The sky over the Black Mountains is gray and heavy, clouds like molten iron hanging low over the jagged peaks. The dwarves‘ breath rises in steaming clouds as the icy cold creeps around their armor. Yet neither frost nor the weight of their armor can slow their steps.
The dull echo of hundreds of boots reverberates off the cliffs as the warriors march through the narrow ravines of the Black Mountains, on their way to exterminate the Skaven scourge that continues to spread through tunnels and mines.
The icy air fills their lungs, invigorating them and refreshing their spirits. In unison, their boots stomp across the snow-covered passes, stoic and implacable, the regiment pushes forward like a bulwark through the drifts.
A lone horn signal pierces the silence, a sound like thunder echoing off the rocky walls. In the distance, a foul stench seeps from the tunnels, and the screeching of the ratmen reaches their ears. The battle will soon begin, and the dwarves‘ war songs ringing out as a defiant challenge to the shadows.
The dwarves halt; their ranks align like a living wall of steel and stone. The determination of the dwarves burns in their hearts like fire in a forge, tempered in the red-hot glow of their ancestors.
