Poor oxen, so easily destroyed. Sit down, fair adventurers, and listen to my tale of one ox who would not be the dinner of an ogre!
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Bessie, the Giant-Slaying Beast of Burden
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It was as cold a day as any other in the middle of Febra, some sixteen years ago or so. Snow covered the ground outside Haven Castle, and a chill, biting wind blew in from the woodlands to the south.
A lone dwarf stood at the entrance to the iron mine, recently infested with ogres. His black beard, freshly braided and neatly groomed hung down over the polished black copper plate that he wore, covering up the symbol of Dorand and the insigna of the Sunderstone clan. There was a brief flicker of light as the dwarf struck a tindertwig against the rough steel of his gauntlet, and the calming, pleasing aroma of Plains Exceptional emanated from his mahogany pipe which hung from his mouth, quite concealed by the open faced helm he wore.
Behind him, his ox gave a rather impatient moo, stepping up beside the dwarf and bumping him rather gently, urgently, in the side with her large, innocent-looking head. There was some manner of intelligence in those dark brown eyes, or so the dwarf thought. The ox was his companion, his best friend, as well as his ore cart.
"Aye," the dwarf grumbled, "It's about time we be gettin' on with our business." The dwarf enjoyed puffing on his pipe for a few more minutes before dumping the remnants of the leaf into the snowbank, before marching towards the caverns, rope leading the ox behind him.
The dwarf was a younger Turor Sunderstone, famous (and perhaps infamous) dwarven resident of Mistone whom caused more trouble than likely he was worth. Not that he minded, or cared for that matter. His ox's name was Bess, and he had kept her alive for more than a dozen trips into the various mines located near Hlint. It was a matter of pride, now, that Turor's ox was still with him, considering the perils he had single-handedly faced head on time and time again.
The first steps into the caverns were welcome as ever; the whistling chill that blew outside didn't make it past the initial few bending tunnels just past the entrance, and the mine itself seemed to have an eerie kind of warmth provided by the large furnaces on the lower levels, located near the veins of iron ore that Turor so strongly craved. He nearly found himself drooling at the thought of all that raw metal just waiting to be extracted, and so he began the longer trek deeper into the mine.
As he marched on, experience taught him well enough where the ogres would be waiting to ambush, and where the chieftain would tell them to congregate. The first room, some kind of sentry or warning room, was always the easiest; they were never ready for the dwarf's sudden fury. Tying the ox to a stalagmite, Turor burst through the stone door, his heavy warhammer felling two ogres in quick succession with co-ordinated strikes to the knees and skulls. He didn't waste much time here, either, for rarely does Turor concern himself with the personal affects of ogres while on his mining expeditions.
The next few batches of ogres had heard the commotion that Turor had caused (he was never known for his skill at being stealthy and unheard) and were a bit more prepared, but as before, Turor tied Bessie to a stalagmite and charged in anyways; the larger brutes took a bit more tactical skill than the smaller, weaker, runtier members of the ogre congregation. In the end, of course, Turor prevailed, relatively unharmed, and thanks to the plucky use of a few healing potions, he was on his way again.
In the hotter depths of the mine, Turor found less and less young, runty ogres, and more and more larger brutes carrying keen swords and giant battleaxes. Despite their obvious might, Turor found only a little trouble in dispatching the predictable, slow witted beasts. There were enough of them at one point to provide Bessie with an alternative 'carpeting' to warm her poor, cold feet.
The furnace room was likely the most difficult of the expedition. All those years ago, the chieftain had thought the ogre mages to be expendable, and thus left one or two to guard the iron ore. These were not overly intelligent ogre mages, and as compared to other more crafty ogre mages within the lands, the Haven ogre mages could be considered quite beyond stupid. But, stupid or not, they did know how to cast spells, and after two blasts of freezing cold energy, Turor's beard was quite thoroughly frosted, and much of his plate mail was covered in a blanket of ice, quickly melting thanks to the heat of the nearby furnace. Strangely enough, Bess had managed to avoid the blast of sudden cold.
Turor finished the ogres off with calculated swings and a strong shield arm. It took a great many more potions of healing to keep the dwarf on his sturdy feet this time, and Turor wasted no time in swinging his pick against the veins of iron, ready to mine his share before reinforcements would make it to the furnace room.
After packing his ox more than full, and carrying a rather heavy load himself, he began the slow, and steady job of heading back out of the mine, Bessie immediately behind him. Turor avoided many encounters with the ogres through the use of tactics such as sneaking and distraction, and was quite quickly heading towards the surface.
This use of tactics, however, would not prevent the inevitable ambush made by a group of ogres whom had come back from a hunting trip to find their comrades' dead bodies littering the floor. The dwarf was almost completely unprepared for it, though he managed to quickly enough draw forth his warhammer. Bess wasn't tied down this time, and so Turor began working so as to protect his ox.
And then, in an almost inexplicable move made by the ox, Bessie let out a fearsome war-moo, and charged one of the bigger ogres ambushing them. The ogre took a swing at the ox with his large sword but Bessie managed to duck out of the way before slamming her front hoofs into the ogre's abdomen and driving her horns into his chest, felling the ogre right then and there.
Turor was left in such shock that he almost forgot about the impending doom of his little expedition as several more ogres stepped in to take the place of the large ogre whom was so recently and unexpectedly deceased. Bessie proved twice more that the ogre's death was no fluke, and Turor praised all the gods whose names he could think of for the blessing of some seemingly holy possessed ox of death-dealing ogre slaying.
With her help, Turor quickly managed to finish off the remaining few ogres, before leading the ox off to the surface at a hurried pace now; ever the pragmatic, he figured he wouldn't rely too heavily on a blessing that may have been a stroke of sudden and well-timed fortune.
The biting cold was as much a blessing as ever as it greeted Turor and his beast-of-burden companion head on. They both took their fair share of breaths, shared a few knowing looks, and headed on their way to Hlint. Turor had a batch of iron to craft, and a grand story to tell over several ales and perhaps a bale of hay.
