~ An old dwarven farmer’s spiel from the war of the Echoing Witches of Mourne. Spoken over a fire of cooked chicken, drink, and the sound of shushing ~

  Come ‘round the fire and hear the ramblings of this old fool. Bring me a pint or two while ya at it.

  Rest, yes yes, be well….

  I still remember that boy like I saw him yesterday. You know, the one they call The Wanderer. But that day, he went by notha name.

  The Butcher.

  Death was everywhere, swords, arrows, poison glyphs and screaming paladins, you name it. the Order of Trinity was fighting back Mourne’s forces. Many of me brothers died that day.. But many, many more lived too because of him.

  He was like a little kid walking through a busy park. The lad whipped his head around all the carnage and fightin’ round him, twisting in between the fights of the silent city and the order. He stepped to not be noticed, but I did, even as a wee ol’ little soldier I noticed odd things like that. And what I saw as I kept looking, I will never forget.

  Old, deep scars covering every inch of his body, like trophies lined in display. Two cleavers swung by the hips, one shiny… one.. really really fucking old. But that one stared back at me deeper than any eyes ever did.

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  *chugs a mug of Silvertongue Ale*

  Then the witches came. You know, the ones from that damned city. Ran through that poor city like judgement on a knife while taking bits and pieces of its people until the whole place fell under their hands. They knotted lives and paths into a whole mess.

  And when they noticed him, ooooh boy.

  *wraps arm around a lizardkin*

  They went wild! They flew ‘round him, screamin’ and scratchin’ at his soul bits.

  “REMEMBER THE SPEAR, CHILD. REMEMBER THE HOLY NOOSE.” They howled.

  I saw that boy stand still for a second, and then very slowly, unhook the knives hanging by his sides.

  After that…chaos. Not the usual fizzy pops and fancy lights, but true biblical pain and punishment.

  *gets up and starts twisting around the fire, spilling some ale on the audience*

  He dances between them, guiding the path of their spells to his liking. Like it was a game to him. Like he knew where the fuck they were gonna land and helped them to it.

  The cleavers were the worst, he would be runnin’ through the undead while them knives flew round and round cutting through bodies.

  then with a quick tug at the air-

  *SLAM*

  - he would catch one midflight and cut off a witch head.

  *proceeds to slowly sit by the fire, staring into its orange flame*

  Yeah no, what we saw that day scared us boys to death. I laid down the sword and picked up carrot picking when I came back down to my home floor. I'm much happier now.