Lore/Story Dwarves And Doguns : Rewritten

Prologue: Rude Awakening

It’s the sound of flames that alerts Axelus to his mistake.

The subtle crackles and sparks aren’t the gentle, warm fires of Rodoroc, which envelop the city like a protective blanket, giving light and life to every corner. This heat is writhing and seething, fueled by nothing more than sheer willpower and hatred alone.

A Dogun.

Instinctively, he grabs for his axe, swearing under his breath. This land -- the Molten Heights -- was said to be rid of the demons, primed and ready for some much-needed expansion. Setting up a perimeter would be easy, they said. Just camp down in an abandoned cave and scout the area by morning. Easy. Simple. No godforsaken demons to find, wandering the landscape in search of their next massacre.

He swears again noiselessly. Add this to the long list of regal negligence; it’s a wonder his father has yet to be deposed.

The heat seems to inch closer as his thoughts stew, reminding him of his current predicament: there’s a Dogun outside his tent. One that’d probably love to chow down on Dwarven meat, or whatever they do with the bodies of their prey. He’d never seen one in person before.

On the bright side, it’s not likely that it can strategize. Surprise is his only advantage: the Dogun likely doesn’t realize he’s awake. Most rumors painted them as dull, shambling creatures that could barely tell they had two legs.

His grip tightens on the handle of the axe, letting his own mana-formed flames dance down the blade. Fighting fire with fire has never failed him before, and he certainly doesn’t expect it to fail now. With his other hand, he prepares a growing wreath of flames, focusing as much energy as he can. Uncertainty darkens his face -- the tent’s fabric is fireproof. This will have to be precise.

Now! With a furious strike against the bottom left of the tent, the zipper running along the side turns to slag, letting him burst through the front with a barbaric cry.

The Dogun’s standing a few feet from the door, clearly surprised; even the hardened clay comprising the demon’s exoskeleton seems pensive. Not that it matters. With a one-handed overhead strike, Axelus plants the axe a good three inches into the demon’s head, using the remaining momentum to sweep its legs out from under it.

It drops to the floor with a pained scream, almost bone-chillingly Dwarven. He shivers, turning to plant one foot on the demon’s clay chest and pulling the axe from its exoskull as it makes an incomprehensible mess of sounds that almost sounds like it’s begging for life. He starts to laugh, awash in the sweet rush of victory, but he pauses as the demon's pleas continue.

They are the sounds of it begging for its life. The language is rough, barely interpretable, but he can clearly make out the word ‘stop’. Curiously, and more than a little scared, he peers down at the Dogun’s face. Tiny globs of fire leak from the area where a dwarf’s eyes would be, and it finally clicks to him that this demon is crying, babbling nearly-incoherent pleas for him not to kill it.

His mouth drops open -- this one can speak!? Can they all speak? Are there more Doguns nearby, ready and waiting to avenge their compatriot?

There could be more in any direction; he could be surrounded, for all he knew. The Molten Heights could be infested with demons -- talking, walking demons. The pity he feels tugging at his gut makes him realize that he’s beginning to feel sorry for this wretched creature, as it writhes under his foot, begging for its life. This is a Dogun, the scourge of the Dwarven people, making him feel pity for it.

It’s brainwashing him. Getting into his head with its vile magic.

Terrified, he hesitates before planting the axe deep into the demon’s neck, again and again and again until the Dogun-speak is drowned out by more blood-curdling screams. He’s panting heavily, shaking like Rodoroc’s flag in a dust storm, staring as the last flames of the demon are crushed mercilessly under his foot. The clay that used to be part of its body finally coalesces into a brown blood-like slurry.

Retrieving his axe, he slides to the floor, looking forlornly at the pile of fabric that used to be his tent.

They got to him. There’s Doguns in the Molten Heights, able to talk and use magic.

The king must know immediately.