The battle was brutal. Bronze-Anvil's comrades were among the dead as well. Their grievous wounds mirrored that of the orcs. Anvil questioned that fate of this war. Was it really worth fighting for? Of course it was a battle that couldn't be prevented. Orcs and dwarves have been bickering and fighting since the beginnings of time.
What horrors hav' we rot' pon me brothers. O, what tortures have ye sought in dis' desolate land Anvil thought to himself. He regretted having to ever lift his hammer. If he knew that what he would see would be his brethern's corpses upon the desert ground. For what purpose he asked himself over and over.
It was true that dwarves have been fighting the orcs for generations, but there had to be a better cause than this. There just had to be a reasoning behind it all. Though was it right for Anvil to question the motivations of his gods. Thor would be happy to see the brave in Asgard, and so too would the bitter Odin.
Bronze-Anvil fell to his knees. Orc bones crunching beneath them. He looked up to the buzzards swarming above in a death spying circle. He looked for insight with desperation. For in the end what does a man truly desire more than the peace of his brethren's hearts.
He laid his war hammer down and began to pray.
“O Odin the powerful fatha' o' da dwarves. Bless my brethren in Valhalla. May their beards soak in da' finest ales and their weapons rest in peace.” It wasn't right for a dwarf to cry, but Anvil wept a tear for the fallen. They fought bravely upon their stout feet. Several orcs fell this day, and that had to be something worth sacrifice.
Bronze-Anvil grabbed hold of his hammer and lifted it high into the desert winds that were rapidly blowing. Sands covering the dead as if they were never there. It was a sign of respect to lift one's weapon to the gods. Anvil knew that his brothers would rest in peace. Their weary battle hardened hands finally at rest.
He took one last look around the battlefield. The sands were already forming dunes over the dead. Anvil turned back towards the setting sun and marched towards home. Hoping that one day he too would be drinking in Valhalla with his brothers in arms.
Many a good dwarf would remember this day. Celebrating the waging battle with all the glories that it gave. For that was the dwarf way. To weep for the lost so that they may never be forgotten. To drink away their sorrows till the break of day.
“They will be remembered,” Bronze-Anvil muttered as he left the battlefield. Throwing his blood soaked hammer over his shoulder and covering his face with a scarf from the scars of the sands blowing at his back. Each grain pelting him, a memory of those who fought till the bitter end.