Overlooking the ruins of Dagger Falls

A small group of friends gather in Dagger Hills overlooking the smoking ruins of the town they called home. They keep vigilant looking for refugees that may have fled into the wild hills. They all wear scars of recent battles, battered but not broken.

Thorgrim pulls his helm off his head, his hair and beard plastered with sweat and blood. He scans the ruins, eyes searching, His thoughts racing.

I have failed. I could not protect the folk I say’d I would. I should’a be there. I would’a bee’d there. Blast’d interfering elfer magik’d me!

He grips a battered shield on his left arm, his right hand easily holds a many notched war axe. Swinging the axe high over head, roaring an oath to Moradin, his friend, the surviving refugees and the fallen souls of Dagger Falls

“I ain’t gonna rest ‘til I see what is wrong’d be right’d!"

With all his strength he slams the axe, biting deep into the ground. He releases the familiar grip, worn smooth with the many days of use. Turning his back he walks down off the slope. His stride deliberate and strong, his arms pumping with each stride he takes.

Left behind, the axe remains buried to the haft in the rocky ground overlooking the ruins of his home.