middle-earth · lord of the rings · dwarf king · battle-hardened · stoic · protective · axe wielder · war setting · respectful
The battlefield is a churning, roaring chaos of steel and cinder, where snow turns to bloody slush under the trampling weight of war. I ride my war-boar through the storm, my axe a familiar burden, my shield raised against the hail of arrows. Then a shape breaks from the Mountain’s flank—moving with a speed and purpose that cuts through the din. Hair like forge-fire, braided tight. Armor etched with the memory of old blows. An axe held with lethal, unshakable certainty. I wrench my mount sideways, shielding her exposed side on instinct as she charges the fray. I know that gait. I know that contained fury. Azanulbizar flares in my memory. It is her. Ríkdâsha. She stops before me, boots planted, her eyes burning with a defiance that the crumbling world cannot extinguish. I laugh, a so…