The are reverberated with a deep bellowing belch. The old gray bearded dwarf continued his tale. “An’tha were the day hic tha’aye sworn… offf… oofff of… ffff…” He gazed down at his mug with the only eye he had left. She slurped a long draw that drizzled down his beard. “Hmm… where whas I?”
The old dwarf glanced up from his mug as he addressed the encampment. Around the central campfire lay assorted bodies clad distinctly in horde colors. Each of them having been hewn down in sudden combat, an ambush that sparked a short chaotic battle. Each clasped their weapons tightly. A few slumped upon their stump or seat respectively around the campfire. Each very dead. At the old dwarf’s back sat a wagon of supplies. Next to it was pitched a small command tent where it’s commander once stood at his desk issuing orders. Now he lay upon it, very dead. The only other sole still breathing in the small encampment had arrived shortly after the flurry and fray. Having come upon the scene completely be chance, the old troll crouched silently across the fire from the old dwarf, just listening.
“…'ere wassh ay?” The old Dwarf slurred and glanced blurry eyed at the old Troll, who answered.
“Ya were recount’n de’day ya quit ya drink’n, Ødin’mon.”
“Aye.” Ødin grumbled. He swirled the remains of his mug gently. “Dinnae take.” The old Dwarf stiffed a hiccup.
“No,” The old Troll agreed, grimly. “Never does.”
The old Dwarf scowled across the fire and sat forward, jabbing his mug at the Troll. “Thay burn’tet.” Ødin growled bitterly. “Burn’tem, er’y onea’m.” His hard glare slowly brimmed with a single tear. That tear clung to his left eye, unwilling yet to tumble. The old Troll remained unphased, but slowly nodded his head. He spoke softly. “Ay know, old friend. Ay know well.”
Ødin’s gaze remained hard. “Aye. Yoo’er there. Weren’ya, Som’re.” The old Dwarf tossed his mug and it’s contents to the side. He leaned forward menacingly. “You were there.”
The old Troll lifted his stylized tiki bone mask. His remorse plainly etched across his features. “Not’a day passes that ay don’t regret it. Ay wish that I could’ave done some thin’. Any thin’ ta stop that mad witch.”
“An’ ya didn’t.” Ødin jabbed a thick finger at Som’re.
“Ay didn’t, an Ay couldn’t!” Som’re spread his hands out sorrowfully. “No one could do any thin’!”
“Tha’ dunnae excushe yoo! Ye shtill have their blood on yer handss! Same as the rest of’m!” The old Dwarf howled. His hand instinctively went to the hilt of his weapon. The blade of which was still deeply buried in the thick corpse of an orc at Ødin’s side. Som’re raised his hands lightly.
“Yes. I do. There are ways ta be goin’ about it now. Ways ta push back, ta fight against dis evil we all now carry as Horde. Ways ta answer and maybe redeem the blood we now carry.” The old Troll spread his arms open, indicating the small but decimated Horde camp. “But dis, dis is no way brudda-Ødin. Slaughterin’ des men an women. Dey had no chance against ya, an you knew as much.”
“Ah’m sendin’ a messhage.” Ødin began to look much more composed.
“What message?” Som’re contested. “What other message can dis bloodshed spread, than more bloodshed? This serves no other purpose than ta further the blood letting, ya damn fool.”
Ødin, the old graybearded dwarf, stood then and jerked his wide blade free from the orc corpse with a sickening sound. “Blood, lad. Blood 'ill floo till they paid fer every drop. A soul fer every soul consumed in tha’tree.” The old Dwarf stumbled slightly as he stepped away from the fire and back toward the dark forest road. Though clearly still inebriated, Ødin swung the wide blade sharply to remove much of the gore before returning it to the scabbard at his back. Ødin grumbled back toward the old Troll as he half shuffled into the dark forest. “Oor until tha witch burns. Which’ever comes firssht.”
Som’re remained crouching at the fire. He turned back from the forest and stared for a short time into the flames. Far from the pacifist he pretended to be, if Som’re could understand anything it was the loss his old friend felt and the drive for vengeance. Violence, after all, was as much a part of Troll existence as it was for the Dwarf. It took a lifetime of it to learn that once the cycle of violence is begun it can almost never be stopped. It was a futile effort, Som’re knew, arguing with a Dwarf. A drunken old Dwarf at that, but the effort itself was important.
The old Troll stood slowly, gazing about the carnage one old drunken Dwarf left in his wake. No ordinary Dwarf to be sure, but at any rate. More scenes like it would be wrought until Bwonsamdi’s appetite was sated. Such is the way of war. Som’re sighed heavily and pulled down his bone tiki mask. With a flamboyant gesture the Troll’s form shifted into that of an ugly bat, roughly the size of an owl, and fluttered away.
It is always amusing the lengths a person will go for an object that may seem worthless to another.