Died at the hands of a troll during nightwatch duties. Eulogized by Chronicler of the Hunt, Hal Whitewyrm:

“Tempus is not one for many words. Tempus is one for action. Young as he was, Brother Vhelt knew this and embraced it. As we stood guard last night, what would be his last words were all about the glories of battle, the blessings bestowed on him by the Foehammer, the offerings of singing steel he would offer the Lord of Battles in times to come. He only lies here today because he faced a cowardly foe, a lowly beast that knows not of the honor of war. Brother Vhelt would have made Tempus proud had the creature faced him in combat, of that let there be no doubt today or ever. Now, Brother Vhelt Marrim fares better than all of us, for he now stands in formation in the armies of Tempus, where he will reap honor in holy battle for his lord for all eternity. That is how we should remember Brother Vhelt. Tempus be praised.”

I then pull out my mother’s flute and play a short tune. It is a marching song I once learned from a drunken sergeant in Raven’s Bluff, a tune that starts slow and dirge-like, recalling the end of a battle as a soldier stands and sees all his comrades dead around him. But the pace picks up as the soldier walks across the field, picks up his banner and holds it aloft in the wind, showing their deaths were not in vain. The song staccatos as it picks up the mood, keeping the marching pace to the beat of a beating heart that has lived to carry on the memory of those fallen in war. It ends in a solitary note which rises in pitch and dissipates into thin air, carrying the souls of the departed to the glory halls of Tempus Foehammer.

Buried beneath a forgotten monument to a forgotten empire in the Dun Hills.

Tempus be praised.