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[Sir Leonard III]

From the journal of Ser Leonard III, Militia Commander of the first squad of the Imprisoned Sabres military.

The growls sound out from the depths of hell itself. A flimsy pillar cannot block out the sound that comes from behind it. Miles down there are monsters. Monsters of great strength that will kill without mercy. We hear them every night. As we make coffins for the dead, as we sleep, as we eat, drink and trade with the mountainhome. The Mayor and I have decided that this shall continue no more. The battle of the century shall be recorded here. Here upon the walls in which our blood shall stain. Here upon the walls in which our weapons will clatter as the brave warriors fight for Inkshove, outpost of the Mountainhome. And here we will make our final stand. Let the demons be free, I say. Let them try our willpower, strength and skill. I have sounded the call, we gather at the one place that we can free them. If we survive this then damn the Mountainhome, damn the goblins, elves and humans. We are our own people if we live after this day.

Will continue with a description of the battle.

Day 1 of the battle of Inkshove:

The soldiers, all twenty-five of them stood around the small pillar. Their shields and weapons clattered against each other's armor, as they were squeezed into a small space. Time itself seemed to slow down as the miners walked toward the wall of adamantine, a beautiful, precious stone that had made their weaponry and armor far more precious. Yet now it seemed the only thing keeping them alive. A divider of life and death. A cruel thing, that they had taken with greed. Yet in its raw state it was the only thing keeping them alive. Now they stood, staring at the walls. As the miner raised his pick and began smashing down on the wall of stone a loud, frightening roar ascended from the bottom of the pit. As it crumbled with several heaves of the copper pick the monsters filed out. The miner, having no chance of escape, swung his pick at one of the monsters. It landed on the foot of it and the severed part sailed off in an arc. As he raised it again to strike a blow a large, brute demon made of sleet rushed at him. One of its horns slammed into his leg and he tumbled back, down into the chasm below. The soldiers heard his pick slam against the wall far below them. His scream pierced their ears as he slammed into a flat cliff directly below where he fell. His arm broke and his leg was torn open from the horn. As more of them piled out the fight escalated, the first hit on the army was taken by a spearsdwarf. One of the monsters gored him, as they did to the frail miner. His screams still resounding through out the fortress.
A large, brute of steam fell upon the speardwarf, kicking and goring his legs. As the dwarf was beaten upon the miner was struck down by one of the demons composed of sleet, shards of his skull piercing his brain.
The speardwarf was struck down, as the militia commander joined the fight. He thrust his spear towards a spirit, tearing the head off of its shoulders. Many of the dwarves fell, mostly new recruits. But some were seasoned veterans. The space between them and the demons was too small. Not even a legendary squad of dwarves could fend them off.
But for the spirits and demons this... This was their natural territory. They enjoyed the bloodshed, as the struck down dwarf after dwarf

But even in the darkest days there was a glimmer of hope. A glimmer of happiness in a losing battle. The three militiary commanders, armed with steel weapons and armor beat down the oncoming demons. Ser Leonard, skilled in the way of the sword, still picked up an alder crossbow and fired bolt after bolt into the oncoming demons.
The speardwarf Vucar Koddoren stabbed the spirits, tearing away body parts of the monsters.
And the final military commander, Tosid, rushed into the battle with his battle axe. Swinging it down towards a spirit it scrambled away and he fell. Not to attacks, but by steam. The brutes expelled so much steam the military choked on it. But they continued to fight, to destroy what was plaguing them.
The military commander, leader of all in the battle, dropped his crossbow and drew his adamantine shortsword, and flung the shield off his back. Sliding his hands through the straps of the interior of the shield he drew the legendary pig iron short sword. Created by their expedition leader. A flaming demon lunged at him and he raised his shield, made of the stone which had imprisoned these monsters, and blocked the flaming ball. He slapped the flat of the shortsword against the leg of one of the monsters with such strength that it came flying off.
These leaders were not enough.
Five dwarves, who had not yet joined the battle, stood by the side of the veteran dwarves. Swinging their axes, stabbing with their swords and tearing with their spears. They ripped apart the army of the demons.
One of the five dwarves, a simple speardwarf named Fath rushed a boiling devil. But he did not stab with his spear or thrust at the monster. No, he was a dwarf. He was a man of power. He brought back his fist and swung it forward, hitting the head of the devil and sending it sailing off in an arc. But the dwarf soon fell to the ground, yet his time was not now. He stood up and did another act of true merit. He bit into the cheek of a boiling devil, he tore apart the monster's face with his teeth. Teeth which he had little off, as he had lost them from previous fights.
The other military commanders fell as the tide of enemies fell upon them. The savagery overcoming even the most hardened of dwarves. But one dwarf stayed true to the fight. Never falling, never giving up he did not slice or stab with his weapons. No, he bashed the monsters with his bow and the pommel of his short swords. He took down demons with the blunt end of stabbing weapons. Yet he would not survive the battle. His body was melted, his barely had the slightest resemblance of a dwarf. He was dripping blood from every part of his skin and his face, stomach, hands, arms and legs were melted by the fire of some demons.
And so we the end of a great warrior. A true dwarf who only trained and fought. His hobby was killing monsters and goblins, his goal was to conquer all. Not once did he take a real hit from the demons. Demons who had taken down his friends, pets and leaders. No, only the heat emitting from the speed of his sword and the skin of the demons who he had cut down had hurt him. He had died from being too awesome.

And so the fortress of Inkshove fell. The members of the Imprisoned Sabres were no more and the world had fell to the demons that had escaped from the one hole miles underground.
Let this be a lesson to you who read this story. Do not awaken the ancient monsters that lay under you. I have no silly poem to go along with this, so let me be blunt. If you open up the wall of stone then you'll die.

I hope you liked my story and whatever. I'd post pictures of the battle that Ser Leonard faced, but it's to long of a battle report.

[Sir Leonard III]

And since I'm bored I'm going to write the story of an adventurer exploring Inkshove, enjoy. If I horribly, horribly suck at writing tell me.

Risen raised his steel spear, keeping the tip at the height of his shoulder. He was wearing iron armor. His breastplate, greaves, gauntlets and everything else. Behind him followed his two followers, a human using a sword and an elf carrying a steel tipped spear. They found this abandoned outpost surrounded by traps. Luckily most of them had been set off by wildlife and other adventurers. When they had walked across the bridge they saw a rotting skeleton, about the size of a human. An iron sword and shield had been lying at its side. Rust coated the decaying weapons, making them worth nothing. So far this journey had formed no profit for them. The only things they found were things too heavy for them to carry out of here or it was broken. But now a mighty roar had pierced their head and dug into their very brain. All of them had quickly prepared themselves for combat.
And they were right to do so.
What seemed like a small candle illuminated a staircase a couple feet away from them. The earth beneath them shook as the "small candle" grew closer to the top, making the staircase ever brighter. Several flames finally emerged from it followed by a butterfly like demon composed entirely of fire. The human he was traveling with had stepped closer before the thing had emerged and as it flew out Risen could see his skin melting off. The iron weapon clattered to the ground, followed by the armor of the human as he fell unconscious. His body lay limp and lifeless before them. Standing paralyzed with fear in front of the demons more emerged and rushed at them. Trying their best to do what they could against, what seemed like, a never ending tide of them he finally fell. His face distorted and flaming as his skin melted over his eyes and his eyes over what was left of his eye sockets. He became a lump of human wax on the ground, a large candle. A candle like he had thought he had seen coming up from the staircase. But what had come up was what had been the downfall of Inkshove.

The end.

Anyone want to share their thoughts on how bad/good I'm doing with the whole story?