...Yew Lions...Hag Rams...Old Crows...Storm Hawks...Dead Rabbits...Blood Bears. . .Iron Elks. Like a pestilence they crept en masse along ancient pathways, unstable bridges, narrow chasms and deadly-steep slopes of firm-footed granite. Streams of bronze and iron glittered up the slopes from every direction, as if the very lifeblood of the region had suddenly decided to pool and coagulate, and strangle the heart with its encroaching volume. For a night and two days they rose along their ancestral passages, marching ever onward to crest the summit of their great journey...and what a marvel they beheld upon arrival: A flat, sparsely decorated plateau stretching three miles and five deep, plastered with a dull stone-grey between specks of green. Above it rode misty warriors in their puffy chariots, observing the sacred battleground from on high with a gentle ease; The old ones seemed pleased by the presence of their progeny.

Krolm's Anvil - a place of great honor, and yet greater loss; As Yullar sniffed the air from atop his sturdy mount, he noted the faintest traces of iron wafting about the decrepit bones of the dead. Here had many strove to be deemed worthy of entrance into Krolm's eternal halls, and many more would yet. It was a place of rock, bones and the idle bit of well-fed vegetation - a place where, they say, the souls of the damned and dying still wandered in strife, looking to redeem themselves in the eyes of their ancient lord. A place of sorrow for many, yes...but also of unrivaled wealth for the lucky few. Yullar would be sure to place himself among the ranks of the latter - it'd always sounded incredibly aggravating to die and live on forevermore as a wraith, a permanent mark of a warrior's inherent failure. He clutched the reigns in his left a little harder, easing the beast forward towards the preset camps that the clans' camp-followers had erected mere hours earlier. Seven distant spots, yet to each there seemed only the space for one - the anticipation was the real killer up here.

The Iron Elks would be resting in the southwest-most corner of the summit, as was tradition. He figured that to be quite unfortunate - they'd have to be downwind of the Hag Rams all over again.

Socorro wakes up, and stretches. Best get going before the others wake up. He knows they hate and fear him, so for the most part he tries to avoid them. He straps his strange blade to his back, and slips outside. He sees Yullar, with his powerful arms, strong mount, and admiration of all who know him, and sighs longingly. What would it be like to be that kind of man? He walks up to Yullar, averting his terrifying eyes, and humbly asks, "Captain Yullar, what is it that we are trying to accomplish here? We stand at the crest of Krolm's Anvil, but I see no purpose as to what it is we're trying to do."

He looks out at the Anvil, and sighs. "We know virtually nothing about what lies inside the Anvil, yet you want to venture inside on the hopes that there might be something of worth? I don't understand, but I'll do as you command." He examines the brands on his hands, and mutters to himself in a strange tongue he invented a few weeks ago, so he can talk to himself about others without them knowing about it.

"WHAT LIES WITHIN?!" He slammed his chest and spat out a tremendous fit of wheezing laughter, barely being able to hold the reigns of his stocky brown mare; The sound of his voice heaved across the camp like a rumbling thunder, streaking with aberrant gasps for air as Yullar desperately struggled to contain himself.

". . .LO. . .LOok around you boy - what caverns could possibly lie up here? When they said that warriors were put under atop Krolm's Anvil, they rarely meant it in the literal sense!"

Finally managing to catch his breath, the red-cheeked captain gave a weary pat of his scaled belly and slid off of the beast, wiping a few renegade tears from his eyes as they shot out over the collective motley of brightly-colored tents, cindering fires and dreary-faced fighters. Here and there in the forefront he caught the shifting attention of some nosy busy-body, and he was suddenly keenly aware of the daft presence adjacent him; his gaze returned to that of the ghoulishly pale youth.

"Come here you...", he began, tucking the spear into his left before strapping a beefy right arm around the shorter warrior's shoulders, dragging him a further few yards out from the tents with his head nodding affirmatively towards the distance. "...See those dots just a little ways off? No doubt you did, they arrived around the same time as the rest of our camp-builders; Now, count them - one...two...six in total, right? With us that makes seven, yes - the seven most powerful clans in all Ulgothe all come together for a regular little party, yes? And what party would that be, that requires the likes of civilization's fiercest arms, and the warriors who use them? Honor, boy - an honor unattainable through the use of talk or arguing, of the kind that rings true between even the basest ant and the proudest lion. Honor through Battle, where lots are drawn and settled by the spear and axe..."

His speech slowed, then went silent for a while, and his gaze stretched over the dusk's edge...then he latched an eye back onto his companion's frail form and continued:

"...I've been here thrice in my lifetime, lad - I still recall the days when we sat near the head of the council in the longhouse of the Grey Wyrms; But maybe you're just too young to remember...yes...- still, you ought to know better of the world by now, especially seeing as you're wielding the tools of an adult. And speaking of which..."

The portly warrior unhooked his grasp on the younger man, instead shoving spear and shield into the boy's stomach with a hearty nudge.

"Do me a favor and head for the camp-center to ask about my tent; If it's up, find Hertla there and tell her and her boy to get these nice and polished for me before we settle in for the night - the party'll start early in the morning, and we don't want to miss it on account of a few unfinished formalities. Don't worry about any introductions, they'll know its from me - and as for you, well...here today, gone tomorrow, yes? For myself, I've got a few old friends to do some catching up with."

He nodded towards a haphazardly strewn pile of bones laying just in sight of the camp, erected around the aged and rotting husk of an undoubtedly ancient oak. Then with a parting slap on the boy's back, the stout figure turned and strode off towards them, whistling merrily all the way.

He sighs and nods. "As you wish sir." He lifts the shield and sword, then walks off to check on Yullars tent. Finding it erect, he slips inside, and looks for Hertla. "Hertla? Yullar sent me to get his gear polished." He paces a bit, thinking to himself. What was that about the Grey Wyrms? I thought they died off decades ago.

He shakes his head slightly. Just because I wield the magic of a adult doesn't mean I am one. They all seem to expect so much from me. But what can I do? I never asked for my power. It was given to me. Do the gods just want me to suffer? He stops. But I know there was something under the Anvil. I heard it. I saw it....but...when did I see it? He begins trembling. Why do I seem to have memories that aren't mine? What wrong with me? He looks at his hands, startled to see the brands on his palms glowing. What's happening to me?

The glow fades, and he collapses to his knees, suddenly exhausted. He hears faint whispers, too quiet to be understood, and gasps, standing on shaking legs. "Who-who's there?" He stumbles out of the tent, looking for the voices. The whispers continue chanting, and he curls up in a ball. "St-stay away!" He turns, and sees his reflection, his eyes black as a moonless night. The shadows begin moving around him, and he collapses to the ground, unconscious. The last thing he sees is the shadows wrapping around him, then everything goes black.

He wakes up, finding himself in a massive cave, and looks around. This place looks.....familiar. He looks at the gray walls, and shakes his head in confusion. Where am I? He stands up, and hears whispers. "Hello? Is anyone there?" He walks towards the noise, and sees three tall, hooded figures whispering in the corner. "Where am...." He sees his reflection on a discarded shield, and sees a tall creature in full plate armor, with glowing hands.
The face is shrouded in darkness, but the eyes glow. The terrible eyes. Bright yellow, and slitted like a cat. He gasps, but it comes out as a sharp hiss. He jerks awake, soaked in sweat. He lays there, eyes wide, breathing heavily. What....what was that? He pushes himself up to his feet, and sees the weapons that he was supposed to get polished, lying in the dirt.
What just happened? Am I sick? He picks up the spear and shield, carefully places them on the table, and trudges off to the medical tent. He knocks on the tent pole, and uses the pole to hold himself up. I need help. Magical help.