Haralt Ganir was a humble man, with humble intents. The son of a meagre blacksmith, he followed in his father's footsteps in metal craft. At the forge he toiled for sixteen hours a day, learning to bend the world's elements to his will, and fashioning them into tools and weapons. He married young, as was custom, but his wife died in childbirth - along with his first and only son. Life was rough is Elsrador however, and the tragic events did not ruin him.

When war broke out with the Blasted Lands, thousands of miles away to the west back when the Empire still held relevance, Haralt did well. There was much demand for good metal working in those early days, and he was capable - though not the best by any means. He slaved away for months, and years, to provide the armies of mankind with the weapons they needed to drive back the Porchling threat.

And now he stood watching his kinsmen buckling before the ruined gate of his home, as a mass of evil hatred threatened to break them.

Haralt was not a sworn brother of the City Watch, but such as the situation was, he could hardly stay out of the battle. Problem was, he was afraid to die; the thought of being gnawed to death by the broken teeth of a Porchling warband sat badly in his stomach. He should turn, flee, and take refuge in the temples with the holymen and their elderly charges. Or the King's keep, perhaps? With the pregnant women and the babes?

"No," he sighed, despite the racket of battle battering at his ears. "No running now, Haralt."

The heavy hammer in his right hand trembled with anxiety. The thick chain covering his body was stifling. Sweat ran in rivers down his chest and back.

"Rationalise man," he muttered. "If they lose the gate, no temple or keep is going to save you. You have to fight."

With uncertain feet, he edged himself towards the melee, looking for a 'suitable' place to position himself. Somewhere, where he could help, but not somewhere he would quickly become a forgotten hero.

Haralt Ganir had a rendezvous with death.

The gateway, the agreed location.

Lifting hammer in one hand, and shield in the other, Haralt spared a brief thought for Merry. She had died young, giving birth to a suffocated son. The world had been cruel that day. So bitterly cruel.

"Too late for that now," he muttered to himself.

The line at the gate buckled, and a watchman fell backwards from the rear with an axe in his face.

"Too late for that now," he reaffirmed.

Finding courage from a source not previously open to him; perhaps from dread realisation that he was about to die, or perhaps from the pure instinct to survive, he marched forwards. Taking care to step over the gurgling form of the fallen watchman, he took the man's place in the line.

Almost immediately, a rusted pole-axe thrust its way past his face. Haralt was no warrior, but he knew somehow to grab that weapon, and by locking it in a groove located on the edge of his shield, grab it he did. The owner pulled hard, but the blacksmith dug his heels and pulled harder; a warrior's might pitted against the time-tested muscle of a worker.

The worker won.

Haralt saw his enemy. All snarls and anger. The Porchling was hauled forwards, and into three spears its life ended. He knocked the pole-axe out of the shield's groove with a tap of his hammer.

"Heave!"

Haralt saw the watchmen and watchwomen in front press into their locked shields. Their comrades in the second and third ranks pushed into their backs, and the resulting force shoved the Porchlings back a few feet. A gap emerged, and suddenly it was dense with thrust spears. Haralt reckoned that in a split second, a dozen of the enemy had fallen.

But others soon replaced them, and he felt, more than saw, the crush of steel-plated bodies throw themselves into the line. A man in front, taller than he, shuddered backwards and fell into him. Haralt was strong, but he was not a wall, and soon the pair found themselves on the floor in a clatter of weapons.

"Call yerself a fighter," spat the watchmen as he quickly scrambled to his feet. He gave Haralt a quick scorn, and then quickly moved back into the fight.

"No," Haralt called after him. "Just a blacksmith, here to meet his end."

"You're in the right place," shouted someone; their voice sounded noble, and well founded.

Haralt caught the glimpse of a plumbed helm, turned slightly so that the edge of the visor caught him. A blue eye shone through it briefly, boring into him. Then the helm had turned to those who wished to smash it apart.

"Seems that way," Haralt sighed, and then he threw his weight against the first back he came to.

"Heave!"