[RP] Mifune's Journal

Emerald Dream
1

Fishing is hard | 6.29.19
Boralus Bay

The sun is low on the western quadrant, its molten embers burning out at the edge of the Boralus harbor. Mifune Mountainbreaker sits quietly on his makeshift skiff, the piece of woodwork that took him three days of slow-going to finally fashion from the lumber he ‘borrowed’ from the lumber yard. He gives his fishing rod a little nudge, lets out a cavernous yawn, adjusts the contents of his pipe, and takes in a long, slow drag.

“This tobacco is som good stuff, Pragus”.

On the other side of the skiff, Lorekeeper Pragus Blessedfeet quietly nods, and ponders on about their measly haul for the day. “So far, we fished up what? Two shoes, an’ one’s big enough tah fit an ogre?”

“Aye, I dinnae understand what Bru finds enjoyable about this fishin’ stuff”.

Pragus slowly turns around, and raises an eyebrow. “So yer tellin’ meh, yeh stole all tha’ lumber and made us come on a fishin’ trip because th’ King said he was gonne do th’ same?”

Mifune reddens a little. “I never said that! We are fishin’ because I wanted tah fish, ya goof!” After a brief pause, he adds, “And besides, I’m sure I’d beh more fun to fish wit’ than Mumblebutt…”

Pragus lets out a loud chuckle, and the skiff becomes a little unsteady, threatening to toss out their hard-earned haul.

“Watch yerself back there!”

Pragus finally steadies himself, and pronounces, “Well I got news fer ye. No need tah be so sappy, Mountainbreaker. The King returns, an’ he has called us tah fight in Nazjatar tomorrow”.

“Nazjatar, eh? Well, time tah polish th’ ol’ sword an’ board. Dinnae think he’d beh back so soon. I bet they dinnae catch much up near Loch Modan either…”

Pragus raises a finger, and interjects, “Well actually, the King an’ Prince caught a giant Hali…”

Pragus ends up in the water before he can finish his sentence.

A King walks under the Sea | 6.30.19
South of Mezzamere

The next day, a motley crew of dwarves assemble at a crossroads outside Mezzamere. It is a sight to see: a paladin polishing her mace sitting on a mushroom, a warlock perusing and revising the last major incantation he had scribed into his grimoire, a priest and mage debating over the long term implications of harnessing azerite, a rogue staring daggers at a draenai hunter rushing by on her horse in the skimpiest clothing that barely leaves much to the imagination. Mifune stands in a corner, hefts his greatshield and practices setting it down defensively in the Nazjatar mud, carefully calculating the range of his dragon charge.

It takes an iron will and a really patient heart to lead this rambunctious lot of old veterans and young upstarts. And the grizzled figure atop his Stormpike Ram, slowly pacing up and down the road, is the dwarf that will do so: Bruenor Battlehammer, King under Blackrock Mountain, quietly watches his assembled party in battleworn plate, and studies his new surroundings. He expects a skirmish soon. The King quietly tugs at his beard, and straightens out the split ends while finalizing the battle plan in his head. He seems almost lost in thought staring through the eerie blue mist of the Nazjatar air. Until the radio crackles.

The radio feed from scout Kernen cuts in and out. “…approaching 12 horde…1 demon hunter leading…six others in the backlines…warlock seems to be bouncing up and down…wearing a purple robe with strange runes…”

Bruenor sighs: “That’s enough Kernen, I dinnae ask fer a fashion lesson, lad. Keep yer recon info short”. Several dwarves chuckle in the back, ol’ Grigglefoot being the loudest. Bruenor turns, and addresses his dwarves: “Aright kin, th’ horde approaches, and it’s good tah see we have more than 20 assembled tah figh’ em”.

An uncomfortable pause ensues.

“Should weh tell him?” wonders the warlock Balgeras aloud. “Aright. Ye mean a little more than ten? The rest on manta rays are oor bodyguards”.

The King seems displeased, and his brow furrows, “Bodyguards? I was wonderin’ wha’ meh dwarves are doin’ sittin’ on manta rays!”

In the backlines, you can almost hear Darrkale the deathknight, as he loudly exclaims something along the lines of, “Goddarn Blizzard!”.

The exchange between king and clan is interrupted by the approach of battle from down the road. The King turns his trusty ram around, and tightens the straps on his mail coif around his head. With seconds to spare, the King quickly lays down the battleplan for the initial melee clash, the feigned retreat, and the marked killzone for the ranged further up the road. The dwarven party takes position, and the horde finally show up ahead with, sure enough, a bouncing warlock.

A familiar lull settles before the battle, broken suddenly by a battlecry: “In the name of King Anduin and the Glory of the Light, charge my Brothers and Sisters! We will destroy the vile Horde where they stand, and purge the Unclean from Azeroth! CHARGE!”

A human paladin, a night elf demonhunter and a gnome warrior rush out from somewhere behind the dwarven party, meet the horde charge headfirst, and is immediately pounded to dust.

The dwarves quietly watch their antics. “Moonguard?” a kinsman inquires aloud.

“Aye two, and one Earthen-Ring feller”, Mifune responds. “Sharding amirite?”

As the distance closes quickly between dwarves and horde, the King raises a fist. “Everyone remember th’ plan, and the first person tah go past Star buys th’ next four round o’ drinks in Thunderbrew from Belm”.

That sets the dwarves straight into battle discipline. Nothing like the threat of buying four consecutive rounds of ale.

The skirmish rages for an hour. Mifune spearheads the vanguard, dragon-charging in and splitting the horde ranks while leaping out, to constantly keep the horde forces taunted. The taunt works long enough and the horde recklessly dive in, giving enough time for the warlocks, mages and hunters perched strategically on a giant boulder to burn them off. Stragglers are deathgripped in, and pyroblasts and chaos bolts finish the job. In the backlines, a dwarven healer or two beseech the Light, and work tirelessly to keep their kinsmen in fighting shape.

Eventually, the horde raid starts swelling in numbers, and the discipline of the dwarves isn’t quite enough to keep the advance in check. They are pushed back past the river. Mifune looks back, blood and dust caking his beard to check on his kin. Multiple horde rogues in the back driving poisoned daggers into Pragus, Balgeras and Grigglefoot. Bruenor and Ema Ironbraid surrounded by orc and tauren fighters on all sides.

The din of battle and the blood-curdling screams of foes and allies rage all about. The engagement seems finally lost. The dwarven ranks break, and he can hear Bruenor shouting for retreat.

Mifune briefly turns forward and sees a pair of giant wings eclipse the sky, as a snarling demon hunter beelines towards him. Mifune readies himself, and raises his greatshield.

The Underdog Life | 6.30.19
Mezzamere Camp

Later, the dwarves are back in Mezzamere, repairing their equipment and licking their wounds. Mifune sits on a rock, and fills his pipe with tobacco from his pouch. His helm put aside, Mifune quietly observes his fellow clansmen.

Night gathers finally. Kinsmen are beaming, shaking hands, and readying to head back to Boralus or Ironforge. Mifune smiles too. Tonight was a good fight, and that is all the dwarves had asked for, year after year. As underdogs, theirs was the struggle against the Horde Behemoth, the few versus the limitless many.

And yet, the clan would toil on, so long as a single dwarf draws breath.

And if not, well, he could always learn to enjoy fishing.

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Yeh best watch yerself when around meh and water at th’ same time from now on, laddie!

Aye! They’re damn lucky th’ Alliance owes those fishheads fer their assistance on the way into Naz. I’d ‘ave nuttin’ teh do wit’ em! Get th’ damned rays outta th’ way before I turn yeh into calamari!

Thas’ wha’ yeh get when yeh charge pas’ a buncha dwarves lookin’ teh out-glory 'em. Pounded inteh dust. stomps his foot on the ground and wriggles it left and right in a squishing motion

Aye. Thas’ been th’ feel of i’ lately. Been lettin’ it affect mah relationship with the Light. No more! Th’ Light’ll guide us through the gauntlet!

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I love a fun read! I also enjoy fishing, maybe we can fish together some night, though us Shu’halo might need a bigger raft!

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Great read!

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No Bedtime with Orcs to Slay | 7.16.2019
The Commons, Ironforge

The King has called the banners once again. The hard stone floors of the Ironforge Commons, often empty these days, fill with the footsteps of bustling clansmen. The excitement of upcoming battle is palpable, so palpable in fact that the dwarves are having a hard time standing in orderly ranks. While custom dictates one dwarf to occupy one rhomboid stone floor pattern, the late hour and the spirited conversation recounting the fighting around the hills of Mechagon provides little incentive for rowdy dwarves to be disciplined. The crossed hammers of the displayed clan banners stand proudly, billowing from currents of the cold Dun Morogh mountain air wafting in, as more dwarves filter into the dwarves’ greatest city, from the Boralus portal and the Deeprun Tram.

The jolly sounds of conversation between age-old comrades can be heard. “And did ye see meh deathgrip tha’ hunter in? Ay, tha’ sod was runnin fer his life from th’ rare spider an’ thought himself safe,” Happ utters, before setting the pommel of his two-handed blade down with a thud on the stone floor. “And before yeh know it, he’s surrounded by bloodthirsty dwarves all aboot”. Several dwarves guffaw, nodding in acquiescence.

“An’ I bet ye lads were havin’ all th’ fun without meh,” remarks an old voice, walking in to join the rest of his clan. “But I hav’ somethin’ more fun plannd fer tonigh’, if ye hav’ the courage tah join meh.”

At the sound of the familiar voice, several dwarves kneel before their king. Among them, Mifune slowly rises, dusts off his knees, and asks, “Wha’ are yeh plannin’ tonigh’?”

Bruenor smiles sagely. “Well, I’ll tell yeh, but first…”, as he turns and notices the token yet rare dwarf mage within the turnout. “Epicarus! A sigh’ fer sore eyes. Toss us up a portal tah ye know where”.

The wizened mage nods, raises his stocky arms and mutters an incantation. The portal to Theramore shimmers into view.

“Sounds like a good nigh’ fer fightin!” exclaims the Prince Dory, rubbing his youngling palms together. Dory, while the youngest of the clansmen, was as battle-hardened as some of the clan’s Gutbusters. However, it seemed that Bruenor had to disagree.

“Speakin o’ good night, Mumblebutt, off tah bed wit’ yeh. It’s past yers”. This was more of a test for the young dwarf, who passed it by refusing. “I cannae sleep father, when there beh orcs tah slay.”

The King muttered something gruffly, but a few old hammers could see the hint of a smile playing beneath the red beard.

And with Dory’s bedtime announced and promptly revoked, nine dwarves march into the portal. They are followed closely by one human ally armored in greenish plate, who decides it was a good night to get into some trouble.

A Game of Numbers | 7.16.2019
Sentry Point, Outskirts of the Ruins of Theramore

The dwarf squad assembles outside Sentry point. Among their numbers, Captain Nearo Shadowbane of the Kul’Tiran marines quietly paces up and down, wondering what is to come. With recent issues within an Alliance powerhouse guild, it was getting difficult to muster allies to fight at the front, and the dwarves appreciated every fighting sword they could get. Bruenor Battlehammer stands at the forefront of his kin, giving a short rousing speech before delineating the little plan for the night.

The captain catches Mifune adjusting the pinions on his trusty gryphon. “You nervous?”

Mifune looks up at the Kul’Tiran, and shakes his head. “The only thing tha’ remotely gets meh nervous is an empty keg.” He looks around warily, makes sure a certain dwarf is not within earshot, and whispers “An’ yeh know meh Nearo. I dunnae even drink as much as ol’ Grigglefoot”.

Nearo turns around to catch the King as he finishes sharing his battle plan, and the dwarves start calling out random numbers. “What…is with the numbers. Secret dwarven battle formations and sequences, that I am unaware of?”

Nearo feels a tap on his shoulder, and looks down at the warlock Tuszilla offering him a little cookie for the road, “Nothin’ so fanceh, lad.” He laughs a little, and adds with a wink, “Secret dwarven battle formations? Nay, ye’ll see what the King has up his sleev”.

Guerrillas in the Portal Room | 7.16.2019
Somewhere inside Orgimmar

The soft whirring of mechanics is the only sound that betrays six dwarves and a human crouching with Stealthman 54s within the ugly walls of the otherwise deserted basement portal room near Orgrimmar’s front gates. That, and of course the occasional trail of blood from the orc or blood elf corpse hastily dragged behind the storage boxes in the corners of the room. In addition, the stench of greenskin blood mixed with the thick aroma of Silvermoon perfume was also doing a little bit of the betraying. Truth be told and all things considered, the Stealthman 54s were doing a rather poor job of, well, cloaking anything.

“I got an itch in meh back, can someone get tha?” grumbles Tuszilla quietly, as the odd pebble hits his back, much harder than any itch needed. “Oy!” In the back, Happ giggles, before adding, “Quiet Tus, we are tryin’ tah beh sneaky here, remember? An’ besides, isn itchin’ somethin yer Succubus is good fer?”.

Crouched in front behind one of the boxes, Mifune rapidly makes a hand gesture for incoming targets, which is slightly more sophisticated than waving his hands and hissing at his comrades. And now, the rest of the dwarves hear it - Pragus running down the stairs feigning helplessness and wailing like a dwarven princess. “Oh, no, I beh cornered! Dunnae kill meh mightly horde champions seekin tah bravely 4v1 meh!”

And before the horde rushing down the stairs realize that they walk into a trap, it is too late. A hail of arrows find them, and hammers and swords cut them down to pieces. As the bloodthirst clears, the dwarves find a young bloodelf hunter staring at them, who then proceeds to take out an endothermic blaster and spray the dwarves with ice, while they stand there scratching their chins collectively in puzzlement.

Mifune clears up the confusion. “Level 47, warmode off”.

Realization dawns upon the dwarves, who proceed to ignore the odd little nuisance in the middle of their squad. Bruenor takes the small respite and tosses heavy pouch of gold coins, which one of the clansmen catch. “So it’s yours fer now. By meh count, ten now? Or is it eleven?”

“Eleven,” nods Pragus, before hurriedly running up the stairs and setting off to lure more fearless foes to the dwarven trap. As an added measure and to sow more confusion, Tuszilla sends his warlock eye floating behind the dwarven priest.

Over the course of the night, the dwarves run back and forth from their embattled little position, up and down the stairs and in and out of the portal room. The entire back-and-forth plays out like an elaborate ballroom dance, with either the dwarves stretching too far out into the Valley of Strength or the horde pushing too deep into the portal room, and subsequently getting slaughtered. News travels fast, and that of the dwarven menace in Orgrimmar reach the Boralus ports, and an old Worgen ally, Keagayla, from “The Pack” join the dwarves in their dangerous Orgrimmar dally. The dark iron warlock is able to summon her into the fray, and the fighting begins anew.

Inevitably, the horde wizen up. Our brave heroes are cornered as thirty or more horde siege the underground room. The tally of horde dead had settled in the fourties, higher than most dwarves are able to predict that night. Except Griggle, who would be taking home that sweet pouch of gold.

Discipline ultimately falters, and two dwarves are cut down by the encroaching raid of belligerent horde in the stairway. As the enemies close in, dwarves and allies that are standing turn to their king. A simple nod from Bruenor suffices.

Die standing. Die with honor and glory. There will be no portal exit tonight. No one questions the king; ten years of stewardship had bought that respect.

Dwarves and allies fall one after another, their blood coloring the Orgrimmar soil red. And as bodies fall here, spirits rise elsewhere, awakened by a spirit healer. And as dwarven spirits awaken, they collectively catch a note, hailing the Battlehammer name, promising to fight again, when the horn of battle blows in the depth of the mountains.

Contents of the Pouch | 7.16.2019
The Snug Harbor Inn, Boralus Tradewinds District

Grigglefoot wins ten thousand sweet gold coins that night, and dwarves and allies raise toasts to Grigglefoot’s generosity which bought several rounds (at some coaxing).

“…so the numbers being called out…” continues Nearo, with a growing smile.

“…were th’ round o’ bets predictin’ th’ death tally, aye Captain.” finishes Mifune, before gulping down the contents of his mug and letting out a disgusting belch.

“It always amazes me how the clan is able to creatively mix in fun with fighting, even when knee deep in horde blood.” With that, the Captain finishes his drink, tucks his white beard under the chin plating of his helm, and remarks, “Well, I am off, I have some matters to attend to”.

Mifune puts his mug down, and looks inquiringly at the Captain, “Any problems out ther’?”

Nearo nods. “Yes. Well, one of my Marines hasn’t reported back. May be some trouble up in the Ghostlands. I’ll talk to you later, Mountainbreaker”.

Mifune watches the Captain leave. Behind the small port window of the inn, the Boralus sun sinks slowly into the horizon. Around him, clansmen laugh and sing tales of dwarven fortitude, but Mifune stares at the bottom of his empty mug, ruminating on what Nearo had said, of trouble being afoot.

Finally, a smile crosses his face. If anything, there would be more fighting to be had. And a Battlehammer is always ready for battle.

Well, almost always.

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bats his eyelashes comically

(( Great write up! ))

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Been following CBH for a bit, would love to come to your next public event!
RabbleRouser#11806

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You left out the part where a goblin hunter with aspect of the turtle rocket booted through you guys to boop Grigglefoot on the nose before running through a portal :frowning:

That was a fun read

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Jes-Tereth is Hiring| 7.28.2019
The Wind’s Redemption, Boralus Harbor

The clip-clop of trotting hooves arises from the decks of the Wind’s Redemption. Grand Admiral Jes-Tereth stoically gazes forward as several dwarves on a variety of war rams embark upon her recently-scrubbed wooden decks. The rams bleat and bray and raise a cacophony, announcing the gathering of the notorious band of dwarves. She sighs inwardly, and harks back to good times when the dwarves would choose Ironforge as their staging ground, and ironforge cleaners had the sacred duty of cleaning up the ram discharges instead. She had to recently double her cleaning crew and budget was thin, what with the war and everything.

Sitting proudly on his vicious ram, Mifune Mountainbreaker brandishes a steel sword on one hand and a neatly-sewn Alliance standard on the other. His ‘Legionbreaker’ shield is displayed on his back. As the brotherhood gather in two orderly columns facing one another across deck, Mifune occupies the middle, smiling at the new faces while silently nodding at the veterans, some of who had shed blood for the clan longer than he has.

The dwarves, some tipsy while others drunk, are busy conversing animatedly, cackling and swearing at one another. To restore order, Mifune loudly clears his throat. Several dwarves turn towards him. “Hammers o’ th’ Clan!” Mifune announces. All eyes fix on him. “Our beloved King will not beh joinin’ us tahnite”.

Mutterings and whispers follow, and a few crestfallen looks note the absence of their king. Mifune nonchalantly continues to address his battle-brothers, “But there is horde blood tah beh shed, and war calls us tah th’ front. Oor allies have recently fought on th’ shores o’ Mechagon, an’ the horde are thick there”. He appraises the gathered hammers, and proclaims with a growing smile, “Our numbers are few, an’ fourteen hammers will not turn th’ tide in Mechagon. But they will…in Nazjatar! The horn o’ Clan Battlehammer sounds in th’ deep, and we are takin’ the war tah Nazjatar!”

Several dwarves cheer, and beat their weapons against their shields and the armor plating on their rams. And with this pronouncement, kinsmen check their weapons, scrolls and emergency ale-skins, and all ride hard toward the mage portal room.

The horde in Nazjatar are about to experience some good old dwarven pain.

Hooves of Thunder | 7.28.2019
Outskirts of Mezzamere, Nazjatar

The screeching of snowy gryphons shatter the Nazjatar skies-beneath-the-sea, as a few dwarves lead by Pragus Blessedfeet scout forward to check for any wandering bands of horde. Below them, Mifune leads the remaining dwarves on rams as they thunder across the ancient capital of the nagas. Their weapons bloody from stomping any unfortunate horde they come across, the bloodthirsty dwarves follow, trying to keep the noise down, as discipline has drilled into them time and again. Dwarven paladins chant blessings, lighting the way in the murky dark of the sea floor, while the lone shaman Shegetz communes with the chaotic spirits of the sea. Information and discretion are key to survival to guerrilla fighting, which the dwarves have relied on as their primary battle strategy in recent years.

The radio crackles, as Pragus reports, “Oi, Mountainbreaker. We’ve come across som’ spatterings o’ horde activity here an’ there, but nothin’ worth engagin’ so far. Other scouts report concentrated horde in Newhome”.

Mifune acknowledges the report, as Griggle questions from the back. “Newhome? Is tha’ the horde base? Sounds awfully pretteh fer mud huts!”. Several dwarves laugh hysterically. General Arnirdan remarks, educating his kin as well as urging caution, “Aye, an’ Newhome is notorious fer harborin’ horde scums an’ murderous guards. We better beh wary”. A gloom settles on the kinsmen, who collectively ruminate on what numbers it would take to siege the horde base. Dissatisfied grunts and mumblings follow.

Mifune seems lost in thought for a moment, before readjusting his war helm and pronouncing, “Weh well check th’ might o’ the horde tahnite. Let us gather up in Mezzamere, an’ test whether Newhome is as sturdy as th’ reports claim”.

The Newhome Siegebreakers | 7.28.2019
South of Mezzamere

Horde corpses litter the road south of Mezzamere, as fifteen or so battle-hardened hammers set up clan banners in the fork of the road. General Ema Ironbraid is busy conversing with a few dwarf paladins, relaying tales of the legendary paladin longbeard, Rhusty of Clan Battlehammer, who served as first shield and paladin vanguard for a decade. Mifune lights up his pipe, puffing the good stuff from Thunderbrew as he coordinates the battle assault with General Arnirdan.

“It would beh foolish tah march in there, Mifune”, warns the General. “Oor numbers aren’t enough, an’ rilin’ up Newhome will might bring Div 7, ISR or the Soulshatter barkin’ after us”.

“An’ weh will giv 'em hell fer it”, comments the dark iron warlock Balgeras approaching the two dwarves, as his shadowy eyes shift with the embers burning underneath. The dwarf mage Epicarus nods in acquiescence, and points to some of the charred horde bodies smoking around them. Highlord Dornolan joins in, “Believe in th’ Light, fer it will not abandon its champions”.

Taking one look at the far horde camp and turning back to assess his kin, Mifune comes to a decision, and addresses the battle company around him. "Th’ horde are strong, lads! " he yells. “But oor courage beh forged in the fires o’ the iron forge, an’ tahnite weh will break th’ horde back on oor anvil!”

Several dwarves roar, and stamp their feet in unison. Mifune raises a gauntleted fist and points towards Newhome, “Th’ vile horde think they beh safe within their dwellings o’ mud an’ sticks, but weh shall rain fire an’ wrath until nothin’ remains!”

A dwarf paladin rides towards the assembled dwarves from the direction of Newhome, trailing a few horde guards. He dismounts from his horse, and approaches Mifune while his kin make short work of the guards. “Mountainbreaker. I’ve tried tah poke ‘em, but th’ horde aren’t takin’ th’ bait”.

Mifune beams at the courage of the paladin, and turns to address the company “Hammers! Let us welcome th’ horde tah Nazjatar in th’ only way weh know: wit’ the song of our hammers an’ the shouts o’ our fury!”

And with that, Mifune leads the charge as fifteen hammers ride valiantly into Newhome. As they storm in, a few horde stand bewildered, rooted on the spot at the recklessness of the dwarves. They are quickly cut down. The rest run amok, shocked by the dwarven advance. However, they attempt to assemble a defense quickly. Tauren druids beseech their Earth Mother for shelter as they desperately attempt to keep their brethren alive. Orc and blood elf warlocks stand on broken logs and the shelter of their cave as they recall evil pacts and summon dark powers to crush their enemy. Blood Knights of Silvermoon and warriors of Mag’har join forces, attempting to use holy powers and fel steel to push the dwarves back.

It is not enough.

The rampage of the dwarves falls as an angry tide, breaking clean the defense of Newhome. As dwarven casters and healers stand behind their vanguard to rain destruction upon the horde and heal their kin, the frenzy of dwarf paladins and one lone dwarf warrior advance as an unstoppable juggernaut, smiting the unclean and the heretic.

The horde guards swell in numbers, and Mifune raises his horn, sounding retreat. “Fall back, kin! Weh hav’ taunted th’ enemy, an’ they will chase us tah Mezzamere. Fall back!” The bloodthirsty dwarves fall back with the rearguard, as years of frontline discipline has taught them. No dwarf is left behind. The dwarven rearguard slowly retreats as more horde join the fray, their numbers synonymous with the faction they serve.

The dwarf fighting force is finally pushed out. As the horde forces scream bloody murder, the dwarves arrange themselves around their banners in the fork of the road, feigning retreat as casters and healers position along the high bend of the road. Overconfidence betrays the attacking horde melee as they charge into the dwarves, who reform at the fork into battle ranks, and quickly dispose of the over-extensions.

The clan holds the road for a while. Night gathers, and the road grows dark. Dwarves wipe the sweat off their blood-caked beards, and clean the blood off their blades and hammers, taunting and jeering at their foes. As mages pyroblast their foes to crisp, and warlocks throw chaos bolts at their targets, the dwarven paladins strike their foes down with lightforged weapons glowing in the dark. It is a sight to see, battle-weary dwarves fighting vigorously in the face of certain death.

The growing collection of horde bodies doubling their own numbers does not faze them. Heavy fighting and the clash of steel and spells push the dwarves back all the way to Mezzamere, with horde numbers almost in the fourties now. No cavalry comes, no relief forces to check the horde onslaught at the gates of Mezzamere. A few hammers fall, and as they fall their spirits race back to their fallen bodies to prosecute the eternal faction war.

The valor of the clan does stir a few hearts, and the dwarves find themselves surrounded by a few allies, arbitrary collections of other Alliance races who take up their weapons, shields and staves to defend their home. Hammers and allies hold the horde swarm for a while from overrunning Mezzamere, baiting the enemy into their camp and then swiftly chopping off their head and pushing them back.

While the few who take up arms are nearly not enough, the clanmen know that they have won the day in spirit. They had successfully run a siege of Newhome, killed three times their own losses in the course of the night, and walked away mostly unscathed, until horde numbers rose too high. In addition, the sight of the valorous dwarves defending the road and their campsite motivated their placid allies to join in the fray.

As the horde swarm finally overwhelms Mezzamere, the dwarven morale does not break. A few dwarves fight to the death, laughing and singing dwarven songs of valor until their dying breath, covering the rest of their kin as they ferry allies safely through the portal to Boralus.

The Sea-Folk Sing Our Ballads | 7.28.2019
Mezzamere camp

Dust settles on Mezzamere. The aftermath is a tableu of dried blood, broken spears, shields and corpses. Smoke rises from some of the destruction from a few hours earlier, as Ankoan farseers channel their shamanistic powers to douse the flames.

Among the wreckage lies a one-horned dwarven steel helm. An ankoan hunter walks over, picks up the helm, and goes back to his comrades gathered by a nearby campfire.

He has a story to share, a tale of a clan of warriors above the sea, blessed by Neptulon on that day. It is a good story of a brotherhood who wages an unwinnable war against the proverbial Behemoth, much like the Waveblade clan does to this day.

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Aye! Well done, Hydel!

AAAAhahhahaahhAAhah! Th’ ‘orde didna know wha’ 'it 'em!

Now thas’ a quality endin’.

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