Kell’s bar falls silent as three mighty trollkin walk in, the lead clad in heavy armour formed from the bones of fallen beasts and a deep blue tartan with yellow accents. A massive, curved blade is sheathed on his back, contrasting with the two battle axes each of his guards carry. They approach the bar, their many scars becoming more evident as they lean warily against the counter and order Kell’s finest ale. They casually quaff the stuff and, when conversations in the bar resume, the lead trollkin leans towards Kell, and whispers in a gravel tone: “Ah heard ye coods help wi’ uir gatur problem.”
Thus did you find yourselves sharing the now cramped secret room under the bar with three large trollkin, each one dwarfing even Brass in his full armour. Kell comes down the stairs having just closed up the bar for the night, bringing in a keg and fair number of mugs for the meeting.
“Aam Hamish Stonebreaker,” says the lead trollkin, shaking anyone’s hand who’s willing, “Chieftain ay th’ Trollbluid kriel movin’ intae th’ Ecrivain Swamp.” He’ll down a mug of ale and then continue, “Here’s mah problem: th’ swamp is haunted by thes a nastae gatur, doesnae loch us movin’ in. Mah kriel is tired ay war an’ thes is th’ most remote place we can fin’ tae move in, but noo we’re in a war ay attrition against undeid abominations an’ it doesnae look guid.” The table creaks as he places two hamfists on it and leans toward you, “Every time we kill them, they jist gie back up ur reappear, slowly bringin’ doon uir numbers an’ drivin’ us it. At thes point, Ah dont think we hae th’ muscle tae drife them it.” By this point, its evident to all of you that he’s battle weary, “It looks loch we’re gonnae need tae kill them aw at ance tae make sure nane ay them is aroond tae bring’em back.”