For weeks since Jastrey's great victory over the Tarrasque, Volrog had been hauling meat, bones, teeth, claws, and blood back to the Crimson Quarter from where the beast was finally laid low.
As he rounded the corner to the Angori's encampment while pulling a fully-loaded cart alongside a couple oxen he had bartered for with some of the meat, his chest swelled with pride in recollection of the fight: His 'dequi ally had pointed out the beast had just molted out of its old shell, and was in a weakened state. After approaching it's head while the behemoth lay sleeping, the Angori called to his god for strength to lay the beast low, but was consumed whole after delivering the first blow.
Volrog hurled (push 10) his final trip's contents up on the pile of other bones, and grinned in glory: His blade had torn through the insides of the beast, and though burning in the monstrosity's digestive juices, Volrog fought pain and suffering to fight alongside his allies, even when he was consumed again and again!
His brow furrowed when an uneasy thought caught his attention. Even if a full scargrim warband hunted after a Tarrasque, it was doubtful they would have been successful in bringing the beast down, and would lose most of theit number in doing so. Yet his party of Jastrians knew when to attack, struck the beast's weak spots, and kept Volrog mended and healed where he would have succumbed to his wounds 10 times over. "Different kinds of strength" his tribe's elders had told him to seek.
And that dwarf! Throughout the fight, the dwarf had held his ground in the face of the towering monstrosity. Several times, the stalwart beard dissappeared under the Crushing onslaught of the beast. But each time, the dwarf came out unbudged, and went right back to hacking & slashing it's legs.
"Dat Stuntie...", Volrog grunted as he winced. That was the same dwarf who had lead them all to victory beneath the Dwarven capital. The same one who's son had betrayed them all, and has slain their king. The same one who, for all his mastery of the elements, could not stop the cave from partially collapsing on his kingdom. How that must weigh upon the dwarf's consciousness!
No stranger to grief over his own Glesmyrian tribe, Volrog grabbed his mining pick, shovel, and a couple Tarrasque steaks for the road and for the dwarvenfolk, and tossed them into the oxen cart. "Come on horns, we'z gots ta help dem stunties wich der 'ome" he commanded while tugging on his Oxen's ropes, taking strides towards the long road to Forgehome.