Bjorn couldn't help but laugh when he looked at the castle from afar. It looked more like a haunted ruin than a noble's castle. He half-expected he'd find some skaven or a necromancer skulking about.
The walls were abandoned. The roads were in disrepair, though the sharp-eyed Norseman could see two figures approaching the castle on foot from the hill he was on. One of them was definitely dwarf sized. The wind beat against the whole landscape like it harbored some hatred for it. The walls were a mess, the moat was pathetic, and the takeaway was clear: if the man who owned this place had any real wealth, he'd have spent it maintaining this place.
The Norseman's laughter faded. A flat frown settled on his jaw, and a look of cold malice one normally associated with warriors of Chaos overtook his face. He was always happy to hire on with would-be adventurers or to find himself a fight, but this was starting to bode ill. Bjorn felt like his time was being wasted. He did not like having his time wasted.
No matter. The mercenary set his axe on his shoulder and started marching on down toward the ruins. His smile returned: there were some high windows in the dilapidated castle, so he could always chuck the owner out a window if this was a farce.
The path on down was quicker, if a little more slippery. It beat taking the longer route along the road, and Bjorn had the stamina for it. His impression of the place didn't get any better as he came to the door. If there was a watchman, he wasn't there anymore. Bjorn wondered if he was walking into a trap, so he pulled his shield off from over his back and started heading inside. Necromancers were a tricky lot.
As he stepped inside the castle, he heard the sound of footsteps. He followed them, eyeing his surroundings warily as he went. It seemed there was some semblance of life in the place, like someone tried to live in the ruins...
And that is when the Norseman heard a loud, dwarven voice shout "GROBI!"
Bjorn didn't know much about dwarves. However, he knew a word of hatred when he heard it. He had several of his own. What's more, he'd only ever heard that word spat when greenskins were around.
The giant man began bulldozing through the hall, knocking over a rusty suit of armor with a crash, crushing the remains of a termite-ridden end table with his feet. He burst into the room, sending the door flying off its hinges in splinters, and he saw the dwarf and the hobgoblin posturing against each other. Bjorn knew who he would pick for an ally.
"OI! Drop that damned pigsticker of yours, you green runt!" snarled the Norseman, standing up to his full height and pointing his axe at the greenskin. The skull on his armor gleamed in the torchlight, and he growled down to the dwarf, "We'll not be killed by any goblin ambush today, half-man."
Little Bill