Bright light stings your eyes as the new days dawns. As you come to your sense you realize that there is quite a bit of commotion going on in the courtyard, what a miserable way to start the day. You stumble out of your little nook and brush the light blanket of snow off of yourself. Your eyes strain to adjust to the light, and as things come into focus the scene becomes clear. There was a fight, and before you lay a few elves and a dead dwarf.

"Captain, good to see you've joined us". You turn to face Ruark as he saunters toward you. His scale armor is battered, slashed, dented, and wore from years of use, just as you remember. You only difference now, as you notice as he comes closer, is there is now quite a fanciful array of light streaks on his chest pierce. It's looks to you as though somebody laid a good many blonde hairs upon his armor, but you are well aware that elf blades are thin and sharp. You swear that so many cuts would have turned even scale mail to ribbons, but the grin on Ruark's face tells no such story.

You give him a warm smile, but as your eyes again catch the bloodshed in front on the temple your expression grows grave. You whirl about and inquire aloud as to what happened. Your expression of dismay is not lost on the men, and they too lose any sense of morning cheer.

"A few tried to slip out while we slept. They assaulted the sentry and overcame him before the rest of us could come and contain them." says Ruark at the edge of his breath. His gaze lifts from the ground up to the temple, where the rest of the Elves were being held.

You really have to wonder why only some of them tried to escape instead of the whole lot of them. Perhaps only the bravest among them dared venture out? If so then that's quite fortunate, as the elves that lay before you are very much dead. You idly cast your gaze from one side of the courtyard to the other as your thoughts course like blood through your weary mind. You take a step or two forward toward the imposing structure that has become home to your enemies. The form of a mountain is chiseled into the stone above the barred entryway. It is the sign of Borsod, the Dwarven god of mountains. Around the carved mountain is a string of words engraved in your native Dwarven tongue, they read "He who carries faith in his heart shall never be lost. Look to the mountains and see the way". You wonder to yourself where Borsod's guidance was during the blizzard, but with a shake of your head dismiss the thought.

You pull your axe from its belt loop and rest it upon the ground, leaning on it like a walking staff. It's rare to have a moment to stop and enjoy Dwarven architecture, and sometimes you forget why it is said that your people are the greatest craftsmen in all of Qadal. You stare at the building, taking in all of its sights. Borsod's seal takes up a great deal of the edifice's forward face. It is a stout building, with smooth walls and sharp corners. It looks something like a pentagon, or perhaps a hexagon, something like that... math was never a favored subject of yours. The coarse stone, which you could tell was once polished to shine, is now a dull grey. Soot and blood now mingle with the marks of swords and arrow strikes, giving the building a sad, weary look. You look down at your battered, dirty armor, with all of its dents and marks. The officer's sash is tangled up and slightly burned; a scale or two has come off of your arm vambraces; the leather of your boots is coming apart, and worst of all: There is a slight gash broken onto the stone brooch you use to pin up your cloak. It is the brooch of House Stoneshield, and on it is your family sigil. Looking up again at the temple, you smirk to think that you and the building look very much the same. Bah, you have the bloody Elves to thank for all of that.

Thinking about the Elves, you look toward the group of dead laying in the snow. It's only once the action has long past that you notice the ornate look of the Elven armor. Soft greens and shining silvers come together in beautiful shapes, gleaming in the light, only dulled by putrid streaks of crimson and patches of soot. You stare at the bodies, their faces fixed on a position somewhere in the far sky...

Captain!

You know, it seems so strange... the looks on their faces...

Captain!

It's like they're only sleeping... so peaceful...

"Captain Borim!" comes a voice roaring into your ears. You quickly come to your senses and turn to face the voice, only to notice that it's within arms reach. Ruark's rough features are clear as day only a mere foot or two away. "I apologize fer havin' to shout right at you, captain, but you seemed well off and gone. This is not the time of times to go losin' yerself."

You give a weak smile and explain that you were just thinking.

"Well I hope you thought of somethin' good, since we still got a bit of unfinished business". He gestures to the temple that looms cold and dark over you. The wind howls by and is broken by the building's sheer face walls. Your gaze again goes to the dashes and breaks in the wall, with the ash still crushed onto the surface. If you didn't know better you might have mistaken it for a tomb. Why then are the Elves even holding themselves up in there of all places? It's certainly not an inviting building for a final stand. You're a Dwarf and the thing still looks ominous...

There's nothing left to do but try to deal with the problem directly. Bringing your axe up into combat position you pull your shield off of your back. It, like the damaged brooch on your shoulder, has the sigil of House Stoneshield emblazoned onto its smooth metal surface. A few gashes and dents mar its beauty, but to you they add a special value, especially that newest gash, graciously bestowed by the Elf that you slew just yesterday. You are prepared for whatever battle comes next, and a quick glimpse over your shoulder shows that the men are ready as well.

Marching your way up to the heavy oaken doors you give them a solid three hits. The doors buckle in place and a dusting of snow comes down onto you, but you receive no response. Elves are strange folks, you think. If they're going to make themselves at home in an enemy camp they should at least have the decency to answer the bloody door when the owner comes knocking. Another three raps upon the door is met with no response. Damn Elves, now they're just getting annoying.

"I could check the windows" comes a voice from the ranks "to see if they're still inside, sir."

Dag steps forward, one of the troops from Ruark's crossbow company. He seems quite nimble. Well, at least in Dwarf terms, which admittedly equates to clumsy to almost anyone else. He is also new, clearly eager to get a bit of extra action, and perhaps some recognition to boot. You look him up and down: The scales of his armor still shine a bright silver, his boots look newly pressed, and the hilt of his sword gleams the black of new leather. It's hard to not smirk, looking upon his face, all smooth save some hairs about his lower jaw. You think to yourself "This one wants to be a solder? Very well, let us see how well he fares".

With an affirmative nod you give Dag the signal to check the windows. It takes him a few attempts, but he finally manages to lift himself up to the windows so that he may peer inside. A few moments pass, and his figure disappears into the building, sending a plum of dust and snow up behind him. That wasn't part of the plan. Your face grows grave at the thought of what may happen if those murderous elves are still inside. Sure the boy could climb a ledge, but that didn't mean he could fight a band of professional soldiers.

Your breathe swirls around you like the smoke of an open fire as you stand tense before the great doors. The unit is left there ambling in the cold breeze for a few minutes, but before too long you hear the sounds of movement behind the door. A heavy thud sounds on the other side of the door, and a few moment later one of the great oaken doors creaks open. The figure of Dag emerges into the light, blocking his eyes as the sun and snow take the opportunity to flood the opening.

"There doesn't seem to be anyone inside, sir. I checked the whole area right and proper."

Your face darkens as you look the young soldier up and down, then peer into the room behind him. How can the Elves not be inside? You saw them retreat into the temple when the rest of your company entered the fort, and there obviously isn't an abundance of ways to get either inside or out. With a hint of disbelief in your voice, you order Dag to grab a few men and check the building again. Elves are known to do many strange things, but disappearing into thin air would be new even to you.

You scratch your beard and think hard as to what had happened. While you ponder, Ruark comes over and puts a hand on your shoulder. "Sir. I jus' got word from Dwalad, one of the Lord Torhad's forward scouts. You know, sir, I served with that old bastard when th' Northmen attacked Mol Thoram. They call 'im the Northern Shadow, he...". Your mind begins to drift off while Ruark regales you with all one of his many war stories. It's about time you heard from the main force, it's been days. The blizzard probably had something to do with that. Damn shame, the army ought to moving at a faster pace...

A few minutes later, Ruark's booming laugh pulls you back to reality. You reckon that means the story is nearly over, and with a smile and nod you feint attention.

"… and that how I got th' scar on me left arm. Never insult a Northman's mother, I'll give you that bit o' wisdom right there. Might save your life one day..." he chuckles to himself as his gaze is lost in the snow. There is a pause for a few moments, which you use to carry him back on topic. "I'm sorry, sir. I sometimes get carried away, don't be afraid t' stop me rabblin'. Anyhow, Dwalad told me that Lord Torhad's force is no more than two or three days away".

That news hits you as a mixed blessing. The benefit being that Lord Torhad is actually moving his force, which is a damned miracle if there ever was one. The problem is that two to three days is a long time, especially when the enemy is so close at hand.

Ruark continues "He also told me that Lord Torhad was impressed with your work in capturing the fort. He reckons you'll be getting a ribbon or somethin' out o' that".

That's another benefit you forgot about: Political types like Lord Torhad may not be good for much on the field, but they do have a great tendency to put in a good word when properly inclined. The thought of glory and decorations is bright in your mind, but now isn't the time to linger on that. Those are thoughts for home, where there's a much lower chance of untimely death.

Coming back to yourself, you look about the fort interior. The dead still litter the ground, pools of their blood punching deep holes in the soft fabric of snow. The smell carries with them as well, though you have become somewhat jaded to the stench. It's only when you think about it that the smell of death again attacks your sense. Needless to say you force it as far back in your mind as possible.

Thinking about senses, you realize that you can no longer hear the sounds of the dying. That's a morbid relief, but it doesn't escape your mind that not all of the cries were those of your enemies. The company is certainly smaller now than when it arrived. It seems like the troops tasked with moving the bodies with have their job well cut out for them. Looking to the walls you see that they are still emblazoned with the jagged designs the fire carved onto them. Somebody's going to have to fix that as well. You groan... it's already midday and there is still much to be done.

Bah, those chores are for the troops to deal with, not you. There is a more pressing matter for you to consider: The Elves, and how those devils managed to slip out of the temple. You head toward the oaken doors, battered and slashed from battle. You can even make out where the fire began to creep up the door before being snuffed out by the falling snow. It's deceptively heavy, but you manage to press it open without too much effort. It gives out a deep creak as you push it inside. There you stand in the doorway, with the howling cold and daylight pouring inside. It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the light, for it is rather dark inside.

The interior is about as bleak as the exterior would betray. The military doesn't typically put aside much in the way of resource to make things look nice. The pews, for what few there are in the room, are carved stone, with only a bit of cloth lain across the seat to make it comfortable. The windows that line the walls are wide opening, taller than what the average Dwarf could reach as well. A few of them has ornate glass panels giving praise to Borsod, but most of them have lost their beauty and look like ghastly, demonic mouths. Along the walls are a few banners, with both the sigil of Borsod, and that of Mol Boldhir. Many of them have been torn down, and from what you can see the ones that weren't torn down were ripped and cut up beyond recovery. In the center of the room stands a statue figure, most likely meant to be Borsod. It takes no more than a moment to see that the Elves wrought their fury on the statue before they left. There are deep cracked in the stone, and parts of the statue are missing entirely. Both arms are off, and you can guess that the Elves used them to do the rest of the damage. The air rests heavily in this place, even with the cold draft whimpering into the room through the smashed windows.

You look to the far corner of the temple and see one of the troops sitting on the remains of a broken pew. Approaching him, you inquire as to what has so far been found.

"You know how temples have catacombs, sir? It seems that some of the fort's previous owners thought it'd be a fine idea to turn the catacombs here into an escape route". He gestures his hand toward an open trapdoor only a few feet away, tucked into a corner. Leaning a bit closer you can hear the distinct sound of movement below.

"If you would like to have a look for yourself, Dag is still down there with Tobar and a few others."

You give him a nod and move to the trapdoor. Peering down you catch a glimpse of the catacomb's decrepit state. Hardened dirt is used just as often as stone to keep the building supported, and the dim light is a strain on your eyes after only a few moments. Ah well, that's the sort of place Dwarves were born to live, and inspecting the situation is required.

You take hold of the ladder and begin to climb down, the daylight giving way to the dull glow of the torches below...