Ryshat's Campfire
True Aim Rifle
King Magni Bronzebeard


Transmorgin’ Ma’ Boomstick

Recently a gaggle of those wispy wafting bandage burglars set up shop in Stormwind. Out in the backwoods I hear tales that they offer more storage for widgets and whatnot as well as a service called “Tranmessogrigination” or some such nonsense. From what I understood they could make one thing look like another thing. Well hell, I do that all the time. I put on my furs and I’m a Furbolg. I get in my skivies with a wooden mask and a bone and I’m a Troll. But I hears that they do things a bit more fancy like, so I head inta town to check ’em out.

Now, I admit that they seem to have some pretty fancy higgery pokery with making yer clothes look all spiffy-fied, but when it comes down to it, the only piece of gear that means any bit of a damn to me is me trusty boomstick. It’s the one piece of gear I own that could benefit from some fancy schmancy lookafyin’. Besides, pretty much all hunter gear makes ya look like some sort o’ Gnomish marital aide, so what’s th’ point?

Now I’ve recently been afflicted with a crossbow, or as I like to call ’em, “bastard bows”. The unholy union of a fine steeled fighting instrument and a sickly stick and a bit o’ twine. Sos I went to the bank and browsed my assortment of favorite guns. I had my Trophy Gun, my Chuckshooter. I picked over my classic Rimebane, my extra pointy Gunblade and my good ol’ stocky Mark “S” model. Ahhh, browsing me gun collection is one of the few pleasures I find when I’m forced to roam the city streets. I finally settled on turning my eyesore of a Lavabolt Crossbow into my ever faithful (and dastardly looking) True Aim Long Rifle. A long range beauty that can also stand toe to toe with any creature fool enough to stand close enough ta braid me beard. Nothin’ says “C’mere, I’m gonna use yer head as a tripod mount.” than a big ol’ honkin blade on the front.

So it’s done. Me trusty long rifle is by me side and the bastard bow is never ta be seen again.

Now if only I could get those wraiths ta spruce up that joke of a “legendary” in my bank. Sheesh.

Alas, Poor Magni…

I knew him Tundra.

One of the few bad things about bein’ out in the wilds for so long is that I tend to be out of touch with the social and political landscape, and usually that’s fine by me. But on a recent trip to Ironforge I went to pay respects to our glorious King and was directed out of the throne room and to an underground passage, only heard of in whispers and children’s tales. I traveled down the tunnels and found myself face ta face with the crystallized form of our beloved King Bronzebeard.

It was quite a shock. Our benevolent leader, struck down in the prime of his life trying to bring peace to a sundered world. I remember the times I worked directly in service to the King. From the time I found Sully Baloo under the Thandol Span and brought honor to his name to the time I assaulted Black Rock Depths to rescue his ungrateful daughter. And now I’m expected to bow to her? I’ll be damned before the words “Dwarven Queen” pass my lips. At least Falstad and Muradin are there to keep her in check.

What has become of Dwarven pride for us to allow this abomination to sit upon the throne? I am better off wandering the wilds of Azeroth if this is what has become of our fair city.


…and welcome to Ryshat’s Campfire.

Who am I? I’m a proud Dwarven hunter from the snowy hills of Dun Morogh. I spend my time traveling Azeroth as an Alliance scout and forward observer. I hunt, trap, trick and kill the many foul creatures who plague our lands with the help o’ my trusty polar bear companion, Tundra. I make many of me own guns and gear and spend as much time as possible away from the congestion and noise o’ the big cities. Me half-brother Webee handles all of my affairs in the cities, as he is more “domesticated” than I am (as he would put it). I have a particular fondness for collecting the wee beasties and critters that dot the landscape and boast a pretty sizeable collection, if I do say so meself.

What is this place? It’s me campfire. My place to kick back and reflect on the day’s activities. Some days are busier than others, but nothing beats sitting in front of a warm fire, cleanin’ me guns and cooking up some tasty grub for me and ol’ Tundra. I’ll be tellin’ tales of my exploits, victories, (rare) defeats and generally chewin’ the fat round this here campsite. One night I might be sleeping under the thick jungle canopy of Stranglethorn Vale, another night I might be starin’ up at the stars in the Borean Tundra. Who knows where I’ll be, or where the day’ll take me … but you’re always welcome to pull up a bed roll, grab a brew and hear me tell tales.

Unless yer a filthy Hordie. Then ya can just piss off.