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It was a cold, dark night. A tall, shadowy form stared out onto the open plains of the interior lands, and knew he had made the right choice. The Hordes were marching, forever eastwards, and to face them was to encourage death.

The figure was that of a leader. A great warrior, accustomed to heavy mail and swinging axes. He had a fighters build - He was covered in cords of muscle, and his fists looked deadly. The only thing detracting from this appearance, was his height. He was unusually short for a warrior, with stocky legs and large chest. This gave him the appearance of a creature of legend - one of the dreaded Pixíës of the northern lands. If that assumption of him was made though, it would be wrong. Very wrong.

He was in fact a Dwarf. His ancestry streched back to the Volsun kings - the royal line of the Plains Dwarf Clans. At that time though, he was a lost heir. His family had been slaughtered, and his people destroyed.

They had come in the dead of nnight - all fire and screams of unnatural hate. The roars of orcs had reverberated throughout the dark sky, projecting their challenge against everything that opposed them. His father, Grolsung, had died in the centre of the camp - surrounded and hacked to pieces, but a warrior to the end, lucky to have such a brave death, with his axe in his hands. Thorral shuddered at the memory.

The rest had died in chains. Sacrificed to the vile orc gods. Their chests cut open, and their hearts pierced with red hot needles while they still lived. The lucky ones died fast. The unlucky ones, the strongest, lived through torture after torture, unable to die because of their own stubborn grip on life, unable to fight back because of their chains. It was a horrible way to die, Thorral had whispered in disgust to the few men and women around him that had managed to escape.

*To be continued*

bump again... if no-one likes it ill abandon it ='C