Rhewen

Rhewen shakes his head in Khaz’A’Dentrumm

Volden Frostbeard's bloodied eyes lift from a daze as he lay wounded before the hall of the dwarven Hall. The groans and screams of dying Dwedmar fill his ears as the sons of Horen end the suffering of the warriors of Urguan about him. Pulling himself up from the cold stone he followed the rest of his hobbling kin down through the deep roads to the harbor, the last vestige of his people. He had not seen Tomrim since before the last push of the siege commenced. As he passed the blind dwarf on the last bridge, he placed a firm hand on his shoulder "Dungrimm calls" he said "May my father greet ye and embrace ye, and may ye sit beside him and sup for eternity" his last remark to the blood stained dwarf. Onward Volden went with his kin, to board the last ship departing from their homeland.

Woops! Forgot to make one for Moderation!

Volden Frostbeard reads the missive as he sits upon a hill in Khron'Hundmar. He did not know Fili very well but remembered his valor in his youth. Volden relives the many moments of watching his father march off to battle alongside the old guard of Urguan. He remembers many faces which have since withered. That of Zahrer, Fimlin, Dagor, and of course the valiant Fili. Fili had always erred on the side of caution, or so he was told many years ago. He wondered what would have befallen his clan if they had heeded his words and wisdom those many years ago in the first Frostbeard rebellion. He looks upon the rolling hills with saddened eyes and a heavy heart, knowing the last of that ancient generation are now leaving for Khaz'A'Dentrumm. "May Dungrimm weigh ye well, an' may moi fatheh welcome ye to 'is 'alls with open arms." he says, whispering to the cold northern breeze. "Res' well noble Fili, yer loikes shall neveh be seen again."

Volden watches from the height of Rhewenholm as he watches Aghals ship sail from the harbor he murmurs to himself and the Brath “May the winds fill her sails and lead ye te untold wealth an’ peace cousin.”

Volden Frostbeard reads the declaration with a nod, immediately setting out to sharpen his axe.

"Hail House Staunton! Hail Whitewater!" Borus "The Chaste" Thassarion IV calls from the shore upon arrival.

This mf brought out TRIGONOMETRY

Volden Frostbeard would smile gently at the sound of music being played by minstrels and bards throughout the halls of Kal’Darakaan. Such merry making and music was long missed in Urguan, especially since all a Dwed could think of was the war at hand. Such melodies brought the blood stained thoughts of Volden to vanish for the time being.

"FER CENTURIES O' MISTREA'MEN'?!" Volden frostbeard screams with laughter, his howl echoing in the halls of Rhewenholm.

Upon entering Khaz’A’Dentrumm, Dorimnur would be greeted by a familiar face. Rhewen would place his arm around the shoulders of the frostborn Goldhand, hand him a bottomless tankard, and lead him through the halls of his ancestors in the sky.

Volden Frostbeard rests arms crossed upon the battlements of Urguan. He sighs, seeing no smoke in the distance and no 'army' at their doorstep. Venturing then to Rhewenholm he gazes out on the harbor, seeing naught but clear blue water, filled with warships of the greatest engineering known to the descendants and no Savoyards to be found. He walks cold-eyed back to his chambers in the Grand Hall of the Legion and continues his boresome paperwork. "Ah 'oped t'ose long legs were nae as chicken shite as Ah t'ought t'ey'd beh. Maybeh nex' centureh..."

Volden Frostbeard sits at the mouth of the mountains of Urguan, beholding the vast valley before the tumultuous rocks behind him. He saw the fields riddled with blood and flame, the haze of war strewn about the hills. Shaking his head he puts the thought behind him. There is important work to do.

Volden Frostbeard reads the missive with a wide grin "Legen's return as nuw 'uns 're born, aye." He continues work on his blueprints in dim candlelight, enthused to fight with warriors of yore.

Volden Frostbeard sings a low dirge as he sharpens his axe, remembering the many Grudges left from ages past. Left unanswered by forgotten warriors of old. He eyes the blade, then peering to the missive delivered by a courier. "T'at's focken roight" he exclaims, then hones his axe even sharper.