Messing with the Darkwolves will be the last thing you do, Clan Battlehammer

Emerald Dream
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The Chieftain slammed his arm across the table centered in the middle of the Wounded Paw causing half empty tankards of grog to fly across the tavern and splatter anyone who was unwise enough to stand so close to the the enraged Mok’nathal Orc.

“I WILL have every ONE of these blasted small-teeths ripped into pieces and scattered about the streets of Undermine–! NO! Their own lands even!”

The Chieftain was fueled with frustration as the recent battles against them began to sway in the favor of the Dwarves.

“They bring forces we cannot contend with! We will not cower, but we will embrace new tactics! We will show them the dae’monic will of the Darkwolves. Their grandchildren will cower in the mention of what we did to their people!”

Come the next morning the hulking frame of the Chieftain ambled about with a disturbed and scornful frown plastered across his tusky maw as he gazed about a small group of elite Darkwolves standing in the morning dew of Gulwor’gol Hold, their proudly fertile, and aggressively taken lands.

“Tonight we will find them. Tonight we will show them no mercy. We will use tactics they wouldn’t expect any to think of, let alone follow through with.”

They traveled to Undermine and hid in a new base they recently established through means that is none of your business. A scout would return heavy with sweat…

“I’ve spotted a small party of them! One seems to be some sort of Commander! They do not seem to be here for military purposes, only for leisure, perhaps.”

The Chieftain shouted across the room for his special unit to gather and they quickly left on foot, something no Darkwolf had done before. They were uneasy and felt naked knowing battle was inching towards them but they did not have their wolf companions with them. Nonetheless, their mission was to make a point that transcended normal and unusual, right and wrong. It was an outright act of war.

The Darkwolf Orcs arrived to the hotel and in their sights they found the Dwarves, whom they suspected to have at least one leader within their respected ranks. Quickly they lurched into the building and grappled each of the Dwarves and smuggled their struggling bodies out into the streets. They were dropped to the ground and out from the shadows came Chieftain Kul’gosh, a tusky grin engulfing his face.

“My people typically say Aka Ma’gosh, but we are Frostwolves no longer. Today you will meet your worst of fates.”

The Orcs in his command quickly began stomping down the Dwarves and hacking at their limbs until they could resist no longer. With horror in their eyes, they looked to the sky only to have their last view be that of the leader swinging an axe unto their throat. Everything went silent and soon only the Orcs persistent commands would be heard.

“What do I do with this one, Chieftain? It 's so frail it might be a woman?”

Another Orc would respond,

“Why would it have a beard if it’s a woman?”

Another Orc would mutter,

“I hear tales that even their women have beards!”

Chieftain Kul’gosh grew furious with the constant murmuring instead of action,

“I DON’T CARE IF IT IS A MAN OR A WOMAN, CUT IT’S BEARD FROM IT’S FACE AND HAMMER IT INTO THE WALLS OF THAT BLASTED HOTEL, OR IT’LL BE YOUR BEARD I COME FOR NEXT!”

The Darkwolves grinned at this command and took great pleasure in what they did next. They rolled the remains of the slain Dwarves into a pile and each of them took turns speaking the names of those that were taken from them by the Battlehammers before, carving their knives into the flesh of their gauntly faces, ripping the skin up slowly, until nothing but a bloody patch of skin and a neatly braided beard was left.

Kul’gosh’s upper lip twinged as he watched upon the group of Darkwolves taking justice upon the Dwarves in the names of their kin,

"Now, leave them all hammered to the walls of the hotel. Make them know that this transcends even these Goblin lands if they do not back down now.

A few days of contentious grog drinking at the Wounded Paw went by and the Clan eventually tested their might in other lands. This time, the Ringing Deeps. Their presence surprised all, and many, many, lives were claimed at the hand of the Clan. A new dawn for them, and perhaps a darkest day for those they seek to overstep in honor of Orcish uprising.

((Okay, all roleplay aside, I want to address Clan Battlehammer personally. We owe you guys such a TREMENDOUS thank you for your battles with us and willingness to work with our guild as we bolster ourselves fully. You guys are such a ridiculously difficult challenge for our clan that we have been as determined as we are struggling to face each and every one of you and it’s made us exponentially better RP-WPVPers. I really hope to keep a strong and healthy relationship with you all and understand, we look up to you guys more than any one of you can fathom! I am super grateful to have had such a challenge at our feet and am even more grateful at how supportive you have all been of us as we overcome our obstacles! From Darkwolf Clan to everyone in Clan Battlehammer, thank you!))

Video of Darkwolf Clan taking over Ringing Deeps: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o2Ky8FCma7Y

www.darkwolfclan .net

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A sharp cold breeze cut through the Battlehammer camp in the Hinterlands, ruffling and disturbing the tent of the King Regent…

Within the tent, General Bargrim Trollbane stood attentively as Kätrell quietly reviewed the report the Longbeard had just handed him. Kätrell looked forward, away from the parchment, in a focused, deep breathing gaze. As his gaze held, ice began creeping across the parchment from the Regent’s gloved hand until it was a frozen sheet. Locked in his stare, his lip furled as he shattered the parchment in his grip - the General showed a hint of flinch at the sudden cracking of the ice.

Kätrell collected himself, and with a deep inhale, stood from his table. He walked toward his wardrobe whispering to himself, “by Bruenor’s beard…” He reached in the wardrobe, pulled out his staff, and then looked to Bargrim. “Fröstgrin has done a fine job managin’ oor forces in tha new lands. But these… atrocities cannae’ go unpunished.” The Regent looked down and clinched his staff with both hands, a relatively calm expression on his face.

He looked back up to the General, “alert tha other generals. It’s time we turned oor full attention toward 'ese orcs.” Kätrell turned and murmured some hushed incantations, opening a portal with Dornogal in view on the other side. Staring off he spoke again, “these orcs wanted t’send us a message… I 'ave high doubts they’ll enjoy oor reply.” The Regent looked to General Bargrim, “oor prood dwarves’ll show these beasts why oor Clan Battlehammer still stands and all oor foes before them lay in waste!”

The two Longbeards both stood, saluted each other, and belted out the words every Horde has come to fear, “Long Live Clan Battlehammer!” Kätrell then nodded to Bargrim and Bargrim passed through the portal to Dornagal.

((Prepare for War.))

Kätrell Highmountain
King Regent of Clan Battlehammer

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Soryin tightens the bandana around his head and prepares for war

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Whichever of yeh orcs pulled meh off my goblin car. Yeh ave made my book o grudges! Respect the drift.

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Th’ Horde shall rue th’ day they made a foe o’ Clan Battlehammer.

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I am shadow, I am death. When you think your safe, my daggers shall show you your fate.

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When Hasla heard the news, she said nothing at first. Just listened. Listened as the butchery, the desecration, and the mockery of her kin was relayed. Her eyes burned with anger.

“Those beasts… they call tha’ a victory!?” She stepped away, her voice rising. “Scavengers too cowardly teh face us on th’ field, so they slay th’ weary and string up their pride like they’ve won somethin’ worth singin’!”

Before tightening the last strap on her trusty ram’s armor, Hasla slung her warhammer across her back, its runes pulsing with a faint golden light. Mounting up, she turned, eyes hard with determination.

She continued, although she now addressed the Chieftain as if he were there. “I will find yeh, orc! I will drag yeh from yer wolf an’ when yeh beg fer mercy, I’ll show yeh th’ same peace yeh offered our fallen!”

((This has been a fun rivalry - excited for more battles!))

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When news had brought to the Grand Warlock of the Clan, the aged and withered dwarf; Kalrum Greatforge, his red hair now long grayed and white, deep wrinkles like cracks in stone, but life nevertheless remained.

With a twinkle in his eye, a dangerous green glow, he’d offer a laugh! “Did you know, kinsmen, that the spell ‘Eye of Kilrogg’ was named for an orc chieftain? Quite a dwarf slayer as well… for all the good it, or his prophetic vision did him, but it is a useful spell nonetheless.” As he spoke, he’d close an eye, summoning an eye, and sending it forth, and before it cloaked? He’d expand his hand, the eye began to multiply, one became two, two became four, and so on, and so on, before hundreds were flying about.

“I’ll be sending a homunculus to fight in my stead, I’ll bring word if I find anything… assuming my brother does not spot them before my eyes do.~” He’d muse, certainly entertained!

(I HATE I HAVE TO MISS THESE BATTLES, BUT BETWEEN WORK AND D&D, I’M NEVER ON IN TIME! I WANNA FIGHT YOU GUYS WITH MY KINSMEN! IT LOOKS LIKE SO MUCH FUN!)

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The frigid winds of the Bor’s Breath were intimately known to King Bjorengahr Wintercrown. He had always found the icy valley running through the southern Storm Peaks to be the best of places for reflection, and time with one’s own thoughts. Today, however, he thought only of what he had been informed of. Of the report, that the Prelate-General Cragstone had brought to him, on behalf of their sister clan. Of the atrocity which had befallen their far-flung kinsmen in Undermine.
“So ye 'ave heard as I have felt, then, me King?”
The raspy, almost metallic voice belonged to none other than Kaine Kryotoc, his esteemed Vizier and right hand in matters civic.
“Aye.”
“An yer orders, me King?”
Bjorengahr glowered. In terms of numbers, their kind were fewer than nearly any clan. But that was not what Bjoren contemplated there.
“They make a mockery of honor… They make a make a mockery of our gods… They make a mockery of the elements… and they make a mockery of our kin.”
The king grasped his vizier’s shoulder, his knuckles whitening, the winds beginning to howl through the valley with preternatural force.
“Call the banners, good priest. By ice’s sight, fin’ where these mongrels lay. By iron’s edge - cleave their hearts beating from their chests.”

(Clan Wintercrown eagerly awaits the continuation of this epic saga of WPvP. Hats off to all those with the mettle and creativity to keep the scene alive!)

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Glory and honor to the Darkwolf Clan!

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A heavy thud marks the last of General Bargrim’s letters being seal followed swiftly by a silent but powerful wind marking the departure of his greatest friend, the Gryphon Aegwyn.

“Mey your journey beh swift friend” The old warrior whispers, turning from his desk.

The news was hard enough to deliver to the King Regent Katrell but having to inform the families of his fallen Clan members always weighed the most.

Attempting to shake the thoughts from his mind the old dwarf donned his blacksmith apron and headed to his smithing station. The upcoming battles would require his weapons and armor to be in pristine condition. Plus, nothing could take his mind of anything else better than the ringing of his hammer on the forge.

((Great to have a fine rp/wpvp enemy Darkwolf Clan! Looking forward to the upcoming battles.))

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The drums of war thunder once again…

Rokh’rah Ironbane was no stranger to war. Hunted by Lightbound on Alternate Draenor, besieging foreign shores in service to the Horde in the Fourth War - it seemed to dominate her life, drawing her straight into the pack of the Darkwolf Clan. The Mag’har devoted her days to the Clan’s patron of War, riding and causing havoc against worthy foes, her bloody blade held high.

Now, her blade lie slumbering in her lap in the Wounded Paw of Gurwor’gol. The sword was covered in dried gore from a previous evening’s battle in the Ringing Deeps. Ro begun the labour-intensive process of cleaning her blade. She knew such a process could take no time to complete, but she opted to devote her scrutinizing care to her blade. It was her lifeline. A Blademaster without a blade is not a master.

Even over the loud and celebratory din that happened around her, she fell into a meditative state as she cleaned every drop of blood that coated her blade. She wouldn’t apply blazegrease until the call to battle was sound.

Raising her blade up, the patterned hamon at the edge of her blade reflected the dancing light of the fire. The hardened hamon was styled by her father, mirroring the way each blade he had forged with jagged, shifting waves. A smile formed upon her face, admiring a lost memory that resurfaced.

Ro sighed, there was no time for past reflection.

Instead, the Mag’har summoned her Warsong blood, letting out a shrieking battle cry,

“FOR THE GLORY OF THE DARKWOLF CLAN!”

Rokh’rah Ironbane answers the call of War once again, blade in hand!

(( Love you Battlehammer folks! I appreciate being able to be a part of this growing war and rivalry!! My other shoutout goes out to the Darkwolf Clan: thank you for being a safe space OOC and so good to those who haven’t dipped their toes into WPVP or PVP itself! For the Darkwolves! ))

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Dust motes danced in the shafts of amber light spilling through the high, arched windows of Connarch Prymalson’s studio, a cluttered nook carved into the bustling heart of Ironforge’s main thoroughfare. The air thrummed with the rhythmic tink-tink-tink of chisel on stone, a Wildhammer dwarf’s hymn to craft and kin. Connarch, broad-shouldered and wild-maned, hunched over a slab of granite, his thick fingers guiding the tool with a precision that belied his hulking frame. Before him sprawled a bas-relief half-finished—a glorious tangle of Clan Battlehammer’s latest triumphs, dwarven warriors astride gryphons, their hammers raised against the snarling Orcs of the Darkwolf Clan. The scene was chaos frozen in stone, all fire and fury, yet Connarch’s brow furrowed, his soot-streaked beard twitching with discontent.

“Och, it’s nae sittin’ right, Chunk,” he growled, his voice a gravelly burr that rolled like thunder through the chamber. “The balance is off, ye ken? Too much weight on the left—looks like the whole bloody army’s about tae tip o’er and land in me lap!” He jabbed the chisel at a rearing gryphon, its wings flared in mid-flight, then shot a glare at the hulking rock-elemental looming beside him. Chunk, a craggy behemoth of shale and grit, rumbled a low, earthy groan, its faceless head tilting as if to argue. One massive mitt clutched a spare chisel, the other stealthily patching a jagged nick in the stone where Connarch had slipped earlier—a flaw the dwarf hadn’t yet noticed.

Across the room, sprawled atop a mound of pillows, Stormgut snored with the gusto of a bellows stoking a forge. The gryphon’s tawny feathers ruffled with each gusty breath, his beak half-open, a thin strand of drool glistening on the fabric. The studio smelled of iron, sweat, and the faint musk of gryphon—a dwarf’s paradise, save for Connarch’s mounting frustration.

“Dinnae gimme that look, ye lump o’ rubble,” Connarch snapped at Chunk, who’d dared to nudge the chisel toward a lopsided Orc figure. “I’m the artist here, aye? Ye stick tae haulin’ tools and keepin’ yer stony paws off me vision!” Chunk rumbled again, a sound like pebbles grinding, and subtly smoothed another errant gouge while Connarch’s back was turned.

The dwarf leaned back, squinting at the relief with a scowl when the interruption came—a sharp bang as the studio door flew open, slamming against the wall with a clang that rattled the shelves. Stormgut jolted awake with a squawk, feathers flaring, while Chunk pivoted ponderously toward the noise. Connarch didn’t bother turning, too lost in his grumbling. “Oi, if that’s ye, Callahan, wi’ more o’ yer whinin’ about me noise, ye kin sod off—I’m in the thick o’ it here!”

But it wasn’t Callahan. A young dwarf, one of his apprentices, breathless and wide-eyed, stumbled in from the clamor of Ironforge’s streets, his mail clinking with every heaving step. “Connarch!” the messenger gasped, clutching a scroll stamped with the Battlehammer seal. “It’s urgent—dire news frae the front!”

Connarch waved a dismissive hand, still glaring at his sculpture. “Aye, aye, urgent’s always the word wi’ ye lot. Kinnae ye see I’m wrestlin’ wi’ this bloody stone? Tell yer tale quick and be off—I’ve Orcs and a battle tae carve!”

The messenger faltered, then pressed on, voice trembling. “It’s the Darkwolf Clan, sir. They’ve struck again—raided our outposts along the Ridge. Slaughtered our kin, Connarch. Took their heads… defiled their beards afore the bodies went cold.”

The words hung in the air like a hammer poised to strike.

Connarch froze, chisel halfway to his lips where he’d been gnawing it in thought. Slowly, he turned, his storm-gray eyes narrowing as the messenger’s meaning sank in. “What did ye say?” he rumbled, low and dangerous, the burr in his voice sharpening to a blade’s edge. “Defiled… their beards?”

The messenger nodded, pale beneath his helm. “Aye, sir. Cut ‘em off, strung ‘em up like trophies. They’re mockin’ us, Connarch—mockin’ Clan Battlehammer.”

A cold rage bloomed in Connarch’s chest, a storm gathering behind his ribs, all lightning and thunder waiting to unleash. His eyes widened, pupils shrinking to pinpricks of fury, and the studio seemed to dim as if the light itself feared what was coming. Without a word, he dropped the chisel—it hit the floor with a dull thunk—and strode to the anvil in the corner. There, gleaming amidst the clutter, lay his stormhammer, its haft engraved with swirling runes, its head etched with the wild winds of the Wildhammer creed. He hefted it, the weight familiar and righteous in his grip, and the air crackled faintly as if the weapon sensed his intent.

“Stormgut!” he barked, and the gryphon snapped to attention, shaking off sleep with a fierce shake of his wings. His amber eyes gleamed, mirroring Connarch’s wrath. “Chunk, ye too—move yer stony rump! We’ve kin tae avenge!” The rock-elemental lumbered forward, a low growl vibrating through its core, while Stormgut let out a piercing cry that echoed off the stone walls.

Connarch didn’t spare the messenger another glance. He stormed toward the door, his hammer slung over one shoulder, his tread heavy with purpose. “They’ll rue the day they touched a Battlehammer’s beard,” he snarled, voice thick with venom. “I’ll hammer their skulls intae the dirt ‘til the mountains weep blood, ye hear me? Nae Orc filth’ll live tae boast o’ this!”

Connarch’s apprentice stepped aside as he barreled past, Stormgut padding at his heels, talons clicking on the stone, and Chunk trailing behind, a walking avalanche of quiet fury. Out into Ironforge’s thoroughfare they went, on to a portal that would take them to Dornogal and their gathering kin, a trio bound for war—the dwarf’s wild mane whipping in the wind, the gryphon’s wings half-unfurled, and the elemental’s fists clenched like boulders ready to crush. The city’s din faded behind them as Connarch’s mind turned to the Darkwolf Clan, to the kin he’d lost, and to the storm he’d bring down upon their heads.

“Mount up, Stormgut,” he commanded, voice a low roar. “We ride fer vengeance, lads. Nae rest ‘til their blood paints the stone!”

((You Darkwolves are awesome–thank you for the fun fights and interactions. It’s grand to see a proper horde guild rise again on ED and I look forward to scrapping with y’all, cheers.))

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Wuhl awoke in her small Undermine appartment upon her old tattered couch. Hungover from a night of drinking her homemade brew—still affixed to her hand. She set it down gently before getting up with a grunt, stumbling to her front door.

Making a curious look as she saw a letter laying in front. Flipping it over curiously—noticing the wax seal with the sigil of her clan, The Darkwolves.

Gently tearing it, opening the letter. Initially wincing at the grim sight of violence that her clan had suffered Clan Battlehammer through. Afterwards, getting a chance to read the summons of war from her chieftain…

She repeated to herself “Clan Battlehammer…”—as she retreated deeper into her home, mulling over the thought. A slight adrenaline fueled fear burned in her heart. Hoping the brutality of her kin had not stoked the flames of their rival too direly. Upon coming to the conclusion that such was almost a guarantee, she steeled herself.

Walking quickly to her bathroom, splashing cold water in her face—looking up into her stained mirror and seeing her own determined face. Reaching up and sternly tightening her tattered scarlet headband around her head. Rushing out to gear herself, the most important of which being her heavy combat gauntlets and greaves. Finally her banner she wore across her back, representing her old lost clan—the Burning Blade.

Her Arathi lynxe kittens gathered around her feet as she exited, bidding them a brief—yet loving farewell. Upon walking out through her garage, she reminded herself of her training… “Dwarves, low centers of mass, ideal for leg striking… tenacious, sturdy, proud… I like that, I don’t like to break things too quickly… easy to grapple on beards too…” Something caught her eye in her leaving—a prototype for something she had been working on.

She picked it up and affixed it to her lower jaw. Looking to be a resistance device of jagged scrap metal—accentuating the features of an orcish maw. The device activated and locked on, cutting and digging into the flesh on her jaw sturdily.

She tested it a few times, drawing a tremendous amount strength from herself in order to open her mouth. When the tension was released, the jaw snapped shut with a loud thunderous crunch that echoed through the room—and even the street beyond. Anything caught between those jaws would surely wish they weren’t…

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The Hammertoss Tavern was alive with the hearty laughter and clinking mugs of Battlehammers, their beards frothy with spilled ale and their spirits high from tales of battle. The roaring fire painted the stone walls with flickering warmth. It was a scene of peace, rare and cherished.

That peace was shattered when the heavy oak doors slammed open with a thunderous crash, sending a gust of icy wind and swirling snow into the room. Every head turned toward the entrance, where a lone figure stood silhouetted by the storm. It was Callahan, his cloak of wolf pelts whipping in the wind, his hammer crackling with a faint electricity.

“By the beard of Bruenor himself!” muttered one dwarf, clutching his tankard. “What brings him here? He must be out of ale again…”

Callahan stepped into the tavern, with an intensity that silenced even the rowdiest of drinkers. He raised his hammer, electricity arcing into his hand, and his voice boomed, echoing like thunder in a mountain pass.

“The Darkwolf are comin!” he bellowed, his voice filled with urgency. “A horde, both foul and bold, marches in Undermine! They drew furst blood an they seek tae defile oor land, our homes, our kin if they kinnae be squashed!”

The dwarves in the room froze, their faces ranging from shock to simmering anger. Callahan pounded his hammer against the stone floor, the force rattling loose his eyeglasses. “Will you cower here, drownin in drink, while our kin are slaughtered? Or will you take up your hammers, your axes, your blades—and fight beside meh?”

A grizzled dwarf at the bar, his beard streaked with silver, stood and slammed his mug down with such force that it shattered. “Aye, Callahan! I’ll fight! Who’s with me?”

Callahan tries to hide a grin “Good, because our King Regent, Katrell, has issued tha order tae mobilize all available reserves. Drain yer tankards, we’re bringin the fight to em!”

The tavern erupted in a chorus of voices. Tankards were drained and cast aside, axes were hefted, and armor was fastened as the dwarves prepared for war. Bounty hunters, drawn by the promise of glory and coin, tightened their belts and sharpened their swords.

Callahan watched with a fierce pride as the dwarves rallied. “To the gates of Undermine! Long Live Clan Battlehammer!” he roared, leading them out into the storm. The tavern emptied into the night, leaving behind only the flicker of the dying fire and the echo of Callahan’s rallying cry.

As they marched into the darkness, Callahan knew one thing for certain: the orcs wouldn’t know what hit them.

((I’m hyped! let’s have some fun out there Darkwolf!))

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((Really enjoying reading all your posts! They’re well-written and it’s fun getting a feel for everyone’s characters.))

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((hah, same, every one of those was a fun read for me lol))

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A shadow even amongst her pack, Kilgarra would not be partaking much in the celebratory chants of war in the same way as her Darkwolf siblings. As they drank deeply into their mugs, the assassin would watch the entryway with her back to the wall, a deep paranoia induced by her own intentions and impulses. Where they would sharpen their blades and apply warpaint around a fire, a noxious poison would be tested and perfected with meticulous attention. When the Orcs took lives they mostly did so with a brutality and of opportunity, where this lone wolf would utilize patience, waiting and observing for a weak spot and then striking swiftly and accurately.

Grimfang took a sinister care in remembering the details of every life she had taken, and these dwarves would help in perfecting the recipe. Blade in, a fluttering of eyelids, a rattling breath, a shocked expression, a search to see their reaper, a tusked grin and a hush, blade out, the clutch at the wound before the collapse, and the final breath before the deadly venom stops the heart. The rush of primal adrenaline from taking a life was more potent than any drink or drug and was something she would continue to seek until she met her match.

She eyed her kin around the tables in the tavern, admiring their seeming simplicity and joy while battling with a clever, depraved monster she knew set her apart from the rest inside. The images of mutilated orcs burned in her thoughts and she hushed her thirsty steel, promising to the void that the goblin hotel crucifixion of the dwarves was just the beginning of The Darkwolf pack’s vengeance, and she would be stalking from the shadows.

With every uneasy gut feeling, every wary glance over a shoulder, every thought of being watched, every thought of panic, Kilgarra Grimfang would be there.

((I very much look forward to our future battles and in game roleplay! Thank you for this opportunity!))

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Kraul Darkwalker, his tusks gleaming under the flickering candlelight of his dark sanctuary, stirred a bubbling cauldron. The air hung thick with the scent of nightshade and something acrid. He hummed a low, guttural chant, his hands tracing sigils onto the rough-hewn altar. Soon, the enemy would face orcish fury.

He dipped a gnarled finger into the brew, a viscous, oily substance, and painted a crude rune upon his forehead, a mark of power and sacrifice. The rune pulsed with an inner light, mirroring the feverish gleam in Kraul’s eyes. His ritual was not just for strength; it was a pact, a gamble with forces beyond mortal understanding.

With a final, guttural roar, Kraul smashed the cauldron, scattering the potent brew across the floor. The scent intensified, a wave of dark magic that preceded him, a harbinger of the storm he was about to unleash upon the battlefield. The war was about to begin.

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Following the drain of Shadowlands and the Extensive expeditions and battles of the Dragon Isles General Bargrim had decided to step down from Clan Battlehammer leadership, let his beard grow long, and rest again in Aerie Peaks.

— A couple moons ago —

“General Bargrim!” an old but familiar voice rang out across the valley. Looking up from some plans I’d recently recovered from Ulduman I squint to see a dwarf riding towards me from the hill top of Aerie Peak. As the rider draws closer I give a big smile, “Pragus! Yeh ol’hound! Yeh knoo I’ve no’eld tha title Fer a long while. Wha brings yeh oot 'ere friend?”

Waving his hand dismissively " Oy, y’ull always beh General Bargrim tah meh." I nod, conceding the point and after the standard greetings we stepped into my home for a bit of food, drink, and catching up.

Hours had slipped by, lost to the stories and ale when I remembered he hadn’t ever answered my first question.

“So Pragus, I’m lovin tha company, but surely yeh didn’t need tah make tha trip oot ‘ere tah find ale an’ tales.?” Sitting his tankard on the table and shifting back in his chair, I could see his eyes sober up as he prepared to answer.

"Well Bargrim, he said with a sigh, I’m hoping ye’ve ‘ad enough rest. The Battlehammers are oot in Khaz Algar an’, he said with a smile, I tell ya what lad… It is a site to see.

My eyes light up “Aye! Ive been thinkin’a makin a trip oot there once I’ve deciphered these old plans from Ulduman” gesturing to a small pile of scrolls on a nearby table

Pragus looks over them nodding, " Well, it’s no’ jus’a trip oot I’m meanin tah ask yah aboot." After a weighty pause Pragus continues, “It’d mean a hell of a lot if ye’d put yer armor back on an join us Bargrim. Whatever peace that’s supposedly been had don’t seem tah extend ta Khaz Algar an’ were gettin plenty o’young eager dwarfs an’ I think they could really use a bit o’that old warrior mentality ye’ve got.”

It was my turn now to sit back and sigh. Wiping my brow and stroking my beard, we sat in silence a while before Pragus sat forward again. He began telling me all sorts of things about the place before finally, “Yeh needn’t answer meh now lad. I’ll beh headin back tomorrow an yer welcome tah join if yeh like, but the request will stand if no’” I nod slowly, still deep in thought. He stands, chugs the last of his tankard, and leaves me alone to my thoughts.

A long sigh escapes my lips as I look up into the nights sky I’ve walked a ways to a favorite place of mine to think. Memories of glorious battles, old friends I’ve not seen, and … old friends I’ll never see again.

“Oye Bargrim, wha are yeh thinkin lad” I mutter to myself as the dark of night begins to just glow on the horizon. I stand up and head home, the heaviness of the memories the wearyness seemingly give me my answer.

Suddenly as I’m walking I get that sense that someone is watching you, my instinct heighten and I quicken my pace. Its rare that I encounter any horde here so I’ve only my dagger tucked in my belt. Snap I hear footsteps off the path and settle my feet, dagger in hand. "Come oot yah yella bellied coward!, I bellow.

Eyes darting, searching for any clue when a flash erupts, searing pain pierces my shoulder as an ugly as sin orc springs onto the path just ahead. He let’s out a howl and charges in spouting gibberish, I can’t understand, the whole way.

The fight ensues, I’m rusty, he’s quick, quicker than me. The orc lands several strikes before we untangle and both step back a pace. I can see his confidence swell as it’s clear he’s gained the upper hand. He slowly straffs, tossing his dagger from one hand to the other. More gibberish, I’m sure they’re insults but only one bit was clear. He slowed his tongue attempting common I believe, “little tooth” he said with a sinister grin before lunging at me to finish the job.

Skreeeeeech Aegwyn, my gryphon and closest friend, swoops over my head, taking us both by surprise she cleanly plucks up the orc by his shoulders. Flying towards the old troll ruins she takes him higher but he’s struggling. His dagger must have found a mark because suddenly in the dim morning light I see his figure falling. Splash the lucky devil managed to land in water but Aegwyn is diving.

I let out a loud call, beckoning Aegwyn not continue the fight. He was a dangerous foe and I’d not risk her life to yet another turn of luck his way. My wounds were not mortal yet but even the brief gift of stone skin hadn’t seemed to stop all the bleeding. As she landed I climbed on, “Take us home”

Aegwyn landed us softly just as Pragus had come to say his goodbyes. “Bargrim! By Moradin’s beard, wha’s 'appended tah yeh lad!?” Not waiting for a reply he immediately begins sending healing energy into my wounds and as my strength returns I recount the tale. Pragus’s eyes light up with rage at the mention of little teeth. “I cannot believe it! Tha bastards musta sent an assassin on my tail an’ tha fool thought he’d 'ave a bit o’fun with a local!” Shaking his head " I’ve got tah get back an le’em knoo there’s bounties on oor heads now."

Looking me over quickly, Pragus, sure I’m fine turns to go. I reach out, grabbing his shoulder, “Hold on, I’m comin with yeh Pragus.”

           "It's time tah make war."
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