To fight for your life, and still enjoy it is some achievement. To do it often is even greater a feat.

A spin, twist of the hand and a flick of the wrist; all it takes to kill. Swinging a shield; blocking strikes and pushing opponents back. A quick jab to keep from being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. This is the life of a warrior.

Thorven, right before you; a Dwarf clad in shining armour. His beard is a rich brown and large, flowing over his chest from his chin proudly. His weapon, a blade of incredible speed, darts around wildly towards his foes. You see him battering at the enemies around him (all much taller), he slices, stabs, kicks and batters at anything in his path. Nothing matters to him but what he does at this moment. The support from the four others nearby is immaterial. He must concentrate on keeping them occupied.

Blows shatter on his armour, spattered with demonic blood. These do nothing to break the concentration of the hero. One runs in fear, he cuts it down. He throws himself around, knocking those he does not kill senseless. A smile spreads over his face as he comes upon the largest of them all, the leader. Keli’dan the Breaker.







Shrugging off the worry of the foolish Felguards still pursuing him with a twirl and slice; he charges.

Enraged Dwarfs are a terror to behold. Enraged Dwarf warriors, the masters of weapons, seem of apocalyptic proportions.

Roaring and swinging the vicious blade he holds, Thorven flies forwards. His cape billows out behind him, his beard flies and his brow furrows. His shield collides with the foul Fel Orc, master of the jail. His blade, the long, beautiful sword, cuts into its tainted flesh. The Orc screams in rage and begins to bombard the Dwarf with blows, hammering on his armour with power like a steam tank. The Dwarf fights on, heedless of his own injuries.

Battle ensues for several minutes; however these precious minutes feel to be centuries, centuries counted on a sand timer, slowly trickling away towards the end of all creation.

The sands run out. One huge burst from the Dwarf sends the fel creature flying backwards. It falls, and Thorven leaps onto its writhing body. His sword leaps into the air like a salmon, still grasped in his meaty fist. Slowly, it begins to fall downwards, into the Fel Orc’s heart.

One final scream marks its death. A howl of rage and anguish, mingled with sorrow and fear. One small, metallic noise as the blade, covered with the dark blood of the Orc and demon slides back into its gilt sheath.

Thorven Grudgebearer, defender of Khaz Modan, legend amongst Dwarfs for his deeds, his armour caked with blood; starts to leave the chamber.

Suddenly, a force of Felguards appears towards the end of a corridor. They begin to advance towards him. Thorven hoists his shield up, unsheathes his sword and grins. Business as usual.

Now you have seen him fight. You know his skill and prowess.

For that is the life of a warrior. To fight; to seek perfection through martial skill. Never ending battle. Never ending hate. Never ending rage…


Never ending glory.