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[h1][color=aba000]The Dwarf Camp: Drirga and Zarbremm[/color][/h1][/center]

The drake cannon was nearly finished. Drirga had been laboring over the thing since the wee hours of the morning, and now it’s Drakewarden and Zarbremm were watching as it neared completion. The carcass of the mechanical beast had been dragged here by the Zungag twins weeks ago and as soon as she arrived the Irondrakes set her on it. She hooked a final fuel line into place, closed the panel, tightened the screws, and turned around.

“It’s ready,” she huffed, tired already from the work. She wiped the sweat off her brow with a rag. “The new gas lines weren’t cheap, but the cannon should ignite faster, burn harder, and shoot farther.”

The Drakewarden examined the cannon appreciatively, scratching his singed beard. He had years of experience with the machines, having immolated his way across the Old World to here. “Aye, it’ll do.” He said simply.

Drirga offered a fatigued grin to the Drakewarden and shook his hand. A group of Irondrakes that would eventually operate the cannon entered the improvised workshop. They had traded their gromril for linens, and they were ready to move the cannon to the armory.

Zarbremm beamed, feeling a swell of pride for his wife, as well as a measure of shame. Beyond helping the manual labor and camp guards, he had been mostly idle at camp waiting for the next foray into the depths of the Hold. Meanwhile, Drirga’s expertise with war machines had been sorely needed and she had been set to work almost immediately. He met eye contact with her briefly and smiled, congratulating her before taking up a position behind the cannon.

They pushed it out of the workshop carved into the side of the mountain. The old heights of the city and eight peaks rose around them as they heaved the machine across base camp to the armory. Lord Belegar Ironhammer had spared no expense in fortifying their courtyard with all manners of defense. What was once a camp now resembled a small town, bristling with steel and gun barrels. New columns of manling mercenaries, brave Dawi, and slayers arrived everyday. 

They reached their destination quickly enough. They hauled it into place with the other cannons, panting with exhaustion. The Irondrakes thanked him for his help, but didn’t dally. They had their own duties. He was sure he’d be part of the shield wall protecting them anyways, despite his junior rank as an ironbreaker. He began to make his way back to his wife, but found himself next to one of many campfires, warming his bones and musing on the grudge that brought him here. His father had been a stern man, but his uncle had always come back from a ranging with funny stories and gifts. His fondest childhood memories always involved his visits. For some reason, his uncle came here and found himself drawn in and tied up in the struggle. The poor bastard got himself killed and now here he was. It was a noble quest, but one that seemed impossible.

Before he could continue, the sound he had been waiting for came. Three rings on the ancient Angrund bell, brought here by Belegar himself, rang throughout the camp. The next incursion into the deep would begin at dawn of the next day.

(OOC: Sorry for the wait. School has been a bitch. Hope I haven't dissuaded anyone.)