Burying the Past

The smallest of things helped to keep Erebor alive – his next breath, water over his broken lips, anything to eat in the abattoir that was once his home. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the giant scorpion made of metal, shooting metal and burning flame from its tail. He heard the crying and the horrid wet sound of bodies getting cut in half or crushed. As the days passed, he grew stronger. He buried as many of the bodies as he could find, did what he could to honor their lives, promising that they would be avenged. He gathered what treasures he could find – gold, silver, coins, jewelry, he found the metal armor that Regged had worn. He had always laughed at the warrior, suggesting he was a coward for wearing metal instead of the hide and leather that the rest of the tribe wore. Now it seemed all too little, too thin compared to the threat that stalked him out in the dark. He hefted his huge metal hammer, it was rumored to have been part of a huge robot, much like the demon that had killed his tribe. He looked to the broken anvil that remained of the forge. He remembered his father shaming him that he wasn’t smart enough to sharpen an axe, so he chose the hammer. He allowed himself a small smile as he remembered how many times he and his brothers had attacked the wagons on the road, guards in armor falling underneath his hammer, denting shields, helmets bursting with a loud crack. His face fell in shame and horror thinking of all of the brave warriors, the women, the children, the people that he loved had made much the same sound as death stalked through their camp. He would seek death. He would kill death. He knelt before the broken altar of the shaman's tent, then hefted the large leather sack that held everything left of his people and began making his way north to the town of the Skraelinger under the large black hill with a huge purple flame burning on top.