“Do your worst, demon!” grunts Slagjor, as Gr’nThax’s fireburst splashes from his gleaming blade.
“It’s time, young friend,” whispers Poniard Toepad.
“What?” says Token Smallchÿlde, surprised. “But you’re–”
“The beast knows my tricks,” Poniard hisses. “But he discounts you. You’re our only hope!”
Gathering his courage, Token bursts from his hiding place and scrambles up Gr’nThax’s snout. With a whoop, he slides down and leaps from its thrashing tail.
“What?” Gr’nThax roars. “NO!”
But Token’s already snatched the gleaming treasure from its pedestal.<
"At last!" exults Slagjor. "The Next Arc of Plot!”
“Dangit!” says Gr’nThax. “I die in that one.”
He’s down and scrambling, the great club out of his hands. Slagjor has no breath to curse, but spends it trying to launch himself toward the corner. He can’t get much purchase, and doesn’t get far; he hears the whistle of the crude broadsword, and just manages to roll to one side. Chips shower his face.
It seemed like a good idea at the time: magnificent, inspiring, a vicious monument. It’s only now that he considers the practical aspect. All the other warlords looked good in their throne rooms, but they never told him how slippery a bone floor can get.
Wednesday, October 8, 2003