The Dwarven Skald

It wasn’t something he talked about. Ever. But circumstances being what they were, the camaraderie of battle, the certainty of defeat… He felt the need to speak. To somehow inspire his fellow fighters and armor their spirit as they had armored their bodies. In other circumstances he’d regale them with a song of might and valor from the dwarven tales of old. In this bleak moment, he decided a more straightforward story of darkness and a quest for redemption would be more suitable. Something to try and stoke meaning and purpose to their futile endeavor.

That the story was his own, and it yet had no ending. Perhaps they’d all write the ending together on the battlefield that day.

They were all looking at him now. Hardened men and women. Battle-tested warriors. He could see the fear in their eyes, in their blank expressions Silent tears glistened on a few of the younger faces. He would mourn them all later.

The skald hardened his own expression, and began to tell his tale.

“While I was asleep—because I was asleep—they all died. I was the only survivor. I soon wished that I had died.”

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