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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:47:39 GMT
The Breaking of the Three Spell Keepers In ashen lands of slag, open pit mines, industry and fire, the Chaos Dwarfs reigns over the only empire in the Dark Lands to have stood the test of time. Theirs is a realm of unspeakable cruelty, toil and hardship, of demented ingenuity and horrific inventions breaking the laws of nature in the mortal world. Theirs is a realm of devout worship to their Father of Darkness, a whole empire willing and able to sacrifice no small portions of their resources at the fiery altars in front of His mighty idols. These are the dark domains of Hashut, known to some as Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the great and all her holdings.
Though the worshippers of Hashut are fanatically obedient to their Bull God, they pay some respects to the Dark Gods, Daemons and demigods of the wider Chaos pantheon, and not only because they exploit them as a source of raw material for insane projects in the arts of Daemonforging and sorcery. They may rule over an empire of their own, yet the Dwarfs of Fire truly are Chaos Dwarfs. They worship a Chaos god and do not deny it. They trade with, and may ally themselves to mortal, beastly and Daemonic forces of Chaos alike. Through high Hashut, their deeds and destinies are all entwined with that of the greater Chaos.
Few sects in the Dawi Zharr world are unwilling to recognize these facts even in rituals of cult worship, and those who are unwilling must still bite their tounge and swallow their pride to tip their hat to the wider Chaos pantheon, lest terrible calamities may befall them. For it has happened before and may happen again.
The mysterious relationship between Chaos and Chaos Dwarfs may to some extent be gleaned from the myths and legends of the Dawi Zharr. These are not stories of love and kind helpfulness, but rather tales of cold calculation, brutal exploitation and untamed ambition. More often than not, they are sagas steeped in raw fear and subjugation to the cruel whims of Chaos, akin to sailors who must travel upon the stormy seas and trawl their depths, even though the oceans may swallow them and their vessels whole. Whatever the themes inherent in the varied myths about Chaos amongst the worshippers of Hashut, they all agree on the inescapable bonds between their labouring race and the greater fate of the Dark Gods and all their realms.
These are the stories of exposure to gods mightier than their own, as told by the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
This is one of these stories.Secrets of Jealousy: It is said, that in ancient times, Tzeentch was the ultimately strongest Dark God of Chaos, before his brothers united and cast him down, shattering his might into innumerable shards that would become magic spells. To gather all these wayward sorceries and restore himself to full power, the Changer of Ways created the Blue Scribes, P'tarix and X'iratp, who would hunt all lost spells through time and space and catalogue them for their master. Their work is a neverending one, for magic in its myriad forms multiplied in the hands of mortals, yet the Blue Scribes bent to their task without ceasing or tiring.
Aeons after the great fall of Tzeentch, the Father of Darkness single-handedly defeated three independent Daemon Princes and broke their wills to His own. With ruthless might did He crush and break them, and out of the flames of domination did He reforge their once mighty forms into Daemons more akin to horned cages and fanged strongboxes than any kind of creatures alive in the mortal world. These were the Spell Keepers. High Hashut did this so that He could hoard His secret sorceries, for the Bull God invented or conquered many a unique and forbidden spell which He jealously wanted to guard for Himself and for His future chosen ones, out of righteous hunger for power.
Into the three Spell Guardians did Hashut lock away magic incantations of the Lores of Death, Fire and Metal, and here within their bowels were the sorcerous mysteries safe, for the Father of Darkness had wrought the Spell Keepers in such a fashion that not even Tzeentch himself could see into their shackled minds. Not even Kairos Fateweaver could know neither their arcane contents, nor the number of spells kept within the reforged Daemon Princes.
Yet the three Spell Keepers of Hashut were neither mute nor deaf, and these weaknesses would be used by Tzeentch to pry the secrets from out of their hard shells. The Architect of Fate would not suffer anyone to deny him a secret, lest of all the sorceries that he himself needed to know if he ever was to transcend the rest of the Great Four and rule all of creation anew. Tzeentch, the Master of Fortune, summoned the Lord of Change, Uzuzap Talonhand, and tasked him with depriving Hashut of his hidden spells. Uzuzap in turn summoned the ever-searching Blue Scribes to record the magic incantations, and then stole away the three Spell Keepers from the infernal realm of the fiery Bull God.Torment: The three Spell Keepers were locked away in twisting dungeons of ever-shifting crystal spires and maelstroms of miscast magic. Here, Uzuzap Talonhand drained the strength from out of the Spell Keepers' essence, and tortured them gravely in wells of insanity and upon lonely peaks of angst before interrogating the weakened Daemons. The Blue Scribes stood eagerly by to do the bidding of the Lord of Change.
First, Uzuzap Talonhand demanded the secrets from the Spell Keeper of Death, yet the bound Daemon denied the Tzeentchian torturers any spell whatsoever. For this affront to the Great Conspirator, he was slowly destroyed in a torrent of random magic cast by the bickering Blue Scribes, and then cast into a maelstrom of oblivion, thereby diluting and eradicating all the precious sorceries.
Second, Uzuzap Talonhand demanded the secrets from the Spell Keeper of Metal. The bound Daemon feared the fate visited upon the Spell Keeper of Death, and thus he betrayed his master and revealed Hashut's secret sorceries to the Blue Scribes. The Spell Keeper of Metal was released, yet punished severely by the Father of Darkness, who melted down the bound Daemon and locked him away for an eternity of agony inside a very small cage, only to be summoned and enslaved occassionally by Daemonsmiths who wished to use the broken wretch for their own nefarious ends.
Third, Uzuzap Talonhand demanded the secrets from the Spell Keeper of Fire. The cunning Daemon lied to his tormentors, and swore that he knew but one spell, for Hashut had not deposited any more inside him. In the manner of lizards, the Spell Keeper of Fire sacrificed his tail to escape, by losing one precious magic incantation to the predations of Tzeentch, yet retaining all the other secret fire sorceries for high Hashut. The Spell Keeper of Fire was eventually released and returned to the abode of the Father of Darkness within the Realm of Chaos.
The mighty Bull God, however, never stooped low enough for gratitude in His dark heart, but instead He punished the bound Daemon for his failure to safeguard every single spell from Uzuzap Talonhand and the Blue Scribes. So it was that Hashut ripped out the tounge of the Spell Keeper of Fire and branded the secret sorceries on the inside of the Spell Keeper's skull, thereby making it only possible to retrieve the hidden incantations by splitting the Daemon's skull without shattering it.
Thus it is that the Chaos Dwarfs, and even the Father of Darkness Himself, must welcome the wider Chaos with one hand, while pushing it away with the other. To welcome with both hands is to kindle the wrath of Hashut. To push away with both hands is to test the patience of Chaos. Akin to the Spell Keeper of Fire, the Dawi Zharr cannot remain entirely separated from the wider Chaos, but must yield something of value to Chaos, if they are to profit from its mysteries and powers, without inviting their doom.
Such is the balance act of the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:48:27 GMT
Lordship in Heaven
In distant quarters of the world lies the vast and accursed Dark Lands, sandwiched between towering mountain ranges to the north, west and east, and ending in a chapped coastline against the Sea of Dread to the south. These elements of earth and water have a companion in fire, for the rolling wilderness is but a volcanic desolation of ash, flames and molten rock spewing forth from the bowels of the earth, constantly reshaping the terrain to the detriment of its hardy and merciless denizens and creatures. And then there is the element of air, choked by smoke, ashen storms and thunderclouds, opening up into the endless skies above where portentuous celestial bodies may occasionally gain a glimpse of the smoke-shrouded, ruddy hell on earth below that is the Dark Lands.
Wild though they are, the Dark Lands are not wholly untamed, for large stretches of them lie burdened and ravaged under the heavy yoke of the dark empire of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the Great and all her holdings; the worldly realm of the Father of Darkness; the forbidden territory of the Chaos Dwarfs. These Dwarfs of Fire are bloodied sacrificers and fanatical worshippers bereft of mercy and kindness in their ravenous black hearts, for they are torturers, murderers, harsh slavers and baleful artificers of the Dark Gods, wreathed in mystery and dread and believed to be little else but the fanciful stuff of horrible legends by most of the inhabitants of the far-flung realms of order who are even dimly aware of their existence.
These enigmatic Dawi Zharr have myths and legends of their own, for their beliefs and folktales make up a plethora of weird and terrible, and often contradictory or outright insane stories explaining the world to the worshippers of high Hashut. The origins of all creation, of the gods and creatures which reside in it, are detailed in a number of parallel myths, cherished by various schismatic sects within the Cult of Hashut. These creation stories are narratives of bloodshed and of making through breaking, of unrelenting labours and monstrous deeds, of villainous figures locked in brutal contest for domination. The children of Hashut have verily crafted their sagas in their own image and that of their infernal deity, for they all speak of a world of Daemons and Dark Gods, of dire secrets and heinous acts, of ruthless cruelty and an insatiable hunger for power bordering on madness and worse. They are a testament to the demented creativity of the forgemen of hell, pieces crafted of words mirroring their nightmarish creations of matter and arcane forces which maim, slay and devastate all in their path.
To partake of the twisted mythology of the Chaos Dwarfs is to gain a glimpse into their convoluted and malignant minds, minds which drive strong arms to undertake monumental labours and to perform misdeeds to make a heart of stone bleed. In some sense, much of Dawi Zharr lore consists of creation myths of some sort, for even the lesser tales usually details the source and roots of some custom, creature, construct or phenomenon both natural and otherworldly.
Unsurprisingly for a race of strip-miners and industrialists, many such stories explains where minerals and rocks of the natural world come from and why they are found in their particular locations and strata, especially those seemingly out of place in the turbulent geology of the Dark Lands. These tales of ore and stone and crystal are more often than not interwoven with mythological characters, Daemons and Dark Gods, all scheming, crafting, betraying and destroying according to dark intrigues, which eventually results in some observed distribution of minerals. These stories about rock and metal feature sorcery, struggles and gutsy details, played out by figures of bloodcurdling conduct stalking each other through a primordial haze of fire and smoke, in a world not dissimilar from the real one, where might is right and mercy is for the weak.
Above all, they are tales of ambition, shattered hope and monstrous deeds. They are tales of cruelty moulding the stuff of creation like clay and firing it in the kiln of domination. They are tales of hardships and plight, of blood and flames and fiendish triumph reaped atop the broken bodies of one's enemies.
Such are the stories of dark origin as told by the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
This is one of these stories.Conquest: It is said, that in the olden days, the dark and fiery heavens were not one and whole, for the high abodes were lorded over by a thousand and one petty Daemon Princes, seated in a thousand and one petty chiefdoms and waging a thousand and one petty wars for sovereignty in the roiling sky realms. This all changed with the coming of the Father of Darkness, for in the guise of the Great Thunderbull did He who is Hashut storm the heavens in a great stampede of lightning, sundering and scattering the wretched rival lords and their hordes, goring and trampling all underfoot, claiming their consorts for His own subdued harem and mightily vanquishing His foes. Where once there had been a thousand and one thrones, there was now but one seat of power on high.
Thus did the lordship in heaven pass to the fierce Bull God.
Yet four remained.Betrayal: Early on in His divine invasion of the dark and fiery heavens, the Father of Darkness saw fit to accept eight weaker Daemon Princes as allies and vassals under His heavy yoke, and in this role did they aid Hashut. The treacherous manners of Daemonkin rang true in their heart of hearts, for all and one among the free vassals secretely planned to side with the Bull God for the moment being, only to stab the conqueror in His back at an opportune moment. Yet so swift and ferocious was the Great Thunderbull's skyward charge, that not all false allies had time to betray Him, and thus it was that four cunning Daemon Princes serving under the Fiery One bit their tounges and bided their time.
Outwardly, the four spared Daemons humiliated themselves and rejoiced in Him as He wisely claimed their chiefdoms for Himself, yet rewarded their services and seeming loyalty by appointing them to be His cupbearers. In this high office of exalted prestige and honour did the craven Daemonic vassals conspire to bring down the mighty ruler of the skies, yet they plotted each for himself and none trusted the others, and distrust and disunity sealed their fates. And so it was, that one of the courtly tasters, Iz'Jaenhyssch, ate part of the bloody meat, and fell dead before the cloven hooves of thunder, for the cupbearer had swallowed poisioned sustenance intended for Hashut. In high wrath did the Bull God burn the perpetrator, Khorlok, to cinders with snorting lightning bolts, whereupon He Who Rapes the Earth cast out the two remaining cupbearers into desolation.
Thus did Daemonkin prove itself unfit for reciprocal pacts, and nevermore would the Father of Darkness take any Daemons into His service without first chaining them and breaking their wills completely.
Yet two remained.Struggle: In shame did the former cupbearers crave their old power back, and in realms of oblivion did they blame each other for the loss of what rank they had left when still at His court. Spite turned to hatred, and blood spattered upon ash and rock as the two fallen Daemon Princes turned upon each other. In twilight did they struggle in vicious combat, yet the one known as Mzerak overcame his rival, Kartun, seizing him and bringing him low. And in the cruel moment of victory did Mzerak trample his foe into the dust, gouge out his eyes and cut off Kartun's manhood to gulp it down. Mzerak roared to the high heavens in triumph and praised his own strength as though it was divine. The bodily essence of the defeated Daemon drifted away at death like smog, yet the spirit of vanquished Kartun lingered and taunted his victorious rival for a fool.
Inside the dark gut of the lone surviving cupbearer did the swallowed phallus of Kartun impregnate its devourer as if it had been the womb of a female. Mzerak tried to vomit and defecate at all costs, and in desperation did the Daemon reach down with both his arms inside his own throat to rip out the growing foster, yet the offspring eluded its host body's frantic attempts at murder by following the vehement advice of its defeated and gelded father, the spirit of former cupbearer Kartun. Fell words were whispered to the progeny, who followed the advice and ate away into the heart and lungs of the victor Mzerak, where it hid inside the ribcage and nurtured itself on bloodied innards.
Mzerak Groineater writhed in agony and shrieked and clawed as the offspring within grew and grew until it ripped apart the fallen Daemon Prince from inside, bursting through his tortured hide and leaving nought but an empty shell of a corpse behind.
Thus one remained.Dynasty: Awash in the blood of torn Mzerak did the hatched progeny of gelded Kartun name himself Karezm of Claws. The lingering spirit of Kartun offered him toxic advice as the offspring matured. The gelded one told his impure son of bygone might and splendour. Karezm listened well, and learnt from the lingering spirit of his own heritage and destiny, for Kartun's fell spirit revealed Karezm to be the sole and rightful heir to lordship in heaven. Yet to claim what was rightfully his, the progeny must first overcome this usurper and betrayer called Hashut, a brute bull. This was a monumental task, for the bovine deity was too strong, virile and powerful, and Karezm of Claws could only hope to succeed should he challenge the usurper with great allies at his side.
Karezm set out to gather his might, heeding the words of gelded Kartun. The lingering spirit spoke, and caused his offspring to seek out three giant rock godesses slumbering deep within distant lands. The first stone behemoth was of diorite, the second of flint and the third of granite. All three did Karezm of Claws ravage in a frenzy, for, acting upon instructions given him by the lingering spirit of Kartun, did the Daemon imagine the rock godesses to be Daemonettes in order to kindle his desires. Thus it was that Karezm took the godesses by force, his manhood flowing into them only to become flayed inside diorite rock, shredded inside flint, and crushed inside granite.
The violent ordeals of this bastard begetting exhausted and mutilated Karezm of Claws. And he collapsed in a pathetic pile, groaning in agony and crying blood as he wasted away the remainder of his days, until the vengeful mothers converged, pounded and utterly destroyed the Daemon Karezm, upon waking to pain prior to giving birth to their unwanted offspring. The rock godesses wandered far and wide to put out their newborn progeny into the wilderness of the distant Dark Lands to die off, exposed to the fury of elements and monsters alike. Yet the lingering spirit remained with its grandsons.
Thus was the line of Kartun the gelded established.Bastardry: Half rock god, half Daemon. Undesired, outcast. Such was the nature of the three monstrous half-brothers, who knew not how to survive on their own and would surely have perished if not for the advice given unto them by the lingering spirit of the former cupbearer. The three bastard titans were kept alive by the remnants of Kartun, and they came to trust and venerate the helpful spirit as the titans grew up, nourished on lies. They were told, that they had been robbed of their rightful inheritance, the very lordship in heaven, by the pretender Hashut who killed Kartun, their father, and would have killed the offspring too had he not already hidden away the three titans to keep them safe. Had he not loved and nurtured them all this time? Would they not avenge the ill deeds of the usurper and claim what was in truth theirs?
As the bastard titans grew, their legs shot up from the ground like mighty pillars, and their hard heads touched the firmament itself. Seeing them grown strong indeed, the lingering spirit of Kartun the gelded urged the offspring to act and avenge their father. Emboldened by their ripening strength and colossolal size, the three titans climbed into the heavens and attacked the Thunderbull on His majestic throne of darkness and lightning. The onslaught of the invading titans was furious, driven as it was by the lingering spirit's battlecries, and thus a mighty battle raged which shook all of creation to its foundations and caused the skies to rend themselves asunder. The heavens covered the world in blackness and roaring thunder, striking forth lightning among the turbulent clouds and spitting forth glowing rock debris falling in flames to the ground.
The battle for the heavens raged day and night, and day turned into night and night turned into day as gods clashed on high. The Father of Darkness was pressed hard, outnumbered as he was by lumbering titan bastards who had been raised for this moment alone, this very combat. He charged and trampled and dove and gored, yet on the foe came and no force in existence seemed capable of laying the enemy low. The Bull God's flaming breath lit up the world and burnt everything in its path to cinders as Hashut fought the titans. He bellowed not only in righteous fury and cruel might, but also in torment, for the vicious clashes spilled forth droplets of the fiery blood of molten metal which pulses within His divine and unholy veins, and they fell as hot drops to the earth, leaving surface deposits of pure metal fallen from the sky.
Yet in the end, high Hashut stood victorious though not unscarred, roaring in ruthless triumph after extinguishing the lingering essence of the shamed cupbearer, Kartun the gelded. In wrath, the Father of Darkness shattered the Daemonic bastard titans, toppling their vast rock corpses from the firmament and showering them in small pieces uncounted upon the Dark Lands below. Boulders crashed through the skin of the world, tearing up fiery wounds, and smaller chunks of rock scattered like hail upon impact, cartwheeling madly before landing heavily and embedding themselves as part of the landscape. And that is how the foreign rocks of diorite, flint and granite came to be in His hellish realm on earth, while the fierce Bull God remained lord in heaven.
Such are the violent origins of things, according to the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:48:57 GMT
The First Soulfurnace In days of yore did the fierce Bull God descend upon wings of shadow and flame unto Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the Great, and He stood strong before the chosen tribe, and His worshippers praised Him at length and conducted great sacrificial rites and adulated the divine and unholy name of the Father of Darkness. And they humbly asked the mighty one for His bidding, and high Hashut deigned to command them to cast off and vastly surpass the last vestiges of the weak art of runeforging which their heathen ancestors had practiced, for the Dark God ordered His children to craft items with not only magic trapped in potent inscriptions, but to forge far mightier things out of the very Daemons of the Realm of Chaos itself. He commanded the Dawi Zharr to melt, mould and hammer the minions of the Great Four and of all the lesser entities of the Warp. For would not this prove the ultimate superiority of their fiery deity over the other gods?
And thus did the Great Trampler ascend and return to His shackled court in darkness and flames, and leave His faithful with this challenge, which they arose to conquer in His sacred name. No efforts were spared in this great undertaking. No sacrifices were too great, no hardships too severe, no ingenuity was denied, no matter how insane and convoluted. Trials and experiments uncounted were conducted in a myriad of different paths to tame the servants of the Dark Gods, yet the key discoveries to unlock the hidden secrets sought after were made at a basic level, after which cunning craftsmen could work true miracles and unimaginable horrors alike upon the metal; for the breakthrough came about by His will in the furnace which heats the ore and melts out the metal from the rock.
At first, the Chaos Dwarfs fired their furnaces with coal, which is a dead matter, and occasionally they would shovel into the flames screaming and unwilling slaves deserving of punishment and agony, and the fires would be fuelled by their flesh, which is a living matter. Yet soon a conclave of twelve arcane engineers, led by the ruthless and demented Sorcerer-Prophet Kuramupalazzar Slagfist, found out an unprecedented way to enhance the mastery of forged power from the Empyrean, an approach wholly unknown at that time to the lesser tribes and unbelievers of the world. This invention was the intricate and perilous means by which living mind could fuel the furnace, and indeed the smithy, which would enhance the abilities of the Dawi Zharr to forge otherworldly forces into matter upon their cracked and chained anvils.
Usually the body of a slave would be burnt along with the mind, yet forge trials revealed that the proper spells could make the furnace consume the psyche within the skull without having to devour the flesh. Thus, a longer burning time of mindflames extracted from particularly strong spirits was achieved, yet the resultant wretched shell of a being, imbecille and bereft of identity and intelligence, was useless except for eating or burning.
Yet groundbreaking and potent though the mindforging method was, it proved but a mere stopgap measure, later on fit only for the training of apprentices and the crafting of lesser talismans and other magic items. For by the supreme and unerring guidance of mysterious Hashut did the independent arcane engineer Hazhem-Durikgalzur, at great expense and at the accidental loss of his two brothers and father, finally manage to reach and cleave the shell of the very soul found within each living creature, and the exposed eternal essence within could then be ignited by the sorcerously directed and simultaneous burning of flesh and mind, thus obtaining an intense fire both mundane and otherworldly which, if skilfully harnessed, would produce metal uniquely fit for luring, trapping, containing and exposing the Daemons of Chaos, who in their hunger are drawn to vulnerable souls of mortals like moths to flames.
The Soulfurnace was thus invented, a mortal contraption wrought in the image of the cruel Bull God's infamous armoury hidden within the Realm of Chaos, and the first of its baleful kind remains a sacred place and destination of crafts-pilgrimage to this day.
Through neverending toil and sacrifice did Hazhem-Durikgalzur master a new craft, and he learnt and taught how to forge Daemons and Empyrean forces into objects to harness dark sorcery properly and efficiently, thus allowing the most intricate arcane artifices to be worked into items, thereby producing the most powerful and heinously dangerous equipment. Thus did he become the first Daemonsmith Engineer and founded a masterful and hazardous craft and tradition like few others ever practised in creation. And the Father of Darkness saw that this was well.
Such is the progress of the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:49:45 GMT
The Poison of Pessimism I. Slavedriving"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should take up slavedriving for a craft. Why should I raise whip for the thralls of others?"
"Oversee, master, oversee! To control the will and life and labour of mortals lesser than yourself is true power, even if it is in the service of another. It is an honourable and reliable craft for respected men and women, and you need rarely if ever fear to pay out of your own purse for when slaves of others are killed for their laziness. You would hold their lives in your hands! You could vent your wrath upon them at will!"
"Now tell me why I should not take up slavedriving for a craft. Why should I forsake such power?"
"Do not oversee, master, do not oversee! It is a thankless and dirty task among the rabble. Ever would you be on the lookout for uprisings and assaults against your hated person, and ever would you and your ilk be surrounded by hundreds who wish your death. Only fear and chains and arms keeps them down, and the vile Hobgoblin taskmasters beneath you could never be trusted to stand when faced with strong danger. The work is petty, and the slaves you drive would fill coffers other than your own. The pay is low and rarely would you rise above your station. You would become an angry and sour man indeed, and marriage to you would be a miracle or shame. Your abilities are better spent in more worthwhile crafts!"
"O well slave, then I shall not take up slavedriving for a craft!"II. Mining and Quarrying"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should take up mining and quarrying. Why should I raise my pickaxe in toil?"
"Dig, master, dig! To toil for wealth and search the riches of the earth sings in the hearts of your race. Ever would your wits and muscles be tested in pursuit of the fickle veins of ore, or the perfect blocks of stone. You would rise to the challenge and overcome it, and rejoice would you drink from your success. Respect and honour would be yours to sip. Fortunes could be made, glory extracted! The ores you mine will make tools and weapons and wonders, and the stones you quarry will make houses and fortress walls and towering ziggurats. Your greed would guide you. And you and your god would know it to be well!"
"Now tell me why I should not take up mining and quarrying. Why should I forsake such honest riches?"
"Do not dig, master, do not dig! The way of the miner and quarryman is slow and long and ponderous, and sweat and blood would you shed. Your back would bend and ache while stone dust would rasp your lungs. The yield is ever uncertain, and quicker ways to wealth there are aplenty in the world. You would dig until you die!"
"O well slave, then I shall not take up mining and quarrying!"III. Crafts"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should take up a craft. Why should I labour meticulously for the making of items?"
"Craft, master, craft! To work with your hands and glory in your skills sings in the hearts of your race. The beasts and wild slaves do not craft, or craft but little and unwell. To forge or cobble or carpent or build or melt or blow glass or tailor or shape clay or weave basket or carve or sculpt or paint or lay pipes is to make for the benefit of community and god, to build His Order of Things and tame Chaos in your hands. Beauty would you make, and praise would you have for your fine handiwork. Respect and honour would be yours as well, and youngsters would flock to learn their craft under your tutelage. You would make the world around you!"
"Now tell me why I should not take up a craft. Why should I forsake such fine profession?"
"Do not craft, master, do not craft! The way of the craftsman is patient and arduous and demanding, and long would you toil beneath a master as apprentice and journeyman. The skills of yours would be sourly gained, and failures would gnaw at your heart. Your amassed wisdom would be taught to beardlings, who would in time rise themselves to rival your skills and your business. People would complain at you whenever your work is finished late, and they would curse your soul should the shafts or shoes or pipes and items made by you chafe or leak or break or fail their purpose. Your life would be difficult!"
"O well slave, then I shall not take up a craft!"IV. Trade"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should become a merchant. Why should I haggle with coin and ingot and barter?"
"Trade, master, trade! To live by iron and silver and gold is to live by good wits. Buying and selling with goods in exchange raises us above the beasts and allow the raw materials and produce scattered across the world to reach where they are lacking yet sought for. Yours would be a welcome stranger's face in distant places, and folks would flock to you to hear of the world at large. With deft skill and luck could you fortunes make, and become soaring rich beyond your dreams!"
"Now tell me why I should not become a merchant. Why should I forsake such easy wealth?"
"Do not trade, master, do not trade! What is quickly gained is quickly lost, and the way of the merchant is fickle and fraught with danger. A caravan raided or a ship sunk or a store lost to fire could be your undoing, and you yourself could succumb with your wares in foreign parts, or else get lost beyond hope of returning. The world is filled with perils and savages and monsters, all hungering for travellers and tradesmen to devour in the wilds. Yet devoured too you may be within the safety of high walls and sturdy gates, for you would dance with theft and corruption and dishonesty and the whims of the mighty and divine, and all your possessions and profits could disappear in a heartbeat should ever your cunning and fixing of scales and shady deals fail to match the shrewdness of others. Your gold earned would gild the razor upon which you would balance!"
"O well slave, then I shall not become a merchant!"V. Investing"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should invest silver and slaves in a venture. Why should I risk my savings?"
"Invest, master, invest! The man who does so keep his capital while his interest climb.The wise businessman who spreads his investments on many ventures will ever rarely find them all fail and collapse under his feet, and the gains to be had are enormous. Much would you earn from the efforts of others loaded with your gold, and power would you have over them and their kin and their enterprise. To own is to rule, and your god will view you favourably. Friends and allies are to be had among the rich and mighty, among who you yourself could enter. Don't sit on your stale savings, but invest them and watch them grow!"
"Now tell me why I should not invest silver and slaves in a venture. Why should I forsake such position and gains?"
"Do not invest, master, do not invest! Making loans is to hand your wealth away to others. They may fail or play you false and take away your capital and curse you for a miser. They may make you lose your interest on your investment. Who can you truly trust, and who can truly deliver?"
"O well slave, then I shall not invest silver and slaves in a venture!"VI. Litigation"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should go to court. Why should I let my lord settle my dispute?"
"To court, master, to court! Beneath the gaze of your god and His shackled Daemons and mighty idols and Prophet surely none could speak falsely? If your cause is just, your words will be heard, and legal protection by extension of your overlord's power will you have from your rival should you win the litigation. Wealth and vengeance may be had under the wings of the mighty at court. Let justice reign!"
"Now tell me why I should not go to court. Why should I forsake such righteousness?"
"Do not go to court, master, do not go to court! Spells and curses and viler sorceries still will be worked against your person and hidden away in your home upon curse tablets to draw the evil eye and squander your cause. The gods themselves might fall to confusion among such deceptive malice. Then how could you ever trust the judgements of the high and mighty when fell magics are at work against you? Whenever you speak, your words will be weighed against you. Whenever you remain silent, your silence will condemn you. Your rival will play you falser still than you do him and his bribes will be more vast. Your downfall will be bitter and beyond legal revenge, for your overlord will hold sway over court and its outcome. No, better settle your grievances with armed kinsmen at your side in the dark streets. Let justice rot!"
"O well slave, then I shall not go to court!"VII. Intrigue"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should scheme against my betters. Why should I work upon their downfall?"
"Plot, master, plot! Treachery has opened the gates to fortresses and power where honest arms have failed. The world is false and scarcely rewards loyalty. Then why should you not play the game and master treachery for your own good? Women and wealth and worldly power are yours to be had, should you but grasp them from others. Spread lies and make pacts in secret. Break oaths and make the highest overlords of your race condemn your betters to exile or degradation. Fell them to make way for your own ascent!"
"Now tell me why I should not scheme against my betters. Why should I forsake such attempts at power?"
"Do not plot, master, do not plot! When playing false you yourself may be played false. What co-conspirator could you ever truly trust? Who will break the pact and betray your own treachery? The gains are towering, but so are the perils. How many plotters have we not seen drenched in molten metal or flayed alive or impaled or exiled into the dread Infernal Guard? How much shame and hardship and suffering have not failed schemers endured for the sake of their ambitions? And should they reach such high positions, they will only find themselves higher up the ladder, with ever more underlings thirsting for their place and plotting for their downfall. The march of the ambitous is a dance on molten gold!"
"O well slave, then I shall not scheme against my betters!"
VIII. Service to Lordship"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should offer up my services at the palace and receive honours. Why should I put my life and abilities wholly in the hands of my ruler?"
"Serve, master, serve! The strong and the mighty will make good use of your skills and set you on a course to greatness in their service. Loot and dark glory may be had from far-away lands, and secret prospecting, sharing of confidence and important tasks of the powerful may all be part of your duties. To be a lieutnant of the ruler is to share part of his might and prestige, and plunder and harlots will be yours for the taking. Lands could be earned, and walls and seat, and your loyalty and service could gain you much in the circles of the mighty. Serve the high ones!"
"Now tell me why I should not offer up my services at the palace and receive honours. Why should I forsake such golden opportunities?"
"Do not serve, master, do not serve! Your abilities could be judged wrongly by his lordship, and you could be accepted as a lowly underling or worse yet spurned. The missions your ruler would send you on would many times be hazardous, at risk to life and limb, and ever would you be in his thrall. You would be his pawn and ever could the ruler sacrifice you as yet another game piece. He would send you to gods know where, take you upon a way you do not know and which you would not have chosen for yourself. He will take away your free will and make you suffer agony day and night in his service. Eschew the high ones!"
"O well slave, then I shall not offer up my services at the palace and receive honours!"IX. Service to Temple"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should offer up my services at the Temple and devote myself to my god. Why should I offer up my life and will wholesale to the priesthood?"
"Devote yourself, master, devote yourself! The priestly order wields power and status and wealth and dread, and far is its reach and heeded is its word. To be one of the priests is to wear divine and unholy power, in the name of your most high god. Your words would please Him and purchase a finer afterlife for yourself. And if He wills it you will rise high in the ranks, and mortals will bow to you and obey your command, and worldly wealth and women alike will be yours for the taking. Those ordained as Sorcerer-Prophets ever keeps the largest harems. Your pious faith and sacrifice will be rewarded with power from on high. The gods are good!"
"Now tell me why I should not offer up my services at the Temple and devote myself to my god. Why should I forsake such holy power?"
"Do not devote yourself, master, do not devote yourself! You would repeat endless rituals. Only those blessed with sorcerous talent and otherworldly blessings ever rise high in the ranks of the priesthood. To serve your whole life as the lowliest of acolytes is to sing dirges and recant hymns with ashes on your tounge and bitter blood in your heart, for century upon century. Knowing neither glory nor worldly wealth, you would languish in petty servitude while gifted beardlings rose above your station, for you to obey their will. And even if you would be so fortunate as to be blessed by high Hashut, a life of backstabbing and scheming and otherworldly horrors would await you. As a leader of your people, you would risk death upon the battlefield and torment at the hands of Daemons. Should you overcome such perils, you would nevertheless succumb to stone in time, and while still alive you would suffer to the hells of despair and pain as limbs and guts and phallus and eyes and beard turns into granite or obsidian. The gods are cruel!"
"O well slave, then I shall not offer up my services at the Temple and devote myself to my god!"
X. Scribe"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should become a scribe. Why should I put stylus to clay or feather to parchment in the service of others?"
"Write, master, write! He who masters the written word is the keeper of his race's memory, the torchbearer of knowledge and the writer of history. The written word is magic, and the Dark Tounge and stranger languages still would you learn, and mysteries would reveal themselves to your thirsting mind. Mighty deeds and great wisdom will flow beneath your fingers even where you yourself would be incapable of neither. Mortals will be but numbers under your fingers, and the mighty will lend you some of their prestige, for you to shine in the eyes of those who come after. Respect and honour will be yours in the community. Write yourself to mastery!"
"Now tell me why I should not become a scribe. Why should I forsake such status and legacy?"
"Do not write, master, do not write! The plight of the scribe is a lonely one of bent back and sore eyes and boredom. You would become a sheep-counter, a tallyman of filthy slaves and sacks of coal, a mathematician of barley and ingots and bricks. Endless records would you keep and incomprehensible laws would you write, and mysterious cipher of engineers and sorcerers would you be required to mimic, though barely a word would you understand, and readers would curse you for errors. Likewise, endless copies would you make of the works of others, a slave to the word in a long line of slaves, each copying the other and carrying the burden of history and lore. Long years would you write as an apprentice scribe, scuffed and harried by your teacher, and garbled script in foreign tongues must you master. Even when fully learned, the scribe longs for the last line on the tablet as the sailor for the harbour. Status you may have, but what wench would ever long for the arms of a scribe when she can have herself a lusty warrior? Do not write yourself to reclusion!"
"O well slave, then I shall not become a scribe!"XI. Philantropy"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should perform a public benefit for my kinsmen. Why should I raise a finger for others without recompense?"
"Give, master, give! He who donates wealth for the good of his community will be lifted up in the eyes of the Father of Darkness and all his shackled court, and mortals will know him for a worthy soul and bear gratitude and respect to the donator. Build a shrine, and the worshippers will pray for you. Pave a road, and the wanderers will praise you. Raise a statue in a square, and all the people will admire you. Give your slaves to poorer clans, and they will all hail you. Adorn the temple and gods and men will know of your piety for ages to come. The philantropist's name will be carved in stone if his works and gifts meet approval with the Bull God!"
"Now tell me why I should not perform a public benefit for my kinsmen. Why should I forsake such admiration?"
"Do not give, master, do not give! The giving of alms is for nought but ingratitude. The benefit is there one day, gone the next. So too it is with the gifts and works of mortals. Go up to the ruins and wander among the skulls of high and low alike. Can you tell apart malefactor from benefactors amongst them?"
"O well slave, then I shall not perform a public benefit for my kinsmen!"XII. Marriage"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should marry a woman and beget strong sons and precious daughters. Why should I pay the dowry and bind me for life?"
"Marry, master, marry! Life sings for life, and few lives are as merry as those who beget new life. With a family of your own you will never truly be lone or unloved, and your legacy will be assured in blood and name. The man with a cohort of sons and grandsons are more dangerous than the man without them, and he will always have kinsmen to avenge him. His offspring will remember his name and pass it down in the clan for ages to come, and in time he will become known as a great ancestor, Bull God willing. He may even have daughters, so precious and dear, and they will guarantee the continuation of his line in many, many children of their own. To marry a woman or several is to fulfill your manliness in deed and by law, and sweet is the homecoming of him who has a loving wife or willing harem to return to!"
"Now tell me why I should not marry a woman and beget strong sons and precious daughters. Why should I forsake such joy of heart and blood?"
"Do not marry, master, do not marry! Many are the shackles of responsibility and worry heaped upon the married man, and his woes are legion. What of the father's household that he breaks up by forming a family of his own? What of the dowry that will ruin his savings? What of the clan he marries into, will they welcome him or scour as unworthy at sight? What if his wife would be ill-tempered and vicious of tongue or deed, a she-tyrant of the house and trampler of her husband? What if she would be ugly with foul teeth and ungodly mind? What if the marriage union proves unfruitful, and the Dark Gods and their hosts of malignant Daemons make low the couple's effort at breeding to give them nought but barren loins or miscarriages or stillbirths or dead babes? What if the children grow up to bring nought but disappointment or hatred to their parents? What if war or feud or disaster befalls a happy family, and sends the children and grandchildren into the grave before their parents' time? Strong hearts have been rent asunder and cast into madness or despair for less!"
"O well slave, then I shall not marry a woman and beget strong sons and precious daughters!"XIII. Whoring"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should grant my lusts their desire and lie with a whore. Why should I raise my manhood for a money-grubbing harlot?"
"Make love, master, make love! As the virile bull cannot live a full life without mounting females, so surely a strong man such as yourself cannot do likewise? The male being sings out for females, and even he who may not wed for lack of gold or ladies may from time satisfy his lusts. It is worth the price. To the Barren Shrine! Follow the red blood in your body and plow the fields of flesh!"
"Now tell me why I should not grant my lusts their desire and lie with a whore. Why should I forsake such bliss?"
"Do not make love, master, do not make love! A short while of lust costs a long while of loss. How much precious metals and gems and iron and slaves are not paid to the Barren Shrine each day by lonely men who cannot harness their desires? How much weaker does not the breeding man become before battle? Mount a harlot if you must, but look out for daggers and thieving fingers!"
"O well slave, then I shall not grant my lusts their desire and lie with a whore!"XIV. Engineering"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should take up study of the lores of science and art of engineering. Why should I bury myself in numbers and tomes?"
"Count, master, count! Mathematics are key to unlock the worldly mysteries of creation and work wonders within the bounds of reality with bricks and steel and stone. Vaults and cupolas are beyond the ken of wild tribes and beasts, yet the engineer knows them and makes them just as he has the ken of the inner workings of machines and the forces of nature. As an inventor, your new contraptions and groundbreaking discoveries may live forever in infamy and dark glory, and your name with it. As a buildmaster, your name may be chiseled in unyielding stone to stand the teeth of time for long ages to come, and so will your great works that tower will over mere mortals. Knowledge is power!"
"Now tell me why I should not take up study of the lores of science and art of engineering. Why should I forsake such knowledge?"
"Do not count, master, do not count! Engineering is tedious work and its mathematics are full of pitfalls. Everyone will blame the builder when contraptions fall apart or blow to bits or topple. Dark renown and eternal shame in exile and damning history is to be had for the failed engineer and inventor. Knowledge is dangerous!"
"O well slave, then I shall not take up study of the lores of science and art of engineering!"
XV. Higher Mysteries"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should take up study of the divine and unholy mysteries. Why should I grasp for the arcane and godly and Daemonic?"
"Learn, master, learn! A man without magic in a world of sorcery is akin to one blind and unarmed, fit neither for surviving confrontations with those more gifted and wise, nor for making real his heart's innermost ambitions, for his rivals will be better equipped at every step. The codebreaker of faith's cryptic mysteries and the sage knowing the true will of the gods will be better armed than mundane folks, just as the sorcerer and master of arcane is, and they all may work wonders beyond the bounds of reality. Unlimited power could be at your fingertips, and fame and honour and dread and respect would all be yours. The items you make would be treasured and revered and envied by mortals and gods alike. Mastering the otherworldly lets you master the worldly!"
"Now tell me why I should not take up study of the divine and unholy mysteries. Why should I forsake such wisdom?"
"Do not learn, master, do not learn! The higher mysteries are all enigmas and riddles and traps, a great multitude hiding snares and pitfalls no less lethal than bared steel or raw starvation. To reach for the higher mysteries is to delve in maths and lore ever more convoluted and insane than any natural lore could ever be, in layers upon layers of meanings, the one more lethal than the other. Insanity beckons should you tread that part, or eternal damnation, or mayhap both. Take the plunge if you are willing to bet your soul upon the outcome!"
"O well slave, then I shall not take up study of the divine and unholy mysteries!"XVI. War"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should become a warrior and slaver. Why should I raise my battle axe in the service of another?"
"Fight, master, fight! Every man dies, yet most die from sickness or starvation. Pale deaths. Empty deaths. Only the warrior truly dies in glory, weapon in hand and fighting to the last breath. Long-lasting fame and honour may be his come death, yet during life he may also profit from plunder and enslavement of defeated foes and their smallfolk. To see the feeble rabble break before your shieldwall and flee before your fuming wrath is true joy, red as blood and sharp as steel. To burn your enemy's fields and despoil his maids and slaughter his cattle and sack his cities are the height of worldly achievement. The warrior is strong, and the strong does what they want with the weak. Strength and cruelty are in themselves virtues in this world, and what could be more virtuous than to wield that strength of arms in service of kin and ruler and deity? To war!"
"Now tell me why I should not become a warrior and slaver? Why should I forsake such might?"
"Do not fight, master, do not fight! Blind obedience and iron discipline would be whipped into you until they were second nature, and you would be little more than a thug marching for endless leagues, risking your life and limb for the sake of an uncaring lord. Campaigning and raiding are fraught with danger. Many warriors die not in glorious battle, but of foul wounds afterwards or for hardship or starvation or disease while in camp. As victory is sweet, so is defeat a bitter cup to swallow. What if you met a foe stronger than yourself, and more cunning and numerous? What if you fought and fought for hours while comrades and friends and clansmen fell around you, until suddenly your heart broke and you fled in panic? Shame and dishonour and exile into the Infernal Guard would be yours, yet only if you could flee from the quick and ruthless foe. Lay down your arms!"
"O well slave, then I shall not become a warrior and slaver!"XVII. Feasting"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should feast and glut myself on beer and meat with others. Why should I waste food and drink and wealth on a banquet?"
"Dine, master, dine! Gorge yourself on dishes and booze like the fire gorges itself on the flesh of sacrifices. Enjoy the company of kin and strangers and friends and rivals. Honour your deity by flaunting the wealth He has granted you for your labour. All troubling burdens will He lift from your shoulders while the feast lasts, and rejoice you shall in the joy of the moment. Laugh and drink and eat and dance and cavort!"
"Now tell me why I should not feast and glut myself on beer and meat with others. Why should I forsake such merry?"
"Do not feast, master, do not feast! It is best for a mortal to eat but when one is hungry, and drink but when one is thirsty. Excess is a vice and a squandering of wealth, and the purchase of hollow laughter and false jolly company gains you nothing. As the evening passes into night, vomit and fists and foul words and deeds will replace the merry. After the feast, indigestion and hangover will plague you. Feast if you would sick up amongst the filth of others!"
"O well slave, then I shall not feast and glut myself on beer and meat with others!"XVIII. Adulating Hashut"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should sing His praise to the skies and pray fervently to him. Why should I offer the words of my tongue up to the Father of Darkness?"
"Worship, master, worship! The pious devotee will honour his god and receive worldly blessings and boons in return, for such is the nature of gods and mortals. Deeds suffice, but words must come to the fore to bring Him the obedience and devotion in your heart of hearts. Pray and praise, sing hymns and adulate His strong form and His mighty idols and shackled court. Flatter your god!"
"Now tell me why I should not sing His praise to the skies and pray fervently to him. Why should I forsake such devotion?"
"Do not worship, master, do not worship! Words are wind and yours may be wasted. Gods are fickle and listen but with half an ear, and they rarely grant your wish in the way you had intended, but make a cruel jest in their playing with the fates of mortals. Sometimes the wrong god will listen in to your prayers, and your existence will become a lingering in a vale of woe. No, better to hide away and trouble the gods as little as possible, to neither draw their wrath nor favour. Be sparse with the adulation, and the gods may spare you too!"
"O well slave, then I shall not sing His praise to the skies and pray fervently to him!"XIX. Sacrifice"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me why I should offer up the life and blood of my property to honour my god. Why should I give my slave to the fire or molten gold?"
"Worship, master, worship! Nothing is more pure or true than to load your bitterly-gotten worldly wealth unto the pyre in view of His mighty idols and part with it to sustain and empower and honour the Father of Darkness. It is your duty and your privilege. A slave may not sacrifice, only be sacrificed. Honour and prestige will be yours in the community, and the miserly sinner will always be punished direly, so says the legends. The gains to be had in reward from divine and unholy hands are enormous. Load the pyre!"
"Now tell me why I should not offer up the life and blood of my property to honour my god. Why should I forsake such zeal?"
"Do not worship, master, do not worship! What if your sacrifice is deemed too small, or is outshone by your neightbour's offerings? Him on high may not take notice of you, and then the wealth will become but ash and nothing more. Or He may take affront at your pettiness, and punish you severely with lightning and fire! No, better to sacrifice but seldom and hide from your god. Save your savings for yourself and the life of this world. Shun the pyre!"
"O well slave, then I shall not offer up the life and blood of my property to honour my god!"XX. Conclusion"Slave, hear my words!"
"I am come master, I am come!"
"Tell me what then is good under heaven. Is life good? Is death good? Why should I not break your neck and limbs here and now? Or gut you where you stand? Or grab hold of you and throw you into a bubbling lava chasm?"
"Mercy, master, mercy! Who is so risen of height as to ascend to heaven? Who is so bloatedly fat as to cover the entire world? Who is so great as to blot out all the petty mortals from the sight of the gods? None of us ever had such perfection, such greatness, and none of us ever will. A failing mortal might spare another, for none will be the greater for the other's death."
"O well slave, then I will slay you! Your petty words no longer hold sway."
"Yes, but my master would certainly not survive me for twelve days!"XXI. FateAnd yet again the master plagued by doubt and weak mind hesitated, and stayed his hand, as he had stayed his course and stayed his will and stayed his ambition. And high Hashut saw that this will ill.
For the sin of holding back in apathy where the godly man would have grasped eagerly and toiled for the glory of his god, the fiery Bull God sent down a Daemonic bastard son, Mzarbhul, with sharp horns of bronze and cloven hooves of iron and cracked hide of melting stone, and its breath was fire and its gaze was torment.
For the sin of confiding in, and seeking honest counsel to act upon from a lowly slave, He Who Rapes the World ordered His bastard son Mzarbhul to trample the slave into nothing and flay the master alive to teach the failing mortal the true Order of Things, as established by Him for high to lord it over low.
For the sin of forsaking his one and only true deity, the Father of Darkness let His bastard son Mzarbhul impale the master and carry him screaming and wailing and bleeding into His otherworldly realm of fire and darkness, where Mzarbhul cast him off into a giant steel cauldron from which the master could not escape, and there he is tormented forever more until the end of days, for hot flames lick the cauldron's outside walls and eternally roasts the master slowly to cinders.
And his shrieks of agony echoes through the Realm of Chaos and beyond whenever the Wind of Aqshy meets the Wind of Chamon.
And high Hashut saw that this was good.
- The Poison of Pessimism , a nine-tablet story wedged into ashen clay by the scribe Harmukknezharr the Crafty
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:50:41 GMT
The Hanging Fire Fields of Hashkunezharr The vast crater in the northern Dark Lands known as the Plain of Zharr is both rich in minerals and poor in mountains. On the one hand, it would be expected to find some kind of Dwarf settlement here due to the wealth on offer. On the other hand, the flat terrain is not dear to Dwarfs, not least because it is too easily assailable when compared to their preferred mountain habitats.
As such, some scholars and Chaos Sorcerers, whether mad or sane, have theorized that the Chaos Dwarf construction of ziggurats and towering fortress complexes is, to some degree, a compensation for the lack of mountains to inhabit in much of the Dark Lands. Indeed, even beside the titanic Mountains of Mourn does the size and mass of Zharr-Naggrund seem to be more akin to an obsidian mountain than an entirely artificial construct of mere mortals. Deep down, beyond all the corruption, nightmarish cruelty and demented fanaticism, the minds of the Dawi Zharr still shares many characteristics with those of their uncorrupted cousins.
And so it was, that the yearning for mountains and highlands long ago triggered the construction of the Hanging Fire Fields, one of the many monuments of bizarre size and nature to be found in the Chaos Dwarf empire.
Oral folk culture and old records alike tell the tale of the mighty Sorcerer-Prophet Hashuknezharr the Proud, who once bought a fine consort at the Temple Marriage Market in the Tower of Gorgoth. The woman's name was Dhaoziakzhy, and her sensuous ways and outstanding cruelty to slaves enthralled Hashuknezharr like no other wife in the harem could ever have done. As a rare honour, he took her with him on all his travels.
However, Dhaoziakzhy soon tired of all the vast lowlands which makes up most of the Dark Lands, and raised as she was in the Tower of Gorgoth atop the dead volcano Azgorh, she confessed a longing for mountains. At short notice, Dhaoziakzhy's husband mustered his resources to build her a small mountain in the western Plain of Zharr. Caravans of Iron Daemons, slave porters and draft animals pulled wagons loaded with building materials, tools and supplies to the designated build site. Tens of thousands of slaves would die in the construction work ahead.
Everyone could see that it was to be a high and broad, terraced tower of obsidian, stone, steel and ashen bricks. A big ziggurat amongst many in the Plain of Zharr, people said. Hashuknezharr the Proud became the laughing stock of all Dawi Zharr whilst his slaves, clansfolk and machines laboured day and night to construct the abode of his favourite wife. Who would build a monumental structure for the sake of love? Such folly! The word on the street was that surely the Sorcerer's Curse had petrified Hashuknezharr's mind first before it was to claim his body. Perhaps he would even plant a watery garden atop it in the manner of feeble Elves, and be struck down by lightning and earthquakes as the wrath of the Bull God was kindled by such impious impurity?
Some cunning Hobgoblin Khans even became bookmakers for their Chaos Dwarf overlords, running unofficial betting business enterprises, where thousands upon thousands of Dawi Zharr offered prayers and sacrifice to Hashut before wagering silver and slaves upon the exact date when the Father of Darkness would claim either Hashuknezharr or his monument in some cataclysm or the other. Others betted on the nature of the looming disaster, investing some wealth in the firm belief of a certain catastrophe foretold by omens and outcasts. Meanwhile, a number of Sneaky Gits made small fortunes of their own as they slinked into the ziggurat build site and hid tablets, bricks, lead plates, skulls and other amulets, all inscribed with curses, into the thick walls of the rising monument. Their clients were Chaos Dwarfs hoping to ensure that their specific bet would win them great wealth, by invoking divine and unholy assistance alike. Like one man, Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the great and all her holdings guffawed at the foolish Sorcerer-Prophet, yet still Hashuknezharr the Proud would not give up, and the building rose ever higher above the lowland as decades passed by.
The laughter of the Dawi Zharr stuck in their throats when the monumental home of Dhaoziakzhy was finally completed, and its secrets revealed, during one portentuous night of a full Morrslieb and ongoing religious festivities and mass sacrifices.
Hidden to the eyes of his rivals, the Daemonsmith subordinates of Hashkunezharr had directed the hard labour of drilling magma channels deep into the rocky ground. A vast, arcane system of reservoirs, gates, canals and pumps ensured the circulation and replenishment of lava, which snaked across the terraces and cascaded down in hot falls to the levels below. Likewise, separate and smaller channelling systems for various molten metals adorned the whole edifice, being fed by enigmatically Daemonforged furnaces and pumps at the building's dark heart. In addition, white-hot embers painted the glowing walls with hallowed runes of Hashut and the wider Chaos pantheon, converting the whole structure into a vast dedication to both Chaos in general and the Father of Darkness in particular. Grim-faced idols and statues of figures of legend adorned the terrace roofs,their eyes glowing with baleful fire. Last, but not least, fell runes and vicious sorceries bound into the stone, bricks and metal of the great ziggurat ensured an almost everlasting dance of flames and bound fire Daemons across the walls, on the flat roofs and inside braziers and great, hollow bull heads of bronze. Only relatively small sacrifices of slaves were required to maintain the arcane mysteries of the wonder, for the magical winds of Chamon and Aqshy were drawn to it like moths to flames.
These were the Hanging Fire Fields of Hashkunezharr, a monstrous construction of fire and molten rock and metal alike, a sorcerous edifice of volatile magic and shackled Daemons, an altar to Hashut, who when on high, was to bless the proud Sorcerer-Prophet and his favourite wife Dhaoziakzhy with lasting wealth, success, might and conquest. Such were the hopes of the monument's dark master as he ascended the broad obsidian staircase, illuminated in the flaming light of the Hanging Fire Fields. The man's triumph was short-lived, however, for he soon discovered that Dhaoziakzhy had gone barren long before her time. In black rage, Sorcerer-Prophet Hashkunezharr the Proud entombed his disappointing wife alive, deep beneath the bowels of the fiery complex, before cursing all the world and its creatures and gods, whereupon he hurled himself into the ever-burning altar flames atop the ziggurat's uppermost level. Thus ended the folly of Hashkunezharr.
Still, it is said that His mighty idol woke to life in front of the altar, and a black, fiery bull emerged from the Realm of Chaos to trample the Sorcerer-Prophet violently in the altar flames. It is likewise said that Hashut carried them both away into His dark realm, where the blasphemer endures an eternal punishment under the hooves of the black bull. Some Daemonsmiths claims to have heard the breaking of bones, the screams of a Chaos Dwarf, a snorting bull and the crackling of flames when sacrificing to appease the Father of Darkness before undertaking a Soulforge summoning ritual to capture a Daemon of fire or metal.
As for the legacy of Hashkunezharr the Proud, his Hanging Fire Fields still stands, for they were much more pleasing to the Bull God than was the conduct of their master. The story of the foolish Sorcerer-Prophet quickly became a popular tale to warn children of the perils of romantic love. The Hanging Fire Fields have ever since been synonymous with the names of ill-fated Hashkunezharr and Dhaoziakzhy, yet they are also a vaunted possession amongst the Chaos Dwarf elite. Whichever Sorcerer-Prophet controls the Hanging Fire Fields commands some prime sorceries in the Lores of Fire and Metal, enabling them to hold spectacular sacrificial rituals, as well as giving them access to advanced forges for the smithing of fire and metal Daemons, as well as tools for the creation of lava beasts.
As a result, the armies of the owner of the Hanging Fire Fields are able to deploy superior Magma Cannons and K'daai Daemons, and it is rumoured that the innards of the mysterious edifice contains caches of volatile fire amulets, weapons and artefacts forged upon its terraces throughout the years. The monument remains a strategic asset in the Dawi Zharr power struggle, and to this day the large structure resounds to the ringing of hammers, the shrieking of sacrificial victims and the sorcerous intonations of Daemonsmiths hard at work, crafting ever more lethal weapons of war amidst the fire and streams of lava and molten metal that makes the dark walls glow like hell itself.
Such are the Hanging Fire Fields of Hashkunezharr.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:51:28 GMT
The Soil-Prophet Beyond the soft lands of green hills and blossoming river vallyes, in between two gargantaun mountain ranges, stretches semi-arid wastelands watered by sporadic falls of acidic rain and the floods of toxic River Ruin, and little else. Despite the many eruptions of volcanoes, the soil of these lands remain largely hostile to life, and thus this part of the world is believed to be cursed. These landscapes are ones of shadow and flame, of lightning and earthquake, of ashes and desolation, of warring tribes, savagery and one monstrous empire of harshness and cruelty that have withstood the test of time through its cunning, its brute strength, its insane crafts and its ruthless slavery. This is the realm of the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
Here, backs and minds alike are broken, and souls are shattered in a fiery realm of Chaos and death.
Here, life is lived out in a land that is nothing short of hell on earth.
Here, in the Chaos Dwarf empire amidst the Dark Lands.
Some of the most excessive works and exploits of the Dawi Zharr have become legendary even in civilized lands of men, distant though they are. For their monumental architecture, grim warfare and unspeakable cruelty have made the Chaos Dwarfs infamous in some faraway lands as devil craftsmen and death-dealers. Yet, no matter the strength displayed or the wonders erected, no empire will last without food to feed its people, whether slaves or masters.
The Dawi Zharr empire's acquisition of food is achieved through such means as the hunting for beasts, lesser races and monsters, and the gathering of roots and plants, as well as stock-raising and herding, some minor trawling for fish in the oceans, and the eating of slaves on a vast scale. Some foodstuffs are acquired as loot, or as tribute from Greenskin and even immigrant Ogre tribes in the Dark Lands (usually this tribute consists of the weakest or slowest Greenskins around). Major food production also takes place in large, underground industries usually located in depleted mines or quarries, where nutritious though distasteful fungi are grown, and where mutant cattle are raised in hellish conditions amongst arcane machinery and bloody butchery caverns lined by fiery ovens.
Perhaps the most important of all food production within the realm of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the great and all her holdings, is the agriculture which takes place on grand latifundia, primarily clustered on the Plain of Zharr close to the heavily polluted River Ruin, where large-scale systems of irrigation canals make up for the semi-arid climate of the accursed Dark Lands. Some of these slave plantations are partially mechanized to free additional thrall hands for the mines and quarries, yet even on the estates which operates the most machines, the large majority of the farming toil is still carried out by hand, by slave labour.
These plantations are scarcely less nightmarish places than the open-pit mines and smoke-belching manufactories of the Chaos Dwarfs. Farmhand slaves are often selected from the brighter specimens in the slave work force, with a sizeable percentage of Humans toiling in the fields, yet their lives too are short, brutish and harsh.
To be a latifundium thrall is to be one downtrodden soul amongst thousands other. To be a plantation slave is to toil with backbreaking and mindnumbing tasks all day, while chained to a whole gang of other slaves subject to hunger and sickness. To be a farmhand slave in the worldly realm of Hashut is to breathe toxic air and wade and work in water so polluted so as to be poisonous. To be a latifundium slave is to endure a harsh regime where Chaos Dwarf and Hobgoblin taskmasters and overseers will whip you to work harder until your heart breaks. To be a thrall in the fields beneath Zharr-Naggrund is to be a constant victim to overseer cruelty and brutality for the sake of capricious whims, religious dictates and punishments alike. It is to live in terror and agony, just as the case is for any other lowly slave in the Dawi Zharr empire.
The worshippers of Hashut are generally disinterested in the food production, for their minds are rather fixed upon such things as mining, blacksmithing, building, sacrificing and the dark arts of Daemonsmithing, than upon the dirty drudge of agriculture and pastoralism, tainted by impure water as they are. Food production is a necessary evil to most Chaos Dwarfs, a strategic asset bereft of mysteries and fit only for slaves. It is as such no surprise to find many fewer slavedrivers and other Dawi Zharr involved in food production, than are found in such areas as mining, quarrying and construction work. Estate owners are absentee masters to a man, with but one exception in the long history of the Dawi Zharr...The Folly: The man known as Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath was once a Sorcerer-Prophet of meagre influence and relatively weak magical powers. His talents for the crafts and arts were limited, as were his skills as a Daemonologist and Daemonsmith. His knowledge in the mysteries of Chaos and Hashut was not at all deep or profound, yet Aku-Lu-Zharrubar did display some prowess as a strategist, warrior and battlefield general, and these abilities were to be exploited to the hilt as the Sorcerer-Prophet increased his power through the centuries. His drive was that of eccentric ambition, a trait not uncommon among the demented elite of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the great and all her holdings. Yet that very drive would manifest itself in a way that was entirely unique among the great Chaos Dwarf men throughout the ages.
During its first overseas campaign, the host of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath defeated two Human armies in rapid succession and came across the palace of a wealthy Rajah ruling over a long stretch of Indic coastline and some hinterland areas. As the newly-elevated Sorcerer-Prophet stormed the marble complex to plunder it and put it to the torch, he came across the luxurious gardens and menagerie of the Rajah. Confused by the wide variety of beasts and plants on display, the curious Aku-Lu-Zharrubar briefly tortured the chief gardener to make the man explain the purpose of it all. Surely, that snow leopard could not be living in the same climes as the lion tailed macaque, out in the wilds?
The imagination of the Dawi Zharr warlord was ignited when the lowborn chief gardener explained that the wealth and extent of the ruler's power was put on display in these gardens, where disparate plants and animals from across the realm and beyond were collected and kept alive, even during years of starvation when the fields of the peasants dried up outside the palace walls. What better way to show off your control over nature and the lands of men alike, than by treasuring samples from all over your provinces in your palace?
Mesmerized by the story, Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath absent-mindedly cut the man's throat and only remembered to torch the palace because his victorious warriors eagerly asked for his permission to do so. His fleet and army would travel much of the world and raid many distant shores in the coming four years, yet the Sorcerer-Prophet's mind would always wander somewhere else, except in the thick of battle, where he would instead undertake some insanely daring attacks and yet always claim victory by the grace of high Hashut.
A new fire seemed to burn in the maniac eyes of Sorcerer-Prophet Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath, and he sent for more cargo ships to carry the loot back to the Dark Lands. Though his warriors and Daemonsmith subordinates hailed their numerous petty victories across the world as great triumphs, they were more than a little perplexed and reluctant at their new orders, yet still carried them out slavishly as befits he who serves under a master. Why, they asked themselves, why did the sacred decrees of the Prophet include an order for the slaves to dig up a whole shipload of fertile topsoil from several of their raid targets? Why did he capture old peasants and landlords, and then torture them to make them point out a patch of fertile earth close to the coast or river in which the fleet had anchored itself?
Why did Aku-Lu-Zharrubar take the very land of others with him as war booty, when there were so many more slaves and valuables which he could have plundered and carried off instead? Why limit the precious cargo hold volume by filling so much of it up with mud and clay? How could the capricious will of Hashut and His mighty idols call for such an act? This was more than a symbolic, ritual humiliation and rape of the raided land, this was outright soil theft. The question was raised in hushed voices, time and time again, beneath the decks of the Dawi Zharr warships:
Why?The Ridicule: After several years of raiding out at sea, Sorcerer-Prophet Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath returned with his victorious forces in a great naval procession which steamed up the River Ruin. The sustained losses had been unexpectedly small, and already many cargo vessels had arrived at Zharr-Naggrund well in advance of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar, some carrying slaves, raw materials and valuables while others carried a secret cargo which was kept concealed and guarded over constantly in the docks lining the River Ruin south of the great ziggurat capitol. Rumours had abounded for years as to the hidden contents of the locked-down cargo ships, and many a skulking Hobgoblin had paid with his life as he tried to break into and enter the cargo holds of the guarded vessels.
Strange rumours of Daemonic sand dunes, molten metal which never cooled, possessed beasts in hibernation and slimy mud ridden with disease and omens, all inside the locked cargo ships, made several thousand Chaos Dwarfs wager objects of value and gather at the docks with their attending slaves when Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath returned home in petty triumph. His spoils of war were paraded past the people, in a stream of both riches and prisoners from distant lands. Sacrifices were undertaken and rituals of thanksgiving and appeasement of Hashut and His mighty idols were carried out in front of a large crowd. At last, as dusk set in, the returned Sorcerer-Prophet revealed the secret of the locked cargo ships.
They contained robbed soils from across half the world, ripped from fertile land and carried back to the worldly realm of Hashut, to cover the fields owned by Aku-Lu-Zharrubar. Slowly at first, a great laughter rose from the multitude, and it is said that even some clansfolk subservient to the returned Sorcerer-Prophet joined in the guffawing, even though they would have to fear for their lives for as long as their master lived. It is said that the Dark Gods laughed with them. Unique in Dawi Zharr history, this was an event when the populace laughed in the face of one of the feared and revered Sorcerer-Prophets, so foolish did the megalomaniac appear at the docks. The crowd dispersed quickly before the victor's wrath was turned upon them, and soon all Chaos Dwarf settlements rang with scoff as both high and low ridiculed Aku-Lu-Zharrubar for his folly. Henceforth, he would be forever known as the Soil-Prophet, though none of his minions dared speak this moniker aloud.The Works: Sorcerer-Prophet Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath was undeterred by the abuse heaped upon him. He had not really expected anything more, and he would let the idiots who could not see his grand scheme remain blind in a world where he had eyes. Over the decades and centuries to come, the arrogant Aku-Lu-Zharrubar sent out or accompanied his fleet on expeditions of plunder and pillage, to capture slaves, loot riches and carry shiploads of fertile topsoils back to the Dark Lands.
These soils were then distributed on his growing agricultural estates in the Plain of Zharr, clustered close to the River Ruin. Here, new irrigation systems were created and new techniques and crops were invented or introduced by the visionary Sorcerer-Prophet. The slaves on these plantations toiled hard to cover fields with the different types of soil, and many slaves were buried under the new topsoil as they collapsed on the spot out of hunger, disease and exhaustion. In between the lava rifts, manufactories, open-pit mines, quarries, chemical waste pools and slag piles in this landscape did the thralls labour and die to realize their master's vision of a garden of conquered earth and crops.
Akin to how foreign imperial rulers collected wildlife and plants from all across their empires in menageries and gardens to show the width of their power, so did Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath exhibit his far-ranging raids and conquest of slaves and resources by the plethora of various topsoils found on his core latifundia. On the fields of these slave plantations were found loess from northern Cathay, Bretonnian clay, peat from Albion, black earth from Kislev and red soil from the ferrous plateaus of Ind. Likewise, alluvial soil deposited by the River Mortis of dead Nehekhara could be found here alone in the Dark Lands, as could tough, grassy prairie soil from the Grasslands of the northern New World, as well as the artificially created black soil of Lustria, which is created from organic waste in the outskirts of the Skink barrios in Lizardmen cities.
There were even special fields of mud infused by corrupting energy from the northern Chaos Wastes, and a single patch of land covered by a sickly mud layer from the Marshes of Madness, dotted by the bones of Skaven and sharp shards of dangerous Warpstone. Toxic silt desposited by the River Ruin periodically covered these outlandish topsoils, as if to illustrate the predominance of Hashut. These fields of foreign soil were but the core parts of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath's expanding estate, for he purchased fields and water sources from other Sorcerer-Prophets as he sought power through control over both food and water supply. Most of his land expansion were to the north of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, where the River Ruin is not so heavily polluted by Chaos Dwarf industry, for the original fields owned by the Sorcerer-Prophet were downriver, to the south of the titanic ziggurat capitol, and he jealously craved for the more productive northern farms.
The great plan of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar was to use his military skills to accumulate more might and wealth to become the master of foodstuffs in the Chaos Dwarf empire. Strange enough, he was eventually succesful in this life-long endeavour of his. At the height of the so-called Soil-Prophet's power, immediately prior to his death, Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath controlled over half the grain supply, one third of meat production and one quarter of underground mushroom plantations supplying Zharr-Naggrund with foodstuffs. This was a feat unrivalled even by Zharrgon the Great.
Still, none of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar's rivals could take him seriously, for such despise held these elite Dawi Zharr at his power play and vested tampering in agriculture and water systems. The rest of the Temple Priesthood viewed it as amateurish, soft behaviour and as an outright weakness. What did it matter that their eccentric rival held power over the food production when their proverbial muscles of industry, Legions and sorcerous power could rob Aku-Lu-Zharrubar of it all in a matter of weeks? They could neither hate nor fear someone they all held in contempt. Still, the plantation overseers of these very Sorcerer-Prophets imitated many of the new developments on the Soil-Prophet's estate (though not the import of foreign soils), and some of the new crops and techniques introduced by Aku-Lu-Zharrubar are still grown and used by the banks of the River Ruin to this day.The Infamy: To counter the widespread disdain for himself, Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath invested some resources in a propaganda campaign of rumour-spreading and the erection of monuments and steles, dedicated to Hashut on the surface, but beneath that, to his own dark glory. The Sorcerer-Prophet claimed to be blessed by both the Father of Darkness and Ulkzhana the Golden Fertile, one of the Bull God's Shackled Consorts. Just as Aku-Lu-Zharrubar's many fields were fertile and bore rich harvests, so did he beget an abnormally high number of offspring on his moderately large harem of wives and concubines. Indeed, high Hashut even deemed him worthy enough to spare his manhood from petrification, and the Sorcerer-Prophet lived an unusually long life.
On the one hand, these accolades to himself proved partially succesful during the life of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath, because their point about plentiful offspring struck a chord with Chaos Dwarf views on marriage and reproduction. On the other hand, the Sorcerer-Prophet also gained a reputation as a miser, for he built almost his entire rural ziggurat palace out of slagstone. In the end, the common folk of future generations would know him only as the Soil-Prophet.The Death: Sorcerer-Prophet Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath had been preserved from heavy petrification throughout his long life, yet no one lives forever. Legend has it that the demented and miserly Soil-Prophet once propped up the living body of a harried old Hobgoblin Khan, who had served his master all his life as a warrior, to act as a scarecrow upon one of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar's fields, among the crops, the chained farmhand slaves and the cruel taskmasters. Though not an unusual treatment of the rare veteran Hobgoblins, this so inspired the Chaos Dwarf, that he wished to replicate it on all his fields and not just one of them. Yet it would cost many Hobgoblins or other slaves to do so, and the tightwad did not wish to spend his property.
The Sorcerer-Prophet's grasp of the arcane powers and mysteries had never been strong, yet still he pressed on by summoning a handful of acolytes to sacrifice as few slaves as possible in a sorcerous ritual to create duplicate Hobgoblin scarecrows on field after field on his slave latifundia. Few wizards in the world would dare to copy or create lifeforms of flesh and blood as if out of nothing, yet still Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath attempted this very thing, with lethal consequences. Predictably enough, the sorceries miscast, killing everyone involved in the ritual, bar the twitching Hobgoblin scarecrow who somehow survived the magical barrage unscathed.
Morrslieb eclipsed the sun, and the guffaw of Dark Gods was heard echoing over the Plain of Zharr for a brief time, while an intesnse yet short-lived firestorm spread across a great many of the plantation fields. Slaves died in their thousands in the fields, and both Hobgoblins and lowlier slaves in Mingol-Zharr Naggrund the great faced a year of starvation and utter horror as tonnes of crops burned to cinders in the lowland. This all happened in the span of twelve minutes, and loose fire Daemons jumped like lightning bolts from field to field, seemingly at random and without burning all the crops in the fields, but rather creating twisting lines of searing flames across the landscape. When the firestorm suddenly abated, cryptic signs with a vague resemblance to the Dark Tounge script had been burnt into most of the grain fields in the Plain of Zharr. Dawi Zharr mystics and scribes still labour to translate and interpret them to this day, for it is believed they contain dire portents and vitally important instructions from both high Hashut, Daemonkin and the Great Four Dark Gods of Chaos.
Though the statuary stone corpse of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar stand guard over the Road to Zharr-Naggrund along with the other Sorcerer-Prophets, legend has it that Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath was turned into mud not stone, forcing his surviving retinue to undertake a heinous secret ritual to dress up and petrify a male Chaos Dwarf of low breeding and status into the likeness of the so-called Soil-Prophet.
Whatever the truth, the patchwork of fields covered in outlandish soils still remain, and are still tilled where the old core slave plantations of Aku-Lu-Zharrubar Darkbreath lay.
Such is the legacy of folly.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:52:48 GMT
Written by: DAGabrielThe Two Winannas From the teachings of Hashut Temple Archives of Zarr Dareis Hear ye followers of the Dark Lord!
In the Dark Land Hashut gave to the Dawi Zharr there lived two mighty Sorcerer-Prophets.
One was the mighty Htharikk Darkheart, the other one the mighty Veshnabanipal.
Both were blessed by Hashut with a rare gift, a daughter,
and both, without knowing from each other, gave their daughter the name Winanna.
But while the realm and wealth of Htharrik Darkheart prospered, the realm of Veshnabanipal withered, his wife taken from him by Hashut and his daughter wasting away.
One dark day a vile daemon visited Veshnabanipal and the mighty lord trembled as the creature of hell spoke to him:
“Behold Lord Veshnabanipal, I can save that which thou lovest. Thou only have to give me a temple full of gold and I will take the curse from thy daughter!”
Veshnabanipal called for all the gold in his mighty realm, but lo, the temple was only half filled.
Veshnabanipal called for his fellow lords in the Dark Land and he promised to send them cohorts of his mighty army for gold and since they all knew of his plight they offered pitiful small sums for the service of his mighty warriors. When he filled the sums in the temple the amount was still lacking and the daemon gloated over him.
Blackheart looked at his Winanna as he read the desperate words of Veshnabanipal and since his realm was wide and prosperous he sent word to him.
“Dear brother, in the name of our two Winannas I will send thee my treasures and instead of thy warriors I only beg thee to promise me a singe leaden figure for my palace shrine when luck has returned to thee.”
Such the daemons price was met and behold, Winanna was made whole again and luck returned to the realm of Veshnabanipal.
The time passed and again and again the realm of Htharrik Blackheart was assaulted by the hosts of other Sorcerer-Prophets, their army strengthened by the warriors sold to them by Veshnabanipal. But the promised idol never arrived in his realm.
Bitterly he prayed at his palace shrine and his eye fell at the empty place waiting for the promised leaden figure, and Hashut did listen to his lamentations.
These were the words the Dark Lord sent to his faithful servant:
Listen to my wisdom, Htharrik. Rejoice and be thankful to Veshnabanipal for he gave to thee what no other Dawi Zharr could give thee. He gave to thee what thou did ask of him, a promise. For thou didst ask for such and not for the real thing.
So learn that as the magic I give to thee will turn thy body to stone the teaching he gave to thee will turn thy heart to stone as is befitting for a real son of the Dawi Zharr! So even as it is painful to thee it will strengthen thou and make thee a better ruler.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:54:53 GMT
Written by: Fuggit KhanThe Will to Make Power Over Life In aeons past, the Old World was inhabited by Titans, beings of immense size and power. They were akin to Gods, in a time before the Gods themselves were born. The Titans decided to impart a sliver of their consciousness to the world, giving spirit and life to every stone, every river and every tree. But amongst the Titans stood one who raged fury and contempt at these actions. His name was Dakgron. Dakgron argued for “the Will to make power over others”, while his Titan brothers believed in “the Will to make life”. Dakgron confronted the first Titan, calling him feckless. The first Titan smirked in disagreement, and thus Dakgron tore the head off his brother Titan, tossing the dead Titan's head into the ocean, which became the island of Ulthuan. Dakgron confronted the second Titan, calling him unstable. Hearing this, the second brother fell to despair and insanity, and committed suicide, giving birth to the Chaos Wastes. Dakgron proceeded to confront the third Titan, calling him cowardly. The third Titan fought back, but Dakgron ripped the spine and ribs from the third Titan. Casting them aside, the spine formed the Worlds Edge Mountains, the ribs to become the Rib Peaks. The fourth Titan was then killed, its bones ground to dust, forming the deserts of Araby. The fifth Titan had his jawbone and teeth ripped out, tossed to the sea to become the Dragon Isles. And so it continued, until all the other Titans had been killed, and only Dakgron stood. But even in death, the dead Titans' “Will to make life” flourished, and from their corpses sprang the lesser races of Man, Elf, Dwarf and Greenskin. And in a final rage to consume all the life that sprang from his weaker siblings, Dakgron consumed even his own life force. The Dark Lands sprang from his final Will, lava boiled from his blood, ash breathed from his lungs and iron from his heart. And in his death his name was corrupted to what we now call Dharkhangron, the Dark beneath the World. Because of this, only a race who can have “the Will to make power over life” can flourish here in the Dark Lands, a race who understands that the true nature of this Will is to enslave the lesser offspring of the lesser Titans. The true inheritors and subjugators of this world: Our race, the Dawi Zharr. - Chaos Dwarf Cultural Tradition
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:56:03 GMT
Written by: RoarkDirge of Awakening In Zorn Uzkul's black heart, 'neath the eldritch, nameless peak We toiled at the stony roots, axe cast aside for pick and auger Despair clawed unceasingly at our hearts, all pride was ashes Bent-backed sworn brothers shouldering a burden of terror Beards shorn in shame - ancient, beloved clan annals thrown to flame Outside, the agony of worlds was made manifest, ineffable hunger Tempests of gibbering madness shrieked wordlessly all around Howls pierced each kinsman's soul, duty and honour forgotten Desperate hands clawed at obsidian, ironstone, warp-ore We pulled away the pieces of our past, torn free of the mountain Until silence surrounded us, the echoing null of insignificance Grungni spoke not. Grimnir stayed his tongue, Valaya her counsel We were nothing in that moment of nothingness. Yea, less When stone gave way to a yawning void, steaming darkness And the sun a memory of a dream, and the world annihilated In Zorn Uzkul's black heart, 'neath the ancient, nameless spire Our souls were reforged when two burning eyes opened.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:56:50 GMT
F’kari and the Eternal Flame The hearth crackled as hungry flames licked already blackened logs, throwing up a dirty yellowish light over the Chaos Dwarfs. They paid it no mind, nor even the drinks now forgotten beside them. The Chaos Dwarf ancient and his companion had arrived earlier that day, his accent strange to them. He wove them stories of their ancestors, of forgotten glories, of bloody deaths. The fire crackled again, casting an almost daemonic aspect on the old Chaos Dwarf's craggy face, he had yet another tale to tell.
"'I’d give my eyes for knowledge, my skin for wealth, my bones for power, my soul for immortality,' the long forgotten Dirszki once claimed that, for which of us would not want such boons despite the sacrifices? Yet dark fates await those who would reach for such ends. Such as F’kari and the Eternal Flame.
F’kari was an adventurous son of our kind, his blade was always sharp, his eye keen, and his stein forever empty. Here was a Dawi Zharr that seemed destined for great things.” The ancient’s companion snorted at this as if he’d heard the same line one too many times, the mask covering his face seeming to shimmer in the glow. The ancient ignored him and continued.
“Indeed, the hearth would be colder than a spurned Rinn before I could cover the legends of F’kari.” His companion grunted something about the old coot exaggerating everything but was ignored. “But his last great adventure,” continued the old Chaos Dwarf, “dealt him the greatest treasure yet the most ill of punishments. Our story begins, as many stories do, on a lonely barren road. F’kari had returned from a great war against our soft ‘cousins’ and was making his weary bones along the path home when he happened to come across an old pedlar. He was mending a pair of boots whilst whistling a tune, F’kari stopped and began to dance to the tune in merriment. The tune finished, F’kari noticed that his jig had worn away his boots to nothing. The pedlar smiled and proffered the boots he was mending, 'may your dance never leave you barefooted,' he chuckled and left without further word. F’kari hesitantly tried the boots on and found them a perfect fit, and he walked onwards noticing how they did not seem to wear.
“He came upon another pedlar whittling away at a piece of dark wood and smoking a pipe. F’kari lit his pipe and joined the pedlar, watching him work. When the pedlar finished, F’kari removed his pipe only to find it crumble away in his hand. The pedlar smiled and gave F’kari his pipe, 'may your pipe never empty,' he chuckled and left without further word. F’kari placed some pipe weed into this strange pipe and found it burned for as long as he wished, and he walked onwards, plumes of smoke around him.
“Then he came upon a third pedlar who sat there weeping, for he had neither boots nor pipe. F’kari would have left the fool as he was, and yet he was unnaturally moved by the Chaos Dwarf’s plight. Before proper sense returned to him he had given the pedlar his boots and pipe. 'It is a rare Dawi Zharr who gives such riches,' the pedlar smiled and gave F’kari a set of strangely crafted dice. 'Go to the ruins to the south and meet with the Daemon of fire. May your luck never run out.'
“Taking the dice, F’kari made his way south and found a long forgotten ruined keep. He made camp there and waited. As darkness fell there was a plume of fire and a great Daemon appeared before F’kari. The Daemon cackled and prepared to feast on the foolish Chaos Dwarf when F’kari held aloft the dice. 'Very well,' hissed the Daemon, 'what do you wish to gamble your soul for?'
F’kari thought hard and responded, 'I have seen much in my years and wish to see much more, I wish for life eternal.' The Daemon smiled and the two began to gamble. To the Daemon’s dismay his every roll was bad and F’kari’s perfect, and by the light of dawn he conceded defeat. 'You seek the Eternal Flame,' the Daemon whispered, touching F’kari’s brow. With the path in his mind, F’kari began the long and perilous journey till he stood before the flames eternal. Filled with dreams of immortality he stepped into them and his wish was granted.”
The old Chaos Dwarf smiled as the flames crackled. “Of course, the Daemon (nor the pedlars he pretended to be) never told F’kari that the fire would scorch his flesh and he’d be cursed to forever travel...always burning...never dying...”
“So what happened to him?” spoke one of the listeners.
“He still wanders...isn’t that right, F’kari?” smiled the storyteller.
His companion stood and removed his mask.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:57:25 GMT
The Black Wanderer's Meatchest Humiliation. Dominance. Obedience. Strength. Worship. Chaos Dwarf religion and its everyday life carries with it a mixture of humbling subservience to Hashut and His rigid hierarchy on the one hand, and ruthless displays of power and cruelty to slaves and foes on the other. This is not a contradiciton to the various cults and sects that make up Dawi Zharr societ. It is simply the moral and right way of the world to be as is manifest all around and as is taught by the Sorcerer-Prophets of the Father of Darkness' holy Temple in Mingol Zharr-Naggrund.
Even so, amongst a people fanatically devoted to Hasut and Chaos there are bound to be the odd deviants who cannot come to terms with the established world-view. Caste obedience and descent from Dwarf stock might make them rare, yet even so they exist. These are what other races would call the witches, hermits and holy men; religiously engrossed fools and oddballs acting outside of the Temple's jurisdiction. They are often shunned, or choose themselves to live outside Dawi Zharr society, and they will invariably turn insane if not sudden death claims these wayward individuals first.
For there is no place for independence, ideals or ascetism to be found in Chaos, only malignant struggles, falsehoods without end and the damnation of your soul. However respected the rare hermit, Daemon-seer or witch may grow in the eyes of the common populace, all Chaos Dwarfs believe that these castaways are ultimately doomed.
In songs and legends they often carry dire portents and demands, like the witch who halted Zhargon at the Gates of Zharr, and their very presence usually signals disaster ahead. They are exiles amongst their own people and some are even strangers to the nature of their own god. They are mad, and they are shunned, yet even the most powerful Prophet cannot afford to ignore their offers and warnings.
At the altar, they are pariahs. At the throne, they may be the messenger of some Dark God, and woe unto him who would disregard those tidings...
Such are the stories told of outcasts by the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
This is one of these stories.The Feral Hermit: One dread Night of Mysteries, terrors were visited upon the Dark Lands when a Chaos Dwarf baby boy was born to the world in a clan settlement outside Zharr-Naggrund. His name was Koldumzhtrol Redeye, and even as a child his demeanour was marked by eerie depressions into religious contemplation and fits of maniac rambling. He was thought to be marked by Matzhkra the Leaden Trampled consort of Hashut, and all uprighstanding folks shied away from Koldumzhtrol and scared their children to hate him and shout down his blasphemous gabble.
He was shunned by all, even the lowliest slag pit slave and the legless Hobgoblin who cleaned the gutter in the settlement. It did not take more than seven decades of life before Koldumzhtrol disappeared into the wilderness at the fringe of the Plain of Zharr to lead a life of self-denial, meditation and introspection. In the ashen wastes he wandered and lived in caves, and as an ascetic hermit he sought the inner meaning of Hashut's will. Yet all the while he was tempted by Daemons.
Nightmares haunted the wretched hermit during the Night of Mysteries on the ninetyninth birthday of Koldumzhtrol Redeye, and the man did not wake up for twelve days. By then his frame was wasted, horns had grown from his head and his feet had become cloven hooves. Koldumzhtrol had dreamed of terrible revelations, and had reached the conclusion in a fever pitch, that he must imitate the ravenous Bull God and stop to deny his inner fire spark. This he did with a fervour and virility bordering on Daemonic possession.
Run-away slaves, Hobgoblin outriders and hostile Goblin scouts alike all met their end at the hands of a frenzied madman armed with nothing but a sharp stone. Koldumzhtrol the hermit stalked the lone unfortunates amidst the lava crags and rock formations, and jumped them with a horrifying bellow that echoed and soon was thought to be the voice of a Daemon.
The insane Koldumzhtrol did not stop there in his rabid quest to mimic the Father of Darkness. Somehow the cunning wretch sneaked into outlying settlements and raped seven married women without getting caught. One of the husbands yelled that he would hang the hermit in his own beard. The enraged clans of Koldumzhtrol's bruised victims soon united their forces in a hateful hunt for the feral hermit's head. This pursuit, headed by the sneakiest of Hobgoblins, went on fruitlessly for months out in the wilderness, yet eventually it met with success thanks to high Hashut's intervention.
Once when escaping his pursuers, the maddened Koldumzhtrol howled and ran on all four into a volcanic crater. Miraculously, the crater erupted all of a sudden and the rabid hermit was swallowed in a cascade of molten rock. The clans declared this to be divine punishment and returned to their dwellings with upheld honour and hymns on their lips.
That would have been the end of mad Koldumzhtrol Redeye, yet the Father of Darkness had a twisted plan in store for this heretic. Once the volcanic eruption ceased, a horned, ragged shape emerged out of hot lava in the glowing crater.
Clad in hooded, black robes and bearing neither hat nor mask, he was to be known thereafter as the Black Wanderer. In his right hand he held an icon of Chaos Undivided, and in his left he carried an always freshly decapitated slave head which he argued with in gibberish. The head was never the same on different sightings of the mysterious being, yet it was always fresh. The Black Wanderer's flesh and beard was burnt, his eyes were nothing but empty sockets, and he would haunt Chaos Dwarfs for centuries to come.The Bargain: Chill winds whistled in the armour of a crestfallen column of Infernal Guards retreating over the Howling Wastes. They were the handpicked men of Daemonsmith Engineer Thurnukaz Ironbull, and they had failed him in combat against the Orcish Crushed Face tribe. Their banners and war machines had been abandoned, and most of their slave troops had scattered or been captured by the triumphant Greenskins. Thurnukaz cursed his foes and his outcast warriors, and he lamented his defeat to high Hashut at the head of the column, when suddenly a lone Chaos Dwarf appeared.
It was a black, horned shape carrying an icon of Chaos. It spoke to a cut-off Gnoblar head which it held in one hand, and it rose out of the wind-swept ground, from out of a lava crack that had not been there before. At its feet stood a rusty iron chest. When Thurnukaz Ironbull came near, it spoke. The Black Wanderer's voice was ragged and hoarse, yet the Daemonsmith could clearly make out the words which offered him the ensorcelled chest. Apparently, so long as Thurnukaz' and only Thurnukaz' hands reached into the chest, they would always produce hunks of fresh meat. All the Black Wanderer wanted in return was an oath to Hashut on never letting himself be defeated in combat.
Thurnukaz swore this oath upon his grandmother's pickled heart, and received the chest and its key. The Black Wanderer disappeared back into the ground, and Thurnukaz changed his route. The Infernal Guard could return to the Black Fortress all they wanted, for he had no need for their worthless services. Instead, he brought with him his apprentices and slaves, and headed for the Ogre trading outpost, the Sentinels.
At the Sentinels did Thurnukaz Ironbull gain the attention of every Ogre in town by producing endless piles of fresh meat from out of his chest. He gave it away for free to anyone willing to follow him, obey him and fight under his command. In no time at all had he amassed a monstrous army of Ogre mercenaries with a horde of Gnoblar cutthroats and hangers-on. All he needed to pay them was fresh meat hunks out of his magical chest, which never drained.
Thurnukaz plotted malevolent plans for his newfound power, yet his first aim was to avenge his defeat at the hands of the Crushed Face Orcs. The Daemonsmith led the thunderous charge at the head of one thousand Ogres, and the Greenskins' fates were sealed as tonnes upon tonnes of lard, muscle and metal hit home and stampeded over the Orcish horde. Many slaves were captured that day, yet even more Orcs were turned into unrecognizable gory pulp.
The magical chest continued to give him and his Ogre army meat, and thus Thurnukaz Ironbull sacrificed to Hashut in thanksgiving and marched far south, into the Plain of Bones where Ghoul tribes were smashed apart and taken captives. They made poor food to the Ogres, unlike the chest's meat. Thurnukaz then marched north, sold his new slaves in the Tower of Gorgoth, and headed west to Crookback Mountain, where vile ratmen makes their lair.
This time, the blunt force of the Daemonsmith's mercenaries proved insufficient against the Skaven in their myriad tunnels and undergound traps. The Ogres grew frustrated with hunting fleeing ratmen in the labyrinthine tunnels. Their willingness to fight diminished as they ran into ambush after ambush. The Skaven fought tenaciously and with deadly cunning. Eventually, only the prospect of fresh meat from Thurnukaz' chest prevented the Ogres from deserting him in this Maw-forsaken place, yet the mood was nigh-on mutinous.
One day, a Gnoblar named Ba stole the key to the chest from the drunk and sleeping Thurnukaz. Ba was far down in the pecking order of Gnoblars and always received the worst, stinking scraps of meat left over. Starvation had made Ba desperate to get some of the best meat for himself. Metal creaked in the camp tent as the Gnoblar turned the key and opened the dark chest. Ba reached inside it, but produced only rotten meat and maggots that crawled on his arms. The Gnoblar shrieked in terror or surprise, and then resolved to eat the maggots.
The Ogres were not content with this cuisine, however. One of them peered into Thurnukaz' tent at the sound of the shrieking Gnoblar, and roared in desperation. Soon, all eight hundred surviving Ogres had gathered inside and around the Chaos Dwarf's tent, and stared in utter horror as one Ogre Bull after another approached the chest, reached inside and produced chunk after chunk of rotten meat and maggots.
An Ogre Butcher named Hak Bigeater rushed in wrath to Thurnukaz Ironbull's bed and threw the drunken Daemonsmith high into the air. The startled Dawi Zharr fell back onto the ground and cursed his attacker venomously. Hak roared at Thurnukaz and demanded to know where he had hidden the fresh meat. The Chaos Dwarf went pale as he realized what must have happened. He elbowed his way past the Ogre legs, cast down his arms into the chest yet could only draw forth rotten hunks of fly-infested meat.
Too late did he realize that he had already broken his oath by swearing it, for had he not already lost once in battle, shortly before meeting the Black Wanderer? Thurnukaz Ironbull saw the rage in the Ogres' hungry faces and sold his life dearly. The Daemonsmith drew upon all his sorcerous power to unleash an inferno into the hostile mercenaries around him. He succeeded in this, but only because his sorcery went horribly wrong and unleashed Daemons that tore both him and fifty Ogres limb from limb before dragging their screaming souls back with them into the Realm of Chaos.
And in the midst of the uproar, the ground cracked in front of the chest that was filled with nought but rotten meat. The Black Wanderer rose from the lava rift, stole the meatchest and disappeared with it forever.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:57:57 GMT
The Changeling's Time Loop In betwixt two titanic mountain ranges stretches the nightmarish realm known as the Dark Lands, where fire, ash and molten rock is ever present. To live amidst these bleak landscapes is to experience hell itself, for it is a harsh world of roaming monsters, restless Undead, teeming hordes of brutish Greenskins, migrating Ogres and utterly ruthless slavers and industrialists bent on upholding and expanding their nightmarish empire in the Dark Lands. The latter ones are the Chaos Dwarfs - or Dawi Zharr, the Dwarfs of Fire as they are also known - and to foreigners, foes and slaves alike they will appear to be incomprehensible enigmas to their very core.
The Chaos Dwarfs will seem like nothing more than vicious villains whose cruel acts of Daemonsmithing, warfare, savagery and domination are but the manifestations of corrupted minds twisted into demented malignancy. And indeed they are, though these minds of the Dawi Zharr are not always necessarily insane, despite what the opinions of foes, slaves and uneasy allies alike would like to claim.
To understand the Chaos Dwarfs is to fathom that this wayward race is fundamentally Dwarfen at its core, as is evident in its stubborn toil and greed, though this Dwarfen nature is corrupted and mutated. On top of this fundament stands the component parts that makes the Dawi Zharr tick: Such as their fanatical devotion to the fiery Bull God, Hashut, and the decrees of His sacrificial religion; their extreme drive to survive and conquer at any costs in an unspeakably hostile world; their consequent will to dominate and trample, to burn and flay; and their important bonds to, and belief in the wider pantheon of Chaos. The latter aspect is crucial to grasp the Chaos Dwarf mindset.
Though the Father of Darkness has chosen them to be His tribe, and though He is mighty and great, Hashut is still a lesser Dark God within the Realm of Chaos, one malevolent spirit of divine and unholy power alike, amongst countless others. Though far mightier than mere Daemons and demigods, He is still beneath the power of the Great Four. The recognition of this fact does neither breed inferiority complex, nor does it lead to deep worship of the major Dark Gods amongst the vast majority of Dawi Zharr. Instead this recognition helps to fuel a hellish ambition to conquer and dominate, to toil and expand, to rise and carve out an empire in the name of the Bull God.
Likewise, the Chaos Dwarfs' recognition and partial, minor worship of the wider pantheon of Chaos do not only provide them with unparallelled insights into the nature of the Daemons of Chaos for the purposes of Daemonforging; it also means that the Dawi Zharr's plethora of characters and spirits in mythology share many of the legendary Daemons known to other Chaos worshippers around the world.
For the worshippers of Hashut owns an intricate knowledge of the different faces of Chaos, mysteries that are often shocking and revolting to other mortals. Their lore and their stories tell of these secrets. These are not tales of benevolent fairies or gold at the end of the rainbow, but gruesome and bizarre sagas of savage deeds, insanity and devious cunning. They are narratives in which Chaos Dwarfs and other mortals may challenge Dark Gods and Daemons alike, yet more often than not they are mere victims. These tales are also accounts of hideous characters, bottomless hunger for power and occult secrets of uncaring deities best left hidden from mortal ken, lest the Daemons in the tales prove to be true...
These are the stories of servants to the Dark Gods, as told by the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
This is one of these stories.To Trick Time: The quest for immortality may at best result in everlasting infamy, eternal torment, or both. Even so, in ages past, the insane Chaos Sorceror Hy-Rass Snakebiter was willing to attempt the impossible and steal immortality from the grasp of gods and time alike. The Hung man Hy-Rass Snakebiter, of the Tu-Ka tribe, was neither a very powerful Sorceror, nor was he a warrior, pillager nor warlord of great renown. His potential and might could never earn him Daemonhood as a prince at the right hand of some of the Great Four, nor could his strength and sorcery achieve deeds that would grant his name immortal glory in the tales of the common folk in the Chaos Wastes. No sane man could see an alternative path for the Sorceror to tread in order to attain eternal life, yet insanity granted Hy-Rass that vision which others lacked.
During one night under a full bale moon and numerous fell portents, the Chaos Sorceror stole away eight children from his tribe's encampment and dragged them into a large, hidden hole in the ground. This was his dwelling and stage to achieve immortality, the abandoned underground lair of some unspeakable monster. Hy-Rass Snakebiter had adorned it with bones, teeth and intestines arranged in arcane patterns all over the earth floor, roof and walls. Each bone, tooth and organ was covered in wild carvings of script in the Dark Tounge. As the insane Chaos Sorceror sacrificed the human children one by one, he read out every single carving aloud, in an unintelligible tirade of an incantation.
The blood of Hung children had to be shed because no mortal tounge could ever empower the spell without bloodletting, and children were always easier prey than adults. Hy-Rass knew himself to be a weakling and coward, yet in his madness he did not care. His barbed knife hewed and hewed as his magic incantation reached its crescendo. And so it was that Hy-Rass Snakebiter earned immortality of a sort with his newly discovered spell, for he tricked the flow of time itself into forming a loop. This would allow him to live forever, again and again experiencing the same event for a short duration of time in a neverending cycle of repetition and the visions of the insane, without aging or decay.
The time loop went on an on, over and over again, until finally it reached its nine times ninetynineth cycle. Then, the Changeling, the Trickster of Tzeentch, appeared out of the Realm of Chaos at a critical moment. The Changeling was disguised in the shape of the Chaos Sorceror himself, and this sight so disturbed Hy-Rass Snakebiter that his concentration slipped, and his tounge fumbled with a single syllable of the incantation. Catastrophe struck immediately, and the insane Sorceror aged nine thousand years in an instant. The time loop was broken, yet the spell was not lost forever. The Changeling transformed himself into one of the dead child victims of Hy-Rass' blade, stole every spell concocted by the mad Sorceror, and went out into the mortal world on a bewildering tour of arcane trickery and deceit, in many disguises.A Once in a Lifetime Offer: Some years afterwards, in the Dark Lands, the aged and petrifying Sorcerer-Prophet Kar-Astralittu searched in vain for a remedy to his far advanced Sorcerer's Curse. After all his triumphs and inventions, no success in life could soothe Kar-Astralittu's yearning for flesh as his body turned evermore into stone. Had the Chaos Dwarf been able to, he would have forsaken everything he had achieved in order to reverse the petrification.
To this end the old Sorcerer-Prophet scoured the archives and sought the lost secrets of Zhargon the Great, the Accursed Golden One of ancient times. Kar-Astralittu invested much of his wealth in this quest for flesh and possibly even immortality, yet failure followed upon failure. Pacts were struck with Daemons, portents were read everywhere, in everything. Vast quantities of worldly possessions were sacrificed, both at fiery altars and to ask the dreaded K'daai Oracle of Daemon's Stump for advice. Sleepless nights were spent in trance as the Sorcerer-Prophet meditated on the mysteries of Hashut. The old man prayed, offered up sacrifices and even scoured the feeble mysteries of foreign races for clues on how to change his grim fate. He even dabbled into foreign arts of herbalism and magic lores forbidden or unobtainable to Dawi Zharr sorcerers. Yet all were to no avail, and neither Kar-Astralittu nor his labouring acolytes could find a cure.
Eventually, the once-mighty Sorcerer-Prophet's skin had almost completely turned into stone. Life was a tragedy to old Kar-Astralittu, and the Bull God would not answer his call for aid. Eventually, the old Sorcerer-Prophet sacrificed an Ogre Bull in molten iron, and secluded himself in the loneliness of his inner sanctum. There, in the darkness of his high halls, the petrifying Chaos Dwarf prayed fervently to whoever god or Daemon that would listen. Kar-Astralittu begged for youth, immortality and escape from petrification at whatever price any saviour deity would ask for. He would even chisel off his beard if necessary.
At that moment, a cloaked human wanderer appeared out of the shadows in the Sorcerer-Prophet's inner sanctum. He was clad in black, and his face was concealed in the shadows of his hood, although a strange beard of teal feathers was visible. The man's arrival was unannounced by guards and wards alike, yet the aging Kar-Astralittu did not shout out to his guardians.
The human figure walked up to the Sorcerer-Prophet and offered him a sequence of three spells to achieve both immortality, youth and freedom from the Sorcerer's Curse. The trio of spells were each written in cryptic Dark Tounge script on three scrolls. Kar-Astralittu inquired what the cloaked man demanded in exchange for such a treasure, yet he did neither need to offer any sacrifice, nor barter away his soul nor forsake the Father of Darkness. The only condition was that the Sorcerer-Prophet read the three scrolls in the correct order. When he heard this, the old Chaos Dwarf was so relieved that he cried tears in his face of cracked stone, for the first time in his life since he was a toddler. Kar-Astralittu thanked the cloaked man vigourously and wasted no time to cast the spell. As the mysterious wanderer disappeared into the shadows of the inner sanctum, the Sorcerer-Prophet offered a quick prayer to high Hashut and read out the scrolls aloud, one by one.Immortality: At the reading of the magic incantation of the first scroll, twin Daemons appeared out of thin air in front of the Sorcerer-Prophet. The Daemons were a couple of Blue Horrors mounted on a Disc of Tzeentch, yet they were overloaded with parchment, quills and ink vessels. They cackled and argued in confusion as the one named P'tarix scribbled down the very spell used to summon them. The other, named Xirat'p, read out the freshly-written magic incantation aloud, causing the pair of otherworldly spellcasters to disappear and immediately reappear right in front of their former position, now hovering above the high hat of the Chaos Dwarf Sorcerer-Prophet below. These Daemons were the Blue Scribes, Tzeentch's Quaestors, spell-hunters and record-keepers of sorceries throughout eternity. One of them can transcribe any spell to parchment, but cannot read, while the other can read any spell, yet cannot understand it.
The aged Kar-Astralittu took heart at the sight of these beings, for he believed the next spell to be one of control, to wrestle the immortality incantation from the surly Blue Scribes. With a commanding gesture to the chittering Daemons over his head, the Dawi Zharr read out the next spell, from the second scroll. It was a long and cryptic spell, and the Sorcerer-Prophet read it out aloud with great care. When he reached the end of the parchment, nothing happened.
Over his head, the Blue Scribes repeated Kar-Astralittu's second spell in their odd relaying way, yet again nothing at all occured. In fury, the stony Chaos Dwarf ripped open the third scroll and barked out the one word which stood written in the Dark Tounge's script at the very top of the parchment: "Again." The Blue Scribes reapeated after him, without any effect whatsoever. Kar-Astralittu unrolled more and more of the long scroll, and a large blank area stretched out over almost its entire length. The parchment seemed to be empty.
At last, the Sorcerer-Prophet reached the end of the scroll, found a single word, and growled the last word of the incantation: "Now!" Once again, nothing happened as the Chaos Dwarf read out the word, but when the Blue Scribes repeated it after him, the inner sanctum was filled with crackling bolts of sorcerous energy, and the sound of an hourglass being turned upside down. At first, Kar-Astralittu believed himself succesful, yet in the next instant he realized what had happened when he caught a glimpse of a teal feather falling out from the unfurled end of the third scroll. He had been utterly deceived. The aged Sorcerer-Prophet had just enough time to yell a heinous curse. In that very moment, time rewinded, and the time loop devised by Hy-Rass Snakebiter began anew where the cloaked human wanderer, the Changeling, disappeared into the shadows.
This cycle repeated itself for countless times, over and over again, effectively halting the march of history in the mortal world, until the Great Schemer, Tzeentch, dispatched the Lord of Change, Uzuzap, to pull his Blue Scribes out of the trap so that their cataloguing work could continue. The Lord of Change, Uzuzap, broke the time loop by pulling Kar-Astralittu into the Realm of Chaos, where the Sorcerer-Prophet at last was granted flesh, youth and immortality. Yet the fated Chaos Dwarf suffers an eternal punishment inside a giant hour glass made of crystal, which is filled by life-size statues of Kar-Astralittu rather than sand. Forever and ever is the Sorcerer-Prophet pummelled and mauled into a gory mess by the falling stone likenesses of himself, in a torrent of stone crushing both flesh and bone, and thus it shall be for as long as the might of Tzeentch remains.
Such are the fickle ways of Chaos.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:58:25 GMT
The Folly of Nebirudnuzhak The divinely appointed Sorcerer-Prophets of the Dawi Zharr interpret the convoluted and malignant will of their Father of Darkness, and are oft blessed with otherworldly visions and may speak the words of divine command, or so they claim. Yet the occult is steeped in peril and mystery, and even those most learned in dark lore, most attuned to the arcane and those who believe themselves to be the masters of Daemonology may find their souls led astray. For in the maelstrom that is the Realm of Chaos dwells many more spirits than the fiery Bull God and His shackled court, and the malice and trickery of Daemons and Dark Gods alike present a trial to be overcome by faith and wisdom.
Some are laid low by these harsh trials. Indeed, even the mighiest have failed.
One such failure was Nebirudnuzhak Thunderhoof, High Priest of the Temple of Hashut and earthly ruler of the dark empire of the Chaos Dwarfs, a nightmarish realm built in the image of the merciless Bull God, the worldly domain of the Father of Darkness where His will was made manifest by whip, weapon and tool in the hands of fanatic sacrificers. Nebirudnuzhak was one of the mightiest mortals alive in the whole world, yet when staring into the oracular flames of the inner sanctum, his eyes and mind and heart were lured away from the true path of Hashut by a thrice-accursed Flamer of Tzeentch, and his fate was sealed in that instant by false visions acted upon.
Nebirudnuzhak Thunderhoof gathered the highest members of the cult of Hashut, and declared that he had heard the voice of the Father of Darkness Himself more truly and more intensely than any worshipper alive, dead or not yet born, and that it was his sacred duty to cast off the mundane troubles of the world and venture into seclusion to fully fathom the innermost meaning of his Dark God. His heretical words rang out in the great Temple, yet no other Sorcerer-Prophet ever spoke up against it, for all they saw was a powerful rival abdicating in their favour. And Hashut saw that it was ill.
Accompanied by but a few loyal servants, Nebirudnuzhak set out for the remote Hell's Eye, a sunken lava pool in the Blasted Wastes, to glimpse his deity in the molten rock. Needless to say, High Priest Nebirudnuzhak's grip on power turned to dust in his absence. His rivals plotted against their overlord and a clique of the most powerful Sorcerer-Prophets in Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the Great crowned themselves regents without the divine and unholy approval of high Hashut, only to see their might and dark splendour drowned in blood and ashes when the great Black Orc Rebellion erupted a scant month after the unworthy oligarchy's ascent to power.
As for Nebirudnuzhak himself, his stay at Hell's Eye lasted but shortly. He had sought out one of the remotest lava pools in the entire Dark Lands to hear his cruel deity clearly and to escape the crowded noise of the grand capital. His few servants had brought with them dried rations to last for years on end, yet the scent of this food led a massive feral pack of giant wolves to descend upon the retinue of Nebirudnuzhak with fang and claw. Their howling and snarling, and the frantic yelling of their prey echoed in the sunken pit of Hell's Eye as the wolves chased the Dawi Zharr round and round until their short legs could carry the doomed no more. The last shrieks of the High Priest of Hashut passed unheard upon the vicious winds which wailed across the Blasted Wastes, and the bones of his corpse remain lost to this day and age.
Such was the judgement of the Father of Darkness upon His children for the sake of their folly, according to the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 9:58:54 GMT
The Bastard Son of the Bull God In travail were heaven and earth, in travail, too, the hungering abyss. The Ash Ridge Mountains rocked, quaked, cracked and broke apart. The travail held in the fiery depths a surging pillar of magma, striking through the veil of ground and unleashing rivers of molten rock and geysers of ash and cinders upon the Desolation of Azgorh. Through the breach came forth smoke, came forth flame. And out of the flame a naked bastard demigod sprang, fiery was his hair, ablaze was his beard, of hot lava rock his hide, and his eyes were like suns. Born from a hidden womb of magma, the untrue son of He Who Rapes the Earth, the golem demigod was, and he possessed vast strength akin to one hind leg of that Father of Darkness who begot him in fury.
Out of the raging volcano he ran, horned and wild, tusked and sturdy, frothing molten copper and thirsting for blood, a spirit on fire destined to burn itself out. The name of the frenzied one was Vazharrukur, and this name became feared far and wide as he went on a ravenous rampage without course, without rest, stamping forth and leaving fiery footsteps behind amid the carcasses of scorched Greenskins, monsters and other beasts. Yet the bastard demigod met his match in the eastern Howling Wastes, but miles from defiled River Ruin, for upon a black marble hillock reared great Muzharrshushu, primordial mother of the fell and mighty Magma Dragon race. Scarred and glowing, they roared challenges at each other, and both charged the other at the same time, spewing forth flames that would have melted granite, yet barely scarred the foe.
In savage wrath did Vazharrukur and Muzharrshushu fight, unrelenting and bereft of mercy was their clash, and so ferociously did they set upon each other that the crust of the world underneath the behemoths wore thin, pounded as it was by monstrous combat. And west of defiled River Ruin did the face of the foundations of the world creak and crack and crumble, and at last did it collapse, swallowing them both into the infernal depths of the earth. Thus were the Bubbling Pits created, gashed upon the frail earth akin to a festering wound aflame which never healed.
Yet their fall into the lower depths of flame did not cease the battle of titans for one moment, for beneath the facade of the surface realms are the bastard demigod Vazharrukur and the great Magma Dragon Muzharrshushu still locked in an everlasting struggle, neither gaining an advantage decisive enough to slay the other. It is said, that the vicious combatants may be glimpsed on rare occasions, rising out of erupting volcanoes across the cruel Dark Lands, or leaping from out of the towering Fire Mouth among the freezing Mountains of Mourn. Then, they are invariably showered in fire and sparks, wreathed in smoke and billowing ash as they clash, claw and tear each other. Whenever they emerge from the infernal realms they are carried upwards on strong currents of molten rock, and will always spread havoc around them before sinking back into the hellish guts of the world once more, striking blows, kicking and biting in a blaze of fury without even noticing the surface world stretching out around them.
The sight of Vazharrukur and Muzharrshushu locked in their fiery duel to the death is regarded as a potent omen indeed, which could signify impending disaster or great success to be reaped amid terrible perils.
Such are the fates of the Bull God's bastard progeny, according to the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 17:28:52 GMT
A Tale of Three Ships The Chaos Dwarfs' society is a ravenous one, ever hungry for more slaves to toil amongst its industries, mines and quarries. In order to supply all this labour, the Dawi Zharr takes to the sea in smoke-belching metal warships. This is a tale of three types of ship used by the Zharr-Naggrund navy, and a tale of the names that will linger with the vessels long after the infamous Chaos Dwarfs in question died.The Grappler boarding ship, and the greed of Kar-Zhul One of many variant vessels in the Chaos Dwarf navy, the Grappler is an ironclad ship designed for locking enemy ships in place by hammering large, clawed metal arms into their decks. With the arms in place, boarding teams of Chaos Dwarfs and Hobgoblin Sneaky Gits use the arms to attack the victim ship. Normally the arms are pulled into an upright position by heavy chains, drawn by Daemonic machines fuelled with slaves and ensorcelled coal. The Grappler also have frontal Magma Cannons and side cannons for armament, as well as Blunderbuss firing parapets at the fore. With little space to spare beneath deck, the Grappler's grand statuary shrine to Hashut is situated on top of a platform on the aft castle. From here, their god follow the Chaos Dwarfs' boarding actions with a judgemental glow in his eyes. There is much of value to salvage at sea. Especially for the Chaos Dwarfs, whose hunger for slaves, mine props, metal and other materials is never sated. Destroying ships would ruin their boarding value, so many Chaos Dwarf captains instead seek to claim victim ships by force and terror through boarding parties.
The Grappler is built for this task of capturing ships, and few vessels have ever escaped its massive arms without them being winched back. The force of the arms' impact, however, is great enough to damage the Grappler's hull despite dampening timber blocks. The renowned Dawi Zharr enslaver Kar-Zhul once prowled the seas in search of coastal-sailing Indan dhows. During his long voyage, Kar-Zhul gathered a whole fleet of captured large merchant dhows, manned by their enslaved crew and commandeered by Chaos Dwarf and Hobgoblin taskmasters.The opulent Rajah Salihindi's royal dhow was amongst the captured ships, the Rajah's favourite elephant crushed beneath deck by the clawed arms of Kar-Zhul's Grappler Zhargon's Legacy . Having amassed dozens of captured dhows, Kar-Zhul set course for the mouth of the River Ruin. The Chaos Dwarf Grappler's metal hull was so weakened by the grappling arms' repeated impacts that it cracked during a monsoon storm, and was swallowed by the roaring waves. Seeing their enslaver drowned in the Lizard Sea, the Indan crewmen attacked their taskmasters, throwing the Hobgoblins and Chaos Dwarfs into the depths of the ocean.The Hellbarge, and how Itshnik was maimed A cheap, mass-produced ship, the Hellbarge is a simple freighter with a Daemonic ram at the fore, filthy slave pens beneath deck and a thoroughly chained Hellcannon on deck. Introduced lately into the Chaos Dwarf navy, the Hellbarge is used as a small but powerful artillery platform, well suited for bombarding fortified harbours or for battles in the narrow confines of archipelagos. Some Hellbarges include rocket ammunition that is fed into the Hellcannon's furnace just as the slaves are cast into it, providing the Hellcannon a greater firing impact but also higher risks for the Hellbarge.
Despite some very heavy chains and powerful runes of control, the Hellbarge is a gamble, a short-sighted investment aimed at reaping great profit before its destruction. Perhaps all the ship's crew and slaves will be killed when the Daemon break loose, or perhaps it will thrust forward toward the enemy. In case of the latter eventuality, the Hellbarge is equipped with a Daemonic ram capable of capturing the Hellcannon's forward momentum to propel the vessel straight ahead at the foe. Sometimes the Hellcannon bypass the ram's grip, running through or even jumping over it into the ocean to thrash through the waves in search of prey. Indeed, the expendable Hellbarge is sometimes used as a boarding vessel, which rams an enemy ship and lets loose the furious Hellcannon. Since the Hellcannon is expected to eventually tear its fetters and run amok, the Hellbarge has but a skeleton crew of low-caste Chaos Dwarf cannoneers, mariners and warriors. The warriors' task is to provide a backbone to possible boarding actions. Most of the crew consist of Hobgoblins, wicked jailers who does not shy away from slashing the live Hellcannon fuel with their curved knives, often letting the slaves bleed half dry before a battle. As long as there is no unexpected shortage of ammunition, their even more cruel Chaos Dwarf overlords do not bother with noticing the agony games of the Greenskins.
One Hellbarge captain was Zakuresh the Harsh, who almost got to join the ranks of the Infernal Guard after slaying a rival in an unorthodox torch duel. Zakuresh barely escaped disgrace by taking to the sea in the Hellbarge Bloodcast in search of plunder and slaves to appease his sorcerous master. An unforgiving captain, Zakuresh was known to regularly subject slaves to water torture and roast Hobgoblins alive at the merest hint of disobedience or slow wits. Apart from ordinary physical punishment, wrong-doing crewmen were forced to bear not a high hat or a metal mask, but instead a low hat of humiliation. Truly, Zakuresh was unforgiving like few others. It was Zakuresh who blasted apart the great Bretonnian Galleon Heart of Valour , saving much of its crew only to reload his Hellcannon with it for some high shots against determined Pegasus Knights. It was Zakuresh who denied the Dreadfleet the rich loot in bodies aboard the Dark Elf Death Fortress Nilyran's Claw by unleshing the Hellcannon upon the Sea Hydra's towers to devour the whole live cargo while barely escaping Count Noctilus' pursuit with his Hellbarge. It was Zakuresh who let steer Bloodcast and two other Hellbarges into a closed Nipponese harbour during night, capturing the great Marienburger vessel Aterdhame whilst simultaneously causing havoc amongst the armoured turtle ships that rowed out to stop them.
Through brutality and lucky recklessness, Zakuresh became infamous for carrying through suicidal attacks and surviving them. He also survived several rampaging Hellcannons, once even destroying such a bloodthirsty warmachine by cutting off its heavy wheels with his Daemonic rune axe before rolling the struggling barrel into a raging sea. There, the wounded Daemon and a blood-crazed Megalodon fought each other to death.
The Chaos Dwarf captain's most daring act was carried out at his demise. He was searching for warpstone, a dangerous material often mixed into the coal bins of the Dawi Zharr. With only Bloodcast and the Hull Destroyers Chaos' Fury and Death's Gaol at his command, Zakuresh knew that the chance of successfully completing his mission in time was nil unless allies were found. Striking a pact with the Skaven of Clan Tyzzkrafft, Zakuresh made Warlord Itshnik the Backstabber agree to supply him with warpstone in exchange for the Chaos Dwarf warships' services.
During a three-year long naval campaign across the seas, Zakuresh's squadron earned its payment twice over. Rival Warlord fleets were teared asunder as the brunt of the Dawi Zharr onslaught was released, spearheading Clan Tyzzkrafft's strikes into the enemy's heart. Sleek Elven ships and dozens of merchant vessels were caught, and several vengeful man-things flotillas were sunk by the Hull Destroyers and pulverised by the Hellbarge. Death's Gaol was lost during the great hunt for the Black Leviathan Sindra, swallowed whole by the sea monster yet buying time for the Skaven Warpraiders to broil her.
Zakuresh's single-minded determination to fulfil his mission was demonstrated when he once had to return to Zharr-Naggrund to replace his lost Hellcannon. During the voyage, his ships boarded the great Cathayan merchantman Zin-Lao close to the High Elf Tower of the Sun, finding a treasure of jade, spices, ivory and exotic furs in its vast cargohold. Most importantly, however, was the thousands of high-quality Cathayan cast iron ingots discovered in the junk's aft section. Such a load of valuable raw material would have fetched thousands of slaves and plenty of prestige in Zharr-Naggrund, yet Zakuresh sent Chaos' Fury to escort the Zin-Lao to Clan Tyzzkrafft's secret harbour. No sacrifice was too great to fulfil his assigned duty.
When the three years of settled service to the ratmen were drawing to their end, Warlord Itshnik led his entire fleet against the rival Clan Skiss' rocky coastal bolthole. Zakuresh the Harsh's warships played a pivotal role in the part siege, part sea battle. Loading the Hellcannon to the maximum with slaves, the Hellbarge Bloodcast roared and rocked as a mighty shot of shrieking souls cracked the heavy wooden gate to Clan Skiss' sea cave open. The gate, which had been fashioned by Greenskin slaves to make the fortress appear Orcish as a way of feinting, collapsed into the sea as tormented souls broke every tree log and iron nail in it. Through the cave opening, great portions of the recently expanded fleet of Clan Tyzzkrafft moved in for the kill. However, as Skiss and Tyzzkrafft ships made battle in the gloom inside, Warlord Itshnik released his trap in the open day outside.
Not wanting to part with any precious warpstone, Itshnik the Backstabber once again upheld his name by turning on his allies. As seven Deathburner warships hired from Clan Pestilence simultaneously turned against the two remaining Chaos Dwarf vessels, Zakuresh realized that he had been double-crossed. Fuming with black wrath, the Dawi Zharr captain reacted instantly. Chaos' Fury was sent toward the assailants, sinking one with its great ram before all of the crew lay dead from the poisonous gasses secreted by the Deathburners. This sacrifice won enough time for Bloodcast to escape the toxic air. With its Hellcannon already heaving with anger and bloodlust after the massive shot, Zakuresh ordered all remaining slaves to be shuffled into its furnace. This produced an outburst from the Daemonic warmachine, who broke its schackles and crashed into the Hellbarge's reinforced fore. The Daemonic ram caught the Hellcannon, sending Bloodcast dashing across the waves, aimed at Itshnik's flagship, the Doombringer Itshnik II . The force of the ramming attack sent the huge Skaven vessel careening portside.
With every Chaos Dwarf and Hobgoblin from Bloodcast rounded up behind him, Zakuresh the Harsh led the charge onto Itshnik II . With axes, blunderbusses and knives in their hands, the ten Chaos Dwarfs and twentyeight Hobgoblins carved a bloody path to the Skaven warship's command deck. Skavenslaves and Clanrats were massacred in the cramped confines until they turned tail and trampled their comrades. The Chaos Dwarf boarding was vicious in the extreme, and even expensive Moulder creatures proved insufficient to stop Zakuresh's advance. Meanwhile, the Hellcannon was on a bloody tour of its own, smashing its way below deck and slaughtering everything as it went.
As the few surviving Chaos Dwarfs and Hobgoblins reached the command deck, they found Itshnik hiding behind a massive throne of bone, iron and wood, a masquerading Clanrat sitting on it in his place. The Hobgoblins spread out and knifed down the Eshin Nightrunners hiding about the command deck. Cutting down the Clanrat, Zakuresh pulled out Itshnik by his tail, severing it from the ratman's body and forcing him against a wall. With his axe to the Skaven Warlord's throat, Zakuresh asked his former ally: "Do you wish a swift death, Vermin?"
"Y-yes-yes, by the Horned One I do," replied Itshnik.
"Such is not the punishment for your crime," Zakuresh informed him.
The four remaining Dawi Zharr crewmen seized Itshnik by his arms and legs, and stretched him out between them. With savage swipes, Zakuresh severed the Skaven's feet from his legs, then his lower legs from his knees, and then his thighs from his hips. Then Itshnik was cast down onto the wooden deck, whereupon the Chaos Dwarf captain first cut off his hands, then his elbows, and then his shoulders. By the time Zakuresh had finished cutting up the Warlord's torso, Itshnik the Backstabber was long dead.
A single Chaos Dwarf warrior escaped the bloodshed and managed to return home to Zharr-Naggrund through years of hardship. Limping on one good leg, he told the Sorcerers of how Itshnik was maimed. He told them how the frenzied Hellcannon eventually sank Clan Tyzzkrafft's flagship, and how Zakuresh the Harsh disappeared beneath a tide of Giant Rats on the open command deck. With a nod, the Sorcerers accepted the disgraced survivor's story and sent him to the barracks of the Infernal Guard.The Chaos Dwarf tugboat, and the Wonder of Azhnerek the Visionary Traditionally, there have been few if any dedicated tugboats in the Chaos Dwarf navy. When large, salvaged vessels or sea monsters had to be tugged, the warships anchored chains and tugged the booty back to port. Occasionally, this could be hazardous if enemy flottillas appeared, or if the sealing work done proved insufficient.
Once, fully half of a Dawi Zharr battleflett was sunk during a major towing operation after a raid against Cathay's southern navy. As the Chaos Dwarfs tugged hundreds of junks filled with slaves and plunder across the ocean, a Dark Elven fleet appeared at the horizon. Though vastly outnumbered and outgunned, the commander of the Dark Elf force, Lokhir Fellheart, seized the golden opportunity to strike when most of the Chaos Dwarf ships were locked in towing service. Sinking many ships, both Cathayan and Chaos Dwarfen, and capturing one quarter of the junks, the Dark Elf captain left the battle as rapidly as he had entered it.
In response to this audacious act, Hellsmith Azhnerek (the husband of three, the father of twelve and an ambitious engineer) constructed his tugboat, which found a place in most larger raiding parties since few Sorcerers wanted to be caught off guard at sea again. Amassing slaves, prestige and metal as payment, Azhnerek the Visionary began his next work. Having observed the need to resupply fuel and ammunition as a hindrance to the Chaos Dwarf navy's long range capabilities, Azhnerek let construct a mobile port and storehouse of immense size. It is built upon a mighty Daemonic rock calfed from the Southern Wastes, and it is shaped akin to Zharr-Naggrund itself. As an engineer's sacrifice to Hashut, the floating base is intentionally oversized and lack mechanized transportation for all but the largest of supply wares. Its battlements bristles with weaponry, and thousands of slaves labour day and night to transport wares up and down its great stairs. A fleet of tugboats is required to move the naval fortress, and it is constantly watched over by at least two Battlebarges plus escort ships. Beneath the water line, docking caves for submersible vessels have been created. In the skies, Great Taurus riders can be seen flying. Through a great investment of slave lives and materials, Azhnerek the Visionary's plans have seen fruitition. Although its practical value for the navy is disputed, the Ziggurat of the Seas is one of the true wonders of the Chaos Dwarfs. The Ziggurat of the Seas Key list for Ziggurat top surface overview map1 = Great Leveller Cannon
2 = Thunderfire Rocket Launcher
3 = Minor artillery battery
4 = Crane
5 = Railroad
6 = Stairway
7 = Surface storehouse
8 = Barracks
9 = Great Taurus stables
10 = Shrine of Hashut
* Battlebarge, for size comparison
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