Hold the Spark

They came out of dark holes in the ground,

streaming out of black caverns.

War cries on their lips,

death beats boomed on their shields,

grey dwarves marched into Mithral Hall.

Steel shod boots thumped,

iron armor grated and squeeled,

those duergar marched upon Clan Battlehammer.

Fights to the bitter end,

fierce battle uncountable,

the dwarves of Mithral Hall defended their homes and loved ones.

But,

they fell,

to a dragon of shadow,

summoned by the greed of the grey dwarves.

It came forth,

from a place found only in nightmares,

the dragon clawed, mauled and breathed,

it's jet black death breath.

Many brave dwarves,

stood their ground.

But,

they fell.

A few escaped,

battered and bloody.

With hot tears of loss,

they fled,

out of the great halls, and their homes,

they fled.

To carry the spark of hope,

left guttering,

amongst their slain kin.

A young dwarf lad,

a few orange whiskers on his chin,

grey eyes shattered with grief,

carried that spark.

With each step down the mountain,

that spark brightened.

Later to a flame.