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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 7:57:12 GMT
Chaos Dwarf Fables A fable is a short and straightforward tale with simple characters and a strong moral point. In many cultures, fables are generally thought of as tales for children, even when they are aimed as much to an adult audience as to a juvenile one. Fable authors are rare among Chaos Dwarfs, not least because the highly developed cognitive abilities in uncorrupted and corrupted Dwarf children alike place high expectations on young offspring to take part of adult folk culture. Yet still the Dawi Zharr has produced a few fable authors, most of whom were excentrics and alone in their generation. This has not stopped their fables from gaining popularity and spreading to become part of the oral folk culture of the worshippers of Hashut.
Akin to other cultural expressions, Dawi Zharr fables mirrors the convoluted and cruel mindset of the children of the Bull God. They are both stories and testaments of a world view steeped in mysticism, sacrifice, heinous cruelty and slavery, as well as domination, warfare, rigid hierarchy and eternal toil to mine, quarry, forge and build in the name of the Father of Darkness. These are not narratives of good and just deeds rightfully rewarded while wicked deeds are punished, and only rarely do they have happy endings. These are tales of a world where might makes right, where strength and cruelty are signs of greatness, and where the capricious will of the Dark Gods can bring about doom upon you at any moment. They are spoken witnesses of a world where the wicked may triumph so long as the Dark Gods wills it, and are appeased through adulation and sacrifice. The underlying world view is fundamentally different to that of most Human societies. For these stories are not bereft of moral. Instead, they are permeated by a morality utterly abominable to lesser races devoted to gods of order.
They are dark tales of a harsh and mysterious world, where blood runs and fire rages as mortals doom themselves by their shortcomings.
These are the fables of the Blacksmiths of Chaos.- - -
The Cocky Marauder and the Foreign Traders, by Zhargonidus Once upon a time, our tribe had freshly mastered gunpowder and had begun to fashion tools of destruction around this new technology, yet everywhere else in the whole world, mortals were ignorant of this discovery. And so it was, that a war caravan rolled out from Uzkulak and set course into the vast expanses of the Chaos Wastes to trade trinkets, bronze axes, shields and vambraces for slaves, secrets and artefacts of great power with the scattered Human tribes up north.
Northward they rolled, and then eastward, for months on end. Months stretched into years, yet on and on the war caravan trundled, hunting, fighting and bartering as it went, until finally, it happened upon a vast encampment of eastern men. This was virgin territory for the merchants, and they halted outside the camp to display their wares and awe the locals with the ingenuity of their craft and the deadliness of their blades.
All the encamped tribesmen and even their bound thralls rushed out to watch the foreign traders, some with trepidation or fear, others with curiosity, jealousy, greed or hungering ambition. Fell shamans rattled their bone shambles, old Humans mumbled and chanted protective mantras. Womenfolk tittered and tattered, and children jeered and cheered at the tricks and otherworldly appearance of the Chaos Dwarf war caravan. The young menfolk put up a brave show, for they were armed with but the crudest of weapons and would have fared poorly indeed against armoured opponents, yet they held their stony masks and observed the newcomers' every move and strange equipment.
The negotiations started, and the households produced their belongings, their catch and their produce. As usual, the traders haggled for long with the natives, yet suddenly, one man had enough of this strange custom of tongue-waggling, and he strode up to the leading pair of Chaos Dwarfs without even a bone knife about his person.
"Why should we give up our property for the likes of these?" asked the cocky Marauder loudly.
The first foreign trader stood his goblinsund at the man's approach, staring at him silently. Yet the second trader picked up a flared pistol from his belt.
"Just look at them! They're Dwarfs! Practically toddlers! We could twist their heads from their tiny necks without breaking a sweat!" laughed the cocky Marauder, and paced closer to the foreign traders.
"Halt!" called out the second foreign trader and pointed his pistol right at the man.
"Your trumpet does not scare me, midget," said the cocky Marauder with a sneer and approached the Chaos Dwarfs with a swagger.
Thereupon the Marauder grinned and pulled out his manhood and let water right into the face of the first foreign trader. Seeing this, the second foreign trader enraged and pulled the trigger, shredding the cocky Marauder to fleshy bits and bloody pieces, as a warning unto his kinsfolk. For such is the fate of those foolish enough to approach the unknown with arrogance.
- The Cocky Marauder and the Foreign Traders, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time*
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* This story is traditionally told to all Temple Acolytes, Daemonsmith apprentices and others who will deal with abysmal unknowns in their craft at an early age.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:04:10 GMT
Written by: AdmiralIllustrated by: Forgefire
The Goblins, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a Goblin tribe who roamed the wastelands, scabby and scarred, filthy and sinewy, spiteful and mischievous to the smallest mite. They eked out a harsh living in hostile lands, yet earned success enough to survive as a group against the predations of monsters, beasts and other Greenskins. One day, the chieftain was edgy and spoiling for a fight.
"Ya lookin' at me?" snarled the chieftain at his head shaman.
"Wouldna've looked at yer warty face fer big mushroomz," piped the head shaman.
"Cor' ya'd alreadaeh poizoned 'im wiv 'em!" smirked the spear mob boss.
"By stikkin' 'em out of yer arze," laughed the archer mob boss.
"Ya couldna've hit yer own arze if it jumped up and zoiled yer 'ead down!" snapped the wolf mob boss.
"An' ya couldna've found yer own 'ead," said the club mob boss.
"Kuz it's damn stuck in dat louzy wolf arze ya funk waz dinnah," remarked the nasty skulker.
"Yer gutz fer dinnah!" whooped the nastier skulker.
"I'll zerve yer dinnah for ya!" yelled the nastiest skulker, lunged with a blade and spilled out the intestines of the previous speaker.
And so it was that the Goblins fell to infighting and decimated themselves, and divided they were weak and few, and now they could no longer survive as a tribe in the wastelands, for monsters ate them, beasts stalked them and other Greenskins stomped them into the ground, killing every last one of the bickering Goblins and scattering their gnawed bones on the rocks. For such is the fate of the disunited.
- The Goblins, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:05:21 GMT
Written by: AdmiralIllustrated by: Forgefire
The Absentminded Hatter, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a hatter who was absent of mind and scattered his tools around him and did not keep his hatmaking workshop orderly and tidy as he should have done. Indeed, he sometimes even forgot to offer up due adulation, prayer and sacrifice to His mighty idols during work at the appropriate times ordained by his craft.
One day, the hatter busied himself at the anvil by hammering out a tall hat for a customer of considerable wealth and standing, who was from another clan. The hatter was assisted in his labour by apprentice and slaves, yet he had carelessly forgotten to chain the slaves. Thus it was that one tiny Goblin thrall took the opportunity to attempt escape, for the mite stole a knife for a weapon and climbed into the finished hat and hid himself within its depths. The absentminded hatter missed to count his slaves that day, and never realized the Goblin had disappeared.
When the important customer arrived to procure his order, he was showered with flatter and assurances of the fine quality of the headgear. Yet when the customer took the hat from the workdesk, he found it weighed a great deal and remarked as such.
"Gold is heavy, but the high stature of this shining hat will hardly burden a good man of your dignity," said the absentminded hatter.
Yet when the customer raised the hat to put it upon his head, he found it top-heavy and remarked as such.
"As befits your might and ambitions, for would we not all tower as high if we could? This sturdy chin strap will keep your crowning glory secured," said the absentminded hatter.
Yet when the customer lowered the hat onto his head and strapped it fast, the sly Goblin inside panicked and stabbed him dead in a frenzy. Soon enough, the wronged clansmen of the killed customer exacted cruel revenge upon the absentminded hatter and threw him off the high ziggurat walls. For such is fate of the careless.
- The Absentminded Hatter, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* The moral of the story may also be read as "always look into your hat before wearing it."
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:07:28 GMT
The Beardless Daemonsmith, by Zhargonidus Once upon a time, there was a reckless Daemonsmith, rash and risk-taking like a Goblin. He threw himself into experiments, and shackled Daemons and forged with fell spirits as though peril did not exist since creation. He lacked sense, but not luck, and so he gained success through fortune and ingenuity, yet such could not last. Eventually, his senselessness caught up with him.
One day, the Daemonsmith garbled out the binding incantations and trapped with obsidian in a hurry without meticulousness, and so it was, that his careless work cursed him, for the whispering shadow of an otherwise imprisoned Daemon escaped, and hid where it found a safe hole, namely in the Daemonsmith's senseless mind. There it lurked, and slowly embedded itself into his thoughts, until the Daemonsmith thought it part of his self, his soul.
And thus it was, that he believed it was his own spirit speaking, when fear gripped him like a rain of needles, and angst wracked him from within. And in the midst of inner agony a whisper reached him, slithering, sweet, poisonous, repeating the same message over and over in a thousand contradictory ways.
”They will have your hide,” it whispered, over and over again.
At first the Daemonsmith hid his woes, yet for all appearances he could not ignore the voice in his own head. He began to fear for his life, and dreamt terrible nightmares which drove him to insanity. He feared for his own skin, and suddenly the terror was too great in his soul. He wandered into the wilderness, wailing and rolling in the dust. And then, a spark of ingenuity arose within the blackest terror, and he knew then and there how he could save his skin from being taken.
The Daemonsmith drew his knife, and put it to his own flesh, and he flayed himself on the spot. He lifted his own hide with a mad grin, and resolved to lock the skin within a strong safebox guarded by cunning mechanisms and fell runes of cursing and sorcerous snares. They would never have his hide now!
Yet as the self-flayed man marched back to the city, his kinsfolk stared in rawest schock. He had no beard! He had flayed off his own beard! And the affront that the sight of a beardless man presented so enraged the populace that they descended upon the beardless Daemonsmith in a rabid mob, and did him to death with brutal violence, leaving but gory smears, ripped tendons and scattered fingers in the gutter. For such is the fate of those who would annihilate their own pride and prized honour.
- The Beardless Daemonsmith, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:10:26 GMT
The Wheel and the Cut Stone, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a wheel and a cut stone resting close to each other at a build site. One day, the cut stone spoke:
"How odd. We would both be similar, if if I was to be paved in a road trundled over by wheels, and if you were to be mounted on a wagon carrying stone. Also, both of us may crush mortal bodies, wheel," pondered the cut stone.
"I would not like to be you in return for any treasure in the world, cut stone," said the wheel.
"How come, wheel?" asked the cut stone.
"You are but carved and put into your place, never to move again and always facing the same direction. Whereas I will be attached to an axle and roll. Thus I will witness new lands and tribes and marvels on my travels, while you would have to hope for an invasion, or for hands to remould the landscape around you during centuries of toil, cut stone," said the wheel.
"Yet have you heard of an inscribed wheel, or of a wheel relief? Set me into a wall, and upon my face may inscriptions and friezes be carved with great care, to commemorate the sights you see. And when you have long since rusted and rotted away, I will have stood the test of time, for to build in stone is to build for eternity, wheel," replied the cut stone.
At this, the bickering died out. For only a fool or barbarian would choose a settled life without the capability to move at will, or a nomad life without a lasting base. Thus there is value in both mobility and permanence.
- The Wheel and the Cut Stone, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* Though seemingly trivial, the lesson of this fable resounds with Dawi Zharr stratagems throughout the ages. Their dominant mode of operation have been long slaving expeditions of war into the wastes of the Dark Lands, with the scattered Chaos Dwarf fortresses as strongpoints to fall back to at need. Nowadays, these expeditions are centered around armoured trains, namely caravans of warmachines and supply wagons pulled by Iron Daemons and Skullcrackers.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:11:51 GMT
The Slapdash Carpenter and the Apprentice, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a slapdash carpenter. Everyone knew him to always work in a haste and rush through his labour. He completed in speed what others perfected in accuracy. He guessed and he fumbled and he supposed, and never knew he something for sure before embarking upon a task. One day, the slapdash carpenter worked on a common brick dwelling. He clambered up among the roof beams of the building to fasten wickerwork and planks in preparation for the fireproof stamped earth layer, when suddenly his apprentice called out:
"Master, the house shall have an open courtyard!" shouted the apprentice.
"I knew that," lied the slapdash carpenter and produced a piece of chalk. He quickly drew a line at will on a sturdy beam, and grabbed his saw, when suddenly his apprentice called out:
"Master, that's wrong! To measure is to know, everything else is a wild guess. Just look at the place you've marked out!" shouted the apprentice.
"Shut up! There's nothing wrong with my experienced estimation!" snapped the slapdash carpenter and sawed off his own leg. For such is the fate of the hasty.
- The Slapdash Carpenter and the Apprentice, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* A common variant of this story ends instead with the carpenter sawing off the beam he is sitting on, dropping him to the ground and breaking his neck.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:12:18 GMT
The Ox and the Cowherdess, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was proud bull lording it over a large herd of cattle. Large was his harem and splendid was his greatness, until one day, a drought struck, and all the land dried up. The plants withered and died, the water holes became desiccated dust bowls, and the creatures of the land started to drop dead out of hunger and thirst.
The bull led his herd for leagues upon leagues, wandering the land and searching for water and green pastures. Yet they could not find any, and their numbers dwindled from starvation. Then, the cattle herd came upon a cowherdess.
"Help us, give us water to drink and grass to eat," pleaded the bull.
"I will do so, but only if you I may pierce your nose and fasten this iron ring through it," replied the cowherdess.
"Our plight is dire, so do what you want. But water and feed our young and old, lest they will all die," said the bull.
"I will," she promised.
The cowherdess and her daughters pierced the nose ring inside the bull's mule, fastened a chain to it and pulled taut. The pain made the bull weak as a newborn calf and he could not defend himself or his kin. Thus the cowherdess gelded him and butchered all the other cattle in the herd for a great sacrificial feast, and his line ended there and then. From then on, the ox would pull heavy loads until he dropped dead from it.
"Why did you cut my phallus and kill my people? This was not what you promised to do," complained the ox.
The cowherdess replied: "You let yourself be shackled and captured. Why would I honour the wishes of one too weak to escape slavery? You are mine now, and I will do as I please with you and your ilk. Toil, ox, toil!"
- The Ox and the Cowherdess, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* The moral of the story resounds with every fibre of the Dawi Zharr mindset. To the Blacksmiths of Chaos, strength and cruelty is moral and just. What mercy can there be for the weak, the vanquished, the slave?
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:13:08 GMT
The Slave and the Blacksmith, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a blacksmith who laboured every day in his smithy. He would heat the metal in the forge fire, strike it with his hammer and harden it in a barrel of tempering water before reheating the metal. All the time, his slave pumped the bellows. One day, the blacksmith worked for long hours to turn steel into a blade, yet his slave tired of his work at the bellows.
In secret, the slave cut into the water barrel with a knife. After a while, it had leaked dry. The next time the blacksmith reached out to quench the steel in the water, it was gone.
"This was the last barrel. The steel will spoil without liquid to harden it in," said the blacksmith.
"Is that the end of your work today?" asked the slave.
"No, but yours," replied the blacksmith and quenched the blade in blood by running it through the slave, for such is the fate of those who would shy from work and destroy their master's possessions.
- The Slave and the Blacksmith, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:13:30 GMT
The Tightwad and the Temple Acolyte, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a tightwad who was so cheap he would eat the carcasses of asses left out for the dogs in the street. One day, high Hashut or some Daemon disapproved of these meals of rotten flesh, and struck the tightwad with a sickness that threatened to end his life. His clan paid a Temple Acolyte to oversee the sick man.
"Your life might yet be spared if you would get elixirs and sacrifice to appease the wrathful deity," said the Temple Acolyte.
"And pay for medicine, prayers and offerings?" gasped the tightwad.
"But you're dying," replied the Temple Acolyte.
"I will let my body heal itself," said the tightwad.
"Then we should consult your clan for funeral rites that reflects your status. Would you like a catacomb burial or cremation before the idols? That would be seven or three gold bulls," snarked the Temple Acolyte.
"You swindlers are always out for my money! Cut that to a silver hoof and chuck me in the River Ruin!" yelled the tightwad.
And they did, without waiting for the sickness to kill the tightwad. For such is the fate of those so mean as to offend the Temple, the Bull God and Daemons alike.
- The Tightwad and the Temple Acolyte, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* This illustrates the underlying friction between Dawi Zharr sacrificial religion, which basically is about burning wealth to ashes, and the extreme avarice of Chaos Dwarfs. However, it is rare for a worshipper of Hashut to forsake his sacrificial obligations, for to do so is to invite holy and unholy wrath alike.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:13:45 GMT
The Sculptor and the Stone Golem, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a careless sculptor working on a collection of statues for a triumphal monument. He worked at high speed, just as his Sorcerer-Prophet client demanded, but unbeknownst to the sculptor, his master had cursed the stone of the statues to punish any faulty work. One day, the sculptor had finished with a statue and inspected it.
"I call it a decent piece of work for an honest craftsman," the sculptor declared to himself.
"There are cracks and chinks. The symmetry is off, and the details are coarse. You have failed with its face and its beard is flat," said a voice from somewhere.
"No matter, the statue is high up and won't be seen too closely. Wait, who talked?" asked the sculptor.
"I, the statue. And I will bury you alive for the disrespect you have shown towards your own work. Towards me!" replied the stone golem, and grasped the sculptor with one giant stone fist.
"No, not me! I had poor chisels and hammers, I couldn't do better with them," protested the sculptor.
"Then I will bury your tools," said the stone golem, and shoved them down the sculptor's throat until he burst. For such is the fate of those who would dishonour their craft and be careless in their work.
- The Sculptor and the Stone Golem, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* Bizarelly enough, this story describes an actual standard of quality control used by some members of the priesthood of Hashut. The procedure is usually to curse, or make Daemons possess, one or a few of the large number of statues ordered from sculptors. Whatever the workings of the sorceries, the statues will come alive and slay their creators should the work be unacceptable. Depending on the arcane spells involved, these stone golems may then lose their life, or return to slumber as guardians, or even be used as weapons of war by the Dawi Zharr.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:14:02 GMT
The Bargeman and the Misfortunes, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a bargeman upon the River Ruin, whose mind was a nightmare. So pessimistic was he, that he believed he lived in the worst of worlds. One day, the bargeman stood aboard his coal barge as it was tugged up the river by a team of oxen.
"Woe unto me! Wifeless and childless, goldless and luckless. Despair fills my life and Hashut hates me. The coal price is on an all-time low, and my barge is in need of expensive repair work. It cannot get any worse than this!" complained the bargeman.
High Hashut heard his words, and proved him wrong. The barge sank. The bargeman swam for his life, as did the rest of his slaves that could swim.
"Woe unto me! Bargeless and dryless, hatless and coalless. Despair fills my life and Hashut hates me. The coal is on the bottom of the river, and my barge is gone. It cannot get any worse than this!" complained the bargeman.
High Hashut heard his words, and proved him wrong. The ropes attached to the sinking barge pulled the oxen into the river. The bargeman's slaves tried to rescue the draft animals, but drowned along with them. The bargeman swam on.
"Woe unto me! Slaveless and oxless, hopeless and propertyless. Despair fills my life and Hashut hates me. The oxen drowns, and my slaves are dead. It cannot get any worse than this!" complained the bargeman.
High Hashut heard his words, and proved him wrong. The coal floated to the surface of the water, and ignited. The river boiled. The bargeman was scalded and cooked.
"Woe unto me! Healthless and skinless, lifeless and coldless. Despair fills my life and Hashut hates me. The coal burns, and I am boiled nigh to death. It cannot get any worse than this!" complained the bargeman.
High Hashut heard his words, and proved him wrong. The bargeman's scalded body was picked up from the river bank by roving Hobgoblins and was eaten alive for dinner. For such is the fate of those who would not count their blessings, and despairs too easily.
- The Bargeman and the Misfortunes, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* Note the repetitive style of this fable. It is common in Chaos Dwarf literature and folk culture.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:14:45 GMT
The Items of Subjugation, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a chain whip, a pair of leg irons, a branding iron and a sledgehammer laid upon a workbench. One day, they were boasting to each other:
"My lash tears flesh and rips apart skin yet rarely kills. I instil fear and obedience and may force the starved and exhausted thrall back to his feet to work like never before until he drops dead in his labour. My scars can be found on the back of every slave. I flog you and I flay you. Truly, I am the item behind a succesful slave workforce," said the chain whip.
"My grip is unyielding on flesh and halts the runner in his tracks. I bind your ankles against your will and may fetter you to stones or other thralls so that you cannot escape. My rusty bite can be found corroding into the flesh of every slave. I arrest you and I halt you. Truly, I am the item behind a succesful slave workforce," said the leg irons.
"My heat broils flesh and leave wounds that cannot truly heal. I mark you as property without freedom and may damn you to a thrall's short life of hardship and misery and backbreaking toil. My burns can be found on the flesh of every slave. I scorch you and I enslave you. Truly, I am the item behind a succesful slave workforce," said the branding iron.
"Yet what about you, sledgehammer? Aren't you good only for cracking fingers so that thralls cannot work properly?" asked the other items when they had finished their boasting.
The sledgehammer was silent at first. Then it spoke:
"My weight is my strength and beats anything into submission. I reshape you at will and may crush anything and anyone. My fearsome blows can be found upon the metal of every chain whip, every pair of leg shackles and every branding iron in existence. Without me, you are nothing. For I can make you, and I can break you," said the sledgehammer.
The other items did not reply at this since they knew their powers of subjugation had lost out to the powers of crafting. For such is the might of the blacksmith and his tools, that everything forged by them owes their allegiance to their maker.
- The Items of Subjugation, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* This fable reflects the deeply ingrained Chaos Dwarf belief in the power and mastery of he who creates, he who builds, he who crafts. Owing to their Dwarfen nature, the Dawi Zharr value craftsmanship above most other things in the world. Yet theirs is a twisted nature, and to the Blacksmiths of Chaos, the power to craft is equal to the power to dominate and crush under heel. Indeed, most if not all sorcerous rituals of the Dawi Zharr are centered around forging and crafting, and amongst the Chaos Dwarfs there is an abundance of superstitious charms and hexes to curse or control others that revolves around the very tools by which the possessions of another were crafted. Some of these convoluted sorceries have even had practical and horrendous effects, which not a few mortal Chaos Warlords have found out to their cost after double-crossing their Chaos Dwarf allies or trade partners, or simply because they fell victims to capricious Dawi Zharr cruelty.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:15:01 GMT
The Malarkey Coppersmith Roofer, by Uhr-Kulmbizharr Once upon a time, there was a coppersmith who cut and riveted copper plates to roof beams. His handiwork was fine, yet his judgement was flawed, and he was seldom careful or exact with what he said. His hands worked instead of his mind, so his tongue waggled unchecked, hither and thither, telling false and wrong were his hands made true and strong. Thus people who knew him well found his words hard to rely on, yet new customers were seldom warned by others of his flaw.
One day, the coppersmith were repairing the corroded roof of an old slave barrack. It was late in the evening, yet he had his trusty oil lamp to give a ruddy light. He worked deftly at loosening old plates.
"Is the cracked plate replaced now?" called out the owner of the slave barrack.
"It sure is already!" called back the malarkey coppersmith, when it fact it wasn't, but he was soon at the cracked plate and was sure to have it fixed in no time and saw no reason to answer with a measly "not yet", for surely no one would come up and check before it was finished?
Yet up came the client all of a sudden. He climbed up in the darkness, stomping on the new copper plates to inspect the results and taking some delight in instilling some fear of the Thunderbull in his shackled slaves below the roof.
"This is solid craftsmanship!" exclaimed the slave barrack owner and approached the roofer without even seeing where he put his feet.
"Solid as can be," replied the coppersmith absentmindedly, all attention on his work at hand and all else forgotten.
"Splendid! Now this roof can take the burden of a Bull Centaur!" said the slave barrack owner happily and stomped out onto the cracked copper plate, which broke in two and sent him howling into the slave cell below, where eight shackled Savage Orcs ripped him to pieces and devoured him alive. And for his lethal lies the malarkey coppersmith roofer was hunted down by the client's clan and had molten copper poured down his throat, for such is the fate of those who would take out victory in advance.
- The Malarkey Coppersmith Roofer, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund*
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* This fable also have other lessons to learn, namely to always watch where you put your feet and never trust fully in the words of others.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:15:15 GMT
The Negligent Slave Owner and the New Taskmaster Once upon a time there was a slave owner who saw his thralls simply as workforce and nothing more. They were to be bought, and replaced upon backbreaking death just like a lifeless tool, yet still he allowed them a life of sorts. They were to be fed, clothed and forced and hurt, but to this slave owner the savage minds and barbarous talk of his slaves were of no consequence, and beneath his dignity to concern himself with. He was indeed a negligent man, for only those righteous in the eyes of the Father of Darkness know and act upon the need to utterly crush the will and inner worth of the slaves to keep them in line. So careless was this slave owner, that he did not realize that he, and he alone must reduce his property to truly lifeless tools.
One day, a new taskmaster was hired by the slave owner. Even though the taskmaster was a man of lowly birth and meagre skills, his simple wits still grasped the workings of slavedriving better than his superior did. Yet he did not carry out his duties bereft of doubt as ordained in unholy scripture, but immediately turned to his employer for directions even in trifling matters.
”Master, the newly bought Gnoblars have started flinging their own filth at each other. They find spiteful mirth therein, which is a sign of a free and willful life of heart that cannot be allowed to persist. Shall I let sew shut the behinds of some and flog others to put the fear of the Bull God in them?” asked the new taskmaster.
”No. As long as they work we shall not concern ourselves with the doings of the scum,” answered the negligent slave owner.
Next day, the taskmaster sought out the slave owner anew:
”Master, the Goblins' chatter has vexed the Orcs. The waggling of tongues goes hither and thither, casting curses upon fellow slaves and who knows even ourselves? They find spiteful refuge therein, which is a sign of a free and willful life of heart that cannot be allowed to persist. Shall I cut out the tongues of some and flay others to put the fear of the Bull God in them?” asked the new taskmaster.
”No. As long as they work we shall not concern ourselves with the doings of the scum,” answered the negligent slave owner.
The day after that, the taskmaster once again sought out the slave owner:
”Master, the Orcs have started to chant to their foreign gods, stomping and grunting and spitting. They arouse each other, and their crude singing is turning into wordless shouts. They find unruly pride therein. Shall I rip the jaws off from some and maim others to put the fear of the Bull God in them?” asked the new taskmaster.
”No. As long as they work we shall not concern ourselves with the doings of the scum,” answered the negligent slave owner.
Next day, the taskmaster did not seek out the slave owner, and the slave owner did not decline to give the command to quench the spirit of the slaves akin to how one almost quench life in a torture victim by keeping it submerged in foul water until almost dead. For this day, they were both dead from the night's slave uprising, the one fallen for his idiotic negligence, the other for his spineless doubt. And indeed the free Greenskins ate the negligent slave owner and taskmaster while still alive and conscious, though badly wounded, and the cackling and jeering of savages was the last thing the fools heard as life left them at the fangs and tusks of their own Greenskin slaves. For such is the fate of those who would not know their toil for its true nature.
- The Negligent Slave Owner and the New Taskmaster, by Daemonsmith Uhr-Kulmbizharr the Blind, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories during the foundation of Zharr-Naggrund
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 8:16:25 GMT
The Daemonsmith Engineer and the Great Eagles, by Zhargonidus Once upon a time, there was a cunning Daemonsmith Engineer who wished to make his artillery pieces unassailable upon the battlefield. One day, the army he was detached to faced a High Elven host on a distant island. For some days they faced off and waited for the enemy to make a move. Meanwhile, the Daemonsmith Engineer scouted the island's terrain ahead of the battle, and found the perfect position for his rocket launchers, mortars and Magma Cannons. It was atop a steep cliff with good firing arcs over the whole area.
Its walls were nigh inaccessible, yet still the Daemonsmith Engineer had his slaves dismantle the artillery pieces, climb the rock and hoist the artillery pieces up the cliff by means of crude cranes. Then the crew, then the ammunition, then the signal braziers, field altars, rations and supplies had to be hoisted up onto the cliff. It took days. Hundreds of slaves died during this labour, yet in the end they were succesful. The artillery park had gained its unassailable vantage point.
When the day of battle arrived, the Daemonsmith Engineer stood atop the cliff and directed the batteries' deadly barrage into the High Elven ranks. Yet in the midst of carnage, dark shadows swooped down from the skies and ripped the artillery crewmen to pieces. The batteries fell silent. Sharp talons ripped the flesh from off the Chaos Dwarfs and dropped shrieking slaves down the cliff face. Beaks snapped and wings fanned. The Great Eagles even tore down the cranes.
"Reinforcements to here! Help!" shouted the Daemonsmith Engineer down to his Overlord.
"How could we reach you without the cranes? We can't climb, and even if we could, we would be too slow to save you. You are doomed!" barked the Overlord.
At this, two Great Eagles snatched the Daemonsmith Engineer from the cliff and ripped him apart, high in the air. For such is the fate of those who would not see the deathtrap in the safe hideout.
- The Daemonsmith Engineer and the Great Eagles, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time
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