The Tular Plains seemed to come to an abrupt end where the dwarves began. The high sun shined brightly on the forces before them. This army was sprawling and confident; it seemed as if the omnipresent Demon threat was little more to them than a showcase for their weapons of war. The troops stood short in stature, of course, but spread wide, at least five thousand foot soldiers with a few thousand more on horse. Worse, there were simply enormous vehicles at every turn. Large, spiked wagons with heavily shielded noses rolled on robust iron wheels. The air here was heavy, filled with a thick coat of coal and soot that descended over them all, like a sour mist. The thick little fellows were largely unaffected.

By the Gods… what have you walked us into, Cazri?

Large firing devices were locked and loaded, looming over the soldiers ominously. They held massive arrows as long as two men, and as thick as a torso. The giant barbed head of the thing was even more intimidating; it was two feet wide at the base and came to a sharpened, shining point that looked fit to pierce the earth itself. All of these machines - and there was no less than forty of them - included coal powered engines mounted upon them. These terrible machines appeared dreamed up in some other dystopia.

“Cazri, what in the seven hells it this?” Storm’s call went unanswered as the dark elf charged forward on her horse, met by a roaring little dwarf that rode proudly on a quarterhorse that looked more like a clydesdale in contrast. As they spoke, a convoy of twenty cavalry rode from both flanks to surround them, the front horsemen blowing trumpets that bellowed a triumphant tune.

“The promised ones arrive! And not a moment too late!” The white beard of the first representative jostled as he spoke, flakes of ash and soot liberating themselves onto the generous belly that festooned atop his little belt. “Well done Cazri! With these two we’ll roll over the gate!” His tone lowered to address only Cazri.

”A small detour on our path to Ettermire, and real justice!”

Storm felt his nostrils flare, but kept a straight face. He’d won huge sums of cash keeping cards close to the vest; a string of unanswered questions filled his mind as the trumpeting cavalry escorted him (with or without his approval) towards the front lines of the welcoming dwarven army.

Why do they want us?

Did Cazri know all along that we’d come to her?

How is the crown involved with all this shit?

Are they taking -Ettermire-? Did I hear that right? What?

Fat little palms clapped him on his back - soldierly dwarves with hands off their swords and big smiles on their doughy, bearded faces. Their armor was all iron or steel; the thought rose in the mind of the wizard that he could make a definitive example of one of these soldiers should he wish to send a defiant message. The raw numbers of the army (and number of horses, and vehicles) warned otherwise. Desertion was death - perhaps even for the big skeleton.

“I’m sorry - do we know you? Storm Veritas, of Whitevale, South Corone.” The wizard offered an empty hand, which was eagerly met by one of the jovial warriors.

“Me? Gods, no, engineers and simple soldiers don’t make much for fame around here! Fjor, of the Blacktar family. Pleased to meet you fine warriors, after all we’ve heard.”

With this, Storm smiled back, crows feet popping at the sides of his eyes as he feigned obedience. He shot eyes briefly as he continued his toothy grin, catching the bewildered look of Sorian.

He doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, either. Good company.

“I’d do for a tall mug of ale, if you have any. Not sure what you’ve heard of us, but humans get plenty thirsty and dwarven beer is famous Althanas-wide.” The diplomatic magician stole another long look at the army around him, hearing the clanging and banging of machine work as dozens more of the little men were hammering away on the ass end of one of the larger, death-bringing vehicles.

Dutifully, the little Fjor motioned to an even smaller fellow, a dwarf amongst dwarves that Veritas estimated to be an adolescent, perhaps akin to a page. Fjor made a drinking motion, followed by holding up four fingers - not exactly the most shrewdly codified secret language. Fjor reared back to speak loudly once more.

“Of course! You’re all legendary in these parts! The wizard with the lightning hands, who can bring power to our newer machines, and the fighting tandem of Elite Optic and the swordsman Sorian! You boys set your feet up and relax for a spell - you’re the final links in our magnificent chain here!” The little fellow practically vibrated with excitement, even as the duo of Cazri and the white-bearded emissary came back to greet them, with squinted eyes and stern looks.

Behind them, Storm focused on the back of the vehicle from where the clanging had echoed. Two large steel bars were wrapped with coils and capped with copper domes. It was a conduit of some sort, no doubt designed to harness electrical energy. In front of the machine, a massive metal helmet ominously lay atop the vehicle.

So they plan to use me as a glorified battery charger to overthrow the most important city in Alerar. Beautiful. That helmet is too big for any man; the hell do they have up their pudgy little sleeves?