He loathed the storm, winds of great strenght assaulted the stronghold, windows barred heavily to avoid the erruption of rain into the inner chambers, and yet he knew it was that same storm that managed to keep their assailants at bay. The ever-distant gnawing of the mountain heart, the clashing of blades and hammers on the though cavern walls let everybody know of the future to come. But now, oh, powers that be!, only the voice of the furious storm could be heard.
Taking a peek with the spyglass, the great road ahead of the city-fort showed signs of past battles, many corpse were still there, half-decomposed, home to the conquering worms, their presence took great tolls in the morals of his companion, such dreared sight of death and decay could overtake the must stern of warriors.
As he was to walk away from the vigil tower he saw a figure of mad approach, hands shaking panicly, legs sttutering to keep the pace of the body, the hooded face made him uneasy, not sure why, he shouted an alarm to the nearest guarding marksman.
Keep your marks on the walker!.- He shouted.
'Too late'.- Whispered a soft and distant voice inside his head.- 'Just too late'.
The fire became triumphant, the drops of water pouring from the sky could do nothing to stop de sorcerous flames as they loomed all over the fort. The walls now falling as if time hath come too soon, eroded as if ages stroke 'em in a second. The stranger walked among this ruins, ever grateful to be the bane of his enemies, blessed by the Old Ones to conquer all who opossed him and his warlord, the firelord Morgrim Thornhammer.
