Leaves and sticks cracked and wrinkled under heavy footsteps. Branches creaked, snapping to their rest position after a body pushed past. Dirt sprung from the ground, projected by the leather-padded boots. Metal clinked on metal: bouncing on the body it was covering. Wood clacked and thumped as it collided with cloth, mail, blades and flesh. Scores of feet pounded the earth, leaves and fallen branches as the force trotted through the sparse vegetation. A curse damaged the air as one of the many beards was snagged by a protruding tree branch. Sniggering replied from his comrades which was immediately followed by another curse. A gruff, smoke damaged voice growled a command to the troops in their harsh tongue, causing the sniggering to cease and the heavy footsteps and destruction of the blanketed foliage to continue.

The foot steps quickened in pace at another crude, whispered word from their leader. The symphony of clanks and thumps continued, accompanied by gasps for air, murmured conversation and grunts of exertion. One pair of leather boots halted and the harsh tongue echoed, again, through the leafage. The orchestra reached a diminuendo then halted. Weapons continued their clatter with one another as their owners sat or shifted their feet, awaiting more orders.

A loud snort from their commander confirmed their mission. He turned to face his company and spoke three words, pushing the force into action. He stood motionless, his single eye observing their movements. He caressed the axe blade that was thrust in his belt with two of his four fingers, the twitch in his wrist showed his excitement of the imminent bloodshed. His peripheral caught one of the many warriors staring at him. He knew what the armed killer was looking at, the new ones always were shocked to find such rumors to be true.
His face expressed his reputation and fueled the facts, which many took as myth, to spread like wildfire through the land. His beard, dark red, was grown out long like his kinsman, in their traditional style, however his was different. His was much more scraggly than theirs with large bare spots, but the main difference was that his chin and upper lip were bare. Also his hair was just as scraggly and red and was shaved down the sides with a single strip that went through the middle of his head and trailed between his shoulder blades. His face was covered in scars, the most noticeable was the one that began just above his middle temple and curved down, tearing through his left eye and cleaving his upper lip in half where it came to a stop. He wore no coverings over his empty eye, nor did he ever treat the hideous wound. It was his defining feature and his weapon in war, and he did not hold it back. It added to his gruesome, nightmarish appearance. His body, covered in a wolf hide fur cloak, protected by a simple chain link mail, was short and just as scared as his face. The single battle axe, carried in his belt accompanied his falchion which was sheathed and slung over his back, formed him. With these all who saw him knew who he was. They would whisper his name and run, but some were brave, or just naive, and would stand against him, then fall to join the hundreds of others who had fallen before this nightmare of a dwarf. His enemies were many, but few would face him. He had grown so feared over the years that even across the sea, his name would be so softly spoken, even the wind had to lean in to catch it. He became a story told to scare children: a nightmare shared with warriors: a myth of chaos and death.
He was Gar Kundin, leader of the Karill, his dwarf demons, and the most feared dwarf to ever exist, widower to thousands and nightmare to all. He smiled to himself: a hideous smile, one to send chills down even the most courageous of champions spines. He was about to begin his trade and night was setting. Blood would spill and Gar Kundin would be merry. A war was about to begin.