My father always said, "Leave the fighting of the wars to the warriors and priests; Engineers are the ones that win those wars."

It took many long years to understand some of the cryptic things my father once spoke to me as I spent time with him in his shop, working away at the latest of his outlandish inventions, but this one made sense. The work wasn't always glorious, as we labored to repair mining equipment, railroads wrecked by greenskins, or reopen mines that had long been neglected, but the task had to be done and done right. Those hammerswingers and finger-wagglers are certainly stalwarts of the front lines, but how long can a dwarf go without ale? Without newly forged weapons of high steel? Without provisions? Without turret and landmine defenses that tirelessly watch their backs?

The grenade accident that took my father was sad, but it certainly was the way he would have wanted to go. Blackpowder, like greenskins, can be unpredictable and volatile. After my father's shop was destroyed in the blast, I had nothing to turn to but my father's antique, but modified rifle, his years of wisdom, and his passion for our homeland.

I do not follow in my father's steps within the shop and on the engineering projects he was so fond of; instead, I have taken to the field to find the truth in the blood and dirt of both dwarf and orc, if there were any truth to be found there. Every report of my rifle reminds me of my own father and heritage; the blackpowder and cordite smell of the shop in which I was raised, the hammering of the gunstock to my shoulder reminds me of the pains engineers stoically shoulder, and the grime of spent powder, dirt, and blood on my lips remind me that I am still alive.