War had come to Dun Morough. Hulking, green-skinned orcs charged between various stone buildings of Kharanos, starting fires and killing the short folk, dwarves, with impunity.
Or so they thought. Short, stocky figures in cloaks stalked like ghosts through the powdery snow, moving towards the town. The greenskins went about their murderous work, completely unsuspecting of what was to come.
Lined up along the sides of the battle, the First Rifledwarf Division- actually only twenty fighters strong- opened fire, the crude rifles in their hands making a unified roar as small explosions propelled the spherical metal rounds at their green-skinned enemies. The majority fell as the burning rounds tore through flesh and bone, their red blood pooling on the snow covered ground. The remainder made no attempt to regroup, instead charging at their assailants haphazardly, roaring with blood lust. The Division reloaded, cutting down the maddened orcs with another singular thunderclap of sound and a storm of bullets.
Minutes later, the dwarves were gathered in the center of the town, near the stony structure of the inn, solidly built into a hill. Their leader, a white-haired fellow, who they knew as "Frostbeard" laughed heartily, shouting- in his thick dwarfish drawl- to no one in particular, "I knew we'd only need twenty t' take Kharanos back!"
All but one of the division cheered loudly.
Forbad, one of Frostbeard's top engineering apprentices, was cleaning his rifle of the residue left from firing. He wiped some soot off of his orange-bearded features. He spoke up, in much less of a thick accent than Frostbeard.
"I'm afraid not for long," He said, checking his barrel one last time, "We've heard reports of Horde forces massing in the Wetlands, around Grim Batol, which we haven't heard from in some time."
"So? Ironforge can take on a few orcs!" Proclaimed a younger recruit.
Forbad looked solemnly at the recruit,
"There have been reports of dragons." the red-bearded one replied grimly.
Someone gasped from inside the inn, and, as if by instinct, Frostbeard loaded his weapon and took aim.
"Come on out!"
About ten of the short folk filtered out of the inn. Survivors. Four of the ten were dressed in a sort of uniform consisting of a green cloak and armor. Each carried an ax. Frostbeard glared at the armored, becloaked figures.
"The bloody hell are you doin'?" he shouted, waving his rifle at them like a dwarf gone mad.
"We- the Kharanos Guard- are reporting for duty, sah!"
"I know who ye are, ye bunch of light-damned, cowardly desertahs!" Exploded Frostbeard, "Gimme one reason I shouldn't have ye execut'd on th' spot!"
"Well, sah," said the none-too-bright guard, as the other three cowered "We don't exactly have a commandin' offisah left t' do that."
There was a click as Frostbeard prepared to fire his rifle. The six civilians backed away, as did the four members of the Guard.
Forbad made his way up to his commanding officer, calmly stating his alternative.
"Sir, if I may? We are in need of additional forces. My suggestion, is that we punish them-"
"I'm getting' to that," interrupted Frostbeard in a low growl.
"-Is that we punish them with re-conscription. A trial run. If they preform in a cowardly manner, we report them for desertion in Ironforge."
"Oar we could jest shoot 'em now!"
Forbad continued, unfazed.
"We can do that, as well, if they do not preform to expectations."
There was a gunshot. A bullet plowed into the ground at one of the guard's feet.
"I like th' way you think, Forbad. Git Keeneye over here, we're gonna need weapons for these four."
"...Keeneye? Are you sure?"
Several hours, some metal tubes, a few other materials, and some manufactured gunpowder later, Grath Keeneye had manufactured four crude firearms.
Then they began training under his tutelage.
"Arright, grunts, listen up," he said, after setting out some makeshift targets, "Ye're mah Ginny-pigs fer th' day."
The "grunts" looked rather uncomfortable.
"Now, Ah've got aboot four kinds of gun-powder mixtures Ah'd liyke t' try. Purfict. No complainin' now!"
After explaining proper loading of the rifles, Grath told them to fire at the targets. Four explosions would've sounded, if one such sound didn't out-do them all. Everyone turned and looked at the fourth conscript in line, whose rifle and, for that matter, sleeve, were currently on fire. A few made their way over to help put him out. Keeneye, on the other hand, inspected the target.
The heavy wood back had been pierced, or, more accurately, shattered.
Keeneye whistled. "Naow that's what ah call stoppin' powah."