PG 16 gore, violence, curse words
Chapter 1 - Of Gods, mortals and yordels
"It wasn't for many years that Mount Targon had life. The magic soaked rock promised long life and prosperity to those who would let loose of their mortal remains and the feelings that haunted them their entire life. Not many seeked such peace of body and mind and ignored the view far above the clouds, continuing their restless hunting through grieve and violence on the verge of existence. The winds were not mild and the rains kept coming without any further need of sunshine. The never ending cry of the runteran gods was enough to wash away all the dust beneath the souls of mortals and demigods. But as it washed away the history of all the bloodshed's it didn't put a calming breeze into the hearts of men as for their hearts will never stop pumping that war enriched fluid that is both life taker and life bringer. And it was at this sudden moment that the Gods choose to create a pupil of theirs. A warden of the broken, a bringer of peace. Someone whose light shall be seen from the Highest mountain and from the deepest sea. It was no one but Gragas, son of..."
"Are you %%%%ing kidding me?" - yelled the little figure with his squeaky voice just as he put the pint of fresh milk back on the table splashing it on his fancy gold coated armor making it look like a happy ending but his eyes told otherwise as did his jumping fur.
"You are the picture and pupil of Gods?! Your %%%%ing fat ass?" - continued the little fella now smiling from one ear to another.
"Yeah, yeah." - smiled the big old man chuging his beverage and taping his big belly.
"Well it makes sense, the old sack of fluid wheat has no blood in his body. Pure alcohol little one. The guy has no war in him he will drink you under the table and that's it what's left of you. Killed by lovely passion to the drink." - Said through his teeth caused by all the alcohol in him. Opening his mouth would cause severe vomiting. Not sever for him but all the poor people.
"Rumble you little scrap wielding weasel, what is it with your people wondering about my shameless body?" - shouted the big fat man.
"What do you mean? You could rent all the fat clusters on your belly and make a 10 room hotel for my kind." - Said the little fella in all seriousness.
A silence devoured the scene. The heartfelt warmth of the campfire was slowly fading away and the drunk buddies were too drunk to continue fueling it's flames and so the cold kicked in and warned them. But the bushes were not calm, the cold didn't bother them at all.
The moral got infused by fear.
"%%%%%%%%%%%% step out or I'll slice your mother%%%%ing throat!" - he shouted at the bush in vein.
"Hol' up fam no need to insult the bushes." - Gragas, the big one, put a hand into the bush and found a poro, left alone in this cruel world with none else but 3 drunks on the road.
"THIS IS SCHIGUMODLAZAHAR!" - The writer still confused by his %%%%%%ed name selection retreats and waits.
"It shall be our pet!" - Said the little yordle not aware of his state of mind.
"Midget, you could be his pet." - said by no other but fat man throwing the poro at the yrodle.
The poro started licking the beer from rumbles fur and by that confirming his place in the group of travelers.
And the silence once again took the scene.
ugh, just a fast sketch. Wha do you think?