Lemmings of the Light

The swarthy warrior stood atop the small snow covered hill. Casting his gaze over the fortress below him he let out a weary breath, its heat robbed by the frigid air it froze and white crystals clung to his golden beard. This was going to be a tricky one he thought as he contemplated the ogres mulling around the opening of the keep. Their foul stench poisoned the air, and caused it to shimmer, protesting at the presence of these vile creatures. There was sure to be more inside the keep and no doubt they would not be inclined to allow him to just waltz up, kill their tribal leader, remove his head and leave in peace. No, this was going to be bloody, and would probably hurt. A small part of his mind flinched at the thought of the slaying to come; a yet smaller part was quivering in anticipation of the thrill. If only he had a little help, someone to distract them while he did the necessary dirty work, and perhaps he could return to that nice inn he’d passed in Southshore, with the even nicer barmaid that had winked at him as she was throwing out the drunken dwarf.

Well no use putting off the inevitable, he tightened the grip on his swords and approached the hulking figures. As he did so a sound made him turn. Behind him, coming over the crest of the hill three figures were make their way towards him. The tallest waved and called out – “Need some help?”