I am Baruk Khazad, son of Brukhad Kheoldum.

Translated to the mannish tongue of Common, "Axe of the Dwarves." I am known to those not of my kind simply as Turin, a name given to me by an elven friend long ago, and I have come to cherish it since. My childhood was that of a normal dwarven male. Taught the martial ways at a young age, the art of war is of second nature to me. I knew how to swing an axe and dismember a foe before the hairs on my face began to fill in. Unfortunately, this prowess was put to the test all too soon.

Our clan went to war in the summer of my 23^rd year. My father was the head of our clan so it fell upon him to lead our warriors into battle. The enemy was a clan of Orcs in the area named the Alliance of Blood. Their leader was an Ogre rumored to be of immense power, Olag Sûren. He carried magic with him. Dark magic. It was also rumored that his First Lieutenant was a Drow. This Alliance had killed and raped much of the countryside not caring much whom or what lay in their way.

My father spent many nights devising defenses and tactics to use against them, all the while hoping that someone else would intervene and take care of them before they reached our stronghold in the mountains. Many messages were sent to the human governments of the area but the only responses we received where those of indifference. They were busy preparing their own defenses and could not be bothered with us. Perhaps this is why I tend to dislike humans so much.

The battle went poorly for us. I watched as many an uncle and kinsman came back from the front lines, dead or dying. My mother and kinswomen tended to them the best they could but death had become a familiar friend. The attack came on the third day of the second month of battle.

My father was weary. Most of his captains had fallen and he was growing desperate. He was tricked into committing too many of his remaining troops to one of his flanks and left the pass that led into our valley virtually unguarded. Sûren anticipated this. A contingent of orcs led by two Drow captains over ran the guard post entering our valley. Soon they were upon us. They attacked from out of no where. Darkness enveloped us. The magic of the Drow.

They killed everyone -- women, children, the wounded. Fight as I may, I could not stay the flow of orcs pouring into our caverns. My last memory is that of running to defend my mother. Something struck me. My world spun out of control, growing dark and blurry. As I faded from consciousness I remember seeing my mother falling to the ground next to me, blood spilling from her chest.

When I awoke my head was throbbing, blood still oozing from the blow to the back of my skull. I lay for what seemed like an eternity. Time was without meaning. Something heavy lay upon me. Finally I was able to raise myself. The bodies of two women kinsfolk lay across my back. My mother lay in a pool of mingled blood, a gash in her chest from shoulder to hip. Reality crashed in. Though my head felt as if it would explode at any moment, I staggered about the caverns of my birthplace, trying to find any survivors. There were none. For the first and only time in my life, I wept.

I found it curious that none of our warriors had returned from battle. From the condition of many of the bodies, as well as my own, I must have been laying unconscious for several days. I collected my axe and made for the command camp. A mile out my heart dropped. From upon the mountain side a plume of smoke rose from where my father should be. I hastened my descent.

For the second time that day, I found no survivors amongst the bodies of my kinsfolk.

My father and what remained of his captains all lay decapitated in pools of mixed blood. Their heads adorned pikes with the symbol of the Alliance of Blood emblazoned upon their foreheads. My tremendous loss of blood combined with the destruction of all that I held dear overwhelmed me. I fell unconscious.

My next memories are that of awakening to bright lights and soft music. I thought that perhaps I had died and gone on to the halls of Claggedin Silverbeard, The Father of Battle. Then, a face came into focus. It was the elven face of my soon to be dear friend, Quenthan Lorilas. He proceeded to explain to me that his party happened upon me a few days past and brought me back to their home with them to treat my wounds.

In the days that had passed, they sent word to a nearby dwarven clan in the hills neighboring their forested home. They responded and were taken to the battlegrounds and my mountain home where they gave my kinsfolk all proper burials before the scavengers arrived. I thanked him for this.

The next few months were spent amongst the elven people. I learned much of their ways and customs. They are indeed as noble a folk as any dwarf I have ever met. But alas, these things were not enough. I determined to strike out on my own. The loneliness of living without my kin had set in. I made a vow before I left. To kill every single orc, goblin, ogre or drow that dares to cross my path.

As a warning to those who would commit crimes against my companions or me, I carry a branding iron to burn the symbol of my clan into the heads of all that shall fall before me.

This, I swear!