Yor Amberslag was up before the dawn. He sniffled and brought a finger to close one nostril, forcefully projecting a snot rocket to the forest floor--it happened to splat quite grotesquely. His head was pounding from last nights festivities, which involved Gorrim and himself destroying three days worth of mead in a single sitting, and he did not regret that decision. He was a dwarf after all. The stout dwarf rolled his dirty sleeping bag, and slung the strings over each of his boulder-like shoulders, prepared to move on. He noted that his brother, Gorrim, had apparently left before him, towards the quaint village known as Saqqar. Yor gripped his hammer, his callused mitts made a unique noise as he squeezed on the leather that was wrapped among the hilt. So he was off, fully equipped, with everything in his possession, including a lingering hangover. 

The road was cobblestone, and appeared to not be used frequently. Yor figured this was due to the village being raided by giants, those towering behemoths were only spoke of in legends, as their numbers were thought to only be miniscule. Something had urged them to put Saqqar to its doom. Something vile indeed. The air even had a lingering stench of foe and misfortune, among the moisture of the ominous mist that poured from the mountains. A slight chill bit at Yor, one he welcomed as he was a mighty dwarf, hardened against the elements of heat and cold. The mist was over his head, and quite dense, which alarmed the seasoned warrior to unseen threats. Yor raised his hammer, his right hand sliding just beneath the head, his left hand clasped at the base of the hilt, he tipped the weapon horizontally in front of him, forming a defensive posture. 

The mist was thick for many footsteps, a hundred or more, and Yor was relieved to see dim torchlight in the distance. [i]"About damned time"[/i], the dwarf spat. As he approached, a melancholy feeling blanketed his senses. A figure in a tattered cloak rested outside the gates, trembling in an eternal fear. A sound pierced through the early morning, a moan, like a witch with cancer in her belly. Saqqar was nearly a ghost town; it was a ghost town. Ransacked by giants no doubt, as several buildings were crumbled and ruined. Rats scurried a cross the cobblestone road, which snaked through the dreeary town. A small urchin boy ran from the shadows, instantly Yor pivoted on his heels, planting his feet firmly down, his thighs solid as a mighty oak. The boy, undaunted by the menacing dwarf, scooped up a rat, wincing as it bit him, and ran into the shadows, securing his meal for the night. Yor lowered his hammer, the gravity of this unfortunate villages situation bearing hard upon his heart. 

King Yuri Amberslag, son of Wohrik, had chosen his two of his three sons to partake on this perilious journey, knowing Yor was more seasoned in combat and a tactician, he was chose first. Gorrim was a mighty warrior along side Yor, but was more level-headed, a better talker. He knew Yor would need his brother by his side to secure his safety, no matter how seasoned of a warrior he was. The youngest prince remained, as security, if Yor and Gorrim were lost.. 

Pounding footsteps signaled the arrival of Yor Amberslag to the tavern (of course that would be a dwarves first stop), and he gave a slight nod to a human standing outside the entrance, a gritted smile surfaced through his thick, black beard. The door swung open forcefully, nearly tearing from its hinges as the dwarf barreled in, a grin on his visage. [i]"Ah! Me brudder!"[/i] he howled.