Durak Bloodoath - The Last Rage Of Karak-Dûr

he Fall of Karak-Dur : (The Long Stone Scream)
Karak-Dur did not fall all at once. It burned in pieces. Upper halls first, then the forges, then the deep galleries where the air turned thick with ash and old blood. Stone split. Supports failed. The mine began to eat itself from the inside. Those who fled said the mountain sounded like it was screaming. They found Durak Bloodoath at the ramp. His vest was torn to rags, gauntlets split wide, hands raw and swollen around his weapons. The vial at his chest hung empty, glass cracked from being bitten through. Goggles knocked loose rested against his beard, lenses shattered and smeared red. War paint streaked his face without pattern, dragged thin by sweat and blood until only intent remained. In one hand, the axe — notched so deeply it looked chewed In the other, his mother’s dagger — dark, curved, faintly warm, as if it knew where it was. Behind him lay what was left of his unit. Broken bodies. Crushed armor. No formations to reform, no horns left to sound. The Thanes were dead or buried. Orders had run out with the light. Someone shouted at him to fall back. Durak did not turn.

He stood at the edge of the Stone Ramp, breathing hard, spit threading from his teeth as the mountain shook beneath his boots. Those who saw him later swore the dagger hummed in his grip, low and steady, like something listening through the stone. When the final horn cracked and died, Durak stepped forward.

The ramp took him. And the scream of iron on stone followed, long and unbroken, until it vanished into the fire below.