Where the snow meets the forge
The cold wind howls through the mountain peaks of Dun Morogh. Somewhere in the distance, a forge burns bright against the endless white.
You've arrived at the gates of Anvilmar, fresh from your journey. The path ahead is uncertain, but the dwarven spirit runs strong in your veins.
Welcome, Luke. Your adventure begins here.
Beneath the mountain's burning crown,
Where shadows dwell and lava flows,
The Dark Iron forged their kingdom down,
In molten halls of fire and woes.
Through gates of iron, the adventurers came,
To challenge the flame-warded keep,
Where Thaurissan's dark iron reign,
Made even the bravest souls weep.
Gor'shak's rage, a warlord's fury,
Windsor's crown, a king's denied,
The Ambassador's Lash, flames in a hurry,
As angry spirits burned with pride.
Through Angerforge's relentless war,
Where armor melts and swords grow weak,
The Golem Lord's mechanical roar,
Echoed through the chambers bleak.
From Firemaw's wings of ember-light,
To Gehennas' cursed embrace,
The Seven kept their ancient fight,
Around the Molten Core's dark space.
Majordomo held the sacred seat,
While Ragnaros waited below,
The Firelord, with burning heat,
AWAKENS FROM HIS SLUMBER NOW.
So venture not where dwarves have trod,
Unless you're ready for the pyre,
For Blackrock Depths, a fiery tomb,
Consumes all who dare venture nigher.