Skjor drained the last of the contents of his tankard and peered down into the container with a grimace. He shook his head in disgust and set the drinking vessel down at his feet. He wiped the beads of bitter ale from his flame-hued beard with a sweep of his meaty, tattooed arm, smoothing his impressive braids when he was done. For several moments he gazed blankly at the fire before he noticed that several of the flamelings had gathered around about him.
'Another telling, is it?' rumbled Skjor as he
rubbed the ur-gold runes that ran the length of his other arm.
'Karl Brynn says you were there the day that
Folkvar-Griminir first came to us!' blurted a particularly
enthusiastic young Vulkite.
'Does he now?' replied the older duardin
with feigned surprise. 'Fancies himself the Battlesmith of the
Hrukvorn, does he?'
The loose-tongued Vulkite's eyes widened as his
elder fixed him with a gaze that could melt stone.
'Calm yourself, flameling!' roared the burly
duardin, his beard bristling as a great smile
spread across his face. 'You look like Nurgle himself had appeared
before you and asked you to help him wipe his arse!'
The duardin all around broke into raucous laughter,
and the junior Vulkite joined in - nervous, but relieved.
'Now there is a tale worth the telling,' said Skjor
quietly as he stood to his feet. 'A tale for the ages...'