A reckoning was coming for the filth that inhabited Doch Mal, and his name was Zharak Kazadime. He had personally volunteered to intercept the group heading for the ruined fortress and join up in their efforts. If anyone was going to step foot in that place, it was going to be a dwarf, and it was going to be him.

Packed up in his clockwork automated wagon were various supplies. Food, water, a few grenades, rope and other basics for surviving out in Rzail. These were all the things that Zharak knew personally, for these dreaded wastes were his home. Looking out towards the Pillar, the ash covered dwarf gave a snort. Soon, he thought, his mace would get to taste undead flesh once more.

When he was at an appropriate distance, the red haired dwarf pulled out the flag of his clan and inserted it into the holder on the side of his vehicle. All those who didn't see the Ashen-Hammers as an enemy would know Zharak to be a blessing, and others well, they would know death was coming for them.

[img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/67/fb/ea/67fbeadd2221ba3294bffe2c5d1ac5cd.png[/img]

In the back of his head Zharak figured that it might be hard to convince the people at the Pillar to allow him to join their group. People were suspicious that way, but then again, Zharak had a bloody wagon to help bring them all the way over to the fortress in less time than walking. If they didn't want his help, well, then the bastards could walk off a cliff for all he cared then. Useless tall bastards is what they all are anyway.