Red Claw Gaming

There was no denying it; the parchment was definately left for you. You've no idea how they knew you'd be here of all places, especially at this hour, but you take a small comfort in the fact that the ink has barely dried; at least they had to rush. You decide to drop the dagger that was used to pin it to your door as you walk, noting that it is definately bottom-heavy, while reading the freshly-penned words. You've been called out, and by the sounds of it, several other notorious gang-leaders from in or around Mordheim have received the same calling. You think about your contacts quickly, counting upon mental fingers whom you can call upon and trust with your back. You spin on your heel and begin back from whence you came. You think of Mogrert, that slimy, rotten-toothed assassin you'd employed on a few desperate ocassions, and that you'd heard that he'd been keeping a close ear to the ground in regards to your recent doings. You bend down and scoop up the dagger you dropped mere moments ago on your way to the Rust'd Cup Inn; one can never have too much steel here in Mordheim. 

The melee was quite a ruckus, off in the distance Thog thought he could distinctly pick out the utter screams of his fellows as they gourged themselves on fruits of despair.  Somewhere to his left he overheard the battle cry of his faithful shaman lackey, otherwise known as Deedle-dum.  "Oi! Gerroff!" The shaman yelled, but distinctly failed and was quickly dispatched by a crazy centagor.

Thog bellowed out a furious roar, shambled toward the nearest beastman and proceeded to eviscerate it with his axe.  Before he knew it, Thog was outnumbered and outsmarted.  For he was just your ordinary orc.  As the blood slowly pooled around his no-longer recognizable face, Thog had one last thought:

Thog likes puppies.

RIP.  Thog, 05/16/07-05/16/07

Smoke fills the room through lazily ascending fingers of fume rising from various pipes, fatty-candles and the rare arcane text. It is brought about to full robustness by the torches that sparsely line the walls belching forth their thick, tar-like smog. Everything quiets down when you enter, and all eyes are upon you in an instant. You can feel dozens of the bar's patrons sizing you up. Luckily, most dismiss you out of hand. You sigh a small sigh of relief, and pick your way through the crowd towards the bar, one hand upon your dagger, the other covers your coin purse. You've few enough Emperial Crowns as it stands, and you can't afford to lose any more tonight. You're here to hire some muscle to venture out again. She calls to you, and has since the first time you stepped through her gates. Mordheim. She beckons to you now, and so you are back here to spend what you have left to recruit more able (or mostly able) bodied men to accompany you back to her. May the gods have mercy upon your soul.

Welcome to the Rust'd Cup Inn. Your comments are welcome.