Grunder of the Tuskerville Clan took a deep, slow breath of the chilly dry air of Dirlop Mountain, and did his best not to gasp, yank any bit of his waist-long beard, or even hurrumpf at the sight in the far, far, blue distance.

That sight … it couldn’t be.

But off in the far, far blue distance, on top of that blistering high and craggy lone mountain known as Razorspine Peak, there was now a looming high and massive castle. A castle of blood red and dark gray stone. It appeared overnight, somehow, and its many sheer sleek battlements, zigzagging towers and twisting keeps all defied gravity itself, never mind the gatehouses that floated around it … and not on the solid reliable ground!

Crazy … like out of some drunken elf’s tale … but for his whole hundred and twenty years, Razorspine Peak was a lone barren mountain full of rocks so razor sharp, nothing in all of Altaarith continent could hope to climb it.

Yet all together, that castle looked like some a massive red and gray rose of sinister … orc menace … no.

Orcs were practically human warthogs. Beasts with some form of man, and the demented mind of the beast they looked like. They couldn’t hope to build something that spectacular. Even dwarfs would … struggle. Forget elves. They were like extra scrawny humans with dagger pointy ears jutting out the sides of their head, and stunk of fruit and ugh. Don’t think of those elves this early in the morning.

Humans … no. They were still well behind dwarves in technology.

None of the lightling or darklings races could manage it.

Grunter did grunt. Finally. Fiddle with his skullcap of reliable dark dwarven steel. The ale from last night still lingered in his throat, but his dinner of lamb stew should keep the liquor from affecting his brain but no, even without a solid meal today, and todays few sips of morning ale to get a dwarf going right, a dwarf had to trust his eyes, since who else could he trust as much than his own eyesight?

Grunter stood up from the flat reliable seat of stone he had fallen asleep on … and spat to the side.

Bing. Onto the dusty rocky ground.

Then he looked at the sinister castle against but … it was gone?

Impossible … could there be something in the air … a scentless toxin that could make a dwarf less sound in the head.

But these craggy rocks and towering high boulders, they were familiar. Plenty of times he had woken up here after much needed R&R after a rambunctious night with overtalkive dwarven women. Don’t get him wrong, dwarf women were the best of the best, especially the stoutest ones. Meaty and just the right kind of soft cozy beards down beyond their wide, wide waists, but sometimes a dwarf needed some time alone, and this spot on Dirlop Mountain, great for some alone time, and one of the best in all of the Altaarith Continent, in his opinion.

There was no chance there was bad air here. The wind was chilling the place, but kept it fresh. Fresh, crisp morning mountain air. Nothing to fear. Nothing to cause strange … visions.

At a time like this … a mate would of been nice. Someone to confide in, but no.

Regrets were for fools.

He’d find his mate in time. Help continue his clan’s blood line but … no. He was fifty years too young for a wife. He still had another hundred or so years before dwarf women would start looking at younger dwarfs.

Plenty of time left.

Grunter was on an abandoned offshoot of the main stone road. The main stone road was wide enough for several wagons going in either direction and it wound hundreds of feet slow and steadily up into the dwarven town of Dirlop, the town which was, of course, chiseled inside Dirlop Mountain. All the roads on this wonderfully craggy mountain were chiseled carefully, smooth and reliable. They never worn down. No potholes. No cracks.

Nothing like unreliable human and elven roads.

Not to mention the disaster that were orc roads.

That most of the sky to his other side was still the bright glowing orange of sunrise … the main gatehouse should be open by the time he returned. No doubt he’d be assigned to scout that castle out.

So with an eyescope handy, and no Tuskerville dwarf would go without his trusty eyescope. It was a hand sized cylinder of the blackest of black iron alloy, the kind forged only by the best dwarfs. The lens was carefully crafted by the finest Tuskerville techniques so secret that even he hadn’t been taught them … yet. Maybe once he was old enough to settle down with a wife, and finish his scouting days for good.

A whiles away, then. If only most of his Tuskerville Clan hadn’t been summoned to the north to deal with a rowdy bunch of troublemakers that … hurrumpf, and hurrumpf was right, leaving him behind, but someone had to watch out for Dirlop.

And what he saw through the eyescope … he finally did gasp. The mountain known as Razorspine Peak … there were still signs of that sinister castle being there. It just … wasn’t visible to the naked eye, not from here. His hackles shot sky high and then some.

The mayor needed to know right – ack!

His chest … something ... an arrow? The shaft was as black as the abyss and vulture feathered and … an orc arrow?!

A laugh behind him. A girlie cackle. From a scrawny twig kind of a witch. And the stink of overgroomed beast.

“Zee lookout is finished, no? Just like Dirlop.”

Grunter growled. “Why you …”

He spun, lunging, but a sudden chill. And he knew no more.