“Raith your Karin, raith your Gorog, long live our king, long live Karak Ghirn!”
– The battle cries echo across the mountain ranges. From afar, one can see the Hammerbearers of Karak Ghirn, the king’s royal guard, clad in the finest of armors – Gromril, forged in the fires of the mountains, worn by the strongest and most honorable of dwarves – sworn to protect the king, the mountains, and the ancestors.
The battle line of armor resembles a living fortress, unyielding, a bulwark of Gromril. The goblin hordes crash against them like waves upon cliffs of stone, and every swing of a dwarven hammer sends dozens of foes back into the darkness from which they crawled. Blood and smoke taint the air, yet the dwarves fight on, their faces like masks of unshakable determination.
The sight of the king is like a beacon of light in the darkness, rekindling the courage of his warriors. His very presence seems to awaken an ancient power slumbering deep within the hearts of the dwarves. With every command, the authority of the ancestors reverberates through the ranks, and a fire ignites in the eyes of the royal guard. Exhaustion fades, and a final surge of strength courses through their arms, as if the ancestors themselves were bestowing their might upon them. With renewed resolve, they shatter the tide of orcs and goblins, driving them back until victory is achieved.
