CDO: Scribe's Contest Hall of Fame

4. Prophecies of Rebirth and Resurrection
Announcement - Entrants - Winners



Gold: Fuggit Khan

Entry 3

Imperial Year
-4000
Contact is lost.

-3666
Mining an iron vein, Rahk-Shardstone unearths a prophetic obsidian tablet.
Its inscription, written in veins of living liquid copper, states:
“Hell has 664 portal gate keys. With them, your hands shall forge the final two, the keys of Rebirth and Eternity, and I, Hashut, shall name you my Son.”  

-3500
Dwarfs of the Dark Lands start worshipping Hashut.

-2700
Sorceror Prophet Rahk-Shardstone guides the raising of iron and obsidian from the ground, the foundations of Zharr-Naggrund.  

-2666
Whispers of the Sorcerors Curse. No, Rahk-Shardstone thought…not a curse.
Rebirth and Eternity. Flesh rots. Stone is eternal.
He smiled.  

-1666
Rahk-Shardstone’s lifeless petrified stone body is placed on temple grounds.

2666
The stone statue of Rahk-Shardstone steps off its pedestal.
His heart was iron ore, lungs of molten magma. Liquid copper coursed through his stone veins. Black obsidian eyes, with copper pupils, looked at his stone hands.
Glowing hotly, both hands held a key, each forged with the souls of 332 daemons.
The final two keys: Rebirth and Eternity.  
As those about him bowed in fear, Rahk-Shardstone looked to the statue of Hashut. Smiling, he spoke…”Hello, Father”.


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Silver: Grimbold Blackhammer

Entry #1

From the journals of Ekerz'ul the Lost

I have traveled farther and deeper than any being before me.  Deeper than the mountains, beneath even the roads of Valaya, and surrounded by stone that no dwarf nor God had ever seen; I looked upon the blistering furnace of the world in awe.  And in that place Hashut granted me a great vision.  

The Cursed One led an unstoppable army of the damned and where ever his shadow touched, all was destroyed.  One by one, his enemies fell and the world burned.  But his victory was ash for the betrayer was betrayed by his masters and all the world was consumed.  In the end, only one place remained - a fortress so great that only it could survive.  A place whos mighty walls were made of the blackest of stone and etched in runes of blood.  A place where only the strongest survive and weakness is destroyed.   And that place shall be named Zharr-Naggrund.


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Bronze: Miasma

Entry #2

And lo, once again doth the faithful of Hashut spill from the bosom of the world.
Entombed for an age, gathering spite and hatred in their hearts.
Free once again to slave, raid and pillage.

Free again to build, free again to plot, free again to spread spite.
These are the days of a new age, fools believe that this is the time of Sigmar
Let them believe their fallacies, let them believe in their lies.
For this is the time of Hashut, this is the time of the Dawi Zharr.


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Entry #4 Bloodbeard

… And the Greater Daemon was exiled by his Master, hunted and hurt. And he would entomb himself in the Earth, for he knew the plans and he wanted to stop them...

… and Hashut the Father of Darkness knew how the world would parish in the fires of war, how it would be ripped apart by the powers of the Chaos Pantheon. He had seen it and he had prepared his children Dawi Zharr. …

… And the Dawi Zharr shall toil, build, conquer and ever grow in strength and numbers. And you shall master the Dark Arts of magic, the Binding of Daemons and Powers of Industry. For Hashut knew it would require all to stop the Ending of the World. …

… But new worlds must be conquered…

… Amidst fire, flame and molten stone shall the Children of Hashut be reborn in the Afterlife Realm Ghyran. Amidst ore, iron, rock and stone shall the Children of Hashut be reborn in the Afterlife Realm Chamon...

… And all realms beyond the heavens will be conquered by the Dawi Zharr…

Pieces from a broken brass tablet, found amongst the ruins of Zharr-Naggrund in the days after the Fall.


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Entry #5 Abecedar

When all was lost,
I kept you alive
When your were at the end,
I gave you purpose.
You pledged to worship and obey me,
You failed.

Darkness beyond all light,
Heat and fire beyond all that the guts of the earth contains
Both these you shall know.
Those who hold me in their heart of hearts will survive
Those who hold themselves more precious will not
You know who you are already.
Knowing this and yet you do not believe.

In my name only will
My last servants know hope
In my name only will
The chance for Power and Glory be theirs
In my name only will you know me
The coldest blood crawls through my veins
The hottest fire drips from my mouth
YOU KNOW MY NAME.

“Found scrawled upon a scorched parchment, In front of a seated Hellsmith.  A Hellsmith known to have been dead for half a century, who’s body should not exist for he had been cremated for his apostasy. Written in handwriting confirmed by the archivists to be that of the heretic.  Known to the lords for they were the ones who had condemned him."

The ink was still fresh.


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Entry #6 TheHoodedMan

"Was this the other side mentioned in the old prophecies?
It felt strange, hot and cold at one time and he tried to feel his body and remember his name,  but couldn`t. Pictures and sounds of past events flashed in his mind as he levitated in the vast space which was enlightened by beautiful silent thunderstorms.

In the distance he heard a voice. There was  a fellow-Dawi Zharr with eyes like bottomless pits far before him. The man shouted strange words, harsh and familiar.  He was attracted by this incantations.  Suddenly there was massive heat but it felt comfortable and he was strong again, stronger than ever before!  

His spirit gained power and formed a body of bright flames from the surrounding magma. His fingers moved as he watched them curiously and then he stepped on stone steps out of the great burning pool into a great hall.
“Step forward from the flames into the new world and take this helm, axe and plates forged with the blessing of the Dark Father. You were gone but Hashut saved you and remade you from Fire! Bow down and obey!”
He bowed and  felt the desire to fight in an unending war…"


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Entry #7 Axtklinge

The drilling into the hidden compartment triggered a blast that swiped clean all the slaves of the lower forges of Zharr-Krong-Uhl.
‘Suits them fine!’ Kharzull mumbled, while staring at the new found artefacts.
‘These are far too important for the eyes of green scum!’ he continued.

It was not the first time a chamber was discovered, but this time something surpassed all riches found before: a metallic slab shaped artefact, where fiery runes of ancient origin kept burning and twisting right before their eyes.
‘The living tome of Makhorth The Possessed!’ pointed Kharzull in awe!
‘Notice how these runes shift and change form as we speak!’.

Even for Kharzull - master crafter and scholar - the translation of such old runes was not easy, but if tales told truth, not only it contained Makhorth prophesies but these would also shift their sayings, in response to actions taken in the present.
‘Quickly, take note of all I translate!’ bellowed Kharzull to his second.
And thus the foretelling of the great war to be, started to take shape…
“As yet before, again shall be
Reborn from fire to be free
Thy time draws near Dawi Zharr
To trust allies reopen scar…”


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Entry #8 Dînadan

"...And thus again did it come to pass that the world did burn,
Screaming and staunchly defiant to the end,
But such brazen demands were futile for,
Entropy brings even the greatest low.
Fiery embers flickered out and ashes grew cold,
Last follies lost amidst uncaring stars.

[fragment missing]

'...As surely as life beget death, does not too death beget life?'
Sternly and stoically did the great drake set about its task,
Labouring slowly lest carelessness undo its creation;
Tirelessly labouring 'til at last the world were forged anew,
Again 'twas arisen from the flames,
For all this has happened before, and all this shall happen again."

- only surviving fragment from an apocryphal Dawi-Zharr creation myth said to have been found inscribed blood on an iron tablet discovered below Daemon's Stump.  Much of the text is damaged where the tablet has been melted by warpfyre after a daemonic incursion below the Stump centuries ago.


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5. Chaos Dwarfs in the Eyes of Others
Announcement - Entrants - Winners



Gold: Jackswift

Entry #2

The remains of the city brooded squat and evil, beyond the broken causeway.  Weathered behemoths of rough-hewn basalt stood before me… centuries abandoned… defiant still… awaiting the return of their masters. Jagged onyx spires on their crowns reflected hellish molten light across the tumbled ruin of their brothers.

Blistering wind howled between intricate carvings that lined the hanging path, jutting crumbled and forgotten over the abyss. Some long dead artist had rendered row on row of statues, capturing the ancient Dwarf inhabitants in absurd, grotesque detail. My eyes drunk in each perfectly wrought wrinkle and stitch on ornate robes, the myriad of arcane symbols on strange towering hats, every pore of their skin, even individual stone eyelashes where time and entropy left them intact. Faces leered at me. Expressions of malevolent hunger, unending hatred, and numbing boredom frozen in rigid caricature on every face. Row on row, in masterful lifelike poses, they watched me.

The wind calmed and a quiet grinding sound caught my ear... stone against stone... reminding me of the precarious perch I stood upon.

I could not cross. The sculpted bridge ended abruptly; eroded supports long since fallen, taking the path with them. Forty paces of nothing. Foul vapor and a steep plunge into the burning chasm lay before me. The heat and fumes took my breath. I languished before the gap, falling hard against a statue. It rocked backwards and shattered against the edge of the causeway; head and torso tumbling into the magma below. A whispered scream rent the air in amplified silence.

Heat flexed the poison air like a folded curtain. The ghastly sculptures seemed to move. Stone rasped and crackled; granite mice skittering down the walls. Nothing moved.  Everything moved. They were here all along. They never left… as I would never leave.


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Silver: Ikkred Pyrhelm

Entry #7

Among the Hellforges

The Skaven heaved another mound of charcoal into the furnace, ignoring the harsh grunts of the dark bearded Dwarfs as they worked the forge.

He fought the urge to twitch his tail in joy; few creatures other than these Dwarfs of Chaos had ever been permitted this far into their dark warrens. Though the number of slaves gifted to the hold’s forgemasters had helped gain him entry, it was their respect for his genius mind that had gotten him this far. No, he corrected himself, it wasn’t respect. The Dawi Zharr seldom viewed their lessers with anything more than contempt. If anything, the Skaven considered, he was still alive because he interested the black bearded creatures. Should he fail to extend this interest, he would be joining the slaves that were so hungrily sacrificed to this Hashut quicker than he could say Clan Skryre.

The Skaven shovelled yet more charcoal into the growling fire. He bit back the niggling sense of annoyance that crept through his mind. He knew the Dwarfs should have held him in awe, been stunned by his vast intellect, and cowered before his majesty and the power of the Horned Rat. Instead, he had spent what felt like years merely feeding the fires. The cool rational voice in his mind quelled this smouldering anger, had he not travelled the known world in search of knowledge? He had to adopt their way of thought rather than cling to his Skaven instincts. The Dawi Zharr never rushed, their brooding dark eyes were watchful and exacting, if he was to progress in the forges he would need to adopt patience.

The art of the forgemasters was exquisite, their daemonology unmatched. Their knowledge would further the Skaven’s ambitions and forge a legend amongst Skavenkind.

Ikit Claw raised his shovel again and smiled.


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Bronze: Axtklinge

Entry #3

“East from the lands of our glorious Empire,
Beyond the grim Mountains of World’s Edge,
Lies a place of desolation – plain, wide and blight,
Where unimaginable evil thrives in plain sight.

In these scorched and soiled lands,
Without the holy blessings of Sigmar,
Lives an abominable and accursed race,
Reigning in blasphemy, for all our souls disgrace.

Short and broad and bearded like a Dwarf would be,
Black is their blood and souls - blackest could not be,
At their will - metal and fire and daemons - all bend,
Pray to the Emperor and Sigmar's strength to save us, for they may be our end.”

Tales from Ostermark Vol. II,
by Theodricus Hausfoog (Altdorf University Library, 2533)


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Entry #1 Hunter

“Quiet! They're returning.”

The Dwarfs, previously animated, paused. Their hurried whispering turned to silence. The mechanisms on the other side of the great iron door, bound in brass and engraved with terrible runes of hatred and spite, began to creak as a series of levers and bolts sprung into life. The eight Dwarfs, all master craftsmen, could not help but secretly acknowledge that their hated, twisted kin had lost none of their races' aptitude for engineering. The cell door was an exceptional work of twisted craftsmanship. It was also impregnable.

Even after years of toil in the seemingly infinite network of mines, after years of beatings and torture, after being worked to exhaustion daily and fed scraps for sustenance, the Dwarfs had lost little of their pride. They would not bow their heads. They would not look away. They glared defiantly at their captors. The Hobgoblin gaolers entered first. The Dawi Zharr had learned long ago that it was safer to have worthless Greenskins open the cell doors. The first to enter, the Hobgoblin known as Ghrashk, glared balefully at the prisoners. The nearest Dwarf winced as a barbed lash struck him across the face, lacerations cutting to the bone. He remained still. Enduring the blow was necessary.

Emboldened, Ghrashk approached the next prisoner. He drew the lash back for another blow. The Dwarf wasted no time. He leapt forward and punched the Hobgoblin squarely on the jaw, killing him with a single blow. At this signal, the other Dwarfs attacked their captors, wrenching weapons from mangled Greenskin hands. The Dwarfs knew there was no escape, only the chance to regain their honour. They had already sworn their oaths to Grimnir: They would die, and they would take as many Hobgoblins and Chaos Dwarfs with them as they could.


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Entry #4 Fuggit Khan

Manifested in the Realm of Chaos, the Daemon Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht raged his hatred as he was pulled to the earthly world against his will, finding himself summoned and bound to the iron of a Hellcannon.

“Foul flesh!” he screamed. “I will escape this forged iron shell! I will wear your skin! I will taste your entrails!”

Smiling, the Daemonsmith replied “Silence”. And Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht fell silent.

The Daemon-bound Hellcannon went to battle after battle. Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht lost count of the years…whispers from the Realm of Chaos taunted him. “Fool! You’re the embodiment of my will, yet you are bound by sorcerous iron?” …the whispers became shouts, but Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht couldn’t answer, still bound to silence.

That hated Daemonsmith! His hatred for the Dawi Zharr grew year by year, and by sheer will, he vowed to break free. But the hated Daemonsmith was never far, always tending to the iron chassis, always smiling.

And then Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht saw his opportunity during the heat of battle. The hated Daemonsmith was not present and a Siege Giant was close, mortally wounded and starting to fall. Breaking free of the restraining chains, Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht’s Hellcannon charged forward as the massive weight of the siege giant fell upon the chassis. The iron shell cracked… and Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht returned to the warp.

But, in the blink of an eye, he was pulled back to the earthly world once again.

Within the stone cut quarters of the hated Daemonsmith, Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht screamed “YOU?!” as once again he was bound to iron.

“A Siege Giant?” said the hated Daemonsmith. “Ah, I wish I had seen that… but you did want to taste my entrails, right?”

And Agrat-Bael-Mahlaht realized that he was bound to an iron bedpan.


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Entry #5 Abecedar

Hidden Fears

The beardling had been found lying under a dead pony. Delirious he was, raving about Dwarven Daemons attacking them. Cruelly standing on Dwarves' necks in iron clad boots or hanging them upside down to slowly bleed dry.

He tried to tell what had happened. They disbelieved him. Grobi had done it, they said. Later they began to laugh at him because of his tale. Soon after he began to be punished for mentioning them. Beaten and shunned in his own home. Finally he understood. They didn’t care that the Cursed Ones did exist; his brothers would never listen to the truth. They feared it beyond reason and were too scared to admit it.

Decades passed but the warriors begrudged him entry into the regiments. He prayed to the ancestors for help. A rumble came from the mountain. The gods had answered him. No, the elders dismissed him with finality. It was the ancestor’s anger at his apostasy and they banished him.

Slowly he drifted to Human lands always listening for word of the evil ones. But he only heard old tales coloured with fear. He decided to let the greed of Humans help him get his revenge. With a tale of a hidden tomb, he lured a band of humans to his side then waited until the Greenskins had gone south to cause trouble, leaving the way across the waste-lands clear.

Now he stood alone. The Humans lay dead all around and he was surrounded, ringed by those he had sought for so long.

“What have we here?” one rumbled. A voice he remembered too well. Full of power, arrogance, hatred and disdain.

“I am he who would… woo.” His voice broke as his fears and nightmares crashed and tore through his mind, leaving only stark terror behind.


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Entry #6 Rakkzul

Hordes of Greenskins stretched as far as the eye could see, screaming and tempting our soldiers to fight them, and backing them up, a legion of Chaos Dwarfs covered in dark armour carrying their steaming and cursed war machines.

Suddenly, the ground trembled, and rock fragments were thrown into the air, a whole regiment of lancers disappeared, while the evil creatures laughed and pointed to the place where the cannonball had hit the ground. That was all which men could bear. With a single roar, the swordsmen charged toward the enemy while the handgunners fired a hail of lead. Surprisingly, the Greenskins weren’t scared at all, and raised their rickety shields, ready to receive the charge. When both troops collided, the Dwarfs started moving and they quickly wrapped the flanks, mowing the swordsmen as if they were mere wisps of wheat, and revealing something much more disheartening if possible, a sorcerer was summoning what looked like a Daemon created from pure iron lava that oozed evil.

The man at my right screamed in panic and started to run back. That was the trigger, soon all the soldiers ran for their lives… In vain, because a jet of steaming magma hit the bulk of the squad, killing them right off. But not me, I managed to avoid it by rolling on the floor.  I ran away with all the strength that I could press into my tired legs, trying to escape, trying to stay alive so I could warn the Imperial armies. And I almost made it. When I was less than a hundred feet to the forest that could be my salvation, a strong wave of wind hit me, I looked up and saw the sorcerer that was summoning the demons riding a giant winged bull surrounded by fire. He lifted his hand.

They were coming.


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Entry #8 Admiral

Deeds of Ragnar

Thirst. Darkness. Hunger. Pain.

A mind so numb and dull,
of toil and drudge,
of bleakest grudge,
in pit of sludge.

Woe. Shackles. Terror. Scars.

A wrath so long oppressed,
of bitter fate,
of vilest hate,
it will not wait.

Whips. Fury. Struggle. Slay.

A deed so raw and great,
of strongest will,
of love to kill,
in blackest mill.

Break. Speech. Muster. Lead.

A chief so filthy low,
of host of scum,
of wretched slum,
now beat the drum!

Rise. Carnage. Murder. Glee.

Thrice Ragnar chose to stand not flee,
led unknown thralls in lands afar,
for warrior would nought die but free,
now raise the mighty Chaos star!

War. Bloodshed. Omens. Flame.

Lift your axe and brandish spear,
forget your maiden's home,
see Hobgoblins run down in fear,
their master but a gnome!

Pride. Valour. Hubris. False.

Praise Dark Gods and hail,
build shields of scrap,
and lethal flail,
fall into trap!

March. Cruel. Power. Hell.

Hear the thralls be torn apart,
know fell ranks arrayed,
see bale Daemon iron cart,
feel your hide be flayed!

Steel. Horns. Ashen. Might.

Burn living flesh to cinders,
and crush man's bravery,
no god their triumph hinders,
the lords of slavery.

Maim. Panic. Torture. Geld.

A wretch so broken down,
of eyes cut blind,
of ravished mind,
his fate to find.

Chant. Occult. Secret. Rite.

A bull so fierce and hard,
of bronze and smoke,
of flames and coke,
to victim stoke.

Knife. Heinous. Idol. Death.

A glow so hot and strong,
of its molten gold,
of flesh thrown cold,
into altar old.

Name. Fame. Saga. Told.

A man so rash and strong,
of gods' caprice,
of whip to cease,
for only thralls wish peace,
war for Ragnar,
listen well,
and sacrifice these geese.

- Norscan war poem


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8. Afterlife
Announcement - Entrants - Winners



Gold: Ikkred Pyrhelm

Entry #1

A Lost Rune

Dark whispers and even darker promises. Our kind has fallen prey to these time and time again. I know the truth of these whispers and promises; I have seen what awaits all of us.

It was only meant to be a simple ritual. My master Drekkfra had only recently perished in battle against a migrating tribe of Ogres. As his adept, I was meant to take his place as Sorcerer. Yet the old coot had fed me precious little knowledge and his tomes were locked by a rune I could not fathom. In my lust for knowledge and trusting not to consorting with daemons yet, I decided to cast my spirit into the fabled Halls of the Dead. If I could find my master then maybe I could learn how to unlock his rune, even if I had to torture his spirit to do so.

Ten slaves and a young bull carved with runes of death and afterlife were sacrificed within my master’s altar room, the dying bull’s blood pooling into a goblet that I drank whilst invoking the words engraved on the gates of Hashut’s Halls. What happened next, I do not know, but I must have passed out for I awoke in darkness.

I rose to my feet and looked around warily as my eyes began to adjust. I was within a stone chamber marked with the runes and dark signs of Hashut. I muttered an incantation and a small sphere of light grew from my hand to float beside me. I knew I did not have long before my spirit would be drawn back to life.

There was a large stone passageway that opened up and I passed through it. Of the souls of my fellow Dawi Zharr, I at first saw nothing. I have heard tales of pits of fire and flame where the weak of my kind are eternally tormented, and I have heard other tales of great halls with warm hearths where our greatest eternally feast and toast our lord Hashut. None of those tales hold truth. The oppressive stone around me was dark and cold. There was little sound, as if these halls were truly empty.

I then heard a pained gibber. I turned quickly at the sound, words of destruction forming within my mind. A face had appeared on the stone wall. It was the face of one of my fellow Dawi Zharr. It gibbered, eyes slackly turning. It did not seem to notice me, too lost in agony and madness. I took several wary steps away and continued down the tunnel, noticing more and more faces appear and disappear upon the walls. Males, females, and children. Some were nobleborn, some Sorcerers, some guards, and some mere underlings. They gibbered, gnashed, and groaned as they painfully crawled across the walls. I tried to entreat some of them whom seemed familiar to me, but none answered.

The tunnel grew colder, ice crystals seemed to form upon the walls. Still the faces swam.

Finally, a stone portal loomed ahead and I quickly passed through without looking back. An ancient and haggard Chaos Dwarf leant against the back wall, muttering and shaking. It was my master. Not five days had passed since his death, yet he had aged so much. I strode to him with purpose, though my heart was already chilled with what I had seen. He looked up with confused and distant eyes.

”Lost...lost...lost...” he murmured in a faded voice.

“Master. Drekkfra. It is I, your pupil” I replied. He looked at me strangely with unfocussed eyes.

“Lost...lost...lost...Hashut...It’s so cold...” he gibbered.

“What is the rune you used to hide your secrets? Tell me!”

“Cold...cold...cold...” he whimpered.

Snarling, I seized him. Yet I was unable to move him. He was becoming one with the cold stone. He dragged a finger nail across a slab of stone beside him, almost absentmindedly. I looked on, brow furrowed. It was the rune that I didn’t recognize. I reached out to touch it but on contact it burnt worse than any flame that has licked my flesh. I reeled back in pain and turned angry eyes to my master.

“Lost...lost...lost...” he murmured again, unaware of me. I turned to leave and as I did so my master and the cold stone walls seemed to fade into the darkness. I heard a laugh. The laughter of Hashut.

I awoke.

We are fools. In our greed we have surrendered our souls. We are the building blocks for Hashut’s Hall. There is no reward for our service, only the cold stone. It is our fate and something we shall all face.

Even now, I look to my hand and the rune burned into it. I realize now what it is, forlorn, misplaced, or impossible that it may be.

Hope.


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Silver: Admiral

Entry #8

"Gather around me, brethren, and heed my words, for they are all born out of wisdom blessed and cursed by Dark Gods and Daemons alike in nightmares and fire and orgiatic visions. Heed these words, for they were grasped at the price of insanity and damnation eternal by mystics and seers and priests, while foul spirits and unholy confusion tried to snatch these secrets away at every turn as the ancients struggled to haul home their forbidden plunder of lore. Heed the words, for herein lies the mysteries of death, afterlife and fate itself. Spoken above fire under heaven, as witnessed by the searing eyes of deities and mighty idols alike, I hereby confess to know that which is beyond sight of lowly mortals.

Witness Hashut rise!

In the beginning there was fire and darkness, and fire and darkness there will be in the end. What passes between them is the living's struggle for domination over one another, where the cruel, the strong, the cunning and the best win through. Dark glory shall be theirs in life and legacy, and mastery they shall hold over others, yet in the end death will claim all the living, be they lord or slave.

Darkness be. The filthy souls of unbelievers and slaves will all be cast into the towering furnace beyond light, to fuel the flames of the Father of Darkness, and so too shall be the destiny of those damned to exile and shameful servitude in the dread Infernal Guard. Spit upon their fates!

Shadows be. Every righteous sacrificer of the chosen tribe of the fiery Bull God must utter in full the Last Praise to Him on high when they lie dying, lest the gate to the Realm will be closed, and they will be cursed to wander the world as ghosts, as do so many revenants of infants and mutes and weaklings who died quick deaths.

Fire be. Baleful be the woe after death of whoever has their corpse cast into impure water, for eternal drowning of the soul in the Unknown Abyss will be theirs forever.

Smoke be. The correct rituals of death must be observed. Let the omens decree if burning or burial must take place. Sacrifice to Him, and send the deceased into the afterlife with grave goods and mourning rites aplenty. The niggardly endowed will find his bribes and arcane passwords and otherworldly weapons and armour insufficient to pass through the long line of travails and hardships and perils awaiting the wandering soul on its winding path to the one true Father, for Daemons will surely ensnare or lure or overpower the one buried for a miser, and his soul shall be carried away into oblivion and torment.

Cinders be. The souls of sacrificers not lost on the long way to afterlife will face the sixty mighty Gates of the Father, and at each gate they must answer the twelve times twelve Questions of Devotion, or be torn apart beneath the cloven hooves of its guardians. Those who answer in truth will pass.

Pain be. Those who enter the Gates of the Father will be judged by high Hashut and His court of shackled Daemons within His divine and unholy abode of shadow and flame. There no falsehoods will long withstand the burning gaze of the Father of Darkness, and uncloaked truth shall be had by torture and torment until all the soul is laid bare like a flayed animal, and only then shall judgement be passed.

Hell be. The heretic and wrongdoer and failed usurper who breaks His sacred commandments shall be plunged into the hungering flames, to be roasted for all eternity and to be trampled and split in two and shredded by His hallowed K'daai tormentors, and the screams of the unworthy will echo across creation.

Ashes be. The righteous sacrificers and fertile mothers and stalwart warriors and diligent craftsmen judged worthy shall be spared the flames of eternal torment, and their shackled souls shall instead be cast into cage and gloom, to eat dust in dreary limbo, forever longing for the bliss of their betters.

Slag be. The unfailingly devout sacrificers and greatly fertile mothers and surpassingly skilled craftsmen shall know eternal labour and dark glory, and the supreme warriors shall stand guard over the roaring forges of the Artisan of Chaos, and their works shall be eternal.

Metal be. The blessed spawns of the Bull God and those gifted with stoneform and prophecy and those truly superior amongst the Blacksmiths of Chaos shall know might and pleasure. Vast shall be their harems, grand their armouries, glittering their treasures. They shall attend the dark and fiery court of the Father of Dakness, and forever more adulate Him who is Hashut.

Now serve."

- The Way Past Death sermon of the Slaghoof sect


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Bronze (tie): Dînadan

Entry #10

"...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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Bronze (tie): Fuggit Khan

Entry #11

Just a young beardling coming of age, Sin-shar-Ashkad was now allowed for the first time to accompany his father and the other patriarchs of his clan to their family mausoleum in Zharr-Naggrund. His clan was preparing again to march to war against the lesser races of the west, and per tradition for the past 400 years, the leaders of his clan would visit the great ziggurat mausoleum of their clan, in order to reclaim a mighty token of war. It was the family heirloom of the mighty Ashkad family, and tradition was that this heirloom was the reason that their clan had never lost a war.

The numerous petrified stone statues of long dead Sorcerer priests from other clans lining the streets in Zharr-Naggrund had made an impression on the young Sin-shar-Ashkad... and while ascending the 666 steps to the top of their family mausoleum, he asked his father about them. His father, an undefeated veteran of numerous wars against the weaker races, laughed in contempt.

“They would have you believe in an afterlife,” he said. “I will tell you this: there is no afterlife. No heaven, no God, no paradise after death.”

Sin-shar-Ashkad was puzzled. ”But there are Gods! Hashut, Khorne, numerous others!”

With a grin that reflected pragmatic wisdom, his father replied: “They are not true Gods in any sense of the word... They are beings of immense power when compared to us. Nothing more. If you were marooned on a small island, and the only other inhabitants on the island were ants, you would be the God of that world. One stomp of your foot would devastate their anthills, killing thousands of them in a single whim. A swipe of your hand would topple their great forests, but just mere weeds to you. They would fear you and offer you any sort of appeasement that they could muster, to gain your favor. And they would only want to buy your favor, so as to promote and strengthen their own wants and needs. With their needs fulfilled, does that make you a God? Or does that make you easily bought with mere words and their pittance of offerings? Are you so weak that you need smaller beings offering prayer and appeasement to you? That does not make you or anyone a God.”

Sin-shar-Ashkad could not find fault with his father’s logic, and asked: “So there truly is no afterlife?”

“Perhaps you should reflect more on what happens to you after your life, as opposed to the idea of an afterlife itself,” his father replied.

Sin-shar-Ashkad thought about this as they reached the top of the 666 steps, and watched his father unlock the massive stone-cut doors to the mausoleum with an ancestral key made of obsidian and copper.

Looking to his father, Sin-shar-Ashkad asked: “If I am dead, and there is no afterlife, then what choice could possibly happen after my life?”

His father looked at him, and replied: “Wealth is fleeting. It cannot be taken with you once you die. Let the weaker Dawi Zharr clans covet wealth. Let them line the streets with stone statues of their dead kin, only to be shat upon by the black ash pigeons that perch atop them. Ask yourself... how do you want to be after your life?”

Sin-shar-Ashkad thought for a moment, and then answered: “The weaknesses of our enemies are an affront to my family, I live now only to see them killed. So my wish after my death would be to continue to see them killed by my kin and descendants.”

His father smiled approvingly.

His father then unlocked the mighty obsidian casket of their family founder, the great warrior Zharr-Ashkad himself. Reaching into the casket, Sin-shar-Ashkad’s father lifted out the family heirloom... the skull of Zharr-Ashkad himself.

The skull gleamed with inlaid runes of copper, the eye sockets stared contemptuously with pupils of polished obsidian. Mounting the skull atop the family battle standard, Sin-shar-Ashkad’s father and the other clan patriarchs all read aloud the runes embossed upon the skull, the final words of their founding father: “To see my enemies slain before me, in my life, and after my life.”

And Sin-shar-Ashkad knew then the true meaning of “afterlife.”

There was life after death, it was the memory of your life and deeds, carried forth with honour by your family.


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Entry #2 Rakkzul

I know that one day I will die
But in the time I have to exist
Cloistered in stone
A thousand memories remain

Forever, unhurried
I will feel eternity
My body and soul never will be together
Death is not death
Only a trip to the afterlife
The shadow of time never will meet one more year

I want to feel the energy that is within me
And with all who are here share
The greatness of the power
That Azakil once wielded

Forever, unhurried
I will feel eternity
My body and soul never will be together
Death is not death
Only a trip to the afterlife
The shadow of time never will meet one more year

But now, I depart
My muscles solidify
My magic has betrayed me
And I must say goodbye.


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Entry #3 Steven

D’Varr struggled to open his eyes. It was the most difficult thing he remembered doing in weeks. His eyelids shifted, grinding against stone he could feel but not hear. His ears stopped functioning long ago.

He didn’t know how much time had passed since the Hobgoblins had moved him to the temple workshop, face down on a cart like some sort of soulless hunk of rock. He wasn’t, though. He was a prisoner inside his own body, fully aware but unable to move, to speak, to breathe. At least they had the courtesy to face him outward.

He had spent his entire life studying and knew his choices would eventually lead him to this pain and to an eternity next to the Father of Darkness, warming his hands at the world furnace. The body completely turned to stone as your soul leaved this forge of blood. It’s what the priests said, and he believed every word. That did not make the transition any easier. The stone slowly creeping through his body caused pain beyond reckoning. However, it was worthy pain knowing the power he wielded in life.

He had accomplished more than any Sorcerer known to Dwarfdom. Those upstarts, Astragoth and Ghorth, had fame, but down in the bowels of Zharr-Naggrund, all knew who held real power. Power was more important than fame. His proof of that power was how quickly he had been turned to stone. He was half Astragoth’s age, yet he had been unable to move his legs for years. Those ridiculous pistons that Sorcerer used would do nothing for D’Varr now. He had been stone from the neck down for what seemed like an eternity.  In his final battle, he’d been carried out on a palanquin, slaves struggling under his weight as he cast spells using only his voice. That was power.

He prayed to Hashut. He could no longer bow his head, and now he had lost control of his eyelids. Still, having sight was a small comfort. He hadn’t been able to speak to his loved ones when they came to say goodbye. His wife cried, weeping into their son Harchett’s arms. He could only watch them from a stone prison of his own making. He looked longingly at his family, his love burning through his petrified heart. He impotently watched his wife in her grief, quietly sniffing and wiping away tears.

D’Varr seemed to see Harchett for the first time in years. His family came second in his struggle for power, but he always loved them more than he let them know. The power was always his first love, and he had been wrong. His son was now an old man himself, wrinkles lining his face.  Harchett was a slave master by trade and would never know the pain of being a Sorcerer. For that, D’Varr thanked the Dark Father repeatedly. The Chaos Dwarfs of Zharr-Naggrund could be the cruelest of creatures to all others, but in their homes, they protected and loved their own.

His wife and son reached out and brushed away the stone dust that had settled on him. He watched them say things he couldn’t hear. He begged to Hashut to hear their voices one last time before he joined His side; his prayers were met with silence. The two Chaos Dwarfs he loved more than life, and in retrospect, more than the power he spent his life obtaining, turned and walked away, having said their goodbyes. He wanted nothing more than to tell them how he would have changed everything, how he would have chosen the life of a slave master if it meant being with them for one minute more. They were gone. Alone, he was buried in stone and regret.

D’Varr didn’t know how long he’d been there; minutes, hours, or days. He only knew that something was suddenly very different. He could feel Hashut’s presence stronger than he had ever felt before. The air shimmered mirage-like in front of him, Hashut Himself tearing through the fabric of reality, not in the form of the Great Taurus, but in Daemon form, writhing in the flames of Chaos. Hashut reached for His minion, pulling him through the rift. D’Varr was carried through the inferno and placed among a host of other statues, all Sorcerers like himself, all with their heads bowed and eyes closed. He suddenly felt the searing heat of the fires which engulfed him, agony seething through nerves of stone. He begged for mercy and knew there would be none. He could hear the deep guttural laughter of Hashut as He walked away from His petrified servants. D'Varr now knew why all the other Sorcerer's statues had their heads bowed; their eyes closed. He tried to scream, but could only stare helplessly into the fires for eternity.


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Entry #4 Jackswift

Zharek 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 ground 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 ground 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.

---------

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, ground 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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Entry #5 Abecedar

Castellan Kravdurn looked at the unfamiliar scene. He prepared for whatever would surely come out of this mist. Around him stood his unit, stark Dawi Zharr all. They had the same intent stare out from their helmets as his. He remembered the battle but its details eluded him. Events seemed jumbled, and the wounds he knew he’d taken, he could feel nought of them now.

A glow grew stronger within the shrouding gloom, hinting at flames and shadows. The tension in his troops heightened as the thick atmosphere began blowing away, clearing whatever had clouded his mind on its way.

He knew now, the battle was over and they were surely dead. Those around him, his warriors, he’d seen most of them fall beneath blades and claws. They’d died obeying his last commands. His decision to defend the battle standard to the last as his commander fled. Fighting, retreating and delaying the rampant chaos baying before them. Only one possible end for this freely made choice.

What stood before them now was not the battle. It was a boundless plain, not of grass or fields. Writhing souls as far as vision allowed, lay entangled, entwined, in pain, on a living bed of fire. Figures ranged across the plain, familiar four legged, two armed and horned. Burning shades but not in pain. Where they moved, the “soul-grass” was laid flat, frozen in a rictus of agony. Distantly one figure outshone and outsized all the others, silhouetted against a towering ziggurat.

They watched the tabloid before them silently, until with a sound of rolling thunder; He was there before them, looming and majestic beyond belief. His God, not the shadow in the fire-lit gloom as seen in the temple but the God of Darkness. Stretching behind Him a trail of mighty hoof prints embedded into the morass of damned souls, the edges blackened and the dents blazing hotter than anywhere around them.

As one, all there knelt and prostrated themselves, feeling the lash of His gaze as it swept across them. A thudding presence in their minds, reminiscent of hooves, dragged them back onto their feet and all knew that their time of judgement had come. Arrayed now around Hashut’s hooves were many of the fiery Bull Centaurs and with a chorused bellow they called to their own. The slain Temple Guardians from his army flowed down to join their fellows, all of them transforming into the fiery beings from the previous flesh they’d worn.

Hashut raised his mighty axe and pointed it at the Lord and Commander of this once earthly army. The soul-body of the Prophet floated towards Hashut until it touched the tip of the axe blade and paused there. The God’s gaze seemed to pierce the Lord Sorcerer and a sneer creased the divine visage. The sublime look of arrogance that had always been on the Prophet’s face disappeared instantly. He began toburn and to writhe as he started screaming. Kravdurn remembered having seen him flee and knew Hashut’s justice now. The axe flicked and the tortured soul fell. One of Hashut’s hooves then slowly descended and ground it deeply into the carpet of souls.

The axe rose again and swept in a lazy arc across the breadth of the souls before Him. All along that arc, souls were drawn out onto the blade's edge to suffer and burn. Another flick and the cloud of damned were flung out to join those already judged and found wanting. The searing gaze swept across them again and another cloud of souls was drawn up towards Hashut. This time they landed on the palm of His hand.  No screams came from them, no flames consumed them. A fiery glow surrounded them, lifted them, and Kravdurn could see the exultation on their faces as his comrades were sent towards the distant ziggurat behind Hashut.

Kravdurn dared to look around and found he stood with only two others. His sergeant and another he distantly knew as an extremely ferocious warrior. They were all that were left awaiting judgement. Hashut turned His face back to them and the rumbling avalanche of His mind reverberated through them.

“You shall be my chosen”

Darkness fell and folded itself around Kravdurn and time slowed beyond his knowing.

Pain came, then light and then excruciating noise. He fought and vision came to him. He was able to look around, everything seemed huge, and he was being held by something or someone. His body felt strange and he looked down at it, two hands, a chest, four hoofed legs and a short barrelled body. Kravdurn knew then, he was of the truly chosen now. He rejoiced with a bellow.

“The bull child is alive and well,” stated the midwife.

“Excellent,” replied the temple priest.


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Entry #6 cornixt

[This is an account of the High Priest Rhaskhull Stonefoot, as written by his disciple Ghrashnik the Lowly:]

After 44 days of bloodfast, I prayed to Hashut for guidance. He showed me a great vision of what awaits the dead - both those who keep strong in the faith and those who do not.

The souls enter this domain falling from a great height, dropping down to a great circular plain with a square-sided volcano at the center. The plain is surrounded by an ocean of lava that stretches as far as the eye can see. Each soul is held up by strings tied to balloons of hot air, each one representing a deed or sacrifice performed in our Dark Lord's name. A gentle wind blows the souls towards the volcano in the middle. Those buoyed up by many strings drift and descend to the edge of the great volcano, the quickest and easiest route. Those with only few balloons crash into a heap on the rocky ground and have to limp or crawl the many miles to the volcano by land. The sand is dry and sharp, it painfully scratches the skin with the merest touch. Those with no balloons drop straight into the lava ocean at the edge of the plain, feeding His energy with what remains of their lifeforce. These are just punishments for those who do not use their life to further His causes, but they may still yet serve Him in death after this atonement.

At the volcano, you feel the pleasant heat of His energy, and each of your balloons releases a being of energy who acts as your servant - fetching you food or other supplies as you wish. You need not eat or drink here, but any delicious food or liquid refreshment is available for your pleasure. At the base of the volcano there are many establishments where you may sit and commune with fellow souls, not unlike alehouses. Higher up the side of the great square volcano there are smithies for those who enjoy making weapons and armour, each with a forge heated by lava. At the peak are the workshops of the highest quality, where the best Sorcerers and engineers devise contraptions of a fantastical nature. In the afterlife, stone skin is a blessing - no longer are the Sorcerers slowed down or restricted, but instead they are ten times stronger and resistant to harm, while as flexible as a mere whelp. Their accomplishments in life are far exceeded in death, with the strength to lift huge brass gears into place without a winch and connect pipes full of boiling oil without even thin gloves, while commanding thousands of obedient and capable servants to construct yet more devices from their plans.

From this I came to gaze upon their greatest achievement, said to be finally completed only when the whole of the world is under His command: a giant mechanical form of Hashut where each leg...

[The remainder of the document is missing.]


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Entry #7 Enjoysrandom

The High Priest of Hashut leaned down to the eager young Chaos Dwarf in a puff of smoke. His legs, long seized, groaned to the sound of iron on stone, and in a husky, cruel snarl the priest uttered:

“Young Dawi Zharr, so eager for the battle. To give your life to Hashut, to the Father of Darkness.”

The young tusk quickly grunted:

“For Hashut, the Father of the Darkness, the Father of the Dawi Zharr, I would willingly sacrifice my life.”

Stunned at the wit of the minor, Astragoth growled out a hiss and bit back at the child:

“I will tell you what awaits a Dawi Zharr warrior when he sacrifices his life to Hashut.”

The eyes of the old High Priest narrowed and his hardened face wrinkled back into a gnarled smile of tusk and beard.

“Your Weapon will be cast to the Battle, from the Father to the Son. Back to the Dawi Zharr.
  Your Body will be cast to the Fire, from the Dust to the Ash. Back to Chaos.
  Your Mind will be cast to the Stone. From the Warp to the Earth, Back to the Darkness, Back to Hashut.”

Leaning back away from the boy, he relaxed to the sound of obsidian scraping over iron as smoke billowed to the floor.

“Become the power that enslaves everything.”

The sun peered through the smoke and dawned across the cracked sands of the Dark Lands, the air as still as a Gnoblar caught in its master’s stare. The boy somberly exclaims:

“Glory to Hashut, Father of the Darkness! From the Ziggurat to the grave, I give my life to Hashut!”


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Entry #9 Carcearion

To Carve One's Fate

In the roiling hell of the Realm of Chaos amongst a miniature tempest of pain and madness a single cohesive thought consolidated: “I.” It was a simple but powerful revelation amongst the writhing miasma of insanity which changed the whole form of what before was but a trivial swirl in the tides of Chaos: “I am Dawi Zharr! I am Sorcerer-Priest!“ The will of the Blacksmiths of Chaos is mighty and the will of their sorcerous overlords many more times so. Thusly the devastated spirit, becoming somewhat whole, looked out again from its own eyes, barely able to focus through the heinous pain which wracked his body. He beheld the great sacrificial chamber, the altar of his mighty god, and the brazen podium from which he had stood many times and conducted unnumbered unholy rites on behalf of his Sorcerer-Prophet whom... whom he hates! Whom he must destroy! To stone with him! To stone with Bharvrhak! Stone!

He stood mightily upon the podium, brandishing blooded rod and smoldering staff, conducting the ritual and calling the favors of Hashut. Too many times he had called the dark powers standing in for the aged Sorcerer-Prophet. Streaks of stone had finally begun to pain his footsteps and the Sorcerer-Prophet's secret was now known to him, Bharvrhak’s time now waned.

The vision melted from his mind as he tried to control the pain which wracked his body, he tried to pull himself back to that moment but failed. Of all things Bharvrhak’s greatest transgression was his heretical vanity. Where idols of glorious Hashut should blaze upon the adjoining wall of the Prophet's throne instead glowered five huge ugly busts of Bharvrhak’s face, his head repeated again and again as big as a Giant’s across the vast stone wall. The five great stone faces offended him even more then the Prophet's own mediocrity as a Sorcerer. It was only by the secret of his dreaded Mage-Bane Petrification curse that Bharvrhak rose to glory; an insidious version of the Curse of Hashut which targeted enemy wizards and was devilishly difficult to counter or resist. However, he had deftly plundered the Sorcerer-Prophet's secret...

He crept carefully through the hidden labyrinth, timing his incantations and the sliding of secret doors with the noisy work of the Daemon-Forge above him. He toiled in constant dread knowing were he discovered with a stolen tablet of Bharvrhak’s own arcana he would soon meet a cruel death. The thrice-warded tablet was laughably easy to clear of obscuring enchantments, another testament to the Sorcerer-Prophet's unworthiness of his title. Concealed amongst the sliding secrets of the maze were the petrified bodies of failed acolytes, secret and cunning runes were carved into their stone-flesh and with his pilfered lore he deciphered them whilst avoiding the nameless and faceless Seven Times Mutated Thing which haunted the maze.

Once again pain overwhelmed his memories and returned him to the unbearable now. Great rents and masses of flesh where gone from his body. In the soaring pain he knew most of his torso and some portion of his heart had been sheared from him, much of his face was sliced from his skull, terrible furrows of pain covered his legs and arms. He had been kept immobile and upright, unable to see what tortures had befallen his body. He gazed across the familiar chamber unable to fathom his vantage point, grateful he could not see the Prophet's pompous throne, for the last time he had looked upon it… the last time…

Coming to the crescendo of the sacred and unholy rite he stood now surging with the powers of fiery darkness. Hours had passed and countless slaves had been sacrificed as the Sorcerer-Prophet gazed on from his throne. He soon came to the pinnacle of the spell, burning with the raw stuff of Chaos as he conducted the ritual that the aged Prophet no longer could. Where he was meant to bestow upon his master blessings and vitality he denounced him! He cast upon the vain fool his own secret and signature petrifying incantation! He cast... He cast...

The reflection in the vast basin of sacrificial blood recently filled by the ritualists snapped him harshly into the present and into maddening epiphany. As his mind and soul howled and shattered unable to bear the black revelation he knew that the spell he thought he had so cunningly discovered was but a trap of that dark labyrinth. He knew the nature of the horrible pain which assailed his body. He knew his suffering was to be eternal. He knew why he could see in the crimson reflection not five great stone faces of his hated enemy – but six!


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9. Distance & Remoteness in the Chaos Dwarf Empire
Announcement - Entrants - Winners



Gold: Abecedar

Entry #6

[align=center]Treacherous Road[/align]

A summons from Zharr-Naggrund had come, the tight restrictions on troop numbers and its lateness had complicated matters, but the orders were simply to be obeyed. Things like it were an absolute; all knew the price of disobedience or failure.

The caravan was moving more rapidly along the rugged road than it normally would. Other smaller much quicker tracks ran out from these mountains but they were definitely not suitable for the necessary wagons. Time was the greatest issue as the summons had arrived late and their journey was far longer for them than for some of the others. To arrive late would involve a distinct loss of face. Possibly made worse when they considered the rumored identity of some of the other attending clans.

The escorting Blacksouls jogged along tirelessly. As stipulated in the summons only a single cohort accompanied the caravan and had been spread thinly to cover the six wagons, the overlarge enclosed tribute wagons clattering along between them, led by a lone Ironcaster and the Blacksouls Overmaster.

A shallow shoulder by the road spread out before them within the nearing valley. Easy room to stop and rest before continuing on their hurried journey. A waterhole near the edge of the clearing conferred upon the place a temptation too convenient for them not to avail themselves of it.


This was going to be so easy, thought Hragnax, his prey had stopped exactly where he'd predicted they would. The enticing location helped of course, as did the artful arranging for the delay in the carefully doctored peremptory summons. None would suspect it hadn't arrived directly from the High Lord Sorcerer. To destroy those before him and take the tribute would physically and financially weaken these upstart highlanders and was well worth the effort. But to cause them the loss of considerable prestige in the ruling lord's eyes for their failure to obey, now that would be truly pleasurable. Two strikes against them at once, a simple, effective plan.

The caravans escorting troops had all meandered in close under the edges of the wagons. Stupidly disarraying themselves, their shields and weapons lain down. They could be seen clumsily unlimbering stuff. No guards watching outwards at all. Disgraceful, Hragnax thought. They deserved their impending doom for their slackness.

So be it. He bellowed the order, "No mercy!" and stepped out of the enshrouding rocks, and all about him, his troops followed to surround the caravan.

Suddenly the sides of all the wagons fell outwards, revealing rank upon rank of Decimators and Dragon Fire Teams arrayed in tiers, inside the wagons and all behind solid armour plating. And the lowered sides were now effectively providing barricades for the escorting troops underneath. As he watched firing holes opened up with more barrels emerging from them. He heard a commotion behind him and was dismayed to see more Blacksouls and Decimators and even several troops of Half-breeds emerging from the same tracks he'd used, and were even now spreading out all around him.

"Aye," an unfamiliar voice came from the lead wagon.  "No mercy it shall be."


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Silver: Slavemaster Hod

Entry #1

[align=center]The Ambush[/align]

The wind tore through the tight valley, whipping needles of ice against Heinrich’s exposed skin. His bare-feet burned in the frigid snow, and the blackness seeping across them filled his mind with dread. It’d been eight days since they left the Ogre camp, and eight more until they reached their destination, a hellish outpost called the Keep of the Three Kin. Heinrich didn’t speak the guttural tongue of the foul Dwarfs that had dragged him halfway across the world, but when he’d been sold in the flesh markets of the Black Fortress, his new owners had used Reikspiel to tell him this name.

Heinrich had been a merchant before - a life which was never safe, but to fall into the hands of the dreaded worshippers of Hashut, was the worst of all fates. ‘Luckily’ for Heinrich, his skill in Engineering had saved him from the fire pits of their ziggurats - but not from slavery.

He had hoped to die on the journey. Even now, he could just lie down and submit to the snow’s icy embrace. He would have done so days ago, had it not been for the fair Lady Maribel. The Bretonnina noblewoman was cursed to the same horrible existence as he, and without Heinrich, would die in the arms of the giant Kurgan shackled with them.

Heinrich glanced at the barbarian, pulling some joy from this blasted land at the sight of his broken nose - a gift from Heinrich the first time he’d tried to have his way with Lady Maribel in the dead of the night, when their masters were asleep and wouldn’t hear her cries.

In front of the Kurgan, Lady Maribel’s long blond hair cascaded down a pale back covered in goosebumps. He wished he could wrap his arms around her and offer her some warmth, but even that had been sucked from him by these frozen peaks.

Heinrich’s mind was as numb as his body and he didn’t hear the howling at first, but quickly it grew until it filled his ears with a demonic chorus. He’d never heard the feral call in person, but its high-pitch wail had been repeated by many travelers warning of the perils of the Mountains of Mourn. Of all the things to fear while traversing this frozen wasteland, the war-cry of the Yhetee was to be feared the most.

The four Ogres the Chaos Dwarfs had hired to protect the caravan were already forming a perimeter, their giant heads lulling back and forth, scanning the snowy hills with rusty blades. The Chaos Dwarf holding the chains that shackled the slaves, threw them to the ground and drew his blunderbuss. He ran the stout barrel along the drifts beside the path, the moon glistening off his long black beard woven into tight greasy ringlets. The dwarf was half Heinrich’s size, but wore a heavy hat that almost doubled his height. Down the length of the mighty crown were skulls - some decorative, other in various states of decay.

The howls stopped, leaving only the wind and the beating of Heinrich’s heart to gauge the passage of time, then the Yhetees attacked. They burst from the snow like Daemons of frost and ice. Claws slashed out and carved grooves across the Ogres' blades. There were three Yhetee and four Ogres, but instantly Heinrich knew it wasn’t enough. The first Ogre went down in a burst of blood, his head flopping backwards. A second Ogre cried out before vanishing into a swirl of snow.

The Chaos Dwarf’s blunderbuss fired and its muzzle exploded in a rain of gunpowder. There was a cry and a Yhetee collapsed. The Chaos Dwarf sped to reload, but not before another beast emerged from the snow behind him. In its giant claw it held an ax of pure ice, and with a quick swipe, it separated the Chaos Dwarf’s gigantic hat from his shoulders.


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Bronze: Forgefire

Entry #3

[align=center]The Cattlewagon[/align]

A slight breeze rustled the sparse grass across the great plain. The heavy steamwagon trundled slowly along the road pulling a large cattle or slave wagon behind it. A short stocky driver with a tall helm at the front steamwagon and two Hobgoblins armed with bows on the roof seemed to be the only guards.

Scaldr smiled to himself and climbed down the cliff he had been watching the caravan from. His band of raiders were already mounted and armed, their round hide-covered shields painted with the ruinous symbol of the Dark Gods. With scalps and leering skulls dangling from their saddles they looked fearsome and eager for blood and loot.

The Chaos Dwarfs were dangerous prey Scaldr knew, notoriously well armed and stubborn creatures. But this lone wagon would be no match for his warband of fifteen battle hardened raiders. Mounting his hardy Norscan steed, he drew his blackened steel blade, its edges sharp and deadly as always. Ironically those stunted and twisted Dwarfs had crafted it for his tribe generations ago at the steep price of a dozen healthy slaves. Spurring their mounts the raiders raced down the cliffside down to the plains and the hapless caravan.

The caravan driver glanced west seeing a cloud of dust coming from the cliffside and started in his seat, his smoking pipe dropping from his tusked mouth. Scaldr laughed as the driver turned the steampropelled caravan wagon slowly, facing it away from the approaching warband. The very thought of escape was ludicrous, the wagon moved barely as fast a walking man!

Hooting and bellowing battlecries the raiders drew ever closer. A lucky shot from a Hobgoblin sent one of his men crashing to the ground, a black-shafted arrow jutting from his throat. Cursing the cowardly swine Scaldr spurred his mount forward even harder, riding up alongside the caravan. Scaldr suddenly saw the caravan driver up close as he peered back at the raiders from the steamwagon in the front. His warcry stopped short when he saw the driver's evil grin.

Why was he smiling?

The Chaos Dwarf gave him a little wave and pulled a lever next to his seat.The door-ramp of the cattlewagon at the back slammed down. He heard his men shouting warnings as six roaring and heavily armored Bull Centaurs charged out from the wagon. Their greataxes cut through the raiders and horses alike as a scythe cuts through wheat. Such brute strength!

Roaring in frustration, Scaldr turned his attention towards the driver, shield raised and sword ready to carve. A deafening blast blinded him and almost threw him from the saddle. The driver smiled smugly at him holding a smoking blunderbuss. Scaldr looked down. The blast had wrecked his shield, pellets and shrapnel shredding his shield arm and torso. Stunned, he coughed blood and slumped from his mount.

Karrzul Varr, caravan driver, bent down and retrieved his still smouldering pipe next to his seat. Such fools, these damn Manlings, he thought to himself as he heard the last of them being slaughtered. Did they really think they could raid Dawi Zharr lands so close to mighty Uzkulak without consequenses? He chuckled to himself and pulled the steamwagon to a halt. Time to see if there were any usable slaves or sacrifices still alive.


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Entry #2 Carcearion

[align=center]A Left Turn at Albakhar’ri[/align]

In Zharr-Naggrund the Tradesmith Azhrikul sat brooding. His Prophet’s distant Fortress Tower required another infusion of the cities' Hashut-given mineral wealth and more importantly the delivery of secrets won by spies and acolytes about the sacred plots and machinations of the Temple. It had been agreed sixty and four weeks prior that their two caravans would meet halfway across the vast desolation at the Infernal Guard outpost of Albakhar’ri, exchange cargo and return – but in the last fortnight Orcs had overrun the far western roads of the desolation, and Zharr-Naggrund itself paid little heed. Azhrikul scratched worriedly upon his tablet. If he guessed his Lord's course of action wrongly it would be his head.


Far west of Zharr-Naggrund Drakesh gathered his counselors beneath the great Fortress Tower.

“As you predicted the Immortals declined, protecting the Prophet while forces are away is paramount.”

“They think it’s beneath them, they wouldn’t dirty their tall hats. What is the word from the Hashut’s Eye wolf riders who encountered them?”

“I met personally with their Khan. He says the Orc forces are immense and claimed he rode four score wolves against their host and lost his eye and half his forces in the melee.”

“Hrm! I’m sure, he and his score of riders probably fled soon as they saw the bulk of their forces.”

“He did have the scar to prove it my Lord, his eye was missing.”

“Fuggit Khan has been missing that eye since before I can remember – I’ve heard more stories about how he lost it then you have teeth. But if even he wouldn’t ride his wolves into their flanks their numbers must be vast. What word from our envoys to Nir-Khezhar and Rhan-Ghanor?”

“We believe they still haven’t reached them.”

“If we attached a full artillery train we could simply blast through.”

“Is this caravan truly worth risking our warmachines? The steel is the best from Zharr-Naggrund but it can be gotten elsewhere – and we have barely five score slaves to send back.”

“We are too far and too long away from home. The Prophet cannot let his presence be diminished. We send not merely his spoils but his will.”

“We could circumvent their territory, meet further north… of course we would lose months to the greater distance, sending new orders, and to waiting for confirmation.”

“I don’t expect Azhrikul to wait for new orders, I expect him to make the right decision…”


In Zhar-Naggrund Azhrikul poured over maps and the most reliable news he could purchase, steal, or black mail about the Orc tribe which troubled their plans. It was a mere swell in the desolation, a leaderless mass of filthy Orc flesh. He could practically hear Ezharr’s counsel, imploring Drakesh to simply avoid the rabble – and Drakesh did not keep advisors merely to ignore them. The Orcs where a problem which could escalate drastically were a Warboss to arise, but even then the threat was more likely to migrate into someone else’s territory than assault the Fortress Tower. Aha! There was the ideal outcome; the Orcs driven from the western roads to trouble one of the Prophet’s rivals, but Drakesh would not leave it to chance…

“Halubar! Ghartan! Procure a dozen more Hobgoblin guards and three times the extra wagon wheels. Thank Hashut for the desolation, we move as scheduled.”


Many days later deep in the Dark Lands Azhrikul sweated in his scalemail shirt and prayed to Hashut to stop himself cursing the weight and heat of his hat. When they first laid eyes upon Albakhar’ri they turned left, and broke from the roads out over the barren cracked earth, for days they baked as the caravan jostled across the wasteland. Drakesh would certainly have lured the Greenskins away to other territories in the south… certainly out here they would meet and exchange cargo… certainly they would share and redistribute supplies... certainly… certainly… or else-


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Entry #4 Admiral

[align=center]The Folly of Nebirudnuzhak[/align]

The divinely appointed Sorcerer-Prophets of the Dawi Zharr interpret the convoluted and malignant will of their Father of Darkness, and are oft blessed with otherworldly visions and may speak the words of divine command, or so they claim. Yet the occult is steeped in peril and mystery, and even those most learned in dark lore, most attuned to the arcane and those who believe themselves to be the masters of Daemonology may find their souls led astray. For in the maelstrom that is the Realm of Chaos dwells many more spirits than the fiery Bull God and His shackled court, and the malice and trickery of Daemons and Dark Gods alike present a trial to be overcome by faith and wisdom.

Some are laid low by these harsh trials. Indeed, even the mighiest have failed.

One such failure was Nebirudnuzhak Thunderhoof, High Priest of the Temple of Hashut and earthly ruler of the dark empire of the Chaos Dwarfs, a nightmarish realm built in the image of the merciless Bull God, the worldly domain of the Father of Darkness where His will was made manifest by whip, weapon and tool in the hands of fanatic sacrificers. Nebirudnuzhak was one of the mightiest mortals alive in the whole world, yet when staring into the oracular flames of the inner sanctum, his eyes and mind and heart were lured away from the true path of Hashut by a thrice-accursed Flamer of Tzeentch, and his fate was sealed in that instant by false visions acted upon.

Nebirudnuzhak Thunderhoof gathered the highest members of the cult of Hashut, and declared that he had heard the voice of the Father of Darkness Himself more truly and more intensely than any worshipper alive, dead or not yet born, and that it was his sacred duty to cast off the mundane troubles of the world and venture into seclusion to fully fathom the innermost meaning of his Dark God. His heretical words rang out in the great Temple, yet no other Sorcerer-Prophet ever spoke up against it, for all they saw was a powerful rival abdicating in their favour. And Hashut saw that it was ill.

Accompanied by but a few loyal servants, Nebirudnuzhak set out for the remote Hell's Eye, a sunken lava pool in the Blasted Wastes, to glimpse his deity in the molten rock. Needless to say, High Priest Nebirudnuzhak's grip on power turned to dust in his absence. His rivals plotted against their overlord and a clique of the most powerful Sorcerer-Prophets in Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the Great crowned themselves regents without the divine and unholy approval of high Hashut, only to see their might and dark splendour drowned in blood and ashes when the great Black Orc Rebellion erupted a scant month after the unworthy oligarchy's ascent to power.

As for Nebirudnuzhak himself, his stay at Hell's Eye lasted but shortly. He had sought out one of the remotest lava pools in the entire Dark Lands to hear his cruel deity clearly and to escape the crowded noise of the grand capital. His few servants had brought with them dried rations to last for years on end, yet the scent of this food led a massive feral pack of giant wolves to descend upon the retinue of Nebirudnuzhak with fang and claw. Their howling and snarling, and the frantic yelling of their prey echoed in the sunken pit of Hell's Eye as the wolves chased the Dawi Zharr round and round until their short legs could carry the doomed no more. The last shrieks of the High Priest of Hashut passed unheard upon the vicious winds which wailed across the Blasted Wastes, and the bones of his corpse remain lost to this day and age.

Such was the judgement of the Father of Darkness upon His children for the sake of their folly, according to the Blacksmiths of Chaos.


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Entry #5 Will Liam

[align=center]Azroth the Slayer[/align]

For three days the ash fell softly upon Azroth’s body. The Chaos Dwarf stands still in the dusty haze. The light grey powder hangs in the air like a heavy mist and leaves nothing around it untouched. Weapon at the ready, not held high but close to his chest deliberately positioned not to give his location away. The axe is large, long and weathered, its unusual length used to compensate for his strong but remarkably short arms. His beard is exceptionally thick and hangs low against his stunted thighs, braided with heavy talismans of gods he does not own.  Their weight eliminating all but the slightest trace of movement from each shallow laboured breath he takes. His broad stout silhouette blends into his drab contorted surroundings of petrified tree stumps, an ancient forest dead and long forgotten, covered in the same soft dust as everything else in this distant dead waste land.

This is the last outpost, patrolled by himself, one Chaos Dwarf alone, located at the edge of this realm, a place far away from others, a place where no one else will go, a place where they banish their unbelievers to die!

The ash is his only companion, It will protect him from predators, cover his tracks as he moves, but when it is time to rest, it will lie with him, quietly smother him and slowly choke him in his sleep.

Yes, like a true Chaos Dwarf companion, he mused to himself, with irony as dry and black as the dark land itself.

Click, Click, Click!

The noise was close, a bone-on-bone sound, gently tapping together.

Click, Click, Click!

It has finally taken the bait, he thought.

A pile of rocks lay in a clearing a few lengths in front of the Chaos Dwarf, fashioned into a female decoy. Her head intentionally placed facing away from him. Larger than the males but built low and flat so as not to intimidate the suitor but to look as if crouched into submission.

Click, Click, Click!

The prize was in sight.

Its image wavering out from the gloom through the hot distorted air.

A giant scorpion! Fast buggers with huge front claws and a lethal oversized stinger. They are about the only creature able to survive out at the Grey Post, for Hobgoblins and Black Orcs are too moist, their blood hardens and clots from the unfathomable dry heat.

“I must stay still.” The Chaos Dwarf braced himself!

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

The time had come; the scorpion awkwardly crabbed itself around to the back of the decoy exposing its hindquarters. Its enormous stinger held high, just out of reach from the dwarf’s concealed position, its pincers inches from touching, discovering, the lifeless form of the female.

In one swift motion the Chaos Dwarf swung his axe; with full force it dismembered the deadly segmented tail cleanly from his foe. An immense hissing shriek cut through the tainted air like an enchanted blade, resonating higher and louder within seconds. Bright green fluid gushed from its severed stump; the stinger writhed and dropped to the ashen ground below. Continuing his arc Azroth spun the axe with his body. His foot placed strategically onto the arachnid's back using his fluent momentum to spin full circle and drive his rusty axe head down deep into the scorpion’s brain.

Abruptly all fell silent, and as the disturbed dust started to thin, the slayer lowered his head and listened... for a reply. And like a distant friend a roar was heard, faint but a roar none the less. He smiled for he knew what was coming; he knew what he had to do, for Azroth was a slayer of DRAGONS!


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Entry #7 Helblindi

"Are we there yet?"
- Bezherak the Cruel to his Iron Daemon driver.


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Entry #8 Ikkred Pyrhelm

[align=center]When Even the Stones Become Echoes[/align]

The hearth was cold and the kegs drained of their dark elixir. How long they had sat in the darkness, none of those present knew. They were as one caught in the siren’s call of the story teller who weaved them tales of glory and death. Each felt weary but all listened with rapt attention, for the ancient had more tales to tell.

“Take this humble stone,” the storyteller began, showing a small pebble in the dim candle light that he had pulled out from nowhere. “What has this stone seen on its travels, what has worn away at its skin as it made its journey to this very room? Each of you are this stone. But what of the stone that is cursed to forever journey without an end, slowly worn down to nothingness?”

He paused and gave a savage smile that seemed almost Daemonic in the candlelight.

“Rirdeg, lord of the Mouth of the Screaming Fire was arrogant even amongst those that call themselves lords of the Dawi Zharr. He believed himself to be the epitome of our race.” For a moment the listeners thought the storyteller had spoken with two voices, one having said “your race” and the other “our race,” but this momentary ripple was forgotten.

“One night a stranger arrived in Rirdeg’s realm and demanded a trial of strength. The stranger seemed to be a fellow Dawi Zharr and yet not an inch of flesh showed on it. Rirdeg without pause accepted the trial, of which there would be three tests of endurance, strength, and skill with axe and hammer. The first test the two were bid to grasp a starmetal dish that was slowly filled with Hashut’s rage given form in liquid. Rirdeg clung onto the dish even as his flesh smouldered; the stranger said nothing and held it as if it were cool. Finally, with a cry, Rirdeg’s grip faltered. The second test, once Rirdeg had recovered, was to throw a statue of a stone-cursed Sorcerer as far as they could. Rirdeg again went first and threw his statue further than any mortal Dawi Zharr should. And yet the stranger shook with mirth and threw its further than the sharpest eyes could see. At this Rirdeg snatched up his axe and swung it at the stranger in fury at being bested a second time.”

The storyteller picked at a tusk.

“And the stranger caught the blade with a gauntleted hand. It held the blade still as Rirdeg turned purple as he sought to move the axe. Then the stranger broke the blade with the slightest pressure of its hand. “You boast and preen like you were an equal to the Gods,” the stranger said in a voice like burning flame, “but you are but a mortal and just as weak as they are.” Rirdeg however was not cowed. “I will prove my strength, Daemon” he growled, “I shall run the length of our empire in but two sunsets.”

The storyteller smiled. For a moment to the listeners it was as if a Daemon was wearing the skin of the storyteller or perhaps the storyteller was wearing the soul of a Daemon.

“The stranger distorted and revealed itself. Hashut.”

The hearth flickered back to life.

“Then run you shall,” spoke Hashut. And so Rirdeg ran the length of our/your empire and encroached the end just as the second sun began to set, but before he could prove his boast, he found himself back to where he began. He continues his eternal run to this day, bloodied and weary. Whenever he nears the end, he is whisked back to the start to begin anew. Some claim he has worn himself away to a whisper on the wind that echoes throughout our/your empire. Such is the fate of those who pretend to be anything but mortals.”

The listeners nodded dumbly, but the storyteller had already vanished.


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