RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

The beast knew only hunger.

From birth to adolescence, to adulthood, the struggle was always the same.

Craving, aching for food, it wandered the frigid peaks in search of its next meal. Great shaggy cats, titanic birds, the rare mammoth carcass, its own kind, and other terrible beasts were ravenously consumed as it ate, and ate, and ate in an endless cycle of violence and feasting. From that cycle did the beast grow large and terrible. What once was a prime specimen of its kind grew into an even greater hulking monstrosity of fur, sinew and muscle.

Then the skies twisted and bore unnatural colour.

To the civilized races, it was a time of woe, a time of demons and strife.

To the beast, it was a time of change, growth, food.

Its first encounter with this new meal was a great pack of Red Ones, the stench of blood, offal and the bellows of rage drawing the beast from its hovel, roaring a challenge.

As one they turned, as one they charged at it, screaming exaltation to their lord.

And they died.

As it ate, change was wrought upon the beast, muscles bulged ever further, pale, bloodstained fur, grew darker than night and twisting boney horns sprouted from its head. Strength flowed into its body, flesh and power fueling further growth. When not even a bone remained, the beast looked up and saw something it could not eat.

A thing of brass and blood. A weapon. A sword.

The beast became the brute, and it marched on. Hunger growing for this newest meal.


The brute wandered the north, hunting for more Red Ones. It knew now that power could come from eating them, feasting on their essence through their flesh. And in those early days, there were meals aplenty. For what seemed an age, the brute carried out the same cycle of violence and gorging as it always did, though each time the mind grew wiser as the body grew stronger. Crude tactics refined, weapons discarded as they broke or were replaced.

The brute was content to continue this forever.

But fate turned, as it often does.

On some distant day the brute came upon a new meal, the Blue Ones. A group of slithering couldnotbes and shouldnotbes led by a birdlike creature with a staff.

The Red Ones inside its mind screamed in hate, urging it forward, urging it to kill.

As if it needed encouragement.

It came upon them, bellowing and furious. The bird thing glanced at it contemptuously before firing a spell at it.

The brute was struck, a gaping hole in its chest where a heart once lay.

But still, the brute kept running towards them. Flesh reknit, a new heart was grown, battle was met and the brute killed.

The bird thing grew irate, firing even stronger blasts of eldritch nothingness.

The brute was struck, the flesh reknit, and the killing continued.

On and on this went until at last the brute sundered the bird thing's head from its body. Satisfied in its victory, it dropped its blade and began to feast as it usually did.

But this time was different.

Two opposing energies now swirled about its soul, the metaphysical clash making itself known upon mortal flesh. It felt limbs rip, morph and shift. The brute, in its panic, knew only that it needed to be stronger to survive, and so in desperation began to gorge even as its body began to unmake itself. As more and more of the Blue Ones were consumed, so too did the balance shift.

When at last the brute consumed the last daemon, the next change occurred. Thoughts, ideas, magick became known to it. A reality unknown finally within its grasp. New strength, different strength, but not without cost. One of its arms had grown feathered and spindly, giving it a lopsided appearance.

The brute did not care, flexing its gangly arm and finding delight as baleful magick responded to its engorged will.

The brute became the hunter.


The hunter grew strong. With might and magic, it slew more and more daemons, Red and Blue and Pink and Green, feasting on their essence, growing stronger but diligently maintaining the balance within itself lest it is rent asunder by the opposing forces.

Over time it grew clever, using its powers to enslave its former kin, binding them to its will.

Slowly, oh so slowly did the hunter grow his band, hiding from prying eyes. Using its thralls to search and hunt for yet more food. Bringing it to its lair to consume at its leisure.

Then one day, through the eyes of its thralls, the hunter saw new prey.

Small, tiny things in armor of steel.

The cacophony of voices in its head screamed and screeched all manner of names.

Stout Folk, Mountainborn, Tiny ones, Stonesouled, Cave dwellers…

...Dwarfs…..

With a flex of its sorcerous will, a group breaks off from the band, heading to cut off this train of dwarfs. An ambush is set up, battle is met, food and plunder is brought back.

When the thralls finally brought the armoured bodies before it, the hunter tore off the metal shell and feasted.

Endurance, Stone, Defense, Desire and more; a heady cocktail of new tastes both mundane and mystical filled its being. Once it had filled its belly for the moment, the Hunter looked at the pile of steel it had so casually thrown aside. Slowly, methodically it walked over and gazed at this hard shiny material in a new light.

With one hand it picked up a larger piece of what was once a breastplate, and with the other, it grabbed a chain. With almost childlike wonder it gazed at the scraps then back at the uneaten mound of bodies. Gazing hungrily not at the flesh, but now at the master worked steel, the golden trinkets, the precious gems, all of it was now his.

Over the coming days, the hunter underwent another change. Crudely beaten plates of armour, chained to his person, the most precious parts of its loot held in a sack of torn cloth and skin.

He who was the hunter knew a new type of hunger, avarice it never knew it had.


So died the Hunter, all hail The Lord of Avarice and Desire...


Over the din of crunching snow and trodding boots, you can hear beardlings muttering prayers to the ancestors, Elders grumbling while keeping a lookout. No one holds their weapon on their belt and hasn't for the past day.

No resistance, no skirmishes, not even a single whiff of the stench of Trolls during the throng's week-long march through the snow.

It bodes ill.

Thane Otrek Ironarm, the one chosen to lead the throng after you refused to take command, is well aware that an ambush is likely. And the night before, spread the order to have the column form up in a defensive stance for the rest of the journey come morning.

The supply wagons, artillery train, and runesmiths are pulled along into the center, surrounded on all sides by infantry. Quarrellers are closest, followed by a ring of miners and a comparatively thin wall of Warriors. A hundred Longbeards at each corner of the rough square formation the marching column has taken as the throng gets ever closer to its destination.

The Dragon's Maw.

The large mountain cave whose entrance was ringed with great shards of rock that gave the appearance of teeth, but what truly gave the place its name were the chasms full of vents that spewed superheated gas that ringed the eastern side of the mountain. Giving the appearance of a fierce dragon, smoke billowing out of its gaping mouth when seen from certain angles.

From your position, you can see the peak of the mountain and a cloud of smoke to the left.

You take a deeper inhale.

Yes, the sulphurous stench was faint, but it was there.

"HOLD!" Thane Ironarm bellows from the front, arm raised, and like clockwork, the entire throng stops. They watch their leader as he sends runners up and over the hill. They wait with bated breath as the runners return and report their findings.

"FORM UP DAWI!" the Thane orders, his subordinates echoing his command throughout the entire army. Soon enough, formations of doughty dwarf warriors form up the van, clansmen forming in sets of alternating squares running down the length of the battlefield. Behind this, lines of quarrellers are interspaced with miners to form a secondary line. As for the elders, a hundred of the grumbling Longbeards stand on the left flank, the remaining three hundred on the right.

"DAWI! Once we crest this hill the enemy shall stand before us. Prepare yourselves! VENGEANCE IS AT HAND!" Thane Ironarm bellows through his Rune inscribed horn.

"VENGEANCE. VENGEANCE," they scream back with the stomping of boots.

"Forward, MARCH!"

"Khazakan, Kazakit-HA!" the army chants over and over again as it trundles up and over the hill.

When you finally lay your eyes upon the enemy you are disturbed by the sight. Trolls litter the field below you, each and every one standing absolutely still in a disorganized mob. The chanting, however, does not stop, Longbeards picking up where some beardlings fall silent at the odd sight. Soon enough, the encouraging presence and yelling of the Old Grumblers bring the youth back to their senses.

(Rolling: 15+2 [sniffing])

You march until the entire throng has crested the hill, their bellowing yells echoing across the eerily silent plain below, accompanied only by the howling of the wind.

Then, just as the siege weapons begin to be unpacked, the trolls milling about the plain turn towards the throng in a single motion.

"HOLD STEADY DAWI, BE READY FOR MISCHIEF AT PLAY," Ironarm bellows.

Then suddenly a great thrum fills the air around you.

Magic.

A great tear in the sky opens, clouds swirling about it that crackles with multihued lightning. From it, a rain of molten metal bears down upon the throng's position.

(Roll, Runesmiths Vs. Fel Magic: 27 vs 84)

The young runesmiths interspersed around the Throng try to bring Runes of Spellbreaking to bear, but their talismans alone will not cover the whole of the throng from the effects of the metal shower.

Bah.

(Roll, Snorri Interrupt!: 87 +20[grudge] +30[Runelord] =137)

With a gentle tap, the amulet on your neck burns with brilliant blue light. The throng watches, transfixed, as the torrent of metal impacts against an otherwise unseen dome of energy, crackling bursts of light appearing on its surface where each drop lands, their energy broken down and siphoned to empower the rune further.

As the enemy caster ends the spell, the throng takes up a great cheer.

"STOP FAFFING ABOUT BEARDLINGS, THEY COME!" You bellow, hammer pointed at the now charging horde of trolls that are running towards your position.

(Roll, Dark Empowerment: 94 +15[???] =109)

You cannot reach them from where you are but can see the fel light of magic make their bodies bulge with unnatural strength. Their increased speed denying the artillery the chance to fire and forces the quarrelers to readjust and fire off a weak, uncoordinated volley.

(Roll, Quarrelers: 12)

That fails to stop them in any appreciable manner.

"SHIELDS!" Thane Ironarm shouts.

As one, the front ranks lift their shields to meet the oncoming charge. Around them, rune priests cast runes of protection to bolster their allies.

(Roll, Shields Vs Trolls: 55 +10[runes] =65 vs 58 +20[Dark Power] =78)

They hold back the tide of flesh for a second or two before they are overwhelmed by the dark strength of the enemy.

Before you can bring your own runes to bear, a lance of fell energy snaps out at Thane Ironarm from a hole in the sky.

(Roll, Distraction: 6 +10 =16)

You erase it with contemptuous ease before tapping your axe,

(Roll, Wrath and Ruin: 88 +50 =138)

and the enemy momentum buckles to a crawl under a sudden and immense pressure, the weight of mountains now on their backs and furious phantom blows striking their limbs. The power of your rune invalidating whatever extra strength they were given and then some.

(Roll, Dawi vs. Troll: 4 +10[Runes] +5[Lifted Spirits] =19 vs 4 - 10[Wrath and Ruin] =-6)

The battle, despite your best efforts, is an ugly affair. Groups of warriors, some wounded from the initial charge, battle the now sluggish, but unnaturally coordinated trolls. Dwarfs with broken legs hacking at the enemies' ankles while their clansmen struggle to strike them. More than once do you see overeager beardlings slash open a troll's belly, only to have an arm or leg swallowed by the torrent of stomach acid that spills out.

You decide to move forward, this cannot stand.


The Greedy One raged from within its cavern, the horrible dwarf Runelord that denied much of its magic had ruined its plans. As it sat on its throne, it brooded and came to a single conclusion.

The Runelord had to be removed from the battle.

Then, and only then could it wipe out those accursed stunted things and claim their works for its own. With a muttered incantation the Greedy One pulled with its magic, drawing on yet more of the corrupting energy to enact its newest plan.

A portal opened.

The Greedy One grinned.


You are marching your way towards the frontlines, part of the formations that are moving forward to relieve their brethren and allow them to fall back and recuperate when you feel it.

Not in the magical sense, because dwarfs are anathema to something so perfidious and tricksy as magic, but in the age-old sense of an Elder who knows when something is going too well.

A horn from the left flank bellows out a dreaded pattern.

Daemons.

Turning your head towards the relatively light left flank you can see a portal of unreality beginning to tear open, lesser Daemons coming out to partake in the slaughter.

The Longbeards, as one, charge to meet them, all too aware that their young relatives will not be able to stand against this unnatural foe. The charge of armoured dwarf elders is met by the rage-filled howls of demons.

(Roll, Longbeards Vs Daemons: 63 +10[Old Grumblers] =73 vs 77 +15[Bloody Strength] =92)

The thunder of boots

The runes on your cloak thrum to life unbidden, sensing the taint.

(Roll, Dealing with the Portal: 76 + 30[Runelord] + 20[Daemonward] =126)

And with a quiet hum, the growing portal stops to a standstill before slowly beginning to close. You barely take notice, too busy forcing your legs to make you go faster than you ever have, your hands clenching your weapons in a death grip.

(Roll, Angry Old Man vs some red boys: 76 +15[Old Grief] +15[Really Old Grumbler]= 106 vs 69 +15 =84)

You arrive like a bolt of lightning, the echoing clang of Gromril hitting daemonflesh your thunderclap. One after another, you smite daemons from the mortal plane and back to the cursed realm they came from.

(Roll: 41 +20 =61)

The next portal fizzles, ended by a trio of watchful runesmiths before it can even begin.

(Roll: 6 +20 =26)

The one after that explodes in a shower of energy that The Greedy One shields itself from with ease.

It was slowly growing wroth, the Khornate voices in its head demanding, no screaming, to stop using this foul magic and do the killing itself.

It was beginning to be swayed to their point of view.

But it must be clever, draw the Runelord away from its allies, stack the odds in its favour. Victory, the spoils, would never be his if the Runelord lived. Meticulously, the Greedy One began to cast.

You shut the portal with a final, spiteful, blow of your hammer. Standing idly at the explosion of magic is eaten and converted by your amulet.

This cannot continue.

You look out over the battle, trying to make sense of the situation.

(Roll, intuition and perception: 66 + 2[sniffing])

Things seem to be, not fine, but not terrible. The front looks to be stabilized and the portals are being shut down before they can even truly begin by the now very watchful runesmiths. Enough time has passed that you hear the telltale thump and whistle of the artillery-

- explode in a shower of metal and wooden splinters that rocks the back lines of the Throng at the top of the hill where the artillery crews used to be.

Now in their place, you see yet another portal.

Bah!

But before you can even begin to jog over you hear the telltale ripping of reality once more. A portal appears in the midst of the right flank. The Ranks of Longbeards are already pulling back to make sure none are cut off by the arrival of yet more daemons.

Where do you go?

[ ] The rear.

[ ] The right.

AN: kudos to @BungieONI for getting closest to figuring out the enemy, and whoever guessed it was gonna totes be Krampus. I mean, a Runelord will not struggle against a horde of trolls, so I had to improvise. Anywho C&C and thanks for reading :^)