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Tuesday, August 14, 2007

The Raven

The Raven Mac Dhonnchaidh was slumbering heavily, a thick river of drool running down his chin, when I finally managed to sneak out of the dwarven dining tent without stepping on too many beards. My head was woolly, but I knew this would be my best chance to reconnoiter the camp and find out what surprises the doughty little men had for their next enemy.

Once I’d got upwind of the tent I caught a whiff on the night air of some unfamiliar beast. Threading my way through the sleeping tents required little stealth—a Dwarf encampment by night shakes with the sound of snoring—and soon I had come upon the outskirts where a fenced enclosure held several score dark, shambling, hairy shapes. Not more dwarves, as one would think by my description, but large black bulls. At first I thought them to be camp provisions, but a long row of solidly-built saddles slung over the corral fence revealed their true purpose.

How the dwarves had managed to domesticate the beasts enough to ride them into battle was a mystery. Perhaps they share some common bond—they are both bold, hairy, aggressive breeds, after all. Perhaps, in the no-nonsense manner that is the Dwarf way, they merely held on for dear life and pointed the bulls in the direction of the enemy, who would scatter in panic, like the revelers who run before the bulls sometimes let loose on the streets in Spanish cities during the festival.

Only with more blood.