A jagged line of lightning splits the black sky in two over the pale towers of Ostagar. Then, the rain begins. It comes down in rivers, crawling through the cracks of my leather armor, streaking my hair to my forehead, beading on the oily kaddis smeared to my cheeks.
There are drums beyond the thunder.
The blood-fever begins, humming in my chest, singing the coming of battle.
They are here. The Spawn have come.
My hound rumbles beneath my hand, his hide hot under my palm. His low growl a whisper of the fury building inside us. Inside all of us. My brothers stir at my shoulders and at my back, blades hum as they are birthed from their sheaths, bowstrings creak and whine, begging for release. Our hounds paw the earth with their claws, bearing sharp teeth in vicious maws. We feel the same hot anger, we share the breserker blood passed from warrior to warrior, from dwarf to man.
The stinking creatures form rank, snarling and howling like jackals. They are vermin, stains on the Maker’s earth. They smear to glory of battle. They slander the holiness of combat…
They are filth to be purged.
My blood sings, the rage coils in my limbs, smoke billows in my chest like a furnace.
We are the dwarf-blooded. We are the hound-brothers. We are the Ash Warriors.
The war cry tears from my lips and the battle has begun.