The Song of Clan BeerFrost
Far to the eastern shores of the Eastern Kingdoms, nestled deep within the rugged crags of the Twilight Highlands, there grew the storied Clan BeerFrost. Sheltered by the Highlands’ ancient peaks, the towering Southern Mountains, and the restless waves of the Eastern Sea, the clan carved out a life of hearty resilience and quiet industry. Though the world beyond whispered of elves, dragons, and even men, the BeerFrosts were a folk content to keep to themselves, trading sparingly with other dwarven kin and devoting their days to their crafts: brewing ales as rich as their veins of gold and forging steel as sturdy as the mountains themselves.
Yet, the quiet days could not last. When the orcish horde first poured into Azeroth, young BeerFrost lads marched off to join the armies of Ironforge, seeking glory and songs of valor to bring honor to their name. But the elderfolk stayed behind, deep in their halls, tending their mines, their forges, and the frost-kissed fields of barley. They endured, as dwarves do, while the wars raged beyond their mountain borders.
*But the wars left scars, as wars always do. When the Dragonmaw orcs seized the highlands, the peace of Clan BeerFrost shattered. What had once been a proud but merry folk, known more for their ales than their axes, grew grim and hardened. Violence became a way of life, and bloodshed a twisted sport. They hunted the orcs like beasts, making no distinction between warriors and their kin. What began as survival soured into vengeance, and vengeance into something darker. Even when the orcs’ demonic taint was cleansed, the BeerFrost axes fell without mercy.
Then came the serpent’s tongue. Cho’gall, the ogre sorcerer of the Twilight’s Hammer cult, whispered promises of safety, of power, and of vengeance unchecked. Fear and fury clouded their hearts, and the clan turned their ears to his honeyed lies. They swore themselves to the old gods, casting aside honor in pursuit of strength. Beside the Twilight’s Hammer, they raged, unheeding of the cost to soul or kin.
*But justice, like the mountain’s rumble, comes slow yet sure. The Alliance, alongside even honorable orcs, rose to crush the Twilight’s Hammer, and in the fray, Clan BeerFrost was broken, their halls sundered, and their name cast into ruin.
*Yet, the story does not end in darkness. From the ashes of the clan’s folly rose Teghalfastir BeerFrost, grandson of the fallen Thain. A mere young man when the Twilight’s Hammer fell, he was spared the taint of his forebears, some say by luck, others by the gods’ will. Found by other clans, he was taken in and raised among them, learning their ways and hearing their stern warnings of his clan’s errors.
Upon his thirtieth year, Teghalfastir swore an oath—a solemn vow to reclaim the honor of Clan BeerFrost. With a horn at his side and hope in his heart, he set forth from Thundermar, traveling south to Ironforge and Stormwind, seeking those without clan or kin to join his cause. His purpose was clear: to rebuild what was lost, to redeem his ancestors, and to forge a future where the name BeerFrost would no longer carry the weight of shame but ring with pride once more.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Teghalfastir turned his ram westward. Lighting his pipe, he hummed a merry tune—one that spoke not of sorrow, but of hope—and blew his horn to the winds. Thus began the new song of Clan BeerFrost, a tale yet to be written, with the first chapter waiting for stout hearts to take up the call…*