He paused, chest heaving, arms coursing with acid, yet he pulled his broad sword to the ready and held it there, waiting.  Pondering the layers of sweat inside his clothes, grasping at his skin under his light te effective armor.  And th rancid copper and meat smell of the koobold blood that soak through the armor and clothing.

To his back, Olaf the Headhunter shifted his massive frame on thick muscular legs, bare feet finding footing in the dirt floor of the lodge, now muddy and puddled with viscera.  The tribal markings painted in white dragons blood glowed a faint white violet as they continued to protect him as much as his masked partner’s armor did.

Twin scimitars in his hands, he turned his bald head, also in dragons blood markings reminsicant of a nightmare’s skull.

They could hear the rumbling of the rest of the koobold tribe in the tunnels off the lodges main chamber.  Boscoe adjusted his mask, shifting his weaight, his footing lost for a second as his boot slid on the dead skull of the tibe’s chief.

"They stopped," Olaf’s deep voice hissed in a whisper.

"The tunnels meet up behind the main chamber," Boscoe replied in heavily accented common.  "The brach out to variou exits and living spaces.  They have probably gathered all the survivors and are figuring out wht to do."

The stared at the tunnels in front of each, still back to back, swords and scimitars at the ready.

After minutes, they heard faint scurrying out of each tunnel.  In rappid taps and thuds, they quickened, and grew louder as they clearly approached.

"How many you?" Boscoe ditched the whisper and spat out.

"Just one," Olaf raised his blades as he saw a shaw formin round the corner.

"Same here," the second word raised to a yell as smoke started to trail out of the tunnels in whisps followed by one kobold from each direction, each wrapped in dozens of stills of dwarven blsting sticks, multiple fuses burning fast and filling the chamber with sparks and smoke.

Both men dropped there swords, lunging at their assailants.  In unison they grabbed the rats, heaved them across the room and out pf the lodge.  "what the fuck, Run Nash!!" was screamed outside, followed scant seconds later by two explosions.  The hide coverings over the lodge entrance smolderered with chucks of burning flesh hitting them.

Boscoe picked up his sword, cluttered on the floor with his partner’s scimitars.  With a deft movement he slid his blade under a scimitar and with a flourish, flicked it and then the other tumbling into the air.  Barely looking, Olaf snatch each out of the air.

"Wait, really?" Olaf looked incredulous at his masked companion.  

"We’re Palladins, its whats we do," a barely concealed chuckle sliped through his accent.

They dropped to their knees, sword tips to the ground, heads bowed.

"For the glory of battle, for the honor of survival," Boscoe droned.

"In honour of the some giant beetle god to an island long sunk," Olaf said with boredom.

They stood, Boscoe wiping his blade off glaring to side.  "Some beetle god?"

"What? How the hell am I supposed to pronounce Dflyxctnla?" He sheathed his swords at his side, produced a rag and wiped the sweat from his brow.  Face paint slightly smeared.