Role

Chapter 3

The years following the defilement of the Village of the
Dhrummin's provokes unceremonious rage and chaotic destruction
of Ghrummin's surrounding even now. For over a decade, the
magic of the Wraith bound him to a hidden cave, committing
him to forge nearly flawless weapons, only to be malformed
and mutilated into an abomination. Flails were given a mind
of their owns, swords a wicked laughter as jagged spikes
appeared across their honed edges through magical means.
The only creation that was allowed to keep its purity was
the Ancient Hammer of the Dhrummin, a reminder by the
wraith of his powerless rage.

For an observer, one may believe Ghrummin to be living
his dream - without distraction of cultivating farms,
hunting for food, or even the occasional sport of punting
an orc's head. Each heavy stroke was accompanied by the
name of his ancestor or a deceased kin, the smoldering
anger and thirst for revenge barely covered by the ringing
of the hammer. The only luxury entitled to the dwarf
was in his sleep, where the toils of smithing with little
respite lulled him into dreamless unconsciousness.

The stoutness of his spirit would not wane even in his
imprisonment - secretly, he made various marks upon the
weapons to identify them to be created by the Dhrummin
clan. The sentinels guarding him were unintelligent
bags of bones, unwavering in their duties. The cave
was near the Wraith's chambers, positioned so that the
Wraith can approach him without hesitation and frivolent
use of magic.

For years, a plan formulated in his mind. Timing was
the only factor awaiting disposition.