R.I.P. Captain Lars Grothshtung Ulverth, son of Graetum Ulverth Born in ????, died in Brindol 862-892

The dry hilltops danced with fire.

Throughout the heart of the wild badlands the humans called the Wyrmsmokes, great bonfires had been kindled on the ridge overlooking the Elsir Vale. There thousands of warriors had gathered – hobgoblins in armor dyed scarlet, thick-thewed bugbeared berserkers, goblin warg riders, scaled ones as well, who towered over the rest. For so long they had fought each other, tribe against tribe, race against race, engagd in the endless test of battle, feud, and betrayal. But tonight… tonight, for once, they stood together, hated enemies shoulder-to-shoulder shouting and raving as brothers. And they saw that they were strong, and together they danced and sang and shook their blades at the smoke-ridden star overhead.

“We are the Kulkor Zhul!” they shouted, and the hills shook with the thunder of their voices. “We are the people of the dragon! Uilgulth na Hargai! None can stand before us!”

One by one the tribes fell silent. Armor creaked as thousands turned to look up to the forum. There, a single champion emerged from the assemblage and slowly climbed the ancient stone stairs cut into the side of the hill. A hundred bright yellow banners stood beneath him like a phalanx of spears, each marked with a great red hand. The warpriests holding the banners chanted battle-prayers in low voices as the champion ascended.

On the hundredth step he stopped and turned to face the waiting warriors. He was tall and strong, one of the hobgoblin chieftans, but dull blue scales gleamed along his shoulders, and jutting horns swept back across his head.

“I am Azaar Kul!, Son of the Dragon!” he cried. “Hear me, warriors of the Red Hand! Tomorrow we march to war!”

The warriors roared their approval, stamping their feet and clashing spear to shield. Azarr Kul waited, holding his hands aloft until they quieted again. “The Warpriests of the Doom Hand have shown us the way! They have taught us honor, discipline, obedience – and strength! No more will we waste our blood fighting each other. We will take the lands of the elves, the Kithkin, the humans, and make them ours! Under the banner of the Red Hand of Doom we march to victory and conquest! Remember that you stood here this night, warriors of the Khulkor Zhul! For a hundred generations your sons and your sons’ sons will sing of the blood spilled by your swords and the glory you win in the nights to come! Now, my brothers – To WAR!”

The burning hills were too small to hold the shout the Red Hand of Doom gave in answer to their warlord’s call.

The Red Hand of Doom

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