The raft had been slowly drifting down the stream for hours on end. The stream had drawn the four adventurers deep into the heart of the foreboding swamp.
The smell of rotting vegetation filled the air at every turn. Dark black water congealed into acrid smelling muck where the stream deposited its sediment at the banks. Huge reeds grew out of the mud; looming over the heads of the adventurers. Farther up the bank, beyond the reeds grew ancient trees draped in a thick, pale-green moss. The peaks of the towering grey mountains could be seen in the distance. The stream was littered with floating debris, logs, tree stumps, boulders, and the occasional alligator patrolling slightly beneath the murky surface. Hundreds of insects flew through the air; skimming across the surface of the water. The sounds of the marshland, perhaps, were more eerie than the view. Insects seemed to all chime in, adding to the melody sung by frogs, and other creatures beyond the visible banks of the stream.
The group had floated past many signs of intelligent life. They began to spot strange carvings on the trees, and a grouping of makeshift lean-tos. They had also noticed idols carved into the trunks of trees, faces of heathen gods they knew all to well; Gork and Mork; the patron deities of the greenskins.
Felix was intently focused on steering the poorly crafted raft through the obstacle course offered by the swamp; with only a sturdy pole in hand, it took all of his concentration to avoid wrecking outright, or unintentionally navigating his team in to the jaws of a hungry gator.
Felix looked every bit the part of a hardened mercenary. Behind his thick beard could be seen a dark tanned face. His features revealed signs of a Tilean Lineage; he was well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular build. A scar ran from his right temple, across his mouth, to the bottom of his left of his jaw. He wore a uniform of black and purple atop a full suit of chainmail. A fine oak crossbow was hung from a meticulously fashioned leather strap on his back. Across his chest was a row of various daggers and knives that each appeared to serve a different purpose. A masterwork cudgel, a bullwhip, and a pistol were all strapped to his belt. On both of his legs hung sets of bolas, used to ensnare his opponents before delivering the fatal blow.
"Come out and play Troll!" screamed Dimzad at the top of his lungs.
"Quiet you ass," responded Felix, "Whatever foul creatures lurk past these waters have just been alerted to our presence."
Dimzad let out fierce snort and slammed his gauntlets into the raft.
"I don't understand why we followed this maddened dwarf on his fool's errand, Gottfried. I would rather be spending my time sipping on ole Bugman's ale in the presence of beautiful women."
"Felix, I have already told you I will pay you another ten gold crowns upon our safe return," said Gottfried, "This quest must be carried out. It is the will of our esteemed Dwarven colleague, and of Sigmar."
"Well stripe my back and call me pigsy. I didn't realize ole' Sigs agreed with the ramblings of an insane Dwarf."
"Do not mock my faith, Felix. If you wish to abandon your companions you are free to step off of this raft and wade your way back into the Reik."
At that moment Avandril looked up from his tome for the first time since the team had set out on the raft. He began scanning the tree line.
"What do your keen eyes see?" asked Gottfried.
"Goblins," replied Avandril.
Dimzad the Mightly suddenly erupted with a battle cry loud enough to shake the very peaks of the grey mountains. With great axe in hand, he leapt off of the raft and disappeared with a splash under the murky waters. The raft rocked violently nearly tipping completely over. The Dwarf's head popped out of the water, much closer to the shoreline. He clawed his way through the mud and charged in to the darkness.
"Stay with the raft," commanded Gottfried, as he turned toward Avandril and Felix, and slipped in to the waters to follow behind Dimzad. It was his duty to look out for the Dwarf, otherwise Dimzad would most likely never find his way back to the stream. He was also looking forward to hunting goblins, the most hated enemy of Sigmar.
Felix turned to Avandril. "I cannot believe this," he exclaimed, "that Dwarf is going to find himself in the gardens of Morr, and Gottfried will be accompanying him."
Felix and Avandril pulled the raft to the shore and began to wait. During that time, a wandering goblin had come within eyesight of the mercenary. The greenskin was promptly slain by a pair of well placed crossbow bolts.
After what seemed like an eternity, Felix and Avandril heard the clinking sound of armor. Their companions appeared from out of the thicket. Gottfried was holding his upper right arm. The crimson color of fresh blood was seeping from a wound below his shoulder. Dimzad held his gore-stained great axe in one hand, and a crude spear with the skewered heads of six goblins in the other.
"It's about time," stated Felix, "we were beginning to think you weren't going to make it."
The companions took their places on the raft and continued onward down the stream.
Within a matter of minutes, the dwarf began snoring loudly. Dimzad the Mighty had drifted off to sleep. Moments before this, he had jammed the goblin spear between two boards on the vessel; a grim warning to any greenskins foolish or daring enough to mount an attack.
Gottfried Gustav looked over at his slumbering companion. The Dwarf was huge; a giant among his kind. At nearly five and a half feet tall he stood as high as many men Gottfried knew. He was nearly as wide as he was round, with corded muscles bulging out of every inch of his body. Dimzad wore a set of mismatched armor; plate on his head and arms, chain on his legs and body, and leather filling any gaps left between. The Warrior slept with his Dwarven great axe nestled in his arms. He loved his axe; it was his most prized possession. Several hand axes hung from his belt. Before he had fallen asleep, Dimzad had removed his helm. The face of the warrior alone was enough to strike fear in the hearts of his enemies. There were more scars to be seen then unblemished skin. He had but one eye. The other was an empty socket, filled with a dense, mottled tissue. What few teeth the Dwarf still had were randomly scattered about his mouth as trees in a forest. On his mostly bald head grew but a scant few patches of orange hair; the rest would never grow again- the entire side of Dimzad's left skull had been replaced with an iron plate.
"Do you think he will ever be the same?" asked Gottfried, as he wrapped a piece of his cloak to the wound on his arm.
"No," responded Felix, "Something changed inside of him that day in the badlands. He now only lives for one thing; to kill. I fear the next time he snaps on us again. He grows in strength with the passing moons. My bolas can only hold him for so long."
"No matter what happens, it is my duty to protect Dimzad. He is the greatest warrior I have ever seen. We need him. Sigmar needs him. He did not attack us by his own will."
"Just know this, Gottfried: if the dwarf comes after us again I cannot promise I will spare his life. His mind is not stable."
A tear came to Gottfried's eye as he thought back to the good times spent with his old friend. Dimzad the Mighty; warrior of the mountains of Karaz-a Karak.