A clear assumption at first, it never occurred to Mic how wrong he really was. After so many years of imagining and dreaming, it almost saddens him as the realization sinks in.
"Oye, ya daft fool," cries a bluish skinned creature, "ya be putting it on backwards, ya be!"
"Don't ye sass me, boy," retorts the reddish, sort of brown hued hulk, "I got this nice and right." This same towering mass fidgets with the wheel on their downtrodden cart. His large, rather bulky hands desperately clutch at the tiny axle and wiggle to place the circular part back on.
"Oye, ya—"
"Shut ye face, ye bloated worm!" Brown snaps. "I got it!" The wagon shakes and stutters. An agitated look sweeps Brown's face. "Aye, ye tool, ye be shaking it! Stop shaking it!"
"Nuh-uh. Ya clumsy hands—"
"Ye be working that hand, ye poop!"
"Ya calling me a poop, nitwit?"
"Nitwit?" The cart is dropped to the dirt and brown casts his angry eyes at his blue counterpart. A set of large fangs are slowly accompanied by a row of crooked, yet jagged teeth. "Who ye be calling a 'nitwit' , ye pony?"
"Pony?!" Snarls blue. "I will bash you good, I will!"
Just like that, the two forget about the task at hand. Fists fly. Feet fling. They trip and fall over each other, stumbling into the grass. Flaked blades and spouts of dirt spew into the air as the pair latch in combat.
It is a rather odd display, actually. Normally, no one would pay attention to it, but their situation is just a bit different. Yes, the intensity and ferocity are the same as any other brawlers locked in combat, but there are a few slight tweaks.
Yes, there are two heads, but that is about where the similarities end. You see, there are only two arms involved. There are only two hands. Two fists. Two legs. Two feet. No more. No less. Unless, of course, they manage to rip one of their own limbs off. Wouldn't be surprising, really.
Two arms.
Two legs.
Two heads
One body.
"Ogres," sighs Mic to himself as he marches over to the cart. He watches the two-headed monstrosity as it rolls across the dry patch of marsh. Disappointment wafting from his furled lips, he expresses his emotions emptily towards his company.
Company.
For whatever reason, calling them that makes him tingle inside. Not a good kind of tingle. The kind of tingle that you get before a brewing storm. Or, better put, the one you get before you get slapped by a damsel that you met a few weeks back, but never returned to see because you forgot entirely and didn't want to seem rude, while, in all reality, you just had no interest in running into or seeing her again; alas, that would in fact be rude, so you decided, after all, to return to make amends only to find her infuriated by your lack of commitment and indecisiveness.
That kind of tingle.
Mic sighs. With a quick heave, he lifts the cart onto a nearby rock and raises the wheel. Gently, he shoves it in place. He taps the holder back where it belongs and fastens it tightly.
"Oye!" Bellows Blue, also known as Ruul, "Ya know we were gonna do that!"
Mic peers up as the pair seems to come to a consensus about the situation. Mic squints in frustration at Ruul. "Yeah?" Mic replies. "Well good for you."
"Aey!" Barks the brown head, Brutt, as they stand up and stomp over towards him. "We had that!"
A displeased, somewhat perplexed look becomes Mic as their shadow is cast over him. By no means is he scared. They do love to fight, but their coordination is quite lacking. Yes, they can take out large objects like no one's business, but tiny creatures seem to stir the disunity in them.
He is, however, annoyed by their nature. They have this almost childish ability to get absolutely nothing done, yet get mad when someone else does. Mic isn't sure if they are acting, but he truly knows better. This is simply how they are.
"Ok," groans Mic as their accusative eyes burrow into him, "how about this—" Mic's eyes dart to the side as movement draws his attention. As if on cue, a spiny crocolisk splashes onto a nearby island to watch the display that is them. "Hey!" Shouts Mic as he points at the large lizard. "Hey, you guys better watch out. That thing is eye-balling you."
In unison they turn. Rows of sharp teeth are exposed.
"Aey," cries Brutt, "I got the holder hand! Ye get the beating arm!"
"Oye!" Proclaims Ruul. "I will beat it good! Real good!"
Ruul rips a small tree from the ground as they dash headfirst at the unsuspecting creature. Water is tossed wildly in the wake of the wading Ogre. An entire marshland is alerted to their presence as they roar. One hand is cast into the pool while the other whips the mangled tree, dragging fountains worth of fluid into the skies.
Mic would feel bad for the creature. He would, of course, if it hadn't already swam off. The man isn't quite sure what the two are pummeling, but it will most certainly feel it tomorrow.
As the Ogre bashes the small pool into oblivion, Mic adjusts the cart and begins down the road. The cart is light, but it won't be for long. Where they go, plenty of goods wait for them. Within that empty, ominous lair is a plethora of forgotten trinkets and treasure.
All they have to do is go get it.
The happy thoughts flood his mind for but a moment before cries and grunts from a pair of content heads find comfort in their success. A moment passes and their attention clearly diverts. Splashing fills the air again, and Mic knows they are on their way. It doesn't matter how hard he tries, they still come back.
But Mic likes it this way. Even though they are quite odd, and are very strange company, they are nonetheless that: company. He would say he hates them, but that would be a lie. He does, however, wish he could have his dream back, but he knows that will never happen. It would seem, after all, two heads are in fact not better than one.