Perhaps his younger brother would take his place because he couldn't imagine anyone else but him. Though he didn't much care if he died here and now. At least he fought many battles across the narrow seas, and peddled his way through tying bonds between other tribes. Sooner or later the winter was here to take him, and when it did, he would be roaring like the blizzard before him. 

Off in the distance a small orange flicker gleamed. White-Wolf squinted to make out what it was, but figured it were nothing. Who else would be crazy enough to come out here in the Frozen Wastes? Certainly nobody else from the Great Elks. This was his test and burden. This was his moment to see if he could be the leader that brought his people home once and for all. See, a leader isn't tested by his might or his good looks. Nothing that feeble can make a good leader. A good leader is measured by his trials and abilities to withstand even the harshest of troubles. A good leader lead by example. If he could cross the Frozen Wastes, then so could his people. They would follow him wherever he went once he returned. If he returned.

White-Wolf saw another orange flicker out of the corner of his eye. He turned to squint off in that direction again, but figured it was just the blizzard playing tricks on his eyes. Just as he went to walk forth again the flickering light came forth again. This time White-Wolf knew for sure that his mind wasn't playing tricks. He rushed towards the direction of the light, and when he finally made it there he couldn't believe what he saw. A giant machine made of glass and iron. What was this contraption? He had never seen anything like it before. Steam came loose from a iron tube atop of the device. A howl and a whistle followed shortly after. 

Nobody appeared to be around. It was a good thing too because surely White-Wolf would have ended their life in once stroke of his great ax. He removed his glove from his hand and touched the surface of the machine. It was hotter than a campfire. Didn't make any sense to White-Wolf though. How could something like this exist, and how could it resist the subzero temperatures of the Wastes' blizzards? He marched around the other side of the machine and saw a oddly shaped metal box protruding from the machine's surface. The box had its door wide open and flapping in the harsh winds. White-Wolf grabbed the flapping door and took a look at the box. There was a mess of levers and buttons about its insides. He twisted a green one and the machine made a loud whistle followed by a cracking noise.

Startled by the noise White-Wolf let go and took a step back. The machine began to rumble and suddenly in a loud pop it disappeared. White-Wolf rubbed his eyes and blinked out of confusion. What just happened? Was he hallucinating after all? He stepped forward to where the big machine once stood and below his feet was a small round shaped piece of metal with an orange glowing resonance coming from it. Perhaps this was the orange flickering light that he had saw earlier. White-Wolf picked up the glowing metal and stared at it for a moment before placing it in his pocket. Almost instantly he felt warmth rush through his body as if it were Spring. Both astounded and confused he turned towards the direction of his village and rushed away as fast as he could. 

White-Wolf had finally found what the Great Elks needed in order to make it across the Frozen Wastes. With this odd device he hoped that the shaman could conjure up some kind of magic to protect his people in the never ending blizzard, and within a few days they could finally make it back home to Atmora. Little did he know that the Dwemer artifact the he held in his pocket had more power, and more secrets than the world could ever know. Power and secrets that once destroyed an entire civilization. 

Sure, like she really could find her dead husband's killer. That would be a sight of horror that she wouldn't have been able to cope with. She declared years ago what she would do to the man who shot her husband down like cattle for the slaughter. There was nearly nothing left of him when she came home that night. Her husband's face split apart in two, his limbs torn from his body and flung across the house in various places, his insides torn out leaving an empty carcass. She had nightmares every night because of those images. It wasn't a murder, it was a slaughter. She could only have imagined what the killers would have done to her if she were there. Then she reminded herself that she was an assassin. 

“If only I had been there..” she whispered under her breath to herself. So silent that the dry night air didn't even mock her words back at her like the siren.

A strange man walked down a fire escape just then. He had a hat on and an overcoat covering up his face. From the right angle he looked like her were a business man, but from the hooded woman's angle she could see who he truly was. A murderer. Her eagle sight pinpointed a revolver poking out from his right side upon a belt, and the leather gloves told her this man was a professional. No man wore that kind of leather gloves unless her were a taxi driver. A close enough look would show that the leather gloves had metal plates underneath covered by a thin layer of masking leather. Those gloves were meant to pulverize whatever it hit. Not to mention she noticed that he walked like a killer. Slowly and hunched over like a blood crazed maniac. 

A woman came walking straight along the sidewalk across from where the lurking killer stood, his back against the wall. He was obviously well trained because any other thug would have walked right out of that alley and compromised their position. This man stood and waited. Like a lion waits among the tall grass before pouncing upon its prey. The cloaked woman couldn't bear the thought of this man killing another innocent person, even if this victim was a whore. All her memories of her husband came rushing forth, and her blood began to boil within her veins. She would kill this man before that woman even made it around the corner. 

In a flash the cloaked women disappeared in the light of a lightning strike from her pedestal. She seemed to fly right towards the psychotic killer lurking in the alley. Jumping and leaping from one perch to another as gentle as a tom cat prowls among the night. A dagger flashed and a red stream clashed against the brick wall. Upon the ground laid a hunter who had become the prey, gurgling on his own blood. She had sliced him underneath his jugular veins and right through his throat leaving a gaping hole in his neck. He was dead within seconds of the attack. So was his killer.

Justice was made that day, if one would call it that. Some say vengeance is the sweetest taste of justice. Some say that it is a sin to kill, but she didn't care. One less murderer in this world meant that there would be more lives saved to live. People have told her before that she would go to hell, but what they don't realize is that she already has been there. Hell was nothing compared to the world that they all lived in. Back into the night she fled as a scream sounded behind her.      

Cocking the lever of his rifle and snapping the barrel into place, the hunter aimed for the nearest beast and let loose. Smoke filled the air around him instantly as sparks ignited the shot. When it cleared the worg stood before him in a dead glare, as if the bullet didn't even touch it. A horrifying look of despair grasped hold of the hunter round his neck, and the bitter cold snapped at his face. It felt like he were choking on death itself. 

“Back you foul beasts!” The hunter yelled and echoed, waving his rifle back and forth through the air. As if the meager gesture threatened the beasts. Instead it just seemed to provoke them even further. Soon they began to howl a deafening cry at the moon through the clouds. Setting their attention on the hunter. Ready to pounce upon him at any moment. The hunter scrambled and dragged himself towards his satchel just few feet away from him. If he could reach the satchel he could get his flares. Perhaps the beasts were like ordinary timber wolves and hated fire.

Just as the hunter began to slide closer to the flares, a worg leapt in the air and pounced on top of the satchel with its jaw. It flung the gear away like taking candy from a baby. These aren't ordinary wolves the hunter thought to himself. He aimed his rifle towards the thieving beast and let loose another loud bang echoing through the coniferous trees. Again as the smoke disappeared from his vision, the worg stood there without the slightest scratch upon its hide.

The blood smatterings fell upon Bronze-Anvil's iron plated boots. Piles of orcs lied sprawled out upon the ground. Some with their heads bashed in and brains lying upon the cold, wet ground. Some with their arms chopped off and flung to the side for the dung beetles to eat them as scraps. That is what this was. A scrap yard of decaying flesh.

The battle was brutal. Bronze-Anvil's comrades were among the dead as well. Their grievous wounds mirrored that of the orcs. Anvil questioned that fate of this war. Was it really worth fighting for? Of course it was a battle that couldn't be prevented. Orcs and dwarves have been bickering and fighting since the beginnings of time.

What horrors hav' we rot' pon me brothers. O, what tortures have ye sought in dis' desolate land Anvil thought to himself. He regretted having to ever lift his hammer. If he knew that what he would see would be his brethern's corpses upon the desert ground. For what purpose he asked himself over and over.

It was true that dwarves have been fighting the orcs for generations, but there had to be a better cause than this. There just had to be a reasoning behind it all. Though was it right for Anvil to question the motivations of his gods. Thor would be happy to see the brave in Asgard, and so too would the bitter Odin.

Bronze-Anvil fell to his knees. Orc bones crunching beneath them. He looked up to the buzzards swarming above in a death spying circle. He looked for insight with desperation. For in the end what does a man truly desire more than the peace of his brethren's hearts.

He laid his war hammer down and began to pray.

“O Odin the powerful fatha' o' da dwarves. Bless my brethren in Valhalla. May their beards soak in da' finest ales and their weapons rest in peace.” It wasn't right for a dwarf to cry, but Anvil wept a tear for the fallen. They fought bravely upon their stout feet. Several orcs fell this day, and that had to be something worth sacrifice.

Bronze-Anvil grabbed hold of his hammer and lifted it high into the desert winds that were rapidly blowing. Sands covering the dead as if they were never there. It was a sign of respect to lift one's weapon to the gods. Anvil knew that his brothers would rest in peace. Their weary battle hardened hands finally at rest.

He took one last look around the battlefield. The sands were already forming dunes over the dead. Anvil turned back towards the setting sun and marched towards home. Hoping that one day he too would be drinking in Valhalla with his brothers in arms.

Many a good dwarf would remember this day. Celebrating the waging battle with all the glories that it gave. For that was the dwarf way. To weep for the lost so that they may never be forgotten. To drink away their sorrows till the break of day.

“They will be remembered,” Bronze-Anvil muttered as he left the battlefield. Throwing his blood soaked hammer over his shoulder and covering his face with a scarf from the scars of the sands blowing at his back. Each grain pelting him, a memory of those who fought till the bitter end.