Arctos
Patre Arctos ScopulusArctos stands rigidly straight high atop the
readouts battlements of Mount Avernis; whilst
critically perusing the defenses of his home-
land with his bloodshot and penetratingly cold
raven hued orbs, he subconsciously rubs an
irritating itch upon his redened aquiline
proboscus.
The stiff breeze disshelveled his full beard
and braided chestnut colored hairlocks wildly
about his countance most fair.
The Dwarven Priest adjusts his silk tabbard, which bears the
crest of a helmed naked Dwarf armed with axe and shield; he
reaches into a pouch thats secreted therein, grasps a silver
and gold inlaid flask, uncorks it, and snorts down a signifi-
cant portion of strong spirits in order to slake his mighty
thirst.
The Dwarfs bushy cromagnan brow furls deeply as he squints to
note the approach of an unheralded band of outsiders upon the
trail at the base of the mountain. His bearded square jaw
juts defiantly out at the unwelcome trespassers as he bellows
an alarm in a gratingly deep harrowing voice that echoes
throughout the nearby mountains . . .
"Legionaires wot ho!!! To Arms!!! To Arms!!!"