01-01-2014, 02:15 PM
The Chronicles of the Dawnhammer
Volume I
Volume I
Chapter 1 - The Dawnhammers
Ironforge lay still and unsettling, despite the city seeing the end of the War of the Three Hammers, which saw the Bronzebeard Clan victorious. In wake of the war, celebrations were made to congratulate the valiant soldiers of the Bronzebeard Clan who stood to help take their beloved city. Dun Morogh, though war torn, lit up with the revelers of the Bronzebeards.
Within Ironforge, located in the Commons district of the city under the mountain, lay a compact and very standard Dwarven home. Carved into the stone with what seemed to be an incredible display of architecture, the home stood just inferior to the plethora of other households that lined the inner chambers of the city.
The exterior of this home was deceiving to the eyes, whereas inside the home it was sprawling with multitudes of rooms and chambers. In the dining room, a grand dwarven table sat snugly in the center of the room. Portraits of dwarven figures, likely relatives, littered the walls. At the end of the table stood a hulking fireplace, the flames roaring gloriously as the fuel burned slowly.
A small, stubby figure sat and the end of the table before the fireplace. The figure sat by his lonesome, stroking his beard in a state of reminiscence. His face occasionally lit up from the light emitted from his pipe, smoke rising gracefully like elegant Kaldorei dancers.
A draping, braided beard hung from the dwarfs chin, discolored smokey grey, as if the color of his beard had been drained from it. Heavy crows feet and wrinkles etched the vicinity of his eyes and forehead. Finally, a large and disproportionately bulging nose gave him his distinctive appearance.
Creaking, annoying and obnoxious as it was, filled the room gradually, the acoustics greatly increasing the volume and duration. From behind the door crept in yet another dwarf, showing similar appearances as the figure at the table, though this one was slightly smaller, and donned a strong bronze beard.
"Am I interuptin' ye', father?" the nervous voice echoed through the dining hall. The dwarf clung onto the door handle for dear life, using it as temporary cover if his entrance upset his father. "Nae, Doillin. Ye' not interuptin' anythin' in 'ere. Jus' sitting by meself in tha' dark." he said with a thick dwarvish accent. Doillin's muscles loosened, a faint sigh of relief being let out, knowing he was not in any trouble. "Why are ye' not out there, celebratin' with tha' others? We won tha' war an' Ironforge is ours." Doillin made his presence known fully, confidently standing in the room and shuffling to the nearest chair, opposite his father. "Celebration? Victory? Look at tha' Dwarves, lad. We're splintered, we've forsaken our own bloody bretheren jus' so we can have our city back..." His tone began to shape into a much more strict, angered one to say the least.
"Besides. This war cost us. We are a fraction of what tha' Dwarves once were. Ye' know tha' be true, lad." Doillin scratched his beard, contemplating upon his fathers words with patience and thought. "It still does not mean ye' should be sittin' in here by yer' lonesome, whilst everyone honors our fallen... After all, alot of tha' lads have asked "Where's Dugan at, laddy?", they ask fer' ye' to join em', father." Dugan Dawnhammer, a stout and honorable man of his people, did not agree with the split of the Ironforge Clan, nor did he wish to continue this war. Deep down, however, Dugan knew that he had an oath to his clan, and knew should the time come to go to war, he must do so without hesitation. Being a highly respected member of his community, even before the War of Three Hammers, Dugan would not hesitate when the call for his people came, no matter the cause.
Sitting opposite to him sat his son, Doillin Dawnhammer. Still in his youth, Doillin experienced the hardships the War of Three Hammers brought to his people's lands and himself. As tragic as the war was, so did it spark the loss of many of his relatives that perished, fortunately the lads mother and father remained, including his Uncle, Koilir. With the War, Dugan was glad that his son had survived the war alongside him. He could not imagine loosing the heir to his bloodline, an issue Dugan would no doubt converse with his son about. Though this was not the time for planning the continuation of the bloodline, but more so the time to relax and revel in the victory that was previously accomplished.
Ironforge lay still and unsettling, despite the city seeing the end of the War of the Three Hammers, which saw the Bronzebeard Clan victorious. In wake of the war, celebrations were made to congratulate the valiant soldiers of the Bronzebeard Clan who stood to help take their beloved city. Dun Morogh, though war torn, lit up with the revelers of the Bronzebeards.
Within Ironforge, located in the Commons district of the city under the mountain, lay a compact and very standard Dwarven home. Carved into the stone with what seemed to be an incredible display of architecture, the home stood just inferior to the plethora of other households that lined the inner chambers of the city.
The exterior of this home was deceiving to the eyes, whereas inside the home it was sprawling with multitudes of rooms and chambers. In the dining room, a grand dwarven table sat snugly in the center of the room. Portraits of dwarven figures, likely relatives, littered the walls. At the end of the table stood a hulking fireplace, the flames roaring gloriously as the fuel burned slowly.
A small, stubby figure sat and the end of the table before the fireplace. The figure sat by his lonesome, stroking his beard in a state of reminiscence. His face occasionally lit up from the light emitted from his pipe, smoke rising gracefully like elegant Kaldorei dancers.
A draping, braided beard hung from the dwarfs chin, discolored smokey grey, as if the color of his beard had been drained from it. Heavy crows feet and wrinkles etched the vicinity of his eyes and forehead. Finally, a large and disproportionately bulging nose gave him his distinctive appearance.
Creaking, annoying and obnoxious as it was, filled the room gradually, the acoustics greatly increasing the volume and duration. From behind the door crept in yet another dwarf, showing similar appearances as the figure at the table, though this one was slightly smaller, and donned a strong bronze beard.
"Am I interuptin' ye', father?" the nervous voice echoed through the dining hall. The dwarf clung onto the door handle for dear life, using it as temporary cover if his entrance upset his father. "Nae, Doillin. Ye' not interuptin' anythin' in 'ere. Jus' sitting by meself in tha' dark." he said with a thick dwarvish accent. Doillin's muscles loosened, a faint sigh of relief being let out, knowing he was not in any trouble. "Why are ye' not out there, celebratin' with tha' others? We won tha' war an' Ironforge is ours." Doillin made his presence known fully, confidently standing in the room and shuffling to the nearest chair, opposite his father. "Celebration? Victory? Look at tha' Dwarves, lad. We're splintered, we've forsaken our own bloody bretheren jus' so we can have our city back..." His tone began to shape into a much more strict, angered one to say the least.
"Besides. This war cost us. We are a fraction of what tha' Dwarves once were. Ye' know tha' be true, lad." Doillin scratched his beard, contemplating upon his fathers words with patience and thought. "It still does not mean ye' should be sittin' in here by yer' lonesome, whilst everyone honors our fallen... After all, alot of tha' lads have asked "Where's Dugan at, laddy?", they ask fer' ye' to join em', father." Dugan Dawnhammer, a stout and honorable man of his people, did not agree with the split of the Ironforge Clan, nor did he wish to continue this war. Deep down, however, Dugan knew that he had an oath to his clan, and knew should the time come to go to war, he must do so without hesitation. Being a highly respected member of his community, even before the War of Three Hammers, Dugan would not hesitate when the call for his people came, no matter the cause.
Sitting opposite to him sat his son, Doillin Dawnhammer. Still in his youth, Doillin experienced the hardships the War of Three Hammers brought to his people's lands and himself. As tragic as the war was, so did it spark the loss of many of his relatives that perished, fortunately the lads mother and father remained, including his Uncle, Koilir. With the War, Dugan was glad that his son had survived the war alongside him. He could not imagine loosing the heir to his bloodline, an issue Dugan would no doubt converse with his son about. Though this was not the time for planning the continuation of the bloodline, but more so the time to relax and revel in the victory that was previously accomplished.