A bloody hand against a white background. A squirming beard crushed by a foot. A dwarven axe, broken handle and shattered blade. A hateful orc face roaring it’s anger out. Dozens of banners seemed to spread in all directions, huge swaths of fabric, each as big as the sail of a dwarven boat. Many, actually made specifically from dwarven sails, hastily drawn in paint still fresh.

Under those symbols, thousands of feet rumbled against the earth. Along came all kinds of angry faces, tightly holden mallets and leather armors. They did not had the same perfect timing of the dwarves, but they more than compensated it with raw fury. Everything in their forms suggested a burning anger, a desire for revenge. The air itself seemed to seeth with rage, their very souls were infuriated.

Their trumpets kept singing, screaming the song of their people, the song of Feelings. They did not need the artificial passing of the dwarves, for it was not in numbers that their song seeked it’s strength, but in honesty, in the truth of their souls, in the legitimacy of their fury! And in those, were wrapped the words of their leader, the one who brought into himself the mission of avenging his people! The Excited Prince, carrying himself the Royal Standard, screamed in the orcish language, the one spoken directly into each other’s heart.

“Brothers! The war is upon us once more! From the depths of the darkness, they try to burn our village! Throughout the night, our comrades held! Against fire and magic they held! Against numbers and metal they held! Against hope, they held! Now is the time to avenge our fallen soldiers! Now is the time to make right the wrongs of our past!”

To his words, his men raised their weapons and raised their voices, and raised their challenges! “War! War! It is time for war!” And they raised their feet, and they brought it down, and they marched! Forth and into the enemy’s desperate little band, to revenge and to battle!

“Forward! Forward! Into our village! Into the land they try to take from us, into the land they’ve robbed from us! Now, our settlement! Tomorrow, our ancestral home! Charge, Feelings! Charge! To victory! To vengeance!”

The Children of Feelings had no mounts, the Children of Feelings needed no mounts! They rode their rightful anger, their bare feet covered the leagues faster than any horse or goat could. Thunderous as the storm, they entered the disputed town from three of the four gates, leaving as an option of retreat, only the path leading back to the dwarven bulwarks, far into the horizon.

The buildings shaking as they passed, the blood spilled on the floor raising in a new cloud of death, before the final slaughter of the day even started. Whichever straggler they met, was swiftly engulfed in a sea of anger, mowed down into a pulp by feet and mallet. Single individuals and formed shield walls fell to brutal strikes alike. Heads caved in, ribs broken, armors shattered, shields and axes useless, against roar and revenge, nothing stood.

Their fates were sealed all the same way. The vanguard orc saw the trembling enemy, howled his challeng, brought down their weapon with all it’s weight, all their might, and penetrated metal and bone as if nothing, carrying forward pieces of the fallen in the head of his maul. In the rare occasion that was not enough, soon followed another orc with another mace and another roar, and after them, came another, and then another. Regardless of who stood in front of them, their charge kept charging, and their weapons kept singing, and their enemies kept dying.

On that day, a long forgotten memory made itself know into the minds of every dwarf present. The absolut terror that is to be on the receiving end of an orc charge, to look up and see nothing but legs, to feel their shields crumbling as if nothing, to feel the hot breath in their faces, their beards giving way just as easily as their body, and finally, the terrible, terrible song their hammers sang while coming down.

As fire eating a dry field, their numbers spread out into their village, cleansing everything that did not belong. Amazed, relived, ashamed, the Rationalized watched from atop his tower, and cried. His efforts, their sacrifices, it had not being in vain. Carried by the last rays of a setting sun, hope had stormed back into his Heart!

In the end, the very same thing that allowed the orcs to hold for such a long time, was what allowed any dwarf to get out of there alive. The layout of the town, meant to delay any invading force, also held back the rescuing army. Trhough the sinuous and narrow streets, they advanced two and two, a race to which the prize was the head of their next enemy.

“Retreat! Retreat! Back to the Protected Home, we leave! Sing the song of retreat, we must warn the others!” Every dwarf’s beard tingled with the scrambled messages that were being sent. From the six promising talents who left for this audacious assault, no more than two broken messes remained, and in their haste to get out, they all but screamed in their subordinates sensory networks.

Quickly, and always in perfect synchrony, the remaining forth of the dwarves marched down the streets, aiming for the only gate not flooding with murderous two ton angry orcs. Tracing the path once as an unit was all they needed to get a perfect picture of the organization of the town, and were actually at an advantage in this desperate escape. Until death rained from the sky, and fell in their middle in the form of the Rationalized.

He screamed and he attacked, he moved, he destroied. His arms were a flurry of blades, his voice the sound of terror itself. Overcome by relief, by grief, by regret, he put himself surrounded by his hated enemies, and demanded of him the same destiny they gave to all his brothers. Alas, they were tired, scared and in retreat and he was death incarnate. They did not try to fight, even though there was only one against all. While they did not want to waste any second running away from the tide that approached from three sides, they also could not manage to even hurt to tide that burst inside of them.

His blades weaved, his arms a blur of death. All around him, screams were sharpily cut, alongside with necks. His long training experiences guided his hands, and no strike of his tried to destroy a beard. Instead, he lashed in perfect diagonal stripe, following the close gap between body and armor, in there to accommodate the sensible hair growing from the enemie’s faces. One, two , four, dwarf after dwarf fell to his precise anger. At each victim, his frustation grew, and so did his roars. Instead of releasing any built up feeling, his merciless killing against those fleeing cowards only managed to make them heavier, as if the blood that accumulated on his skin, also did it on his soul.

From the one thousand black wearing soldiers who marched away from their bulwarks for the first time in centuries, only one hundread and twenty five managed to scramble into the way back. Their comrades were dead, and so were most of their leaders. Their gains had been nothing, and now they had to face the long way back with a howling mass of angry maniacs stepping on their heels. They did, however, have a couple of advantages on their way back, firstly the fact that no orc would ever leave behind an unburied fellow, and second that no Gardener had been seen amognst orcs for centuries now, and it would be very costly for them to go trhough the Starving Forest without one.

At least on their first ponderation, they were absolutely right. As soon as the last dwarf left the village, the orcs shifted from burning rage to flowing sadness. They looked around, and thei wiped. From their bloodshot eyes, the tears had free reign. Everywhere they looked, death and destruction cursed them. Spread into rubble, what once were defiant buildings, tall and proud, now covered the floor and barred streets. Everything was black from the ashes from outside the city, the gates were destroied, and the dead! So many dead! An entire village, once bursting with movement, now laid in nothing but bodies.

Before chasing the guilty, before extracting their bloody revenge, their duty was to their fallen. During the rest of the day, they dragged them to the town center, and piled them in their funerary honors. Together they lost their lives, together they were to face the next step. Hand in hand, all the living made sure no dead were left alone, without someone to support them in their unfinished journey.

There was one, however, who felt more alone than any there could feel. He had seen his beloved family die, he witnessed the death of them, and even worse, ordered the death of others. From body to body, he kneeled and apologized. Both his hands against their cold cheeks, his forehead against theirs, to each one he talked.

While the honored dead were sent away, the hated ones were also piled up. Without any semblance of respect, their bodies were clumped together and put into bunches of wagons, taken from the village. The few beards that still squirmid were shoved into pots and put aside for later attention. The precious black metal was stripped from all the bodies, and piled into another wagon, along with weapons and shields.

When the night came around once more, and brought with it true darkness, a second fire was lit to interrupt it. This time around, however, it did not burn with malice. It’s flames were sad, as melancholic as the faces that gathered around them and watched with a heavy heart, many of their own be turned into spirit, to follow into the Interrupted Journey. From all the inhabitans of the village, only those who gave their lives resisting the first flames and the one who survived, did not share that pire. The first, in respect for their sacrifices, the former, in shame and guilt.

“I do not deserve their flames”, the Rationalized thought, kneeled as close to the heat as he could stand “they gave their lives for our victory, and all I did was hide and shout. They now go into their next journeys, and I go into my own – of redemption, and shame.”

“I promise to you now, my fallen brothers. Once this is all over, and you are all avenged, I will have earned my place among you once more. I will lay where you are now, and I will set my own fire, a fire so bright, you will all see it, and now that I shall be coming. I will accept whichever punishment you bring to me, just please, let me be with you once more.”