The Demons Within

Night's Fury

The Stout man slowly turned to face the large group of humans behind him, his braided beard bouncing with each heavy step, a yawning cave mouth stretching out behind him. The Man, roughly four feet tall, had heavy wrinkles around his mouth -Physical memories of joy in the past- and starry eyes that usually twinkled with joy. Now however was no time for joy, nor for any of the pleasures of life. This sacred mission was likely to lead to his death and all of his men's death.

His son had already been declared King of all Iron Dwarves with his former crown, as he had abdicated in favor of the traditional title for his current role.

Grandmaster of the Great Hunt.

Every Dwarf that had joined him was a champion of combat, trained in their mountain homes for full centuries. Paladins of the Flame, Rogue Warlords, Assassins, Warlocks, Stonesingers, all united under his leadership to defend their home.

The Great Iron Mountains, so high their peaks puncture through the milky-white clouds.
The beloved mountains that held their Fortresses, carved from the very stone of the world.
The Mountains that are called the 'Backbone of the World' by the Mighty Human Nations.

They were called on this sacred hunt for one reason, for one their greatest enemies had returned. The Humans had conquered the Dwarves and forced their kings to bend the knee, but even they had never reached this level of enmity. The Foe had once driven the Dwarves to near destruction, and brought the very Mountains down upon them.

The Great threat were massive things, able to consume Dwarves whole. Their Fire burnt with the embers of Hell, and Their Frost could shatter a man. The Dwarves had no true name for them for in their culture those creatures didn't even deserve titles, but there was in Common tongue.

Dragons.

The Ancient rulers of a cycle past, a survivor of the birth of the eternal flame. Their archaic gods no longer held any sway over the world, yet they remained. In Eons past a faction of Dwarven Warriors called the Wyrmscourged had been accompanied by Priest of the Flame in a massive crusade to push the Dragons out of the Great Vale, but now the Dwarves has grown complacent.

Every second son of every family still joined the Wyrmscourged, but it had grown into a social organization rather than its former Militarized state. Their members could pick up a sword from the right end, but it had become a way to remember past dwarven glories and nothing more.

So when a Dragon ventured too far south the Dwarves had to find a way to push it back out, or slay it. A great Dwarven King who had reclaimed his land from the largest dragon ever seen, Malvasia the Red, had established a new tradition.

Every time a Dragon invaded, A great Hunt would be called. Each of the 15 Morair would provide the ten greatest fighters in their realms to the King of all Dwarves, and he would lead them to slaughter the great Wrym. The Hunt would not end until the Silver blood of the Dragon had pooled on the stony ground and it's elemental heart stopped beating.

Thus, The 10th Great Hunt had been called. A large Black dragon, much different than the rest of it's brethren, had recently slaughtered its way past the Northern Guards. It was said to have laid siege to a dozen flatland castles, and brought down each one with the power of it's magic alone. Only Three Dwarves had lived to even see the beast's dark wings block out the very sun, as it carved out a bloody path of destruction. Even the Empire of Blades had began to assemble it's armies, but the honor of the dwarves would not tolerate the stain.

They would be the ones to hunt down this filth, no human would finish their ancient duty.

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