Imposing

24th of Othen, 2734

I stand before the walls of the Dwarven City, sinking ever smaller into the sand and rock beneath my feet. The walls of the City extend both high above my head and down into the depths of the earth. The doors, made out of a great red wood that gleams a hint of gold from it's shimmer, cascade down over the side of the walls like a mighty waterfall. It's true beauty could only be admired from here, the bottom, where the intricate carvings of the Orcs smashing against the rocks of the canyon are readily at hand. No mortal hand could open the doors from here, as they are only opened from the inside. Even here the history of the Dwarves is played out. I see the great battle of Carathos, when the goblin hordes swept through this land and broke like ale against a counter top. A useless display of the more primitive and stupid whiles of demonic foes. The walls themselves are made of a rather valuable and unique metal forged from the minerals found only in the Togric Canyon and below. I believe that it is called Punnok, which translates to "silver steel". It would make sense, since the walls are hard like steel, yet shine like silver.

I feel very small here. Even now I can feel the eyes of the Dwarven people gazing down at me from their chambers on the top of the wall. I can see three towers. One to the left, right, and above the entrance. Horns have been blowing now for a couple of minutes, warning my of their knowledge of my presence, and pronouncing me like I am a threat. It is a most stunning, overpowering, and imposing presence to give as a first impression. I rather like it.

Yet it turns me to the other meaning of the word. I wish not to be am imposition on the people here. If I invoke a response of anger, it could very well hurt the way Dwarves view the entire outer world. I would not want to break the delicate balence that we have so far achieved with this current leadership. It is a valuable ally we have in the Dwarves. Any common enemy would surely fall to the might of the Togric Warriors. (Togric translating to Fierce in out tongue.) Only once have I seen a Togric Warrior. When the Warrior dies the body is carried the entire length of the canyon by the stone carvers of the Dwarven City. It's quite a massive group. The other Warriors stand in the shadow of the door the entire time that the march goes on, nearly two weeks. No food, no rest. Always in the shadow to give the fallen honor. It's beautiful, solemn, and painful think to view. By the time the body has returned home, it is rotted away to almost nothing. The bones are placed in a stone box and sealed away in a family crypt. Such is their way, and I must say, it does the fallen justice.

And now I must impose upon those people. I wonder only if my own fortitude can even hope to match their own. Do I have a stomach for the underground? Is it a trap? Futile thoughts now... the doors are opening...