War drums echoed in the stormy air as bonfires reached skyward. Tonight the Orcs would feast and in the morning we would die. It was the way of things. I would prefer to skip the night and go straight to the battle. Death isn’t a hard thing for a warrior to face. It’s the hours of fear and quiet before the battle that drain his soul.

Each warrior tries to deal with his fear in his own way. Some drink and some pray. Some gamble and turn to song while others prefer solitude. No matter what any man says, fear grips us all. I know, I was there that night on Elftember the seventh when everything changed.

We were part of the garrison of Estpick, a walled settlement of traders and merchants which sat only miles south of the Ice Wind Mountains. Over the past few months more and more soldiers arrived to reinforce the garrison, we were told their stay was only temporary. Two weeks ago an army of: soldiers, knights, archers, and spell casters, all lead by a noble of house Brexiano marched into the town. Two days later, the entire army and the additional troops that had been stationed here over the past few months set off to ‘teach some savage Orcs a lesson’. Little did we know, that would be the last time we would see any of those men alive again. It was three days ago now that the Orcs marched down from the Ice Wind Mountains in force and laid siege to Estpick. I had never seen so many green skins in my life. Those damn fools that marched into the Ice Wind Mountains only succeeded in provoking the Orcs into organizing and forming a counter attack. Now we have to deal with it all.

We had already started evacuating the nobles, the wealthy and now some of the women and children through an old underground passage which lead to somewhere near the Fiddlehead Hills. As we decided that time was running out and we had to block the passage before the Orcs took the city, something happened that saved all of our lives. That night, dozens and dozens of men crawled into our town through the passage. At first we thought they were some brigands after whatever goods we had left, than we thought they were just some madmen who had a score to settle with the Orcs. Finally we realized who they were. Each to a man was a professional mercenary, assassin, or a brute willing to fight just for the fun of it. Apparently house Brexiano didn’t take to kindly to having their forces defeated by the Orcs, so they spent some money on whatever fighters were up for the challenge.

While not superior in numbers, the mercenaries that seemed to be running this operation were known as the Golden Swords. That night we realized something. We didn’t have to wait till morning to die. It was time to silence those infernal Orc drums.

            “Tell us another story of battle, warlord.” said one of the Irvanshirian soldiers.

            “Yes, one of glory and honor!” added one of the younger and eager warriors.

            “And one of women!” joked another as he raised a mug high.

            Soldiers cheered and made room for the veteran warlord as he joined them round the camp fire. Mugs of mead circled round the troops as all eyes fell upon the warlord in dark robes. He looked just over two decades old, younger than most of the troops round the campfire; yet, it was obvious he had experienced more than his fair share of battles on Magesta. “A ferocious group of Irvanshire’s best deserves the best stories of battle that Magesta has to offer.”

            The warlord gave a nod of thanks and took a mug of mead from the warrior on his left. A gulp later he gave a sigh. “Gather round then, brave sons of Irvanshire, for tonight a story of battle, of honor, of women and glory shall be yours.” Cheers and shouts rocked the stillness of the night as the gathered men anxiously awaited the evening’s story.

            Rising to his feet and striding into the center of the circle, the warlord ensured that all could see him as he put his back to the fire. The cheers stopped as the troops leaned forward with smiles on their faces and mead in hand. Looking over the gathered troops, the warlord tilted his head and let lose an explosion of cracks from his neck. After taking a deep breath, it was now time for the story to be unleashed.

            “It is seven years ago that the Thunders, the battled hardened veterans of the mercenary company known as the Golden Swords crossed the Ice Wind Mountains. Their number was twenty two, and I was among them. Our contract was simple, spill blood. We had been hired by Magistrate Rafdor to slay the Orc Warmaster of the Frost Axe Clan, Gel’Rad the Ice Heart. After suffering the loss of his own son at the hands of the Frost Axe Clan, Magistrate Rafdor was desperate to fend off the Orcs. The contract was turned down at first; the golden swords are honorable mercenaries, not assassins. Yet, Ronilgad, grandfather of our leader Ronith, was butchered in an ambush by the Frost Axe Clan. After this offence, we took up the contract with eager hearts. We wanted blood, Orc blood.

            “So up hills and mountains blanketed in snow we traveled. It was the peak of winter and still we marched numbly into the freezing air of the Ice Wind Mountains. I was not a Thunder myself; I was there to serve my uncle Wolfgang. He had sponsored me into the Golden Swords and decided it was time for me to learn about war the proper way. We covered almost a dozen miles a day while we could, and when a blizzard erupted we found shelter in a cave or in the trees and waited it out. It was cold those days. It was the kind of cold that soaks into your skin and leaches onto your bones, draining away your very life and will to move. The kind which makes a full man tired and stop shivering even though we were inches from freezing to death. I remember thinking every day that I was going to die on those forsaken peaks of the Ice Wind Mountains and that no one would know I fell behind.

            “It was then that I thought of home. In the early fall, under the purple of the setting sun, we would gather for the final harvest. I remember dancing with Vanessa; she was a year older than I and had the beauty of which poems are written. Her golden hair reminded me of the sun on a summer day. Her smile was always followed by a blush, as if she knew something I didn’t all the time. We would sit on the docks in town and watch the fish dance in the morning. I missed her. And lying there, vision blurring as I groaned in the snow I remember what my uncle said to me. His black beard was trimmed with icicles and his eyes burned with an inner fire I had never before witnessed. Some how, as I laid there freezing, he knew what I was thinking. He crouched down near my and asked me ‘Do you care for that girl?’

            “All I could do was nod yes as I fought off the freezing chill of night. ‘If you lay there, than she is already dead and you have failed her.’ It was than that I realized being a warrior goes beyond yourself, there are many others who depend upon you that you don’t know about… (the story continues)…

The Guys' Rules

At last a guy has taken the time to write this all down. Finally, the guys' side of the story.

We always hear "the rules" from the female side. Now here are the rules from the male side. These are our rules!

Please note... these are all numbered "1" ON PURPOSE!

1. Learn to work the toilet seat. You're a big girl. If it's up, put it down. We need it up, you need it down. You don't hear us complaining about you leaving it down.

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Another quiz taken from Lynn...

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