Looking over the ridge, he saw him, standing in the cold, the bodies of two beorn laying in a steaming, bloody heap at his feet. This one he had hunted for months, only ever catching a momentary glimpse of him before he would disappear into some icy crevasse or rock hewn cave.
Though he still had some of the greanish-brown tint of a younger ogre, this one, Old Stoneback, he had nicknamed him, must have been living on the mountain for sometime, his hyde now having adapted into a thick, scaly, pale patchwork of light grey formations that blended him in all too well with the tunnels and rock outcroppings that ran throughout the mountain. Jorl’s teeth clenched in anger as he saw the life go out of the two beorn at the monster’s feet.
Nothing was ever easy on the mountain, but Jorl and his clan had been there for generations, mining the precious metals and jewels from deep within and not even the encroaching bands of ogrez would root them out of their home. The were becoming more of a problem all the time, running further up the mountain to escape the waves of orkz and goblin warbands terrorizing the vale below. Perhaps some other such race could be reasoned with, he thought, but not ogrez. No, these slavering, eating machines were decimating the herd of precious beorn that so often proved the dwarvez major advantage against the hordes they faced to protect their lands, and he knew that had to be dealt with decisively and soon.