Tarquin to finish. Placeholder/
After our business at the temple and its magically dead bear/old man/bones/dusty guardian, we decided the wisest might be t’ head west and see what ‘ambush’ Tarquin’s ears caught while the rest of us were dreamin’. More’n a handful of ‘em, he said. Maybe they were for us, maybe some’n else. We’d find the truth of it soon enough, but we’d have to do some gardenin’ first.
A shamblin’ mound, Taquin called it. A big damn mess of weeds and vines and pain. Giant bastard was pullin’ us off our feet an’ squeezin’ our guts out our asses one by one. But never seen a plant yet ain’t soft against a blade, so we diced the pile and made our way, bruised ribs and all.
Gods musta been feelin’ generous. Lookin’ for our ‘unicorn’ and ambush, we found us a nice spot for one and not the other. Nice pile o’ rocks, and pile of soon-dead bastards, and the cream on the pie, the wench, Kressel. She an’ I had unfinished business.
The wench had ‘bout half dozen twirps on ’er flanks, hidin’ behind boulders. Proper course seemed certain after seein’ her. After a charge in, ol’ bitch and I had a ripe time cleavin’ pieces o’ each other off and hurlin’ insults. Too bad that little squeak behind kept slippin’ daggers ‘tween my ribs when I weren’t lookin’. Oligo’s arrows rained down, Visto’s sent waves of whatever magic he conjures into the mess, Megil danced and stabbed…. Old bitch nearly looked like she was ready to give, but then that pain hit me, right between the shoulder blades… backstabbin’ bastard. Tried to stay up, but a man only has so much blood…. got sleepy…
…I fell down. All’s dark. Time t’ sleep.
Our exploits must be reaching the Whorelord’s ears. His nether regions must be quivering with fear if he sent his wench Kressle’s to ambush us. We musta killed half of his god-damned gang in that bloody skirmish including the red haired bitch. I hope the one that got away made his back to the Whorelord to tell him that he is next to die. If the Whorelord was afraid before he is going be fucking terrified now.