At the end of Turn 4...

Within which are detailed the continuing and perplexing adventures of Thorri and Lars, as their campaign gathers momentum....

The war room of Dwaddle Delf (Dwarf Lord, Slayer of Goblins, Upholder of Grudges and general all-round top bloke) was heaving. Various burly Dwarves, beards flowing luxuriously over their belts, were rushing around trying to look busy, setting up maps, poring over maps, debating the particular merits of the maps, and even rather oddly placing rather cheap-looking pins in strategic positions on maps. It was like a cartographer’s wet dream, with added battleaxes.

Lars, Thorri thought as he entered the tent, would be in her element here. He’d woken up from another dream, this time about everything he’d ever known and loved perishing while a cackling man with a Filofax and a yacht jiggling naked about them, and decided to pay Lars a visit in her new and rather narratively useful role of Chief Information Gatherer. He pushed through the throngs of dwarves, wondering if any of them had ever heard of a shower. He looked around three of the tent’s walls, before finally spotting her perched on a tiny stool with a map spread out on the trestle table in front of her.

“Oh, you’re up, are you,” she said as he approached, never taking her eyes off the map. “Thought you’d be a while longer sleeping off that hangover.”

“Hangover?”

“Yes, the one you must have had after drinking so much ale with that Bjorni Bjornisnephew last  night. Forgetting all about me, of course, just to go gallivanting off with that tart instead.”

Thorri saw that her fingers were curled around the handle of her hammer, and decided to let “gallivanting” go just this once. Hammer blows to the head often hurt, he’d discovered.

“I thought Bjorni was a boy,” he said instead.

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Lars snapped at him.

Thorri sighed. “Women,” he may have said, if Dwarvish culture conformed to the same narrow stereotypes as human culture so often did. And if his own culture didn’t see the slightest grievance as worthy of violent grudge-related death, of course.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “But look, I’ve bought you something to make up for it.” He reached into his pocket and bought forth a fistful of sharp metallic objects. “Those pins you asked for.”

She took them, all traces of anger vanished. “Awesome,” she said. “Just what I needed.” She began to stick them onto the map, which, Thorri noticed now his life wasn’t in immediate peril, smelt faintly of brown sauce.

“See,” she said as she worked, all enthusiasm now that Bjorni Bjornisnephew had been dismissed, “now I can visually represent what’s been happening in this campaign instead of having to rely on gyrocopter reports for everything. Look-“ She pointed towards the left hand corner of the map. “The Empire blokes have been moving along the Pass of the Dead towards these other humans, the ones with the Tilean accents and funny hats, who’ve garrisoned the Black Tower here. And the Wood Elves- you know, the hippy elves, those ones- they’ve crossed the Blighted River and are moving towards the Empire and Karak Varn.”

“Wow,” Thorri said. “I’d imagine Lord Dwaddle has declared a grudge on them for that.”

Lars nodded. “Naturally,” she said. “And we’ve been moving towards the Tainted Peaks- lots of wyrdstone there, everyone living there has webbed feet and twelve fingers, just like Norwich-

“Norwitch?” Thorri interjected.

Lars nodded again. “Yes, you know, Norwitch, the town where that witch lived who kept mutating people. Do keep up, dear, it’s tiresome having to explain everything. Now,” she continued, pointing to some yellow pins moving towards them. “These skeleton things have been coming towards us, chanting something about Sphinxes or Sphincters or something, and so obviously we’ve-“

“Declared a Grudge on them as well,” Thorri said.

“Precisely.” Lars moved her hand towards some goldish pins. “And these Bretonnians are moving towards the Lake, on horseback, would you believe?”

“Grudge?”

“Grudge.” Lars nodded again. “And then, up here, near the Sumpted Bogs and the Crater of Wailing Dead, those odd ogres who keep talking about building walls, the Lizardmen, and the stupid pink goblins are all facing off against each other. And down here in the jungle, the High Elves- they’re the ones who keep talking about TS Eliot and how awful modern society is- they tried to fight off some other Undead at the Crimson River but, well, didn’t. So now these Undead-“

“Different ones from those attacking us?”

“Yes, but they didn’t used to be,” Lars said. “Anyway, they’ve basically taken over the whole river as well as a load of jungle, and there are loads of them.” She shrugged. “Obviously, we’ve declared a grudge on them too.”

“Right. Well then,” Thorri said, turning to face the fourth side of the tent, which had been decorated in a pattern of bricks and mortar, “that explains everything that’s gone on in our campaign so far. I hope everyone’s enjoyed it so far, and-“

Lars put her hand on his arm. “Wait,” she said. “Who are you talking to?”