NB: Everything to do with Warhammer or Games Workshop is copyright Games Workshop, and isn't mine…. Unless I become the manager! Ahhh, my dream job…
Eternal Hunger
Prologue
After wandering around the large Bretonnian city for what seemed to be the hundredth hour, you decide to meander into the nearest pub and ask for directions. With the huge castle-stronghold looming in the background, and the streets completely deserted, you stumble your way into a bar called the 'Drunken Dwarf'. Outside, the night is pouring down the heavens, and so the relative dryness and warmth of the tavern provide welcome relief. Light from various lanterns dotted around the cobbled stone walls light the wide, but not so high, room. It seems almost full of people laughing and talking, many of them human, but a few are Dwarfs and Halflings, and there is even an Elf Noble at the bar, with bodyguard escort, seeming to be doing some sort of deal with the landlord. Everyone has a tankard in their hand, and the wood plank floor is drenched in beer from many years of spillage accidents. You force your way through the many bustling crowds gathered around small round tables, and finally manage to reach the bar, and shake your cloak dry. As a barmaid finishes serving another customer, a violent looking Dwarf with an eye-patch, she turns to you, and you order a large tankard of cheap ale. Scraping some copper out of what little money you were carrying in your pocket, craftily sewn into the inside of your cloak, you pay her and take your beer in both hands, taking a huge gulp of the revolting cheap alcohol.
Not very far away from you, in the far right corner of the room, is a small seating alcove with a huge decorative pair of lances crossed over a half blue half yellow shield hanging over it. The table and seats are large enough for five men to sit in, but there is only one man there, dressed in a worn Bretonnian Men-at-Arms uniform. He has a few grizzly animal trophies hanging off his belt, with a couple of pouches filled with other trinkets on either side of his waist. He is in his waning years, and with a heavily weathered face, sitting calmly with a half-filled tankard of what looks like flat ale. People seem to keep a respectful distance from him. The barmaid catches you glancing at the man, and tells you that he is a seasoned veteran of the Bretonnian army, and that he comes in here every other night for a quite drink at the same table. You nod politely, not really caring, and go over to his table, place your beer on the table, and sit opposite him. He doesn't notice you. Water is still dripping off your raggedy clothes, and so you brush your sleeve and take another deep swig of your horrible drink.
"Quite a thirst you've got there, young 'un." He says suddenly, above the ruckus of the tavern. You put down your drink and look at him. He slowly raises his head; the shadow of his hood shrouding most of his face from the light coming from the lanterns. You tell him you are just in needing of a quiet drink and some directions to the nearest port.
"Aye, I can tell you the way, young 'un, so long as you slow down with that drink there. That cheap stuff'll eat away at yer, and you'll wake up tomorra' in a gutter, never to see your purse again…" He grins, bearing his yellow teeth.
"Anyway, before I tell you the way, I got a little bit of a story for you, about finding your own path in life, if you're interested…" You shake your head, but he continues anyway, "You ever met an Ogre, young 'un? Big ugly things, as tall as a single-storey building, can pick up trees and use them as clubs! Not that they often do, they make their own clubs out of rock and metal, nasty things… Not naturally green-skinned, but the freezing conditions of the mountains they live in causes the slight greeny-ness. Massive bellies covered with a gut plate… very cautious about guarding their stomachs, it's where they believe their 'magic' comes from. Their mages use 'gut magic', eat things and mutter incarnations to break bones and things… I knew someone once who had to fight against a whole lair of these massive beasts! And look, he gave me the head of their leader an all…" He points to the huge severed head in the centre of his collection, glazed in order to preserve it through time and keep it reasonably fresh. Its tough flesh seems to do that anyway. At this moment you half get up, intending to ask someone a little less senile. He waves you back into your seat.
"Listen, it won't take long, and I'll buy you a beer for your troubles. Just… let an old dog tell a tale of violence and glory? One day, you might have your very own tale you want to pass onto a young adventurer, so let me pass on mine…" You agreed to sit back down, and the man waves a barmaid over to the table. He orders the house ale for you, and then settles back down to continue his story…
