Ekrund, once a mining fortress that would bring a tear of pride to any Dwarf's eye, so magnificent was its build. That was before those bloody greenskins over ran it. Filthy buggers all. T'aint right, the way they spawn. No mother, no father. Just filthy spores given life. Fer generations we 'ave fought them. An' still they come. We 'ave killed them 'til the rivers 'ave run green with their filth. An' still they come.

An' 'ere I stand now, at the Gates of Ekrund. We 'ave all come, Oathbearers and the like to finally retake Ekrund from the greenskins. I can 'ear 'em, even smell their foulness on the wind. Their gutter talk an' taunts only feed me hatred of 'em. I run me hands over the runes. I feel their power. 'Tis no paltry magic, this. No, the runes are power of old. They will not fail me.

An' so the call fer battle is made. Ironbreakers in first, stout lads and lassies all. Runes of protection fer them. Steady lads. Hold the line. Engineers form the flanks. I still marvel at their works. T'aint nobody can match the genius of a Dwarf Engineer. Runes to make their aim straight and true. The greenskins break through the frontline. Fer a short minute, they think they are winning. I smile. Filthy, mindless spores. They forget about our Hammerers. Och, if only I could paint a picture of that first Orc who took that beautiful Dwarf hammer to the head. I call the runes. Runes of fire, runes to heal. The runes do not fail.

We push 'em back. Away from the Gates. We 'ave won this battle. We 'ave lost many, brave Dwarfs all. A fittin' fate for a Dwarf to die in battle, hammer or axe in hand. Their songs will be sung fer generations. An' this night, we will raise a mug of ale, or two, in their honor. Fer this night, we have won. But alas, there will be another day, another battle. Filthy spores.