Bohica the barbarian ( working title)

The wind rustled through the under brush as Bohica stood perched upon the ridge. She brushed
the short, curly, dark hair back out of her eyes as she watched the camp below. A caravan of merchants and mercenaries was setting up camp for the night. She stood there and watched them intently for hours her hand resting lightly upon the unwieldy hilt of her sword, marther farger. It had belonged to a wizard she knew once who had graciously shown her how to evoke its magic by
feeding it alcohol and lamp oil, then yelling the sword’s name and pulling upon the spell string
several times . Bohica had been the one destined to possess the sword, it’s magic hadn’t come
to the aid of the wizard before she killed him. Lorena the godess of women spurned had been
on her side that day, when she cought him with another woman. The sword had helped her out
of a few bad situations since then, the terrible roar of its mighty voice singing out as it hewed
through almost anything in its path. Bohica had also become quite strong just from wielding
marther farger. The balance of the blade was atrocious; all the weight in the grossly oversized
pommel, if it could be called that. The blade itself was near useless without the spell invoked
upon it the strange serration around the entire edge caused wide but shallow gashes with little
stopping power. The tip was very blunt there was no way to stab with it. Bohica had long ago
decided to carry a bastard sword strapped to her back as a reliable extra weapon.
For the moment, she kept track of who seemed to be in charge of what in the camp
below, looking for a weak spot to slip in and pilfer some trade goods for herself. Much later
that night she made her way slowly into camp. She was crawling on the ground taking
advantage of a stack of crates for cover when she came face to face with a well-worn pair of
travel boots. She tried to creep back into cover but found her way was blocked by someone
else. Whoever it was tried to grab her but she was strong enough to pull free. She dodged
around the nearest tent and beat cheeks for the hills. Just as she almost made open ground
someone caught hold of her arm and swung her into one of the tents. Her hand went to the hilt
of marther farger but the point of something sharp in the hollow of her throat stopped her cold.
She looked at her captor and relief flooded through her. It was her friend, Snafu. The elf
seemed to know when she was in trouble and showed up whenever things went wrong. He
signaled for her to stay put and put his hand to his ear. As they listened the cries of “barbarian!” and “invaders!” was replaced by “fire! The tents are on fire!” Seeming satisfied with the
distraction Snafu turned to bohica and whispered quickly, “Assholes and elbows on three.”
One, two, three.” Then he took off running. Bohica was already gone.
Later, at her own camp sight, the barbarian was stomping around and fuming at her bad
luck.