised the hot end which glowed an angry cherry red. "time to repent Northman, denounce chaos & I'll make this quick, as there's several ladies back there that need to make my acquaintance ... & in their profession they won't wait long before finding another paying customer." The witch hunter straightened up & frowned "... at least I think they're ladies".

All in all it was fare to say that there would be some sore heads & tall tales come the 'morrow.
Written by Thane Gromrundsson of the Iron Stone Guild

Korta staggered as he parried a bone jarring sweep from a wickedly shaped druchii great sword, his blade stroked along the Druchii’s blade until it lightly touched the hand guard, flicking his blade around Korta lunged wildly, his blades tip catching the light mail guarding the elf’s throat. Parting the links easily, Korta’s enchanted blade slide sharply into the elf’s throat, causing a hoarse death rattle to escape as the druchii fell backwards. Drawing his blade back and flowing smoothly into a high guard stance Korta glanced around, he stood in a field of the dead, the enemy had been broken. Even as he watched a Swordmaster finished off the last bride of Khaine, her piercing cry echoing through the evening light. Already carrion were gathering, the tattered remains of the once grand Lost Guard of Tor Anroc surrounded him, the Guard’s banner lay on the ground to his left.

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