Cold. Cold is all that can be felt, and a thick wall of snow is all that can be seen. That's fine, Dwarves are well made for the cold, that's not a problem. A company of Dwarves caught in a blizzard while Elves are nearby, that's a problem. Nothing that hasn't been faced before, of course. The Dwarves of Mol Boldihr have fought Elves for many years, and fought blizzards for even longer.
"Captain Borim," calls a voice from the rear of the company. It's a voice you recognize. You turn to face it and see Sergeant Ruark come out of the snowy pall. He is clad in scale mail, slashed, dented, and worn from years of use, just as you remember. It's colored with deep blues and glimmering, silvered steel on the chest piece, and over it flutters a tabard bearing the sigil of Mol Boldhir. That was what it once looked like at least. Years of conflict have dulled the once brilliant colors of the armor, and it's beyond memory as to where the tabard went, since that's been gone for years. Looking closer at him you can still see the spot where an Elven arrow torn through the armor and into his shoulder. Brawny bastard he is, a shot like that would have easily felled a lesser dwarf.
"The mountaineers report seein' figures in the woods behind us. I told the men to hold fire for now, what do you want to do about 'um?"
Normally that wouldn't be a problem, you've dealt with Elf tactics like this before. If conditions were more favorable you'd be able to easily fight them off like you've done hundreds of times before, but this isn't normal. This doesn't feel right. The Elves usually hate the snow, that's why you're going through the mountains to get at them in the first place. Come to think of it, you can't remember a time when you've ever seen the Elves come up into the mountains. Gripping your axe close you suggest to Ruark that maybe they're just seeing things. A deer perhaps? You don't really believe it, and you can tell from the look on his face that Ruark doesn't either. With a frown he turns to the halted group of dwarves.
"Medgar, Odvin, Skudd, you're comin' with me. Get your crossbows loaded". With that Ruark waves his arm toward the rear and the group leaves your sight.
Watching him leave you grab your flask of "medicine", as you call your booze. It's a fine Dwarven brew, given to you by your family as a gift for the campaign ahead. Family may not be good for much, but you reckon a brew like this would have been well out of your price range, even for an officer. You pop off the cork and drink. It feels warm, but it's warmth like a small fire in a large hall. Your core is warmed, but you swear that if you stay out here for a hour or two more that you'll be leaving your limbs behind. The timing seems about right anyhow, looking up you can barely make out that it's almost night.
Wait, what?
You double take. It's almost night? That can't be right. You were supposed to be at Fort Toruhm in time for dinner. Putting a hand to your gut it occurs to you that that time has come and gone, and it doesn't seem like you're anywhere near the fort. A missed meal is a sore thing even for the hardiest of dwarves, but that isn't what bothers you. It is a rare thing for a dwarf to get lost. You pull out your compass, an old thing from the time your father served. Shaking the snow off of the glass surface you gaze at the needle. It is lazily spinning about in all directions. Father did say that magic had an odd habit of making the needle spin about, but what magic was there to be found in these woods? The damnable thing probably hasn't worked in years. You angrily jam it back into your pocket and look toward the company. The men are grumbling about the cold, you can hear them cursing it over the howling of the wind. You've waited too long as it is, and the only way is forward. Calling the company to advance you head further into the blizzard.
Time passes. You don't know how much, but you do know that every moment of it is bitingly cold. Suddenly a figure pushes forth from the snowy mist. You grip your axe and ready yourself. You've been waiting for something to fight.
"Captain, thank the gods I found you! I thought I'd be lost for sure in all this snow". It's just Doryn, one of the mountaineers from the vanguard. You gruffly ask him why he's here instead of his position. "Sorry, captain, but I thought I ought to tell you that we're close to the fort. Turns out that we were a bit off course, but don't worry, I got us back on track. We'll be eating warm food soon, you bet on it!". With an affirmative grunt you wave him back to the front and order the company to keep moving.
Stupid compass.
A bit more time passes and the blizzard subsides. One enemy down, you think, now the only enemy left is the dark, and dark vision means that it won't be much of a fight. You manage to crack a smile. The worst has passed, and you'll soon be warm and safe.
These are wonderful things, warmth and safety, and they're are as irregular as elves in the mountains as far as you're concerned. To be fair, the luxuries you'll be enjoying at the fort would look like poverty next to even a lesser noble, but it's good enough. A soldier should never expect too much in life, save a good deal of hardship and an eventual cold grave in a foreign land. Sometimes you wonder how you managed to get caught up in this warrior profession, then you remember: You have your father you thank for it. Dwalgar Stoneshield, professional soldier, officer, councilman, and parent on the side. Yes, you remember it all clearly now. Brother Dunarin got the job of preparing to succeed father as head of the family; brother Rornar got the government position, taking father's place on the council as our family's representative, and you, the youngest son, got the job in the military. Father had been a military son himself, so he at least had the decency to buy an officer's commission for you when you enlisted. You've been in the military ever since, and have made quite the career out of it. Now you're leading your own company against the hated Elves. Thinking about it strengthens you with a deep sense of purpose.
Captain Borim Stoneshield, that certainly sounds nice... though Commander Borim Stoneshield sounds even better. One day, perhaps. You've gotten this far, and you're only 53 years old. That may sound old in human terms, but 53 to a man is only a bit past 20 in Dwarven years. You have a long life ahead of you, barring any tragic injuries in the workplace. Yes, there are still years to gain glory and honors...
You're stirred out of your dreaming by a light. It's bright and large, like the light of a lighthouse. That's odd, there wasn't a beacon up here as long as you remember.
"Captain Borim!" stumbles a voice from the mist. As it gets closer you can see it's Doryn again. He seems rather wound up, maybe he's as surprised about the new beacon as you are...
"The fort, captain! It's on fire!"
A beacon, wouldn't that have been nice? No time to think about that now. You turn about and roar for the company to get in battle position: You are going to save that fort, or take it from the enemy, whichever depends on how well your luck holds. You draw your axe, don your helmet, and advance toward the enemy.
The light grows larger, and as you get closer you can begin to feel the heat. Come closer still and you can hear the sound of clashing weapons, groans, and yells muffled by the roars and crackles of the fire. You arrive in front of the burning fort with your men arrayed behind you. Ahead of you the scouts have held position in front of the gate, or what was once the gate. All that remains of it now are some smashed and burned logs. It must have been quite a blast to have turned the gate to a mess like that. It'd be best to stay on guard. You order the mountaineers to hold the perimeter, and with a call and wave of your arm beckon the infantry to follow you inside.
If it weren't all on fire it occurs to you that with would have been a reasonably comfortable place to call home, at least as far as forts are concerned. Looking into the courtyard you see Dwarves and elves fighting each other in pockets, a few deadlocked in mortal combat. A few dead bodies are strewn across the ground, and hot blood forms pools in the snow. A shame, nothing mars beauty more than blood and bodies. Ah well, as far as you're concerned the area is bloody enough, so a few more bodies wouldn't change too much. You lower your visor and rush toward the nearest elf.
It never ceases to amaze you how tall elves are, and even among the elves this one is considered tall. You only make it a bit past his waist, but that's no problem. It makes it easier to hit his knees, a favorite tactics of yours. As you dash closer to him you raise your shield to block his downward swing. It's like a strike of lightning, but stout dwarf arms are made for such things. Shaking off the power of the blow you take a ferocious swing at his knees.
Thank the gods you sharpened the axe, for even so it still takes a moment for the blade to carry through the armor and into the leg. You always enjoyed that feeling. It's as though you were carrying a knife through thick butter. You can tell instantly that the elf wasn't as thrilled with the sensation. Looking up you can see his face twisted into a disgusting form, and more than that you can hear the shrill yell. It stings in your ears. That's the part you hate, the yelling. You resolve to stop it as soon as possible, so as soon as the elf falls into the snow you are upon him, axe in the air. It's a quick motion, just as you were taught as a lad. Raise the axe up right above your head, not to the left or right, the cut isn't as clean that way, then bring it down. It's best to aim for the forehead, anywhere else and there is a chance that their helmet will glance the blow. If you come down right on the forehead the helmet will dent in, and the head below will split like a melon. It's a time tested maneuver, and you quickly learn that this elf breaks just as easily as any other.
Taking a deep breath and whipping the sweat from your brow you look around the courtyard. Things don't seem to be going as well for the others. Looking to your left you see Thormod face up in the snow with 3 arrows in his chest. A damn shame, he was as good a card player as they came, and it wasn't uncommon for him to buy the company drinks with his winnings. Staring at the cold corpse a bitter smile crosses your lips: These elves have damn impressive grouping. Each one of the three arrows comes within a 6 inch radius, cruelly placed upon the victim's heart. Any inhibitions you had for slaughtering these devils fades like the final breaths of your brethren.
The battle is winding down to a close, and the arrival of your reinforcements means that the remaining elves are trapped in the fort. Slowly they fight their way to one of the few buildings left standing: the fort's temple. Huddling inside they prepare to make a last stand. There aren't many left as they shut the doors behind them, so you reckon that the problem could wait until morning. You are now beginning to feel how utterly exhausted you are... the march didn't help, and the battle did in whatever energy you had left. The fire has more or less burnt itself out as well. The timbers of the fort are think enough to have more or less survived the fire, although it now looks as though all the walls have been painted black. Your company is going to have to fix that, but that too can wait. You order the mountaineers to watch the elves in the temple while the rest of you find a place to sleep. Many of the fort's buildings are burnt to ruin, so any dry nook would have to suffice. Thank the gods that dwarves don't take up much space.
It takes you over an hour to fall asleep, exhausted as you are. It's one of the worst nights in living memory. The smell of the dead is terrible. There was no time to move them, as it was well into the night when the battle ended, so the dead and dying mingle together in the snow. The cold helps slightly contain the stench, but its help is limited. Worse still is the number of corpses that were caught in the inferno, whether they were corpses or not going into it. The smell of burning hair and flesh batters at your senses like an angry invader. Covering your nose is more of a gesture of futility than a solution.
If the smells take a heavy toll then the sounds add a whole new level to the horror. Never before had you heard so many pitiful cries and whines as you have tonight. Strange calls in strange elven tongues probe your ears, penetrating even your hands that you tightly clasp over your ears. If you weren't so tired you swear that you'd get up and put an axe in every source of sound, friend or foe. All you can do now is crawl to the deepest recess of the ruin and cover yourself mind, body, and soul. As you settle down an anger flares up in you: The damned elves get a dry temple to sleep in tonight, while the victor is out here sleeping like a beggar. Damn them, damn all this noise, and damn this cold! A dwarf may be used to the cold, but it certainly doesn't mean that he prefers it over warmth. The only thing you managed to salvage that's close to a blanket was an Elven banner that was torn off its post by one of your men and left in the snow. The boot marks and blood stains are still clearly visible, but at a time like this it's as good a cloak as any...