Gloat hummed merrily as his heavy boots tore through the powdery snow. The rusted battle-axe at his side was cold to the touch, even through Gloat’s thick leather gloves. His beard stirred in the slight wind, shaking off small flakes of snow that had clung desperately to it. He was truly a sight. Decked out in a thick leather jacket, the pelt of a bear resting across his back to keep him warm as the snow slowly drifted from the heavens. His breath clouded in front of him and frosted his whiskers, but he was quite used to it. This had been Gloat and Gir's 4th trip up these mountains in the past month, and he was ever the more confident that he would confront an ogre.

Generally, one hopes to avoid such stupid, ugly creatures as an ogre, but this one had been plaguing many gatherers and hunters of the nearby dwarven village-den, and Gloat looked forward to meeting it. Ogre parts went for good money between dwarves. They believed it contained some strengthening properties, and some of the bodily fluids were even used to make some powerful mead or dwarven spirits, which was good enough an excuse to risk your life hunting for one. Ogres tended to be slow and stupid, but taking a blow from them could be a painful experience, and he was not about to challenge an ogre 6 feet taller than him with his rusted axe, that was what Gir was for.

Gir was his younger brother by about, forty years, not that much in dwarf standards, but plenty in human. His brother was an odd sort. He was adopted, as many would have guessed, and he was quite impure of blood. His mother was a human farmer, low in clan nobility, and his bastard father was a giant, and a twisted one at that for committing adultery on the human girl, but Gloat saw him as a brother still, and a damned handy one at his even height of nine feet. The two had gone adventuring for as long as they could remember. They traveled the mountain ranges high and low, doing deeds for the villagers in each town and being compensated for it with food and shelter, and the odd coin. Even though they had been building quite the reputation with the people of these mountains, the brother's craved change, and after this mission they would receive the reward of traveling with a caravan to the lower lands of chaon. The hot, dirty, hellish, bar filled, joyous lowlands.

But first thing's first, they needed to kill this ogre, and that was no easy task in it's own right. As he said earlier, ogres were strong and slow, and dreadfully hard to miss. The ideal way to kill an ogre would be to sneak up on it and put some metal in it's head before it knew what was happening, but A four foot tal, 250 pound dwarf was not an easy thing to hide, Nevermind a nine-foot tall man. No, this ogre would have to be faced head on, and in that scenario this team was the best. First they would walk down the regular path, where the other travellers usually went, and then, as the ogre confronted them, Gir would take the ogre head on, locking it up and keeping it's back open for Gloat to lodge his rusted war-axe in it's back. Gloat could only hope it goes as well as he planned, and only time would tell. The two continued to walk down the path.

"Do ye really think ye could match an ogre in strength?"

The half-giant pulled his goat skin cloak snug around the base of his thick neck, for a bitter wind picked up and was nipping at Gir like a dog would a bone. Even though he was trekking through a powdered sea, and his long, red hair and braided beard were drenched from the constant downfall of wet snow, Gir wore the smile of a young boy. Carefree and light, the way he always felt while in the mountains with his mace in hand, which was sticky to the touch due to the cold. In this icy landscape The Warbeards ruled, protecting its inhabitants for Gir's whole life. Shaking like a wild wolf would after a swim, Gir attempted to loosen the giant clumps of snow which stuck to his Fir coat, made out of many animals, and nine foot frame.

Gir could not help but shiver as the wind intensified, whistling and screaming while it bounced down the mountain pass. As much as he loved the wilderness, these mountains in particular, he could not help but wish to be in a warm tavern, trying to out-do Gloat in the many bar room activities. But most of all, Gir could not help to recall the Warbeards last encounter in these very same trails. Hired on by a nearby encampment, and promised free lodging for the brunt of the northern winter season, The brothers set out to recover a supply caravan stolen by a group of goblins. After a day's search, they came upon the small raid party of five in the dead of night, it was a quick and unchallenged victory. Using his brute strength, Gir snatched the two goblins by the fire in a giant bear hug, wrestling away the life. In turn, Gloat had the three sleeping headless, and sat eating the camps dinner leftovers before gir let the beasts fall from his grasp.

"Do ye really think ye could match an ogre in strength?"

His brother's words snapping him outta his thoughts, Gir stopped take in the question. Never having faced an ogre up-front before in his limited years of hunting, The half-giant truly did not know. After a few seconds of silence, Gir took his hair up behind his head, which he then tied into a loose ponytail. With a true belly laugh, he answered
" sure i can, yer knowin' yer brother can take down dragons in me bear hugs." with a more serious tone he added " long as ye tell me when im to grab 'em an' where."