Tarsuria, Year of Severus, 18, I.R., the 70th day of Spring, Camp Lionclaw, Great Dunes
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It was the first time he had seen his ever-smiling friend Ghwynmyr lashed out in a fit of rage and frustration. A weird occurrence that he would remember for the rest of his life. At that point, Urfaal had no idea why his dwarven friend had gone mad over the sudden attacks that happened about a week ago on the island near the Ardantean Strait.
Ghwynmyr hit his hand hard on the table once more, its force made some of the wooden soldiers bounce and fell off the table. The commanders surrounding the table were obviously appalled by such action of a lowly freed slave, and it was obviously clear in the way they glared at his friend what they were about to do with him for his insubordination.