Disclaimer: These stories are from long ago. They do not reflect the current state of Carrion Fields. They do include characters from these events. I took the liberty write about the characters involved due to my limited interaction with them. I don't believe these are the final drafts so there may be multiple grammer and spelling errors. I hope you all enjoy.

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Red-orange fires danced across the night sky, continuing the uproar that was the blaze in the dwarven forest. The wind whipped about relentlessly, as if a storm hovered over the horizon. The cant of the lumberjacks continued to sound, hearty chops followed by grunts as the words resounded throughout the forest:

“Timbeeeeerrrrrrrrr!”

The sounds of woodland creatures had long died, leaving the forest shrouded in a somber atmosphere of smoke and death. With the amount of men and materials, it would not take any longer than a few spans to finish the road, though even now talk of resistance was beginning to circulate through the lumberjacks.

Vondar was nearly bowled over, his left leg roughly pushed from underneath him. A formidable curse came from a short creature below. From beneath a tangled black beard and a spiked helmet came another curse and the figure of a dwarven sapper pushing his way past the giant. Vondar could not help but chuckle. The sappers had been a tremendous help, offering their services and materials needed to help control the raging fires that would clear the way for this road. They had begun the initial preparation, of digging at the earth and providing a gully to keep the fires from spreading on land. They had also managed to set up fortifications in case the village is attacked during this time of labor. Of course, those services were likely paid with a handsome fee.

The fires that swept across the forest now were ushered by Felthril. A recent addition to the Noldarian Smiths, Fethril need only beckon the fires with his faith and the flames could not withstand him. Outstretched claws would move back and forth, spreading the fires in a less chaotic manner than what would usually occur with these unpredictable flames. Yes, all was going well. Within weeks, the road would be completed and Vondar could return to crafting metal.

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It was a precarious vigil, one that was no luxury though it was necessary. I stood in his presence many times and each time I was awed at the resilience of this figure. He had not aged in the countless decades that I have known him, and even as a youth he was as foul-mouthed as a ####-eating Minotaur. The wretched stench reminded me that he probably had not bathed in years though why would a God have to bathe?

The shrine was in order, light glinting off of the bleached bones that made up the base and frame of the skull throne. I had even managed to replace the dragonhead at the top of the throne with that of a dracolich. No easy feat. Blood still stained the earth-toned floor but I could do nothing about that. A large rack of weapons stood to my side, replacing the twin blades of Vassason, I hefted the Iron-Bound polearm of Nimbus and took my place beside the Dwarven God. The villagers would be swarming in soon.

The first to enter was only a child. Wrapped about his tiny frame was a wooden sword that was nicked in various places, probably from the mock battles many of the children would divulge themselves in when the village was not under attack. His tiny frame looked as if it would break by simply walking into a wall, but the youth was light-footed, and in years that would prove very beneficial.

A deep-throated grumble came from somewhere beneath me.

“What are yer doin’ here yer wee thing? Surely yer ain’t here te discuss the tides O’ war,” grumbled the dwarven God.

Giving his best attempt to salute the stout dwarven figure, the little child walked bravely up to the God and announced, “Unca Thror, pa’ said I’m gunna grow up an help ‘im gut them Warlocks. I’m ready unca’ Thror, I’m ready.”

Very few times have I seen HammerSong beside himself. This was one of those times. He looked around, as if for some way to get himself out of the situation that was before him. With a deep sigh, he grumbled his discontent.

“Bah! Yer wee lad, yer kent even wrestle the snot frem yer wee nose, how yer expectin’ te face the cunnin’ wizards that we’ra fightin? Now get yerself gone lad.”

A look of disappointment fell across the face of the young child. He quickly brushed back a lock of hair and lifted his chin in a defiant manner. With a sniffle, he exited the shrine, leaving the dwarven God grumbling something under his breath.

“You could have been less harsh Lord,” I suggested.

HammerSong continued to grumble.

The shrine was filled with individuals, most covered in dried blood or weary from travel. Still, there were men missing. Tahren had not been seen for years. It was suggested that he was recently slain. A most critical loss to the village. The swordsmanship of Torrakel was missed as well, having spent many hours speaking to him about the forms of the blade, I missed his company. The individuals that were here, I had neither seen before nor been introduced to. We would learn one another soon enough. A black-feathered arial stood next to the dwarven God, a red cloth tied around his forehead. Streaks of aged silver had begun to grow into his plumage, showing that our stalwart commander was reaching his elder years. At his side was another figure with feral canines protruding from his sneering lip. His garment consisted of a double-folded cloak with draped fur lining the outer edges, and while I could see him clearly, he would take a step back, as if not completely comfortable out in the open.

“I suggest that we begin considering how vital the dwarf forest is to our war…”

Angry protests began to fill the shrine.