The people of Wellinor had not seen one of their cities under siege since the days of the Red Plague and the Great War. Now, generations after that awful time, the people of Krenholm quaked with fear at the horrid onslaught of the Black Dwarvez of Sigwulf, and their allies, the fanatical Ruhidrim. The ridge just outside the city could be seen easily from the ramparts. Among the townsfolk, some brave or curious souls dared climb them to see for themselves the force now amassing against them. As formations took shape among warriors in the distance both exotic and brutal, they could clearly see the Black Dwarvez on the ridge, standing encircled about a mobile platform, a kind of large, ornate wheeled altar. Standing above them in center of the construct, a single, well-muscled dwarf, black beard and hair blowing in the wind, hands thrust high holding a pair of ceremonial swords. Upon his chest was branded a strange sigil. His eyes smoldered and burned as he and the others began to chant in ancient tongues. As they reached a fever pitch, the people of Krenholm could feel the ground beneath them begin to rumble. From a rocky face below the dwarvez on the ridge, first through crumbling then through stone rolling, smashing into other large stones, some erupting from the ground itself, rock after rock began to place themselves until they formed a roughly humanoid shape. The town was silent as sound of the stone golem taking its first steps toward them rumbled the very ground beneath their feet. In moments, a smashing sound resonated off the neighboring structures, the massive, monolithic form of a stone golem unflinchingly bashing at the city's outer walls. The Black Dwarvez had arrived, and the people of Krenholm now knew that war was upon them.