An old, now abandoned, dwarven mine.
Players Notes
- Abandoned by dwarves
- Lies on the edge of the White Mountains to the west of Hunterton
- Kobolds encountered
- Found a Letter from Ori mentioning:
- Borin (dwarf chief?)
- Ori (writer of the letter)
- Throdin (writer of the history page)
- Murdaz (orc chief)
- Ferjort (dwarf chief)
- Description of a battlefield and burial sites - may be in the plain south of the Glacier Mountains:
- Granite monuments of the dwarves facing the mountains
- Orcs piled up to the northeast
- Plainsmen to the east
The Letter
Page of History Book
By dawn of the next day, the dwarf legion had pushed the orcs back far into the plain; it seemed a hard fought victory was near. But then, distant horns sounded, Murdaz and his horde had arrived to swell the goblin ranks. Ferjort ordered a shield wall and we braced for the rushing tide of rage. The first wave was thrown back but a swift second crashed through. Chaos ensued, the melee hand to hand, no longer one battle but hundreds of individual combats. Yard by yard we were forced back, giving up the night's hard fought gains. Around Ferjort, order seemed to crystallise, we slowly closed ranks, shield locking with shield, the battle song of Fjalar rang out, first a single voice then a hundred strong, tired limbs were strengthened, orc skulls caved beneath our hammers. Ferjort spied the battle standard of Murdaz and wheeled our phalanx, we steamrollered our way forward. As we approached, not wanting to lose any more of his dwarves, Ferjort called out to Murdaz and challenged him to single combat; Murdaz' reply was to throw a fallen dwarf at him. Murdaz was evil, but not stupid. Suddenly Ferjort's hammer shone golden, it seemed as if Thor himself had entered the battlefield, in response Murdaz' scimitar glowed a vile green. The finale was now joined, at the cost of many dwarves we slew Murdaz' bodyguards. I'll say that I wanted revenge for my fallen brothers, but in truth perhaps pride got the better of me. I wanted to land the killing stroke, I tried to shatter Murdaz' knee with a hammer blow, but he dodged and slashed me with his sword. I have never felt such pain, my gashed arm burned as if splashed with etching acid and in agony I passed out.
When I came to, Ferjort was kneeling beside me, in his hand he held a white stone inlaid with golden runes. He said I was lucky to be alive, the poison of Murdaz' weapon being deadly. I later discovered that Ferjort had slain Murdaz, and the legion had mopped up the remaining orcs. There was no victory celebration; our losses were hard to endure. We laid our fallen in monuments of granite facing our mountain home, the orcs we covered in a great heap to the north east. The few plainsmen that had aided us were buried to the east. Ferjort was never the same after the battle, he had lost all four of his brothers. He went out by himself hunting orc stragglers and came back with a very strange look in his eye.
