Fires blazed as molten metal poured from stone vats into molds. Among the slaves were humans of all ages, many sent as captives from the recent siege of Krenholm. As Sigwulf and his Ruhidrim allies pushed their campaign further across the lands of the west, the steady stream of slave labor allowed the industry of the Black Dwarvez to grow to a frightening degree. Whips cracked as black clad dwarves, skin carved, burned and tattooed with sigils of the ancient Draelunen, drove the slaves. The mines and furnaces were grueling enough, but here, in this special foundry deep near the Pit of Draelunen, a singularly arcane construct was being formed. The blood and carcasses of slaves, driven to death by their black dwarf taskmasters, was thrown into the smelt, imbibing the newly formed ingots with the essence of their suffering. The blacksmiths of the dwarven ranks hammered the ingots into bands, bars and various shapes. Overlooking the foundry, Sigwulf smiled to see the next of the four golemz taking form. For a brief moment he thought back to how he had marked his existence with betrayals: first, his friend, King Fjornal, then most recently by supplanting his master, the beast of the pit called Drael. All sense of the morality he had known in his youth was gone, and he thought how glad he was to be rid of it. Nothing stood between him and the Dark One now, the Ihll-Dhinnadow, who touches Urith through the Pits of Draelunen, a black pit that shares in the darkness of Sigwulf’s own soul. Calling upon the power within him as the new high priest of the Ihll-Dhinnadow, Sigwulf bellowed forth the ancient, dark tones that would bring life into the iron golem his men assembled below. Truly this would be a mighty weapon as his beloved war waged on.