Thanks for the upvotes on the previous one guys! Here is a continuation:
Previous post is here
The crudely armed of the two towered over his opponent, but the foeman was so broad and thickly muscled, his bones so strong that his size hardly helped him in a test of strength like this.
Sweat trickled down the shorter combatant’s forehead, stinging his eyes but he dared not look away or blink from his stare at his opponent. The other was leaking black blood from his side where a quarrel was firmly imbedded and stuck out two hand breadths.
Hringir, Master of the Fist stood in bronzed armour, all rounded edges of exquisite craftsmanship. His tabard and under-clothes was of blue cloth, denoting his Clan and loyalty. His helm had two broad wings on either side of his head; his broad thick nose was protected by a wedge of metal extending down from the middle of the helm. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air as he pushed harder. The helm came down over either cheek, leaving his chin open to allow his thick braided beard to spill down over his chest, nearly to his belt.
All around him, the Fist: a fighting force of fifty dwarves of the Kharak-Dur Clan lay dead around their feet. He knew this all too well as his stare bore at his enemy. It was by his hands that they would be avenged. The enemy shall not be forgiven!
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More to follow.
