Dwarf Bolt Throwers

The Fangs of Bandars The war against the elves began like any other: with steel and screams. Dwarves knew about that. But the war changed. When the elven dragons arrived, it was no longer a war; it was a slaughter. Pride means nothing when the stone of your fortress melts and rains down upon your head. That's what happened at Karz-Haldûn and a dozen other posts. The legions were forced into a humiliating retreat, to hide underground like frightened vermin while the enemy claimed the sky. In Bandars-Thûl, a minor mining fortress, a smith named Kalin saw it all. He was no priest or visionary; he was a craftsman who watched his life's work, and that of his ancestors, incinerated from above by winged beasts. He felt no divine revelation, only a cold, practical spite. He began to sketch plans, not for a relic, but for a tool: something heavy, ugly, and mechanical, its sole purpose to make whatever flew, fall. But the retreat was swifter than his work. Kalin died in exile, in some forgott