Only then did the Dwarf Warrior finally realize something was wrong. He shifted the skewer to his left hand and slowly reached his right hand toward the warhammer hanging at his waist. He kept his eyes fixed on the other man, but never stopped chewing.
"So you came to tell me what dignified creatures our enemies are? Their honor drives them to serve as mounts for those murderers and launch an invasion that has claimed countless lives?"
By the Holy Light! At that moment, Alvin wanted nothing more than to grab a rag and stuff it in Kurdran's foul mouth. Dwarves were an easily angered race. Compared with the Bronzebeard Dwarves' stubbornness and the Dark Iron Dwarves' brooding nature, Wildhammer Dwarves were more quick-tempered. Clearly, faced with the furious mage, the Dwarf's old bad habit had surfaced again.
From the Kirin Tor insignia on the mage's robes, his High Elf features, and the fury on his face, Alvin had already guessed who he was—and understood what the meat on Kurdran's skewer was made of...
The Wildhammer Gryphon Riders had suffered their greatest losses ever in the recent sea battle. More than fifty elite Dwarf riders had perished fighting the Red Dragons, and many more had been injured to varying degrees.
What hurt him even more was the loss of the Gryphons. Dragons truly belonged among the most powerful beings in the world. Even the mindless, artificially bred Red Dragon whelps had inflicted heavy losses on the Alliance's flying war beasts despite being outnumbered.
These seasoned Gryphon Riders weren't the sort of common soldiers found everywhere on the continent. Many spent a long time just earning the approval of a Gryphon, and becoming a rider capable of fighting skillfully from its back required years, sometimes even decades, of training!
All Gryphon