Bound by Iron

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The world crashed in on him, blinding light surging on waves of chaotic noise.

The warforged raised an arm to shield his eyes as one wall of his home swung open. He stepped out, holding his axe at the ready as he always did, as he did even in the darkness, for the world was an unpredictable beast. It was always there, lurking, waiting to strike. Every noise that dripped from it oozed peril.

He looked about at the surrounding circle of spiteful faces, and he felt awash in bloodthirsty eyes, snarling mouths, and angry fists. He turned slowly, staggering on the slanting floor, searching for the one who would try to kill him. Someone always did. Thus far he had survived the assassins, slain them, every one.

At last the warforged marked him. A human with long, unkempt, salt-and-pepper hair and a stew-matted beard. He carried a round shield in his right hand and a three-headed war flail in his left. A patchwork of scars served as his mail, crisscrossing his pale skin. He wore ragged breeches that came to just below his knees, and simple leather shoes ill suited for combat. An iron band of elegant design encircled his left arm above the biceps. As thin as the human was, it was surprising that the armband didn’t slide off.

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