The brotherhood of light

The Tomb of Sargeras

Durkon Flinthammer was the tip of the spear.

As a member of the 7th Legion, he had fought in the Dragonblight, Gilneas and Krasarang Wilds, never faltering, even when all had seemed lost.

And, on the Broken Shore, specifically at “Wrynnfall,” where the human king, Varian Wrynn, had been cut down by the Burning Legion, the ashen soil stained with his blood.

The Armies of Legionfall had broken through here, getting a force into the Tomb of Sargeras. But Burning Legion reinforcements had arrived, cutting off the force’s escape route and preventing any reinforcements from getting through.

Unless the Flinthammer Boys had something to say about it, that is.

Durkon’s sword bit deep, spraying his shield with fel green blood as he jerked his blade free of one demon’s torso even as he whirled to face another, surrounded on all sides by them. He was focused and fearless, whether facing one demon or one hundred.

“Ringo?” Durkon’s head darted to the side, peeking around one of his advancing foes.

Durkon Flinthammer

Bragh Flinthammer was a single soul in two bodies, along with his great armored boar Snorts.

His boar would go charging into a demon that towered over both dwarf and boar, and send it tumbling. As it sought to regain its feet, a rifle to the face from Bragh would send it tumbling back to the ground for good. A Huntmaster of the Unseen Path, Bragh was one of the greatest trackers on Azeroth, one of the greatest shots of his generation and had a bond with Snorts and other beasts he’d befriended over the years that seemed supernatural.

He nodded with satisfaction as he lowered his rifle, giving him a momentarily clear line of sight to the rest of the battlefield.

“Ringo, are you OK?”

Bragh Flinthammer

Even demons feared Mordun Flinthammer, a wild creature seemingly more beast than dwarf. As always, he seemed to have lost most of what passed for his uniform and his skin and whiskers were covered in black ash. He roared, screamed and yelled as he leapt from demon to demon, gouging out eyes, biting at their faces and necks and kicking and ripping anything that appeared soft and vulnerable.

He was positively gleeful as he fought a seemingly endless army of demons, and his laughter made them doubt themselves, even as they tried to remind themselves that he was only a dwarf. Then he was atop the shoulders of a Felblade Devastator, twisting and ripping, tearing the demon’s head free with his bare hands. In the moment before the body tumbled to the ground, Mordun surveyed the battlefield around him from this perch.

“Ringo! Somebody, help Ringo!”

Mordun Flinthammer


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