One day, Gladrimir, the dwarven ambassador, came to his wonderfully cozy dwarven home and said that he had important news. Galdur let him in. Gladrimir told him that he had done so well that the dwarves wanted him to be their dwarven king!
Galdur thanked him and sent him back outside. Galdur quickly packed all of his trophies and belongings and he and the ambassador headed out to the castle.
After a few weeks of settling in, Galdur recieved a message that the dark elves were planning an assault. Galdur went to fetch his trusty axe, but his first in command, Glorthririmir wouldn't let him. He said that it was too risky for their king, and that he must give them orders while staying within the safety of the castle walls. Galdur was hurt. Didn't they want him to fight alongside them?
He sent orders. They won the fight. He moped around. Galdur was happy no longer. He wanted to be covered in elven blood. He wanted the rush of adrenaline that only battle could bring. He wanted his life back. But the dwarves wanted him to remain king. He was the best king they had ever had! The dwarven empire was finally respectable.
And thus Galdur ruled for many years.
One night, he heard a strange rustling amongst his large bedsheets. He turned on the candle, and lo! A dark elf was waiting for him, sword drawn! Galdur reached under his bed for his trusty axe. The elf advanced, but Galdur could barely lift his axe. Years of inattention had left his muscles weak and unable to lift his weapon. The elf stopped. He grinned, and his thin lips stretched farther and farther, almost touching his ears. Galdur tried to run but the elf, strong and battle-ready, held him fast. He slowly stabbed Galdur over and over again until he lay lifeless on the cold castle floor.
The end.
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