Stronric leaned heavily against the rough surface of the rock, his breaths shallow and labored. The dawn light filtered through the dense canopy above, casting speckled rays onto the forest floor. He could barely feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, his body was too numb, his senses dulled by fatigue and pain. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. The silence of the forest was broken only by the faint rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds beginning their morning songs. The gnolls had retreated for now, but Stronric knew they weren’t finished with him. Not yet.
In the quiet, he could hear it, a faint hum, a distant whisper that echoed through his veins. Ruhna. He had heard that word before. In his own world, the Long beards and Rune Priests spoke of Ruhna. They said it was the life force of the world. It flowed through the mountain halls, it nurtured the crops, and it was drawn in by rune priests to forge runes of power. At the time, he hadn’t fully grasped its meaning, but now he understood. Ruhna everywhere and within everything. It granted him the ability to wield his class powers, to level up, and what fed the Soul Forge.
“Ruhna,” Stronric muttered under his breath, letting the word settle on his tongue. It felt ancient, like a name carried through generations, holding the weight of something deeply ingrained in the world itself. The energy that coursed through his veins, the power he had struggled to control and harness, it was Ruhna. It wasn’t just a force to wield. it was a part of him. Ruhna was a thread woven into his very being.
As Stronric sat exhausted and lost, it seemed that he could see the flow of Ruhna around him. It ran from the ground into the trees, it left swirls behind after a bird took flight, but when he looked down at himself, he was disconnected. The Ruhna seemed to glow around him, but he remained a shadow. Attempting to harvest and craft power beyond his knowledge in his soul forge, seemed to have broken some vital connection with this life force. He no longer felt the steady rejuvenation after a battle. He felt cold, tired and beyond his years. Now, because of his own actions, he had severed that flow. He knew he had to fix his soul forge.
Stronric settled and entered his mind. The remnants of his Soul Forge were still fragile, barely holding together within his mind. The blue flame flickered weakly in his forge, struggling to stay alight against the fractures and breaks that marred its once-sturdy foundation. The webs of power ran chaotically, almost angerly throughout the blackness. “Ruhna.” He whispered softly. The webs jumped and flowed, dancing in response to their true name. They shifted ever so slightly towards him, as if naming them soothed them slightly. Stronric approached the forge and laid his hands on the cracked stones. He reached out with his thoughts, attempting to guide the flow of Ruhna through the shattered remnants, willing the forge to hold.
He could feel the strain in his veins, like cracks in a dam holding back a torrent of water. It was painful, exhausting, but necessary. Stronric had to rebuild both the forge and the flow of Ruhna if he was going to survive this trial.
“Just hold together,” he muttered, repeating the mantra to himself as he closed his eyes. “Ruhna… follow the path… hold together.”
But he was too tired. The exhaustion was overwhelming, pressing down on his shoulders like a heavy mantle. Stronric left his soul forge, returning to the physical exhaustion of his body. Stronric rested his head against the rock where his equipment was set.
I will rest for now and try to repair the Soul Forge once I have recovered some of my strength, he thought, his resolve unwavering despite his weariness.
He closed his eyes and let sleep claim him.
The Camp
The sun had barely climbed above the horizon when Rugiel gathered the humans around the central fire for breakfast. She stood tall, her warhammer resting against her shoulder, its polished head catching the morning light. The weapon was an extension of her authority, a silent reminder of her strength and the weight of her responsibility.
“Eat your breakfast quickly,” Rugiel instructed, her voice calm and measured, yet carrying a tone that left no room for disobedience. “You will need your strength for the training that lies ahead.”
The humans nodded, acknowledging her command, and approached Gromli’s cooking station. Gromli moved efficiently between the pots, ladling out portions of stew with a focus that belied his usually cheerful demeanor. As he worked, he subtly channeled his class skill into the meal, enhancing the food with properties that would restore strength and bolster resilience.
When the last bowl was served, Gromli set a smaller pot aside on the fire, where a special broth was simmering. It was intended for Armand, the wounded knight resting near the edge of the camp. Gromli carefully added a few herbs to the pot, his focus intensifying as he poured his skill into the broth to give it restorative qualities.
He brought the broth to Armand, who managed a weak smile despite his evident pain. “Merci, Maître Gromli,” Armand said, his French accent softening the words. “You are, too kind to an old knight like me.”
“Think nothing of it, lad,” Gromli replied with a reassuring grin. “Drink it all, and you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
Once the meal was finished, Rugiel led the humans outside the camp’s walls. The morning air was crisp, and the ground was still damp with dew. Her warhammer remained within reach, its presence both reassuring and imposing as she addressed the group.
“Form ranks,” she instructed, her tone firm but not harsh. The humans moved into position, their actions clumsy but eager to please.
Rugiel took a moment to survey them, noting the uncertainty in their faces. They were not soldiers by any means, but that did not mean they could not learn to fight with purpose and discipline.
“Listen carefully,” she began, her voice carrying the cadence of someone accustomed to giving orders. “You are not knights, nor are you trained warriors. However, you can be more than what you believe yourselves to be. Discipline, control, and precision, these will be the cornerstones of your training.”
She demonstrated a series of basic stances, her movements fluid and deliberate. With a practiced motion, she set her warhammer aside, propping it against her leg as she held a spear to demonstrate. “Your weapon,” she continued, “is not something you flail about wildly. It is an extension of your arm, an instrument of precision, not brute force.”
As she walked among the group, Rugiel corrected their stances with a gentle unyielding firm hand. “Hold your weapon firmly, but not so tightly that you’re stiff and lose all dexterity.” She advised a young farmer who was gripping his spear too rigidly. “You must find the balance between strength and control.” Rugiel continued to drill the humans with the patience and determination of a seasoned instructor. The humans in turn looked to her for guidance and followed her command with newfound discipline.
Bauru lingered on the outskirts of the camp, watching quietly. He had told Gromli he would search for special herbs to aid in Armand’s recovery, but his true purpose lay elsewhere. Stronric occupied his thoughts, and he needed to see for himself that his thane was safe.
“I won’t be long,” Bauru said to Gromli, adjusting Predator on his shoulder. “There are herbs in the woods that might help.”
Gromli barely glanced up from his work. “Aye, just be quick about it,” he replied, focused on stirring the pot.
Bauru slipped away into the forest, moving with the stealth and ease of a seasoned ranger. The land was familiar to him, and his instincts guided him toward the clearing where Stronric had faced his trial. As Bauru ventured deeper into the woods, the scent of blood and death grew stronger. His heart tightened with a mix of pride and worry as he approached the clearing. The aftermath of the battle lay before him, a sight that filled him with both relief and pride.
Gnoll bodies were scattered across the ground, their twisted forms testament to Stronric’s strength and skill. As Bauru approached the clearing, he noticed none of the dead gnolls were cut, meaning Stronric had slaughtered over fifty gnolls with his bare hands. Bauru continued to move forward, scanning the area and his eye finally settled on his thane. Stronric sat against a rock, his head resting on its rough surface. He was stripped down to just a shirt and pants. Stronric’s armor, weapon and tabard sat off to the side. Bauru face hardened when he saw the tabard of Thorthana set on the axe, flapping in the breeze like a funeral shroud. Stronric’s breathing was shallow and uneven, but he was alive, and for now, that was enough. As Bauru watched, a dense fog slowly spread from the shadows of the forest. It curled and crawled out covering the clearing and settling on Stronric like a blanket. The smell of the cool mountain air swept through the clearing.
Bauru stayed hidden in the shadows, knowing that Stronric would not appreciate the intrusion. But loyalty demanded that he stay and ensure his thane’s safety, even if it meant watching from afar. A strange stillness fell over the clearing. Bauru rubbed his eyes as the shadows on the far side of the clearing seemed to rip open. When he looked again the sight was gone, replaced by gale of biting cold wind. The fog started to part and swirl in a rhythmic pattern as if someone unseen was cutting a path to Stronric. Bauru quickly unslung Predator, searching for the spell-caster who must be trying something nefarious as his Thane slept. A warmth seemed to blossom within his chest and the soft comforting sounds of footsteps through morning snow filled the clearing. Bauru lowered the crossbow, some intuition or madness hinted he was intruding on something that was not meant for him. Out of the swirling haze, a faint outline slowly took form, a shadow moving through the mist with an unnatural grace. As it stopped before the sleeping thane the fog thickened solidifying around a small frame, delicate horns atop a head and figure as pale as snow. The imagined faded in and out as the fog and wind swirls, like a half remembered dream.
“Itshal,” Bauru whispered, recognizing her immediately. She was the goddess he served, the guardian of the flock. Itshal bent over Stronric, her hands glowing faintly as she tended to his wounds with a mother’s care. Bauru watched in reverent silence, his heart swelling with gratitude and awe. He had always known Itshal watched over them, but seeing her here, in this moment, reaffirmed his purpose. He was her chosen protector, her loyal sheepdog for her herd, and he would guard her flock with all the strength he possessed.
For a brief moment, Itshal glanced up, her eyes meeting Bauru’s. No words were exchanged, yet her gaze conveyed understanding and trust. Then, just as silently as she had appeared, Itshal Itshal’s form collapsed back into the mist covering the forest floor, leaving Stronric to rest. Once Stronric began to sir, Bauru made his way back to the camp. He handed Gromli the herbs he had gathered, his thoughts still lingering on what he had witnessed.
“Here, these should do,” Bauru said quietly.
Gromli accepted the herbs with a nod. “Good timing. Let’s see if we can get that knight back on his feet.”
Bauru simply nodded and fell silent, content to keep what he had seen to himself. His place was here, among his kin, protecting them, just as he always had.
Stronric
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Stronric stirred from his sleep, the ache in his body slowly giving way to an unfamiliar sense of warmth. He took a deep breath, feeling the strength returning to his limbs in a way that seemed almost miraculous. The pain that had wracked him before was still there, lingering like a distant memory, but something had changed—something he couldn’t quite place. He hadn’t eaten in nearly a day, but hunger was the least of his concerns. There were wounds deeper than those of flesh that needed mending. The Soul Forge within him was fragile, its blue flame flickering uncertainly against the fractures that marred its core. Stronric knew that if he was to face the next onslaught, he had to repair the forge and restore his connection to Ruhna.
Stronric shifted his weight against the rough surface of the rock, sitting cross-legged as he closed his eyes. He tried to focus on his breathing, letting the cool air fill his lungs as he turned his gaze inward. Slowly, the ruined forge took shape in his thoughts, cracked stone, overturned anvils, and tools scattered like debris after a Storm. The workbench and its tool remained righted and that gave him hope that this was something he could fix, one step at a time. He walked to the forge and blue flame was dim, barely more than a dying ember.
Stronric knew the process of mending the forge would be painstakingly slow. He was exhausted simply from retrieving and placing tools back on the workbench last time, what would mending the cracked forge or anvil cost him. He leaned into the forge, “Ruhna,” he whispered to the small ember, willing the energy to flow and fuel the small flame. The webs around responded hesitantly, as if even they were afraid. Stronric could feel the strain in his veins, the flow of Ruhna choked by the remnants of his previous mistakes and a small flame flickered to life.
Stronric focused his efforts on the cracks in the foundation of the forge itself. He knew nothing could remain and be built on a broken foundation. This stood true for his mental forge and for his kinsmen and so he persisted. His mind and his muscles ached, and he guided the webs of energy into the smallest crucible, heated the materials with one small flame while he turned his attention to the forge stones. He had to unbuild this forge one stone at a time and rebuild it, there was no way around it, there was no magical answer he knew of. He’d placed the broken stones into a mold and poured the molten energy over to seal the cracks.
Stronric’s mind roared with each new broken stone he found. He now understood Ruhna, and this forge was a bigger part of himself. It connected his mind and body to his ability to use Ruhna for his class and skills. He was terrified of the small flame flickering out. What would happen to him? Would he lose the ability to use his class powers, enhance himself and lose access to the soul forge?
Time passed in a blur as Stronric meditated. The sun continued its arc across the sky, casting long shadows across the clearing. He lost all sense of time as he sat there, but when he finally opened his eyes, the light was beginning to fade, and the forest was growing quiet. The blue flame within him burned a little brighter now, still fragile, but no longer on the verge of extinguishing. The forge foundation was no longer cracked but the forge wasn’t completely repaired either. It was enough, for now. He had made some progress, and that would have to suffice.
Stronric rose to his feet, testing the strength in his legs. He clenched his fist and prepared for another night of battle unarmed and alone. But something felt wrong to him. The Cornucopia carved into his axe called to him. He felt his shame and dishonor had been expunged enough to wield his axe. He kneeled before his axe and prayed to Thorthana. In response, the sound of a hearth, the crackling of a fire hit Stronric, and he felt a wave of warmth wash over him. He thanked Thoranthana for her acceptance and picked up his axe. The familiar weight of the weapon felt like lost limb regrown. There was a steady flow of Ruhna within him, not as strong as it once was, but reliable enough.
The sun dipped below the horizon, and the forest grew darker with each passing moment. Stronric knew the gnolls would return soon, their hunger for blood undiminished. But this time, he felt different—not whole, but no longer broken beyond repair. The wounds to his pride and his soul had not healed completely, but there was a chance for redemption, and that was enough.
When the first gnolls emerged from the shadows, Stronric didn’t wait for their attack. He took a deep breath, feeling the flow of Ruhna within him, and charged forward. These were not mere scouts, but warriors of the gnoll army—larger, stronger, and driven by a savage bloodlust. Their hulking frames and scarred hides gleamed faintly in the moonlight, their eyes burning with malevolent intent.
Stronric gripped his axe tighter, the weight of it familiar in his hands, and with steady steps he closed the distance. The gnolls roared and rushed to meet him, their blades and fangs flashing in the dim light. But Stronric was ready. His axe gleamed as he swung, each strike guided by the steady pulse of energy within him. The blue flame of the Soul Forge flickered at the edge of his consciousness, no longer threatening to go out. He could feel the flow of Ruhna in his veins, lending strength to each blow and guiding his movements with quiet certainty. Stronric fought with a newfound determination, his purpose was not just to survive, but to reclaim something he had lost. He wasn’t just a wounded warrior clinging to life, he was a dwarf fighting for redemption. So, every strike spoke of the countless battles he fought before and those yet to come.
The gnolls pressed their attack with unrelenting ferocity, but Stronric stood his ground. His axe carved through them with the practiced ease of a seasoned warrior, each blow a testament to the strength he had regained. The blue flame within him burned brighter with each enemy that fell, the steady flow of Ruhna reaffirming his resolve. This night, he would combine his rage and fury with the dance of death—a lethal rhythm that required both intensity and patience. He let go of conscious thought, slipping into a state of mind where each movement flowed seamlessly into the next.
He was a smith by nature, and like forging iron into steel, he fused his emotions and focus into a singular purpose. His axe moved with deadly precision, every strike a hammer blow shaping his redemption. Rage burned within him, but it did not cloud his mind, it sharpened it, driving his movements with unyielding purpose. Stronric felt the gnolls around him as if they were impurities in the metal, to be cut away and reforged into something stronger.
The dance of death enveloped him, the world narrowing to the perfect circle within his reach. There was no hesitation, no room for error—just the rhythmic cadence of his strikes and his fierce resolve. Stronric moved as a master at his forge, crafting his redemption blow by blow, the intensity of his assault matched by the patience and discipline of his mind.
The battle raged on, and Stronric’s axe swung in a relentless arc, cutting down two more gnolls. The waves of gnolls seemed to be thinning but Stronric allowed no respite, he charged forward intercepting the next attacker. A deep, guttural roar pierced the night, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the very bones of the forest. For a moment the battle slowed, pausing in response to this new approaching combatant. Stronric ended the gnoll before and looked about the clearing. The remaining gnolls shifted nervously and they started to cackle. They threw back their heads, laughing, small billows of steam wafted into the night sky.
A massive gnoll stepped forward, towering over its fallen kin. This one was different. This gnoll was clad in rough iron armor and wielding a jagged cleaver nearly as large as Stronric himself. Its eyes gleamed with intelligence and malice, and the scars crisscrossing its body spoke of countless battles survived. This was no mere warrior, this was a champion, a war-leader among the gnolls.
Stronric squared his shoulders, steadying his breath as he met the gnoll’s gaze. It charged with a feral snarl, its cleaver slicing through the air with deadly intent. Stronric blocked the blow with his axe, the impact reverberated up his arms. He could feel the sheer power behind the strike, this gnoll was stronger, faster, and far more skilled than the rest.
The two clashed repeatedly, steel meeting steel in a brutal contest of strength and will. The gnoll struck with wild, crushing blows, forcing Stronric back, step by grueling step. The strain in Stronric’s muscles grew, and the relentless pressure threatened to overwhelm him. But Stronric refused to yield. He took a deep breath, focusing inward, steadying his racing heart. He couldn’t match the gnoll’s raw strength with brute force alone. He needed to adapt, a rock smashing a mountain would only get him so far. Thoughts of Bauru unwelcomely entered his mind. The small dwarf fought with daggers instead of an axe, pick, or hammer like a traditional dwarf. He used his small frame to out speed and outmaneuver his opponents. A new wave of shame and pain clouded Stronric’s mind, but he was quickly brought back by the bite of a blade across his forearm.
The cut was shallow and not very long, but he felt his hand become slick with blood. Stronric rolled away, putting his back to the dense tree line and space between him and the warrior. The gnoll cackled at this, as if Stronric’s small withdrawal signaled the battle was surely won. Stronric used this moment to accept the pain of harming Bauru and push through it to highlight the small agile dwarf’s skills. Faster, smaller, more precise.
Stronric held his axe loosely across his body and took a steadying breath. He stood knowing the gnolls bloodlust would bring the creature barreling toward him. As if on que, the gnoll let out a snarl and charged forward. Stronric held his ground until the Gnoll warrior committed to his attack. Stronric dove to the left, sending the gnoll into the thicket behind him. The gnoll’s wild swing tangled his weapon into the thick brush of the forest. Stronric only had a moment to act before the gnoll freed his weapon. He leapt forward and aimed a cut to the gnoll’s hamstring. He managed to graze the back of the gnoll’s leg, but the creature instinctively kicked back when the blade made contact.
Stronric went flying as the gnoll’s large paw connected with the center of his chest. Stronric’s back impacted the ground, and he struggled to take in a breath. He knew his attack would slow the gnoll, but he still needed to press his advantage. Stronric quickly got back to his feet and saw the gnoll was already limping towards him, a trail of blood marking each of the creature’s steps. This time Stronric charged forward to meet the gnoll. The gnoll’s anger and pain caused it to be sloppy. When Stronric was within striking distance, the gnoll attacked. Stronric danced to the side parrying the attack and returning a small cut of his own to the creature’s arm. Stronric stayed within the gnolls' field of attack, limiting his own ability to swing his axe at full strength. Instead, he choked up on the haft and used small, fast, precise movements to inflict damage and wear the gnoll down.
Stronric felt the familiar rhythm of movement and precision with each sidestep, parry, and slice. He slowed his breathing and slipped into a different style of the Dance of Death. This was a delicate dance of footwork and less about his axe and attacks. It highlighted the strength in being smaller, the efficiency of precision, and power of speed. The gnoll’s frustration grew, its strikes becoming wilder and more reckless. Stronric waited, patient, until he saw the opening, a fleeting moment of vulnerability in the creature’s defenses. He kicked out with all his might. His foot impacted the gnolls chest and now the gnoll flew landing with a thud on the ground.
The gnoll rose, its body riddled with small cuts, blood dripping onto the grass below. The gnoll’s eyes no longer held the bloodlust as before but instead were projecting the frantic terror of a prey locked in the gaze of a predator. Stronric raised his axe overhead and charged the gnoll head on. The gnoll braced his feet wide, an arrogant snarl-like smile on its face as it raised its scimitar up, holding it between both hands, preparing to block Stronric’s overhead attack. Stronric waited until the gnoll turned his head slightly, closing its eyes in preparation for Stronric’s blow. The clash of metal never came, and instead the gnoll felt a heavy force down on his blade, when its eyes snapped open, he saw the bottom of a boot. Stronric leapt up using the gnolls blade as a step and jumped over the gnoll. He brought his axe down as he curled into a ball, preparing to meet the ground. Stronric felt the blade slice into the gnolls meaty back, he felt the crunch as broken bones and prayed it was the spine.
Stronric had tucked before meeting the ground, but still he met the ground with a heavy thud. His shoulder took most of the impact, as he tumbled from a clumsy roll. He was back on his feet in seconds, turning to the gnoll. The great gnoll warrior laid face down, Stronric’s axe protruded diagonally through its mid back. The creature was attempting to crawl towards its scimitar on its arms while its legs dragged limply behind it. The gnoll’s blade laid an arm’s length away. Stronric walked towards the gnoll, his arm slick with blood, his shoulder ached fiercely, and exhaustion threatened every step.
The gnoll’s fist enclosed on the handle of his blade just as Stronric reached the creature. Stronric planted a booted foot on the gnoll’s back, causing the gnoll to scream out in pain. Stronric grabbed hold of his axe handle, he pulled it loose enticing another scream from the gnoll. Stronric stood above the beast, pressing it down to the ground. He rolled his shoulder testing its integrity, feeling alright, he lifted the axe and dropped it deeply into the back of the gnolls neck.
Breathing heavily, Stronric reached down, grasping the gnoll’s severed head and placing it atop the pile of dead around him, a grim trophy and a warning to those who would dare threaten his kinsmen.
He paused, lost in thought. Kinsmen. It felt good, and right, to call them that again. He could feel the weight of his shame lifting as he held true to his oath and reclaimed his honor. He said a silent thanks to Bauru for teaching him more than he’ll ever know.
As the first light of dawn crested the hills, something caught his eye, a small sack fastened to the defeated champion gnoll’s hip. The sack was covered in what appeared to be intricate magical markings and runes. Stronric picked it up and tried to open it, but the seams held fast, sealed by an unseen force. Frowning in curiosity, he carried it back to his resting spot and set it down beside his gear.
After cleaning his axe, he sat down, resting his head against the boulder and cradling the weapon in his arms. As exhaustion finally claimed him, Stronric closed his eyes, a faint smile crossing his face.