The Return

The air was thick with smog; choking and grasping at his lungs in a seemingly desperate attempt to wring whatever life he had left in him. The smog however, was that of unwashed bodies, huddled in dark, moldy corners of a damn and foreboding prison cell. He would accept any other fate then imprisonment, death or whatnot. Being chained to a wall, mocked and insulted day by day, tortured for what felt like eternity for information, plans, scouting reports… whatever they could get their hands on. That was hell, it was simply and painfully hell. Nothing else could describe it. And yet he endured, for what else could he do? It had all started a long four months ago, at dawn on a foggy morning far south. It was a day of battle… tweaked, planned and polished for the best results. It had begun with a quick and deadly strike to the left flank of a Varanite Troop movement reinforcement for Ravenwatch no doubt. A noble detachment of dwarves hailing from Torinvhork Hall fought courageously that day, yet valour would not save the hundreds of dwarves that fell in combat. It was a bittersweet day, marked with victory and death. Even though the Varanties were all slaughtered, majority of the Dwarven force was wiped out, and the man who led them—Lord Bleveck Torinvhork—was presumed to have fallen with them. Yet hope remained for this ancient dwarf, a hope that clung to life even when its origin failed to. A loud scream penetrated his thoughts, followed by the callous laughter of prison guards. Clenching his teeth together and biting back anger, he silently whispered a prayer to whatever god was listening. A fate here was a fate worse then death. They all knew it, they all accepted it, and they all awaited it. Accept for one old dwarf. He had been waiting, biding his time, hoping for that one moment where he could do something…

anything. Hope had demanded he waited even when he lost his will to live but a short few weeks ago. That “time” didn’t arrive for quite some time, and even his hope had diminished into a quiet nagging, a mere annoyance which pecked at his grueling consciousness. However, when that moment arrived it screamed out in passionate fury, and he found himself acting. A prisoner was brought in from another skirmish, he had thought. The old rusted door swung open, light pouring in from the torch-lit corridor. A tattered and bleeding body was thrown in, and soon after another followed. Quiet. The door remained open, he heard panting and the cursing of a guard. A struggle? The door was still open. He paused, waiting. The door did not close. He made his move. He tried to be quiet, but after spending four months in a Varanite prison, stealth was beyond him. He clambered through the threshold, and squinted his eyes as he adjusted to the brightly lit corridor. He saw two armed Varanites struggling with a large Half-Orc. The Orc was set on not stepping foot in the cell, and Blev didn’t blame him. The Soldiers heard him, and one turned around to see the bruised and tattered Dwarf behind him. Bleveck didn’t get him the opportunity to call out, as one balled fist slammed into the guard’s ribcage, sending him to the floor in a heap of flesh. The Orc took this well, and soon had the other guard grasping for air as he was strangled to unconsciousness. Blev took the time to nod to the Half-Orc as they took off down the corridor. Adrenaline pumped through Blev’s veins, his mind whirred and a newfound alertness overcame him. He was free. An image hurled itself into his thoughts as he saw a peculiar door ahead, the Weapons Hold.

He quietly approached the door, yet before he could open it a large object rammed itself against the frame, wood shattering into pieces as an array of weapons were revealed to the two prisoners. Bleveck couldn’t help but grin, as after four months of captivity they still held his prized axe. It glowed softly in the corner, hung on a rack against the wall. Calloused fingers slid across the shaft, gripping it tightly in quiet remembrance. He didn’t have time to reach his armour, as before he could even secure the axe to his shoulder, soldiers began pouring into the room. He heard a cry as the Orc fell to a Talon Warlord. The Lord of Torinvhork Hall cursed softly, vowing never to be prisoner to a Varanite again. Taking up his rediscovered axe, he pitted himself against those who had chained him to steel for so many dark days. He would either die, or live to breathe free air once more. The first one came at him, and for a moment Bleveck felt slow and sluggish, not yet use to the balance of the fine weapon. Memories flooded him, and adrenaline shot through him to grant a speed and clarity of mind unknown to him until now. Thrust, slash, parry, block. Strings of movements, tied together with bone-shattering attacks and blocks. Perhaps a gift from the gods, or a passionate will to be among his comrades once more, whatever the case the Lord of Torinvhork Hall left nothing but blood and gore behind him as he sprinted down the corridor to freedom. To breathe sweet, clean air and taste the nectar of freedom is an incredible feeling. The soft grass beneath his feet, and breeze that caressed his calloused form was enough to bring him to his knees. Yet, he was not out of the woods yet. He had been kept in a small, secluded camp of sorts. Not walled at all, with few guards. How on earth did he escape so easily? The answer came soon enough, for he had not escaped entirely yet. An arrow shot

out of the woods, sinking deep into his shoulder. He cried in pain as another dug itself into his arm. He growled a dwarven curse, running for the forest’s edge. Arrows showered down on him, grazing his flesh and missing him by inches. A fiendish cry hailed from behind him, and a large red form began to run forward towards him. He took a chance and glanced behind him, to see his hopes and dreams dashed in front of him. A Claw Warlord was in pursuit, and as any Claw could be interpreted, it meant to pound him into dwarven pulp. Bleveck was at a loss; he could not take on the Warlord along, without proper protection. Melee combat was out of the question, as he would be thrown down within a second of fighting. So, he did what he could do. Spinning on his heel, Blev reached back, glowing axe in hand. He only prayed to the gods he would see it again as he hurled it forward, a hissing sound trailing the flaming weapon as it dug into the breastplate of the Claw, splitting the armour apart as the edge of the blade sank heavily into the scarred and gnarled flesh of the Warlord. Down he went, and Blev had no time to retrieve his fallen weapon. Talon poured over the edge into the clearing, and Blev turned to run farther into the forest. Ahead as another clearing, giving off a strange blue glow. An Obelisk? He hadn’t seen it before, and knew not that the Varanites had access to it. Perhaps they didn’t know how to unlock its secrets. But Bleveck knew. Reaching forth to grasp the cool stone of the ancient Teleporter Obelisk, and immediately he knew this wasn’t an ordinary obelisk. Light shot through him, and in an instant he was gone. Where he turned up… was a like a dream. Shadows engulfed the area, a familiar scent of death and darkness reached his nose, he wrinkled in disgust, and was suddenly aware of his injures. Arrows protruded

out of his arm, shoulder and thigh. He grunted in pain. His last sight before losing consciousness was Llarinael, Nawien running forth, followed by Shandelar the Arch Mage and a few other familiar faces. He had returned.