Dear Glormel,

I read your last letter, and I know all too well about the plights of hiring these days. I’ve had more than my fair share of drunkards, good-for-nothings and fools working in my warehouse. My advice is; hire lizardfolk. They’re as big as any man you’ll find and they’re immensely strong. They don’t ask for much either, so you can pay them near-enough as little as you want. They aren’t the smartest, though. You’ll find you have to use simple instructions a lot, and keep an eye on them and make sure they’re not doing things all wrong. But that’s a price worth paying in my book. Anyway, best of luck with the factory.

Raney

A letter to a friend – Raney Bossler

Groxx was seven feet and sixteen stone of laurel-green scales and muscle. Maybe eighteen if I include his tail. His eyes were a vibrant yellow that jumped out from the dark-green colouration of his face. Atop his head and around his jaw spiny scales stood out almost like hairs. Franco had seen his sort before, and was not dissatisfied to have him on-side. The Eda brothers were another matter. Clyde Eda was the smaller of two; a shrewd looking man with close set eyes, a pinched nose and a receding dull-brown hairline. His close-fitting leather armour was dyed black and a dirk hung from his hip. Franco’s father had always told him never to trust a clean-shaven man, and he was not inclined to trust this one either. Harrey Eda was more respectful looking; barrel chested, heavy arms, iron bastard-sword slung over his back, thick beard. If he hadn’t been born with shite for brains I might have almost been happy he was here. But he was. And I’m not. Franco made a note not to trust him any more than he would the shrewd one.

Next was Mag the archer; not a young woman, but a strong one. Her face bore hard features, her expression stern. A tough demeanour granted by a tough life. Her onyx-black hair was a practical length and kept in a ponytail so as not to get in the way. She wore doeskin trousers and shoes, and over her cloth shirt a bearskin vest. I wonder if she’d kill, skin and sew me something, if I asked nicely. Kherrin was the final member of the escort, now wearing his steel-plate vest, ringmail tassets and ornate morion helmet, astride his riding pony. All together and mounted up, they almost looked respectable.

“All right. Count me in” called Franco.

“Har,” Kherrin barked back, “I know you Franco. I’ve already bought ye a pony. Saddle up while we wait for the merchants.”

The square by the Field’s Gate in the north of the city was filled with merchants, travellers, soldiers and just about every other kind of folk. As such, it took Kherrin’s several patrons a while to get organised. An older Dwarven gentleman and his son came with three wagons filled with salted and pickled foodstuffs, and assistants enough to do most of the legwork. A human man and wife brought a couple of wagons loaded with various silks, skins, velvets and other expensive and colourful cloths, but only the one aid. Next up were two kenku, or bird-folk, with two wagons and no assistants. Whether there was some loose theme or rule deciding the manner of goods the kenku carried, Franco could not discern it. There were a couple of mismatched pieces of armour, a dagger or two, some children’s dolls, a small collection of shoes and skirts and dresses and an elephant carved from alder wood that came up to Franco’s chest. The last member to arrive was a gnome with his daughter and a single wagon, filled mostly with personal possessions alongside tools enough to fill a workshop. One and all were clients of Kherrin, and he made it clear they were to be treated as such.

With the gang all together they set off through the Fields Gate, only about an hour after they had planned to. Kherrin’s newly formed escort took up positions on horseback; a pair at the front, a pair at the back and one at either side. Franco found himself at the front beside Kherrin, he assumed not by chance. There were no dangers so close to the city. Riding past farmland, farmhouses and the occasional latifundium, the mood was relaxed.

“I’ve been meaning to ask ye something” Franco started, still getting a feel for his new pony.

It was a surefooted creature, that he was certain of. He found her grey-white coat spotted with black and her tangled mane quite charming.

“Why not take all these goods to the sea? Ferry them up the coast that way. I’m no trader mind you, but wouldn’t that be a sight quicker?”

“Quicker and deadlier. Wartime, Franco. Near-wartime I suppose. It changes everything all the same. The Altome’s naval forces are almost all at anchor along the south-coast, lest Aren’s forces take to the sea and try to come across that way.”

“Ah, it’s pirates then.”

“Pirates, and the Väahn.”

Behind them someone spat and cursed loudly. Franco turned to see the old dwarf who was driving the first of the wagons. He dressed in fine clothing; a thick fur-lined and embroidered coat and a large fur hat.

“Vile sons o’ whores those ones,” he said, “They’re not content to pillage at sea, oh no. They run their long-ships aground and raid up and down that coast. They’ll come up as far as the roads, they will. That’s why I hired you lot. Whulmar Brimm’s the name. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Franco” nodded Franco.

He took a look down the column of merchant’s wagons and hired muscle behind them.

“Far be it from me to question your decisions, but how’re six mercenaries going to stand up to an entire Väahn raiding party?”

Kherrin looked to Franco and coughed meaningfully. Mayhaps I should not have said that.

“Well Franco, that’s the beauty of calculated risk.” Whulmar Brimm really chewed on those last words. “We don’t need to be in any fit state to fight a bloodied band of Väahn screamers. We just need to present a less manageable target than the merchant caravan that only hired five mercenaries.”

“Well I certainly hope your right.”

“He is” another voice called out.

From the rear of the wagon emerged another dwarf, younger than the one at the front, slightly taller and with a leaner build.

“He’s been doing this for years, haven’t you da?”

“Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my son; Ghanmar Brimm. I’m teaching him the merchant trade. Someday might be he who hires you.”

“And I won’t need so many swords-for-hire. Not with Virimar in my heart and Ruth by my side.”

The son pulled from the wagon a two-bladed great-axe. The handle was thick and sturdy ash, bound in leather. The pommel was engraved Dwarven metal of a darkish-golden alloy. The cheek was the same, with a face carved into it with rubies for eyes. Both wedges and blades were a harder, sturdier Dwarven steel, but the gold alloy was set above the wedges in an ornate, runic pattern.

Ruth? Franco though, biting his tongue not to laugh. He’s never swung that in his life! It was a beautiful axe though, and there was no guessing how much Whulmar paid for it.

“Alright son, calm down. We’ve talked about this.” Whulmar lowered his voice to a grumble. “We see any raiders I want you in the wagon.”

“And let these hirlings have all the glory?”

Whulmar’s face reddened at that.

“Watch your tongue, boy.”

The scolding turned Ghanmar’s face just as red. Franco and Kherrin rode on as if nothing was happening, but some of the language used made even him wince a little. I wonder if I was that brash when I was his age.

“So Kherrin,” Franco started, ignoring the quarrelling father and son in the wagon behind, “you ever fought these Väahn before?”

“Once, aye. Not an experience I’m ever likely to forget.”

“That rough?"

"Rougher. The roughest. If I’d been ploughing ‘em ‘stead of fighting ‘em it would’ve been one of the best days of my life. They’re not like your average human folk, I can tell ye.”

“Any advice, in case we do meet raiders?”

“Don’t let ‘em scare you. When they’re charging like they do, all horned helmets and war-cries it’s easy to lose your head. See that you do not.”

Franco chuckled. “If I keep my head I might be able to keep my head, is that what yer saying?”

Kherrin laughed as well, though mirthlessly. “I suppose that’s the gist of it, aye.”

Tales of a warrior with flowing red hair, wielding a great and terrible golden axe and winning countless battles and unrivalled glory have been told for centuries. These warriors have had different names, and come from different folk, but all have been named – by others or by themselves – as Virimar born again.

The God of War has been reborn among us many times, seeing our mortal plane as the perfect place to quench his legendary thirst for battle, and he has inspired tales of his incomparable strength and prowess every time.

In this volume I intend to lay out a detailed history not only of every recorded rebirthing of Virimar, but also of history’s most infamous imposters. Then, by analysis, I shall call into question the validity of the conclusions delivered regarding each one. Were any of our fabled legends in fact the product of exaggeration and red hair dye? Were any of the supposed imposters possibly the God of War himself, misjudged? Through the medium of diligent research, it is my intention to find out.

A Record of the Rebirthings of Virimar – Marrig Gauthorn