For The Thunder God Tynos!

On the vast expanse of the western tundra, a caravan proceeded slowly as it came in and out of patches of dogwood shrubs. The caravan master, a dwarf, grumbled something to himself as the cold wind bit onto his rosy cheeks.

His name was Benmar Whitebeard, son of Thygarn Whitebeard. He was a middle age dwarf, that would probably put him somewhere in between 150 to 300 years old. He wore a brown cowhide cap, a few strands of bronze colored curls stuck out stubbornly under it. His eyes were emerald green, although age had sprinkled grey dots here and there in the whites of his eyes, they shined with determination. His flaring nose that used to tug at the heartstrings of all the dwarf maidens in the Mithril Hall now was slightly crocked and snarly. One didn't have to look close to notice the hairs that had poked its head out of his nostrums stubbornly. Despite his last name, he did not have a single strand of a white beard at all—he was too young for that— instead, he had a fire red beard that was then dabbled with flakes of white snow.

The wind howled, a few times, it almost blew away his cap. He paused the caravan for a brief second to fasten his cap, cursed at the wind with some dwarven profanities and then rode on.

Benmar Whitebeard could trace his lineage to the founder of Whitebeards, one of the seven Maestros of the Mithril Hall. But fate had its twisted ways, for, instead of guarding the Mithril Hall with his clansman, he had become a blacksmith at the city of Ubbin Falls, a few hundred kilometers away from where he was right then. He was on a transport mission, hauling a load of smiting material from the mine of Holsworthy by the coast to his shop in the city.

Tensions had been high in the city lately, the guards were all over the place, seeking any opportunity they could find to threw non-human citizens into the jail. In order to avoid the guards, he had chosen the less trodden back roads, away from the broad and cobbled King's Way.

About two years back, Osric Campton, lord of the Ubbin Falls had allowed the Order of the One to establish a branch in the city. This militia order of xenophobic religion was initially founded in Wolfein. Upon their first entrance to Ubbin Falls, they had disguised themselves as benign and pacific priests that only wanted to preach the words of the one true god—Bok. But soon their prayer had turned into vicious lies that were dipped in the poison of hatred. Within the next two years, the sentiment within the city-wall had turned from sour to bitter and then to vile. Until recently, things seemed to be getting out of control. Within the recent two weeks, three dwarfs and ten barbarians had been publicly executed for petty crimes as small as stealing a loaf of bread.

Benmar was not any ordinary citizens behind the wall; he was the only blacksmith in the city who actually knew how to work the hammer. As the matter of fact, this payload his was carrying contained the cold silver ore that would be used to forge princess Aelia, Lord Campton's youngest daughter a new sword. However, Benmar's important status did not amount to his innocence in front of religious frenetic, plus, he had his own fears that stemmed from his association with the Black Hand, a dwarven insurgence group that aimed to take back the mines that had lost to their human oppressors.

Benmar was never into politics, let alone getting involved in extremist groups. But when he first saw a member of the Black Hand executed on the Street of Ubbin Falls, he was shocked to see that they were practically kids. What would they know about politics when they barely could grasp the value of their lives. The next day when Benmar walked pass the heads that had been staked on spikes for public display, despite its grotesquely mutilated features, Benmar could still see the yellowish peach fuzz on their lips blowing in the wind. That was the moment when Benmar decided to protect these teenagers by secretly providing them with armors to save their lives, but never weapons for them to take lives.

It was because of that responsibility he had carried with him, Benmar decided to be extra cautious in his everyday life, including choosing the transport route.

This area of the tundra was occupied by the Tribe of the Wolverine, barbarians that were too stubborn to adapt to more civilized life in the city. Unlike Benmar's kin who still lived in the mountains, these barbarians were of the same race as the humans who built the town, so they really don't have any excuses not to blend in.

Benmar had traded with the tribe before therefore he figured that this passage was safe, for him, at least. As soon as he was out of the exposed low lands, there were more shrubs around at the foothill, so the wind had died down significantly. The milder wind gave Benmar a bit comfort; he reached out to his belt and pulled out a tobacco pipe that was hitched under his soft leather belt. The tobacco pipe was made out of Elkhorn, and it felt warm, like the hand of the woman who had given it to him as a token of their love. He had later carved the emblem of his clan, a round shield of Whitebeards, onto the shank.

Benmar lit up the tobacco with some tinder and puffed a cloud of smoke. The smell of the tobacco immediately reminded him of his old house, home sweet home.

They said a dwarf's home was always with their clansmen under the mountain, where mead and gold flowed. Perhaps they were right in some respect, the darkness of the mountain cave and its treasures did provide him with some measure of comfort, but it was with Ingrid, where he had found the light in his life.

He met her at the Golden Bazaar in the great City of Yahidah, the jewel of the Shahriyar Desert, the wealthiest city of Caerdon. Benmar had been a splashing young apprentice of Master Weapons smith Fili Steelbrew; he was on his last leg of the graduation tour. Across the stands that sold the precious Blue Sand, Benmar met her eyes, two pools of dark blue that were more of an enigma to the young apprentice than the mysterious blue magic sand of the Shahriyar Desert. They held each other's gaze for a while, and magic happened.

That night, in Benmar's private tent, the two lay in each other's arms, and she told him about her story. She was a northern girl originally from a small village in the Morgwar's marsh at the other end of the continent. The stakor raiders—hideous rat men, killed her parents during a raid, so she was sold away by the local lord as a slave to a rich and rotund man from Yahidah who bought her as a gift to his fifteenth wife.

The next day morning, Master Fili Steelbrew found his best student's tent empty. He knew right away that Benmar had run away with that woman they met at the bazaar.

Knowing Ingrid would not get used to the darkness in the mountains, they decided to live above ground, but still hidden, so they had chosen to live deep in the woods near the Elf's home, Alheim.

Their hard but happy life lasted three years until the Order of the One came. They found his cabin deep in the woods of Alheim and murdered Ingrid in cold blood because she was a human woman that had fallen in love with a dwarf. Benmar's hand trembled at the thought of what he had seen that day after he came back to his small, but cozy home. He only remembered the streak of blood that led to the backyard, and he had forgotten whatever he saw after. Luckily, their adopted daughter the little Alora had survived while hiding in the shed quietly all the while. It had been ten years, and Alora had become a teenager, but Benmar still protected her like the most precious thing in the world.

The wind had almost subsided. Benmar puffed another smoke, and he watched as it rose slowly and eventually blend into the grey clouds above.

Suddenly, the wagon came to a halt as Benmar was still staring at the sky. The jolt sprained his neck and almost threw him off the wagon.

"Bahh!" The dwarf grunted, trying to straighten his neck after regained some balance.

"These roads are a real pain in my ares!"

Benmar mumbled to himself, thinking that the wheel had rolled over a rock or hit a pothole while he wasn't watching—a small price to pay for safety.

Benmar leaped off the wagon deftly and turned around to inspect the wheel.

"Balls!" he cursed.

The wheels were busted, structs had splintered into pieces, but there was no sign of any culprit. The road was even, and neither was there any boulders that were large enough to make a dent in the wheel.

Already, His senses tingled, and he thought perhaps the road wasn't as safe as he had expected. His hand went for his crossbow, but it was already too late.

"For The Thunder God Tynos!"

Benmar heard an explosion of thunderous battle-cry coming from his back, as he turned around, he only saw the knob of a battleax hitting squarely on his forehead in between his eyes.

Benmar's world swirled as it turned black.