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In the time of legends, Aturk would crush the skulls of his enemies and grind the bone into a fine powder for use in filament. Long gone are those days, ‹ras›. The Warchief calls for peace among the clans. Old enemies are now only watched with weary eyes!
Unbelievable, I know, but such is the will of Thrall.
Enough lamenting! You are here to learn, and learn you will! Bring me four steel breastplates and four steel helms and you will gain a taste of war!
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Aturk, like time, waits for no one! Hurry up fool!
När du lämnar in
It seems you are but another complacent lemming of the Warchief, ‹namn›. How disappointing.
How I long for a glorious death upon the battlefield. Instead, I am stuck here, by order of Thrall, to teach infants how to craft! Watch and learn, child!