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. The town was spotless, the build-
ings straight as arrows.
"This doesn't look like any dwarven town I've ever
lived in," Gisella said, looking around her in awe.
"Where's the roof?"
"Rosloviggen is unusual by dwarven standards," the
baron agreed at her side. "My ancestors settled the vil-
lage because of the rich mines in the surrounding moun-
tains. The valley is so steep and protected that it affords
us the comfort and safety of living underground that we
dwarves need, along with the benefits of life on the sur-
face, like sunlight for plants."
The procession set off down the valley, and the
dwarves broke into a marching song of their own. The
gully dwarves hummed and wailed along, but the pow-
erful dwarven voices thankfully drowned them out.
Under the hills the heart of the axe
Arises from cinders the still core of the fire,
Heated and hammered the handle an afterthought,
For the hills are forging the first breath of war.
The soldier's heart sires and brothers
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Out of the mountains in the midst of the air,
The axes are dreaming dreaming of rock,
Of metal alive through the ages of ore,
Stone on metal metal on stone.
The soldier's heart contains and dreams
The battlefield.
Come back in glory
Or on your shield.
Red of iron imagined from the vein,
Green of brass green of copper
Sparked in the fire the forge of the world,
Consuming in its dream as it dives into bone.
The soldier's heart lies down, completes
The battlefield
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