|Work in Progress
If one where to travel north, past Abonle, the city of the green fire, and through the Broken Pass, which separates the Abonle and the Kuygish mountain ranges, one would find oneself upon the Windswept Plain.
It stretches as far as the eye can see, and is well deserving of it's name, for the wind funnels through the great ice to the north, and blows over the plain with a ferocious strength and temperature that, quite literally, freezes the blood.
In winter, the plain does not see the light of the day, and is reputedly the home to many demons. In summer, the plain is barren of anything but short, brown grass and mud. The plain has seen numerous battles, and if the same traveller took the time to look at the ground he walked on, he would discover countless skulls of fallen men, countless swords of dead soldiers, and the tattered shreds of once proud banners. This is the story of one such skull, of the man who used to live in it, the man who held a sword in battle, and who died in battle.
The man in question was not really man. In fact, he was a dwarve, and most definitely proud of it, like most dwarves. Unfortunately, even this was not the full truth, as the dwarve actually had elven blood flowing through his veins. Whether he knew this, and chose not to inform his fellow dwarves out of fear of being being made an outcast, or whether he did not about this fact is unknown. The dwarve, was short and round, like most dwarves. He had a long beard which he trimmed every morning, grey hair which was cut short, and he would wear leather overalls at most times.
The time of the battle which proved to be his last, was, however, not most times. The dwarve was not attired in his overalls for a start. He was wearing plate armor, and he was carrying a halberd, like every one of his comrades that stood next to him in neat, military formation.
To be continued.