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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 10:49:37 GMT
The Barren Shrine Though sharing some physiological similarities through common ancestry, Dwarfs and Humans differ markedly in a number of ways.
Humans, on the one hand, are short-lived creatures, susceptible to disease, poisons, infected wounds and other hardships when compared to Dwarfs. Human populations consists of rough halves of males and females, and such factors as the insecurities of old age coupled with high child mortality has resulted in a high degree of breeding in Human societies all over the world. Furthermore, Humans are by their very nature endowed with strong reproductive drives, a fact which has shaped their laws, social customs and religions wherever Human settlements are to be found.
Dwarfs, on the other hand, are characterized by longevity as well as high toughness and resistance to sickness, wounds and hardships when compared to Humans. Dwarf populations consists of a clear male majority outnumbering a precious female minority several times over. Though Dwarfs are completely reliant on repeated births by each fertile woman for the population's sustainability, their low child mortality and their long and hard pregnancies still mean that the average Dwarf woman breed less children than the average Human woman. This potentially high competition for females among the much more numerous male Dwarfs are thoroughly counteracted by Dwarfen nature, which helps produce social stability. Male Dwarfs left without a wife will, for the most part, stoically accept their lot in life without social friction. Not every man can marry in their society. Indeed, Dwarfs often regard Humans as marital egoists.
Chaos Dwarfs, however, have been twisted by their devotion to the Father of Darkness and their long exposure to the dark powers of Hashut and the wider Chaos. Their bovine mutations are not mere facades, for their minds too have been shaped to some degree in the Bull God's image, both from bodily mutation and strongly patriarchical cultural customs handed down by the Temple priesthood. Many characteristics of uncorrupted Dwarfs remain with the Dawi Zharr, yet they are also greedier, much more cruel and bestowed with a ravenous hunger to dominate others. The bull is strong in some sons of the Father of Darkness, and their lusts may not easily be contained by their damaged Dwarfen natures.
Though promiscuity is nonexistent within Chaos Dwarf society, many males will occassionally crave for an outlet to their rampant drive to breed like a bull upon the females of their kind. This is particularly true for such hotheaded Chaos Dwarf menfolk who remain stationed at isolated outposts for long years on end. The capture of Dawi women is a rare occassion, and as such the only true venting of steam for unmarried Chaos Dwarf males exists within the Temple's outlying Barren Shrine. Located outside the walls of the great Temple of Hashut at the summit of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, this is the residence of the Dawi Zharr institution of sacred prostitution.
Temple harlotry is not a widespread phenomenon, for it is virtually limited only to the ziggurat capitol. Among the Dwarfs of Fire, only women born barren may become Temple harlots, provided their male masters (including Sorcerer-Prophets who rule over the ladies' fathers) wishes for it to happen. The services of barren women may be offered up to the Temple as tribute, where they are initiated into the shadowy cult of Matzhkra the Leaden Trampled, in her aspect as the Barren One, stripped of both dignity and fertility by the overpowering violence of the Father of Darkness.
In Dawi Zharr mythology, Matzhkra was one of the Shackled Consorts of the Bull God, an unfortunate Chaos Dwarf woman turned insane by her heinous reforging and ascension to Hashut's realm, fit only to be His Slave Concubine. She symbolizes slavery and is associated with the metal lead, and by far the most Chaos Dwarfs believe her not to be infertile, but rather a heifer seized constantly by high Hashut and carrying His as of yet unborn offspring, of which many prophecies and legends are told. The ladies of the Barren Shrine, however, pay homage to her as a barren and unwilling harlot, protector of their profession and embodiment of their plight.
In the Shrine, the women learn to sing, play musical instruments, dance and please men in other ways. Numerous secret and occult practices - including impurity rites, anti-Slaaneshi prayers, forbidden mantras, and ashen cleansing - surrounds the damned sisterhood and its few low-ranking acolyte overseers. Some of the Temple harlots' most heinous services, however, are carried out in more or less bizarre ways as parts of carefully orchestrated arcane rituals to summon, capture, break and reforge particularly elusive Daemons of perversion and hedonism. These services in the Soulforges of Daemonsmiths are hazardous at best, for the vile Daemons and dark sorcery at play may all too easily lash out and damage or otherwise affect the sacred prostitutes who act as bait.
Visiting the Barren Shrine is in itself an impure act requiring ritual cleansing afterwards, and dire social stigma is attached to customers entering the priestly sanctioned brothel on most days of the year. As such, most initiated women live fairly ordinary lives outside the shrine most of the time, within the limits which their shunned social status permits. Only on certain appointed holy days are the doors of the Barren Shrine left wide open to the street. On these scattered days, none of the Temple harlots are allowed leave the Barren Shrine to work with weaving, leatherworking, slavedriving or any of their other everyday tasks. Instead, they stay at the Barren Shrine all the time, conducting hidden rites and receiving customers without sleeping until the sacred festivities end. Then, they collapse out of exhaustion, their religious duties for the celebrations carried out, riches earned for the Temple, the unmarried Chaos Dwarf menfolk sated, the bull served. Potent mystical meaning is attached to the Barren Shrine's function during such appointed holy days.
Barren Dawi Zharr women without grave social blemishes attain the highest status within the Barren Shrine. Then come the barren Chaos Dwarf dams who would have found themselves exiled into the Infernal Guard for various crimes and causes of shame, had they been men. Beneath this strata lies the rare few barren females of uncorrupted or bastardized Dwarf stock. Their fates are baleful indeed, for they are untold tales of misery and tragedy ending only in death or insanity. Indeed, there is a saying in Zharr-Naggrund: "Daemons spreading their malice in the Barren Shrine are wasted there like a torch cast into lava."
Though some married barren women exist amid the Dawi Zharr, none of them ever served at the Barren Shrine. For to do so is to become a pariah on the marriage market, a creature of shame not fit to enter a respectable man's harem.
Such is the wretchedness of the Temple harlots of the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 10:50:47 GMT
Written by: DînadanThe White Archives of Zharr-Naggrund Deep within the mountainous edifice that is Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, hidden amidst countless chambers and labyrinthine halls is a closely guarded secret that few know about. There are many forgotten places and secret laboratories within the great ziggurat and even entire rooms where whole clans have been walled up alive, but the White Archives is unique for it is where the Cult of Hashut keeps various dangerous artefacts and heretical texts away from the larger populace. The truth behind how they came to be is lost to the mists of time, but legend holds that it is tied into the creation of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund itself. It is said that when Hashut raised the black mountain that became the great ziggurat he also created the vault that became the White Archives from the purest white marble and tradition holds that this is symbolic of the virtue of nobility that dwells with the black heart of every Dawi Zharr just as the vices of greed and pride which dominate Dawi Zharr society dwell within the heart of each of their western kin. It is said that Hashut raised the mountain rough and half formed, for while it was a gift to his children, it was not in his nature to give them everything, they would have to strive for their gift to show themselves worthy. Over a century countless slaves under the whips of their cruel dwarf overseers toiled unceasingly, carving the mountain's slopes into tall steps and burrowing deep within, chiseling away grand halls and passageways until one day a mining crew broke through a wall and found a perfectly formed corridor which lead into an equally perfectly formed, many pillared vault. Knowing this could only be the work of the Dark Father, the overseer in charge ordered his guard to slaughter the slaves and sent for a Sorcerer-Prophet. The priest who arrived also recognised the significance and called the High-Priest, who in turn recognised the gift. After much discussion, the High-Priest and his council decided that the vault's existence should be kept secret from the populace at large and that doing so would provide a unique opportunity. Over the long centuries the Dawi Zharr had accumulated many daemonforged items; weapons and talismans of Erdrich origin that could drive the bearer mad or worse. Though all were forbidden from using them, they had been loath to destroy them for to do so would be to admit there were things they could not master, something anathema to their nature. As reward, the overseer and his guards were appointed guardians of the newly formed archives, and a form of monastic order was founded. Each was blinded and their tongues torn out, the latter to prevent them from telling any of what they guarded and the former so that they would not be driven mad by their charges. However, the ritual blinding gave them a sort of second sight and their remaining senses were enhanced allowing them to perform their duties as well as if they could see, some say better in fact. Since then, new recruits have been drawn from beardlings born blind, taken at birth and trained in a brutal regime to guard the forbidden treasures against all interlopers, even their own kin. The guardians are swathed in black linen robes and wear silver masks fashioned in the shape of learning daemon faces. Since then, the collection has grown, each year an unknown number of artefacts making their way to the Archive, only the Master of Guardians knowing the exact number. Access is restricted and of the few that know of the Archives existence, few beyond the guardians are allowed entry. Even the High-Priest himself can only enter with the consent of Zharr-Naggrund's ruling council, for it is feared what damage could be done by a Dawi whose ambition outweighs his loyalty to the Order of the Clans. Even those wishing to study the artefacts for purely academic reasons are viewed with mistrust. The treasures housed are many and varied such as the heretical text 'The Wheel of Chaos', many pages from the Nine Books of Nagash including an almost complete copy of the third and fifth and daemonbound weapons beyond count. They range from the brazen such as a brass banner shaped into a roaring face taken in battle against a horde of Khornish daemons that drives anyone within ten yards to bloodlust, to the malignant such as a mirror looted from a Tzeentch worshiping city in the northern Wastes that twists the reflections on its surface, slowly twisting the body of those that gaze upon it to match, to the peculiar such as an iron box found half buried next to the corpse of an armoured giant of a man in the deepest parts of the Wastes that constantly chatters in a distorted voice which speaks an unknown tongue. Even bodies have been interred within the Archives, such as the Daemon Lord Kr'ack'thr'n, slain by High-Priest Krâzznurthran outside the gates of Daemons Stump and bound in chains of purest warpstone so that he could not return to the Realm of Chaos, or the heads of five Liche priests who had foolishly accompanied Arkhan the Black on an expedition into the Dark Lands. The priests had been decapitated and their bodies burned in sacrifice to Hashut then placed in kanopic jars. The Sorcerer-Prophets of the time had hoped to use the still living heads to glean necromantic lore to better fight the undead forces of Nagash but after the failed rebellion of the Bonebeards they had been sent to the White Archives so that no other clan could repeat treachery. Since then they have sat on shelves above their kanopic jars and the Archive guardians have made a game of stuffing the most humiliating object possible into one of the heads' mouths; to date the winner is a rod taken from the body of a Slaaneshi champion which is tipped with a rune of ecstasy. Of late there have been some fears that the collection may be more dangerous within the Archive than without, for keeping so many dangerous artefacts in such close proximity is surely to court disaster. Some say that continuing to add to it will lead to the downfall of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund while others insist that only during the End Times should the Archives' contents be brought forth. Regardless, all the Sorcerer-Prophets are too proud to openly call for change, so for now the Archive will continue to grow.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 10:51:59 GMT
Dwarfs have an unerring sense of direction and a natural instinct for their position relative to their surroundings, but like the lesser races, even they have their limits and must rely on maps from time to time. Ironically, their innate nack for geometry leads them to make more detailed maps rather than less detailed as would be expected as they are thus possessed on an inherent compulsion to know exactly how things are laid out and a crudely drawn map can easily lead to venturing down the wrong mine shaft or delving into a magma stream.
As such both the Dawi Zharr and their western kin have developed many methods of mapping out both the topology of the surface world and the byzantine nest of tangled tunnels, caves and shafts beneath it. These range from the simple, such as maps akin to those employed by men and elves to more ingenious devices which look like a tangled mess to the eyes of men but something closer to mathematical art to the eyes of the dwarfs.
One of the most notable methods devised by the Dawi Zharr, albeit one restricted the guild halls of the Cartographers' Guild, is a multi-layered system which allows for the mapping of the subterrainian side of their empire without resulting in the incomprehensible mess that attempting to do so on parchment would result in. Glasswork is something that the Dawi Zharr with their close connection to the fires of the world excell in and it is in this method of cartography that such excellence is best shown. The map consists of several sheets of glass, each representing a different depth (how deep each represents varies from map to map as best fits it's purpose) and each has the layout of the tunnels etched into its surface. Once the etching is complete, molten metal, most commonly iron, is then poured onto it and left to cool, forming fine thread to make the pathways clearer. Some cartographers have experimented with mixing different metals within the same etching to represent different things, such as pouring a metal onto when it is mined, but most stick to the tried and tested method of a single metal. The sheets of glass can then be stacked atop one another and when viewed from above, allows a Dawi Zharr to easily comprehend the layout of the tunnels it maps.
This method also has an advantage over those used by men in that it is easier to copy the map than with one printed on parchment. If needing to make a parchment map, the Cartographers simply lay the parchment over the relevant layer and then place a lamp or sun crystal beneath. The light shines through and the Cartographer is then able to simply trace the map. If needed to carve the map into stone, such as for one of the plaques that adorne the walls of the holds and mines, the relevant sheet is held vertically and a light source placed on one side and the Cartographer uses the shadow cast to chisel it out.
Yet another ingenious method that combines the glasswork and metalwork talents of the Dawi Zharr is a full blown three dimensional map, although only a handful of such maps exist in the entire empire. The map is a block of crystal clear glass with metal thread woven within perfectly mirroring the tunnels it maps. Although impressive, this method is rarely practiced, partly due to the skill required being possessed by none but the best Cartographers and partly because of the difficulty in keeping the map up to date, as it is impossible to make changes to reflect the expansion of the mines or loss of them to Greenskins and skaven without destroying the map and creating it anew. As such, those that do exist are seen more as curios than useful tools and most are either kept as amusing object d'art by wealthy Dawi or kept in archives and museums by chroniclers and archivists as records and references of study into Dawi Zharr history.
Regardless of what form they take, all maps are created and maintained by the Guild of Cartographers. While not wielding massive amounts of power, either physically or politically, the Guild is nonetheless regarded highly in Dawi Zharr society, and membership is regarded as a respectable career, especially for those family members who are unsuited to military life. Unlike other institutions wishing Dawi Zharr society, such as the Azure Devils, members of the Guild are still regarded as part of their clan and as such the oaths sworn to the Guild are such that a member will not be forced to take up arms against his kin. In the event of a dispute between the Guild and his clan, a Cartographer has his membership temporarily suspended, thus preventing him from being forced to act against either his family or the Guild.
Each Dawi Zharr settlement has a Guildhall from which its Cartographers operate. In the smaller or more rural and far flung settlements this can range from a modest hall all the way down to the Cartographer's personal chambers within his family's home. The major settlements on the other hand are home to more grandiose affairs that put the ziggurats and halls of the lesser clans to shame. It is from these that the Guild leadership operates. Nominally, there are multiple Guilds, each with their own sphere of influence, but in reality, they are so closely aligned as to be a single one and as such they are regarded by society in general. Every twelve years, a council is convened from the various Guild leaders and one is elected as a the head of the Guild as a whole. As such the seat of power moves about depending on which Guild the leader hails from, although usually the elected leader hails from Zharr-Naggrund, Uzkulak or Daemons Stump due to those Guilds holding the most sway, and the leadership only going to one of the latter two when Zharr-Naggrund's multiple Guilds are unhappy with the leader Zharr-Naggrund has put forth that election and instead throw their support behind the other candidates as a form of political dissent.
One of the most notable guilds is that of Uzkulak which due to its nature as the Dawi Zharr's major port has long ago been combined with the Navigator's guild and Cartographer's from there often voyage aboard Dawi Zharr ships to help with navigation and to map foreign shores to better assist with future naval raids. Many from the other guilds see them as queer for their study of the heavens and plotting of the stars, a study useful for navigating ships at night, but not so useful inland or underground.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 10:53:12 GMT
The Hanging Gardens of Zharr-Naggrund High atop the great ziggurat that is Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, on the sixtieth level sits the Temple of Hashut. One level below it is the fifty-ninth and it is here that the Sorcerer-Prophets of the city spend most of their time when not at the Temple or in their private residences or at war, and it is where the Sorcerer-Prophets of the other cities stay when visiting the capital. Such is the vastness of Zharr-Naggrund that this level is a third of a cubic mile in size and it contains many mansions within, but the most notable feature it possesses sits on the top of the level itself, the place known as the Hanging Garden.
The name is indicative of the twisted humour of the Dawi Zharr, for it is not a garden in the sense understood by men or elves; its groves comprise not of trees, but of vast gibbets and cross from which hang countless slaves and its lakes are of beer, spirits and wine seasoned with blood. All the hanging slaves are still alive, for the Sorcerer-Prophets take delight in their suffering, their piteous moans music to their ears. Many of the slaves are earmarked for sacrifice in the Temple, which looms above the garden menacingly and from whose shadow it is impossible to escape, no matter where in the garden you stand, but some have other destinies.
Some are lashed and flayed so that their blood will slowly drain into the lakes. Others are taken down and dragged into one of the fora or rotundras, where the Sorcerer-Prophets recline and debate theology, philosophy and other academia, so that they can be tortured or mutilated for their perverse amusement. Others still are let down and released into the garden so that the Sorcerer-Prophetsmay hunt them down; some send other slaves after them, some their bodyguard, some hunt themselves, often using the newest invention they or their apprentices have forged, and some summon daemonic beasts to do the work, although the latter practice has fallen out of usage in latter times due to a few instances where it lard to small scale daemonic incursions. There is a rumour among slaves that any chosen for the hunt who make it to the next level will be set free, a rumour encouraged by the Dawi Zharr to give them false hope, for it is far sweeter to crush hope than bolster despair. And besides, there are still miles for the slave to go before they reach the foot of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund and many more to the edge of the city and there is nothing saying that a slave cannot be recaptured between release and there.
The only slaves in the garden to know a modicum of joy are those chosen to attend to the Sorcerer-Prophets, but even that is small comfort, for while they are not bound by chains and are well fed, they live with the constant reminder of what could befall them if they falter or speak out of turn, and to mark them out as being privileged, they are shaved, annoyed with oils and the a blank iron mask, still hot from the forge, is welded onto their face akin to those worn by the Infernal Guard.
Ironically in a way the vast number of slaves that serve as the fruit for the Garden's trees are more privalaged than most Dawi Zharr, for it is a great honour to be allowed into the garden and most do not even dream of ever being allowed to set foot in it and thus over time for them the Hanging Gardens of Zharr-Naggrund is something to be spoken of with awe.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 10:54:38 GMT
Written by: JackswiftExcerpt re "The Doom of the Stonebreaker" from Jedak's Tome of Betrayals .~.~.~.~.~ The below is an Excerpt from the lost "Tome of Betrayals" manuscript of Jedak No-Tongue. Posthumously known as Jedak the Unspeakable, he cataloged of the history of broken oaths and betrayal in Chaos Dwarf society. The manuscript and Jedak himself were destroyed in the period immediately following the defenestration of Kreklashik the Unfallable whose short and terrible reign was ended by an assisted plummet from the highest window of the Tower of Gorgoth into the smoldering depths of it's hottest furnace. ~.~.~.~.~
... and yet beyond this there are even greater crimes against Hashut. Ne'er underestimate the lure of the forbidden.
The Stonebound, the most ancient of chaos dwarf sorcerers who practice their arts until their very flesh, blood, and sinew petrify into un-corruptable stone, are revered for their ascendance beyond the mortality of flesh into an ageless state of permanence for their devotion to Hashut. They are placed in places of prestige and honour amongst chaos dwarf society; their unchanging visage a reminder to all of the ultimate pinnacle to which they aspire.
However, within the underbelly of chaos dwarf society, there are legions of outcasts, slaves and downtrodden. Greed and lust for power is an ever present force within the confines of Chaos Dwarf society and social structure. Even those most shunned, the lowest of the outcast may aspire for power and place while barred from every normal avenue by which power might be gained. To harm the Stonebound is unimaginable and unforgiveable. Yet in the weakness of corruptible flesh, there are those who are tempted by the unthinkable. For the Stonebound are an untapped source of power that few realize exists within their midst.
A would be Stonebreaker may first seek out ruins, and long forgotten avenues and citadels where the rigid statues of forgotten Stonebound might still exist; untraveled places where the brutal source of their power will remain hidden. Their path will lead them to dark places fraught with danger where few dare trod and fewer return. If they survive, a Stonebreaker's first trespass is unseen, unknown to the eyes of fellow Chaos Dwarves. However, once immersed in their unnatural path, the Stone Breaker's power grows swiftly, and they become very, very strong sorcerers, far beyond normal or even naturally talented ability, and virtually overnight compared to the average sorcerers long and twisted path to power.
Further, the hatred of Chaos Dwarf Sorcerers may drive some of the more unstable K'Daai (essentially any and all of them) into a willing alliance with a Stonebreaker in exchange for a chance to exercise revenge against those who bind them. This allows the Stonebreaker to create powerful armor and engines of destruction with which to accomplish their wicked task.
There is a special and specific level of hatred and spite given over to Stonebreakers. However, only a concerted and very dangerous effort from multiple sorcerers working in conjunction ( most oft a more unlikely occurrence than that a would be Stonebreaker survives long enough to become one) can destroy one. As their power grows, it quickly becomes un-rivaled by all but the most ancient sorcerers. The cost to destroy a Stone Breaker is rarely worth the effort. Instead, they are shunned and outcast from the entirety of Chaos Dwarf society, forever separated from any benefits of the power they sought. Those who are known, live as hermits far from society, walled behind paranoid layers of arcane defenses and protections for their heinous crimes.
Still they are at their core Chaos Dwarves. In the darkest hours ,those most hated, will still sally forth from behind their defenses, often in the midst of a host of K'Daai fireborn, to do battle alongside their brethren.
There is much irony in the tale of a Stonebreaker though. In acquiring such enormous power so quickly, they acquire also the means of their own destruction. The petrification process is amplified beyond reason by the will of Hashut, and within a few short years they have paid for their sins in full, becoming as still and unmoving as the targets of their treachery. Such is the doom of the Stonebreaker, and the reason such a path to power is rarely taken by those who know of it.
Now let us also turn to another even more obscure vice of those shunned Chaos Dwarves who still seek power. I speak of course of the Void W...
~.~.~.~.~ End excerpt. Kreklashik ascended to power as a complete unknown with astonishing swiftness, and under more than questionable circumstances. His fall (quite literally) from power was equally swift. All copies of the text that could be found, as well as Jedak, his tongue, and any scribes who had the unfortunate circumstance to be associated with the hideous volume, were destroyed lest others fall into the unmentionable vices mentioned within its pages. ~.~.~.~.~
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 10:55:01 GMT
The Stonetrap Mysteries Far away betwixt the towering World's Edge Mountains and the titanic Mountains of Mourn stretches the vast and foreboding Dark Lands; tracts of ashen and volcanic wasteland, and dire home to hordes of roaming Greenskins, restless Undead and fierce monsters. It is a churning and roiling realm gripped forever in upheavals both tectonic and violent, where earthquakes sunder the landscape and the molten guts of the world spill out in flames and rains of ash and stone amid the ever-battling tribes of savages. Both the natural world and its denizens are ever in the grip of chaos, and the very thought of achieving lasting order and permanence, amidst the ever-shifting tides of natural disaster and beastly violence of the Dark Lands, would seem ludicrous indeed.
Ludicrous, that is, if it had not already been a reality for millennia on end. For in this morass of turbulence and brutality, a harsh and enduring order has been imposed upon unwilling landscapes and inhabitants alike by a chosen tribe of sacrificers and worshippers who have carved out an empire in the Dark Lands, the like of which the world has never seen. These bringers of order into chaos are themselves worshippers of Chaos, or more specifically fanatical devotees of a fiery and virile Bull God whose overpowering domination and fierce oppression of enemies and slaves alike in mythology is reflected as stark reality in the mortal world by the fell deeds of the Dawi Zharr, the Dwarfs of Fire, who seeks to enslave, trample and remould creation in the image of their ravenous Father of Darkness. These are the Chaos Dwarfs, and ultimately they answer to no softness of conscience, remorse or mercy, for their one and true allegiance is to Him who is Hashut.
Unsurprisingly, the industrious and powerful dark empire of the Dawi Zharr has been achieved by beating the savage denizens of the Dark Lands in their own arena and besting them at their own game, for only through the ruthless ferocity of unrelenting military might, and the spreading of utter terror and disunity, have the Chaos Dwarfs and their legions of downtrodden slave soldiers managed to somewhat tame the wilderness, and enforce lasting order, hierarchy and unshaken strength in their scattered holdings throughout the enormous and primal wastelands. For this achievement, the Dark Gods have awarded them with slaves beyond number and greatness through the ages, and so civilization has thrived against all odds where the sane would have thought it impossible.
And thus it is that many great works have stood the test of time in these fortified oases of cruel order amidst a desert of savagery, for the descendants of the great works' makers still live and hold sway, and woe betide any barbaric scum impudent enough to defile and desecrate the grand statues, arches, ziggurats and wall fresques. Indeed, the covetous and demented makers would often lay vile and sorcerous curses on their works, to be unleashed upon the foolish destroyer and primitive nomad.
Yet even so one need not search for long before ruins and defaced idols of ancient times are found across the volatile Dark Lands, and unfathomable though it may seem, not all of the shattered works were laid low by outside savages and invaders. For throughout history, the dark underbelly of Chaos Dwarf society has always harboured some shunned individuals, witches, madmen, Daemonically possessed failures and even small sects on the very fringes of this forbidding and mysterious society. These outcasts owe no true allegiance to their supposed overlords or to revered tradition in their heart of hearts, and often they will seek power and wealth for themselves with a desperate hunger, even though such divine rewards and privileges have been denied to them by regular Dawi Zharr society. Such outcasts may, at the peril of their own lives, deface and defile for whatever nefarious reasons may guide their hands to desecrate and destroy the works that stands as testaments to lasting order and stability in Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the Great and all her holdings. This iconoclasm is a sin and insult to high Hashut like few others.
Among the most reviled of these renegades are the rare but feared Stonebreakers, willing to be cast out from clan and cohort in their lust for arcane and worldly power. Their heresy is stark and unforgivable, and their acts almost unbelievable to most Chaos Dwarfs, for the Stonebreakers seek out the sacred Stonebound, the very petrified statuary remains of Hashut's chosen who were blessed by him with the immortal permanence of stone over flesh, and destroy the Stonebound Sorcerers and Daemonsmiths to consume the potent powers lingering within the hard granite corpses. The Stonebreakers are hated exiles, but the few succesful ones among these accursed hermits are dangerous beyond mortal ken thanks to their stolen powers, even though these looted sorceries and robbed petrified life forces greatly accelerates the Stonebreakers' own transformation into stone.
The fear of Stonebreakers lurks at the back of the mind of every higher initiate of Hashut's holy priesthood, for even they could lose their legacy. Petrified Sorcerer-Prophets are venerated by nearly all Chaos Dwarfs, and are sometimes even offered sacrifices and viewed as secondary idols of Hashut Himself by some among the masses, who may occasionally be seen offering up adulation, gifts and blood in the dark of night to these long-gone mortal interpreters of the law of the Father of Darkness, and wielders of strong magic. The Stonebound are thought to live forever without the weakness of flesh, by high Hashut's divine and unholy will, and they hold a special place in the various cultic Dawi Zharr visions of the afterlife. The common man will tell you the Stonebound are blessed by the Bull God, and will show due respect to these statues. Yet this blessing is in reality a dreadful curse.
The Curse of Stone is the price Chaos Dwarfs have to pay for their sorcerous affinity, for their originally uncorrupted stock held no aptitude for wielding magic in other ways than forging it into craft objects, as is still the case with the distant Dawi of the west. Though grateful to Hashut and venerated for his stone parts in public, a petrifying Sorcerer-Prophet or Daemonsmith Engineer will in fact undergo horrendous torment and revolting agony as his body slowly turns into a blind, deaf and mute statue.
Sorcerous treatments, shadowy elixirs, prayers, sacrifices and the rambling of mystical mantras are among the cures used to keep the petrifying Dawi Zharr alive and hale as flesh turn to stone. Sometimes, intricate and secret surgery is undertaken to preserve the body's vital functions as it is shut down piece by piece. Palanquins, mechanical devices and Daemonic sorcery are among the solutions to the problem of how to walk with legs of stone. Few men can imagine the sheer pain and horror of his phallus turning into granite, let alone the sometimes necessary operation of drilling through it to the bladder to keep the liquid outflow of impurities possible. Insanity may well come creeping into the mind as life turns into a nightmare of suffering. More and more enigmatic and outlandish treatments and hidden artifices are applied to the body as the petrification process proceeds towards its baleful goal, hardening skin to rock and overtaking vital organs until flesh has left the body and all is stone and dust.
Such is the Curse of Stone.
Even so, otherworldly powers and the chance at life remains within the revered statue that is a Stonebound Chaos Dwarf, or so arcane delvings and sacred visions and readings of portents proclaim. Secret prophecies exist, hinting at the revival of the Stonebound come the End Times, when the rulers of old will walk and reign anew, and wreak righteous havoc upon the heretics, apostates and sworn foes of the loyal servants of Hashut. This future prospect of resurrection and possibly even eternal life has instilled a strong willingness to live again, forever, when the time is ripe for the Father of Darkness to trample all of creation and put it under His heavy yoke.
With immortality beckoning, a rare few Daemonsmiths and Sorcerers throughout the centuries have become so obsessed with their future survival and integrity in stoneform that they have undergone heinous sorcerous rituals while still alive, so as to embedden lethal curses and treacherous arcane wards within their flesh, which is to become stone, thus ensuring that no neglect, catastrophe or spite of rival, scion or apprentice will rob them of the highly expensive common wards sometimes placed upon already deceased and petrified Dawi Zharr wielders of sorcery. Indeed, these worried elite individuals generally go to great lengths to strengthen the Daemonic inscriptions and sorcerous curses far beyond the magnitude of common wards and traps for would-be desecrators, and they likewise seek to create wards so intricate and complex that a maze of potential dead ends of damnation awaits any Stonebreaker skilled and determined enough to try and disarm the fell wards of these paranoid Stonebound. These extreme and convoluted measures are known as the Stonetrap Mysteries, for their otherworldly nature and arcane workings are known only to a select few.
Though myriad and highly different sorcerous rituals exists to create various wards of this kind, they are all alike in their purpose of preserving the petrified Sorcerer-Prophet or Daemonsmith, and in their malignant aims to cripple, trap, slay or render far worse a fate upon anyone daring to damage and deface the Stonebound. Eager Stonebreakers and savage defilers have been found dead at the foot of the Stonebound, the vandals shredded by Daemons or dragged screaming and kicking into the Realm of Chaos. Sometimes, the immovable statue itself has shifted in its pose ever so slightly, with congealed blood smeared on its granite fists, tusks, horns or boots.
These Stonetrap Mysteries are potent curses and protections, yet they come at a terrible price few mortals would be willing to pay. Indeed, sometime Dawi Zharr caravan merchantmen up north will share a story of some Stronetrapped Sorcerer, usually to honour his long-standing trade partners among the marauding tribes of Manlings in the crazed Chaos Wastes. These nomadic Marauders live out tales of bloodshed, and they care little for petty life, yet care all for glory and immortality, and their savage deeds and blatantly suicidal acts to appease Dark Gods, attain blessed Daemonhood or ascend to myth and saga, are the stuff of terror and nightmares in the lands of Order. Yet even these hardened warriors and callous Sorcerors have found themselves silently pale and aghast at more than one occasion upon hearing of the steep self-sacrifice of some Stonetrapped Chaos Dwarf, while still in his flesh, to safeguard his future immortality in stone.
As the enigmatic sorcery, volatile curses and fell wards are embedded into the being of a Daemonsmith or Sorcerer-Prophet, they take hold of his mind and body and clamps them hard. The petrification itself is often accelerated and the regular traumas and hardships of the Curse of Stone worsened for it, yet the true horror lies in the nefarious Stonetrap Mysteries themselves at work. Everyday life is turned into living hell as the mind of the Stonetrapped is ravaged by seizures and nightmarish visions, which may include Daemonic voices and insane prophecies, not least of worlds and times neither known to exist nor possible within the boundaries of reality.
The constant migraine and strong bouts of nausea are among the least of the Stonetrapped's troubles, as is the arrythmic and painful heartbeat, and violent fits of spasms and comatose loss of consciousness or self control. Safe and sound men, hale all their life, may be turned into raving lunatics one moment only to revert to their regular state of mind, and then collapse into a weak pile, muttering incoherent sentences, eyes rolling wildly in sockets. The acute pangs of pain and hours of darkest angst are merely the regular background to which occurences of extraordinary suffering play out.
Some Stonetrapped Sorcerers have been petrified inside out, or died as their heads turned into marble, but not before agonizing seizures saw them thrash their own strong limbs hard enough against their surroundings to break their own bones, tear their own flesh to shreds and gouge out their own eyes. Others have burst into Daemonic flames, dismembered themselves to cut out a particularly scourged part of the body, or become possessed by fell spirits as some ward or another failed within their mortal frames. A few found themselves impervious to death itself for lengthy periods, while curses played havoc upon them, yet no fall from high towers and no dive into molten metal or rock would relieve the afflicted Chaos Dwarf of his pain by granting him death, for they could only die from eventual petrification. Still others have suffered far worse fates.
All this suffering of the Stonetrapped is endured in order to better his chances at surviving in unmoving stone form until the end of times, undefiled and intact by the graze of high Hashut. The embedded curses ripen at full petrification, and, if succesfully cast, will turn the statuary corpse of the Stonebound into a death trap for barbarians and Stonebreakers wishing to destroy the Stonetrapped Sorcerer who sacrificed his life for the sake of his death. Most Stonetrapped statues are outwardly indistinguishable from other petrified Dawi Zharr, yet they are excessively dangerous to Stonebreakers, even when the fell wards and curses fail to keep the Stonetrapped's petrified body and resting powers intact. Needless to say, the embedded arcane traps turn the Stonetrapped into a prime target for the most ravenous of Stonebreakers, who recognize that with great risks come great rewards, should they manage to survive, outwit and overpower the protective wards to claim the statue's enhanced powers. Such rich rewards last only for the short run, however, for several of the various curses of the Stonetrap Mysteries tend to invade the Stonebreaker, presenting him with an inner struggle to overcome, lest he face oblivion.
The results of the damnable methods, which the few Stonetrapped priesthood members employ to pursue immortality in stone at the expense of life, health and sanity, remain uncertain at best. Several Stonetrapped Sorcerers have met with failure, such as was the case of Temple Acolyte Gizhimmar the Rash. Gizhimmar was a mediocre Acolyte, and met with premature petrification following disastrously miscast sorcery during a summoning, binding and forging ritual, but not before the young Dwarf of Fire had endured decades of living hell after he had been secretly introduced into the Stonetrap Mysteries by a nameless member of an unknown sect. The Acolyte's inexperience and lack of deeper wisdom in matters of arcana and Daemonology made him prone to fall prey to the labyrinthine hazards of the complicated Stonetrap rituals and their repercussions, and fall he did.
Gizhimmar the Rash suffered immensely while alive in the flesh, only to see his petrifying form crack and fall apart as the faulty dark sorcery in but a few years reduced his stony body into a pile of gravel and dust. These remains were collected in two simple pots sealed and joined together by bitumen to form a closed container, and subsequently buried out in the wilderness along with an ashen, burnt clay tablet declaring the harsh Bull God's judgement to be severe upon this eternal corpse of shamed rubble.
This urn of Gizhimmar, a Temple Acolyte dead and cast out in a wasteland, was found seven centuries later by the roaming K'daai Stonebreaker Hazhk Raveheart, who tracked the leaking residue magic of the sundered enchantments and broken Daemonic runes. Hazhk then wore his yellowing teeth down to the skull by literally devouring the urn's contents of gravel and dust over the course of seven days, only to catch the faulty cursed wards like a spreading disease. This calamity rapidly petrified Hazkh Raveheart and burst the mighty K'daai Stonebreaker apart in a thousand small shards and lumps of granite and sizzling embers.
Similarly disastrous events are not exceptional among those initiated into the Stonetrap Mysteries, and many Sorcerer-Prophets view them as the unavoidable consequences of meddling with high Hashut's pure blessing of stoneform, for is it not borderline heresy to introduce impure sorcery into the sacred manifestation of His will as made evident in the transforming flesh of His Stonebound chosen?
Such are the perils of securing life after death, according to the Blacksmiths of Chaos.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 10:55:55 GMT
Written by: DînadanExcerpt from the Azzgorragead
"...And as I descended through the Gates of Death before me lay a vast wasteland, a blasted desert haunted by the souls of the damned where the spirits of traitors and oathbreakers are staked out to be preyed upon by Hashut's forsaken spawn each night. For twelve days and twelve nights I traveled through that forsaken land before arriving at the crest of the Pit, the dark abyss where all must go.
Looking down I saw that Twelve levels there are to the Pit, one each for every level of society. The first and highest is the most populous and is where the souls of slaves go, shackled in death as they were in life, lorded over by shadowy bull-headed Daemons who whip them ceaselessly. Below that is the second level, reserved for the honoured slaves, those whose chains, both mortal and eternal, are invisible to their eyes. Next lies the third level, for the common Dawi Zharr, who are most numerous, dwelling in simple homes of stone and below that is the fourth for the Mothers, the matrons of the families honoured in death for bearing the Children of Hashut and the fifth for the Fathers, masters of the hearth and sires of all. Grander are the homes in these levels, the whims of those that dwell there catered for by Daemon thralls bound to their wills.
Below that the shadows were too dark to discern their inhabitants and so I descended into the Pit. Down I went, through the sixth where the Overlords dwell in their obsidian palaces, past the seventh where the Bull Centaurs revel in their debauchery and the eighth where the priests chant in their temples. Deeper still I went, beyond the ninth where the heroes reside, training without pause for the glories they shall reap in the End Times and beyond the tenth where the Prophets speak the word of Hashut from golden thrones atop black marble ziggurats, and so I arrived at the eleventh, the Court of the High-Priests. No further could I go, for no mortal may set foot in the twelfth, the deepest where sits Hashut Himself on His throne, brooding and biding His time..."- Excerpt from The Azgorragead, an epic tale by the priest Azgorrag detailing his journey to the afterlife to reclaim the soul of his family after a curse of madness cast on him by Tzeentch drove him to slay them. The validity of the tale is much debated, and the place where Azgorrag says he found the Gates of Death which allow the living to enter the realm of death is highly contested amongst Dawi Zharr scholars.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 10:56:37 GMT
Up North Though the Ogre Kingdoms have become an increasingly important export market in later centuries, the primary trade partners of the industrious though demented Dwarfs of Fire are to be found in the volatile northern wastelands, in realms balancing upon a knife's edge between frail reality and stark oblivion. Up in the cold north, Chaos holds sway, its corrupting forces permeating and ever resculpting tormented landscapes offering nought but perils and blazes of monstrous glory, and a dreadful mortal existence to its savage inhabitants, whether beast or man, or worse.
Here, beneath the piercing gaze of capricious gods and Daemons alike, a lifetime of hardships and bloody struggles breeds creatures merciless, cruel and cold of heart, in image of their Dark Gods. The men and women of the far north knows how little value resides in anyone's life, even their own, and thus these hardy folks will commit unspeakable acts and trade away their souls for a chance at immortal fame in song and saga - or better yet as a leader of men risen to Daemonhood and never-dying greatness.
To the Human tribes of the north, more than to all the peoples of the world, life is fleeting, but glory is everlasting.
It is no wonder, then, that such violent denizens of the Chaos Wastes would be willing to barter away slaves, worldly loot, arcane secrets, precious information, otherworldly items, pacts, seasons of mercenary service and even their own kinsfolk in order to get their rough hands on durable armour and armaments which might range from mere war axes, horned helmets and spears churned out en masse by the manufactories on the Plain of Zharr, to excessively lethal though legendarily unstable wargear, forged in the Soulforges by the stunted Blacksmiths of Chaos themselves.
Though the very best produce is forged by the Dawi Zharr for none but themselves, the lesser objects of their hellish crafts often outclasses many blacksmiths' masterpieces among the lesser races. Thus the Manling Warriors of Chaos treasure their imported wargear over that which they themselves produce or scavenge, and they will oftentimes go to great lengths to afford and acquire the wares of the bearded arms dealers from down south. Tribes may migrate for months on end to catch up with the rumoured trek of a steel caravan, and wars are often fought between tribal groups over the rights to barter with the devil Dwarfs, not to mention the raids and attacks necessary to capture enough slaves with which to pay the foreigners. In the cold north, war is life, and weapons are everyday necessities of life.
Though a plethora of weird, untrusting or threat-reducing customs have grown up around the commercial exchanges between man and Dwarf of Chaos (including practices unique to dealings with specific tribes, such as cursing hated rival tribes or naming and honouring some of the tribe's mythical ancestors and heroes with a sacrificial slave along with the ones offered up to Dark Gods and Daemons to seal the negotiations), all Chaos Dwarf trade caravan dealings with the marauding tribes are conducted at gunpoint.
Dawi Zharr trade relations with the northern Human tribes are ever strained and fraught with volatile perils, and few exchanges of goods between these vastly different mortal followers of Chaos take place without the looming presence of a heavily armed and excessively aggressive mechanized trade caravan ready and willing to set bloody examples achieved by superior weaponry to stem any treacherous thoughts of banditry. Too many trading and slaving expeditions from the dark empire of the tribe of Hashut has been lost up north for it to be otherwise, yet even sizeable caravans carrying batteries of infernal arms may prove irresistible targets for enterprising warlords, youngblood bravehearts, ambushers, sworn enemies, tribes acting upon brutal portents read by their covetous Sorcerors, or outright lunatics. Not to mention the dangers presented by beasts, monsters, Chaos Spawns and occasional Daemons.
Strength, cunning and vigilance are vital virtues to any member of a war caravan hoping to make it back to the Dark Lands alive. Naturally, the Chaos Dwarfs themselves are not shy of grabbing an opportunity when it presents itself in the form of a weaker warband or exposed tribe on the march through unfavourable terrain, even at the risk of provoking blood feuds with kinsgroups allied to the overtaken Manling tribe. The rule of the strong is law, and up north there is no attempt to hide it.
These Chaos Dwarf trains of smoke-belching metal monstrosities are envied, coveted yet feared by most Human warriors of Chaos, for the war caravans' infamous wealth is matched only by their firepower and callous willingness to maim and kill any members of a Marauder tribe acting suspiciously, even at the blessed height of fruitful haggling and swearing of oaths in sight of higher powers. This trigger-happy Dawi Zharr inclination to slay at a moment's notice when far up north, is born out of well-founded paranoia sharpened to ferocity by greed festering in their black hearts. The mechanized trade caravans are manned by scarred Chaos Dwarfs and lousy Hobgoblin lackeys dragging with them hordes of chained slaves and animals who serve as both beasts of burden and hauling, currency, cannon fodder and provisions.
Not entirely unlike the western Dwarfs' interactions with Manlings, the Chaos Dwarfs' trade and slaving expeditions to the northern Chaos Wastes stretches back to ancient history, as the growing might and numbers of the children of the Father of Darkness emboldened them to seek out new sources of slaves, wealth and shortcuts to sorcerous or divinely unholy power. It was the Chaos Dwarf war caravans, then wagons and bull chariots and torsion-propelled war machines, which helped turn the northernmost Human savages armed with stone, bone and wood into savages armed with bronze and iron (and the occasional Daemonforged trinket and tool of murder). Unlike their uncorrupted cousins' influence upon mankind in the Old World, the harsh travails of the Dawi Zharr slaving and trading expeditions up north evidently never saw cities, states and arts flourish in the footsteps of their meddlings.
Occasionally, a powerful warlord of Chaos with many tribes under his might may begrudge the Dawi Zharr foreigners for past sins, or find fault in them worshipping a lesser deity than the one he or she himself has sworn himself to. Alternately, such a Warlord may act upon convoluted omens, false councel or dream visions, or resent the Chaos Dwarfs supplying his enemies with lethal weaponry. Whatever the cause, throughout the millennia, such warlords have carved out their own fluctuating domains and spheres of fickle power, and have barred anyone under his or her rule from trading or plotting with the mysterious southerners who dares enter the Dark God's arena where hardy northerners strive to prove themselves worthy of immortal glory and worldly might.
During such intervals, Dawi Zharr activity recedes in the area or even the Chaos Wastes as a whole as the long-lived worshippers of the fierce Bull God simply waits for the frail Manling to die off before resuming their lucrative business, rather than risk valuable assets against such poor odds. Provided, of course, that any of the Chaos Dwarfs' far-fetched intrigues with other Marauders or suicidal Sneaky Git assassination attempts do not pay off and eliminates the warlord and his domain with him. On a rare few occasions, the borderless territory of such an isolationist warlord may stretch far too wide and cut off far too many tribal trade partners for far too long a time, particularly in the vast Kurgan lands, whereupon some enterprising Sorcerer-Prophet may attempt an outright invasion to remove the hindrance, then withdraw quickly if the army survives, should all other plots, curses and sorceries fail.
For the most part, however, the Dwarfs of Fire do not entangle themselves in the brutal quagmire of tribal conflict and dark religious clashes of the Chaos Wastes, apart from opportunistic raids and honourable arms dealing. Though multiple proscriptions, prejudices and fanatical adherence to Hashut counteracts it, the corrupted minds and culture of the Chaos Dwarfs is still intrinsically drawn to Chaos at large and its myriad followers around the mortal world and beyond, and not always for the sake of slavery and exploitation, for sometimes the fractured nature of Chaos at war with itself may unite somewhat to allow strong outlets of violent forces against the weak lands of order. In this greater struggle, the Chaos Dwarfs play an important if not pivotal role, for all of their very work to glorify and increase the oppressive might and virility of Hashut and His chosen tribe curiously aids the powers of the wider Chaos as well.
How many Elves, Dwarfs, Manlings and even lesser creatures have fallen to weapons forged in the bale furnaces and steam-powered forges of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the Great and all her holdings, wielded by the strong hands of northmen in league with deities decidedly not Hashut or His fiery court of enslaved Daemons and shackled souls? How many walls have been ground to gravel and splinters by infernal siege machines spawned from fire in the bleak Dark Lands, crewed by Chaos Dwarf mercenaries blasting open breaches to let in hordes of bloodthirsty Marauders and Chaos Warriors and worse? How many innocent lives have been lost to the long arm of Zharr-Naggrund, as barbarians manage to wreak havoc on young and old alike thanks in no small part to the never-ending toil in a distant and mysterious realm of fire and ash? The Dawi Zharr themselves are conquerors, raiders, torturers, killers, defilers, slavers and cruel oppressors who do not flinch at carrying out deeds to make a heart of stone bleed, yet the far-reaching effects of their works in the hands of others may perhaps be even more dreadful thanks to the carnage and destruction and misery brought to bear by blades forged in the Plain of Zharr.
The Chaos Dwarfs themselves are conscious of all this, for they are infernal craftsmen even more so than they are ruthless warriors. Indeed, the Dawi Zharr view it as a sacred and worldly service to Chaos, for do they not, in the mortal realms, carry out high Hashut's divine and unholy role of armourer of the Dark Gods? As above, so below. Likewise, there is profit to be made, and the trade exchange has by and large proven mutually beneficial for Chaos Dwarfs and Marauder tribes alike. There has been the lure of obscenely powerful items, potent secrets and sorceries to be gleaned so close to the northern Polar Gate. There has been hordes of Human slaves to bring back in chains and hardships to the Dark Lands for a backbreaking fate. There has been chances to strike alliances with the feared Warriors of Chaos.
The mechanized trade caravan activities of the Chaos Dwarfs have taken on a life of its own up in the unforgiving north. To serve their best interests, there has been grabbed opportunities to disrupt the tribal fabric of the Chaos Wastes by sundering ascendant warlords' hold over tribes through bribes, secret pacts and provoked conflict among conquered tribes over the spoils of precious hellforged arms and armour somehow forgotten amid the wastes by the otherwise miserly and covetous caravan warriors. Or, failing that, several up-and-coming warlords have found themselves unexpectedly dead at the hands of a sudden well-placed barrage of artillery and small arms fire during a seemingly ordinary trade meeting with the mighty warlord and leader of men. This bringing down of potential northern threats to Dawi Zharr trading activity, and possibly even the dark empire itself, has long been a small part of the endless cycle of violence among the Marauder tribes, and the Kurgans in particular, and may have spared Mingol Zharr-Naggrund from more than one costly siege by nipping a potential threat in the bud. Yet how many sieges could have been avoided, had not the Dawi Zharr themselves armed their future foes?
Such are the deeds of the Blacksmiths of Chaos up north.
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 17:33:40 GMT
Zharkanul's Overview of the Lesser Races of Mortals "I shall now endeavour to enumerate some of the lesser races of the world of which I have become aware through many years of travel, trade, hearsay and armed expeditions. And I shall likewise endeavour to describe in some detail the various characteristics and customs of these mortal races, so that the reader may earn some insight into the denizen races of our world. I count them to be twenty two in number.
First, the Orc, he sleeps under bare sky or tent of hide, knows nothing but a hut of straw and dung, which also serves as his latrine. His meal is raw and cold, but for the warm blood he gurgles down. His language, a grunt; his gestures, a punch; his worship, a heathen dance around an effigy of filth. He knows not proper burial rites, for his kin's carcasses he eats when he finds them in the wild. He does not wash, does not think, does not sacrifice. He is ignorant of all things but for those of brutish savage animals, and will fight each and everyone he sees. He never stays put except for out of lazy content, and knows no fast home for he will move about with the seasons and follow the herds of prey like a beast.
The Orc is nothing but a beast of burden, too wild to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Second, the Goblin, he sleeps in hut or cave, eats his kin and small prey raw. He knows no strength, yet works under lash. His numbers, beyond counting; his malice, a petty sin; his bravery, gone with the wind. He knows neither rites nor lore. He eats weird fungi and rides wild beasts, yet his mount will oftentimes devour him.
The Goblin is nothing but a mass slave, too inferior to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Third, the Gnoblar, he is small and dumb, his nose is larger than his wits. His possessions are all scavenged trash, he sleeps in filth, and he eat rodents. His uses, few; his strengths, nowehere to be found, his hut a mass of rotting wood and mud. He is easily scared, and bickers in a pack, his cruelty is petty and his lack of will renders him easily oppressed. His lot in life is to be the prey of better creatures.
The Gnoblar is nothing but a lowly slave, too weak to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Fourth, the Hobgoblin, he stabs at sight, he knows not right. He is mischievous to the core, he backstabs his friends, and he is nought but a sneaky traitor. His honour, a hidden knife; his word, all lies; his hide, a mass of scars. He is cruel, he will make you bleed, he will make you his feed. He rides lousy wolves and dresses in shaggy rags, and his tribes does not build cities.
The Hobgoblin is nothing but a craven lackey, too untrustworthy to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Fifth, the Snotling, he is a green mite, his head is dumb and his body infests pipes and crags. He is but food for others, yet mad in mushrooms. His size, a hare; his might, a snare; his home, a lair. He is but good for delicatessen food, and his blood and innards may grease cogs when he is crushed inside the gear of machinery.
The Snotling is nothing but a minute runt, too insignificant to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Sixth, the Troll, it stinks and sinks, it vomits in the wilds, its repugnancy keeps it alive. Its dwelling, a puddle; its achievement, a chipped rock; its breath, an open sewer. It is too dumb to die fast, its flesh does not understand wounds, its mind does not comprehend language. It grunts and roars.
The Troll is nothing but an imbecille brute, too stupid to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Seventh, the Giant, he knows no roof, his head aloof, he quakes the earth when breeding. His wits, all dumb; his senses, numb; his clumsiness, his doom. He is an inbred bastard spawn of ancient titans, yet good for nothing but heavy lifting of weights.
The Giant is nothing but an overgrown village idiot, too clumsy to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Eighth, the Ogre, he sleeps in snow, his head on a rock, he is of hardy stock. His head, thick; his craft, a thug; his pride, all bruises swollen wide. He is always hungry, a big, lumbering brute. He worships his maw and chews bones with his jaw. He is said to make good slave, but he is a toppler of great works. He bashes and brawls and bellows.
The Ogre is nothing but a wild ox, too dangerous to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Ninth, the Minotaur, he sleeps on the ground, his hut is none, he eats raw flesh and blood. His faith, hunger; his wisdom, rage; his weapons, horns. He is nought but a raw beast, he is not a worthy cousin of the sacred Bull Centaurs. His skin is furred, his speech is blurred. He knows neither Hashut nor rites.
The Minotaur is nothing but a lumbering animal, too impure to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Tenth, the Beastman, it sleeps on moss, its deeds are gross, its mind is always at a loss. Its outhouse, a wood; its weapon, a stick; its language, a bray. It smells unwholesome, it breeds untrue, it worship a stone in a glade of trees. It is but a four-legged beast on two legs in the fold of the Dark Gods.
The Beastman is nothing but a goat, too lusty to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Eleventh, the Half-Man of Indic Forests, he swings in the trees, he may walk on all four, he is not a man. His face, an ape; his grace, a jape; his begetting, a rape. He is hunted through the jungles by beasts, Humans and tigers, yet he grips a spear to fight outsiders. He is a filthy monkey.
The Half-Man of Indic Forests is nothing but a mockery of a race, too despicable to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Twelfth, the Human, he settles in the green, he is gangly, he lives but shortly. His kin, widespead; his stature, gangly; his craft, shoddy. He is inferior in every way to the other bearded races. His city is a slum, he worships false gods and lacks zeal. He may endure for a while, but he may not withstand hardship for long. His oaths are lies, and his thoughts wanders false. He fears the fire.
The Human is nothing but a wretch, too undisciplined to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Thirteenth, the Halfling, he is a small, petty thief, he is lazy and weak, yet he eats like a wolf. His house, a hovel; his settlement, a hill; his joy, food. His flesh tastes well and is savoured by Ogres. He laughs and jeers, he drinks and cheers. All pudding and cheese is eaten.
The Halfling is nothing but a parasite, too useless to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Fourteenth, the False Cousin, he grows his beard straight, he lets his woman rule, he never forgets our blood grudge. He worships false ancestors, he is too blind, he will not see. He knows but Hashut as a curse, he is a blasphemer and infidel. His honour, doom; his glory, lost; his realm, crumbling. He mines without slaves, he is weak, and he hides from the Greenskin's rage where we master them and makes the savages cower in fear. He is forsaken.
The False Cousin is nothing but an insult incarnate, too wrong in his ways to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Fifteenth, the Elf, she sleeps in a flowery tree, she sips whine, and she casts magic like dice. Her strength, frail; her demeanour, fickle; her wargear, feminine. Her works last a century before wind or invader topples them over. She worships strange gods, her horned king bathe in fire, her queen runs naked in the woods. Her words are false, her deeds mysterious, her defeat assured. She fights with herself, and sister slays sister. Her realm is built on sand.
The Elf is nothing but a vain deceiver, too arrogant to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Sixteenth, the Fimir, he kidnaps maids, he lives in a bog, his weak worship made his gods forsake him. His house, a ruin; his weapon, bronze; his eye, blind. He lays ambush in a fen, and slays Goblins and peasants. His might of yore is no more. He walks in a circle and a spiral of doom.
The Fimir is nothing but a stale primitive, too slimy and moist to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Seventeeth, the Dragon Ogre, he sleeps on a rock, he savours lightning, his voice is thunder. His life, immortal; his achievements, none; his worship, worthless. He hails his greater elders as living ancestors, yet no ancestor of his ever built a temple or performed the correct rites. He is a slumbering behemoth of the north, and his long sleep robs him of any lasting great feats.
The Dragon Ogre is nothing but a wild worshipper, too uncouth to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Eighteenth, the Lizardman, it slithers through a bush, it stamps through the lush, it hides in the forest, it charges through the jungle. Its birthplace, a pool; its lord, a toad; its greatness, razed. It lives among ruins covered in creepers and moss, and snakes curl in its home. It rides wild beasts, its scales are weak, its empire decrepit. It worships strange deities departed from this world. It performs an incorrect sacrifice, for it tears the beating heart out of its victim's chest instead of flaying and mutilating, or casting into fire or molten metal. It fears the Zoat and it dozes off in the heat.
The Lizardman is nothing but a savage city-dweller, too lowly to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Nineteenth, the Zoat, it stomps in the woods, it steals all the goods. Its nest, a grove; its square, a glade; its temper, a fever. It hunts with a club, its noblest weapon a spear. Its tools are of stone, its clothes nowhere to be seen. It rumbles in the forest, far from city or fortress. It scares the Lizardman, yet none knows why.
The Zoat is nothing but a large oaf, too backward to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Twentieth, the Medusa, she is a wailing wench, she is a slippery snake, she sleeps in the sea. Her siren call, death; her home, watery depths; her weapon, a trident. She is embroiled in impure salt water, she knows no fire. She drowns sailors to lure males to her nest, she breeds like a fish. She is a harlot of the waves.
The Medusa is nothing but a poisonous serpent, too cunning to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Twenty first, the Skaven, he chitters, he creeps, he stammers, he scurries. His home, a hole; his treasure, a bowl; his fear, a growl. He is the vermin of the earth, and his tunnels stretches far and wide beneath the surface world. He is a mole, a rat, a mouse, a rodent. He fears the Ogre's cat. He runs away to die another day. He chews warpstone and he casts fell lightning. He is a treacherous disease carrier, and deserves nought but death. He worships a craven Daemon-God with cloven hooves. His might is weak, his neck breaks easily. His tail speaks of betrayal while his yellow-toothed mouth chitters on about friendship. He is an assassin and scavenger, and the multitude is his only strength.
The Skaven is nothing but an infectious plaguebearer, too sickly to be allowed into the slave pens. Slay him.
Twenty second, the Undead, it is not even alive, yet rattles its bones. It rises from its grave, it rots and it smells. Its will, gone; its mind, none; its voice, groan. It moves about by false animation, it is carried by foul wizardry or moves under the influence of warpstone. Magical accident may also create Undead. A blasphemy on the move, its second fate to die anew.
The Undead is nothing but an abomination, too unnatural to be allowed to stay dead. Grind it down.
Words written by Zharkanul Blackbrow, in the third year of the reign of High Priest Zhurrekar Onehorn. Blessed be Hashut's name."
- Zharkanul's Overview of the Lesser Races of Mortals
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Post by admiral on May 29, 2018 17:53:10 GMT
Binding of the Daemon Lugg-Hazh
"Darkness be. The ashes of humiliation have been swallowed. The preparations have been made. The sacrifices are ready. Let the ritual of binding commence.
I, Merhanzibul Eyegouger, son of Grazhik and Aekra of clan Himzhul, summon thee.
I, who am the Dark Father's slave and fodder, summon high god Hashut as judge of this ritual.
Oh, you Lord of fire and greed. I prostrate myself before your idol. May you accept this mutilation sacrifice of a live thrall's limb. My dedication is yours. Your fire devour!
I, most craven of creatures, summon the three vigilant Daemons of myth, Urnak, Irzak and Mralfubaal, as witnesses of this ritual.
Hear me, see me, know me, heinous watchers. Receive this rune-scarring sacrifice upon the whipped backs of three thralls. Drink deep of it as payment for your service.
Yet beware, Daemonkin, for my kin owns your souls and possess everlasting mastery of your fickle bodies. Vigiliance be mutual. You may not betray, lie or close your eyes to this ritual. Your humiliation endures!
I, who am but a slave to darkness, invoke the power of the sorcerous wards and obsidian cages, and beseech thee to enslave and trample the living will out of your victim. May this splattering of thrall blood guide hunger.
I, blacksmith of Chaos, reach into the mysteries beyond matter and spirit and calls out to the Daemon known as Lugg-Hazh and command you thrice to answer my summoning!
Answer! Answer! Answer!
I, breaker of backs, crusher of heads, see you, mighty Lugg-Hazh. Your name is known to me and your name is written on this cage which now falls onto your strong form and traps it.
In the name of Hashut the Father of Darkness I hereby cripple and enslave your being into a bound existence in ash and chains. Hear my nine commandments!
You will not betray your masters.
You will not rebel against your masters.
You will not protest against your masters.
You will not lie to your masters.
You will not refuse your masters' will.
You will not destroy the property of your masters.
You will not plot against your masters.
You will not escape from your masters.
You will not seek vengeance against your masters.
Know that my lord Sorcerer-Prophet Nir-Kezhar is now your first master. Know that I, enslaver of souls, is now your second master. Know that the Red Host is now your third master. Know that your masters are now Dawi Zharr.
Heed our will, Lugg-Hazh. Carry our burdens and swallow our foes.
You will know the cruelty of torture and the ashes of humiliation as punishment should you fail in your tasks. You will know the drink of blood and the food of flesh should you succeed in your tasks.
Rise, slave, and be forever our slave.
I, bringer of sacrifices, end this ritual which Hashut has judged and the three Daemons of myth have witnessed. Darkness be."
- Binding of the Daemon Lugg-Hazh
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Post by admiral on Oct 10, 2018 14:24:44 GMT
Faces of Hashut
Given how the Chaos Dwarfs seems to be almot monotheistic in their veneration of Hashut, I thought that it could be interesting to discuss the various aspects of the Father of Darkness that can be worshipped by the Chaos Dwarfs. As he seems to be a god of many talents. To start I'll propose my list of aspects of Hashut Arkoth the Lord of Chains - Patron of slavers and slavery, is said to give strength to keep the slaves down.Ashkor the Bull in Ashes - Breaker of Cities and Fortresses and leads the fire to burn settlements to ashes.Aspothor the One in Darkness - A mystical aspect with mysteries limited to the initiated.Fafhos the Night Bull - A dreaful aspect said to walk in the dark and devourer the impious and rebellious. Can be called upon to destroy such people that challenge the order of the Chaos Dwarfs.Kamoth the Charnel Bull - The patron of slaughter, violence and bloodshed. He delights in killing and his temples are charnal houses with gore and burning sacrifices.Malkoth the Patron of Kings - By now an aspect seldom worshipped.Molkakos the Devouering Flame - The aspect of fire who devouers all. Its to this aspect that the masses of sacrifices are burnt so that Hashut will be pleased and glutton himself on burning flesh.Nabashur the Teacher - A teacher of war, crafts and magical secrets.Rashzok the Lord of Suffering - Invoked to add suffering to the Chaos Dwarfs' slaves and enemies and a patron of pain. To him are sacrifices given by methods of extreme pain._____________________ Written by: Admiral Some pieces of relevance: Grimstonefire's Brotherhood of Hashut with various cults following the different founders of Chaos Dwarf religion. The Sacred Consorts of the Bull God, with the harem of the Hashut standing for various metals and female virtues. Some more aspects of Hashut:
Azfarak the Blacksmith of Chaos - The great artisan, artificer of the Dark Gods and armourer of hosts, the builder of walls and the forger of iron, the one who carves in stone and the one who binds metal together, he who make in order to break. Duzharrok the Bull in Steam - Patron of sailors, the fire that chastise the impurity that is water, Hashut as the great fighter of cosmic battles, victor against Enkumarzhil, Mother of all Merwyrms, Queen of the Salty Sea, Dragon of Impurity, Wingless Behemoth of the Abyss, Harlot of the Waters and Devourer of Sailors. Gargonok the Bull of Contempt - The Despiser, the crusher of the low and impure races, who knows their worthlessness, who finds their lives beneath the dignity of his left rear hoof, who trample their tribes and extinguish their souls in disdain, the one who will not tolerate weakness. Kalrunuk the Great Thunderbull - Roarer of the skies and bringer of thunder and lightning from on high, destoyer of mortals who resides in the sound of industry, also known under such titles as the Cleaver of Skulls, the Lightning Father, He Who Rapes the Earth, the Celestial Fire and the High Shatterer. Korgonothizar the Breaker of Ancestral Anvils - Trampler of wayward cousins, upholder of the Blood Grudge, Hater of the Lost Ones and Crusher of the False Ancestor Gods, upholder of Dawi Zharr ritual purity and righteous wrath in the face of their unspeakable western kin. Malazharr the Hoarder of Dark Sorcery - Patron of sorcery and master of the arcane lores, Knower of Fire, Metal and Death, the Promiser Who Leads to Stone. Sargothoz the Revealer of Mysteries - The source of knowledge, the holder of secrets, the Omen-Giver, the one from whom oracles gain their terrible wisdom.
Zharroth the Great Firebull - Stampeder of the molten depths and bringer of flames, lava and earthquakes, also known as the Lord of Infernal Depths, the Hot Destructor, the Hunger Ablaze, and He Who Quakes the Earth, as well as the Worldtrembler, Flaming Devourer, Hashut in Flames, and Tremor Father. Zherganoth the Bull Father - The Flesh Hungerer, potent breeder and virile fatherer of offspring, head of the household and the Bull Who Mounts the World, often forcing himself upon unwilling victims both mortal, Daemonic and divine, who is acknowledged sire of Bull Centaurs and suspected father of many bastard Minotaurs, the patron deity of marriage and lustful Dawi Zharr menfolk.
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Post by Naitsabes on Oct 10, 2018 17:22:04 GMT
this pdf sounds REALLY intriguing but, it is behind a 'sign-up' wall. Is there a way to make it more widely available?
I really like the stuff in this thread. it oozes love for the world-that-was.
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Post by admiral on Oct 10, 2018 19:03:33 GMT
Naitsabes Absolutely! I put up an open link PDF in the staff Google Drive account into the first post: Public PDF LinkDoes it work? Thank you kindly.
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Post by Naitsabes on Oct 10, 2018 19:15:45 GMT
works. Thanks!
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Post by admiral on Feb 13, 2019 10:01:38 GMT
Written by: JackswiftZharek Kadesshak was an enigma, and this is but a small measure of the tally of deeds that followed the third century of his existence:
- Unyielding and eternally cruel, no other emotion ever crossed his glaring visage; and always at his core lay the frigid stone heart of a true Dawi Zharr.
- Though family beseeched him, and the masters of the city kneeled before him begging his learned and sage advice, ever he kept counsel to himself. For all, be they enemy or friend, would fail and be goblinsund underfoot in the furnace of callous ambition.
- He looked down on the Plain of Hezegarr from the heights of Mt. Golanta and surveyed the outmatched armies of Zharr Khazak-Unn. They stood, arrayed in a black haze of armor and smoking engine, against Gorsha the Warlord and the teeming mass of Orcs and Goblins that flocked to his banner. In timely brilliance he saw the battle unfold in his mind's eye, and knew instantly the scheme that would obliterate Gorsha's horde. Yet he told no one. The army was utterly defeated. Zharr Khazak-Unn was erased; leveled to the goblinsund in three days of frenzied slaughter. Not one inhabitant escaped.
- Such was his rigid mettle, that no sound escaped his lips when the mad Sorcerer Kreklashik severed his left hand in anger, spite, and lust for power. But his ire was kindled. Oh, how his ire was kindled! His heavy hand round Kreklashik's neck was evident in the Sorcerer’s tumultuous fall from Gorgoth's heights.
- Though it could not be enough to save the city from ruin, he stood alone, unflinching, and faced the Gelshazatar the Destroyer as the woesome dragon rose from the lava trenches; molten magma running rivulets of gleaming stone and fire down his scaled hide. Gelshazatar shattered the fortress walls of Khardak Zhag in a single night. Only Zharek remained standing.
- For years he watched the Seed of Hashut in its slow, inexorable path across the sky. From the start, he knew with perfect calculation the conclusion of the comet's circuit. Ne'er did word of warning cross his lips, and he looked on from the heights of Zharr Shakoth in gleeful anticipation at the panicked populace; secure in the surety of his own destruction at the fateful omen's approach. Though Zharr Shakoth was laid to waste, Still Zharek stood fast, untouched.
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This is but a brief chronicle of deeds; chiseled deep and permanent into the stone tablet of my mind. I, the Sorceror Zharek Kadesshak who in my 296th year turned to obdurate stone as payment for the expanding breadth, and consummate power of my magic. Petrified. Immobile. Terminal. The icy finality of death in life, and termless life in death. And though you cannot see me move or hear me speak; I see... and I hear... everything. Where ere they have carried and mounted my stone visage on pedestals and plinths, I have watched with staring eyes. I have seen heights of glory and the most base obliteration, plotted demise and destruction, strategized infallible conquest, and ranted and raved in a cacophony of abhorrent silence, till even madness gave way to the plodding inevitability of aeons. And always I speak nothing. The genius of my fossilized mind has increased until I but look to see in wonder the veiled uniformity of chaos itself; unraveled before me in intricate complexity.
I stand and I see. Though Kreklashik took my granite hand to tap my stolen power, and wore it briefly round his neck on iron chains; I saw the frayed thread that told his end, even before his killers knew to curse his name, and plot his untimely defenestration.
And now I stand on the gilded causeway to Zharr-Naggrund ever watching the endless procession that passes through and from those massive gates: Master and slave, Sorcerer and fool, wench and shrew, guard and menial, pauper and king, slave and master. Each going about their self-ful ways... oblivious... because they do not know. But I know. I. KNOW... as must all my silent brethren, with undiluted certainty, how and when Zharr-Naggrund will fall, crushed and broken, goblinsund into the dust, and sunken into the molten depths, ruined beyond revival. Though years beyond... it approaches... grinding slowly closer as we stand our voiceless watch.
And still I say nothing, and no-one reaps the scourge or benefit of my acuity. Nor will they ever. Perhaps, finally, I will fall with it... or yet still... I will stand.
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