Ragnarr: As the Trolls Burn

If there's one thing that I've learned in my adventures, it's that the monsters of all parts of the world seem to know when the only bastard wearing armor is the bastard who doesn't much need it.

Take these trolls. Foul smelling things, I've got to say. It's too bad you need fire to end the things. They smell damn awful. But it's better than having to fight them, I suppose.

But that's not really the point. The point is that they wait until I'm the only bastard still wearing his armor. Not the bloody paladins, no. They certainly don't need to be wearing a damn thing. Poor Flam bought himself a nice suit of plate mail, and hasn't fought in it yet.

But me? Aside from the time when the gods decided that the adventure's of the aquatic dwarf would make a damn fine tune for the bards some day, I've been wearing everything, every time we get attacked. And I don't even fight, not really. Sure, I've been known to throw a punch or two defending the dubious honor of a lassie here and there, and there was that damn gnome I smashed pretty good. But I've never made a lad's head explode with a sword, not like these paladins. And I've sure as hell taken a lot fewer beatings.

But for all that, I'm not sure which is worse: the fighting, or the walking. I spent a long life earning my fetching barrel shape, and I did it the proper dwarvish way: by sitting on a bar stool and drinking more ale than any damn human could hope to match. But at the rate we're walking, I'm afraid I'll be able to see my own toes in a few more days. Well, aside from the beard, anyway.

By Pelor's beard. Unless regular exercise is what makes the hair go away. Could that be what happened to Flam?

May the gods help us all.