WFB3 Battle Report: The Bridge over the River Chai - Turn 4

[Doomhippie]

Once again I bow my head before your awesomness, sir. 
I love your stories and you guys truely present what Warhammer should be all about.

[weazil]

Cheers, Mr Doomhippie - always glad to hear someone loves the activity...

Anyway, Turn 4 (including tenuous Christmas link) is posted.

Also, a picture:

[Dreamfish]

Turn 5

Turn 5 seems to be characterised by running.

Some units are running to get into combat. Some units are running to get out of combat. Some units are running just because other units are running.

Lots of running, then.

Don't be alarmed, bloodthirsty audience! There is still your fair share of stabbing, chopping and clubbing. And fireballs. Creatures have died in this turn. We've got that covered.



Movement Phase

Master B'tor, high on the adrenaline that only comes from wholesale slaughter, charges down the rocky hillside to have at the dwarves. His erstwhile companion, Seaman Sprayes, cannot make the 'gig' this time, as he is on foot.

Wineghum drinks deeply of his newly prepared K'fe, infusing his drug addled brain with the awesome power of the rare and powerful K'fe bean. In so doing, he boosts his undead minions, granting each of them an extra wound! Thus prepared, he orders them to charge the dwarves.

Nico Teehn and his boys, believing themselves to have satisfied their contract (to shoot at orcs, one supposes), continue to flee the carnage caused by Kibarkid's 3rd Company of Fine Spear.

The orc line, now clearly in the business of running relays as they change direction more times than a shoal of fish surrounded by killer whales, scatter to escape the wrath of Meedy Ochre, who is now short of targets as Kalpol's lot flee the field.

And...amidst the confusion, Rogaine forces his Grunta's to go back into the battle, this time moving behind the orc line, no doubt preparing for some sneaky outflanking manoeuvre!

Actions

GM:

• WLH Routed off the table
  

Airbornegrove:

• I Charged @ S2, wheeled right 1", moved forward 4"
  
• MF Routed forward 7"
  
• MO Reformed
  
• F Moved forward 3", holds
  

Thantsants:

• S2 Holds
  
• MB Charged @ F, moved 13"
  
• S1 Charged @ I, wheeled 1" left, moved forward 3", lost charge bonus
  
• CGC Routed forward 7"
  
• SBB Routed forward 7"
  
• KYP Routed off the table
  
• WoP Moved forward 5"
  
• SQC Wheeled right 2", moved forward 2"
  
• SOC Moved forward 5"
  
• RGH Wheeled right 1", moved forward 5"
  
• GF Wheeled left 1", moved forward 2.5"
  
• RLR Wheeled left 2", moved forward 2"
  
• W Consumed K'fe, S1 and S2 +1 W, moved 3" @ S1
  

***

Magic Item:Percolator

The Percolator is a silver, magical jug able to produce a powerful and invigorating potion, called K'fe. K'fe takes a whole turn to prepare. The unit must remain stationary whilst preparing K'fe. Preparation must be declared in the movement phase. Once ready, it can be imbibed by the creator and their unit, allowing any statistic (except for Cool) to be increased by 1. K'fe can be imbibed more than once (the effects are cumulative, but no statistic may be increased beyond 10), but it can only be drunk once per turn. Each time K'fe is consumed, however, the drinker(s) must reduce their Cool by 1.

***

Shooting Phase

Perhaps you get this feeling sometimes: you know when you've done something stupid, maybe in the car, or whilst carrying something heavy - and you think, I'll just press CTRL-Z (or CMD-Z for the bohemian users out there...). Then reality punches you in the face, because of course, in real life, you can't. I call these CTRL-Z moments.

I suspect that Seaman Sprayes experienced a CTRL-Z moment as he watched the flurry of quarrels sear across the field after he descended the hill.

In what turned out to be a good round for the crossbowmen as a whole, the 1st Company of Arrowheads manage to down two orc boar riders!

In retaliation, the orc stone thrower crew failed to hit their target - that being the last known location of the dwarven warmachines before the mystic mist came up. Unbeknown to them, however, they manage to kill three dwarves crewing the earthquaker.

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• A1C Shot @ RGH, wounded 2
  
• A2C Shot @ SOC, wounded 1
  
• E Shot @ RGH deviated, missed
  

Thantsants:

• SC Shot @ A1C, wounded 0
  
• MM Shot @ E deviated @ E, wounded 3
  

***

"Look - there's an elf running towards us," Beeyerbehl Lee grunted. "He's waving a sword. Requesting permission to fire, sir?"

Sergeant Reeyulale watched the elf careen down the hill. It wasn't terribly clear if he was running with the lizard riding elf or away from him.

"Hold your fire - how do you know its not one of our allies? For all you know, he's got the thingummy we came to get."

"With all due respect, sir, I have no idea if he's an ally or not, but he is waving his sword in what I consider to be a threatening manner and one that I deem to be a threat to the lives of my colleagues and I! I repeat - permission to fire, sir?"

"Denied! We have met the elves with the intention of establishing peace - I don't know where the other ones came from, but I don't want to be accountable for reigniting a war between our two great peoples!"

Beeyerbehl lifted his crossbow. "Sir, let us not forget that the whole reason we're here today is because one of those sons-of-bitches was caught knobbing Lady Luuhs. Your lips are still blue, sir. You know why? Because we just waded through the bloody freezing currents of the River Chai. Before that you woke up at two in the morning so you could force march to get here in time to meet these bastards, who don't even have the common decency to secure the area before trying to hand over their doohicky! How was your breakfast, sir? Oh, that's right, you didn't have any!"

"You had better watch your tongue, son, or I'll shoot you where you stand! We did those things because those were orders!" Reeyulale thumped his finger against Beeyerbehl's chest. "You're in the army now and that means you're in the business of following orders! You got me?"

Beeyerbehl blinked each time the sergeant's broad finger punched his into sternum.

Reeyulale glared at the unit. "No one shoots anything, alright! I'm just gonna have a smoke and decide what we- shit!" The sergeant patted his pockets up and down, before turning to look over his shoulder to look at the river. "Bugger me! I've lost my tobacco! I don't suppose any of you saw a yellow box..." he trailed off.

He followed the finger of Beeyerbehl as pointed wistfully at a little bob of yellow cheerfully drifting down the River Chai.

"Sonofabitch!" Beeyerbehl hissed through clenched teeth. "Son-of-a-bitch!"

Beeyerbehl shrugged. "It's the elves sir. Bad business all round. Permission to fire?"

"Shit always happens when there's elves around. They're a bloody curse, they are!"

"Permission to fire, sir?"

Reeyulale snatched the crossbow from the other dwarf. "Denied!"

"I'm shooting the bastard myself!"

***

[Dreamfish]

Combat Phase

Curiously, Kibarkid's lot continue to hold out against the Steelaxes, despite the fact that they are pathetic goblins and the Steelaxes are well trained, well equipped dwarves.

The dwarves are pushed back, introducing a 'weight' wheel - something that happens in 3rd edition that doesn't happen in current editions of Warhammer. In this case, the lines are now out of 'balance', with the 'heavier' unit causing the other to wheel backwards as they get pushed back. Its one of those careful situations where you may not want to follow up too many times, as you'll be out of position. In this case, neither unit has a choice, as they hate each other, but it is nice to see some of the tactical nuances introduced by the idea of push-backs and follow ups.

Also, the brave Master B'tor challenges Morgrim to single combat. despite riding a fearsome cold one and being quite a capable warrior, Morgrim sees the dark elf captain off - but not without being injured himself.

Another interesting element of 3rd edition that we don't see in the later editions is the idea of instability. Applying specifically to undead and daemons (and elementals - you won't see those in later editions!), this is a roll taken by unstable units to see how they react to tough situations, usually caused by magic or being defeated in combat. In later editions, where one subtracts the wounds suffered from ones leadership when determining what the score is to roll for routing (fleeing, child - fleeing), players would simply remove that number extra from the unstable unit. In 3rd edition, this is a dice roll against a table - the entire unit could be destroyed, or it could get casualties returned to it - possibly enough to return to its original strength.

Anyway, the dwarves pushed the summoned undead back - both units rolled for instability - one lost 3 extra figures - the other became completely ethereal - and therefore completely ineffectual!

Actions

MB vs F

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• MB charged
  
• F none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I10 Parried
  
• A2 I9 MB -> MI
  
• A3 I8 MB -> MI
  
• A4 I7 MB -> MI
  
• A1 I4 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I3 MB <- MI
  
• A3 I2 MB <- MI
  
• A1 I1 MB's mount -> MI
  
• A4 I1 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I1 MB's mount -> MI
  
• Results
  
• MB +1 (charged) = 1
  
• S +1 (standard) +1 (ranks) = 2
  

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• MB none
  
• F follow-up
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I9 MB -> MI
  
• A2 I8 MB -> MI
  
• A3 I7 MB -> MI
  
• A4 I6 MB -> MI (1W)
  
• A1 I4 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I3 MB <- MI
  
• A3 I2 MB <- MI (1W)
  
• A4 I1 MB <- MI
  
• A1 I1 MB's mount -> MI
  
• A2 I1 MB's mount -> MI
  
• Results
  
• MB +1 (wounds) = 1
  
• S +1 (follow-up) +1 (standard) +1 (ranks) +1 (wounds) = 4
  
• Free Hack 1
  
• A1 I4 MB <- MI (1W)
  
• A2 I3 MB <- MI
  
• A3 I2 MB <- MI
  
• A4 I1 MB <- MI
  

I vs S1, S2

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• I charged
  
• S1, S2
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf1 -> Skeleton4@S2 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf1 <- Skeleton4@S2
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 -> Skeleton3@S2 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 <- Skeleton3@S2
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf3 -> Skeleton2@S2 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf3 <- Skeleton2@S2
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf4 (std) -> Skeleton1@S2
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf4 (std) <- Skeleton1@S2
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf8 <- Skeleton2@S1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf8 -> Skeleton2@S1 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf8 <- Skeleton3@S1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf4 (std) <- Skeleton4@S1
  
• Results
  
• I +1 (charged) +1 (standard) +1 (war banner) +4 (wounds) = 7
  
• S1, S2 +1 (ranks) = 1
  
• Instability
  
• S1 ineffective shadows
  
• S2 skeleton 4, 3 and 2 died
  

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• I follow-up
  
• S2 none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf1 -> Skeleton4 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf1 <- Skeleton4
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 -> Skeleton3
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 <- Skeleton3
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf3 -> Skeleton2 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf3 <- Skeleton2
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf4 (std) -> Skeleton1 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf4 (std) <- Skeleton1
  
• Results
  
• I +1 (follow-up) +1 (standard) +1 (war banner) +3 (wounds) = 6
  
• S2 0
  
• Instability
  
• S2 ineffective shadows
  

K3C vs S

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• K3C follow-up, hatred
  
• S hatred
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I3 Goblin1 <- Borri Forkbeard (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Goblin2 -> Dwarf1
  
• A1 I2 Goblin6 -> Dwarf1 (1W)
  
• Results
  
• K3C +1 (follow-up) +1 (standard) +1 (ranks) +1 (wounds) = 4
  
• S +1 (wounds) = 1
  

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• K3C follow-up, hatred
  
• S hatred
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I3 Goblin1 <- Borri Forkbeard (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Goblin2 -> Dwarf1
  
• A1 I2 Goblin6 -> Dwarf1
  
• A1 I1 Goblin2 <- Dwarf1
  
• Results
  
• K3C +1 (follow-up) +1 (standard) +1 (ranks) = 3
  
• S +1 (wounds) = 1
  

***

If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself, Master B'tor had thought to himself as he watched the orc captain chase his porcine cavalry back to try and get them under control.

Embarrassing, really.

Anyway, things had progressed. Having butchered what must have been the elven commander and claiming the hill, he noticed that the dwarves were closing in with the orcs. In their ignorance, haste or arrogance, they had exposed their entire flank to his elves.

What a curious thing to do...

Now that Sea Biscuit, his terrifying and odorous mount, had warmed up on the corpses of the wood elves, it was easy pickings to simply launch himself into the tiny squad of dwarves that seemed to making up their rear guard. So this he did.

***

It was Sea Biscuit's slavering roar that alerted Morgrim and his men that trouble was at hand. The dwarves had seen the lone elf and his dragon like steed rampaging around on the hill, but it had been difficult to discern who was who. Morgrim had not questioned the presence of two different elven armies hell bent on killing each other - the gods above knew it was hard enough for other races to deal with the arrogant swines, so it made complete sense that they would have it in for each other.

But now this one had distinguished himself. Morgrim was a confident fighter, but not an arrogant one. He would never go running across a battlefield in this fashion - screaming like that was basically just asking to be shot. Still, this elf must have some skill - he'd survived the fighting on the hill and seemed eager for more - that sort of thing always wanted watching, as you couldn't trust anyone who wanted to fight.

"Step aside, fellers, I think I'd better deal with this one. Stay in formation."

The Firehammers new better than to question him. Without a word, they parted, letting him through to the back before closing ranks.

The elf seemed delighted that Morgrim had presented himself - a cruel grin spread across his face as he levelled his lance.

Morgrim grimaced. He knew the next bit was going to hurt, but it had to be done.

"Remember, son, everyone always things being short is some sort of disadvantage - let 'em think that. You use it to your advantage every time, you hear!" his dad would say.

His plan relied on two things - dwarven engineering, in the shape of his family Mithril, and his low centre of gravity - you can't drop something that's already on the floor.

Morgrim trotted forward, setting his feet firmly, his great blade in the air above his shoulder. He was expecting the lance to hit the left side of his chest - if he could take the impact, he'd have the stupid elf for sure.

He stared up into the maw of the cold one as it howled in for the kill.

The crack of his ribs snapping was eye watering. The other dwarves, still in formation, collectively winced as the lance crunched into Morgrim's mithril, locking into an armoured link, the shaft bending before the tip ricocheted off sideways under his elbow.

***

It was as if Master B'tor had charged a rock. The shock of the impact reverberated right through the lance and up into his arm and shoulder. Sea Biscuit reared up as the elf rolled backwards from the impact, staying in the saddle only by his desperate grip on the reins bunched in his left fist.

***

Morgrim's upward swing became a sideways swing as he tumbled backwards. The sword sliced through the air under its own weight - his right hand simply following the swing through - his left hand extended out behind him to catch his fall.

***

It was the rearing up that saved Master B'tor. A blow aimed at his midriff clove through his ankle, sending his now useless foot flying. Morgrim's bloody blade finished its journey as it clanked against the scales of the cold one, the impetus not enough to cut into the animal.

***

Sea Biscuit lashed around with his head, grabbing Morgrim by his elbow. Deep in the creatures simple mind a brief moment of shock cut through the bloodlust as it realised its jaws could not crush the little creature it now held. The moment passed as instinct won the day - where biting failed, shaking succeeded. The cold one shook Morgrim like a rag doll. The dwarf clanked back and forth as he punched desperately at the creature. His mailed fist found the creatures throat, the impact assisted by the  impetus of being shaken.

***

Morgrim crashed into the Firehammers as the creature opened its jaws. It staggered sideways under the weight of the shrieking elf and it's sudden inability to breath...

***

Master B'tor propped himself and the blithering cold one up by stabbing his lance into the ground. His already aching shoulder carried the weight of himself and the cold one as he forced the creature to right itself. In that brief instant, he realised why it wasn't responding - his right foot was gone. There was nothing but a stream of blood where once a boot and stirrup swung. Fighting the urge to faint, he beat the stupid creature with his left foot, causing it to wheel around the lance. A sound kick caused the creature to launch itself roaring into the distance.

***

The Firehammers watched impassively as the cold one skittered away, fighting for grip as it tried to interpret the cockeyed instructions of the elf.

"You alright, sir?" one of them asked.

"Do I look alright to you?" Mogrim grunted as two of the dwarves helped him up. "That hurt like hell."

He hung his arm over the shoulder of Baye Conbutti, the youngest dwarf in the regiment. His breathing was laboured. "Sit me down, son - I - just need a - breather."

The unit crowder around him as Baye lowered him onto a nearby rock.

"Hey!" Morgrim barked. "You lot stay in formation! It's just- " Morgrim looked down to see the great rent that had been punched into his breastplate.

"-it's just a scratch."

***

Reserves Phase

The reserves phase is suitably dull, what with orcs moving towards dwarves and giants moving towards orcs. When it comes to picking the lesser of two evils, I know which I'd take...

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• MO Moved forward 6"
  

Thantsants:

• WoP Moved forward 3", wheeled right 1", moved forward 1"
  
• RLR Moved forward 4"
  
• GF Wheeled right 3"
  

Magic Phase

Wineghum, realising that the dwarves have overcome his summoned army, launches two fireballs at them, caring not whether his creations are seared into nothingness. A stunned dwarf is burned to a crisp as a result!

Actions

Thantsants:

• W Casted 2 Fireballs @ I, wounded 1, 11 MP remaining
  

Rallying Phase

Chamallow's Goblins and Suderfedd's Big Boys Brigade, running more or less straight into their determined and furious commanding officer, Rogaine, bring their headlong dash for safety to a halt - his 'soothing' influence and 'calm' demeanour being something orcs across the world respect...

The mercenaries fail to rally and leave the table.

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• MF Failed to rally
  

Thantsants:

• CGC Rallied
  
• SBB Rallied
  

[Dreamfish]

Turn 6

Turn 6 is just chaos. Unmitigated, random, chaos. The dwarves suffer one casualty, whilst the orcs get the turn prize for killing the most... orcs.



Movement Phase

Master B'tor continues to flee after his stinging defeat by Morgrim. The dark elf crossbowmen know better than to question their captain and watch him pass by without a word.

The terrifying onslaught of Meedy Ochre is enough to send Suderfedd's (suddenly not so) Big Boy's Brigade running, but not fast enough to avoid a nasty beating for a couple of orcs. Looking to save face, Rogaine charges the giant with his boar cavalry, startling the stupid creature and causing it to rout.

Also, Wineghum's mystic mist dissipates, granting the dwarf warmachine crews cherished access to light and targets. Ethan Ohl, previously of the cannon crew, joins the Earthquaker crew and helps them tend to their wounded and prepare the machine to fire.

Over on the orc side, Rogaine's Lamentable Regiment of Boworcs watches as the goblins battle desperately with the Fireaxes and charge in to help. Well - not to help, as such, but just to hit dwarves. Certainly one of the top five activities orcs like to get up to.

Actions

GM:

• Mystic Mist Ended and disappeared
  

Airbornegrove:

• MO Charged @ SBB, pursued @ SBB, moved 12", wounded 2, routed
  
• MF Routed off the table
  
• CC Joined EC
  
• F Turned around, moved forward 3"
  

Thantsants:

• RGH Charged @ MO, pursued @ MO, wheeled left 4", moved 8"
  
• RLR Charged @ S, moved forward 3.5"
  
• S1 Charged @ F, wheeled right 1.5", moved forward 4.5"
  
• MB Routed forward 14"
  
• SBB Routed
  
• W Moved 5" @ cliff face
  
• CGC Turned left
  
• SQC Moved forward 3", wheeled right 1"
  
• WoP Moved forward 5"
  

Shooting Phase

Unfortunately, the nigh-unstoppable goblins, having surprisingly and successfully pushed the dwarves back for two consecutive turns, are undone by their artillery support.

The orc man mangler crew, having selected the Firehammers as the target, fail miserably to land their stone anywhere near those dwarves, placing the stone instead on the Steelaxes. Firehammers? Steelaxes? I know, they sounded similar, didn't they? Easy to confuse the two, really.

Anyway, they kill a dwarf.

But they also manage to kill 5 goblins and 4 orcs. So Kibarkid's lot, having so far been the underdogs of the match, let up against the dwarves and flee in horror as they realise that the sky is falling in.

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• A1C Shot @ GF, wounded 3
  
• A2C Shot @ SQC, wounded 2
  
• E Shot @ CGC deviated, missed
  

Thantsants:

• SC Shot @ EC, missed
  
• MM Shot @ F deviated @ S, K3C, RLR, wounded 1, 5, 4
  
• K3C Routed
  

***

"Ow! Waddidja do that for!" Nayz Ulsprai squealed, rubbing his head where he'd been cuffed.

"Look wot yer gone an' done!" Pannerdol barked, jabbing his finger into the sky.

Nayz followed the distant rock as it descended into a cluster of greenskins close to the river. "Wosn't me," he whined.

"Was too! If yer'd been doin' yer job instead of gawping at the giant like some kid at a circus, we'd have been dead on! But we ain't, are we?" He looked at the ruckus that was ensuing. "Great - now they's runnin' away. Good job, genius!"

"Aw boss - s'only goblins!"

"S'only Kibarkid's lot, is wot it is. You wait 'til I tell 'im it was you wot shot 'im! You know he's a biter!"

Bennilinn, who was watching Pannerdol berate Nayz from the other side of the Man Mangler, instinctively reached his hand down to protect his crotch. There were many rumours of Kibarkid's reputed savagery - and none of them had any happy endings for anyone taller than him.

Ibupp Rowfenn also shifted uncomfortably at the mention of Kibarkid. Still, Kibarkid was all the way down there (and possibly dead - he might have been killed by Nayz, after all), so he moved on to the thing that was really concerning him.

"What's a genius?"

"It's a knob, like Nayz over here!" Pannerdol spat.

"But I ain't never seen a giant before! An' I ain't never seen Rogaine chasin' one neither!"

"Look - quit yer whinin' and thank whatever god that spawned you that you's got two balls, cos once Kibarkid gets ya..." Pannerdol snapped his teeth shut.

"Is that what happened to Rogaine?" Ibupp asked, addressing the crew generally.

"Wot, Kibarkid?"

"Yeah. He's only got one 'nad left, ain't he? Rogaine?"

Bennilinn locked eyes with Ibupp. "Nah...surely not?"

Nayz looked up. "Cor! Really? Kibarkid an' Rogaine?"

Ibupp shrugged. "I dunno. Alls I know is Rogaine is only half the orc he used to be, if you gets my drift-"

"As will you be if you don't get this damn thrower loaded! Get on with it, you gossiping wenches!" Pannerdol screeched as he rained blows down on any crew members he could reach.

***

[Dreamfish]

Combat Phase

In what turned out to be a very quiet combat phase, the dwarves quietly dispatched pretty much everything they were facing. The now ethereal skeletons were clearly no match for the dwarven elites and winked out of existence.

Possibly a little stunned from the orc missile strike, the Steelaxes kill all but one orc, who finally reaches an understanding of his situation and runs away. In their mercy, the Steelaxes watch the little feller run off (Ed: don't dwarves hate all greenskins?).

Actions

S1 vs F

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• S1 charged
  
• F none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I2 Skeleton2 <- Dwarf10 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Skeleton3 <- Dwarf5 (1W)
  
• Results
  
• S1 +1 (charged) = 1
  
• F +2 (wounds) = 2
  

I vs S2

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• S2 none
  
• I follow-up
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I2 Skeleton1 <- Dwarf4 (std) (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Skeleton2 <- Dwarf3 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Skeleton3 <- Dwarf2
  
• A1 I2 Skeleton4 <- Dwarf1 (1W)
  
• Results
  
• S1 0
  
• F +1 (follow-up) +3 (wounds) = 4
  

RLR vs S

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• RLR charged
  
• S none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I2 Orc1 (std) -> Dwarf2
  
• A1 I1 Orc1 (std) <- Dwarf2 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Orc2 -> Dwarf1 (mus)
  
• A1 I1 Orc2 <- Dwarf1 (mus) (1W)
  
• Results
  
• RLR +1 (charged) = 1
  
• S +2 (wounds) = 2
  
• Free Hack 1
  
• A1 I1 Orc1 <- Dwarf2 (1W)
  
• A1 I1 Orc2 <- Dwarf1 (1W)
  

Reserves Phase

There's nothing much to say about the reserves phase. Still, there is a certain beauty in the orc line and how it seems to have every direction on the compass covered...

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• F Turned left, changed formation to 4 files (2nd manoeuvre), moved forward 2.5"
  
• S Moved forward 2", halts within 4" of RLR
  
• A2C Changed formation to 4 files
  

Thantsants:

• WoP Wheeled left 1.5", moved forward 1", halts within 4" of F
  
• SQC Moved forward 1", failed 2nd manoeuvre
  

Magic Phase

Wineghum casts mystic mist again. The spell choice presents no problems, but the target does offer a mini-dilemma: cast the spell on his own man-mangler and try and save some of his army, or try and confound the approaching dwarves, who are getting awfully close now that he's run out of undead.

In the end, you can always rely on a goblin to save his own skin.

Actions

GM:

• Mystic Mist Rolled 1D3 dice in secret
  

Thantsants:

• W Casted Mystic Mist @ F and I, 6 MP remaining
  

Rallying Phase

Master B'tor rallies! Aching both physically and emotionally, Master B'tor has occasion to pause and reflect on things. A true captain, he elects not to leave his men (elves?) behind, and returns to the fray. Besides, how many feet does one need, anyway? Surely that's why we've all got spares?

Actions

Thantsants:

• MB Rallied
  

***

Master B'tor patted Sea Biscuit, using a gentle rhythm and the barest hushing sounds to bring the beast to a standstill. It offered an inquisitive growl as it turned to sniff at its master's bloody stump where once a foot had been.

"No, no," the elf said gently. "No eating for now. That's. My. Leg." He grunted in pain as the realisation of what happened flooded through his nervous system.

Slowly, he turned sideways and slid down the side of the cold one, making sure he had a firm grip on the rein. Sea Biscuit and himself had been through a lot together and many other cold one riders were jealous of his control over the giant lizard, but now was not the time to drop his guard. Cold ones responded to blood - and right now, he was the only one doing the bleeding.

Gingerly,  he shifted his weight onto his left foot. He rubbed the beasts neck as he cooed and sushed, leaning up against it as he looked around. Finding a suitable rock, he dropped to all fours to secure the reigns under the boulder. Sea Biscuit should stay relatively calm here, he reasoned.

He crawled away from the cold one, getting himself to a safe distance in case something happened and the creature attacked.

"Right," he said to himself. "You've seen this done hundreds of times, right?"

Right. But you've never had to do it. And you've never had to do it to you.

He dug a small hole and pushed whatever leaves and twigs he could reach from his sitting position into it. He tore away the ruined trouser leg and bundled the bloody rags into the hole too, making up the base for a small fire. Finally, he pulled out his hip flask and poured most of the contents onto the cloth. He poured most of the rest of the flask onto his stump - shit, that stings something awful! - before pouring the final measure down his throat.

The whisky had been filtered for sixty years - even by elven standards, the stuff was smooth. What a shame he was going to burn it. He clacked his flint stones together, sighing as the liquor soaked materials caught the sparks and whooshed to life.

He stared at the base of the fire for a short while. The pain was there, but it was in the background now.   Perhaps he didn't have to do this? He looked at his stump. Blood oozed through the haggard, dirty mess.

"Nothing for it, son," he'd heard himself say to his crew when this sort of thing happened to them. "I don't need crew with infections. Bite on this..."

Good point. He loosened his belt, folding it double and clutched it between his teeth. He pulled his dagger from its sheath. He trusted this blade. It was the sharpest thing he owned. Curiously, it had never drawn blood. Fitting, perhaps, that he should punish himself with it first - he had been an idiot, after all. He'd been far too eager to skewer the damned dwarf to realise the dwarf had a plan.

His eyes spotted a suitable stone just next to him. About the size of his hand and very heavy. "You'll do," he said to it as he picked it up. He stretched his wounded leg out, pointing his aching stump towards the fire. He settled the edge of his dagger against his shin, just a little higher than the wound. He held the stone up high.

One...

He held his breath.

Two...

He bit deeply into the belt

Three...

He closed his eyes.

Now!

***

Sea Biscuit roared in fright as he heard his master's voice screech through bloody teeth. The creature wrenched at the reins, rearing and snapping.

"Easy, Sea Biscuit," he heard Master B'tor say. "Easy." The elf sounded... different. Weaker.

The cold one sniffed as it detected the smell of burning flesh. He looked at the fire, cocking his head.

"Here. Got. Something. For you."

Sea Biscuit's eye narrowed as it tracked the little chunk of flesh that sailed through the air...

***

Master B'tor nodded his approval as he watched the cold one snatched the chunk of leg he tossed out of the air. "Good boy."

The pain in the now shorter (but clean) stump was much worse the second time. "I guess that's because I knew it was going to happen," he grunted. He looked at the deep bite he'd left in his belt before wrapping it around his leg and binding it as tightly as he could.

Hurts like a bitch, that does. The burn was more painful than the cut, he reasoned. Absolute bitch!

Gently, he rolled onto all-fours, before tentatively raising himself upright.

You can do this.

He hopped closer to the cold one.

And again.

And again.

One more time.

Sea Biscuit seemed to be looking at him as if evaluating Master B'tor's worthiness to ride him. Elf and cold one stared at each other, neither gaze shifting. Slowly, Master B'tor brought his left hand around in front of him, pulling the creatures stare down to his hand with the movement. In that instant, his right hand shot out and punched the beast squarely on the nose.

"Behave yourself - you don't want another piece of this!" he growled as he grabbed the reins and hauled himself up onto the stunned creature's back.

He yanked on the reins and kicked Sea Biscuit firmly in the ribs, directing the cold one to run back towards the dwarves.

"Now. Let's go kill me a dwarf..."

***

[Funghy-Fipps]

Superb reading and eye-candy. What you chaps are doing is really very special.

[Dreamfish]

Turn 7

Well. Turn 7. I got there in the end.

And what an interesting turn it is. In the last turn, it was still possible to discern lines - the nominal facing off of opposing force. That goes away in Turn 7. Because everyone runs away. Now its just skirmishing with units.

Oh, and the GM gets sneaky. Control of Master B'tor is 'revoked' and passes to the GM (Dreamfish). If he gets into command range of his units, Thantsants could lose control of the whole lot...



Movement Phase

Of course, to initiate lots of running away, one must initiate running toward. This the contestants do with great gusto, launching five charges between them. By the same toke, troops not specifically interested in the outcome of events (that being most of the orcs) flee. Rogaine loses Chamallow's Goblin Command and Suderfed's Big Boys Brigade to the table edge as they scream into the distance.

Rogaine watches as Meedy Ochre, deeming his task to be done, lopes off to the west in search of alcohol and Nico, who he hasn't seen for a little while now.

Kibarkid's Lot and the Lamentable Boworcs have also had enough, despite their heroic efforts, and flee from the Steelaxes - freeing them up to attempt a charge on the Gaversconne's Fireguts. Alas for stumpy legs - the exhausted dwarves surrender the greenskin target to the Ironaxes, who have the same idea - but have the drive, commitment and the requisite 6" to connect with their foe.

In a comedic slapfest, two units of crossbow... er... beings have at one another. Although the dwarves fail to connect, the obliging elves step up, so happily, they meet in the middle.

Actions

GM:

• MB Moved 7" @ SQC
  

Airbornegrove:

• I Charged @ GF, moved forward 6"
  
• S Charged @ GF, wheeled left 1.5", moved forward 4.5", unformed, holds
  
• A2C Charged @ SQC, wheeled left 1", moved forward 5", unformed, holds
  
• MO Routed off the table
  
• F Moved forward 1.5" @ half movement
  

Thantsants:

• GF Holds
  
• WoP Charged @ I, moved forward 8.5", wheeled left 1.5", unformed
  
• SQC Charged @ A2C, wheeled right 3.5", moved forward 0.5", unformed
  
• RLR Routed forward 8"
  
• K3C Routed forward 7"
  
• SBB Routed off the table
  
• CGC Routed off the table
  
• RGH Reformed
  

Shooting Phase

Now, when most of your shooters are involved in hand to hand combat, the shooting phase tends towards the dull.

But! Angry dwarves, having spent most of their turns lost in the mist with no idea of what's going on around them score a direct hit!

Perhaps a scoreline would help to explain the situation:

• Earthquaker: 1
  
• Man-mangler: 0
  

Not only do the dwarves succeed in destroying the orc warmachine, they bolt thrower also kills two of Rogaine's finest! And some goblins get shot. Meh.

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• A1C Shot @ K3C, wounded 2
  
• BT Shot @ RGH, wounded 2
  
• E Shot @ RGH deviated @ MM, destroyed MM and wounded 1
  

Thantsants:

• SC Shot @ S, missed
  

***

"Lemme guess - a rock fell outta the sky and smashed the arm, right?"

The other orcs blinked at Pannerdol. Nayz slowly pointed to the rock he was balancing on his shoulder. He had been about to lower it into the basket. His mouth opened and closed. "But..."

Pannerdol held a finger to Nayz' lips "Shht! Don't say nuffink! Whaddaya think - I'm some kinda idiot? I goes for a piss for thirty seconds and when I come back, yoose lots gone and broken Man Mangler! Then you- " he poked Nayz in the chest, "picks up a rock and act like nothin's happened! You lot make me sick!" Pannerdol's shrieked the last word at such a high pitch that his voice faltered.

Nayz just stood blinking. "But..."

"Aww boss!" Ibupp whined. "E's fer real! A stone dropped from the sky and smashed Man Manger! Honest!"

Pannerdol raised his eyebrows. "...and landed in right in the basket, just how we'd put a rock there?"

"Yeah! Now yer gettin' it!"

Pannerdol slapped Ibupp across the face.

"Rocks."

-Slap-

"Don't."

-Slap-

"Drop."

-Slap-

"From."

-Slap-

"The."

-Slap-

"Sky."

-Slap-

"Okay?" Pannerdol leaned in, thrusting his face into Ibupp's smarting face.

Both Nayz and Ibupp blinked. "But..." they said in unison.

"So's I don't care which of you knob heads broke Man Mangler. Pack yer stuff - we're leav- Hey! Who killed Bennilinn?"

Ibupp pointed at the rock, now lying in the split remains of the stone throwers throwing arm.

Pannerdol rolled his eyes and flung his hands wide. "Of course! It was the magic rock, weren't it! Mebbe we should all jes' worship it before 'e calls 'is mates and more rocks rain from the sky, eh?" He aimed a wild kick at Ibupp. "Pack it up! We're leaving!"

***

Combat Phase

Right, its been so long that I looked at turn 6, I can't even remember if this has happened before. But its worth knowing, so I'll mention it here.

In 3rd edition, when you charge a unit and you must wheel more than 22.5 degrees in order to connect, your unit becomes unformed. That means that if you are pushed back in combat, you will automatically rout.

Worth noting, because that happens twice here.

After some furious swinging, chopping and hacking, the crossbowelves see off the crossbowdwarves, who are unformed and thus flee back to the freezing River Chai. The elves, realising that hitting things for a living is much more dangerous than shooting things for a living, decide to restrain from pursuing the dwarves, choosing to reform instead.

The witch elves, flexing the supremely valuable tactical advantage of attacking an enemy in the rear, pretty much bounce like a ball, fleeing in exactly the same direction they came from, after the Ironaxes hand their (the dark elves, that is) arses to them. The big'uns also take delivery of their arses, fleeing in the opposite direction, leaving the bewildered and bloody dwarves stranded in the middle.

Actions

SQC vs A2C

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• SQC unformed
  
• A2C unformed
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I6 DE1 -> Dwarf3
  
• A1 I6 DE2 (std) -> Dwarf2
  
• A1 I6 DE3 -> Dwarf1
  
• A1 I2 DE3 <- Dwarf1
  
• A1 I2 DE2 (std) <- Dwarf2
  
• A1 I2 DE2 (std) <- Dwarf3
  
• A1 I2 DE1 <- Dwarf4
  
• Results
  
• SQC +1 (standard) +1 (ranks) = 2
  
• A2C +1 (ranks) = 1
  
• Free Hack 1
  
• A1 I6 DE1 -> Dwarf3 (1W)
  
• A1 I6 DE2 (std) -> Dwarf2
  
• A1 I6 DE3 -> Dwarf1
  

I vs GF, WoP

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• I charged
  
• GF none
  
• WoP unformed
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I6 Dwarf5 <- WE1
  
• A1 I6 Dwarf6 <- WE2
  
• A1 I5 Dwarf5 <- WE1
  
• A1 I5 Dwarf6 <- WE2
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf5 -> WE1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf6 -> WE2 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf1 -> Orc1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 -> Orc1
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf1 <- Orc1
  
• Results
  
• I +1 (standard) +1 (charged) +1 (wounds) = 3
  
• GF, WoP +1 (standard) = 1
  
• Free Hack 1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf5 -> WE1 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf6 -> WE2 (1W)
  

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• I follow-up
  
• GF none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf1 -> Gaversconne (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf1 <- Gaversconne
  
• A2 I1 Dwarf1 <- Gaversconne
  
• A3 I1 Dwarf1 <- Gaversconne
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 -> Orc2 (std)
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf2 <- Orc2 (std)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf3 (std) -> Orc1 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf5 -> Orc5 (1W)
  
• Results
  
• I +1 (standard) +1 (war banner) +1 (follow-up) +3 (wounds) = 6
  
• GF +1 (standard) = 1
  
• Free Hack 1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf1 -> Gaversconne
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 -> Orc2 (std) (1W)
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf3 (std) -> Orc1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf4 -> Orc1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf5 -> Orc5
  

Reserves Phase

And so, in the beginning of the turn, there were armies. Now, there are just teams. Of most interesting in this otherwise mediocre reserves phase is the sudden interest in Wineghum by both Master B'tor and Rogaine.

Two facts worth noting at this point:

[list=1]

• Wineghum currently holds the Percolator.
• Master B'tor is controlled by the GM now.

Wineghum feels a shiver down his back...

Actions

GM:

• MB Moved 7" @ hill
  
• SQC Turned left, changed formation to 4 files (2nd manoeuvre), moved forward 4"
  

Airbornegrove:

• I Turned around
  

Thantsants:

• RGH Wheeled right 0.5", moved forward 5.5"
  

***

Rogaine sighed. They just don't make orcs like they used to. He understood that the other orcs had run - they were just orcs. But watching Gaversconne lead the three surviving black orcs in an all out rout depressed him. Sure, Gaversconne was an unrivalled plank, but he was still a black orc. Actually, if he was running, he probably wasn't. Half-orc pussy!

All the more depressing was that it looked like it would come down to him to sort it all out again. As usual.

"Right boys, its been a good scrap fer me. Coulda been better. Not so much for you lot, though. We'd have been all over this field if not for you lot running off like that." He waved a hand at the two orcs lying on the floor, connected as they were by a giant bolt. One was still twitching. "That's what running away gets you. As it stands, we're gonna have to go. But not before I get my Percolator."

"Let me tell you how its gonna be," he growled at the remaining two. "We're gonna get Percolator off Wineghum, right? If I gets there and look around me and you ain't right here next to me," - the imaginary spot he pointed at seemed very close to him - "I'm gonna find you. Then I'm gonna pull the bulgy bit outta yer throat. Then I'll take yer nuts in my fist and ram them so far up yer arses that they'll pop out where the bulgy bit was. Then I'll make yer swallow 'em through yer mouths. By doing that, I'll have made a noose around yer jaws, which I'll use to drag you sons-of-bitches all the way back to camp, where I'll skin what's left and stew the lot. Are we clear?"

The others swallowed, emphasising the sudden value of the bulgy bits in their throats. A nervous nod followed.

"Good. Move out!"

***

Magic Phase

You might remember this scene from the Wyemm Seeyay - a poor wizard, under pressure, fails their intelligence test because they don't many magic points. Poor Wineghum, suddenly feeling very small as he watches the Witch Elves flee past his position, loses concentration and fails to cast anything useful.

Actions

Thantsants:

• W Failed to cast, 5 MP remaining
  

[Dreamfish]

Turn 8

Wait.

What's this?

Turn 8?

Turn 8 indeed. Please stand by whilst those new to oldhammer finish convulsing after their aneurysms.

...and we're not done yet.

The eighth turn was short and brutal. Again: lots of running. Shortly, you will see a picture describing the moves. There are words on that picture. Six of them are "Flee!" Four of them are "Charge!"

Anyway, this is how the turn started:



Movement Phase

The Dark Elves, still under control of the GM at this stage, charge the newly revealed Firehammers as the Mystic Mist that had confounded them so last turn dissipates.

The Ironaxes line Wineghum up for a charge, but their stumpy little legs fail them at the last moment! Failing their charge, the dwarves find themselves stranded between what might be described as a rock and a hard place, where rock=Rogaine and hard place=Wineghum. Both declare a charge!

Now let it be said that the dwarves are renowned for being doughty, stoic and thoroughly reliable - when it comes to the two legged variety of enemy. Wineghum's giant spider, having twice as many legs as the already terrifying horses the dwarves are so suspicious of, scared the shit out of them.

The dwarves flee.

Unfortunately, the same stumpy legs that got them into this mess failed to get them out of the mess as both chargers make contact. Rogaine and his Grand Hareline cull three of the little buggers with their free hacks.

Actions

GM:

• MB Charged @ F, moved 8"
  
• SQC Charged @ F, wheeled left 1.5", moved forward 6"
  

Airbornegrove:

• F Stand & shot @ MB, grenade deviated and missed
  
• I Charged @ W, unformed, routed
  
• A2C Routed, moved 3" @ difficult ground
  
• S Reformed
  

Thantsants:

• W Charged @ I, persued @ I, moved 7", wounded 1
  
• RGH Charged @ I, persued @ I, wheeled left 2", moved forward 6", wounded 2
  
• GF Routed, moved 7"
  
• RLR Routed, moved 8"
  
• K3C Routed, moved 7"
  
• WoP Routed, moved 10"
  

Shooting Phase

Well - there's not really much to say about the shooting phase. Both the dwarves and the orcs have missile units fleeing. Coupled with the orcs running out of war machines as they have been, they orcs can only offer a poor and desperate bolt thrower shot that swings wide of its mark.

The dwarves, however, claim some scalps by continuing their barrage on the orc artillery positions, killing three. To add insult to injury, a black orc is shot in passing.

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• A2C Shot @ GF, wounded 1
  
• BT Shot @ SC, missed
  
• E Shot @ SC deviated @ SCC, MMC, wounded 1, 2
  

Thantsants:

• SC Shot @ S, missed
  

Combat Phase

Unfortunately for the Ironaxes (compromised as they are by fleeing) are unable to offer any real resistance to Rogaine or even Wineghum. The dwarves are savaged and dispatched. There were no survivors.

Filled with hatred for Morgrim, Master B'tor wastes no time in engaging the dwarf leader. Vivid manifestations of rage and wrath - sparks fly as the two smite each other. In the end, Master B'tor overcomes Morgrim, scoring a wound on the beleaguered dwarf.

Ultimately, the Dark Elves win the fight, but are unable to rout the dwarves. The elves wrap around, trying to press their advantage home.

Actions

W, RGH vs I

Round 1

• Free Attacks
  
• A1 I5 Rogaine -> Dwarf4
  
• A2 I4 Rogaine -> Dwarf4 (1W)
  
• A3 I3 Rogaine -> Dwarf2 (1W)
  
• A1 I3 W -> Dwarf3 (1W)
  

Round 2

• Free Attacks
  
• A1 I5 Rogaine -> Dwarf1 (1w)
  

MB, SQC vs F

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• MB charged
  
• SQC charged
  
• F none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I10 Parried
  
• A2 I9 MB -> MI
  
• A3 I8 MB -> MI
  
• A4 I7 MB -> MI
  
• A1 I6 DE2 (std) -> Dwarf11 (1W)
  
• A1 I6 DE3 -> Dwarf8
  
• A1 I6 DE4 -> Dwarf4
  
• A1 I4 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I3 MB <- MI
  
• A3 I2 MB <- MI
  
• A1 I2 MB <- Dwarf2 (std)
  
• A1 I2 DE4 <- Dwarf4
  
• A1 I2 DE3 <- Dwarf8 (1W)
  
• A1 I1 MB's mount -> Dwarf2 (std)
  
• A4 I1 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I1 MB's mount -> Dwarf2 (std)
  
• Results
  
• MB, SQC +1 (standard) +1 (charged) +1 (ranks) +1 (wounds) = 4
  
• F +1 (standard) +1 (ranks) +1 (wounds) = 3
  

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• MB follow-up
  
• SQC follow-up
  
• F none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I9 MB -> MI
  
• A2 I8 MB -> MI
  
• A3 I7 MB -> MI (1W)
  
• A4 I6 MB -> MI
  
• A1 I6 DE2 (std) -> Dwarf10
  
• A1 I6 DE3 -> Dwarf8 (1W)
  
• A1 I6 DE4 -> Dwarf4
  
• A1 I6 DE9 -> Dwarf10
  
• A1 I6 DE10 -> Dwarf9
  
• A1 I6 DE11 -> Dwarf2 (std)
  
• A1 I4 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I3 MB <- MI
  
• A3 I2 MB <- MI
  
• A1 I2 DE11 <- Dwarf2 (std)
  
• A1 I2 DE4 <- Dwarf4
  
• A1 I2 DE10 <- Dwarf9
  
• A1 I2 DE2 (std) <- Dwarf10
  
• A1 I1 MB's mount -> Dwarf2 (std)
  
• A4 I1 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I1 MB's mount -> Dwarf2 (std)
  
• Results
  
• MB, SQC +1 (standard) +1 (follow-up) +1 (ranks) +2 (wounds) = 5
  
• F +1 (standard) +1 (ranks) = 2
  

***

Blimey! He's back.

Morgrim planted his feet firmly as he watched Master B'tor lower his lance.

The elf clearly didn't get the message the last time.

Morgrim's ribs still ached with every move and his breathing was laboured. There was no chance of him repeating his previous stunt of taking the lance in the chest.

The commander of the dwarves shook his head. He hated cavalry. But, it'll have to be the lizard, he thought.

With slow deliberation, Morgrim unclipped the pouch on his belt and removed a hand grenade. As the elf kicked the cold one into action, Morgrim casually leaned back and lit the grenade on the cigarillo of one of his dwarf colleagues - this other dwarf nodding in agreement.

Don't fail me now, he thought as he kissed its side.

Using a gentle underhanded throw, the grenade floated through the air, only to bounce awkwardly off a tiny pebble and ricochet down the gradual slope of the field towards the river. Excellent dwarven engineering had produced an almost perfect sphere - exactly the sort of thing that would roll down an even slope well - even with the slightest momentum. So it was that the grenade rolled some fifteen or so feet away before exploding spectacularly and harmlessly.

Morgrim cursed as he watched the dramatic figure of the dark elf punch through the smoke and dust, his murderous intent clear.

We'll just have to do it the hard way, then.

He raised his sword to shoulder height. He could feel the elf searching his face, trying to make eye contact - trying to penetrate the dwarf with his hate and anger. But in order to survive this encounter, Morgrim knew he'd need to concentrate. The real fight here was now with the lizard. Once the lance was out of the equation - well, that was a different story.

***

Master B'tor relished every uneven bounce of his cold one mount. Cold ones lacked the simple elegance of horses, but the enormous comfort taken from their long strides compared to the violent bouncing of a galloping horse made it much easier to focus on the fight.

He knew better than to expect the dwarf to try the same tactic as the last time. He had felt the impact on the dwarf and could not believe the dwarf had not taken serious injury in that fight. That both had returned to fight each other was very respect worthy, he thought. He was proud he had overcome the loss of his foot and in a way, he was proud that the dwarf still stood - about to receive his just desserts.

But too late did the elf understand the dwarf's plan. Closer and closer came the tip of the lance, until the dwarf darted right into the path of the cold one. The lance, already dangerously close to the ground, tracked the dwarf right up until the shaft clattered into the raging beast's shoulder, kicking the lance out sideways and down. It was all Master B'tor could do not to stab the thing into the ground and vault over the bloody little dwarf.

***

Morgrim launched himself straight at the head of the cold one, which regardless of its owner's desires was planning on meeting him halfway. It's great teeth snapped shut on the inbound blade, stopping the swing completely and causing all parties to come to a halt. Pulling the sword down, Mogrim twisted the head of the cold one sideways and started pulling the creature around. The stupid creature, enraged as it was, didn't think to let go of the blade, but tried to shake its head in order to free it up. It was long past the point of feeling pain as its blood started to run freely through brutal teeth.

***

Master B'tor clicked his teeth in frustration. The dwarf was using the stupidity of the cold one and his diminutive stature to keep the creature's head in between himself and the elf. B'tor dropped the lance in favour of his more versatile sword, which he poked over his left arm in a desperate attempt to find the dwarf.

***

Morgrim suddenly understood the old saying of 'swinging a tiger by the tail.' Whilst he wasn't altogether sure what a tiger was (that being a key element preventing him from understanding the proverb before), he was fairly sure that once one stopped swinging the proverbial tiger around, it would be both angry and capable of divesting the swinger of his life. So it was with the cold one.

As if on cue, the cold one suddenly let go of the blade, pink foam scattering from its torn lips as it shook its head. Morgrim skirted anti-clockwise around the left as the elf guided the creature in a full clockwise turn to the right.

Morgrim easily parried the dark elf's blade as it shot directly at the dwarf when the two came abreast again, before swinging at the elven commander's sword arm. The blow was clumsy and passed under the limb - the elf displaying no effort at all in his evasion.

***

Master B'tor smiled as the dwarf blade sailed beneath his arm. He hadn't expected it, but he could capitalise on it. He released his grip on the reigns, allowing them to slither through his open hand, creating a slack unwise for the riding of cold ones. But he followed this up by throwing his balance over to his right, allowing him to apply all his now unsupported weight to his sword arm.

Gravity took hold. To everyone else, it would look as if the elf was falling from the lizard. Master B'tor twirled the sword in his hand - the blade now pointing down.

The blade bit deep into the exposed flesh where Morgrim's shoulder met his neck. Catching himself in at the very last second, Master B'tor's left hand snapped shut on the reigns, stopping his fall. He pushed down on the blade, causing it to bite even deeper, but also allowing him to force himself upright against the solid bulk of the dwarf.

Blood sprayed as the blade came free.

***

For the second time in his career Morgrim felt the sting of a blade pass through his shoulder, caused by an elf on high. The sheer surprise of the event caused his legs to fold under him, leading him to sit clumsily on the floor. Worse was the warm burst of blood that followed the withdrawal of the blade, splashing his cheek and into his left eye.

He cried out in pain and shock as he watched the cold one skitter away, before turning to face him once again.

***

Magic Phase

Hang on - where's the reserve phase! I expect a full report!

Ah. About that. Although reserves form a huge part of the manoeuvrability aspect of 3rd edition, units cannot reserve move if they're subject to compulsory movement or within 4" of an enemy unit. At this stage, anyone eligible for reserves just had no interest in going anywhere.

As for magic, Wineghum passes his intelligence test and is able to cast Strength of Combat - a personal effect spell that increases his strength by 1.

Don't look at me like that - +1S is very valuable, you know. At least its not Mystic Mist.

Actions

Thantsants:

• W Casted Strength of Combat, +1 Strength, 4 MP remaining
  

[Dreamfish]

Turn 9

We grind on. Things are much more... focused now. We know there are other orcs and dwarves and elves and whatnot. But we cast our casual gaze to the middle of the field, where, as fate would have it, all the stars of the show have conglomerated within 12" of each other.

Is that the subtle giggle of destiny I hear?



Movement Phase

The Steelaxes, having been stung by the goblins earlier in the fight, prepare themselves for vengeance and charge Rogaine and his remaining boar boys. Wineghum, not normally one to launch into combat, succumbs to his firm hatred of dwarves and their like, and goads his giant spider into a clumsy flank charge. Fortunately for the dwarves, they pass their panic test.

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• S Charged @ RGH, Changed formation to 4 files, moved forward 5"
  
• A2C Routed forward 6"
  

Thantsants:

• RGH Holds, unformed
  
• W Charged @ S, moved 1"
  
• GF Routed forward 7"
  
• RLR Routed forward 8"
  
• K3C Routed forward 7"
  
• WoP Routed off the table
  

Combat Phase

So it seems that there was some confusion just before the combat started. Too late did Dreamfish realise that the Firehammers, being +4 shock elites, actually have two attacks. I see your raised eyebrow. You clearly have an appreciation for the fact that bigger numbers are better than smaller numbers, but because of the lateness of this post, you're not entirely sure what the impact of this is on the game right now. Am I right?

Of course I'm right. No worries, I'll explain.

In turn 8, the dwarves were actually pushed back by the dark elves. Dreamfish looked at this situation and realised that the dwarves would most likely have pushed the dark elves around, not the other way. This was also evidenced in the first round of combat - the dark elves managed to draw the combat. Now one can't go around battlefields crying over spilt milk - that sort of thing is just not done. But, compensation was required, so Dreamfish processed an extra set of attacks for the dwarves, which meant they were just able to overcome the dark elves, causing them to be pushed back (and followed up by the dwarves).

Dreamfish then granted Morgrim the right to step out of that follow up, so that he could remain in the epic challenge with Master B'tor, which, frankly is the thing we're really interested in. This is the sort of thing games-masters can do - they can change rules for the good of the game. You really should look into getting one.

So, the final state of affairs for the dark elves was that they were pushed back by the dwarves, leading to them being completely annihilated as they fled whilst their two leaders continued to express their feelings for each other through the medium of swordplay.

Not far from these two, Rogaine and his lads meet the charge from the Steelaxes. Ensconced within that fine body of dwarves is the young Borri Forkbeard, who issues a challenge to Rogaine.

Rogaine, as you may have noticed from earlier turns, struggles with anger management issues. He happily accepts the challenge before cleaving Borri in two with his wicked blade. The other dwarves and orcs acquit themselves suitably, but in the end, the remaining boar riders are all slain. Despite this, dwarves are also killed, leading to Rogaine and Wineghum getting a free hack when the dwarves rout. Unfortunately (if you're supporting the dwarves, otherwise please use the term 'fortunately'), that is enough to 'retire' the Steelaxes from active duty.

Actions

S vs RGH, W

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• S charged
  
• RGH none
  
• W charged
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I5 Borri Forkbeard <- Rogaine
  
• A2 I4 Borri Forkbeard <- Rogaine
  
• A1 I3 Borri Forkbeard -> Rogaine
  
• A3 I3 Borri Forkbeard <- Rogaine
  
• A2 I2 Borri Forkbeard -> Rogaine
  
• A4 I2 Borri Forkbeard <- Rogaine
  
• A3 I1 Borri Forkbeard -> Rogaine
  
• A1 I3 Dwarf4 <- Orc1
  
• A1 I3 Dwarf4 <- Orc1's mount
  
• A1 I3 Dwarf3 <- Orc2
  
• A1 I3 Dwarf3 <- Orc2's mount
  
• A1 I3 Dwarf4 <- W (1W)
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf3 -> Orc2 (1W)
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf5 <- Spider
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf5 -> W
  
• A2 I1 Dwarf5 <- Spider
  
• Results
  
• S +1 (charged) +1 (wounds) = 2
  
• RGH, W +1 (charged) +1 (wounds) = 2
  

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• S none
  
• RGH none
  
• W none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I5 Borri Forkbeard <- Rogaine (2W)
  
• A1 I3 Dwarf3 <- W
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 (mus) <- Orc1
  
• A1 I2 Dwarf2 (mus) <- Orc1's mount
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf2 (mus) -> Orc1 (1W)
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf3 -> Orc1
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf4 -> W
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf4 <- Spider
  
• A2 I1 Dwarf4 <- Spider (1W)
  
• Results
  
• S +1 (wounds) = 1
  
• RGH, W +3 (wounds) = 3
  
• Free Hack 1
  
• A1 I5 Dwarf2 (mus) <- Rogaine (1W)
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf3 <- W
  
• A1 I1 Dwarf3 <- Spider (1W)
  

MB, SQC vs F

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• MB follow-up
  
• SQC follow-up
  
• F none
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I9 Parried
  
• A2 I8 MB -> MI
  
• A3 I7 MB -> MI
  
• A4 I6 MB -> MI
  
• A1 I6 DE2 (std) -> Dwarf9
  
• A1 I6 DE3 -> Dwarf8
  
• A1 I6 DE4 -> Dwarf4 (1W)
  
• A1 I6 DE9 -> Dwarf9
  
• A1 I6 DE10 -> Dwarf7
  
• A1 I6 DE11 -> Dwarf3 (std)
  
• A1 I4 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I3 MB <- MI (1W)
  
• A3 I2 MB <- MI
  
• A1 I2 DE11 <- Dwarf3 (std) (1W)
  
• A1 I2 DE10 <- Dwarf6 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 DE3 <- Dwarf8 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 DE2 (std) <- Dwarf9
  
• A1 I1 MB's mount -> Dwarf3 (std)
  
• A4 I1 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I1 MB's mount -> Dwarf3 (std)
  
• Results
  
• MB, SQC +1 (standard) +1 (follow-up) +1 (wounds) = 3
  
• F +1 (standard) +4 (wounds) = 5
  

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• SQC none
  
• F follow-up
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I6 DE1 -> Dwarf4
  
• A1 I6 DE2 -> Dwarf3
  
• A1 I6 DE3 -> Dwarf2 (std)
  
• A1 I6 DE4 -> Dwarf1
  
• A1 I2 DE4 <- Dwarf1
  
• A1 I2 DE3 <- Dwarf2 (std) (1W)
  
• A1 I2 DE2 (std) <- Dwarf3
  
• A1 I2 DE1 <- Dwarf4
  
• A1 I1 DE4 <- Dwarf1 (1W)
  
• A1 I1 DE3 <- Dwarf2 (std)
  
• A1 I1 DE2 (std) <- Dwarf3
  
• A1 I1 DE1 <- Dwarf4
  
• Results
  
• SQC +1 (standard) = 1
  
• F +1 (standard) +1 (follow-up) +2 (wounds) = 4
  
• Free Hack 1
  
• A1 I2 DE4 <- Dwarf1 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 DE3 <- Dwarf2 (std) (1W)
  
• A1 I2 DE2 (std) <- Dwarf3 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 DE1 <- Dwarf4 (1W)
  
• Free Hack 2
  
• A1 I2 DE1 <- Dwarf5 (1W)
  
• A1 I2 DE2 <- Dwarf6 (1W)
  

MB vs MI

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• MB none
  
• MI follow-up
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I9 MB -> MI
  
• A2 I8 MB -> MI
  
• A3 I7 MB -> MI
  
• A4 I6 MB -> MI
  
• A1 I4 MB <- MI
  
• A2 I3 MB <- MI
  
• A3 I2 MB <- MI
  
• A4 I1 MB <- MI
  
• A1 I1 MB's mount -> MI
  
• A2 I1 MB's mount -> MI
  
• Results
  
• MB 0
  
• MI +1 (follow-up) = 1
  

***

Morgrim nodded to his captain as they exchanged glances.

"You go after them, I'll deal with him," he shouted, pointing at the dark elf general.

Both he and the elf had become separated from their units during the encounter. The elf closed in again, seemingly indifferent to the cries of his elves being cut down as they fled from the Firehammers. Morgrim trusted his dwarves not to interfere in their fight now - it was a personal challenge.

Sparks flew as the elf's blade clattered off his own. Parry. Parry. Mind the lizard. Swing. Sneaky thrust? Ah, no luck there. Parry again.

The elf was proving hard to pin down. The lizard held most of Morgrim's attention - he kept letting the creature bite his armour in order to get an opportunity at the elf, but he just couldn't turn those opportunities into successful blows.

***

Master B'tor was having as much trouble trying to hit the dwarf. His raging lizard was barely under control now. Every time an opportunity to strike presented itself, the blasted creature was in the way, ineffectually savaging at the dwarf like an excited dog with a bone. But there was nothing for it - he couldn't dismount now and besides - he didn't have the time. The damned dwarves had routed his crew and would no doubt be closing in on him. He needed to kill this dwarf and he needed to do it quickly.

"Out the way, retard!" he barked, thumping the neck of his mount with the pommel of his sword.

***

Rallying Phase

The Arrowheads, finding themselves cold, wet and hungry, but ultimately safe on the south of the river, relax and rally.

Actions

Airbornegrove:

• A2C Rallied
  

***

Rogaine looked down at his challenger. A wounded boar thrashed and squealed, its lifeless rider  jerking like a broken marionette against the other dead.

The dwarf was still breathing, but Rogaine could see there was no pain. This was a curious dwarf - his beard had been dyed blue. In this case, the dwarf had not been a worthy adversary, so he warranted no eye contact or special treatment.

He can die by himself.

Surveying the battlefield, the orc general could see the battle was all but over. The dwarves still held a nominal line along the south bank of the river, but they were too far away to be of consequence now. They didn't appear to be mobilising, which suggested they also realised the show was over.

Rogaine tugged on the rein, bringing the boar to face the two last combatants. A bloody dwarf versus a bloody elf. Although, technically, he was working for the elf, he had not been impressed with the performance of the elven force.

If your boys don't perform, its your fault, not theirs.

And they hadn't performed. He watched as the dwarf commander's bodyguard formed up again, having confirmed that all the elves they had overrun were dead.

Of course, he'd have to accept that his boys hadn't performed well either, but he had plans to remedy that. Because that would be my fault. Any of the orcs that hadn't been killed were in line for a serious arse kicking that night. So many orcs had run away that he wasn't sure if he was at a battle or a marathon.

The groan of an orc came to his ears. He looked around and saw one of his boar boys struggling to get up. A quick lash of his cruel scimitar separated the orcs head from his body.

"That's for running away earlier. Don't do it again."

Looking back at the lone combatants, Rogaine made a decision.

What the hell. I'll just kill both of them.

***

[Dreamfish]

Turn 10

The final turn. In modern editions of Warhammer, one could have played twenty separate games of warhammer in the number of turns we've taken to complete one.

But what's the rush?

Lets think of this as a glass of Ladybank Single Malt, as opposed to a bottle of Budweiser. The right thing to do is to enjoy it slowly. No one will judge you here.



Movement Phase

There are not many events to discuss in this turn. Of course, if you've been tracking the past nine turns, you might have noticed how all the heavy hitters seem to have conglomerated in the middle of the field. Perhaps we can make something of that?

And so Rogaine does. Both he and his unusually aggressive shaman charge the two combatants. There are now seventy levels worth of characters in combat!

Actions

GM:

• MB Holds
  

Airbornegrove:

• MI Holds
  
• F Reformed
  

Thantsants:

• W Charged @ MI, moved 5"
  
• R Charged @ MB, moved 6.5"
  
• GF Routed off the table
  
• K3C Routed off the table
  
• RLR Routed off the table
  

***

Rogaine grabbed his boar's neck hairs in an upward wrench, causing the excitable, squealing beast to a halt. Forcing its head towards Wineghum, he commanded it to jog slowly to the shaman and his spider mount.

"Good to see yer still around, shaman," Rogaine growled.

Wineghum blinked. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came.

"You still got the box?" the orc grunted, barely audible, his eyes never leaving the wild combat between the elf and the dwarf.

Wineghum nodded furiously.

"I SAID: HAVE YOU STILL GOT THE BOX, IDIOT?"

Wineghum jumped, his spider flinching with him. He's not looking at you, idiot. He can't see you nodding to save your life, now, can he! Say something!

"Er, Siryessir! I mean, Yessiryes! Sir! Yes! Sir! Totally didn't open it, Sir! It just -" Wineghum's brain finally caught up with his mouth. SHUT UP! He didn't ask if it was open, did he?

Wineghum gulped as Rogaine's eyes swept over him.

"Good. I've just got to go and sort them out." He waved at the two combatants. "Then I'm back to get that box, hear?"

The shaman nodded again, adding a quick yelp of affirmation when he realised Rogaine was looking at the combat again. "Box safe with me! Yes Sir! Don't you worry 'bout a thing!"

"Then stay here!"

***

Wineghum watched in morbid fascination as the orc barrelled into the frenzied fight before them.

Then slay her? Slay who? Is that really what he said, Wineghum wondered? He looked around. Who was 'her'? There were no women where Rogaine had just pointed. Just an enraged melee of lizards, dwarves and elves - and from where he was standing, it looked like they were all losing.

He must have meant the elf. Sometimes, they look a lot like girls, don't they?

Wineghum shook his head. His heart was still pounding from the sudden interrogation from Rogaine. He hadn't dared tell Rogaine he'd opened the box, let alone used the contents. The black look of undiluted murder on the orc general's face was enough to suggest that anyone who disobeyed any orders from this point onwards was going to be very, very sorry. He would have-his-job-explained-to-him-in-no-uncertain-terms.

And that was usually fatal.

Wineghum swallowed. Beads of sweat formed on his head. On the one hand, attacking the hateful elf and his crazy steed was almost certain death. And it was an elf, of all things!

On the other hand, disobeying Rogaine was almost certain death.

Talk about being stuck between a rock and, well, another rock. Landslides, really. Cliffs, come to think of it. Stuck between two sheer cliffs each with two landslides and a couple of rocks on top.

It was hard.

It wasn't fair. How was he supposed to protect the box for his lord when his lord ordered him into a no win situation? Stupid orc!

He prodded his spider with his axe.

"Let's go," he muttered, wincing. "Let's hope he's killed them all by the time we get there, eh?"

***

Rogaine's first target was clear: Master B'tor. His entire force appeared to have been decimated, he had been arrogant and patronising in his negotiation and frankly, he was just an all round git. Rogaine hated dwarves too, and this wasn't to suggest the dwarf would get off any lighter, but at least they were honourable and respectable.

There's something to be said for honour, both on and off the battlefield.

And from his perspective, Rogaine was about to say that something to the elf. In no uncertain terms.

***

Master B'tor clanged off another strike from the dwarf with a desperate swing of his sword. He was tired now and felt like he was losing to the dizziness. He gave a futile pull at the reigns, trying to pull the cold one out of the fight, but the damned creature savaged at the dwarf's armour as if it had never tasted blood - the problem was the blood it was tasting was its own.

He lashed out again, sparks flying as his blade connected with some armour, but that strike didn't stop the dwarf either. Too late, he realised the upward thrust of the dwarf, jabbing straight for his midriff.

But the pain never came. The massive, bloody head of the cold one knocked the sword aside as it tried in vain to get a grip on the dwarf.

The move was so sudden Master B'tor tumbled sideways from the beast in the opposite direction.

***

Morgrim had no idea what had just happened. He knew he'd been parried and he felt the blow on his arm. He was sure he was onto a winner with his upward thrust, but suddenly he was flying through the air. He grunted in frustration as he flew away from the elf, who, it seemed, was also airborne.

***

No! Ohno! Nonononono! This can't be happening! Wineghum's eyes bulged as he calculated the trajectory of the dwarf general.

It was going to hit him.

Up until then, things seemed fine in the savage spectacle of the elf and the dwarf (and the soon-to-be-added-orc). Rogaine seemed hell bent on the Master B'tor, which pleased Wineghum no end and caused him not to goad the spider quite as vigorously as would have been required for an all out charge.

May as well let the orc do his work, after all.

But then Master B'tors cold one stepped in. The bloody thing finally got a grip on the dwarf commander and started shaking him about like a starved dog with a rat. That action then led to the cold one losing grip on the commander, who was temporarily relieved of his obligations to the laws of gravity.

And that action led to the bone crunching introduction of Morgrim Ironbeard to Wineghum.

***

Master B'tor held his sword above him, waving it slowly in some vague defense against the sniffing head of the giant lizard.

"Sea Biscuit!" he grunted. "Bad boy! Look what you've gone and done."

He shook his head - he knew Sea Biscuit was too far gone to respond to any commands now. What a way to go. Eaten by your own cold one. What would the others say about him now? He closed his eyes and lay back.

What happened next was not the tearing asunder of his rib cage, though, but an eye popping crack and the grunt of both the cold one and...Rogaine? Master B'tor blinked up at the orc, who was recovering from what was evidently a head butt. A wild glance to his left revealed an equally surprised cold one, sitting on its haunches and shaking its head.

"Th-thanks," he stammered, lifting himself up onto an elbow.

"Don't mention it," Rogaine said as he calmly lopped Master B'tor's head off with a sweep of his scimitar.

***

This is ridiculous, thought Morgrim as he dived to the ground to avoid the clacking fangs of the giant spider. Why can't everyone else just bloody well fight on foot, like normal soldiers? Lizards, spiders, boars - I don't get paid enough for this shit!

He gained his feet behind the spider, only to be banged on the head with the stupid goblin's skull staff. He lashed out, slicing the staff in two, but narrowly missing the goblin's face, before barrelling into the spider, trying to knock it over.

Such a thing might have worked against the clumsier, more heavily set cold one, but a spider? Even giant spiders are nimble and sensitive. The spider darted to the side, spinning in the same move, mandibles raised to strike as Morgrim ran straight past.

***

It was all Wineghum could do to hang on. He saw the dwarf run by, sword raised. Slowly, he took in the new scene unfolding before him, and while doing so, he gently pulled the spider back. It scuttled backwards, mandibles still raised, but it seemed as relieved as Wineghum not to be getting involved in what was about to unfold.

***

Morgrim stopped. What towered over him was a giant orc - one of the biggest he'd ever seen. Behind the orc, the cold one lizard savaged at what remained of the elf's carcass. The orc's boar ran squealing and grunting into the distance, released from service.

This was their commander.

The orc held his scimitar down, allowing elven blood to run down the blade.

"My name is Rogaine." it said quietly, speaking an old dwarf dialect.

"My name is Morgrim," he replied in the crude words of the orc race.

***

Rogaine grinned.

Finally! This was the promised fight. One-on-one - the real measure of martial skill. Sure, he liked running the common muck down as it ran screaming from him, but the opportunity to fight a real warrior? That was rare these days.

He felt his back stiffening around the rent the dwarf axe had left, the warmth of the blood now fading. Hot breath thrust from his nostrils, swirling the sweet smell of evening dew with sting of blood and steel.

His ears pounded with the rush of blood as his heart raced in anticipation.

He charged.

***

Morgrim could see his Firehammers reforming in the distance. They would not be close enough to help him now. He wiped a mix of sweat and blood from his brow, grateful for the brief respite of combat.

It would have to do. He fiddled with his shoulder straps, taking some time to readjust his armour ,which had been twisted and bent quite badly by the stupid lizard. It still wasn't comfortable, but it was better.

Morgrim sighed.

Here he comes...

***

Rogaine loved the fact that the dwarf was so much quicker than he looked. This was swordplay at its best - fast, furious and unrelenting. He loved the twisting, the near misses, the sheer exhilaration of knowing that his very life was on the brink.

Clang, swish, clatter, dodge.

He barked in triumph as slapped the dwarf's sword away from what was almost certain disembowelment. He grunted in delight when the dwarf twisted his sword away, forcing him to follow the blade away or risk losing grip.

Smart. Very smart.

Blink, dive, clank, woosh.

The two separated, panting.

***

Morgrim felt his wrists click as he fought to gain control of his two handed sword. If he survived this, he'd be in bed for a week, because his muscles were so sore from straining against the orc beast.

Swash, ding, clatter, duck.

Everything he tried, the orc seemed to be able to anticipate. Even things that should have worked - the orc tripped, but was lucky enough to slip whilst trying to stand again, leading to his fortunate avoidance of decapitation.

But the orc was also brutally tough - blows that Morgrim landed, albiet on armour, would have stopped a lesser orc and certainly caused some of the bigger ones to pause for thought - but that wasn't happening here. Perhaps he was just getting too old for this?

Zing, roll, clink, thrash.

The two separated, panting.

***

Wineghum shuffled nervously as the regiment from which the dwarf general had emerged formed up to watch the fight. Rogaine seemed to be holding his own, but the goblin wasn't about to take any chances. He was ready to run at the first sign of trouble...

***

Rogaine slapped Morgrim's blade away with his own, clearing the way between the two for what would have been an opportunistic head butt, but for the fact that the orc was nearly twice as tall as the dwarf. Too late, Rogaine realised his mistake as he staggered past the dwarf trying desperately to keep his balance. Morgrim, more from weariness than anything else, slammed his blade in a wide swing directly into the armoured chest of the orc - the blow nothing but ineffectual noise.

Rogaine did crumple over the blade, though, trapping Mogrim's sword as the orc dropped to his knees.

Morgrim blinked at his empty hands, before frantically searching his belt for his dagger.

Shing! Morgrim gripped and pulled at the dagger - just in time to receive the full force of Rogaine's even more opportunistic second headbutt - this time at just the perfect height.

Blood sprayed from both heads as the impact of bone on bone rang over the battlefield.

Rogaine dropped to all fours, catching himself from toppling over.

Morgrim's eyes rolled up into his head as he dropped backwards.

***

The Firehammers started forwards, ready to slaughter the orc, when, to a dwarf, they stopped - the giant orc had picked Morgrim up by his throat, rested his blade against his chest, and stared in challenge at the oncoming dwarves.

"I am not like other orcs," the brute said slowly, surprising them with the quality of his dwarven dialect.

"Your leader has fought well and will not die here today."

"What will you do?" one of the dwarves called out.

Rogaine bent the head of the unconscious general over his open hand, shaking the dwarf roughly. Blood and spittle accompanied three teeth as they dropped into his bloody fingers.

He sorted the teeth with his thumb. Normal. Gold. Gold.

Rogaine gently laid Morgrim down on his back, placing the normal tooth on his chest. He stood and addressed the Firehammers, showing them the two golden teeth.

"I will take these as my trophy. My name is Rogaine, and I have defeated Morgrim."

With that, he turned his back on the dwarves, sheathed his scimitar and strode from the field.

***

Combat Phase

And so it is done. Four warriors enter. Two warriors leave. A very fitting conclusion to the final combat phase.

What follows here is a more mechanical version of the events above. Of course, the above is to tell a story, whereas the below tells events as they happened. Of course, Rogaine never 'officially' dismounted and it is important that you know that both Morgrim and Rogaine scored a killing blow on Master B'tor. Dreamfish randomised which was the one that did him in, and it turned out to be Rogaine.

Actions

MI vs MB, MB vs R, MI vs W

Round 1

• Modifiers
  
• MI follow-up
  
• MB none
  
• R charged
  
• W charged
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I9 Parried
  
• A2 I8 Morgrim <- MB
  
• A3 I7 Morgrim <- MB
  
• A4 I6 Morgrim <- MB
  
• A1 I5 MB <- Rogaine
  
• A1 I5 MB <- Rogaine's mount
  
• A2 I4 MB <- Rogaine
  
• A2 I4 MB <- Rogaine's mount
  
• A1 I4 Morgrim -> MB
  
• A3 I3 MB <- Rogaine
  
• A1 I3 Morgrim <- Wineghum
  
• A2 I3 Morgrim -> MB
  
• A4 I2 MB <- Rogaine (1W)
  
• A1 I1 Morgrim <- Spider
  
• A2 I1 Morgrim <- Spider
  
• Results
  
• MI +1 (follow-up) = 1
  
• R, W +1 (charged) +1 (wounds) = 2
  

Round 2

• Modifiers
  
• MI none
  
• R follow-up
  
• W follow-up
  
• Attacks
  
• A1 I5 Morgrim <- Rogaine (2W)
  
• Results
  
• R, W +1 (charged) +2 (wounds) = 3
  

[Timbor]

Epic conclusion!  Greenz iz best! 

[DeafNala]

The presentation of your Epic Battle Report is WONDERFUL & demonstrates a true devotion to The Craft. It is a daunting but worthwhile read. VERY WELL DONE!

[Dreamfish]

Epilogue

Sirrell grinned as he realised the elf was awake and its eyes were locked on his body. He pouted at the elf, before slowly and sensuously undoing the knot on his gown. His grin widened into a broad smile as he registered the morbid terror in the elf's eyes - now unable to look away from the vast expanses of pasty dwarf flesh as the gown fell.

Sirrell half turned to show his back to the dwarf, reaching down and slapping his exposed buttock. He flicked his hair and looked away from the elf before inserting his thumb into the top of his red leather y-fronts, stretching the garment away from his waistline and allowing it to slap back into place.

The elf, eyes wide with utter horror, shook as he fought his chains, his protestations muffled by the red leather ball that had been stuffed into his mouth. His eyes goggled as he watched Sirrell begin gyrating to some internal, unheard music, like some giant corkscrew being twisted into a cork. Down he went to his feet, before slowly dragging his hands up his body. Now a spin, arms out. The elf, helpless and stunned, could do nothing but stare aghast as the hateful little dwarf pranced about before him. Thumb into the y-fronts again. Slap!

Suddenly the dwarf stopped, resting his right hand on his jutting hip. He locked eyes with the elf.

"I'm a little tea pot, short and stout!"

"Lfhdt mfft grro yff ffffkn frrk!" screamed the elf, his voice and muscles straining against the chains.

"This is my handle and this is my - "

Click.

Sirrell stopped dead. He caught the brief motion of the elf glancing over at something behind him, before its terrified eyes found their way back to him.

"What the hell are you doing?" growled a voice behind him.

"Gaaah!" he squealed, leaping into the air before spinning to face the voice. "Aahhh! Aaaahaaaa! I - uh... Aaaah." He ran his hand through his hair as he stared at the pistol pointing at him. "Hahaaa. Lady Luuhs. Uh. Um. How did you find us? This - isn't - what it looks like, you know."

Lady Luuhs cast her eyes around the dungeon. Curious chains hung from the wall and from what appeared be a leather covered throne against the wall. An assortment of different whips lay on a table next to an open chest, its contents hidden by what appeared to be a studded leather vest carelessly draped over the top.

"I'm not sure I know what this looks like, Sirrell. I've never seen anything like it before. Perhaps you'd better put your spout away before the teapot gets broken, hmm?"

Sirrell flashed a queasy smile at the pistol. He reached down slowly and adjusted his y-fronts.

"You've not answered the question. What are you doing?"

Sirrell squirmed, clasping his hands together. "Er. It's - it's an interrogation technique. Yeah. I'm, you know, interrogating it."

"Him."

"Er, yes, that's right. Him. Dead right. Haha."

"And how were you proposing that he answer you with whatever that is in his mouth?"

Sirrell deflated as he stared fixedly at the damning ball wedged in the elf's mouth. "Well. That's, um, that's obviously what the problem has been all along!" he cried, waving a finger in the air. "No wonder he's not answering the questions! Lady Luuhs - where would we be without you and your keen eyed observations, eh?"

Lady Luuhs raised an eyebrow. "See that chain hanging from the wall - yes, that one with the neck brace - why don't you be a good boy and fasten that around your scrawny little neck?" She waved the pistol towards the cold, rusted chain.

Sirrell grimaced and sighed, before brightening up quickly. "I've been a naughty boy, haven't I?"

Lady Luuhs said nothing.

"I mean - very naughty. Punishably naughty, yes? Because you can always use that wh-"

"You've got three seconds to lock that chain around your neck before I redefine your concept of pain."

"-ah. Right you are," Sirrell said, scarpering for the chain, the echo of which clanked around the stony room.

"Honeybunch!" gasped the elf as Lady Luuhs wrenched the ball from his mouth.

"Oh Smoothie!" she cried, kissing his forehead. "Stay here, sweetie - back in a moment!" she sang as she danced over to the wall that Sirrell was now attached to.

Testo coughed, watching with satisfaction as Lady Luuhs punched the red ball into Sirrell's mouth.

***

"Them ribs'll take a while," Cuttan Paest said, snapping his case shut. "Obviously, I can't help with the teeth - no doubt you'll buy some new ones anyway. The other cuts and stitches," he pointed at Morgrim's shoulder, "will probably heal quite quickly. Plenty of rest, really."

"Thanks Doc," Morgrim grunted, dropping is head back onto the pillow. He could not recall lying on so comfortable a bed as this one - his body felt like it had been awake for a thousand years.

"One other thing - I'm sorry to have to say it, but light beer only -"

"Aw Doc-"

"Don't want to hear it. Light beer or no beer. Doctor's orders!"

"I hate you, you know."

"I hate you too, buddy. Get well soon," Cuttan said as he stood up, smiling kindly at Morgrim.

"Cheers, Doc."

***

"Waddaya mean, escaped?" King Domcome hissed through clenched teeth.

Berni Ycklestone cringed before the king, his whole body wincing in anticipation of some physical retaliation. Arrayed behind Berni stood the full membership of the dwarven court, none daring to breath.

"Well?" demanded the king.

"Uh. Well, you know. Like, not there, really. Imagine an elf all changed up, right? Then. er...just imagine, well, chains. Y'know, without the elf. Escaped. Empty chains."

"And Lady Luuhs?"

The dwarf court experienced a collective intake of breath.

"Lady Luuhs. Lady Luuhs," Berni mumbled, as if trying to remember where he'd left his keys. "She's, uh, not - not here right now."

"Not here right now?"

Berni shook his head, his eyes taking in everything in the room except the enraged figure of the king.

"But she'll be back later, because you know where she is, right?" King Domcome's bare whisper was like a cold wind blowing over an open grave.

All seventy members of the court grimaced before shaking their heads. Of course they didn't know the answer, but - they knew the answer.

"Haha," laughed the page nervously. "I'm, er...that is, we - are sure she'll be back. Sure. Maybe she's just out-"

"You've lost her, haven't you?"

Berni looked down at his shoes and nodded.

King Domcome fastened his hans behind his back as he paced up and down the throne room, the sound of his heels shattering the thick silence.

"Sirrell's still there, Your Majesty," Berni offered after a while.

"What, you didn't set him free?" snapped the king.

"He, um, didn't want to be set free, as such. He felt that he'd - well, he thought he'd been - what's the phrase he used - naughty. He felt his actions contributed to this state of affairs. So we left him. He seemed safe and we are more concerned about the elf. And Lady Luuhs, of course."

"Of course."

Berni coughed, unsure of what else to say. Silence descended. Everyone stood rooted to the spot. THe king scowled.

After what seemed like an eon to the nervous court, he looked up at the court. "Why don't lot you lot just sod off? Not you," he barked, grabbing Berni by his collar.

Some courtiers blinked, others stared with mouths agape.

"GET OUT!"

They got out.

***

Testo looked down at the rushing water. "Are you sure?"

Fasten patted him on the hand. "They'd never think we'd go this way. A couple of decades ago, a worker fell in there and was never seen again."

The elf stared at Fasten, waiting in vain for her brain to catch up with her suggestion. Realising that eventuality was unlikely to materialise, he prompted: "That suggests that if we jump in there - " he pointed at the rushing torrent beneath them," - then we wouldn't be seen again either."

"Exactly!" Fasten beamed.

"...Because we'd be dead."

"Oh! I see wh-"

"Yeah," nodded Testo.

"No, no - you think the bloke that fell in there died?"

"That's what you said."

"No, I said he'd never been seen again. Except by me, that is." Fasten winked at the confused elf.

Testo sighed. "We don't have time for this. What happened to him?"

"He popped up on the shore of Oresohn's Well. It's a mountain lake in the northern reaches of the range, quite close to the Wyemm Seeyay, actually. Maybe two days travel?

"Yeah, but was he okay? Popping up is no indication of good health. That looks cold and really, really rough."

"He was fine. All fine. Look, we don't have any other choices. I brought some helmets."

"What about baby?" Testo's voice softened as he gently rubbed Fasten's belly.

"He, she, or they will just have to cope. We'll make it, I promise." She reached up and pulled Testo's face down, planting a tender kiss on his forehead. "You ready?" she asked, manoeuvring him into position for the two of them to jump.

He nodded. They took each other's hands and started counting down.

"Wait!" he shouted, stopping their jump at the last moment. "What happened to the dwarf who fell in before. How come no-one ever saw him again?"

"Oh, he became the mayor of Wetchit. Still is today, I believe."

"Why didn't he come back, though?"

Fasten gripped Testo's hand firmly, yanking him over the edge with her.

"Because he couldn't who he was!"

***

"You're going to do two things," Kong Domcome growled at Berni. "You're going to go and fetch Browning for me. And then you're going to bring me my travelling cloak, my hammer and my iBone. Yes?"

Berni swallowed. "Browning, cloak, hammer, iBone. Got it."

"You've got ten minutes."

***

Browning sauntered into the throne room, scratching the side of his head. Berni scampered in behind him, bearing the king's possessions as demanded.

"Browning!"

"Your Majesty," the slayer said, bowing deeply. His grand blue mohawk brushed the floor. "Barney here sez you wanted me?"

"Berni," Berni said, raising a finger in objection.

"It seems I have a love struck dwarf whose bride-to-be has eloped with an elven spy as a result of her pregnancy with said spy. The love struck dwarf is even now chained up in a dungeon somewhere below us because he feels he's played some part in this... charade. I thought you might be able to help him. He's clearly beside himself with grief."

Browning nodded slowly, lines of sorrow evident on his face. "This'll be Sirrell, then?"

The king nodded.

"Poor kid. Didn't deserve it at all, really. So you think he'll take the vow?"

"I don't know, but he sounds pretty broken up about it. If I was him and I was in this situation, I think I'd take the vow. I think its what his family would want. And probably it'd be good for him. You know, refocus the mind a bit. From my own experience I can tell you that trying not to get eaten by a troll kind of puts things in perspective."

"That it does," Browning grinned. "That it does. I take it Barney knows where Sirrell is?"

"Berni," sighed Berni.

"He'd better do, because I've got to go and sort out the rest of this mess with the elves." The king took his things from the page before ushering them from his throne room.

"Right, Barney. Let's go see Sirrell,"

"Bern-"

"Do you mind if I call you Barnes? Lovely name, Barnes." Browning said in a cheerful voice.

"Yes. I. Do," grunted Berni.

"Browning put his arm over Berni's shoulders. "Excellent Barnes! We should hang out sometime..."

***

"Conker!"

Lord Zynladyz stood up, reaching out to greet King Domcome as he trudged through the snow.

"I came as soon as I got the call."

King Domcome dropped onto a frozen tree stump, huddling close to the fire Lord Zynladyz had prepared.

"Not as young as I used to be," grunted the dwarf.

"You could just get over yourself and get a dragon, you know? I'd get you an egg if you asked," the elf replied.

"Nah. I haven't ridden anything up until now and I don't see a reason to start. Besides, a brisk mountain walk - gotta be good for you, right?"

"Brisk?" Lord Zynladyz raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, okay, so its colder than my mother-in-law's heart, but we had to talk. Good call on the fire."

The elf sat down opposite the dwarf. Both huddled close to the crackling fire.

"It's a bad business, what happened in the valley." King Domcome said, pulling a pipe from his pocket.

"Yeah. Vass isn't taking it so well."

"Vass?"

"Vass Saleen. The minion who 'offered' the bride price. Testo's one of his, you see."

"What I don't get is the other elves. Who were they? Why'd they hit your column?"

Lord Zynladyz shook his head. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that not all elves are as sensible as us. Some of them are in open rebellion against the natural order of things - others have settled into piracy and crime. It wasn't always this way.

"Rogue elves?"

"We call them Dark Elves. Because they are unenlightened, you see. Crafty buggers they are too."

King Domcome puffed on his pipe while the elf poked the burning logs distractedly with a stick.

"Whiskey?" said Lord Zynladyz suddenly. He poured a tot into an ornate silver cup he produced from his cloak before offering the flask to King Domcome. "Keeps the throat warm."

"Sure, why not?"

The two sat in silence, staring at the fire.

"My concern - and the concern of my hold, really, is that we don't know if these were renegade elves or not, so what it looks like is that some elves tried to stop some other elves from paying the bride price. Sort of as if this Vass Saleen fellow you mentioned wasn't so keen on the marriage plans we had set up."

"I thought you might say that."

"It's not that I don't trust you, of course." King Domcome looked up and met Lord Zynladyz' eyes. "We go back a long way. But we don't know Saleen. And to have a marriage proposed by the elves broken up like its been down at the River Chai - well, the hold is angry, you understand."

"I understand." The elf' held the dwarf's gaze. "You think they'll want war?"

The king shrugged. "Hard to say. It's not like our two people ever really got on. I think it depends on whether or not we can find Lady Luuhs and your elf Testo."

The elf raised an eyebrow. "You lost them?"

"It looks like Lady Luuhs broke him out. We can't find either of them. Problem is, those orcs are still out there. We killed a lot, but they're like fleas in a carpet out there."

"What are you saying, though? If we find the couple, your hold won't prosecute a war?"

"I'm saying we might be able to avert a conflict if we can produce a happy ending. Right now, it seems the happy ending is the heroic dwarves save the little child form the evil elves who clearly betrayed one of their own in order to prevent a marriage they didn't approve of. Failing to achieve their goals, they then betrayed one of their own patrols leading to the deaths of both dwarves and elves."

Lord Zynladyz sighed. "Yeah. It does kinda look like that. The problem is, it sounds like that happy ending means the baby and mum live happily ever after in the hold, whilst young Testo presumably has an accident in a mineshaft somewhere or rots in a prison cell. To Saleen and his elves, they'd have to come and save the poor elf and the child, you see."

The dwarf shook his head. "I remember when our biggest problem was trying to find a safe place to sleep whilst pillaging a ruined dungeon..."

Lord Zynladyz smiled. "Good times."

"Good times indeed."

"Well, it sounds like we'd better go and find our wayward parents-to-be. Perhaps they'll have an idea of what to do, seeing as how they're now the most politically correct of our people?"

King Domcome nodded. "Maybe. I got no other ideas."

"Want a ride down on the dragon?"

"Eh? No, no, no. Tough political climate, is all. right now with the whole elves and dwarves thing. Not cause I'm afraid or anything, you understand."

Elven eyes smiled. "I understand. I'll take a few passes with the dragon to see if I can find them. I'll call you if I get them."

"Ditto. Good to see you again."

"And you, my friend. Good luck in the hold."

"Yeah - good luck with Saleen."

***

[Dreamfish]

"Now that has slayer written all over it!"

Sirrell looked up to see who was addressing him.

Browning looked the dwarf up and down. "Barnes - "

"Berni."

" - I think Sirrell and I are gonna need some time to talk. Why don't you scuttle back upstairs and organise us some sandwiches or something? And beer. Look at the poor boy - he's distraught!"

Browning watched as the Berni stomped out of the cell, swearing under his breath. "That kid needs to lighten up. But enough about him." Browning pulled an old wooden stool from a corner and positioned himself in front of Sirrell, still chained to the wall.

"Leather y-fronts. First time I've seen that, but sure, its practical. Gotta protect the nuts, right?"

"I don't wanna be a slayer," Sirrell moaned.

"Why? You look the part. Distraught. Angry. Naked. I got what you can't get anywhere else."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Oblivion. Wholesale oblivion. Imagine wrapping your hands around the throat of that elf. Imagine you could do anything you liked to him. Make him pay. Now, just imagine doing that to trolls, ogres, giants and anything else stupid enough to cross your path whilst you hunt him down. Slaying is easy."

Sirrell shivered as he contemplated doing to a troll what he planned to do to the elf. "It just wouldn't be the same," he bleated, before he could stop himself.

"You say that. In the beginning, yeah, its not the same. But as you learn about your anger - how to channel it, how to control it - how to be anger - it becomes the same. Maybe sometimes a bit too samey, but the nice thing about slaying is its usually short and sweet."

"Um, could you unlock me now, please? I, er, I think I've suffered enough now. And I really need to take a slash."

"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry." Browning looked up at the lock. "You have the keys?"

"You should find them on the-"

"Bugger that, I'll use the axe."

Sirrell's eyes bulged as the axe clanged into the chains holding his hands above his head. A shower of sparks descended onto his exposed shoulders as the chains came apart.

"WHAT THE F-"

"Whoah!" Browning cheered. "Did you see the sparks?"

"SPARKS? Did you see my bloody hands, you moron!" Sirrell screamed, rubbing his wrists where the chains had bitten in. "And the damn chain hit me on the head!"

Browning patted Sirrell on the shoulder. "That's it, boy. Feel the anger! Very slayer! Although," he said, standing back from the growing puddle under Sirrell. "Wetting yourself? Not very slayer."

"Gah!" squawked Sirrell, leaping from the puddle. "Damn it all! I don't want to be a bloody slayer!"

"Poppycock! D'ya reckon your more of an axey slayer or a hammerey slayer?" Browning held his axe as if to measure Sirrell for size. "Hey, wait up. Where you going?"

Sirrell ran. He had no idea which way to go, but he just needed to get away from Browning. He could hear the thump of the slayer's boots behind him, but he was smaller, more agile and, he strongly suspected, much more used to running.

"Shit!" cursed Browning, huffing to a halt after a brief but frantic chase. He rested his hands on his knees and panted, vapour forming on his breath. He looked at the split in the tunnel. "Which way did he go?"

***

Sirrell stared at the waterfall. Before him, the thunderous torrent swept past him into the inky darkness of the cavern. There was no other way to go.

It can't have come to this, surely?

"Careful out there, boy!"

Sirrell spun, nearly slipping on the wet grating he stood on.

Browning stood at the cavern entrance, barely lit by the paltry effort of the lone torch on the wall.

"You thinking of jumping? You don't have to prove yourself to be a slayer, you know."

"What? WHAT! I'm not trying to bloody prove myself. I. Don't. Want. To. Be. A. Slayer." Sirrell spat.

Browning edged closer, setting one foot on the grating. Sirrell stepped back, his heel searching for the edge. "Well then what are you doing out there? You're going to get yourself killed. And if you're gonna do that, may as well do it being a slayer."

"Just leave me alone!"

Browning rested on his axe and scratched his chin. "Is this about the axe or hammer decision? Because if you're a sword kinda guy, we can do that too, you know." Browning's eyes explored the ceiling as he recounted the various different weapons that he thought would be acceptable for slaying.

Yeah. It has come to this after all. Anything is better than this.

Sirrell fixed Browning with a disdainful stare. He's not even bloody looking at me. Sirrell closed his eyes and launched himself backwards, the icy hands of the torrent snatching him down into the darkness.

"...or maybe a flail?" Browning looked around in confusion. "Eh? Where's he gone?" Browning peered over the edge through the grating. "Silly bugger. Maybe he as a mancatcher sort of guy. Hmm. Maybe I'd have jumped too if I was a mancatcher user." He shook his head as he turned to leave.

"Shame, really."

***

How Sirrell survived he never quite understood. It was actually a wonderful feeling knowing he was without a shadow of a doubt going to die - it clarified so many things in what he now realised was his short and pitiful life.

So surviving came with a certain amount of disappointment.

Here I am, lying on the windswept shore of a freezing mountain lake in nothing other than some leather y-fronts which smell of pee, having just failed to kill myself by jumping into an unfathomably deep underwater river to try and avoid committing suicide by becoming a slayer.

And I thought things couldn't get any worse.

Sirrell pulled his knees up and wept. At first, it was the gentle mewling of mild loss, but as the tension in his body released, his ribs started shaking with great, racking sobs. He cried until there were no more tears. He didn't feel the cold as night came, nor did the cold let him feel the scrapes and bruises he'd sustained on his brief underwater journey. Eventually sleep came.

Sirrel started up with a snort.

"Huh? Wha-"

Looking around, he wiped the sand from his face as he blinked at the sharp sun, its gentle rays just beginning caress his body with warmth.

"A shit. " He shook his head. "Not a dream. It's true: I can't even actually kill myself properly."

He stood up, he's legs shaky. One trip through a high speed underground river followed by a night sleeping rough in the freezing mountain air is hard on the ol' body, he thought.

"Perhaps I can jump off something else around here and get the job done properly..."

He looked around, his eyes catching a series of indentations further up the shore. Not seeing an immediately obvious route to accelerate his demise, he thought there'd be no harm in investigating. Perhaps a nice meal before he offed himself would be in order?

He trudged up to the marks, shaking his head to clear it up for the analysis task ahead.

Footprints. They're footprints. Two pairs, if I'm not mistaken.

He shrugged and started after them. Nothing else to do around here.

***

The footprints led Sirrell down a pleasant little mountain path, easy to navigate and with a suitable declination - nothing too challenging, for which the dwarf was grateful.

Soon, the sun was shining and its rays, together with the effort of walking and the lower altitude, did wonders both for Sirrell's body temperature and his mood. The footsteps seemed fairly recent and although he nearly lost them once or twice, were relatively easy to follow.

His mind frequently wondered if he was following the trail of Fasten and Testo, but each time he did, his rational centre informed him that no pregnant woman would take that sort of chance with a child. He still wondered at his own survival - was he set aside for something else? Something more than being a slayer, or a tailor (as he was back in the hold)?

At around midday he found himself in a forest clearing. He hadn't realised it, but he had been walking along a forest track for some time - he wasn't sure when the mountain had stopped and the forest had started. It was here that he snapped back to his senses.

The footsteps got all messed up. Other recent footprints all criss crossed in the middle of the clearing. The thing that snapped his senses back into place, though, was the sheer size of them. Evidently there had been other man or dwarf sized creatures - their footsteps were evident. But what was the thing that had a footprint the same size as his entire body?

Fear gripped Sirrell as his good humour drained from him. His eyes darted wildly around the clearing, frantic to find the owner of the footprints. Or better yet - to prove that the owner was not to be found.

The clearing offered no threat. Pleasant sunshine shone through the surrounding trees and the forest on all sides seemed welcoming and pleasant. Sirrell felt the panic subside as he realised that whatever had happened here, the massive perpetrator was no longer in the vicinity.

So what had happened here? Curiously, none of the footprints left the clearing. The trail he'd been following led straight to the middle, where the giant feet and some other normal feet all conglomerated, before just... disappearing.

Sirrell scratched his head.

"It was a dragon."

Sirrell yelped, leaping in fright before slipping in the sand and doing the splits. He toppled on to his face.

"Dragon, wagon! Wagon, dragon!"

Sirrell pushed himself on to all fours, wincing at the new found pain in his thighs. He stopped as he came face to face with a dancing yellow goblin.

"Hee hee," it cackled, dancing away from him with its arms spread wide.

He scanned the clearing again. His heart stopped as his gaze came to rest on the cloaked figure sitting on a boulder at the distant entrance to the clearing. The cloak revealed heavily armoured legs and an ornate scabbard, but nothing else.

The figure spoke. "Two elves, a dwarf and a dragon. Don't see that every day. And now a dwarf in leather underwear. This is the most interesting day I've had in a while."

Sirrell groaned as he dragged himself to his feet. The curious goblin came dancing out of nowhere and offered him a cup.

"Er, thanks," he said, looking down. "Is this wine?"

"Fine wine! Wine fine!" giggled the goblin.

"You're safe for now, little dwarf. You can drink the wine." The stranger's appearance was incongruous with the gentle female voice Sirrell heard speaking.

Sirrell shrugged. "Can't get any worse," he said to no one in particular. He drained the cup.

"Wow," he said. "Wow. That is good. Oh wow." Sirrell felt as though all of his aches and pains were like water in a bath and that the plug had just been pulled. Even as the sensational wine cooled his throat and worked its way down into his belly, his hurts, both physical and emotional, seemed to evaporate.

"I, um, I don't suppose I could have another?"

"We can have more wine later, Mr Dwarf. For now, I was thinking we should get to know each other a little more."

The figure stood and stalked over to Sirrell, the movement supremely elegant and yet disturbingly clumsy at the same time. Sirrell noticed that the speaker appeared to have a deformity - a severe hunchback, perhaps? Something unusual about the shoulders, certainly.

"What is your name, Mr Dwarf?" it prompted.

"Sirrell," he blurted. Fear clamped its iron hard claws around his heart. "W-what's yours?"

The figure stopped next to him, resting its gauntleted hand on his shoulder. Far from the impact Sirrell expected, the touch was gentle, almost tentative.

From under the cloak, its head appeared, covered in a plain but impenetrable armoured grill. The creature stood on the left of Sirrell, but he noted with alarmed discontent that its head seemed to slither over his right shoulder.

"My friends call me Ellen. Will you be my friend?"

***

"C'mon, you big softie. Time to go."

"I'm not ready yet," Morgrim mumbled to his wife. "Let the next guy go ahead of me."

"There are none left. You've let them all through. You're the last one. It's your turn now."

Morgrim's eyes pleaded with his wife. "You promise you won't let go?"

She smiled as she held is hand. "I promise."

A nurse appeared around the corner. "Mr Ironbeard?"

"No," he said.

"Yes?" said his wife.

"The dentist will see you now."

***

Some time later.

Testo smiled down at his son.

"Like this, daddy?"

Testo nodded. "Bring your right hand a little closer to the axe head. That's right. Now you drive it down, straight into the middle of the wood, okay?"

The axe fell, splitting the wood clean in two.

"Good job, son," Fasten said, as she wandered around the side of the cottage.

The muscular boy beamed as his mother hugged him.

She looked up at his neck. "Still itchy, is it?"

"You've got to stop scratching it, son. Otherwise, you'll never get used to it."

"Aw dad- you don't understand - you don't need to shave, you know."

"I know," Testo said, coming over to hug both of them. "I know."

***