The Last Stand of Iron Boar the Invincible

Iron Boar the Invincible regarded the fallen mouse. The tiny grey furred body twisted on its side in a dusty corner of the tavern. Stomach bloated, eyes squeezed half-closed, pink tail curled. Iron Boar had no way of telling what did it. Was it old age? Poison? Did another mouse sneak up and snap its tiny neck?

Or perhaps it died in the same humiliating way that he fell victim to: choking on a measly piece of food?

The thought that he, the Champion of the Blood Gauntlet and Slayer of the Mountain Troll Glarg-Marg, would share the same fate as a measly rodent, was more demoralizing than losing the thirty year war.

But he wasn't the greatest warrior in all the lands now, not anymore. Now he was just a haunting specter of this shit hole tavern, in some far sprung corner of the lands of Nor.

He was just meant to be passing through here when he stopped by for a quick meal at the tavern. And in truth, it was very quick. Iron Boar was so starved that he inhaled an entire porkchop bone into his gullet, and it got lodged there. For a few brief moments he remembers lying on his back, hands grasping his neck and seeing the warrying eyes of the other patrons.

The next moment he was floating above his body, peering down at his fierce visage. His orc tusks in his lower jaw protruding out more fiercely with the pork bone sticking out of it. The mohawk of blood red hair which gave him his name seemed still stood tall, and his muscular frame still mighty. Yet the expression of terror on his face, made him feel ill. He gazed about, all the patrons were staring down at his dead body, but not at him now. He gazed down at his body now, it was a spectral echo of the one that lied on the floorboards now. He seemed to have no legs, and his body was all smoky and vapor. Only the finest of outlines showed him his muscles now.

And he felt like he was floating there in place. 

Then he heard the distant beats of collective drums. A light shined on him then, and gazing up he saw an open doorway bathed in firelight. Beyond it he saw blurred images, strong silhouettes seated at a table, tankards and meat sticks in hand. He heard the distant drumbeats of that place. The Halls of Tulrok. Where all great warriors went to dine and revere after death.

Warriors were only granted access to said halls after a lifetime of warriorhood. They would sit around eating amidst a dining table seated with history's finest warriors, sharing battle tales one after another. But the most revered stories were the ones that the warriors died. That last battle, where the warrior gave everything, they had and died doing so. They would be cheered then, respected. One had to have a worthy tale to bring with them to the halls of Tulrok or risk the opportunity to be ridiculed for all of eternity.

He looked at his corpse again. The pork bone sticking out of his jaw like claiming victory. This is no warrior’s death.

The Great Iron Boar fled from the light to a shadowy corner of the tavern. He stayed there huddled until the drums receded, and the doorway faded from existence.

And in that corner, he remained. He watched his corpse being heaved out by at least eight men. Then he stayed there for several days. If you ask him now, he will leave out the part of him crying, whimpering like a lost puppy, of questioning, of praying to gods he knew not the names of. He would not mention how scared he was. How alone and pathetic he felt.

He would eventually move, only to try to leave the place. He found that if he willed it, he could move through the walls. And through them he stepped out of the tavern to be met with nothing but a dense fog and utter coldness. He stepped back. He tried another wall but the same result.

Iron Boar was stranded here.

Thirst did not beckon him. Hunger did not pain him. The joy of all these things, and most importantly, of battle and glory, were denied to him. He would no longer hear anyone remark on his strength, his size, his fierce mug. Even if he waved his massive hands over their faces or screamed at the top of his mighty lungs. He even tried to punch one or two, but he simply phased through them.

Was this how the great Iron Boar going to spend the afterlife? Just a pathetic ghostly echo of who he once was?

On one desperate night, Iron Boar stood in front of the tavern owner as he cleaned tankards, swinging his fists wildly and screaming in every language he knew (which was just the one). Suddenly the tankard was knocked out of the tavern owner's hands and skittered across the floor. He and Iron Boar stared at it in surprise.

"What the blazes?" the man had said as he looked all about. The rest of the tavern had perked up and stared at him quizzically.

Iron Boar looked at his fist and had an idea then.

Finding that with even focused concentration, he could interact with the physical word, Iron Boar began to practice doing so. Humans still seemed to be off limits, but with enough willpower Iron Boar could knock over plates or tankards or anything really. The larger the object the harder.

He started by flicking utensils up and into the faces of the patrons.

Then he moved up and began to smack tankards out of the hands of the patrons. Then begin to flip over their plates or kick their chairs out from under them. He was especially fond of doing all of this to the tavern owner himself. A sweet revenge over serving him that pork bone that cost him his life.

The Tavern Owner simply cursed the dust pixies and sprites. Even though some of his patrons were leaning towards a ghost haunting the place, he continued to deny it.

Just more motivation to haunt him further.

Once the tavernkeeper had left for the night, Iron Boar practiced trying to lift a tankard up without knocking it over. It took a tremendous amount of concentration, and just lifting one up and back down again took all his strength. A strange fatigue took him over then, as if he had just fought through an entire battlefield.

He would have to train at this then. And so, he did. For several late mornings he lifted and lifted. He would experiment by stacking the tankards atop of each other in a precarious manner that required a finesse he was not used to on the battlefield. One late morning he decided to reveal his work by moving all the tankards from the back counter and onto the front, stacking them as if they formed the wall of some great barricade.

Despite all the fear in all his opponent's eyes over the years, he had never actually seen anyone scream like a banshee until the tavern owner walked in that morning to see his finished work.

With this newfound ability he returned to his routine of terror. One night he began to lift the tankards out of people's hands, floating them delicately above their heads and then pouring them over. He would grab their utensils from them and mash their food together before trying to feed them. Sometimes he would yank on the back of their cloaks just as they sat down.

One special night involved the boar fur rug near the fireplace. A fitting design, given his title. Iron Boar waited for one night when the tavern was specifically packed and had spent the better part of the week not bothering the patrons so as to make it seem as if the dastardly ghost had disappeared.

Then he grabbed onto the corners of the boar rug, and ran through the tavern hoisting the boar pelt like a war banner flapping over him. The instantaneous screaming and chaos that ensued was the closest that Iron Boar had felt to being back on the battlefield.

The tavern was declared haunted after that incident. The Tavern Owner reluctantly closed it down for a whole day so a Cleric could come in and cleanse the place of any foul spirits. Iron Boar stood near his place of death like a warrior waiting for the enemy to cross the battle lines when the cleric walked into the tavern. The man stopped, and for a second Iron Boar thought the man could see him, but instead, the man reached into his belt and pulled a chained incense pot which he lit. Then he proceeded to move about the tavern, swinging it like a pair of loose balls Boar thought, and proceeded to recite prayers in a language Boar did not understand.

If any of that was meant to do anything, Iron Boar could not tell. The incense smelt like shit, and the words were annoying, but other than that Iron Boar did not feel exorcised in the slightest.

He did wait to kick the incense pot until the tavern keeper returned, however. Just to make his point.

More clerics came then, while at first Iron Boar treated them as worthy adversaries, he grew bored of them quickly and tried to scare them off quicker.

The Tavern Keeper had to open the tavern again eventually. Boar noticed that he only had a dismal number of patrons, so keeping it closed for so long was no doubt hard on him. However, when he did re-open there was a wave of new patrons. All of them excited to see this supposedly haunted tavern, to be fed to by the ghost or even to have their stool knocked from underneath them.

Iron Boar grinned widely at his newfound fame.

His antics got wild and wilder. He carried stools with patrons still sitting in them across the entire floor. He juggled several dishes at once before letting them crash to the floor. He would make towers out of the tankard cups. All of this earned him a roar of applause. He no longer sought to scare individuals, instead soaking up their adoration.

Business was booming so much that the tavern keeper made several new adjustments. He got cushioned seats for everyone to sit on. There were small statues and fancy carvings put into the corner. Even when Boar broke these it did not seem to bother him and more came in their place. The boar rug that once flew like a banshee through the wind was now pinned and framed like a trophy above the fireplace (which was newly stacked). It seemed as if the Tavern Keeper was now encouraging Iron Boar's antics, no longer terrified or annoyed at them.

It was then that Iron Boar began to sour. And he refused to perform then.

It felt empty. Their applause meant nothing to him now. And he felt the bigger fool, that the Tavern Keeper was able to profit off of his actions. Looking back, Iron Boar realized the crowd was never cheering him on, not really. They were just cheering on some unseen ghost that they did not even know the proper title too.

Their adoration, while amusing at first, did not hold a torch to the thrills of the battlefield. Their cheers were mute compared to the cheers of the Blood Stadium where Iron Boar earned his title. One that he kept for so long that he eventually forgot his birthname.

This depressed Iron Boar back to his shadowy corner, where he lay while the tavern around him began to slowly change around him. The decorations remained, but the patrons dwindled back down to the measly regulars that used to populate this old haunt. Seeing the tavern keeper in such down spirits was a small boon for Iron Boar. But only a tiny one.

Iron Boar began to just pace around the tavern then. Occasionally out of sheer boredom he would knock over a tankard or two, which would drum up some interest from the outside world, but never enough. The thrills of that cheap crowd were nothing compared to the thrill of the battlefield. And now a spectral spirit, Boar would never return to those fields. He would never join the Halls of Tulrok and revel with his fellow warriors.

He gazed back down at the dead mouse once more. Instead of disgust, he felt a pang of sympathy, and even empathy for the small rodent. He placed a tattooed fist on his chest in a salute. He hoped that the soul of this mouse would find rest. Perhaps in a field of bread and cheese. 

The panicked voice of the Tavern Keeper caused him to turn then. His eyes widened when he saw a pointed blade at the man’s throat.

"Give me all of your coin old man," the bandit growled, "And I'll leave that ugly mug of yours attached to your shoulders."

The other patrons hid under their tables while two other bandits ransacked the expensive tapestry and sculptures.

A familiar fire sparked in Iron Boar then. One that he thought was long gone. Before he knew it, he reached for a tankard and chucked it at the head of the first bandit. The man staggered back, eyes blazing fire as he searched, “Who the blazes threw that?”

Iron Boar answered with another tankard to his dome. The third one the man managed to deflect. And soon the two of them were dueling. Tankard to steel as Iron Boar began to unload upon him.

"My ghost has returned!" The tavern keeper hollered out, followed by the hoots and cheers of the other patrons.

“Enchanter!” The bandit bellowed out, his head gesturing to the Tavern Keeper as he deflected another thrown object. That time it was a steak knife, “Get the enchanter!”

Iron Boar glared at the Tavern Keeper; he wasn’t about to let him take all the credit. He reached back but realized he had emptied the bar, then he saw the mouse. The thought of possession oddly crawled back into his head, then he dove.

The lack of flying dishes made it easier for the bandits to move forward. So much so that the first one did not realize the mouse scurrying across the countertop, not until it launched itself with a war cry of ‘SQUEEEEEEEAK!” and clamped its tiny claws and fangs onto his nose. 

The man swung wildly to and fro, screaming as he dropped his sword, hands clawing at his own face. He managed to smack Iron Mouse off him, only for the great warrior to crawl up his pantlegs, find his family’s jewels, and sink his teeth into them.

That was the second time Iron Boar ever heard a man scream like a banshee.

The measly crowd of regulars were hooting and hollering from behind their tables. The bandits seemed confused as they gazed about for other rodents. "He's summoning the spirits of the night; there is an evil spirit here!" cried one of the bandits.

Iron Boar was then pulled from the man’s breeches, and his soul launched out of the mouse’s corpse as the man crushed the rodent in his grasp. 

His fatigue was growing then, and he knew that he was only going to be able to do one last thing. The expressions of terror on the bandit’s faces meant they were almost defeated, so he had to do something big.

That was when he saw the boar pelt mounted on the fireplace.

Floating up quickly, Iron Boar ripped it off the mantle, then allowed it to fall straight into the fireplace, before lifting it up once more like a banner heading into his last battle. He cried a war cry, waving it above his head as he soared around the three bandits. Now they were all screaming like banshees, dropping their swords and fleeing out of the tavern.

Fatigue overtook him, and the rug fell through his corporal form as he stood there. Not panting, but exhausted. Embers falling around him. The crowd was cheering for their long-lost ghost. But the Tavern Keeper was staring at him. Right at him.

Iron Boar looked him in the eye and then realized that the Tavern keeper could see him just then.

"You…" the Tavern Keeper whispered just loud enough for the orc to hear.

Iron Boar grinned and then he heard the distant drums. heard the loud cries and laughter coming from behind him, and when he turned, he saw the door to the Halls of Tulrok floating before him. The silhouettes around the impossibly long tables visible once more.

Before leaping to join his fellow warriors and enthralling them with the tale of his last stand, he turned one last time to the Tavern Keeper, raising his mighty fists into the air in triumph.

"I AM IRON BOAR THE INVINCIBLE!!!"