The moment the Mightiest Artifact was successfully forged.
A powerful surge swept out from Ironforge in an instant, engulfing everything amid the roar of the elements and the tremors of magic.
Gerald was a traditional dwarf. From childhood, he had displayed the talents of his people: an extraordinary love of alcohol and a habit of stealing his father's fine liquor. Those days had continued for decades. After coming of age, Gerald began traveling between Gnomeregan and Ironforge. He felt a natural affinity for the gnomes, who were about his own height. Humans and elves, on the other hand, were people he disliked. Nothing annoyed Gerald more than having to tilt his head back and look up at someone while talking.
Over the countless years, Gerald had lost track of how many trips he had made between Gnomeregan and Ironforge. A thousand? Two thousand? There had been far too many. At first, he had kept count, but gradually he had abandoned that futile task.
Traveling between Gnomeregan and Ironforge was not without danger. Sometimes, a traveler might be caught by those damned trolls and eaten.
Gerald had always been lucky. Across all those trips, he had rarely encountered trolls, and even when he did, he had managed to escape.
But luck had deserted Gerald this time, as though he had exhausted his good fortune over the years. He had encountered the most troublesome kind of troll: a sorcerer. As a dwarf warrior facing a spellcaster, he would naturally win if the distance between them was less than five meters. But beyond ten meters, if he could not close the gap, the sorcerer would crush him.
Gerald rolled across the ground, desperately dodging magical attacks. White snow clung to his hair and beard.
Dun Morogh's high altitude made its climate exceptionally cold.