A Dwarfs Tale, Ch 1 : The Direbog Massacre

Made in Karak-a-Karaz, from girders.

[As occurred in Year 2 Turn 6 and Turn 6b.]

It had been an expensive victory.
"Victory! Pah!", Beran Ironjaw thought, while spitting over the cliff edge. "A massacre more like".
He leaned over, the biting wind whipping his beard around, and watched the gob of spittle fall until it eventually landed on in the waves - turned dark red with Ogre blood. He shuddered as he saw a stealthy fin briefly appear amidst the churning bloody waters.
"That's no death, don't no one deserve that", he murmured.

He got himself an ale from the victory keg, sat down and lit his pipe. The early mornings battle wouldn't stop replaying in his minds eye...

They had marched hard through the night. Given no respit after bringing the sinful Halfings to heel, they had trudged to the south east then north. If they could make the distance before dawn, the plan was to catch the Ogres by surprise.
"Sure'n doesn't everyone know that Ogres are slower in the early morning?"

Still, a hard march to the Hissing Coast and then a slog north through the Direbog marshes. Many a good Dwarf had fallen, and for what? This piss poor piece of land that the Ogre's lived on?  Beran knew he should be happier. The Dwarves had just pushed the Ogre's off the Burning Isle, one of the nine islands, thereby ensuring the safety of the many clans in their Hold for the coming year.

Their Dwarven comrades had marched in from the north and they had caught the ogres between them. The Ogre's fought valiantly, and for many hours it looked like those brave large few might hold against the vast throng of Dwarves. But their end was inevitable. The Ogres were pushed back to the cliffs, then to the cliff edge, then to their watery grave.

He stood, and again looked over the cliff edge.  His stomach churned as the waves beneath him.  If you had Elven eyes, you might have seen a single tear, following the spittle down to the water.