Dwarf Berserkers

Dwarven Berserker – Fists of Karn As Tharnûl of Karz-Morûn, I watched them from the other side of the tunnel with a scowl. They were the escort for Karn-Vâruk's envoy, and everything about them was an insult to tradition. Ten dwarves, barely armed with leather harnesses and pieces of metal, like gladiators ready for the pit. Their appearance was a walking rejection of the Murnazdruld's discipline, a mockery of the heavy armor that represented the ancestral order. I recognized a few of them. A lad whose clan had been struck from the records two generations ago; a forge-apprentice whose guild had been dissolved by internal disputes. They were the dispossessed, the youth who had grown up under the shadow of a failed empire and now found purpose in the feverish gaze of their new prophet. They were not soldiers; they were converts. The alarm rang out then, a deep gong announcing an orc breach in the lower levels. My company formed the shield wall, the slow, heavy, and honorable response