Very creative !
Thanks for that, and now some more...
The Friday Knights in Sellswords of Fallcrest
Part 11: The Leader of the Pack.
The tables are turned, big-time, it seems.
Cathal's opponents, the Dog Brothers, mangy human scum- street fighters, wrestle with each other for a moment and then finally find their respective feet.
“Arrrghhh”, and, “Woof” they curse.
The pair head back up the stairs, one of them now dragging a bloodied almost useless leg as Cathal lands yet another slicing blow on the retreating form. The Dog Brothers burst through the curtain at the summit- screaming for all their worth.
“Who's Irocar?” Kullervo asks, and vaults down from the counter.
“Search me?” Ignaran adds and watches Wolfie play with his dinner a little.
“Help... Help me... I... I... surrender, I surrender... Get it bloody off me!” Arthuro screams and battles to save his manhood.
“Think he's had enough?” Kullervo nods towards the break-dancing Fence.
“S'pose.” Ignaran shrugs, and Wolfie disappears, leaving the would-be Rogue staring up at Kullervo, who has taken the liberty of picking up Arthuro's fallen dagger en route.
“Don't move a muscle, they call me Kullervo the... Killer. Rah!” Kullervo adds with menaces, he's going to have to work on his intro some more.
“Please, can I surrender now?” Arthuro offers, a yellow puddle spreads out from where the shaking Fence is squatting.
Kullervo turns and winks at Ignaran, the Druid smiles back.
Meanwhile Astaroth has made his way over to Cathal.
“Who Iron-Car?” Astaroth asks and points vaguely in the direction of the stairs.
Cathal shrugs, “let's find out.”
The Warrior takes the stairs three at a time, shouting as he goes, “Coming... Ready-or-not.”
Bursts through the ragged hessian curtain and sweeps his longsword hard right, and straight into another Dog Brother gang member, the canine accessorised bandit is sent spinning back, his surprise attack thwarted.
The upper chamber is a wreck, hazy smoke from cheap candles and even cheaper tobacco. On the floor the rank bedrolls of the gang, as well as a dozen or more littered bottles of 'Smashed Eric', 'Tinkers Skuzz'  and 'Drain-O'  - the gamut of quality rotgut, guaranteed to leave the consumer blind, dumb or dead.
Across the chamber a rickety wooden ladder leads into a darkened loft. There are three Dog Brothers in the room, all injured, one on his knees in the corner, a bloody mess- Snarl, the first down the stairs, retching and spewing up all that's left of his courage.
Of greater import is Irocar, it must be he, Cathal thinks.
Irocar is clearly the leader of the pack, his chainmail coif pokes through the wrenched open jaws of some much larger hound, over his armour a robe of stitched skins, all manner of Fallcrest's favourite canines.
“Rawf... Rawf!” Irocar barks, no really, he barks; then slavers and pants a while.
The Dog Brothers, at least the two still standing, redouble their guard and pull back so they're either side of the top dog.
“Rawf... Raaaaa... Awf!” Irocar barks some more and from behind his back, hidden by his doggie cape, produces four feet of serrated blade, a notched and much abused bastard sword. It doesn't look old or ill-kept, as much as too often employed.
“Rawwwwwwwawawwawwawawawawawaw!” Irocar howls and points his blade at Cathal, the Warrior of Kord considers himself called-out, challenged.
The three attackers surge forward, just at the moment that Astaroth levers himself through the doorway and into the chamber; the sound of Ignaran on the stairs can also be heard.
But it's not enough to put Irocar off his stride, a brutal overhead blow that smashes through Cathal's armour at the shoulder, leaves his shield arm limp and possibly broken.
“Koooooo-rd.” Cathal hisses and sucks in ragged gulps of air, his shield clangs onto the floor. He swishes his battered hand behind him and launches his attack, his blade flashing and slashing he cuts back. Irocar emerges from the clinch with a thick red welt across his face, which slowly unfurls a curtain of blood.
Astaroth is quickly into position, he smashes his greataxe into the pack-leader's left hand side, slicing away his dog skin cape, and more importantly splintering his thigh bone.
The Dog Brother's attacks are half hearted and off target, or else easily deflected.
Ignaran pokes his head into the chamber, assesses the situation, and weaves magic in the air – a burst of flame explodes harmlessly before Irocar. However it's enough to send all three miscreants shuffling back further- almost to the wall behind them. The two Dog Brothers look sick, drained of colour, clearly out of their depth and in search of a way out.
Is made of sterner stuff, he grits his teeth and blocks out the pain, a moment later a surge of adrenalin washes over him, he grins and grimaces and is back in the fight.
“RAWF! Grrrrrrrrrrrr...” He barks and growls, and against all odds, dances forward- feinting one way than the other, enough to confuse Astaroth who's left with a six inch gash on his right forearm, almost enough to cause him to relax his grip on his greataxe.
“Bug'r.” The man-mountain simply states.
 'Tinker's Scuzz', a genteel mixture of fermented grain and distilled lamp oil, sweetened of course- connoisseurs usually burn off the excess gases produced by the heady brew before drinking. Failure to do so has lead to more than one case of spontaneous combustion. One of the more expensive brews on offer to the hard drinking down-and-out of Fallcrest.
 'Drain-O', a mild alcohol based acid/bleach/detergent; used by the Dyers Guild and the Sewermen (to unblock drains of course), and others. The old adage goes, 'if the bottom's fallen out of your world, drink Drain-O - and watch the world fall out of your bottom.' The last resort of the career inebriant.