The Journal of Arnfinn Voldbakken

Campaign: Fallen Lands II

Man Skin Boots
What luck, Arnfinn was on watch with the beautiful Boudica. He was thrilled when she accepted his offer to comb her hair. As they huddled there in the warm glow of the camp fire, she lay back fitting him perfectly. While untangling her hair with the pearl handled comb, he sang her the most romantic song he could think of. Softly, as to not wake the others, he began:

I’ve been longing so deeply
To hold your body
Just for a moment
I’m walking home
Back to you
In my man skin boots.

I went away, my love
A road filled with adventure
Broken bodies and blood
But I’m walking home
Back to you
In my man skin boots

I’ve stitched together
These boots of mine
With these little pieces
Of my vile rival
I put together, I mend
To get me
Back to you
In my man skin boots

Arnfinn’s little plan seemed to have worked, Boudica snaked her hand beneath his codpiece and into his breeches. As she worked up her own rhythm, Arnfinn heard a ghostly moan. In the darkness, beyond the sleeping bodies of his compatriots, he could see the eye shine of things clumsily approaching from the unnatural enveloping fog. Couldn’t they have waited a minute more?
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Was it the size of my hammer?
Tap. Tap. Tap.

This was exactly the kind of adventure I was looking for. Fluids spraying, pulsing veins causing the wounds to gush, Goblin blood, everywhere. A mere moment before wolves, growling beasts, drooling with hunger, surrounding us. Now we slit their sleeping necks. My bolt finds the Goblin King’s throat. Oh the glory of battle my brothers.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I missed my brothers. Tor especially. I am surprised I haven’t caught a glimpse of him in the shadows of a tavern or skulking down some alley keeping an eye on me. Older brothers watch out for their younger and Tor was always there for me. But father has his ways and scattered his sons to the south in search of adventure and riches, hopefully both. Surely, his brood would eventually return home older, wiser, and maybe with a wife or two. We’ll gather in the longhouse with our brides perched upon our knees and sing songs of our deeds, gilded just ever so slightly, and drink our simple ale. The stuff they serve here is way too strong for me.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

What luck being in the right tavern at the right time. “The Unchained” they called themselves. They spotted me, impressed with the size of me or my hammer, it matters not, I was invited me to their table. My new chum, Ormond, joins me as well. He seems to have recovered from his stupor the night before. He is talented with the way he whittles his little totems as gifts. Maybe I will let him carve “Ukonvasara,” the name of my mighty hammer, into its decorative handle. Boudica, the red haired lass, reminds me of home. She challenges me to an arm wrestle. I forget what our wager was, for all I want for my win is a kiss from her sensuous lips. Half-orc, half human, all muscle, she calls herself Mirilda. I can’t keep my eyes from lingering on her bare, well-toned, midriff. At first I was weary of her, but after I receive a resounding beating at arm wrestling, I had newfound respect. After seeing her in battle, breaking bones, reducing goblin bodies to mush, leaving a trail of bloody stumps and severed heads, my respect turns to a sense of awe.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The artisan continues his hand-tapping of ink into my skin using the sharpened bone of God only knows what animal. We celebrated our recent triumphs with the local Lord Jarle. I even gave him the blood stained bolt I wrenched from the Goblin King’s neck that claimed the killing blow. I need to keep an eye on Leon, his sticky little fingers are going to get us in trouble. And why did the plucky Tas take on the local baker as her sister-wife? I have much to learn in the ways of the world. Hardly noticing the pain from the needle, I am bristle with excitement. I am getting a matching tattoo to that of my new brothers and sisters. Having proved my mettle, I am finally part of “The Unchained.”
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