Twenty years in the Legion of the Dead. I've seen spiders larger than a bronto, broodmothers lounging in putrescence surrounded by their corrupted children, and unnamed things with flesh turned against itself. But worse, by far, was in an old mine shaft down from Heidrun Thaig.
We chased an emissary down there to a tunnel dead-ended in rubble. It was a vicious fight. He picked my men off until only four of us were left. When it seemed like we'd finally fulfill our oaths, our fight woke something long dormant.
What I thought was rubble gathered beneath my feet, taking a terrible form: a beast of stone surrounding the shattered skeleton of a man. A rock wraith. The spirit of a dwarf so foul the Stone itself rejected him. One swing of its boulder-hand crushed the emissary, and then it turned its eyeless skull toward us. We fled back up the tunnel, its heavy footsteps thundering at our backs.
When we reached the thaig, we finally turned, knowing that out in the open, we had no cover and couldn't hope to outrun the wraith. But when it came to the exit, it struck the trusses holding up the ceiling of the shaft, closing itself in forever. Perhaps, in the end, it felt remorse. Perhaps it was one lost soul recognizing another.
—From the journals of Amrun, Legion of the Dead