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“Silly boy,” Bruenor growled as he cut the youth’s legs out from under him. “Ain’t ye never been told not to hit a dwarf on the head?” The youth desperately tried to regain his footing, but Bruenor slammed an iron shield into his face. “Eight!” roared the dwarf as he stormed away in search of number nine. But he looked back for a moment over his shoulder to consider the fallen youth, shaking his head at the waste of one so tall and straight, with intelligent eyes to match his physical prowess, a combination uncommon among the wild and ferocious natives of Icewind Dale.
But Catti-brie was not intimidated and did not back down. “What indeed?” she echoed. “Do you think that you hold it all in your oversized hands for no better reason than what you hold in your pants?”
“Battle cry?” the halfling exclaimed. “That is an old barbarian housemother’s curse, usually reserved for adulterous old barbarian housefathers.” The drow’s lavender eyes narrowed on the barbarian as Regis continued. “It means: May the fleas of a thousand reindeer nest in your genitals.”
