“Sleeping. He must be sleeping,” Baldrick muttered as he hefted his axe, its familiar weight settling on his shoulder as he peered into the darkness ahead, “bloody addled Buldahr spent the night talking to his mouse, and now he’s sleeping.” “He’s not, brother,” Beldar replied, “don’t you know? The Buldahr don’t sleep, or piss, or even breathe. Fie! I’d wager all they do is wrestle and hu—” “Quiet!” Lobrek hissed, blowing on the match to keep it lit as he fit it into the neck of his weapon’s lock. The others obeyed, and could now hear what he did: dragging. No, walking, but with the unmistakable echo of something being hauled behind whomever—whatever—was approaching. “Ancestors!” Gloni called out, his pistol shaking in his grip as he pointed it down the hall at the shuffling figure shuffling forward stiffly, its twisted right lag dragging behind it at an awkward angle. In response to the shortbeard’s cry, th...
The Wargaming, RPG and Miniatures-Related Ramblings of One Crispy Bugbear