Wonderful 85.

The Principality Of Maladimbáh...

Lord Farque pours a glass of the juniper berry flavoured distilled spirits, while next to him, Mira Reinholt the mage finishes off his meal. They listen to the roars, shouts, screams, grunts, and more than a few swear words coming from outside the front of the tavern.
As the mage Reinholt looks away as the undead warlord takes a drink. He sees the tavern keeper looking in disbelief at where his front door was.
The frame and bits of the wall around it have gone. While a table leg looks to be stuck in what's left of the wall to the right of where the door was.
The tavern keeper glances outside, then hurries back away from the hole in the wall when he sees what's going on outside in the late afternoon sunshine.
The tavern keeper turns around and rights one of the tables, and lifts an overturned bench the right way up. While the two serving women, and the cook from the kitchen, drag an unconscious elven house guard, to where the injured, unconscious as well as dead, are being put near the wall opposite the bar.
The Vexilian mage in exile takes a sip from his goblet of dry red wine, and watches one goblin, weaving through the upturned and smashed tables, chairs and benches, not to mention all the cutlery, crockery, tankards, goblets and glasses on the floor. As he carries the other goblin, who is knocked out, over his right shoulder.
The spellcaster who is also a highly skilled swordmaster is rather impressed the goblin has kept to his feet, then he rolls his eyes, and slightly shakes his head as the goblin trips up when he steps out through the hole in the wall where the front door was, jumping in fright when a loud roar can be heard outside.
As the goblin gets up, and drags his unconscious companion away, the once powerful mage sees out of the corner of his eye, that lord Farque has closed the visor of his full helm, and has pushed away the small glass bottle of distilled spirits the swordmaster Reinholt took from the bar.
"Should we go out and see what he's done?" asks Mira Reinholt the mage, lord Farque who is sensing what's happening outside, says "Not yet" he continues with "There's quite a few of them out there". Just then they hear, in the distance, Dorc da Orc shout "Get some!" the exiled Vexilian mage murmurs "Sounds like the big lump is chasing someone" the undead warlord nods his full helmed head, and says "He is".
Figures, the highly skilled swordmaster dryly thinks to himself, who then takes the last couple of wedges of cheese form his plate, and slowly eats them, savoring each bite. While the tavern keeper who has peeked out the hole in the wall again, shuffles back and away from it, as a roar, closer to the tavern, can be heard from outside.
The heavily armoured deathlord who can sense elven house guards either die or fall into unconscious outside on the street that runs infront of the tavern. Can also clearly hear what's happening out there. It's mostly Dorc da Orc shouting, mainly in the ork language. As well as the large ork roaring. While the guards in the service of lord Haldéilv, are either screaming in pain, or calling out to one another, as they attack, unsuccessfully too, the ork warleader.
As the lord of the death realm watches the two servings women and the cook pick up and carry an unconscious individual, who unfortunately got caught up in the melee here in the tavern. He senses the last of the elves from the large building in the west of the town, quickly heading this way.
"The last handful of house guards have left what must be their barracks" quietly says the lord and ruler of the lands Farque, Draugadrottin as he's also known by the people of his lands, continues with "They're heading this way to confront the big fat fucking idiot".
"At least we won't have to deal with them" murmurs Mira Reinholt, the deathlord of Farque nods his full helmed head in agreement, as they hear outside, a horse whinny in pain, while Dorc da Orc can be heard laughing.
A little while later, after the swordmaster Reinholt has sipped the last of his wine, and the fading light of the approaching dusk can be seen through the hole in the wall where the front door of the tavern once was. Lord Farque says to the Vexilian mage in exile "Let's go and see the mess he's made".
The two of them get up from the table against the back wall, the once powerful mage puts on his black cloak, leaving the hood off his head for the moment, and they cross to where the hole in the front of the tavern is.
The mage Reinholt briefly stops by the tavern keeper, and says "Here" giving the man half a dozen gold coins, enough to pay for most of his broken tables, chairs and benches. Then the highly skilled swordmaster follows the heavily armoured deathlord, and steps outside.
To the left, in a water trough for horses is an elven house guard, he looks to be dead as he's missing his right arm. While in the middle of the street, there's definitely a dead house guard, as he or she lies there on their stomach, minus a head.
The spellcaster who was once the most powerful mage of his generation to be found anywhere in the Southlands, looks across the street, and to the right a bit. There a sign hanging infront of building, shows a pair of crossed candles, written beneath which is the word Chandlers in the elven language.
The front glass windows of the chandlers has been smashed, and lying across the lintel, half inside and half outside, is an elven house guard.
While another guard in the service of lord Haldéilv, lies nearby, slumped against the wall next to the front door of the chandlers, his head dangles from threads of flesh, about to completely fall off at any moment now.
Further along the street, beyond where a house guard lies dead on their back, with a broken table leg shoved into their mouth. Is another house guard, who is groaning in pain as she crawls away, with her right leg, below the knee missing.
Lord Farque gestures away to their right, and heads that way, with the mage Reinholt walking beside him, in what's still a pretty warm afternoon, even though dusk has taken affect as the sun starts to go down in the sky to the west.
The exiled Vexilian mage spots Dorc da Orc further along on this side of the street, the large ork is on the ground, bludgeoning an already dead house guard with what looks like to be a leg of a table. When the highly skilled swordmaster gets closer and he can see more clearly, it is indeed a table leg the ork warleader is using to repeatedly bash the already dead house guard.
After glancing at a nearby dead horse, pinned beneath which is another house guard, who is groaning in pain as his legs are crushed. Mira Reinholt who along with lord Farque has stopped next to the large ork, dryly says "I think you can stop now Dorc, he's got no head left".
The ork weaponsmith growls then he rams the broken table leg down the bloody neck of the dead house guard he's holding, then he flings the body away. "Fucken cunt" growls Dorc da Orc, who then winces in what can only be described as pain, then he hisses like an overgrown, fat, green snake.
As he sits there on the ground, the ork warleader moves, revealing an arrow through the back of his left knee.
The once powerful mage slightly winces in sympathy, as he sees it's a cloth yard shaft, shot from an elven longbow. No wonder the large ork is hissing in pain, cause that could easily take off the leg of someone else if the shot was accurate and powerful enough.
"Fucken cunt and his cunty bow" mutters Dorkindle as he looks at the dead elven house guard who now has a broken table leg for a head, then he hisses again as he looks down at the arrow sticking out of the back of left knee.
The ork weaponsmith murmurs "Hmmmmm" as he contemplates pulling out the arrow. Either forward through the knee, or back out it. For the yard long shaft is almost half and half through his thick leg.
The large ork's decision is made for him. Because lord Farque slaps him across the face, causing Dorc da Orc to growl and wince, because the slap stung. Then he yelps in pain, after which he says "Fuck you" with his face screwed up at the brief sensation of pain he feels.
As the undead warlord throws away the yard long arrow he ripped out of the large ork's knee, then after Dorkindle mutters "Me not taking one of them sick fucken potions again" the deathlord of Farque says "Hardly" followed by "Just wrap something around it for awhile, you'll be fine you big silly cunt".
The eyebrows of Mira Reinholt the mage go up in surprise, after Dorc da Orc grumbles for a bit, takes a pristine looking sheet from one of his sacks. The sheet has what looks like nautical looking motifs around it's border.
"Where the hell did you get that?" asks the Vexilian mage in exile as the large ork wraps the silk sheet around his left leg "From that fucken ship that elf bitch had you on killer" says Dorkindle using his nickname for the mage Reinholt, killer.
"Fucken took it when me burnt that ship when me escaped" says the ork weaponsmith who grunts when he ties the end of the sheet in a knot so that it's tight around his left knee. The Vexilian swordmaster shakes his head as he wonders what else the large ork might have in his sacks.
Second thoughts, i don't want to know, Mira Reinholt thinks to himself, the once powerful mage then looks down the lane the ork weaponsmith is sitting infront of.
He spots an elven house guard stumbling away with his hands outstretched infront of him. The spellcaster who is also a highly skilled swordmaster winces when he sees the the house guard stumble and come to a stop, then look back in this direction.
The elf's face is bloody, well what little is left of his face is bloody. Because it looks like most of his face has been torn away.
"What did you do there?" asks the mage Reinholt who nods his head down the lane to the house guard who has resumed his blind, stumble away. "Huh?" says Dorc da Orc, who looks behind him, then chuckles before saying "Me bite that cunt's face off" a look of disgust crosses the broad, green feral looking face of the large ork, who then says "His fucken face meat taste like veggies" the ork warleader then mutters "Fucken stupid pointy ears".
Dorkindle puts his hands down, and goes to push himself up as he stands, he grimaces, then he looks at lord Farque and grunts at him, and holds a hand out. The heavily armoured deathlord takes a hold of the big ork's large, meaty, skillet sized hand and hauls him off the ground.
The ork warleader winces a couple of times as he puts weight on his injured leg. Then after glancing down at the sheet that's starting yoo get soaked with blood, as it's wrapped around his left knee. He grunts in satisfaction when he takes a step with barely a noticeable limp. His fast acting natural healing ability will close the wound during the night. And by tomorrow the flesh will pucker and scar, the following day they'll hardly been a scratch to show where the large ork was shot by a yard long arrow from an elven longbow.
"No what?" asks Mira Reinholt, who frowns as he's pretty certain there's a body of a Haldéilv house guard lying on the flat roof of the building directly opposite where they're standing, he isn't too sure thanks to the fading light of dusk.
"Should we continue southwards?" adds the spellcaster who was more powerful than any other Southland mage of his generation.
Lord Farque who is looking up at the nearby mountains, and senses the rest of the group, going over to the otherside of the mountain they're up. Looks at the Vexilian mage in exile and the weaponsmith from the wolf tribe of orks. The undead warlord who knows the mage Reinholt still needs rest to regain what limited power he's got back, and that Dorkindle will need a bit of time to heal.
Shakes his full helmed head no, then says "We'll stay here in town for a bit" Des'tier as he's known by to an older generation of elven kind in the Southlands, continues with "We'll leave in the middle of the night or early in the morning".
The lord and ruler of the lands Farque looks around at the street that's empty of locals, well those who aren't dead, dying, or unconscious house guards in the service of lord Haldéilv, then he says "Let's find an inn to stay at".
"Would any inn what us to stay?" says Mira Reinholt in the elven language with a look directed at Dorc da Orc "Would any refuse?" replies lord Farque in the same language as he nods at the large ork, then gestures along the street at the mayhem created by the ork warleader.
"Good point" murmurs the swordmaster Reinholt, who then walks away with the undead warlord as they go in search of an inn, while Dorkindle slightly limps along behind the two of them as he follows after them . . . . . .