Boldhome Heroes

Erik sat at his desk in the command tent, taking the lull in the fighting to catch up on his saddest duty, that of writing to the families of those of Mularik's Company who had not survived the month's combats. He glanced up as the Regimental Adjutant entered the tent through the opened flaps, which had been left tied up to allow a welcome cooling breeze into the pavilion. "Welcome Livud", he called. I was just writing to Foralvar's family. Did you wish me to add any lines from yourself?" "Only that he was an exemplary Hundred Thane, a good friend and that we will all miss him greatly. I am sorry sir, I was about to show you a message that has just come in from Boldhome which I thought might amuse you. This is probably not the right time."
"No" came the reply. "It would do me good to think about lighter things for a while". So saying, he took the message which he saw at a glance came from the Office of The Quartermaster's Stores in Boldhome. As he read his eyebrows lifted in astonishment. "Apparently we were issued with an amount of hard tack bread which should have gone to the Royal Foot Guards, whilst they got our bread by mistake. And listen to this, we are "required and requested" to return the bread to Boldhome so it can be issued correctly! Did you ever hear of such rubbish?"
"Don't worry" said Livud. "I sorted it out with Kensulyr over at the Guards. We are going to report is as destroyed by enemy action." "And was it?" "In a way" she laughed. "We fed it to the Lunar prisoners. I'd rather have them break their teeth on 3 year old rations than risk our people having to try to eat it!"

As Erik sat in his tent, a message arrived from his friend and Sword Brother Quatlu at Army HQ. It read,

"Greetings Erik, I hope you are doing well. I wanted to compliment the performance of Mularik's Company in the field this month. Nicely done to you and all the officers and men under your command. I wanted to give you a bit of news I just became privy to from back home. It seems that Chief Priest Vadath Anngson of the great Temple of Orlanth has decided to step down, and his post is now vacant. I believe you would be an excellent choice for that post, and I would urge you to apply for the position. Though I don't have the clout to make a difference in the selection process, I'd be pleased and proud to back you for this position. May Orlanth guide you in this matter."

Erik read the message from Quatlu with a wry smile on his face. "My thanks, sword-brother" he thought. "Unfortunately, in order to apply for promotion in the Great Temple of Orlanth, you have to be in Boldhome so you can hand in the application in person. And I will be on campaign for at least two more months."

Quatlu drops by the Mularik's Company HQ to see Erik, bringing a nice bottle of wine to share with his old friend Erik. "Seeks out the Lt. Warlord's tent and ask to come in. "Erik my friend, I owe you an apology. I wrote to you suggesting you apply for the post of Chief Priest, and I have been corrected by the Great Temple. It seems you must indeed be physically in Boldhome to apply for a temple vacancy, due to the need for offerings, rituals and such. I was laboring under the delusion that this could be done remotely from the field, but I see now that I was wrong. Forgive your comrade in arms for this mistake. I just saw an opportunity for you to rise in the temple hierarchy to a post for which you are eminently qualified, and I wanted to throw my support behind you."

"My dear Quatlu, there is no need for any apology. I indeed, owe you my thanks for your support for my future rise in the Temple ranks. I shall hope to gain promotion in Orlanth's own good time. But that bottle of wine will be most welcome, we can use it to toast your own promotion to Warchief." The glasses were raised, drunk and refilled. "And let us raise a glass to Rufus, off on his Cult Mission. No doubt he will be able to regale us with tales of his deeds in distant Prax when he returns. And a 3rd glass to Garoor, whose bravery was such to reach the notice of the Storm Bull himself! Let us drink to Garoor the God-touched!"

Quatlu was glad Erik was not miffed at his lack of protocol in the temple procedures, and he relaxed with his friend. "Should you get the chance to petition for Chief Priest, I shall be honored to support your application", he said with a smile and a firm handshake. He raised a glass with Erik to toast his own promotion to Warchief, as well as with Erik's toast to Rufus for success on his mission to Prax. "I look forward to the tales he will tell on that trip". Then the third toast went to Garoor for his divine intervention by the Storm Bull. "To Garoor the god-touched."

Garoor sat slouched against a wooden barrel, his fingers wrapped tightly around a clay jug of red wine. The campfires of the Thieves’ Arm regiment flickered in the distance, but Garoor had chosen to settle on the outskirts of the camp, away from the prying eyes of his soldiers. The jug was nearly empty, the remnants sloshing weakly as he tipped it back and took a long, fiery swig. Wine dripped from his beard as he exhaled loudly, his breath carrying the sharp sting of alcohol into the cool night air.

The drink dulled the edges of his thoughts, but only slightly. The memory of his death and resurrection lingered, clawing at the back of his mind no matter how much he drank. Wine was supposed to grant oblivion, wasn’t it? Yet Garoor found that the fire of the Storm Bull burned too brightly within him, stoking restless energy that even the deepest stupor couldn’t extinguish.

In the days following his resurrection, Garoor’s consumption of wine grew alarming. By night, he emptied casks of the regimental stores in solitude, often leaving broken vessels and splashes of wine staining the dirt where he had brooded. By day, the effects were evident: his voice grew hoarser, his temper sharper. His commands, already harsh, turned into roaring demands that left his soldiers scrambling to keep pace with his erratic energy.

One night, after drinking too deeply, Garoor stumbled into the heart of the camp, bellowing half-coherent praises to Urox and challenges to the invisible enemies he imagined lurking in the shadows. Soldiers woke from their tents to find him swinging his broadsword at a bush. “Chaos everywhere!” he shouted, the veins in his neck bulging. “You let it hide in your hearts, you cowards!”

The outburst unsettled the camp. Even the hardened veterans of the Thieves’ Arm were unsure how to respond. Some whispered that Garoor was more bull than man now, driven mad by his resurrection. Others saw his excess as a sign of divine fury, a holy madness that demanded reverence.

The consequences of his drinking came to a head one humid morning when Garoor staggered into the training yard late, his eyes bloodshot and his brow furrowed in pain. The soldiers stood, awaiting their commander, but their murmurs betrayed their unease. Garoor’s steps faltered, his balance betraying him.

His lieutenant, a seasoned warrior named Natalola, dared to speak. “Warlord, are you well?”

Garoor’s response was a growl that turned into a roar. “I am Urox’s wrath! Well or not, I fight!” He gestured wildly with his sword, sending the soldiers into an awkward, hesitant cheer. Yet even as he barked orders and forced them into drills, his movements were sluggish, his usual precision dulled by the lingering effects of wine.

The drills went poorly, and Garoor knew it. That evening, he locked himself in his tent, refusing to see anyone. The camp grew quiet, unsure of what to expect when their warlord emerged again.

The next day, Garoor rose before dawn. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, but his expression was one of grim determination. He took no wine, drank only water, and walked the camp as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon. His soldiers avoided his gaze, but Garoor stopped before them, his voice low but steady.

“I’ve failed you,” he said, his words a growl but laced with sincerity. “I’ve let the drink cloud my purpose. No more.” He gripped his axe tightly, raising it high. “We march soon, and we will march with clear eyes and fury in our hearts. Chaos won’t wait for us to sober up. From now on, neither will I.”

The soldiers cheered, a cautious but genuine sound, as Garoor strode toward the shrine of Urox. There, he knelt in the dirt, offering the last of his wine as a sacrifice to the Storm Bull. The god’s hatred for chaos burned within him once more, clearer and fiercer than it had in days.

Garoor rose, steady and unshaken, ready to lead again. Yet in the back of his mind, he knew the temptation of wine would linger.