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Grungaardu the Cleric and Thief quietly tip toed up behind the wizard sitting in his laboratory drinking tea. The massive Half Orc had come to kill the foul wizard. In his hands he clutched his quarterstaff, a massive oaken weapon shod with iron on both ends. In Candlekeep, he had been the stickball champion with his great strength. He clutched one end of his staff as if it were a massive bat. Grungaardu was thankful he had bathed this morning so the smell of wet dog, the typical smell of Half Orcs, did not give him away.
The wizard sat enjoying his tea, oblivious to the danger creeping up behind him.
Gripping his staff, he leaned back, shifted his hips a bit for maximum effect, and swung for the bleachers. All of his great Orcish strength was focused in the blow, all of his rage, and every ounce of his fury.
The blunt end of the staff caught the wizard in the back of his head. His head flew from his neck, exploding into a cloud of gore from the force of the blow. His body slumped over, his delicate tea cup hit the ground and shattered. The wizard's crumpets were bathed in the river of ichor spewing from his neck.
Grungaardu was pleased. Another wizard gone. Probably a Cowlie, one of the foul spell casters that took away his sweet little sister. He was going to play Wizard Stickball every day and make all of the Cowlies pay dearly for what they had done.
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