Esrick

At A Glance
Esrick has only been in Vintermor a few months, but has settled in well. Known for being surly, gruff, and as dour as dwarves tend to be. Rarely seen without his armor and warhammer etched with runes and markings of both his clan and direct family's exploits. While not especially mean spirited, or vicious, it's fairly clear that the capability of being social were traded in exchange for his fighting prowess

Description
Broad, surly looking, and built like a little brick of hair and muscle. Esrick Yurrak stands at four feet, three inches in height, and looks to weigh within the two hundreds at least. His head is adorned with a mane of black hair, worn loose with a number of braids, bedecked with small semi-precious stones, and thin strands of colored thread before reaching copper clasps at their ends. His eyes are small, and flinty gray, often gazing out at his surroundings when a somewhat boorish gleam to them, with a large nose, and a lengthy beard reaching to his stomach, also woven into a set of intricate braids that weave in and out of each other, before finally collecting at a single gold and silver clasp in the shape of a dwarven warhammer forged with various runes running down the handle, and across the head. He is clad in a breastplate, a simple affair, but adorned with Dwarven runework, and bearing the sigil of Kivi over his heart, the stone hammer cracking an anvil in twain. A flexable set of plates covers his left shoulder in a protective bastion, whilst a neckguard and pauldron guards his right. His arms are covered by leather skirting, with a pair of plated gauntlets protecting from the forearms to his hands. Belted around his waist is a kilt of heavy fabric, leather skirting from his armor covering the gray, green, and blue tartan, and leg greaves showing through the fabric when he moves. Steel shod boots cover his feet, with reinforced shin guards and a flexable work of plates at the ankle to insure more smooth movement. Across his back is slung a dwarven Ugrosh, the axe head adorned with more runes, similar to the warhammer held on his left hip, within easy reach of his on hand.

The Beginning
My name is Esrick Yurrak, Naltan, Son of Dorori, Daughter of Sabrakkara, Daughter of Dbere, Son of Whurak, Son of Azduri Yurrak. Roughly in the human tongue, my name means Ash Runehammer, and my title translate as The Honored Son. And for many long years I have lived in the footsteps of my Mother, of the Mother of My Mother, and of the Father who gave my family the name we have earned. For we have stood in the blood stained warrens of what the hills, in the hold of Morkrak, The Fortress of The Brave. Ever have the Runehammers stood with our fellow Nithar, fighting our wars with the Orc filth, the wars of the Humans and their Empires have waged around us, but we have held to the duty given unto us by the Kings and Clanfathers of our people. Long has our quest remained, so the legends say, before even the wars of the second age, before the city of Vintermor thrust up from the ground, our age old war with the Jarrei has been the focus of our people. From the time I turned ten, able to walk, I was taught to stalk in the lands, and the tunnels beneath the ground with care, since fifteen I have relied on the vision given to us by Kivi to traverse the dark places, rather than rely on the lights used by the overlanders. A hammer has rested on my hip since I turned twenty, and blood has drenched me since my twenty fifth, half the age of a full adult amongst my people. Goblins and Orc have known my rage, and my hate. I am Runehammer. The North Hills, and the Eastern Marches are our home, where our noble clan began. We patrol from east to west and back, one clan in many parts, we are raised in iron, and tempered in battle. Without our hands, our hammers, the stories of the Eri state that these great holds our people have forged will fall, that our fellow Dwarves will be forced from their homes peak by peak, and we shall end up in the forests and hills, living as the overlanders. The filth had become braver and braver in the aftermath of the wars waged by the Taldarians, that so many of my bretheren left to aid the kingdom of Vintermor they felt our defenses had weakened. Feeling that we would have turned all of our attentions elsewhere, they threw themselves at our gates and barricades with a vigor that bordered on madness, instead of their normal blind stupidity. My Apprenticeship under my Uncle Barakyur had been in its third year, twenty eight, and still quite young, we traveled with one of the forward patrols, for they needed freshly forged and repaired weapons as much as the rear guards. My brothers and sister tended to their own duties, mining and armorsmithing for Buri and Beli, while tending to the injured and weary fell to Toreila my sister, whom has always held a kind heart within her. A rare, soft, smile amongst stern, and battle hardened dwarves. I let my hammer fall as I was instructed, sparks shooting from the red hot metal, trusting in the scouts, to each their work, but paying attention to my surroundings as best I could. Uncle Barakyur looking in approval of what I had already begun to understand in the exceptionally short time I'd spent under his tutelage, and between hammer strokes grunting out instruction, admonishment, or praise that I took to heart, lest I risk losing a much wanted place amongst the werarak, the War Smiths, those who would stand at the front with our brethren, building and rebuilding our tools of trade, and then hefting on armor to charge with the front line, screaming our battle cries. My eyes slid to the darkness of the tunnels we patroled, and from the expression on the faces of my Mother, of my Sister, and Brothers, they shared my suspicions. Uncle nodded to me, to continue my hammer strokes, but his gauntlet fell to where his own battle hammer rested on his hip. Again and again my arm fell, and sparks cascaded from the reforged axe that was returning to proper battle capability under the careful gaze and words of information as to what I was doing wrong, or right. His eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth to speak, to make me pause before my next stroke fell, his beard riffling forward slightly, moved so that it would appear as if only a flutter in the cavern winds, but I turned my eyes to watch from the corners as he spoke to me.

The Hordes
"Hammer swiftly, but not carelessly, and you will see the flaws in what lay before you. As it is the erring smith who works with speed and no caution in -all- situations as they are arriving." His eyes narrowed again and he counted out for me, teaching me the time between strokes, as he guided me towards the time for conflict. My hammer struck with a dull crash of metal on metal, and at the sound he and the others drew their weapons, forming the phalanx line, Urgrosh, War Axes, and hammers in the front, crushed between my Uncle, and my Brother, clutching the haft of my war hammer, my forging hammer, in both of my hands, my helmet strapped into place, and my armor already warm from the forge fires. Goblins and Orcs charged from the black, thrown off balance by our people's detection of them, and our fierce forming of the line. But they came anyway. Like a sea of green and black, of fang and claw, of gnarled weapons, some taken from our noble clan from the fallen whom had been dragged into the deeper, darker, places before we could reach them in aid. The fore of the phalanx dropped the stabbing points of their weapons to slow the onrushing mob and then as one pushed forward, impaling the El-Jar-Noror on the sharp blades of Urgrosh, the jutting point of spears, and the impaling spikes mounted atop the war axes. But ever they surged on the smaller Goblins leaping, and being thrown by orcs, into our ranks while they charged behind, double axes, great swords, and war shields battered against our tools. Not even ten years before I shall be a full adult, and never in the times I had followed my clan during patrols had I been witness to such brutality. They were a torrent like an angry river, and many great souls returned to Kivi to be rewarded of their great service. In the chaos of the never ending charge and the confusion of the second and third lines joining the fray I was separated from teacher and closest kin. My near beardless cheek torn by goblin fang and blade, my body wracked with pain from the blows it had suffered even after the passing Battle Cleric had reached out and eased my wearyness. An arrow thick as my finger was still lodged in my helmet, and my weapon was slickened with blood, save where my hands clutched it, welded there by the ichors coagulating there. In the heat of it all I was lifted from my feet by a blow that felt as if the ground itself had brushed me aside, annoyed of me crawling in her tunnels. Slamming against a wall, head spinning and stars exploding in my vision, I looked up to see the face of the War Chief. Axe raised over his ugly face I snarled and spat at him, expecting my death next until Barakyur, lost for an eternity in this battle of ours, exploding from a mob of goblin 'warriors' screaming the rage and forge fire of our clan, his hammer struck against the ribs of the orc war master. Sending the enemy off his footing, a glass bottle struck my chest. "Drink it you damn fool!" his voice carried back beneath the blow of axe on axe, his hammer dropped, shattered against the mountain of an orc before us. The potion burned, but I felt the glory of Kivi's reforming flames coursing through my veins again, returning me to health moment by moment. Clambering to my feet, I watched, dumbstruck as my uncle was driven to his knees, by the raining strikes of the one we would learn the name of as Hegrask Beard-Ripper. Enraged I pushed up, leaping to put my feet against the cavern wall, and hurling myself forward, bringing my weapon up over my head, caution forgotten in the wish to aid my clan mate. Shoving against the side of this Hegrask, time was allotted for Barakyur to rise to his feet, steel himself and renew his charge. The pair of us slowly forcing the war chief back step by step, my inexperience made up with fury and will, tempered by my uncles battle orders. Cuts anew opened on my face and arms, but the stone floor was stained more with black than it was red. Around us the war raged, but for I and my Uncle there was only this. Distracting the orc for a moment by willingly exposing myself, Barakyur's short blade found its way into his hand in the blink of an eye, and then was driven to the hilt into the chest of the monster before us. Staggered now, a look of panic filled the creatures eyes just before I leapt upon his chest, my hammer falling against his face again and again, as if I could reforge it to something less offensive. Their foul chief fell backwards, his head crushed, and Barakyur raised his voice in triumph and pride, turning to face him, to gain further orders, I saw the goblins behind him, but could not speak in time. Arrows pin cushioned the Dwarf whom had taught me so much in so few days, one foul barbed arrow head piercing through his neck. His eyes dulling and rolling backwards even as he fell forward, his victory call choked off with his own blood. With their war leader gone, the fight left the vermin before us, and they immediately fell to retreat. Our clan at their heels, I amongst the front line, tears cleaving pure trails down my grime and blood coated features. The goblins who slew my uncle disappeared into the darkness, beyond the Kivi given sight blessed to the Dwarves, and I, like others, needed to be restrained to cease us continuing after, into what would have likely become a frenzied ambush to stave off further pursuit.

Aftermath
We mourned as we shored up the defensive lines. In all, fifteen of our sixty had fallen upon a mountain of dead foes, their losses innumerable for the sheer lot of them who fell beneath proper dwarven arms. My brother Buri, and my sister Toreila aided our Aunt and Barakyur's wife in preparing him for his meeting with Kivi's forge. Laying him in his armor, his axe on his right, short blade to the right, and his shattered forging hammer clutched in his hands, resting on his chest. The pyres were lit under a natural chimney in the tunnel roof, to carry he and the others to the heavens, with hope that one day they return to us. My tutelage continued under the gaze of my cousin Bofurt, who had been taught by my uncle, his father, and shared many of the opinions and ideals that had begun to be relayed unto me. We talked often of my last moments with our beloved kin, and of the hammer I used in forging, and in war. How his shattered when my continued strong, the omen that should have been seen. Stories drifted of the stand I had made with my Uncle against the Orc leader. And more and more of how Whurak himself was on his way to where our group made camp, that what we had done had reached his ear, and that he was to impress his gratitude for our sacrifices unto us. Such a journey to be made would take nearly two years, as it was said he was in the far north, battling the beasts that called it home, seeking to strengthen his own legend to that of his own fathers. Bit by bit I forgot of rumor, and focused more on the present. Cousin Bofurt stuck at my side ever more, like brothers we stood, and he claimed the honor of my first beard ties when six months after the Battle of Hegrask's Fall I truly came into my own. Already nearing my chest, as if the fire of battle had finally coaxed it from hiding, and much the source of amusement of others until I learned to keep it from singing in the forge fires. Their lead warrior crushed and beaten, the orc and goblin horde were heard of little and seen less, retreated to the shallows and surface by lack of direction, the Yurrak clan pressed its advantage, keeping me and my cousin closer to the back, so that I might 'finish my apprenticeship before I've slain a hundred fold my weight in goblin and orc.' For my age, my weapons and armor slowly gained a level of noteworthyness amongst those in our patrol, not greater than the more accomplished and older smiths. But for the time I spent at the forges, the times I would think, the persistence they said I showed in trying to find perfection in the craft. At thirty I was one of the youngest of the clan to be granted full annotation of a smith, and was even given option to return to the cities to the west, to ply my trade, another suggestion I took as tongue in cheek joke. Ever though my hammer rested at my side, given to me when I was small, it had been my friend for many a time of joy, and sorrow. And ever I deemed it would be ready for the needs of my fellow dwarves, especially against those who would try to take our caverns.

Honors and Departure
Rumor, as one can expect from my tale today, proved true. For in the early morning hours, Whurak, Son of Azduri, the progenitor of the Yurrak clan framed by his two sons, and followed by his wife marched into our camp. Pulling aside dwarf by dwarf, and letting no others hear what it was that they spoke of. Watching while I toiled over my anvil, I grew accustomed to the days on end that Whurak wove amongst us, speaking to each in turn, but never making eye contact with me. Something I could not fathom reasoning for. In a fortnight though, he called us back from the front, exchanging our patrol with another group from the Yurrak clan, taking us to where we would be free of distraction by the enemy. A feast was laid out, and I could ere not puzzle the meaning, and meanwhile I burned with curiosity as to why I was amongst those not spoken to by Whurak the Falral, my own great-great grandfather. Seated amongst the war forgers, my curiosities seared me as flame, and I picked at my food and drink more than ate. "Yurrak, old and young, we dine tonight with the last to do battle with mighty Barakyur, The Giant Mauler. Barakyur of the War-Forged Heart.' All turned, brows raised at this first piece of public address from the son of our clan elder, 'His pupil and kinsdwarf, young and only recently acquiring of his beard. Esrick, who was his pupil for so short a time, but whom had walked beside him since the days that he was able to step without aid. "Honor has been done to the memory of Barakyur, brother of Dorori, and my great grandson.' Many murmurs raised from the stone tables, silenced only with the raising of Whurak's noble hand. 'Esrick Yurrak, from this day is titled as Naltan, for he has brought the smile of Kivi unto his father and his much honored mother. And in his first real battle, aided in the felling of a filthy beast of an orc that had plagued this clan for many a year. Stand and be recognized, Esrick, son of Dorori, blood of my blood." Goblets and fists pounded table as I was pushed to my feet by cousin Bofurt, and I knew I could not hide my embarrassment by the well intended jeers from those around who saw my face redden in the firelight. In the years that would follow, my training continued, ever, though the raiding parties within the cavern held fewer and fewer enemies for my clan. Weary of such, and eager to prove my worth further than I already had, I spoke with my Mother and my Father, with the warden who directed our paths... and with much coaxing I finally garnered the permission to leave the dark caves, and the sturdy dwarven hold. Partly driven in my search for glory, but also in that if things were as bad beneath the ground, I could only wonder what it was like above. My choice was made before I'd even hitched the mules I'd purchased to my wagon, the city of Vintermor would be my desitination. Perhaps therin the fulfillment of whatever my destiny may be, could be found. My warhammer on my hip, my Urgrosh across my back... and my purpose worn like a badge of honor.

Within Vintermor
Within Vintermor has, at least at first, seen little test his mettle, outside of a small group of giants, and a battle with a gang of orcs and goblins lead by a minotaur, all with others at his side to aid him. Ever does he continue to dream of glory, in hopes of one day earning recognition.