A Craftsman with a Secret:

Many years had passed since anyone had heard words uttered by Rukh Ragnolfson. As he had emerged from the massive stone archway that housed one of the realmgates spanning Azyr and Chamon, the cool crisp air was like a slap in the face. No, something colder… It was the feeling of bare skin sinking into a hidden snowdrift while climbing up the foothills of Azyr as a child; equal parts shocking and exciting. His lips parted as though to comment on the scene around him, but no sound escaped. 

His duardin senses returning, Rukh grounded himself in his oath. Without having to look, the stubborn thane knew they had been waiting. His oath of silence had taxed his entire guild, most notably the many nephews and cousins who spent decades painstaking observing every detail of his weapon crafting and being reprimanded an even the joke of creating a record. Those kin, blonde bearded and grim faced, who now stood beside him. Rukh cared not for the inconvenience he caused them. Raised in the sweltering heat of his family’s small forge, the most important rule was that the secrets of the craft were never to be recorded or spoken. No weapon for elgi, umgi, or certainly the oppressive soldiers of the storm-god would contain the Gromthi-klinked.

Before the howling came the glow. Expertly shaped jewels suddenly glowed with bright blue. In an unmistakable statement, Rukh slammed down the oathstone he had been shouldering, scattering subtly glittering dust. His unit fanned out, creating a protective line of steel-clad veterans armed with massive double-handed war-axes. Up ahead he saw white-bearded warriors move to intercept the yet-unseen foe. Other units shifted to support.

It was over practically before it had started, however. Only a few raiders, the smell of rot and spoiled flesh on their clothes and weapons was more offensive than their attack. There was something else though. In the centuries that he had passed without speaking, Rukh the Silent had learned to listen. Within the biting wind, there was another sound, a voice. This place was ripe with mal-intent, and Rukh thought he could hear its source whispering orders to its foul minions. He locked eyes with the ancient lord of the Grizzled Guard who stood over the collapsed body of a dispatched raider. Rukh recognized understanding in his eyes. Something had known they were coming.

Rukh "The Silent" Ragnolfson, Thane of the Karakigrom

Cantankerous is a Compliment:

“Why in tha hell ye get us all pretty’d up fer jus’ a walk in tha hills?” came a growl from the back.

“Ah miss’d seein’ ye all dress’d up!” retorted Grogan Grombrisson, smirking and looking towards his champion. Trygg the Scarred returned his gaze and gave an amused snort, a lengthy compliment from the ancient veteran. Of the four units of longbeards who had marched first through the realmgate, none were as unflappable as the Grizzled Guard. Though all veterans, it was these whitebeards who were said to have survived the Time of Chaos. If the rumors were true, their youngest had tallied over 700 years, while Trygg himself supposedly had memories from before the destruction of Garaz-Wyr, the former fledgling holding of the clan.

…Not that any of them could be compelled to verify these tales. Grogan’s warriors were shrouded in mystery. Born in the Time of Chaos, to be jovial was simply never something they had the opportunity to practice. Each suit of armor was a relic of a distant past and their weapons reflected their revered ancestor status. Any who saw their white beards touching the ground and ornate suits of gromil and gold recognized them instantly, but few were brash enough to approach. There was danger in their eyes, a quiet storm waiting to burst forth.

Grogan chuckled at the grumblings that continued from amongst his ranks. This turned into an open laugh as he recalled how these same swaggering fools had drank an entire storeroom dry when they heard his news that Rungi had assembled the throng. Grogan had given up an ancient ring with a ruby the size of his thumbnail to offset the debts that were accumulated between their drinking and subsequent brawl when his charges had decided to sing forgotten songs in the crossing where the umgi brothels met reclaimed duardin slums.

When the howling started, drum-beats and jokes about rin’s bossoms were halted midway. Thanes called for shields as their units hustled to assemble and preserve an organizing space for the throng to emerge into Chamon. Meanwhile Trygg took a long, slow pull from his tankard. With a nod, he guided the only unit still marching off the left.

“ ’Ope yer boots is shin’d lads,” called one longbeard. “C’mpany thinks they’re commin’ for dinn’a!”

The first few arrows fell far short. The next few rebounded harmlessly off of shields. Soon, a small line of wolfriders could be seen advancing from the darkness. The Grizzled Guard shifted to a wedge formation and interlocked shields. The grots rode by, slashing and hacking half-heartedly before wheeling to retreat, none holding illusions about being a true threat to a force the size of the one assembling behind these whitebeards. As the final raider passed, a massive warhammer caught it in the center of its chest, knocking it from the still-running beast and caving in its ribcage.

Turning over the limp body with his axeblade, Grogan noticed the slightly greyish dint of its skin and its unusually long, sharpened claws. He had ended more greenskin lives than most here could count. Hardly anything could surprise the elder lord anymore, but between the taste of the air and now this odd creature… Rukh Ragnolfson approached and their eyes met in agreement. Something had been waiting for them in Chamon.

Grogan Gombrisson, Lord of the Karakigrom