[H2][color=FF370A][b][center]Stenrester Stirs[/center][/b] [/color][/H2]
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 “Bah, get me another ale!” Shouts out the King of the north. King of the Stone Dwarves of Stenrester, Dawi Lysterson. His stein slams harshly upon the stone table within their stone halls.

It was a rowdy affair, a dozen dozen short figures rumbling and drinking away the night in the feasting hall. The celebration? Well they hardly need a reason, but it was the birthday of their newly crowned king. His coronation being just a scant few months ago after the death of his father.

As such, it calls for a speech.

“My brethren of the mountain depths, hear me!” He steps onto the table, ale in hand and chest bare. “For too long have we stayed in our holds! Too long have we been locked in the north fighting beasties and each other!” A rumbling noise of agreement comes from the assembly.

“It is time for us to reexplore the world, reintroduce them to the cut of our gib and the beauty of our beards, ay?” A much louder sound of laughter and nodded heads comes.

 “We bring them ale, we bring them stones, we bring them Fights!” His fist raises. “There is a good scrap and a good chance to prove ourselves to our ancestors! This is our chance to reassert our place into the world, for its foundations were built upon our sturdy back!” Loud cheers echo.

“We shall leave from our mountain homes, we shall retake once was lost, and we shall prove to whatever out there that the Stone Dwarf People of Sternester still exist as the power that once eclipsed the world! My father spent decades repairing our nation, prepping us for this moment. He was Lyster the Scholar, Lyster the Rebuilder, Lyster the Weak!” The King looks around with a stoney gaze.

“Call him what you will, he fixed our nation in ways no King since Drak had. And I, who am proud to be his son, I who look out to the distant horizon will be known as the Reclaimer. The Conqueror. The Diplomat. The one who led us out from the dark we hid within and back into the light.” Dawi steps off of the Grey table, his footsteps echoing in the reverent silence. His eyes meet every person. From smiths, to clan leaders, to bakers and warriors. 

He walks, slowly, to the throne of his realm. One of the two last relics of the old empire, covered in cracks and scratches that show its age and prove it is as resilient as the Dwarven spirit. Above it rests an equally old axe. It is the second relic, the only recovered from Drak Gnorrisons skeleton in the far north, the last remnants of the great empire they once were.

Dawi grabs it, slowly lifting the heavy steel war tool from its resting place. A stunned gasp ripples through all the attendees as he turns and presents it. 

“This axe is my promise, upon its runes and history do I solemnly swear.” It lights up, blowing out the flames in the room and leaving only the dying embers of runic glow. “Upon the last dregs of magic within it, upon the dying light of our ancestors that once held this and built and protected our empire, I SWEAR!” Another pulse lights up the room. “We shall prove that just cause the old has died does not mean the new are weak.”

The but of the weapon slams, and with it disputes the last marks of the old empire. But with it do the many torches of the room reignite into a blue flame, lighting the future that lays before them.