Chapter 775

Chapter 775: Ironforge

Before Jesse stepped out of the passage, he heard bustling conversations and laughter echoing from all directions, mingled with the clanging of blacksmithing and the rumble of molten lava drifting from nearby.

As he exited the doorway, a dark street stretched before him, facing a towering stone wall dotted with various doorways and windows. Many entrances bore signs mostly featuring anvils or hammers and chisels. Dwarves argued and chatted at the thresholds.

Looking up, he saw massive stone arches soaring over a dozen meters high, supporting the cavern ceiling. Carved upon them were huge, densely packed Dwarven runes—simple yet solemn.

The Bronzebeard banner, a white field with a gold-and-red warhammer, hung above, flanked by the royal flag of Lordaeron. This symbolized Ironforge’s allegiance to the Alliance and the bond between humans and dwarves. Yet the sight of Lordaeron’s familiar emblem here struck Jesse with a faint sense of discord.

Like Grim Batol, Ironforge’s roads were smooth and broad, yet utterly lacked Grim Batol’s emptiness. After all, the Wildhammer’s old capital lay abandoned, and even the countless Dragonmaw Orcs couldn’t restore its former vitality.

In Ironforge, throngs of dwarves hauled all manner of goods. Jesse hugged the street’s edge as he walked, wary of brushing against something or toppling precious cargo.

He noticed some goods radiated magical energy. Though shrouded in cloth, Jesse guessed they held enchanted minerals or crystals.

It was growing late. Having gone without sleep, he sought lodging—an inn, perhaps.

But after wandering the clamorous streets, his ears ringing from the gibberish of Dwarven, he spotted no sign of a bed or lodging.

He’d assumed such a bustling city would teem with shops and markets, making accommodation easy to find. Yet after circling aimlessly, he grew dizzy. Ironforge seemed like Grim Batol—a vast ring-shaped city. Soon he felt he’d doubled back, though instinct told him Ironforge’s scale made a full circuit impossible so quickly… Best to ask a soldier for directions.

In the game, Stormwind soldiers wore gleaming full plate. But on Stormwind’s streets, Jesse rarely saw such intimidating guards—only the royal sentinels of Stormwind Keep came close.

Ironforge’s guards were different.

In the game, they wore stone-like plate armor, patrolling with square shields and axes. Here, reality’s granularity made their gear seem even more absurd.

Layers of pale gray pauldrons adorned with gold-and-red patterns encased their already broad shoulders. Their helmets resembled horned boulders, beards—golden and brown—spilling from the visor’s gaps. Tiny eyes darted behind the facial bars.

Beneath the massive helms and pauldrons, their breastplates and greaves were no less imposing: thick steel plates, iron rings, and chains clanking like clockwork automatons.

Jesse had glimpsed these Ironforge guards at the Dark Portal, but they’d been distant on the frontlines, colliding with shadowy Demon Guards. The Battle Mages on his flank, alongside fierce dwarven axemen, wore lighter gear—never letting him see details up close.

Arming every city guard like this demanded staggering smithing and mining. The ceaseless hammer strikes, furnace roars, and deep magma rumbles were likely their bedrock.

The armored column marched in lockstep, boots pounding the stone. They barked Dwarven chants in unison. Jesse glanced their way, deciding against blocking their path.

He spotted a stationary guard nearby. Approaching, he cleared his throat and offered a careful Dwarven greeting: "Good evening, sir."

The guard looked up and replied in a torrent of Dwarven. Jesse coughed awkwardly, switching to Common: "Pardon, I don’t speak Dwarven. I’m from Stormwind."

Half the guard’s eyes hid beneath his helm’s rim. Jesse couldn’t tell if he was being scrutinized until the dwarf finally grunted: "Human. Question. Speak."

Jesse guessed his meaning and enunciated clearly: "Inn."

"Ah… Inn." The dwarf repeated, babbling in Dwarven as he set his axe and shield down. He raised both iron-gauntleted hands—one hand showed five fingers, the other two.

"Seven? Or twenty-five?" Jesse frowned, baffled.

Seeing his confusion, the dwarf slapped a stone stair rail, held up five fingers, then stomped up several steps. Turning back, he flashed seven fingers and jabbed at the floor.

Jesse looked up—understanding dawned. Greed had mentioned Ironforge’s multiple tiers, but the game’s oversimplification made Jesse assume everything lay on one level…

So the guard meant: *This is Tier Five. The inn’s on Tier Seven.*

"Little ring," the guard suddenly said in Common.

"What?" Jesse followed his gaze to his own hand. "I see little ring," the guard insisted.

He wanted to inspect the ring. Jesse offered his hand. The guard peered at it, eyes widening. "Jesse Seso… Grim Batol?"

"That’s me."

"Jesse Seso!" The guard repeated, launching into impassioned Dwarven that drew stares from passersby.

Jesse grimaced inwardly. He’d mastered tongues even the Twisting Nether’s denizens scarcely knew—he’d picked up shreds of Ered’ruin. Yet he remained hopeless with Alliance allies’ languages, Elven or Dwarven. Wasn’t that absurd?