The gnoll encampment was eerily quiet, save for the distant rush of the river. Four figures stood in a small clearing, the flickering campfire casting long shadows. The humans were either standing watch or asleep on the far side of camp. Stronric stood with his head bowed, his axe resting heavily on the ground. Across from him, Bauru, Gromli, and Rugiel exchanged uneasy glances, the silence between them heavy with unspoken tension.
It was a strange scene: a leader standing in judgment before his own closest companions. The weight of Stronric’s actions hung in the air, an unspoken accusation in every breath.
Bauru, still bruised and weary from their recent ordeal, finally spoke. His voice was low, almost hesitant. “Stronric… What ye did, it cannot be brushed aside.” He kept his gaze steady, though it was clear every word weighed on him.
Stronric’s jaw tightened. “I know, lad,” he said, his voice rough. “That’s why I can’t let this go unanswered.”
Gromli crossed his arms, his usual cheer nowhere to be found. His face was drawn with a mixture of anger and confusion. “But what are ye sayin’, Stronric? A man doesn’t just beat his own kinsman senseless and call it a mistake. What drove ye to it?”
Rugiel stood slightly apart from the others, her expression unreadable. Her hands were clasped before her, fingers tightening with the effort to maintain her composure. As Stronric’s sister by choice and a fellow leader, she was caught between duty and her personal ties to him.
Stronric looked each of them in the eye before speaking, his tone resolute. “There are old ways, a penance that must be served when a dwarf’s honor is stained by his own hand. I struck down Bauru in a moment of madness, and that crime deserves its price.”
Rugiel’s eyebrows furrowed. “Penance? Stronric, what are you talking about?” Her voice was measured but laced with concern.
Stronric straightened, his hands trembling slightly at his sides. “I’ll stand alone against the darkness for three days—no food, no water, and no help. If I survive, then I’ll have proven I’m fit to lead.”
Bauru opened his mouth to object, then shut it again. He knew Stronric better than anyone; he knew that this wasn’t just about justice—it was about pride. Even so, hearing his brother’s words aloud was like a punch to the gut.
Gromli shook his head, anger flashing in his eyes. “Three days, without food or water? And ye’re going to stand out there with gnolls breathing down yer neck? What kind of nonsense law is this?”
“It’s not nonsense.” Stronric snapped, his voice harsh. He forced himself to calm down, his shoulders slumping slightly. “It’s the only way I know to make things right… or at least bearable.”
Bauru finally stepped forward, his voice firm. “It’s his right to choose, Gromli. If he’s to live with this shame, then let him face it in the way he knows how.”
Gromli turned to Rugiel, exasperation written all over his face. “And ye’re just goin’ to let him do this?”
Rugiel’s expression remained stern, but there was a flicker of something softer in her eyes. She let out a long breath. “He is our leader, Gromli. And I believe in my heart that he’s doing what he thinks is right, even if I don’t understand it.”
Stronric’s voice dropped to a murmur, almost as if he were speaking to himself. “If I can’t trust myself, then I can’t ask any of ye to trust me. That’s why I must do this.”
The silence that followed was thick and stifling, filled with the weight of Stronric’s decision. Stronric turned to face each of them in turn, his gaze lingering on Bauru. “If I fall, then ye must lead them, lad. Do better than I did.”
Bauru nodded once, his face hardening with determination. “Ye’re not fallin’, Stronric. And when ye come back, we’ll deal with the rest of this mess together.”
Gromli looked between them, his fists clenched in frustration. “This is madness,” he muttered, but there was no real defiance left in his voice.
Rugiel stepped closer, reaching out to place a hand on Stronric’s shoulder. “You have my support,” she said softly, her words carrying a heavy finality. “But know this, Stronric: If you do not return, the hold will not crumble in your absence.”
Stronric closed his eyes, letting out a long breath. “Aye. That’s as it should be.”
Stronric picked up his axe and slung it over his shoulder. The others stepped aside, giving him a clear path to the edge of the camp. Stronric paused, turning to give them one last, solemn look. “Remember… three days.”
With that, he walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the surrounding forest. Bauru watched him go, his one good eye filled with a mix of worry and admiration.
“Three days…” Gromli muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief.
Rugiel remained silent, her expression hardened by duty, but beneath it was a deep sadness. She exchanged a glance with Bauru, who gave a small nod, as if silently vowing to see this through. And so, they waited, their leader gone to face a trial of his own making, one that would test not just his strength, but the bonds between them all.
Stronric
Stronric moved deeper into the forest, the weight of his axe both familiar and yet strangely distant in his grasp. He reached a large, weathered stone and sat with his back against it. His back towards those he left in camp while he faced the wilds of the forest beyond. This would stand as his defensive position, directly in the path of the oncoming gnolls as they made their way to the camp. The air felt heavy with expectation, as if even the trees knew a storm was brewing. Stronric closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, trying to find calm amidst the chaos of his mind and emotions.
His body still bore the marks of the explosion within his soul forge. When he turned his focus inward, he saw the remnants of his mental smithy. The worktable was overturned, the stones of the forge cracked and damaged, and the anvil lay on its side, a deep fissure running its length. The sight made something inside him ache—a pain as profound as the shame he felt after his recent madness.
Ignoring this fracture in his spirit had only worsened his pain and damage. Stronric knew it could not remain unchecked, especially with what was coming. With a deep breath, he walked to the wrecked table and righted it. At first, he tried to lift two spilled tools at once, but the feat seemed to be overwhelming, so he collected the scattered tools one by one and replaced them back where they belonged. As he worked, he hummed the Song of the Dead and Damned—a lament of old clansmen. The longer he labored to restore his inner forge, the more drained he felt, as if each small act of rebuilding was costing him dearly.
Stronric found himself wiping the table with a rag he didn’t recall picking up. As he did, he was abruptly pulled back into the physical world, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat. Leaning against the weathered stone, he tried to steady himself, but the ache that gripped his body went beyond exhaustion. It was a deep, gnawing pain that seemed to settle into his very bones, like an infection taking root.
He recalled an old clansman from his lost world, a dwarf who had been stricken with a deep rot in his bones. The poor soul had tried to carry on as if nothing was wrong, but they would often find him curled up in the halls, wracked with sobs. The clan had never understood what ailed him at the time, but now, Stronric felt he did. It was pain without explanation, a torment that defied words.
When he felt steady enough, Stronric rested his axe across his legs, gripping the wooden haft he had carved himself. The familiar feel of the wood grounded him. Absentmindedly, he traced the outline of the engraved cornucopia with his fingers. He kept humming an old song that one sung in mourning when a dwarf was exiled or killed. For the dwarves, exile was no different than death. Dwarven law forbade killing their own; the sin was so great that spilling a kinsman’s blood could not be justified. Instead, a penance was demanded. A dwarf who brought shame upon himself, could atone by laboring in the mines, fighting tirelessly, or if the shame was too great having his beard shorn and be exiled to the world above.
Stronric removed his pauldrons with deliberate slowness, feeling their worn edges dig into his palms. He hadn’t had them long, but their age spoke of countless battles fought and victories hard-won by those who came before him. He could see the old nicks and dents in the metal, scars left by blades and arrows, remnants of a past he hadn’t shared but now bore the weight of.
As he laid the pauldrons at the foot of the stone, a strange sense of loss settled over him. These pauldrons were not just pieces of armor. They were a legacy, a connection to the warriors of the past who had carried the burden of leadership with honor and pride. Letting them go felt like admitting he wasn’t worthy of that lineage. It was he was casting away the weight of responsibility he had tried so hard to uphold.
But it wasn’t just the pauldrons. Stronric reached up, his fingers lingering on the tabard draped over his shoulders. It was a gift from Thoranthana, the god who had once called him chosen. The fabric felt heavier now, as if it carried not just the blessing of a deity, but the weight of expectations he could no longer meet. The thought of removing it sent a chill through him, a shiver of dread and doubt that tightened around his chest.
He took a steadying breath and slipped the tabard off, his fingers brushing over the embroidered insignia on its front. The symbol of Thoranthana, a mark of divine favor and purpose. It seemed to mock him now. Stronric laid the tabard over his axe, letting it rest there like a shroud over the steel. His shoulders felt bare, exposed, as if he had stripped away not just his armor, but a part of himself, the part that still believed he could be redeemed.
Kneeling before the stone, Stronric bowed his head, whispering a prayer for forgiveness. A tear rolled down his cheek as he struggled to find the words, his voice barely more than a broken whisper. “Thoranthana, ye called me yer chosen… but I have proven I am not. Take back yer gifts… and yet blessings.”
The words tasted like ash on his tongue, bitter and hollow. When he brought his hand up to wipe his tear, he saw his knuckles smeared with blood. He flinched, startled, but when he looked again, the blood was gone.
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He stayed kneeling for what felt like hours, the weight of his guilt pressed down on him. Then he heard it—the unmistakable, chilling cackle of gnolls. Stronric slowly rose, clad in nothing but his tunic, pants, and boots. The first gnoll scouts emerged from the shadows as the sun dipped below the horizon, their eyes glowing with a savage, unnatural hunger. Stronric clenched his fists, feeling the coiled tension in his muscles, like a blacksmith’s hammer poised to strike.
The Camp
The river encampment remained tense, the fog thickening as the night crept on. The human militia moved through their routines with hushed voices, their eyes frequently darting towards the dark line of the forest. There were whispers of doubt, unspoken fears, and the lingering unease of men who had been brought together by the shadow of war. Amid all of this, three dwarves held the camp’s fragile sense of order together.
Rugiel had taken charge. Her presence commanded a quiet respect from the human soldiers. Though she was outnumbered by the humans, her calm authority and stern demeanor ensured that her orders were followed without question. She moved through the camp, checking defenses and offering curt instructions. Occasionally, she would stop to glance at the distant treeline, where shadows seemed to shift and twist with a life of their own. Her gaze lingered there, as if willing Stronric to return safely.
Gromli, away from the bustle, had set up his cooking station by the fire. Pots simmered and ladles clinked as he worked. His focus was singular and unwavering. He chopped, stirred, and seasoned with an intensity that seemed at odds with his usually jolly demeanor. The smell of hearty stew filled the air, mingling with the scent of the river and the damp earth. The humans, despite their anxiety, took comfort in the familiar rhythm of Gromli’s work and the warmth of the meal he prepared. But every now and then, even Gromli couldn’t help but glance towards the forest. His eyes betraying a flicker of concern before he busied himself with another task.
Bauru sat by the campfire. His back to the warmth and his crossbow, Predator, resting across his lap. Despite his injuries, he maintained a vigilant watch on the forest’s edge, his gaze never wavering. His fingers traced the grooves of Predator’s stock, and the firelight flickered in his one good eye, reflecting thoughts that ran deep.
Rugiel approached him quietly, stopping just short of where he sat. She took a moment to find the words, her face solemn.
“Ye’ve known him longer than any of us, Bauru,” she said softly, her voice breaking the silence. “Do you think he’ll make it?”
Bauru didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the treeline. The distant rustling of leaves and the crackling of the fire were the only sounds between them. When Bauru finally spoke, his voice was low and measured, carrying the weight of long-held understanding.
“He’s been through worse,” Bauru replied, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice. “But this time… it’s not just about the fight. It’s about what he’s fightin’ for.”
Rugiel frowned slightly, understanding more than she cared to admit. “And if he doesn’t return?”
Bauru’s grip tightened on the crossbow, his knuckles turning white. “Then I’ll take up his axe and finish what he started. But I won’t let him fall, not if I can help it.”
Gromli stirred the pot with a heavy sigh, the ladle clinking softly against the rim. He glanced back at them, wiping his brow with a cloth. “The stew’s almost ready,” he muttered, his voice gruff, trying to keep his focus on his cooking. “I made enough to keep the men fed through the night.”
Rugiel turned to him, her tone softening. “Gromli, I know you want to keep busy, but you can speak your mind.”
Gromli didn’t answer right away. He added a pinch of herbs to the pot, stirring with deliberate care. Finally, he let out a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I haven’t known Stronric long,” he admitted, his voice low and strained. “Met all of you just a few days ago. But I know what it’s like to carry a weight you didn’t ask for.”
Gromli paused, stirring the stew absently, as if lost in thought. “I spent years working for an old merchant. He was a lonely, wealthy man with no family left. He bought me as a boy, but he never treated me like a slave, not really. We had an understanding, more like a strange friendship, if you could call it that. He gave me freedom, but he always carried a burden of his own, guilt, regrets, loneliness. Things I couldn’t fix.”
Bauru looked up from Predator, his eye narrowing slightly. “So, you understand the weight of it, then?”
Gromli nodded, a distant look in his eyes. “Yeah, I do. But I also know that when a man carries too much alone, it breaks him. No matter how strong he thinks he is.”
“What I don’t get,” Gromli continued, voice rising with the frustration he’d kept pent up, “Is why he’s got to bear this one alone? It doesn’t seem right, no matter what honor you speak of. You dwarves are all about your traditions and honor. Always taking on burdens, always pushing through, no matter the cost. It’s… well, it’s stubborn as a mule, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Rugiel stepped closer, her expression thoughtful rather than offended. “Stronric’s penance is his choice,” she said quietly. “It’s a matter of honor to him, and we can’t take that away. Dwarven traditions might seem strange to you, Gromli, but they’re the backbone of what holds us together.”
Gromli’s shoulders sagged, and he muttered under his breath, “Honor’s a heavy burden, isn’t it? I don’t know if it’s one I’d ever choose. Not after what I’ve seen. I’m just used to people being more… practical about these things.”
Bauru’s voice softened, sensing the outsider’s confusion and trying to bridge the gap. “I can’t blame you for thinking that Gromli. It’s a hard way to live, and not an easy thing to understand from the outside. But Stronric’s not just fighting for himself — he’s fighting to keep us whole, to keep our hold strong, even if it’s just a few of us now.”
Gromli turned back to his pot, stirring with renewed determination. “Yeah,” he murmured, his tone resigned but thoughtful. “I just hope he knows we’re still with him, even if we’re not out there swinging axes by his side. Maybe I’ll get used to all this honor and stubbornness, or maybe not — but I’m with you either way.”
Rugiel placed a hand on Gromli’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “He knows,” she said softly. “And when he comes back, he’ll see that we never left him behind.”
The three of them fell silent, the crackling of the fire and the bubbling of the stew the only sounds between them. The fog continued to roll in, the night growing darker and the forest more foreboding. But the presence of the three dwarves gave the camp a sense of quiet resolve, a reminder that even in the face of uncertainty, they would stand together.
Armand’s voice cut through the group’s sullen thoughts. “A mighty bond you ‘ave, one zat is like family, yes? I ‘ave long felt ze warmz of a brother’ood.” He coughed slightly and winced in pain, “Take it from a dying ol’ knight, it is worth fighting for, that bond. I spend my days following zat arrogant brat, leaving my brother’ood behind. Now, we are no more zan mercenaries, ‘eld together only by ze ‘ighest coin.”
The knight fell silent and Rugiel rushed over with a bowel of soup in hand. As she kneeled next to him, she saw the old knight had drifted back to sleep. His words passing over the dwarves like the smoke of a flame.
Stronric
The first gnoll scouts emerged from the shadows, their eyes glowing with malevolent glee. They grinned, revealing rows of sharp, filthy teeth, and began to close in, believing the lone dwarf to be easy prey.
Stronric clenched his fists, feeling the old anger coil within him. It was the familiar beast lurking at the edges of his mind. He took a deep breath, remembering the words he had whispered before: Thoranthana, take back yer gifts… Yet, those blessings still remained, clung stubbornly to his spirit, even as he tried to cast them aside.
The gnolls lunged.
Stronric moved with practiced precision, sidestepping the first clawed swipe and bringing his elbow down hard on the gnoll’s neck. The creature crumpled, gasping for breath, but Stronric didn’t stop. He pivoted, bringing his knee up into another gnoll’s ribs, feeling the bones crack beneath the impact. He heard its whimper and knew the pain he’d inflicted was mortal.
More came at him. First two, then three. Stronric felt the rush of battle flood his and the madness whispering at the edge of his consciousness. He had always fought with discipline, the way Stronric Wraith-Thane was trained, but now the battle was raw and brutal. He had no weapon, no shield. It was just his bare hands, his strength, and the fury that simmered beneath the surface.
For a moment, the faces of his fallen clansmen flashed in his mind. Memories of the Deep Roads, of fights where he had given in to the madness to survive. Not this time, he told himself. I won’t lose myself again.
The madness whispered, urging him to give in, to let the rage take over. It promised strength, a way to drown out the pain and regrets that weighed him down. Stronric felt the anger rise, a tide threatening to pull him under, and he faltered for a heartbeat.
He then heard the faint echoes of voices. There were words of his old clansmen, the lessons of his youth. He remembered the day he had taken up his oath, the promise to protect his kin and hold true to the honor of his people. He had made that promise not just to his brothers, but to himself.
Stronric closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting the storm inside him churn and swell. He drew in a breath, steadying himself, and when he exhaled, it was like releasing steam from a forge, controlled, deliberate. He opened his eyes, and the world seemed clearer, sharper, each gnoll’s movement an open book before him.
He didn’t resist the madness; he let it flow through him, but with purpose. Each punch, each strike was precise, guided by an unspoken rhythm. He blocked a slash with his forearm, the pain only sharpening his focus, and drove his fist into a gnoll’s throat with lethal accuracy. The creature gagged and fell, its eyes rolling back in its head.
The other gnolls hesitated, sensing the shift. This wasn’t the wild frenzy they had expected. It was something more methodical, something deadly.
Stronric could feel the madness still tugging at him, urging him to give in completely, to crush everything in his path without restraint. But he didn’t let it consume him. Instead, he harnessed it, shaping it like a blacksmith shaping molten steel.
This is my burden, he thought, my penance. He was not just fighting the gnolls, he was fighting the darkness within himself. He was fighting the fear that he had lost his way. A gnoll with a crude spear lunged at him, snarling. Stronric sidestepped, grabbing the haft of the spear and twisting it from the creature’s grasp. He swung the weapon in a wide arc, using it like a staff to knock two more gnolls to the ground. The gnoll he had disarmed scrambled to its feet, but Stronric drove the spear’s blunt end into its gut, causing the gnoll to double over.
“Ye thought I was done, didn’t ye?” Stronric growled, his voice low and steady. The madness still whispered, but now it was like a forge fire, roaring but contained within its own walls. Stronric twirled the spear in his hands, and with a sharp thrust he drove it into the ground beside him. He left it standing like a marker saying, “I’m just gettin’ started.”
The gnolls snarled and circled him, their confidence shaken. Stronric bared his teeth, feeling the thrill of battle pulse through him. The pain in his body was fading, replaced by the exhilarating rush of power. He met their gaze, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that made the gnolls hesitate. Another gnoll came at him with a dagger in each clawed hand. Stronric caught one of its wrists, twisting hard until he heard the snap of bone. He then drove his knee into the howling gnoll's chest. The gnoll stumbled back, gasping in pain, and Stronric finished it with a crushing blow to the skull.
The darkness rose again, stronger this time. It whispered of blood and vengeance and unconstrained power. Stronric felt his fists tremble, the weight of his past sins bearing down on him. He remembered the look in Bauru’s eyes when he had struck him down. He saw the pain and betrayal written there. The memory was a knife twisting in his gut.
Not this time, Stronric repeated, gritting his teeth. He took another breath, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heart. He let the rage burn, but he kept it in check, like a smith holding the hammer just above the anvil, ready to strike but not yet committing. The gnolls rallied, charging in a coordinated attack. Stronric faced them head-on, his body battered and bleeding, but his spirit resolute. He let out a roar, a battle cry that echoed through the forest. He met the oncoming horde with renewed vigor. The gnolls fell upon him like a wave, but Stronric fought with terrifying grace. His fists and feet moving in a deadly dance. Each blow was precise, each strike purposeful. He wasn’t just surviving — he was mastering the madness, using it to become something more than he had been before and to heal the broken parts of him.
As the last gnoll fell, its eyes wide with fear, Stronric stood alone amid the carnage. His chest heaved and his fists dripped with blood. The forest was silent once more, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Stronric closed his eyes, feeling the lingering warmth of the forge fire within him. The madness had not left him, but he had faced it and emerged stronger. He had forged himself anew, and in the silence that followed, Stronric felt a grim sense of accomplishment.
Three days, he reminded himself. Three days to prove to his kin, and to himself, that he was still worthy of the title he bore. But even as he stood amidst the blood and the silence, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind: What if three days isn’t enough?