Illarion.org

((This RP only for those involved in the Orc-Stumpy War, a way to tell some stories))

After her grueling defeat at the hands of the treacherous mage Nalcaryos, Kurga made her way silently, quietly along the Banks of the Trolls Vein. Deep in thought, and angered by an attack by a bystander, she wrote some notes to send by dove later.

Stopping to drink from the waters, she could see the Moon low on the horizon behind her, just topping the Copper mountains. "I'll make them pay!" she said. "This is just the beginning."

She stood and viewed the mighty Copper Mountains, thinking of the dwarves, safe and comfortable in their "Ivory Palace". "Hrm.." she mumbled. Slowly, silently, she journeyed up the little known trails along the mountains, to the place the Dwarves called home. The place they dared called impregnable.

Scouting all night, well after the moom had waned, she finally came to what she was searching for, a way in.

She nodded to herself and then turned away, ready to cross the vast Kumdun Desert, and the safety beyond. She knew she wasn't ready. The Clan wasn't ready, but this Hunt has begun, and she must see it through.

Luckily, the Clan has plenty of weapons, and she thinks fondly of mages burning within a fiery Molotov Cocktail.

She smiles at the thought as she crosses the desert.

Barel von Hearth sits on a stool with his feet firmly planted on stone floor, he strokes his tightly braided blonde beard as his fiery red eyes are fixed on the table before him. He looks to be deep in thought and mumbles to himself, "War because Ia didn' wan' ter talk....." his mumbling ceases as he begins to look about. The majesty and splendor of the dwarven craftmanship is all around him: perfectly placed stones cover the floor, colossal reinforced wooden doors with metal bracers safeguard the entrance ways, each room is vast and open some even having pillars that reach higher than the eye can see, and above all the attention to detail everything has its place and is always well kept.

He closes his eyes briefly and as he opens them slowly they ignite with passion and pride. He gribs the hilts of both his swords, knuckles turn white, and stands powerfully then walks with heavy thuds to sharpen his blades. Once he is satisfied, he grabs some oil and cloth, removes his armor placing it on the table. He wipes all the moveable parts; then he finishes by polishing his armor until it shines even in darkness. He places the armor back on, sheathes his swords and walks out with the same heavy thuds going to search for a brother or sister. "Irmorom lead us to victory!"