Enter Grudgebearer
The Second War had come to its finale. The Blackrock Spire was fortified by the Horde in anticipation for Lothar and his forces. The Alliance carved swaths toward the grand overpass of the mountain, the fetid air sat silent in the valley, only accompanied by the cawing of ravens and the sickening scent of brimstone. Alliance units began to divide, flanking the mountain to protect themselves from would-be groups of sappers escaping from hidden passages in the mountainside.
One such unit, led by Hector Thatcher, rode south along the base of the grand fortress, their patrol proving uneventful. The stones were quiet, the Horde encampments to the south lay in ruin, nary a soul about their smoldering remains. Hooves thundered over deep crimson stains that death would claim, chains of torches lighting the smoldering dark upon which they tread. Thatcher raised his left hand; fist clenched, his indication to his men to cease all movement. Beneath the road and in the chasm below a lone light shone, piquing the captain’s interest. “Set up a parameter, we will leave nothing to chance,” several men approached Thatcher, their arms drawn and ready, “You four will accompany me into the crag, pray to the Light it is but a pyre.”
Thatcher and his dispatched company began their descent into the ravine below, their misplaced steps creating a clamor of falling terrain, sharp hushing and minced words soon followed, their growing fear of alerting the enemy causing discord. The men completed their descent, the carnivorous winds licking their hesitant faces. The dancing light that beckoned the men’s investigation lay within the cavity untouched. Uncertainty swept over Thatcher, yet he did not falter, his sabatons carried him through the mouth of the cave and towards the flames. The construction of the bonfire was done with meticulous resolve and more importantly, was finished recently. The flames had yet to consume much of its fuel, stashed in the corner a neatly stacked pile of logs sat hidden, though their formation gave hint to intent to use. Upon further inspection, the hole in which they crawled bore no signs of habitation. “Take rotations in leagues of two on night watch. We would never make up out of the ravine in the dark,” Thatcher tugged on his beard, questioning the consequences of his plan, “Our night will be short. Take rest, men.”
Fear and pain may accompany death…
The fire that so graciously sang Thatcher to sleep had taken its leave of his presence. He awoke to the sounds of deep machinations, gears that hummed an altogether different tune. His chest began to swell when his plight had come to the front of his mind, he was bound and in what circumstances he was unsure. Footsteps haunted the halls that held him captive, one pair, short and heavy. Dwarves, he thought, Dark Iron yet remain within Blackrock? Perhaps… a savior?
“Such an honor it is! Such an honor to have a member of the Silver Hand, supposed of course. Your name, sir?” Weighted steps circled Thatcher, who remained quiet, “Oh, sir, please do speak!” The Dwarf’s tone shifted, his seemingly gracious timbre deepened. “It will only help further your stay of execution,” he stated in a hoarse whisper.
Silence surrounded the two men, their breaths drowned by the cogs of the mountain’s deep belly. “I am Captain Hector Thatcher - of what crimes am I to be tried for?” Thatcher finally spoke, his voice shaking, “I am only here to defend my land, my people. I know not the reason for my captivity… nor the fate of my men, but I plead with you: release me! Blackhand’s last stand is nigh, I need to be there for my country!” Thatcher’s voice reverberated within the chamber, his desperation concreted.
“You are my freedom,” spoke the calloused tongue, “I am Arngrim of Angerforge and with you I will purchase my release from the Halls of Law.” Arngrim rested a balled fist upon Hector’s bound forearm, “As for your men: Death knells for the knights and a swansong for your Lieutenant. They chose for Death to accompany them, though I offered them escape. Perhaps at the hands of Doom they believed they would die as lesser men. Make no mistake: your men shattered like ice.”
…but it is desire that shepherds its certainty.
The great machines began to roar with more ferocity, drowning out the two warriors and their conversation. Arngrim circled Thatcher, his countenance grim. “A coffin has been made for their stories, however your denouement shall come to pass at another time, friend.” The dwarf rolled a shoulder back, placing a claw upon Thatcher’s left hand, “A trophy for High Justice Grimstone and the key to my salvation!” Their torchlit shadows were thrown upon the prison’s walls, a raised hammer made contact with the fetters, liquids dimming the lit baleful grin that formed upon the oppressor.
Thatcher’s resolve bent and molded like pauldrons amidst forging, tempered, yet malleable. Repeated blows sculpted his fist into obtuse shapes, the striking of heated steel tearing at his flesh. From within his balled morningstar erupted steeples of needles that thrust into the eyes of Arngrim, his guttural shriek catapulted him onto cellar walls. Thatcher broke free of his bonds and continued his divine assault onto the dwarf, Arngrim’s cries had no chance at abating Thatcher’s zealotry. Once the crusade was over, Thatcher stood over the dwarf’’s trembling mass, stained with anger and a just cause. “You will take no such prize back to your High Justice and I shall bear witness to your greed no longer!” he bellowed.
As Thatcher gathered his senses, his egress was halted by morose laughter, hushed by the revival of the machine. “A dwarf never forgets… Hector Thatcher, and I promise this to you,” Arngrim rasped, the swift bludgeoning had taken its toll upon him, “I will scrawl your name upon the vellum of my own Book of Grudges… My axe will salivate for your beheading and UNTIL you spill like wine upon my greaves, I will not rest!”
“So be it.”
