Bronzefist

Name
Captain Barin Bronzefist

Mountaineer of the Third Brigade

Description
Barin Bronzefist is probably beaming a hearty smile at you from his round, friendly face. His bushy brows arc over the top of his lashes, sticking out several inches, and his beady brown eyes are slightly creased in the corner. His typically large nose dominates most of his face, and the beginning of his golden beard hangs off the bottom of it. If you were to look underneath the hair, you would see two dimples poked into either side of his mouth. His beard is decorated with many rings etched with Dwarven runes on, flowing all the way down his chest, until it is tucked into his large waistline. His hair waterfalls down, being tied into a neat pony tail and pressed against his ears with a headband.

He is broad-shouldered and stout-framed, even for a Dwarf. He is not overweight but thickly built. His arms are like trunks and the skin is pulled tightly over the muscles on his limbs. He is perhaps a little small and heavy compared to the rest of his kind, but physically he is still as fit as he was in his prime, with vast strength and a set of iron lungs. A true engineered warrior.

Equipment
Around his belt is a miniaturized explosive assembly with detachable cobalt frag bombs whilst running across his shoulder and down his back is a bandolier full of ammunition. On his face lies a pair of top of the range goggles, complete with night, x-ray and infra-red vision. His rifle is strapped tightly to his back and gleams with many coats of oil that has been applied. His hammer, or axe, is also unusually shiny and his dagger glitters a sharp edge in the light, if it is not tucked into his boot.

Race and Class
Dwarven Warrior.

Guild


Occupation
Captain of the Third Brigade

Illustrious Grand Master Engineer, Pilot of the Ironforge Airstrip

Ex-Sergeant of the Stormwind Guard

Ex-Private of the Argent Battalion

Family
[Father]: Ulrik Bronzefist - DECEASED.

[Mother]: Grettle Bronzefist - DECEASED.

[Wife]: Brenda Bronzefist - DECEASED.

History
Barin's mother Grettle Bronzefist, took ill during early pregnancy with a disease that eventually killed her around the time of her son's birth. It was miraculous that she survived so long and had the strength to complete a relatively difficult labour, but the Bronzefists are carved from stronger stone than most!

Left to be raised by his father, Ulrik Bronzefist, in the humble valley of Coldridge, Barin grew up in and out of the family's workshop. He stayed watching his father long into the dark and cold nights, fascinated by the vision of his eye, and the talent of his hand. Barin took on-board the skills that were past downed to him, but did not follow the same path, instead beginning to learn how to tinker with a close Gnomish family friend, and a business partner of Ulrik's.

One night, when the sun had set under even the lowest ridge of the valley, and the wind howled relentlessly through the trees, the Bronzefist family workshop's light could still be seen, relieving the surrounding area from a sink of darkness.

Ulrik furrowed his heavy brow as he watched his boy hammer the last of the day's swords into a reasonable shape. He had learned not to look upon him with compassion, as that brought no improvement, but to employ the same method his father did, and scold him for the slightest error. Today he could not find one.

"Stick tha' in tha' coolin' bucket m'boy, an' we'll 'ead in fer tha' night," he said with pride hidden beneath a stern mask.

"Yea' pa!" the high-pitched and unbroken voice replied.

"Yeh'll 'ave tae warm tha' furnace yerself t'morrow, ah'm 'eadin' over tae tha' Loch. Ah'll be gone a'fore yer wake, an' beck by tha' time yer asleep again."

Barin began to protest instantly, as his father was much used to, and he was silenced with an authoritative hand. He walked out of the workshop and into the cool night air, at once thankful for winter. The beads of sweat on his forehead evaporated away and he made for his bed seemingly content. That night, both father and son slept uneasily.

Ulrik ate no breakfast that morning. He saddled up the ram from the stables, which frankly has seen better days... and years. After attaching a cart as quietly as he could, he made for the tunnel towards Kharanos. It was a long journey to Loch Modan, but one that was much needed. Word had come to him of the Dark Irons destroying homes on the outskirts, and all hands were needed to help repair the vandalism. The thought made Ulrik spit by the roadside at that very moment.

It was long dark before the sound of water came to the ears of the Dwarf. He hadn't exactly travelled light, and a broken cart wheel had caused him an inconvenient delay. To make up for the lost time, he had decided to stray from the road, and cut a path as close to the shoreline as possible. The only things the local folk had feared last time he visited, were the wild bears, but many of them were now in hibernation, and the polished rifle next to him would serve as deterrent enough.

Ulrik looked casually over his shoulder, dismissing the sound of footsteps he had thought he heard.

"Yeh're gettin' paranoid in yer ol' age, Ulrik," he muttered to himself. The unmistakable sound of feet treading through shallow water came to him. "Or mayhaps yer ears are keener than yer kno'."

There was no mistaking it, three shadows, seemingly of darker shade than the night itself revealed themself dangerously close infront of him, and increased their speed of approach. The ram let out a cone of cold air from either nostril as it snorted, spooked by the unfamiliar appearance of the Dwarves. These were to be its last breaths as its throat was slit and it slammed on its side in the soft ground, the cart going with it.

Ulrik's arm reached for the rifle that landed a yard away from him, but was stopped as a wet, bare foot, caked with mud stomped on his forearm. He closed his eyes and said a last prayer to the titans, but his death did not come so quickly. He was pulled to his feet, as the leader of the group of three stepped forwards, hissing some words in that liquid tongue of theirs.

A blade was chucked from one of the two that stood behind the leader, and speared into the grass next to Ulrik. The leader cackled at this, whilst his companions followed and jeered. Ulrik was taunted to attack in that sickening language, he was sure. Most of their other victims would have been reluctant to take the sword, for that meant the challenge was accepted, but a smarter Dwarf knew death would come either way. He would not go quietly.

The leader wore no practical armour, but wielded a tomohawk with a sharpened stone head in one hand, and a rusty dagger in the other. Ulrik tutted to himself at the shoddy worksmanship of the weapon he held. He had built some of similar design, he knew the materials that went into it, he knew its process of manafacture, he even knew how to sharpen it, but not how to wield it.

Nonetheless, he lifted it over his head and charged. As his sword entered its down swing, it was stopped dead in its path by the dagger of his opponent. The head of the tomohawk ripped at Ulrik's tricep, slicing the muscle deeply, and he was forced to hold his sword with the other hand.

Ulrik roared in pain before lunging a stab at the leader' stomach. The Dark Iron swiftly stepped aside with the ease of excellent footwork, dodging the attack, before blocking the next swing that came by Ulrik. He sneered a yellow-toothed smile before plunging his rusty dagger into Barin's father and then quickly across his throat, wiping the jugular blood from his face, before returning into the night once more.

After his father's funeral, Barin went to live with an uncle he had never seen, or heard of before, way up in the north. It was a drastic change from working with his hands to build, now he worked with them to fight, and his uncle was one of the best warrior teachers. He learned enough from his father's death to not want to join the military, and went back to live in peace at the valley, during his early adulthood. He did so for a while as a professional engineer whilst marrying his childhood sweetheart.

When the second war came, his wife was murdered by the invading Orcs whilst attempting to escape, and it was at this point he joined the army, seeking a bloody revenge. Having engineered his own private flying craft, his help was greatly appreciated at the Ironforge Airstrip. It was at this point he made a name for himself as a savage barbarian of a soldier, and a talented pilot.

Criminal Record
Bronzefist's criminal record was reported 'missing' around the same time he joined the Stormwind Guard.

Vehicles
Has the keys to a Mekgineer's Chopper.

Owns a Flying Machine which he piloted during the second and third wars.