Myrian looked down at his chains in anger. He could hear the beating hearts of his guards just behind his door, and he could feel his inner monster crave the sweet release – but he didn't let it. The sound of merrymaking could be heard from somewhere outside, and Myrian could see lights flicker beyond his barred window. Again, he looked down at his chains. For the past millennium and a half, he had been stuck here, secretly tapping his chains against the floor. Grooves had appeared in a stone floor that was charmed against escape and carved out of condensed rock by his brothers, but finally he had found his way through. His white and golden chains had been with him for so long, he had formed an elemental understanding of them.

Footsteps fell from outside as his freedom drew closer. A hatch slid open and a tray shot across the floor towards him. Water, bread, and a slab of dried meat as per the same routine day in and day out. But this time, as Myrian lifted up the bread, a single shard of his brother's metal fell onto the tray. Myrian smiled. The cook had been successful, and now he had his freedom.

He picked the shard up, and with one quick jab, his chains fell away. Myrian rose to his feet, and looked down at the torn rags that hung loosely upon his thin frame. He rubbed his wrists, and released fifteen hundred years’ worth of tension from his neck and back with a series of cracks.

He walked over to the door, and peered out of the white and gold bars. The heartbeats of the guards grew louder as he drew close. Myrian looked down at his hands, and traced the tattoos that had once shone bright yellow. Now, they were dim, and a faded shade of dry blood curved about his skin as a reminder. Myrian tensed his hands, and felt his muscles move beneath the skin. Again, he peered from his cell door and reached out towards the two guards standing either side. Two clicks later, and their heartbeats could no longer be heard. The guards slumped to the floor, and Myrian held the key to his freedom within his hands. He opened his cell door and pulled the two guards into his cell, locking the door behind him, and stepping out into the ancient hallway.

The floor consisted of entwined steel, which at a pull of a lever could fall into the empty space below the Doflhiem prison. Myrian looked through the gaps, and shuddered at the sheer amount of nothing that was beneath him.

Deciding not to dwell in this place any longer, Myrian made his way to the armoury at the centre of the prison. He navigated the twisted labyrinth by listening to the heartbeats and murmurs of his Dwarven guards. Myrian rushed through, not paying any attention to the other inmates who cringed away from the bars as he ran by. Occasionally, he would hide in the shadows as guards patrolled the corridors, and other times he would strike, leaving the guards dead in his wake.

Finally, he found the armoury. Normal steel bars and a door locked away the prisoner’s weapons, just as they locked away the prisoners themselves. Myrian smiled as he produced Huldain's shard, and with a quick swipe, he sliced open the lock and entered the room beyond. Two guards sat at a table playing cards, and they stared dumbfounded as the door swung open to show the full figure of Myrian. They tried to scream, but Myrian was too fast, cutting off the noise in their throats as they gargled blood and fell to the floor.

Myrian looked at the corpses in distaste, and searched the room for his weapon. Long ago, Myrian had wielded a great golden bow, fashioned from the steel of a dying mountain. It gave him great power, and together with his brothers, he could achieve anything. Now, as he opened the unlocked white and golden metal box, he smiled at his bow reformed. A golden pistol sat in its holster beside a golden knife. Yellow runes flew over each weapon, and a note was pinned to some dark clothes folded beside Myrian's new bow. It read:

M.

I had some excess material left over. I hope you don't mind, but I also forged the knife. Happy hunting, my friend.

S.

Myrian smiled, and picked up the clothes. After shedding his own rags, he pulled them on; the dark material felt as if it was the softest thing Myrian had ever worn, and as he looked down, his smile grew. He wore black leather trousers complete with black leather knee high boots, a white cotton tunic, and a felt trimmed, leather black cloak.

He pushed back his long, reddish, brown hair, and strapped his new weapons to his waist; the pistol had a secondary strap which he fastened to his thigh. Myrian made his way across the prison and out onto one of the service exits which were attached to the chains that held The Hanging Block up. Readying himself, Myrian looked down at the chain and leaped. The wind rushed through his hair, and his cloak flew out behind him. The free fall was short, but long enough to punish any miscalculation with a much longer fall. He landed on the massive chain, and smiled to himself. Now, all he needed to do was walk across this bridge to freedom, and stroll out of the front door of Doflhiem. Myrian took it at a run, his cloak spreading out behind him, as on either side, a long drop into a lava filled river flew past. The fixed point of the chain drew closer, and Myrian could feel his excitement boil within him.

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Finally, he reached the wall, and jumped. Any normal person would have died from the height, but not Myrian. He landed just outside a small guard house in the military district, on a balcony overlooking the streets and pubs of the tier. Myrian could hear a fluttering heartbeat within the room, and he made his way in – and stopped. He could smell the overpowering scent of Huldain within, but only saw the sleeping figure of a man. Myrian frowned. Huldain had not been here himself, but someone who knew him had.

Myrian turned to leave, and just as he did so, the sleeping man awoke. Myrian leaped off the balcony, and landed in a small dingy alleyway. Yet again, the smell of his brother wafted out, and Myrian watched as a drunk stumbled down the alleyway towards him. Myrian panicked, his fangs extended, and he was moments away from striking when the drunk tripped and looked up at him.

"You wouldn't happen to know where my bed would be, would you, old chap?" He slurred.

Myrian retracted his fangs and stopped for a moment. He pointed in the general direction of the guards’ quarters, and then walked casually down the alley, betting that the drunk would have no memory of what had just happened.

Myrian made his way towards the lifts, enjoying his freedom. The people that walked the streets around him had no idea who he was; most of the older Dwarves seemed to be either in bed, or in another place, but any Dwarves with grey hair, Myrian avoided. Even then, he still felt as if at any moment an alarm would sound, or someone would point and yell.

Myrian reached the lift without incident, and rode it up until he reached the ground floor. He looked about the cart station for a cart to the southern gate and found one. A small "S" was carved in the rear left seat of the cart, and Myrian smiled as he realized his friend had left this for him. He pulled the nearest lever, and hoped that his years of eavesdropping would help. He had heard guards talking about how to maximize the use out these carriages for years, and now as his own rolled forward, he felt the thrill of success. It did not take Myrian long before he hit top speed, with pillars, camps, and barracks all slipping past as he raced through the Dwarven-made landscape. Myrian saw the southern gate shine out as his cart sped forward, and finding the levers, Myrian pulled his cart up into a slow roll, which came to a stop in the southern gate station. He smiled, as he saw the gate hang, slightly ajar. He ran across the courtyard towards the gate, and found another "S" carved into the floor. Myrian smiled once more as he slowed, gave one last look at Doflhiem, and sprinted to his freedom.

Mountains reared up on either side of the outside gate, and Myrian glanced up at them, checking the coast was clear before he ran his last leg to freedom. A steep ravine shot up high above the southern gate, and as Myrian ran, he took in the carvings of the Eldar wars upon the rocky walls. They showed the Dragon Knights of Lornea standing against three heroic figures. Myrian shuddered at the memory, so much power was dangerous – truly dangerous since anyone could have it.

Myrian ran the length of the ravine, and found his anxiety clear slightly as the walls around him widened into a vast, ruined castle that stood above the pathway. Two great archways led behind the throne room, and Myrian felt sadness creep into him as he remembered the King who ruled here, both tall and humble. Myrian walked past the throne, and laid a heavy hand upon it. Scorch marks scarred the high archways, and as Myrian walked into the great hall, he saw chips and holes scattered throughout: signs of a battle which was lost. Myrian felt angry, and his anger grew into a rage as he thought about his brothers standing idly by and allowing this to happen. He walked out onto the steps, and saw the scene that lay out before him; the small town of Cornerstone was no longer small.

Myrian saw the smoke of industry rise up from the town, and tracks led away to a larger city in the south. The flowing fields and vineyards that surrounded Cornerstone were well maintained, and the Dragon Fang Mountains which split the Alturine Empire down the middle spread out to Myrian's right. Trees grew scarcely, chopped down and burned by the industrial fires of Cornerstone, and cleared for the placement of fields to fill the bellies of Alturine.

Myrian's fangs extended as he roared at the atrocities he beheld. Nature had been chained and worked for the Empire which sought to enslave all man-kind. This is what Myrian knew, and this was what he must stop. He headed down towards Cornerstone, trying to control his anger as he started to descend the foothills of both the Mjolik Fjords and the Dragon Fangs.

Myrian found himself strolling through a small pine forest as the slopes lessened. Gentle birdsong flew through a steady breeze, and the smell of crushed pine needles permeated from every footfall. Myrian smiled, and breathed in the fresh air. It had been an age since he had felt the touch of nature; he had been confined in rock and steel for so long that he’d forgotten what the sight of a rising sun looked like, and how the sounds of birds could uplift the soul.

A small cabin puffed away, and as Myrian drew closer, he saw young children playing outside, running around their mother who was carrying a freshly baked pie. Myrian could hear their heartbeats: the slow tired thump of the mother, and the fast little hammering thumps of the children. He smiled at the scene, and decided to continue on his way.

This is how people lived before he was imprisoned. They harvested from nature, and could be wiped out with a single snowstorm. These people needed protection – they needed Myrian and his brothers to stand vigilant against the monsters at these people’s doors.

Myrian continued to walk through the forest, and reached its edge just as the sun rose higher up into the sky. It was mid-morning by now, and Myrian felt hunger gnaw at his belly. He heard in the distance more hearts beating, but these were sluggish and lazy. He walked in their direction, and found a road cutting across the landscape, straight and long, leading towards Cornerstone. Myrian saw on this road a small guard house, with guards lounging lazily outside, soaking up the morning sun.

Myrian smiled, and walked down the road towards them.

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