Belgrath - The Mountain Rose
At first it was one.
Then it became ten. Then a hundred.
It was a small number. Tiny by most standards. Hardly an army, and barely a raiding force. Yet it was what they had managed to gather. Those who had answered the call. Packed into the Rose it almost seemed like it should have been more, but Vorak had counted and counted again. The men, and women, here at answered Thrukil's call.
None of them wore an insignia, none of them branded their armor the same.
He saw Dwarves from Karak Telim, from Belgrath, even from Ligz. They all wore their clan armors. They all carried weapons carved by their ancestors. Each of them knew why they had come here. Each of them had answered a cry that had been answered a hundred times before. A desperate plea that called for cooperation, for reclamation.
They were here to take back what was theirs. To march into the deep tunnels, and take back the Holds. Those who had been lost, taken from their people by Dragons, Ogres, Goblins, and other denizens of the depths. A hundred soldiers, a hundred brave hearts. All of them seeking to reclaim the lost glory of their people.
All of them seeking to ignite the spark that had been lost long ago.
Vorak glanced down at the young dwarf besides him. He could not have been older than fifty, and yet he carried himself like a warrior. Deep scars lined his face, a tattoo decorating his brow. "Aye, it doesn't."
The old Warrior said with a nod of his head.
"But that will make it all the more impressive when we succeed." Vorak didn't know whom he was trying to convince. The young warrior at his side, or himself.
At first it was one.
Then it became ten. Then a hundred.
It was a small number. Tiny by most standards. Hardly an army, and barely a raiding force. Yet it was what they had managed to gather. Those who had answered the call. Packed into the Rose it almost seemed like it should have been more, but Vorak had counted and counted again. The men, and women, here at answered Thrukil's call.
None of them wore an insignia, none of them branded their armor the same.
He saw Dwarves from Karak Telim, from Belgrath, even from Ligz. They all wore their clan armors. They all carried weapons carved by their ancestors. Each of them knew why they had come here. Each of them had answered a cry that had been answered a hundred times before. A desperate plea that called for cooperation, for reclamation.
They were here to take back what was theirs. To march into the deep tunnels, and take back the Holds. Those who had been lost, taken from their people by Dragons, Ogres, Goblins, and other denizens of the depths. A hundred soldiers, a hundred brave hearts. All of them seeking to reclaim the lost glory of their people.
All of them seeking to ignite the spark that had been lost long ago.
"Doesn't seem like it will be enough."
Vorak glanced down at the young dwarf besides him. He could not have been older than fifty, and yet he carried himself like a warrior. Deep scars lined his face, a tattoo decorating his brow. "Aye, it doesn't."
The old Warrior said with a nod of his head.
"But that will make it all the more impressive when we succeed." Vorak didn't know whom he was trying to convince. The young warrior at his side, or himself.