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(A/N: Sorry for the late update, In a few days I'm gonna get my cast removed and lets say I had a bit of family problems, you'll hear more in the next update.)
Dwarven craftsmanship had always been worthy of admiration—whether it was their famed weapons, their machines of war, or their vast underground and mountain cities.
All were built with masterful precision, each a marvel to behold, and possessed a lethality that often surpassed their beauty.
Hammerfall was one such creation.
The massive, ancient dwarven fortress was a behemoth—designed to be as stubborn and unyielding as its builders and the mountains they called their homes.
It had been constructed not only to defend against the armies of Lordaeron 900 years ago, but also to strike back with equal—if not greater—ferocity.
Seven hundred years ago, after Lordaeron and Ironforge signed a peace treaty and became allies, the great fortress lost much of its significance.
It had been built for war, and with no war left to fight in the North, it gradually lost its original purpose. Instead, it came to serve as a major transit point between the northern and southern regions of Arda, as well as a historical monument.
Despite this, the rulers and commanders of the fortress remained unchanged: Clan Angrund.
Clan Angrund was a vassal house of the Bronzebeard Kings of Ironforge. Nine hundred years ago, Lunn Ironhammer had bravely defended Hammerfall against relentless assaults from the armies of Lordaeron.
(A/N: To clarify, the title "Ironhammer" is only bestowed upon the head of the clan, Also yes this is that Clan Angrund.)
Even under the harshest conditions, the dwarves under Lunn Ironhammer's command not only prevented the armies of Lordaeron from advancing, but repeatedly drove them back—no matter how dire the situation became.
After the war ended, the King of Ironforge honored Lunn Ironhammer and his clan for their resilience and bravery. He elevated them to one of his highest vassals and offered Lunn any reward he desired for his service.
Lunn's request surprised him.
He asked only to remain the commander of Hammerfall.
Spending years in the fortress not only did he grow attached but it was also the place where many of his men and friends had given their lives in the conflict.
If possible he wished to honor them till the end of his days and keep watch over the place where they fought and died.
The Bronzebeard King found this unusual, as the fortress would, for all intents and purposes, lose much of its importance after the war. Nevertheless, he agreed.
However, rather than simply allowing Lunn to retain command, the king went further—granting him and his clan ownership of the entire fortress.
Lunn was officially named the lord-ruler of Hammerfall and its surrounding lands, and was bestowed the title "Shield of the North."
From that day onward, each heir who rose to lead Clan Angrund would inherit not only the title of Ironhammer and the clan's legendary weapons—such as the Hammer of Angrund and the Shield of Defiance—
—but also the mantle of Shield of the North, making them the undisputed commander of the fortress.
Despite centuries passing without major conflict, no one dared to mock Clan Angrund—not with their power, and certainly not with their history.
But with the coming of Chaos and the Scourge, the ancient fortress was once again called to war.
Hammerfall became the primary forward operating base for the Northern Alliance and its leaders, as well as the main chokepoint guarding the South.
Belegar Ironhammer, grandson of Lunn Ironhammer, was the current leader of Clan Angrund and Lord of Hammerfall.
He welcomed the Northern Alliance into his fortress without hesitation, offering his domain as their central base of operations and defensive stronghold against the Scourge and the forces of Chaos.
Early in the war, Belegar quickly proved himself not only to be an exceptional commander in defensive and siege warfare—
—but an even fiercer and more relentless warrior than even his legendary grandfather himself.
More often than not, if Belegar was not found among the Alliance leaders devising strategies, he could be seen on the battlefield itself—where the fighting was thickest.
There, he led from the front, smashing through anything in his path—be it daemon, undead, mutant, or even the black mages who typically lingered far behind the lines.
That was, at least, until Belegar and his equally fierce and vengeful warriors carved their way through the enemy ranks to reach them.
Suffice it to say, few of those Black mages lasted long before being sent to meet their masters—courtesy of the dwarves, in a very "bloody" fashion.
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Hammerfall's spacious war room was filled with tables, personnel, and equipment.
At its center stood a large holographic command table, around which the leaders and highest-ranking officials had gathered for an ongoing meeting.
Among them were Thoras Trollbane, Brann Bronzebeard, Belegar Ironhammer, Alexandros Morgaine, and Alonsus Faol—who currently served as the unofficial head of the Northern Alliance.
Seated alongside them was another figure—a large, well-built Night Elf with long green hair, glowing eyes, and stag-like antlers.
Malfurion Stormrage, Archdruid of the Kaldorei and leader of the Cenarion Circle, as well as the first mortal druid of Azeroth.
"The supplies and armaments that recently arrived from Aerie Peak and Stromgarde have been successfully distributed, with the remainder placed in storage."
Thoras spoke, and the others nodded in acknowledgment.
"Do we have any intelligence on the next attack?"
Alonsus asked, turning to Malfurion, who answered without hesitation.
"My companions have reported through their familiars that the scattered remnants of the Scourge are converging somewhere north of Dustvale."
"And judging by their behavior since we began fighting them, it likely means they are preparing either a large-scale assault… or a flanking maneuver."
Belegar snorted in disdain.
"Doesn't matter how many they bring. They'll break the same way the rest of their filth did."
Thoras and Brann both nodded. Neither had any love, only disgust and disdain for the abominations they faced—be they undead or daemonic.
"Any news from the South?" Alonsus asked. "And what of the Southern Alliance?"
Normally warm and optimistic, Brann Bronzebeard had become much grimmer—due to months of war and the news of his brother Muradin's "death" at the hands of Arthas he'd received at the advent of the war.
But when Alonsus asked his question, a smile finally broke across Brann's face.
"Now, at last, we can get to some good news!"
"Dalaran has been secured, and the Scourge repelled with the arrival of Alastor and his forces."
"Alastor fought Arthas directly and had him on the ropes. He and his companions might have ended him then and there, but the corpse-bastard and his new lackey, Kel'Thuzad, managed to escape."
"From the latest reports, Alastor's army has since been reinforced by a contingent of mages led by Antonidas, Rhonin, and Jaina, as well as a Gilnean force under Genn Greymane himself."
Grins and smiles spread across the room.
Alexandros let out a booming laugh and slammed his fist against the table.
"By the Light, that lad's done it again! I shouldn't be surprised—but frakking hell, I am."
Alonsus nodded.
"We owe him a great deal. His actions—his victories—have done more than win battles. They've kept the fire of hope burning."
Despite his words, Alonsus's thoughts drifted back to the early days of the war.
After the tragic fall of the Capital of Lordaeron and the parricide of the King and Queen by their fallen son, Arthas.
He, Uther, Saidan, and Tirion had escaped and escorted Princess Calia and as many survivors as they could to Alexandros and his forces.
Afterward, Alonsus had issued the call for aid, declaring a crusade against the Scourge and their daemonic allies.
From there, they had travelled to Hammerfall, where Belegar Ironhammer had welcomed them—and where the core of the Northern Alliance would gather in the first days of the war.
But then came Alterac.
The kingdom had been all but annihilated, its people sacrificed to fuel a fel ritual that flooded Azeroth with corrupted Aetheric/Warp energy.
The result had been catastrophic—Warp storms engulfing the world, making daemonic incursions easier despite the efforts of the Dragon Aspects to hold back the tide.
The arrival of Malfurion and the Night Elves had helped stabilize the immediate region, holding back the tide of daemons, mutants, and undead along with the Northern Allied forces—for a time.
But the situation had only worsened.
Their rear and supply lines had been exposed. The scale and intensity of the enemy's assaults made it impossible to spare troops without weakening their defenses.
Worse still, enemy forces began striking allied kingdoms directly through mass teleportation and daemonic summoning.
Supply lines became unreliable—perilous at best, impossible at worst.
But then….....Alastor happened.
If Arthas had come to be seen as a harbinger of destruction, then Alastor had become something else entirely—
A symbol of hope and defiance.
First came the news of the Siege of Stormwind being broken—and of Grimgor Ironhide finally being slain in a brutal yet no less legendary show of power by Alastor Wrynn.
Reports claimed that King Llane Wrynn had been killed, and Queen Taria left in a coma—driving Alastor into a near-apocalyptic rage that he unleashed upon the enemy.
Then came further news.
Word arrived that Alastor and his personal army had broken the assault on Aerie Peak, employing unfamiliar but powerful new "weapons" and rapid warfare tactics.
Soon after, Alastor—now allied with the Wildhammer dwarves—linked up with the main Stormwind forces under his brother, the newly crowned King of Stormwind, Varian Wrynn.
Together, in a coordinated multi-pronged assault supported by the Bronzebeard dwarves, they shattered the siege on Ironforge and slaughtered a vast majority of it's attackers.
With the addition of King Magni and his forces, the southern coalition was formally recognized as the Southern Alliance—
With Alastor Wrynn at it's head.
Even when bad news arrived—such as Dalaran being sabotaged through betrayal by one of its own Archmagi causing the magical city to crash near Fenris Isle, followed by an imminent attack by the newly dubbed Lich King—
Once again, Alastor arrived right on time and denied the fel forces another victory as he personally fought against Arthas and forced the former crown prince of Lordaeron to retreat with his tail between his legs.
For both the leaders and soldiers of the Northern Alliance, such news was like giving a dying man an abundance of water.
It did more than lift morale—it reignited it.
A new sense of purpose and vitality surged through their ranks as they continued their struggle against the undead and their daemonic allies.
Suffice it to say, Alastor had become more than just a commander.
He was now a symbol of victory and hope—someone whose very name inspired Hope and the longing for victory regardless of the odds.
Most within the Northern Alliance eagerly awaited further news from their Southern counterpart—and even more so, their arrival.
Or, more specifically…
Alastor's arrival.
The unification of the Northern and Southern Alliance forces into a single army would mark the turning point—the moment they could finally go on the offensive.
And with Alastor at the spearhead, the combined army's effectiveness and lethality would only multiplied.
At some point, his prestige and influence had even surpassed that of Alonsus, the current leader of the Northern Alliance.
Not that Alonsus minded.
If anything, he welcomed it.
Having personally met Alastor he had come to understand the young man's temperament and character, Alonsus firmly believed he would not only be the better leader—but also the greater symbol for their cause.
He himself was more than content to step back, act as an advisor, and lead the Church's forces.
"Though I'm surprised he managed to convince that stubborn old coot Genn to join him as well."
"Alexandros, please refrain from referring to one of the human kings with such terms."
Alonsus said tiredly, only for Alexandros to scoff.
"Bah! Master, you taught me to follow the teachings of the Light—which includes honesty. Don't blame me for speaking the truth."
"I also recall teaching you about the drawbacks of too much honesty!"
Belegar let out a hearty laugh, a wide grin on his face.
"The more I hear about this Alastor lad, the more I want to meet him! See what kind of beast he is in battle—and more importantly, how well he holds his ale!"
Brann snorted, recalling a particular memory.
"Just don't challenge him to a drinking contest, Belegar. The poor lad would be flat on the floor after a few cups."
(A/N: Don't diss Al because he's a lightweight!Alastor: Exactly—!? You're not helping!)
Malfurion, meanwhile, observed in silence, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
Though he had yet to meet the human in question, the accounts he had heard painted a clear picture.
A man who was kind, humble, wise, and charismatic—yet neither weak, naïve, nor arrogant.
More importantly, Alastor Wrynn possessed both power and skill in abundance, if the reports of his victories were to be believed—leading armies through many battles while sustaining minimal casualties.
And then there was Grimgor Ironhide.
Though Malfurion had never faced the Black Ork Warlord himself, he knew the creature's reputation was well-earned—built upon the deaths of multiple heroes…..and many, many more people.
The fact that Alastor had slain such a being spoke volumes.
Thoras let out a quiet sigh, once again feeling a flicker of envy toward Llane.
To have been the one to discover and raise someone like Alastor…
If his own son had possessed even a fraction of that potential and mindset, he might have already passed on the crown.
(A/N: Thankfully, you didn't! and lets hope it stays far away from Galen.)
Shaking off the thought, Thoras straightened and addressed the room.
"The news is undoubtedly welcome. Not only are our supply lines and logistics now secure, but with the garrisons and reserves left behind by the Southern Alliance, our rear is no longer vulnerable."
"Even in the worst-case scenario, we will not be caught off guard as we were at the beginning of the war."
The others nodded in agreement.
If, by some dark miracle, another large-scale daemonic summoning occurred behind their lines, the stationed reserves would at the very least contain the threat—if not eliminate it outright.
Before the discussion could continue, the chamber doors swung open.
A new arrival entered.
Archmage Modera—a striking woman with grey hair tied into a bun, clad in modified Archmage robes reinforced with armored greaves and shoulder plates.
She had been dispatched as the leader of the first mage contingent sent by Dalaran at the start of the war and had fought alongside them on the front lines ever since.
She was also, without question, the foremost authority present on matters of the Arcane.
At present, a hint of excitement lit her features.
"They're here."
The room fell silent.
Everyone understood exactly what that meant.
Without another word, they rose and hurried outside.
They emerged onto the highest balcony of Hammerfall, gazing into the distance.
There, marching toward the fortress, were vast columns of humans and dwarves—moving in disciplined, orderly formations.
Standards from numerous kingdoms flew proudly above them, thick with defiance.
"They're here early," Brann grinned, spotting the personal standard of his eldest brother, Magni.
"Hah! Good!" Alexandros laughed. "It just means we get to take the fight to those damned freaks even sooner!"
Alonsus chuckled but also nodded in agreement.
"Spread the word and have everyone gathered to welcome our allies."
"The wait is over! From this day on we truly begin our crusade in earnest!"
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"WHAT DID I SAY!?"
Alastor's voice rang out, his eyebrow twitching as most of the Northern Alliance leaders already had their weapons drawn and pointed at one person in particular.
Standing before them was a transformed—yet sheepish—Genn Greymane in his Worgen form.
"THAT'S WHY I TOLD YOU TO LET ME EXPLAIN FIRST!"
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