The ornate, adamant-bound stone gate buckled once again. The dwarven cohort readied themselves for the slaughter. The crossbowmen reloaded their repeating crossbows, others tied bandages around wounds, and still others prayed to Dathlus for courage. The remaining Deepguard put back on their masked helmets and re-braided their beards. The last two golems towered at the front of the ruined hall, their shadows elongated in the light from the flickering torches mounted on the carven pillars; facing their coming demise with emotionless calm. The great doors shuddered as a numberless amount of those cursed Underborn threw themselves at it. A ferocious, deep, roar was heard by the dwarves. The Cursed Ones had a troll. The arch above the gates read in the dwarven runes: Kharad-Thavarik, great and noble stronghold of Paragon Thavarad and Kjorzam clan.
Newly instated Commander Haløndrid Kjorzam wiped the black ichor of the Underborn from his red beard. He stumped over to a group of dwarf warriors who were binding wounds and broken limbs, and sharpening their blades for the final assault.
"Hostir," Haløndrid said in his deep bass voice, "how much longer do you believe we can hold?"
Hostir stood up, ikvarûr (a hammer pole-arm) in hand, and saluted his commander.
"Commander, they are so many, and we to few. We will not survive another breach of the gates; there is no where to flee. If we were to abandon our posts the monsters will sweep through and slaughter all the bôlaigs. This kharad is the only wise place to hold off the Spawn of Filth. Mine only advice is to done your helm of war, Commander."
Haløndrid nodded, "That I shall, captain. Make your prayers, Hostir, ask Dathlus to watch your wife and son; be glad Fortune gave you a son." he turned to the rest of the cohort, "Dwarves, ready yourselves! The final battle falls upon our shoulders. Make thine selves ready!"
The dwarven company rushed to their positions behind the barricades of metal spikes, crates, and the corpses of the fallen. Haløndrid, clad in his heavy, geometric, plate armor, donned his masked helm; his face becoming that of a stern, adamantine, composure. He walked to the front of the chamber where the two golems stood like two eternal statues.
"Golems, tell me how many Underborn did you count in the last charge?" Haløndrid ordered, thumping one on the adamantine flank with his hammer.
"I saw four hundred and thirty-seven Cursed Ones retreat from their last assault. They have a troll with them. Our numbers are fifty-four plus us golems. Any further engagement with the Underborn will result in our demise. Awaiting orders, Commander." the golem spoke in a deep, metallic monotone. Haløndrid marched back behind the barricades; he turned to his men, raising his voice and crying out:
"Prepare thine selves, O Sons of Kjorzam, the hour draws nigh! Pray to the wise Ældrarir, braid your beards, put on the clan-rings and clan-medallions! The bastard spawn of heathen gods are crashing against our gates like the waves of a dark sea, wishing to overwhelm us and drag us all into depth and darkness! But ye shall say 'No! I am a son of great fathers, one of the Khazadi of the Deep and follower of the Wise Crafters! I will stand like a man, like the Paragons of old! I will make a stand here like the very stone of the mountains! My cry shall be Victory and Death!' So come! Let the hall of Thavarad Basilisks' Bane flow with Underborn blood once again!"
The hall shook as the dwarves roared and shouted, banging the shafts of their ikvarûr against the filthy stone floor. The great doors to the chamber were hit by a mighty blow, they buckled, and gave in; falling to earth with a thunderous crash. The horde of twisted orcs and gorrlocs swarmed in through the broken gateway. The dwarves shouted, charging into the sea of monsters.
Morgrill picked his way through the dark chamber, carefully stepping over the multitude of corpses that littered the floor of the once great hall. Other Nameless moved about nearby, searching the bodies of the slain dwarves. Urikk slipped up beside Morgrill.
"It appears the civilians had been evacuated before the attack. They also had with them near fifty Runed Golems. The original size of the Underborn force, counting the ones we slaughtered, looks near seven hundred."
"Thank you, Urikk. Of what clan were they of?" Morgrill asked. Urikk stooped over, his scratched armor clanking as he did so. Taking a clan-ring from the mutilated hand of a dwarf, Urikk straightened, squinting at the runes on the adamant band.
"Kjorzam clan, sire, this one looks to be a high ranking commander and Deepguard."
Morgrill stood in the gloom, brooding.
"Kjorzam is failing, they have forsaken most of their kharads and bôlaigs. Now," he turned to his companion, "gather the men. We are moving on; the Cursed Ones cut their way deeper into Khazad-Dinün territory with every passing day."
The Nameless outcasts regrouped and marched silently from the hall, into shadow and war.
Newly instated Commander Haløndrid Kjorzam wiped the black ichor of the Underborn from his red beard. He stumped over to a group of dwarf warriors who were binding wounds and broken limbs, and sharpening their blades for the final assault.
"Hostir," Haløndrid said in his deep bass voice, "how much longer do you believe we can hold?"
Hostir stood up, ikvarûr (a hammer pole-arm) in hand, and saluted his commander.
"Commander, they are so many, and we to few. We will not survive another breach of the gates; there is no where to flee. If we were to abandon our posts the monsters will sweep through and slaughter all the bôlaigs. This kharad is the only wise place to hold off the Spawn of Filth. Mine only advice is to done your helm of war, Commander."
Haløndrid nodded, "That I shall, captain. Make your prayers, Hostir, ask Dathlus to watch your wife and son; be glad Fortune gave you a son." he turned to the rest of the cohort, "Dwarves, ready yourselves! The final battle falls upon our shoulders. Make thine selves ready!"
The dwarven company rushed to their positions behind the barricades of metal spikes, crates, and the corpses of the fallen. Haløndrid, clad in his heavy, geometric, plate armor, donned his masked helm; his face becoming that of a stern, adamantine, composure. He walked to the front of the chamber where the two golems stood like two eternal statues.
"Golems, tell me how many Underborn did you count in the last charge?" Haløndrid ordered, thumping one on the adamantine flank with his hammer.
"I saw four hundred and thirty-seven Cursed Ones retreat from their last assault. They have a troll with them. Our numbers are fifty-four plus us golems. Any further engagement with the Underborn will result in our demise. Awaiting orders, Commander." the golem spoke in a deep, metallic monotone. Haløndrid marched back behind the barricades; he turned to his men, raising his voice and crying out:
"Prepare thine selves, O Sons of Kjorzam, the hour draws nigh! Pray to the wise Ældrarir, braid your beards, put on the clan-rings and clan-medallions! The bastard spawn of heathen gods are crashing against our gates like the waves of a dark sea, wishing to overwhelm us and drag us all into depth and darkness! But ye shall say 'No! I am a son of great fathers, one of the Khazadi of the Deep and follower of the Wise Crafters! I will stand like a man, like the Paragons of old! I will make a stand here like the very stone of the mountains! My cry shall be Victory and Death!' So come! Let the hall of Thavarad Basilisks' Bane flow with Underborn blood once again!"
The hall shook as the dwarves roared and shouted, banging the shafts of their ikvarûr against the filthy stone floor. The great doors to the chamber were hit by a mighty blow, they buckled, and gave in; falling to earth with a thunderous crash. The horde of twisted orcs and gorrlocs swarmed in through the broken gateway. The dwarves shouted, charging into the sea of monsters.
Morgrill picked his way through the dark chamber, carefully stepping over the multitude of corpses that littered the floor of the once great hall. Other Nameless moved about nearby, searching the bodies of the slain dwarves. Urikk slipped up beside Morgrill.
"It appears the civilians had been evacuated before the attack. They also had with them near fifty Runed Golems. The original size of the Underborn force, counting the ones we slaughtered, looks near seven hundred."
"Thank you, Urikk. Of what clan were they of?" Morgrill asked. Urikk stooped over, his scratched armor clanking as he did so. Taking a clan-ring from the mutilated hand of a dwarf, Urikk straightened, squinting at the runes on the adamant band.
"Kjorzam clan, sire, this one looks to be a high ranking commander and Deepguard."
Morgrill stood in the gloom, brooding.
"Kjorzam is failing, they have forsaken most of their kharads and bôlaigs. Now," he turned to his companion, "gather the men. We are moving on; the Cursed Ones cut their way deeper into Khazad-Dinün territory with every passing day."
The Nameless outcasts regrouped and marched silently from the hall, into shadow and war.
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