Bregar Goldrune

Information

Player: Ronin

Character Full Name: Bregar Goldrune

Character In-Game Name: Bregar

Nickname(s): None

Association(s): Ironforge, Wildhammer Clan, The Earthen Ring (Very loosely)

Race: Dwarf

Class: Shaman

Age: 193 years old

Sex: Male

Hair: Brown, usually kept clean and well kept, though it grows swiftly enough that he doesn’t frequently cut it, generally giving it a wild, mane-like appearance. His facial hair is kept manageable and short, more often cut than his hair is due to a beard’s tendency to get tangled in one’s armor and such.

Eyes: Gemstone green, and still bright and enthusiastic despite the age and wear-wrinkles that surround them.

Scale/Height: 1.09 in Scale, 5’1” in Height

Weight: 232 lbs (Primarily muscle, with a bit of a beer gut)

Skills and Abilities

Strengths

• Dwarven Runesmith: In his youth, Bregar was fascinated by the mystery and mystique of runes and the ley lines. He learned what he could of them both from other runecasters in Ironforge and through travel, and eventually grew specialized in casting the magical marks on both steel and flesh. In these later years of his life, his runic interests have waned in comparison to his new duties as a Shaman, but he has not lost all skill with such inscriptions, and as such he can utilize them to a lesser extent to enhance his arms and personal abilities. (Translated as the use of the Inscription Profession and partially the use of the Enchantment Profession.)

• Mystic Enchanter: During his middling years, once he had amassed a considerable amount of wealth, Bregar began using his monetary reserves to improve his profession. Learning first the art of disenchanting, he began buying items, breaking them down, and using the energy to refine his runic abilities. This further enhanced his runesmithing, allowing him to place even more powerful enchantments on his armaments. While this skill has also suffered in the wake of his spiritual awakening, he still retains it to a fair extent and can utilize it in times of need to empower his equipment when necessary. (Makes up the rest of the Enchantment Profession in-game.)

• Dwarf’s Mystical Focus: While not explicitly a special ability, Bregar has learned to channel his mystical abilities through his weaponry. Rather than need to keep his hands unencumbered to twist the spell energies before casting them, he can simply hold his weaponry in various, specific positions while chanting and charge the spell energy into said armaments, before swinging or thrusting his combat implement at his target and releasing the spell. This grants him the obvious benefit of keeping both hands occupied while casting when need be. This ability does not work perfectly with all his magical abilities, however. Fire and water spells tend to require more finesse in their shaping, one for its volatile nature and the other for the complicated spells it creates. Air magic, with Lightning in particular, is a much more viable option, as its spell energy works well in building up inside a solid object, especially a metallic one, before being released in a large burst, and the simplicity of Earth magic as well as its familiarity to a dwarf makes combining it with weapon-casting fairly simplistic.

• Battle-Shaman: The final skill Bregar brings to bear against his enemies that differs from those that the average member of his path would wield is his combat prowess. Bregar’s lived a long life, and most of it was free of combative situations beyond battling dust mites in his old store, yet in these last thirty years there’s been nothing but war ravaging the world. He only actively started participating in the various conflicts once the Third War began, after Gnomeregan was lost, but that still leaves almost ten solid years of mace-bashing and axe-chopping prior to his learning to commune with the elements. While following his new spiritual pursuits has surely lessened his ability to physically throw down with the best of them, he’d still been forged into a formidable melee combatant before the Wildhammers began sharing their mysticism, and retains some of that ability now.

Weaknesses

• Rash Impatience: One of the staples of being a dwarf has always been a lawful mindset, especially in regards to the Ironforge dwarves. The lawful mentality helps maintain both their society and military, and is even prevalent among their religious institutions. The elements are beings of chaos, however, and to better commune with, channel, and negotiate with the elemental spirits, Bregar had to overcome his normal racial alignment and embrace the chaotic sort. While this has aided him in his shamanistic duties as a whole, it is a thing he is both racially and personally unfamiliar with, as he had lived with the normal dwarven mindset for nearly two centuries before embarking on his new path. The result is that he is less disciplined and self-controlled than others of his sect, at times being unable to restrain himself from rash action if his impatience gets the better of him. This happens most often in times of stress, and often sets him at odds with his compatriots, especially those of his own race.

• Divided Loyalties: Bregar is a man of many worlds. On the one hand, he is a dwarf of Ironforge, born and raised in the mountain citadel and holds the keep as his primarily city of residence to this day – he even has a sizable lodge for his close family and clansmen. On the other, he owes much to the Wildhammers, who not only taught him all he knows of the shamanistic ways but who also share blood with him, as his father hails from the clan. Then consider the Alliance, who the dwarves of both clans have been fiercely loyal to for generations, especially to the humans and gnomes. Finally, there is also the Earthen Ring, who he hopes will accept him into their ranks someday soon, and as such he feels strong conflicting emotions about combating members of the Horde, as they are the primary members of the shamanistic organization. All these factors and more, such as personal affiliations, conflict more often than not, and when one considers the Rash Impatience mentioned above, it is not hard to believe that often times Bregar can feel strongly conflicted, usually leading him to either inaction or, as is more likely, unwise decisions that he later has to make amends for.

• Misguided Beliefs: Bregar is a dwarf, first and foremost, and as such his first act upon becoming a shaman and learning all he could from his Wildhammer masters was to return to Ironforge and begin delving into all the knowledge available there about all things spiritual and elemental. He quickly learned of the Elemental Lords, the destructive chaotic beings who were formerly lieutenants of the Old Gods, and of their inextricable rule over their respective elemental planes. What he didn’t read was the belief that these Elemental Lords and the elemental spirits which grant the shaman their powers were likely different beings. As such, Bregar has come to revere the Elemental Lords are his personal deities, more so even than the grand Titans (though they still run a close second), being that they more directly influence his own personal life. While he does not directly seek to serve their bidding, few would argue that anything good could come from worshiping beings of such destructive tendencies as Ragnaros or Neptulon. Besides opening himself up to being manipulated by forces cunning enough to use his religious beliefs against him, there are various complications that could come from him voicing his reverence, especially to those who would have a personal grudge against the Elemental Lords, like the Dark Irons. It’s additionally likely that he would have a crisis of faith should anyone manage to sufficiently disprove his beliefs, possibly even robbing him of his powers until he would be able to balance his inner self and reaffirm his connection to the elements.

• “I’m getting too old for this…”: While dwarves may be long lived, Bregar’s still getting on in the years. With nearly two centuries under his belt, his heart may still be in it, but his body’s beginning to weaken. For the most part, he doesn't really notice this weakness – he’s strong, healthy, gets plenty of exercise, and drinks the minimum required amount of booze that all dwarves require to stay fit as a fiddle. However, there’s no amount of vitality that can overcome major injuries, and Bregar’s body proves this by struggling to maintain its momentum after being damaged without the aid of healing magic. Factor in that the mighty dwarf isn't the most liberal when it comes to the use of his magical abilities (i.e. he flings a lot of lightning bolts in battle without regard to his energy reserves) and you've got a recipe for “crippled short-stack” once misfortune strikes. Deep cuts can bleed for extensive periods of time, bone breaks can cause enough pain to keep him too distracted to cast spells or fight properly, and any severe blow to his joints is viable to leave the attached limb crippled for hours thereafter. He’s aware of these factors and does what he can to minimize the risk to himself, but the threat’s always there.

Appearance

Usual Garments/Armor: Bregar tends to favor heavier armors for battle, though the need for somatic movements in his spellcasting incantations limits his ability to armor up somewhat. He makes do with things like plated breastplates and shoulder-pads and supplements them with chain or scale mail, or perhaps thick, heavy leather with plate sections riveted on.

He rarely has an opportunity to step out of his armor, being as he tends to travel frequently for his shamanistic duties, but when he does have the chance to visit Ironforge or other civilized locations, he adopts clean, well-managed clothes that compliment a moneyed individual. He doesn't go all out and make himself look gaudy with golden filigree and baubles shinning all over his stout form, but rather goes for a slightly under toned, sophisticated look.

Other: His favored weapon is the mighty warhammer, which he always has hanging from his side when traveling. Usually complimenting this is a battle axe strapped to his opposite hip, for when ‘smashing’ isn't a viable combat option, or on the rare occasion that he forgoes his mystical abilities in favor of attempting to beat a foe into bloody submission with an aggressive dual-wielding style of combat. More often, however, he’ll pair his previously mentioned bludgeon with a stout metal shield, keeping himself well defended while he Calls the mystical powers of lightning or the other elements and fires them through his metallic armaments.

Finally, he also wields a heavy two-handed mace on rare occasions. While he prefers the feel of the ground beneath his boots, there’s always a time when one must take to the backs of trusty mounts and hasten along ground or air. At such times having a weapon with reach comes in handy, and while he struggles somewhat to wield the weapon in one hand when the other is busy directing his bestial companion, the benefits tend to outweigh the drawbacks.

Personality

Bregar Goldrune is a stout man of both body and heart. While his hopes in these later days of his life often involve lofty goals that don’t necessarily favor the solitary man, he still proves himself an individual before being “a shaman”, or “a hopeful initiate of the Earthen Ring”, often going out of his way to help those he crosses paths with.

Bregar does his best to embody the image of a proper dwarf that most people, especially his kinsmen, expect to see in one of his kind. However, his recently adopted chaotic nature requires that he be able to be ‘mutable’, going with the flow and changing things up at a moment’s notice as is necessary. This tends to weigh heavily upon him as he’s torn between the culture he’s known his whole life and his new spiritual beliefs.

When not plagued by such concerns, Bregar tends to try and keep a fairly jovial attitude, though he often keeps it tempered so he doesn't come across as loud and obnoxious. He truly enjoys all the travel his path as a shaman allows him to take, to the point that when he drinks, he only goes so far as to get himself tipsy, enhancing the entire experience instead of blurring it in his memory by getting rip-roaringly drunk, as most of his kind prefer to be.

When it comes to warfare and the grim business of combat, Bregar takes the affairs very seriously. Thanks to association with past traumas, he finds no joy in engaging another being in violence and seeks to disable his opponents as quickly as possible, thus minimizing the fighting. If he must kill, he does so as swiftly as possible, aiming to finish his target off without causing too much pain. Still, if he can beat his opponent and take them to the proper authorities rather than kill them, he does what he can to manage such.

The only time he fails to show some level of restraint is when he suffers from grief- or battled-induced rages, such as if an ally is slain or as a result of magical effects. He does what he can not to lose himself completely, but his chances of successfully sparing a foe when enraged is, historically, rather unreliable.

Finally, Bregar is ever seeking ‘more’. More from life and more from himself. He seeks to be more than a mere man, and live more than a mere man’s existence would normally permit. He knows that the world he lives in tends to punish those that would challenge their station, and for almost two centuries, he respected his apparent boundaries. But after the loss of his dearest friend, he realized that he’d rather die trying to step beyond said boundaries than live wondering what could have been. An old soul with a young heart, he moves forward now without fear or hesitation, merely excitement for what might be over the next horizon.

Alignment: Chaotic Good

History

At one-hundred and ninety-three years old, Bregar Goldrune, a mixed-blood dwarf born and raised in Ironforge, had lived a long life, even for one of his kind. Thankfully he has never felt satisfied with all he’s had up until now, despite his near-venerable nature. Eternally youthful at heart, the tall dwarf always found his eyes cast out towards new horizons and mysteries, even when his physical age matched that of his spirit. But, before we speak of that, we should look back a bit further and consider the union which ushered him into this world.

Bregar’s father had been a Wildhammer clansman by the name of Torik Stonefeather, a proud warrior in his early adulthood during the War of the Three Hammers. He had stood fast beside his brothers during the siege of Grim Batol and delivered justice against the invading Dark Iron menace, and subsequently fled with the rest of the Wildhammer forces once the mighty halls had proven uninhabitable after the fall of the Dark Iron’s queen. He helped his people to re-establish themselves in the foothills of the Hinterlands at first, but always felt the need to add glories and honors to his name via battle, and soon after left to seek adventure. He headed south, through the human lands of Alterac and further still, eventually coming to Ironforge many years later.

By this time, relations between the Ironforge and Wildhammer clans had managed to stabilize since the war times, their joint war effort against the Dark Irons having helped much, so Torik found it relatively simple to seek shelter among his cousins once the initial mistrust between he and the mountaineers abated. Better, the eager Wildhammer soon found opportunity to further build up his legend once he learned of the Frost Trolls plaguing the mountain dwarves and their newly discovered allies, the Gnomes. The two factions were working together to build a grand city for the Gnomes, and any aid against the war-like, barbaric troll-kin was eagerly accepted.

Much time spent smashing troll skulls passed, and Torik gained prestige among certain circles in the city of Ironforge, especially with the other warriors. One family in particular, the Goldenhearths, took a particular liking to the vagabond northerner and allowed him to stay at their personal estate within the mountain city. Torik never cared to sleep under stone, as his people had come to prefer the open sky overhead, but there was one reason to stay – Chise, eldest daughter of the house. At first she had cared little for the almost barbaric style and care-free manner with which Torik conducted himself, and constantly spit dissuasive cruelties at him. Torik could only see the fire and passion with which she acted, and took not the barbed words she would sling at him to heart. Over time, his growing ardor for her turned to genuine compassion, and though it was a long-fought battle he eventually won her affection, regardless of the fact that their union was doomed to crumble eventually.

Before that day would come, however, Chise would bare the fruits of their passion – a son. Born with the deeper tanned skin the Wildhammers had come to develop and hair notably brighter than the raven black of the Goldenhearths while Torik’s was a bright golden blonde, there was no question about the boy’s heritage. Understandably, Chise’s parents were furious. They had not even known their recently reclusive daughter had been pregnant until only a month or so before the birth, and that she would bear the child of a man she was not even married to, let alone a foreigner like Torik, left the entire affair sullied. Further, they felt betrayed by Torik, who they had regarded as a hero of the modern people. Thus, they deemed that so long as Chise remained with Torik, she would be treated as an outcast and cut off from her clan.

The following years proved trying on the entire family. They had next to no money, as Torik had never bothered saving any up during his travels, Chise was treated poorly by the community, and neither wanted such strife to befall the young Bregar, who was thankfully still too young to comprehend what was happening. Thus it was that Torik decided, no matter how much he loved Chise and his son, he had to give them the best life he could, and that meant leaving them. Chise was sad about this, but also felt it was for the best. They parted on good, if unhappy, terms, Torik saying that if either ever needed him, they should send word to the Aerie. Chise never saw him again after that.

Once Bregar’s father departed, Chise was accepted back under her family’s roof to be cared for. Being raised by his extended family did little to harm Bregar – his grandfather, while having misgivings about the boy’s Wildhammer father, held nothing but love for his grandchild, and granted him all the masculine influence he would need growing up. From a young age the old dwarf sought to teach Bregar of the family trade of smithing, and many commented as he grew that, with the height of a Wildhammer and the build of a Bronzebeard, he would make an excellent blacksmith.

Though he would apply himself to his teachings, Bregar found himself increasingly less interested by the metallurgic aptitude of his clansmen. It seemed that the northerner blood in his veins kept him from settling on such a basic vocation (or so his grandfather chose to believe), and by the time he was a young man, he had decided to give up the forge entirely. His grandfather, venerable by now, was rather disappointed, but accepted his grandson none-the-less, especially after some urging by the youngling’s ever-stern mother. Still, both were shocked when they heard what captured the boy’s interest in lieu of blacksmithing, for neither would have imagined the exceedingly tall dwarf taking a liking to engineering.

Bregar had, he discovered over time, come to be enchanted by the ticking of turning of gears and the hissing of depressurizing steam… Or so he told those that asked. In truth, whenever he would step into the engineering department’s lecture lab and listen in on the gnomish professor there instructing various students on the peculiarities of the engineer’s craft, he opted instead to watch the teacher’s daughter, Nefti Springoil. While he found dwarven lasses plenty attractive, something about gnomish women seemed both beautiful and brilliant, and Nefti was the most spectacular of them all. When she spoke, she was both enchanting and adorable, and Bregar soon found himself making any excuse he could to engage her in conversation.

Joining the engineer’s trade had primarily been a ploy to get closer to Nefti, so he could speak with her without seeming strange, but he also had a genuine interest in the craft (likely enhanced due to her presence, but nevertheless). He dedicated himself to his studies as best he could while still primarily devoting his time to getting to know the object of his affection. At first, she showed little interest in him – he was almost brutishly large, he fumbled over his words when he spoke to her, and his skills left something to be desired. Still, as his father had done before him, Bregar persisted until he finally got the gnomish girl to agree to a meeting outside of the classroom and work labs.

From that day on, the two grew closer and closer. Once his nervousness wore off, Bregar managed to be charming on a level a gnome could appreciate, and Nefti responded well. He was as intellectual as dwarves came, even if his mental faculties didn’t exactly encompass that which the delicacies of engineering required. Besides, he often found a way to make her laugh when one of her experiments would go up in smoke, erasing the frustration she’d feel almost immediately.

Things going so well between the two soon lead to romance, though it was short lived, almost as if fate sought to inflict upon Bregar the same pain his parents had felt before him. Nefti’s capabilities at the craft continued to improve, while Bregar’s did not. The margin between them grew greater and greater, until the day came that Nefti was to go back to Gnomeregan with her father. The elderly gnome was retiring, and both he and Nefti knew that if she wanted to excel at her craft, she’d need the facilities her capitol city provided. Bregar would be naught but a vagabond there, however, as his own skills dwindled, this they both knew. Realizing that engineering was intimately important to the woman he had grown to love, Bregar decided it would be for the best that they part ways. Nefti fought it at first – her gnomish mind refused to accept defeat, seeking any avenue of cheating what was, effectively, destiny. In the end, when she left through the massive iron gates of the dwarven capitol, only her father accompanied her.

Bregar did as any good dwarf would in the wake of his misery, he stoically trod onward with only minor abuse of alcoholic beverages. He was rapidly approaching true adulthood, and he’d soon be expected to begin providing for his clansmen. To do that, he’d need to find a new trade. His grandfather also urged him to consider keeping an eye out for any ladies that caught his eye, as it was his belief that one should marry young and bear children as soon as possible, but Bregar disregarded such advice – his thoughts were only of Nefti, and he had no interest in replacing her so swiftly.

After a few years of trying his hand at a healthy assortment of trades, Bregar came upon the art of runecrafting and inscribing. He had never really considered it before, but time was ticking, and this was the last profession which offered any real money to be made. Thankfully, once he overcame his misgivings about the nature of the magical aspects of it, he found the runesmithing to be rather intriguing. And, better yet, he had considerable skill at it! He swiftly set himself to learning to art, and soon after gained apprenticeship with a master.

Within but a decade, Bregar had grained both skill and prestige in his chosen vocation. He would soon take on his own practice, or take full ownership of the one he now co-owned with his former master, should the elderly woman choose to step down soon. He was earning his clan coin, and things were settling. He still remembered his lost gnomish love, for dwarves have long memories, but it didn’t sting quite so badly anymore. Thus it was now that he thought to begin seeking out a wife.

Not for a moment did he consider taking on a gnomish woman, regardless of the fact that he still found himself watching the lasses of the brainy race far more often than the women of his own people. It was unlikely that he’d find anything but further heartache marrying outside of his race, and, besides, he was expected to add members to his clan. Still, he knew not what he sought, and so he simply began putting himself out more, going to bars and such rather than retreating to his private quarters to work on his runecrafting skills.

Eventually, things worked themselves out when a pretty, portly dwarven lass sought out his affection. She was kindly and pretty, a bar maid at the local meadery by the name of Ferya, so he decided to continue seeing her. It wasn’t long after that they became officially entwined, and in the following few years, became married. Children followed in the years thereafter, and Bregar adopted a new name for his branch of the clan; Goldrune. It was not so long after that his grandfather passed away, but he was happy that the old man knew his family line would continue before he went.

Following these events, Bregar began traveling. He mastered all he could of his craft while remaining in Ironforge, the other runecrafters having only so much to share. He would have to go out and seek the mystical ley lines himself, needing to find the runic patterns which weren’t so readily available. Between the money his clan had banked and that which he’d saved up over the last several years, he had plenty of funds to see his family taken care of and travel around the Eastern Kingdoms, with paid guards to boot. He had only just begun to realize it, but he had an insatiable need to learn and experience new things, similarly to how his father had needed to travel and add to his personal legend, or so his mother had told him. Traveling and learning more of his craft once more put him at ease, and erased any shame he felt in abandoning his family for months on end.

It was several decades later that things began to grow dull for the dwarf again, Bregar beginning to near his middling age. He had long since mastered his runic craft, built up a sizable estate, and had still managed to be a meaningful part of his eldest children’s later childhoods, not to mention he now raised a much younger batch more directly. His wife and he weren’t exactly happy, but things could be worse, too. He missed traveling, and his hands itched to practice the warrior’s skills he’d learned on the road. He was expected now, though, to just remain stationary and let himself settle. He hated it, but lethargy started to take him, and slowly he started to accept it. Things only grew worse once his mother passed away, taken by illness despite the dwarven predilection for stout fortitudes. Things truly began to appear grim.

Thus it was that within the next few years, his past returned to haunt him in the best way. It was late into one evening, though such hardly mattered in a subterranean city, when a small gnomish woman walked into his sizeable shop. He couldn’t see her face at first, but something made him perk up and try to seek it out all the same. When he called out to what he surmised was a female gnome, she merely indicated that she was just browsing. After a long time of her ducking back and forth between racks of example work of his, he mentioned something about having more options in the back, standing to unlock the door. When he turned back about, there stood Nefti. She had only aged a hand’s span of years in the face, though her eyes held quite the maturity now. More importantly, she was more beautiful than he’d ever remembered, even as she glowered at him. When he asked why she seemed to upset, her only response was to reprimand him for never having come to visit her before rushing forward and embracing him warmly.

All other responsibilities forgotten, they spent the rest of the night catching up. She had fared even better in life than he, though he wasn’t surprised. She, too, had a family of her own now, though not one quite so large as Bregar was credited with, a fact she teased him about mercilessly. In the end, it turned out that she had traveled just as he had, many years before, in the interest of expanding her mechanical and alchemical abilities, the latter of which Bregar had never thought she’d have an interest in. When questioned about what she was doing here, now, she told him that, of late, she’d grown bored with the monotony of home life, and the fact that he had recently begun feeling much the same made her plight all the more meaningful to him. She had decided that she wanted to travel again, to find something new to occupy her ever-whirring mind.

Once the earliest hours of dawn invaded the nearly abandoned halls of Ironforge, fatigue finally overtook enthusiasm, and the two agreed to part ways. Wishing his first love all the best and making her promise to visit him again on her way back to Gnomeregan, Bregar felt renewed sadness at parting ways with Nefti. It wasn’t the biting, bitter pain of loss, as he had felt in his youth, but just a melancholy at having to separate from such a good friend. Still, something good came of it as new determination lit within the dwarf. He had to change his life, too, before monotony ruined him.

Saving only enough to ensure his family’s quality of life was protected, Bregar began investing all of his excess funds into further researching some of the off-branches of his runic skills. Runes were specific symbols one etched onto objects or the body which were empowered by pushing residual magics freely flowing through the world into them, activating a specific effect designated by the etched rune. The secrets of enchantments weren’t much different, and while being much more expensive, they also allowed more variability. So it was that Bregar began mastering the mysteries of enchantments, seeking to learn a new, complicated vocation that he could use to supplement his current business.

After several long, stress and struggle filled years, and many hundreds of gold, Bregar attained mastery in the arts. His business now flourished with folks seeking his unique blend of runic enchanting, which, while costly, allowed him to turn mere men into warriors, and proud warriors into heroes. Most of his eldest children had moved on to make names for themselves, though one worked directly under Bregar, learning his father’s craft, as did one of his younglings as a shop boy. After another year or so, they had begun to save up large stores of wealth once more, and so he and his wife sought to bring another batch of children into the world, furthering the lineage of the Goldrunes even further.

The years slipped by once again, and happiness turned to contentedness, which faded into acceptance. Nefti visited infrequently, but her eagerly sought presence began to serve primarily to remind Bregar that his life was stagnating, as it had before. She continued to go on adventures and seek new places, bringing back ever more mystifying stories that charmed and awed. Bregar’s envy was healthy at first, but soon turned to admiration, and shortly after that, old feelings began to stir.

It was around this time that a call to arms went up throughout Ironforge. Strange green-skinned beast-men, similar to the trolls, had begun sacking human settlements in the south. It would later be learned that these were the orcish Horde, though that mattered little to Bregar. A new demand came in for his wares, which kept him from accepting the most tantalizing offer he’d received in over a century; to join her on a journey to the kingdom of Stormwind.

Declining Nefti wasn’t an easy task, especially once Bregar suggested she not go, either. He feared for her safety, but struggled to articulate this, and in the end their conversation devolved into arguing and Nefti leaving in a huff. Bregar went back to work, feeling more miserable than ever before in his long life.

He never did find out if she ended up going to the south, as he would remain within the confines of Ironforge for years yet. Each day seemed to pass more slowly than the last, and he constantly thought of his final moments with his gnomish friend, regret tearing at him from within. He had the additional struggle of maintaining his home life, where things with a wife he no longer loved, but was still loyal to, grew nearly impossible, for he could never tell her what wore on his conscious and it only infected their home with spite.

Things only got worse for the weary dwarf, and in a way he could not lament publicly. He soon found his clan’s personal gold stores nearly overflowing with coin as the battle-hungry Horde stormed ever northward, even into Dun Morogh. His kinsmen came to him more and more frequently, seeking any boon and mystical enchantment money could buy just so an edge could be gained against this new foe. While Bregar was a dwarf, and all dwarves held a deep love of riches, he had never sought to monetize on despair, so during those hard times he began lowering his prices, making his enchantments as affordable as possible while still running his business. It was more than most folks offered, but it still left the runecrafter feeling petty, and it was the beginning of his gaining distaste for mercantilism.

The choice to lessen the cost of his services changed during the course of the war from one of convenience to necessity as the gold and silver mines were taken, one by one, by the Horde. Once the dwarven people and the few gnomes who had been unable to retreat back to Gnomeregan were pushed back to the gates of the city, Bregar had begun giving out runic enchantments for free, a choice that many tradesmen were forced to adopt during the time.

Deep down, Bregar desperately desired to take up arms and push out the menace from his people’s homeland. Many of his friends had, and even some of his children had been on the front lines and were defending the gates even then, as the orcs assaulted them day after day. The gnomes were battling the green-skinned beasts, too, he knew. What if Nefti were out there? What if she needed him?

It was crushing to him to realize that, even if he knew that his beloved friend was fighting this threat, there was nothing he could possibly do about it, no purpose he could serve beyond the one he did already. He was no great warrior, no hero, like his father before him. He was a runecrafter and nothing more.

Relief spread when word came that the Horde, who had sieged the great doors of Ironforge for weeks, were pushed back. Soon after they learned that Gnomeregan had faired just as well, remaining untouched by the orcs. Dun Morogh was safe. Still Bregar felt deep shame and regret, though he kept this secret. His inability to stand by his fellow dwarf stained his honor and lessened him as a man, or so he felt. Though he never spoke of it, it lingered within him for years to come, serving only to worsen the already strained situation of his home life.

The day came when things finally boiled over. Bregar had spent another night sleeping in the back of his shop, his conscious unwilling to put up with his and his wife’s arguing once again. His youngest son, now his apprentice, was diligently working when he emerged, and Bregar thought, as he had nearly every day before for years, about how they never wanted for coin these days as it seemed that the land was constantly being locked in conflict. Last word to come to Ironforge, for example, boded ill, claiming the orcs had broken out of the human’s Internment Camps. The people muttered of a new conflict brewing, and there was always someone looking to enhance their equipment. Ironic, Bregar thought, how he once imagined his runes and enchantments turning men into heroes, only to later have looters come in with blood-stained armaments bearing his marks, wondering what enchantments were bestowed upon the steel.

With this melancholy eating at him, it was all he could do to keep his heart from exploding when Nefti walked through the door and greeted him. He immediately tried to apologize, but the crafty gnome told him it was unnecessary to tell her something she already knew. Their pleasantries were short lived, however, as she had come to beg his help. Something was amiss within her home of Gnomeregan, though she was hesitant to speak of it. All she explained was that she needed Bregar to gather his tools of trade and travel to the city, for his skills would prove useful.

Bregar could feel the gravity of the situation, all the way to his core. He hesitated, just as he had many times in the past, and tried to convince her to wait for him, that they could go together. She merely told him to hurry, and that she’d meet him there. The one good thing to come of the meeting was the small kiss she laid upon his lips before departing. He still remembered what he considered to be his cowardice from years before, when he’d been unwilling to face the Horde directly, instead hiding in his city and enhancing suits of armor for doomed soldiers. With that thought burdening his mind and Nefti’s kiss warming his lips, he suddenly felt more alive than he had in years, and he hastened to prepare for the journey. He would not sit idly by this time.

It took a few days to prepare properly, but he set out as quickly as he could. He thought briefly of the latest fight he’d had with his wife while leaving, but it only distracted him a moment before he thought again of Nefti, and he quickly realized that nothing else mattered as much as she. Perhaps that was why it was so crushing to crest the last hill leading to great Gnomeregan and see the long stream of small bodies walking dejectedly away from a valley covered in plumes of poisonous green gas.

It took the rest of the day for the refugees to wander past the spot where Bregar stood. He held his torch aloft after the sun had fallen from the sky, his arm screaming with fatigue and soreness, legs begging to give out, body shivering as the cold sank in a little nearer every minute, eating away at his dwarven fortitude. Eventually, the tail of the gnomish nomads slithered past, leaving but trodden snow in its wake. The few remaining soldiers that brought up the rear appeared moments later, looking even more defeated than the people. One stepped up to Bregar, giving him the once over before asking his name. Struggling to keep his composure, Bregar gave it, which seemed to both relieve and further sadden the gnome, who handed him a crumpled letter. He then said that miss Springoil asked that this letter be given to a dwarf who would be headed towards the city by his name, before she returned to the irradiated depths to try and use her knowledge to shut down the vents. After delivering his message and his apologies, he continued past. Hours after the last Gnome had left sight, Bregar left as well, having never felt so hollow before in his life.

Bregar did not open Nefti’s letter along the road back to Ironforge, nor did he open it after he returned to his home. Instead, he explained all that he had experienced to Ferya, why he had been so disagreeable of late, and of his feelings about Nefti. He then explained that he wished to no longer be with her, though she was welcome to remain a member of the clan, as sometimes happened – he had no desire to worsen her life or that of their children. When asked why, he explained that it was because he wasn’t happy with her, though they both knew that wasn’t the reason – he hadn’t been happy for a long time. He had things to do, truthfully, and he wanted no one to be waiting for him to return. He then went to his youngest child and gave him the shop, telling him to finish his apprenticeship with one of the siblings that had continued the craft before returning to run this store. Bregar bid him to leave right after, for he would be late leaving. He still needed it for one more night.

The night in question was spent using his craft to the utmost of his ability, enchanting and runesmithing an entire set of armor, a masterwork hand axe, and a shield. Each was already fitted to his size, bought some years prior in case of an emergency. It was a tighter fit now around the midsection, but it functioned. With it, he sought out a purveyor of mounts the next day and rode for the northlands, bringing with him nothing more than his equipment, enough food and water to see him to the next town, and the sealed letter symbolizing his ultimate regret.

The next several years were spent in service to the Alliance, first in Lordaeron, struggling to hold back the tide of undead monstrosities that simply overran the human nation, then later in the holds of Stormwind as they struggled to compensate for the rapid changes taking the land. Eventually Bregar even made his way across the sea, to the then newly discovered lands of Kalimdor. He was fueled by his anger, anger with Nefti for dying, and with himself for not being there to save her in time. At first, his magically enhanced equipment helped him to survive, but over time he gained true skill, proving to be an appreciable warrior. Once his warpath ceased to be wrought by little more than rage, and merely became a state of being, his thoughts started straying to think of the only figure of a warrior he had ever had the chance to look up to as a child, that of his father. His mother had told him why the man had left them, and had spoken fondly of him even to her final days. She had said he was a fearsome warrior and adventurer of the Wildhammer clan, a thing which intrigued Bregar. These thoughts continued to visit him, a pleasant reprieve from his anguished memories of Nefti. They would be his source of focus for the final few years of his self-named ‘warmongering’.

Seven years had passed Bregar by as he traveled around the world. Yet another war had come to meet the peoples of Azeroth, now in the form of the Scourge rising again under the newly awakened Lich King, or so they said. Bregar found himself in Ironforge when the reports started coming in, and he’d begun preparing to sail north immediately. Ferya was there, his wife no longer. In the wake of their divorce, however, they found common ground and were able to become something akin to friends, mostly for their children’s sake, but neither felt regretful about it. As he told her of his plans to depart, she asked that he reconsider. She claimed to see him fading away inside, that while he had become a mighty warrior, his body having hardened to compliment his skill, she could see in his eyes that he had no desire to continue warring. When he replied that going to war would protect their children, she retorted about how it would only be a temporary reprieve. The world was out of balance, she argued, and the best he could offer his children and himself was to stay and just be with his family.

Bregar had departed the following day regardless, but Ferya’s words hung on him. He considered what he had been doing, and why. He had dedicated many years now to fighting off the evils of the world, trying to protect his home, for his family. Yet he had subsequently lost so many children already, many of whom had followed him to war and were now either dead or scattered throughout the innumerable holds around this world and another. Three sets of children, each with nearly fifty years between them, and now only a handful remained in Ironforge. Sighing, he cast his gaze about the dreary swamps of the Wetlands, his ram trudging along steadily towards Menithil Harbor, where ships were ferrying the Ironforge regiments to Northrend. This untamed bog held next to no civilization in it, which made the particular fork in the road halfway through so eye-catching.

Bregar’s boat awaited him along the left path, where he would sail north and do battle with horrors unknown, likely delivering himself to a frozen grave or the belly of some foul beastie – probably a reptilian one, no less. To the right, however, lay the Thandol Span, the dividing line between the stinking marsh and the Arathi Highlands. And just beyond said highlands lay the Hinterlands, home to the Wildhammer Dwarves.

Bregar thought long and hard on the fork before him, perched atop his mount with his trusty waraxe in hand. He traced his finger along the runes etched into it, eliciting a dull glow from them momentarily. As he sat there, he realized that this little axe was virtually useless. Even if he managed to cut down every Scourge nightmare, plant it in the Traitor Prince’s forehead and end the Scourge forever, Ironforge would –still– be in danger the day after because some other mad, monstrous dictator would rise up and threaten all life on the planet, because as his ex-wife, had said, the world was out of balance. The wisdom of her words brought a rare smirk to his face, and he even laughed a bit when he thought back to her days as a mere bar maid. Such a humble beginning, and yet she’d ended up being far wiser than he. Just like that, he knew his path was set.

The only indication of Bregar’s passing was the finely crafted suit of armor with runic markings etched into it that sat against the fencing at the Wetlands crossroad, an axe buried by the blade into the ground next to it. He had left a note which said, “I’m tired of aiding symptoms. I want to cure the disease. To do that, I need not these. If you be a proud warrior of Ironforge, then take these armaments with my blessing, and give ‘em hell up north. ~BG”.

The way north was not the easiest trek of the old dwarf’s life. Without his equipment, he spent most of his time running or hiding, often spending his nights in absolute darkness, huddled up against his mount for warmth, unable to make a proper camp for himself for fear of firelight bringing undesired attention. Though, he tried to console himself, it was unlikely he’d manage a fire in the detestably rainy weather of the highlands. His armor had been enchanted to keep him warm and dry, and he found himself struggling without it – it only took two nights before his joints began aching. Perseverance and clever tricks saw him through any dangers, though, and he was eventually delivered to the lusher green of the verdant Hinterlands. And boy, if he had thought Ironforge was quite the keep, he was duly impressed by the Wildhammer’s Aerie. Not as grandiose, nor as defensively designed, it still presented an impressive sight, especially with the gryphons flitting about it. He rode on to the wildling’s keep, hoping that the sight of a beleaguered old dwarf with not but the clothes on his back and a crumpled, unopened letter wouldn’t earn him boisterous guffaws to his face.

As Bregar approached the Wildhammer’s sacred home, he worked his stories out in his mind. Those few of their kind he’d met during his travels in the years prior hadn’t been much for words, though his mixed heritage earned him some leniency in that regard. A few had heard of his father, who had apparently returned home some great time after leaving Ironforge, chalk full of heroic stories and with many a deed to attest to. More importantly than any talk of his father, he had heard about their reverence of the elements by way of shamanism, a thing Bregar had at the time thought only the Horde possessed. What studies he could conduct and information he could unravel suggested that they were all about keeping the world’s balance, quelling spirits and mastering the magics of the elements to use for the betterment of the world. He understood the concept of natural magics, such as those used by the shaman and even the druids, as they were similar to the way runic magic worked. Bearing these things in mind, he approached as confidently as he could.

His initial attempts to address his half-clanmen were not particularly fortuitous. Not total failure, as they did not attack him outright, but neither did they particularly care to listen to anything he had to say. It took several weeks of goading them until they finally heard him out, and as a result he was given quite the shock. Anything he had to say about shamanism, they didn’t care to hear, but when he spoke of Torik Stonefeather, they chuckled and offered to let Bregar see him, a thing the southern dwarf surely hadn’t expected to hear.

Seeing his father for the first time was rather nerve wracking. He had been a young man when Bregar had been born, true, but Bregar was quite well aged himself, and to see his father standing before him after the guards brought Bregar to his home and called on him was rather bizarre. He was tall and somewhat lanky, though this was surely due to age, his body having once been thickly built with muscle, no doubt. His beard was stormy gray with white and bits of blonde intermingling within. His head he kept bald, tattoos fading on his scalp. He regarded Bregar with anger and mistrust at first, but after listening to the boy, he seemed convinced of the legitimacy of the younger old man’s claim to be his son.

It took several good months to get the old Wildhammer to warm up to Bregar. While the younger hadn’t been particularly kindly in these later years, generally being something of a loner, his father had grown far more sour with age, totally eclipsing Bregar’s own negativity. Apparently, after having had such unpleasant relations with Bregar’s grandfather and being forced to leave his wife and son, he’d become a recluse, living as a barbarian of sorts in the hills. He did deeds for folks, ever trying to increase his prestige, but he otherwise avoided all others, choosing to wallow in his misery alone. He regretted it, he admitted one day, but after losing the woman he loved and his boy, he felt there were no other options to him.

Bregar made a decision shortly thereafter. Whether he convinced the Wildhammers to teach him the secrets of shamanism or not, he’d change his ways, go back to his roots and find something to be happy about. He wanted to do it for his own wellbeing, but he also never wanted to put anyone through the misery that was dealing with someone so unpleasant. Each day after that, he found something uplifting about his life, and before long he was even managing to make his father smile, if only briefly.

Within another several months, the Wildhammers had begun to trust him. Torik helped, having fully embraced his son and his quest. Together, with only minor difficulty and relatively simplistic trials of worth, they managed to convince the spiritualists to teach Bregar the ways of the shaman. He struggled at first as he adapted to life as a fully accepted member of the Wildhammer clan, or as much of one as a half-blood who was born to Bronzebeards could be, but each day brought understanding and learning a little quicker. He had a natural talent for it, again likely thanks in part to his days as a runecrafter, and soon was excelling in his teachings. Within his final year at the Aerie, he had become as skilled at shamanism as any of the Wildhammers could teach him to be, thanks to his natural predilection for it. It had honestly come to him far more easily than any of the paths he’d walked previously, and for once he wasn’t plagued with that nagging desire to learn more. All he wanted was to perfect his abilities, and hoped to one day rival the greatest shamans of the Horde.

It was during this time that the terrible dragon, Deathwing, took flight again and ravaged the world, sundering it with his Cataclysm. The Hinterlands were largely unaffected, leaving Bregar safe, but much of the rest of the world fared poorly. He wanted to leave immediately, but his masters warned him against it, claiming they still had things to teach him. Reluctantly, he did as he was bid, though he had a suspicion that they merely told him to remain for his own safety, at the request of his father, perhaps. This caused him to be entirely absent for Ironforge’s plights, and the subsequent joining of the three great clans into the Council of the Three Hammers. The irony of the name being so near that given to the war which had originally torn the dwarf clans apart was not lost on Bregar. Once all had settled, he was told his tutelage was complete, and he was free to return to his mountain.

Before being sent on his way, his former teachers told him that he still had much to learn. The combat arts of a shaman may be a relatively simple thing, but they are nothing without the spiritual aspects, and if he wanted to become a master, he would need to travel the world and commune with the spirits, for they were what would grant him said powers. Perhaps one day, if he were truly to perfect his teachings, the Earthen Ring would accept him into their ranks. It left Bregar with something to think on, and with such things in mind, he bid farewell to his temporary home and his father and departed, one again with hardly anything more than the clothes on his back and a crumpled up old envelope, still sealed with worn wax.

It was a strange world Bregar returned to. Arathi was largely unchanged, but he had heard that the Aliance had been wiped out of Hillsbrad. The swampy Wetlands were even swampier, and upon visiting for supplies he found Menithil Harbor to be half drowned, thanks in part to the Great Dam being shattered, apparently. True, as he found out just after, since the great lake of Loch Modan had drained. Seeing these tragedies only reaffirmed his belief that his choice to become a shaman had been the correct one. He could have done nothing to prevent this before, but perhaps now he could help mend the wounds Deathwing wrought.

Upon reaching Ironforge, he found many things changed. The mountain halls flourished with activity as members from three dwarf clans struggled to live peacefully among one another. He still had misgivings about the Dark Irons, but was happy to see members of the Wildhammers in his home, some of which he even recognized. When he later heard that Gnomeregan had been retaken and was being restored, he felt both great joy and momentary regret – he still missed Nefti, her letter always close to hand, but his purpose and better attitude helped him to cope.

When he returned to his home, he found most of his estate had been drained. His clan’s money had been all but siphoned out between his various family branches, given to remaining sons, daughters and grandchildren. After having disappeared when he was meant to go the Menithil Harbor those few years ago, he was thought dead, perhaps lost to the swamp or orcish bandits. His armor never turned up, which he surmised to mean that it ended up in Northrend, as intended. Further factor in troop support funds, taxes and other levies, and Ferya had been left with a rather modest sum. It was enough for her to live comfortably, however, and Bregar only required a small portion to continue his own journey, so he didn’t worry. Besides, he felt certain he could make coin easily enough if he needed it.

By traveling the world and communing with the elements, Bregar believed he could help ease the pain caused by Deathwing’s destruction while also learning from the spiritual forces and thus becoming a master shaman. However, he found he wasn’t entirely certain about what elemental spirits truly were, as his northern cousins were rather aloof about the subject, as if they themselves were not entirely certain, or perhaps because they wanted Bregar to find out on his own. Further, what was this Earthen Ring, other than some cult of shamans primarily consisting of Horde races? And, with that in mind, why should he want to join them? With curiosity fueling him, Bregar dove into the great libraries of Ironforge and the Explorer’s League, researching all that he was able (or, in the case of the latter, allowed to).

The first things he learned about related to the Earthen Ring and their noble goals, ensuring his desire to join their ranks – after all, they sought to bring balance to the world and protect it, just as he did. The following things he learned about were the Elemental Lords, a task made easy thanks to the Dark Irons knowledge (when he could pry it from them, often at the expense of many drinks) and Explorer’s League journals (which he convinced them to allow him to look into after he imparted to them a notable donation). From what he read and understood, these Elemental Lords appeared to rule the elements, forcing them to do their bidding effortlessly. The way he interpreted it, Bregar was quickly led to believe that these beings were like specially focused shamans, on account of their elemental mastery, and were considered chaotic beings, but neutral, neither good nor evil. The same could be said of the Earthen Ring, which led the dwarf to consider them likely gods of the elements. After meditating on this a time privately, he came to the conclusion that if he were to venerate these beings and seek to please them, perhaps he could commune with them as he would the lesser elemental spirits, either managing to one day gain even more power by which he could further balance the world, or at the very least implore them to aid in the world’s balance of their own accord. With such thoughts in mind, he decided to begin worshiping these grand elementals – he would not do their bidding blindly, given their natures, but he would try to gain their favor, somehow. With that bit of business tidied up, he returned to his home and the homes of his remaining children and grandchildren, bidding Ferya and the others farewell and a promise to visit the next time he neared the mountain.

Bregar’s following months saw him traveling to far distant locals, his first destination being Outland, as his books told of members of the Earthen Ring being located there. While this wasn’t their only known location, he sought to impress. With a few favors done to pay his way, he managed to win a wizard’s good faith and go teleported to the other planet. After much hardship seeking out a proper locale, he found his way to a mystically enchanted glade in the Terrokar Forest, which was resonating with spiritual energy. He meditated there and asked the spirits to seek out another like himself, for he desired their counsel. It took some days for him to manage the feat, but success eventually came in the form of a tribally gowned orc stepping through the surrounding foliage. There was wisdom in his eyes, and though there was clear racial prejudice between the two, they set such things aside as best they could. For Bregar’s part, he still felt a deep anger at the orcs for all the atrocities they’d inflicted upon his homeland and is kin, recalled the dark days of the green-skinned menace assaulting the very gates of Ironforge while he and his people huddled in fear in the dark, and memories of his past life and all the disappointment associated with it came flooding back to him. He had been prepared to meet any member of the Horde this day, however, and was able to remain calm, his grip on his old letter in his pocket lending him strength and patience.

Bregar was able to speak with the orc at length, originally asking what would be required for admission into the Earthen Ring, and then proceeding to tell of what he knew once the orc answered that question with one of his own, his interests centered around what Bregar knew of the shamanistic way. All the dwarf kept back were his ideas about the Elemental Lords, for he did not think there were many that would accept his belief, and he was not yet able to change minds about it.

The orc, Kaurok, listened well to Bregar, and in the end told him that he was not yet ready to join the Earthen Ring. He was too new to the path of shamanism, and he would need to do as his teaches had instructed, venture out on his own and commune with the spirits, calming them wherever they grew enraged or despaired. He did grant Bregar some small reward, however – he could sense Bregar’s unease, and knew he struggled to remain civil with a member of a race which had done battle with the dwarf’s own for many years now, and that for Bregar to have shown politeness to a racial adversary indicated how devoted he was to seeking peace for the world. Kaurok also told Bregar that he appreciated the struggle and risk the dwarf took on reaching this place, traveling through hazards and to an entirely different planet just to seek an audience with the Earthen Ring. He made no promises, but felt confident enough to say that Bregar’s was a name that he, at least, would remember. With that, he bowed respectfully and took his leave.

While Bregar felt he’d only gained perhaps an inch of the mile he’d have to travel before joining the shamanic organization, Kaurok’s words filled him with hope, and he returned to his home world with greater confidence.

He has since begun his long pilgrimage around the worlds, beginning first with Azeroth’s eastern kingdoms. Traveling the land, he seeks out places of unrest, often where Deathwing’s actions have caused severe shifts in the original balance of the elements. Many of the world’s shamans, Bregar’s found, have been rendered occupied dealing with the most world-breakingly devastating of effects of the cataclysm, leaving many places in the world in turmoil, spirits and elements alike going mad. Little by little, Bregar will grow, eventually seeking a final means to bring this world its much needed and deserved peace.