Over the din of battle, the Dwarven warcry and roars of ferocity from the old Veteran reverberated off the trees. All about him, the dead were strewn about the ground, broken and chopped in twain by Drimbold's vicious Axe. On this line of the battlefield, there were hardly any Undead left to face the bearded old soldier. His shield swept to the left, knocking a skeleton over. He spun as his shield moved, merely stepping hard on the fallen Skeleton's head and crushing it under the Dwarf's muscled weight before he cleaved through the skull of an Undead bear monstrosity. The metal and bone abomination shuddered under the impact. Drimbold gave it no time to possibly recover, and he bludgeoned it with his Axe and shield until it fell like so much kindling. 

"For Belia of the Mountain!" he roared to the troops near him, chopping left and right. Blocking with his shield and Axe haft, giving off ferocious counter-blows. He felled an enemy with every swing, and the bodies of the enemy pilled up to his waist as he fought tirelessly and fearlessly. His body was an engine of vengeance, the pain of losing his family to these monsters gave him the endurance and skill to survive far more than any other, and soon the mound of corpses before him was up to the Dwarf's chest. He began knocking them nonchalantly onto the pile and finishing them off each time. He gave another battlecry, lifting his Axe and shield in the air in a triumphant fury, before settling down and regaining his old dour calm, still casually dispatching an enemy or two that dared get too close.