Ending the meeting, the everyone soon dispersed
The training grounds deep within the subterranean levels of Ironforge were stiflingly hot, smelling of ozone, sulfur, and melted stone.
In the center of the obsidian arena, a massive figure moved with a rhythmic, terrifying momentum.
SCREEECH.
Alaric Ironheart dragged The Anvil across the limestone floor. The six-foot slab of grey Mythril gouged a deep white trench into the stone with every step. He didn't hold it like a regular blade.
He gripped the hilt with both hands, the muscles in his back bulging as he torqued his hips, swinging the -pound weapon with every ounce of strength in his body.
BOOM!
The flat blade crashed into the floor, sending a shockwave of displaced air echoing through the cavern.
