Role

Chapter 1

The scene is a war torn village, host to a dozen or so rudimentary thatched
huts of different sizes and shapes, around a blood square. Wooden breastworks
encircle the mound over which the village hosts the war, culminating in an
entrance consisting of wooden gates lit by tall braziers. Between the gates
implacably stands an enormous giant. Your immortal presence bypasses him.

You pause before a hut, stranger looking than most. Two tufts of hay, bound
by twine and forced into a curved shape are posistioned on the top of the
thatch to form a crude pair of horns. You assume it hints at the virility of
the resident, but maybe not. Another feature distinguishing the hut is the
exceptionally dense strands of threaded skulls that shroud the entrance, a
feat matched by few of the other residents seemingly. You stride in
imperviously and survey the minotaur splayed on the floor in front of you,
drooling and snorting in his sleep. The Captain of the Shields.

The room churns dizzily into a sweltering rainbow of colours.

I have a sensation of weightlessness sometimes. My guts lurch erratically. My
tongue lolls around inside my jaws. The gums seem to pry themselves apart and
my teeth vibrate and chatter rapidly. They surge loose and fall out, tumbling
end over end, pieces of stark yellow ivory against the azure blue sky.

An uncomfortable feeling surges in my throat as if I have imbibed
firebreather. The warmth spreads downwards and all of a sudden a radiant
blast of heat strikes me, singeing my hair. The acrid smell of burnt leather
wafts up into my nostrils as the blast knocks me down onto my knees. When the
smoulder settles, I open my eyes. And see a forge.

A dwarf only in name, so enormous is she as she stands silhouetted in the
process of felling the blow. Her arms swell with divine strength and
vitality. Her form is flawless, the poise perfect. Her hammer rivals that of
Thror. She swings the hammer and it falls. On a blessed soul glowing red hot
with purity. The soul succumbs to the bliss, refined and honed. The dwarf
turns and looks at me and mutters an oath. A throbbing pain sears through my
skull and my eyes roll backwards. I pass out, I think.

I see them curling outwards at the tip, a tendril of smoke curling lazily
away, cleaving shiningly into half. The split marches inexorably downwards
until it dies at the end. A structure which is the cause of much pride and
pain, blood and gore, honour and history and ultimately revenge and
redemption. It is painful to watch as they fall away into the abyss, out of
reach of my clumsy hooves. I feel the dwarven goddess at her forge,
contemplate my ebbing vitality with narrowed eyes.

I awake with a soundless scream. My hut is empty. The village is quiet. Too
quiet. I need blood. Of the magi kind....


The Bull snaps to his feet, snorting and stomping, blood and saliva dripping
from his jaws as if he sensed your presence. You watch with bated breathe.