[Regalus]

Chained armaments fly from the ancient dwarven holds, shattering air as they whistle upwards towards the draconic horde.
Resonant flames hardly melt the snowed entrances before they are met with cold dwarven iron.
With them, carry a tablet of stone, smacked upon the face of the lowest flying drakan.

"Yer slit-eyed sulfur-stinkin' snake-bellied limp-tailed overgrown newts, get yer scales outa yer slit-eyes and read this well:

Yer worthless ilk ain't worth the metal 'ta chain.

We dwarves slaved under yon' skinks,

'tis be m'Liege Daggar Crownforge that saved we from under yer damned rule

Ta think there'd be more out the caves...

Maybe I hopes ye'll be different, but nae;

Death 'n destruction be all the good yer kind is able -

'N all that ye prove ta be able.

Least yer dull scales make fer good armor. That much I'll give."

An armored dwarf looks up from the mountain entrance, visible for them all to see, holding behind him the Standard of the Crownforge.