The City of the Dead
The weakest link
Kalad Stoutheart sat with his head in his hands, salty bitter tears stinging the numerous cuts and bruises on his face. His beard savagely cut short by the orog’s choppa, and ugly purple bruises marring his face and body, Kalad was a grim reflection of the proud, respected paladin he was.
“Thank you heroes,” he took a long breath and straightened himself, his left eye nearly swollen shut. “I do not know whence you come from, but you have saved Ashton’s life.” A shadow flitted across his eyes. “And mine.”
“Ashton,” he said softly as he got to his feet. With a grimace on his face, he hobbled to the unconscious acolyte, and then knelt. “It’s just us left now.” Turning to the group by the entrance to the forge, he said. “Please, rest, friends of Onatar. Avail yourself to whatever comfort the monastery is spared. You’ve all fought valiantly, may Onatar bless your souls, and you need rest. I believe there the guests rooms in the upper floors are left untouched. Please, use them. I will be with you shortly after I have…” the dwarf trailed off, his eyes fell upon the forge’s floor littered with corpses. His swollen hands clenched into fists.
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