Death and Drustvar | 2.5.19
Th’ big brown bear licks meh face slowly, and i realize that life is slowly seepin back. Openin’ meh eyes behind th’ vrykul facemask that hides a batter’d face, i slowly reach out teh pat Bjorn’s snout, and wipe th’ musty vapors that has settled on his fur. Bjorn’s form resembles a half undead bear, wit’ his ribs stickin out o’ his giant flanks, where meat was a few seconds ago. Like his master, Bjorn faces the curse o’ undeath, and cannot die. Like his master, Bjorn embraces life wit’ a dogg’d determination that he entirely doesn’t understand, but lives on. Each time death comes, we dive into it, hopin’ this is the end, and somehow it never is.
In another lifetime, i had companions teh share stories with by th’ cracklin’ fire of night, over mead and ale or what spirits I had on meh satchel. Spirits either paid fer or simply swiped from th’ busy tavern under th’ nose o’ some buxom barmaid. Easier teh do so when th’ maid in question was a pretty littl’ dwarven lass, I could always use meh charms, and a wink would do th’ trick.
Now, only Bjorn remains, and meh ol’ friend Mori Hildelve is as good as dead. Sometimes, i envy his quiet catnap near Helm’s bed lake. Th’ ol’ bastard can rest easy. Meh and Bjorn however, we got work teh do. As life and meat returns teh our bodies, meh grimy hands dig into meh pouch and hope th’ horde rogue didn’t ransack meh body completely. There is little time…
By Magni’s dusty beard! Meh engineerin’ toys are still inside, and i dig out som’ high-grade blastpowder fer teh trap I’m about teh set. I do all this lying down, pretendin’ teh be dead, and Bjorn assumes a supine form too. He understands th’ plan.
I spring up, and rush fer teh top o’ th’ crest outside th’ gates o’ th’ hauted Waycrest mansion. Little time, yeh mad dwarf, the rogue may be campin’ and returnin’ soon. His poisons are much stronger, and i simply cannot kill him; i can outsmart him tho’. I set th’ explosive trap, and pretend teh reel next teh th’ precipice. Come littl’ rogue, easy dwarf kill right here…
And righ’ as rain, i get instantly sapp’d and incapacitated. Th’ rogue steps in fer th’ finisher…and blows up th’ trap, flying miles and miles down into th’ shoreline. Ha! Tha’ should crack a few bones, and teach him teh pick on allies o’ his own size.
I may beh old, but god darnit i still got tricks up meh sleeve!
Reachin’ into meh satchel, I take a long swig o’ som good Thunderbrew ale. Ah, Grimbooze sure knew how teh brew!
Can’t linger here, got business teh go about. Heard tales of som’ death god in Nazmir.
Me and th’ death god, we got som’ talkin’ teh do.
Signed,
-O.