RHUNRIKKI STROLLAR (Warhammer Fantasy Golden Age Dwarf Runelord Quest)

[Voikirium]

The Coat and the Spear

There was silence in the guild hall, not complete but thick and soupy it fell upon the people within. The crackle of the braziers seemed only to enhance it. The sound of the hammers striking metal seemed just to act as a music to it, enhancing it, allowing the Windseekers within, ranging from Journeymen seeking to create a good piece and finally advance, to the greatest of Gale Callers, all housed within the great Guildhall of the Ruby Guild, those who worked Aqshy. The rustle of leather as buffcoats were sewn of that flesh filled the air too, a soft sound like a sweet soprano. The once temple to Alethor echoed with the sounds of craftsman, and in that workshop, the black and red stone intricately decorated by the finest of Elven craftsmen at the height of their empire then claimed by humanity, charlatans and thieves, until at last it passed to a worthy heir to their traditions, themselves instructed at the feet of the mages of Caledor and deemed tolerable.

Naturally, that soft, sweet, stillness and silence was to be broken.

"Can't believe that you'd let anything like that go out, Umgi. I'd be shamed to have my mark on such a work."

A dwarf spoke. Now, perhaps she was not to be blamed. Perhaps it was the Aqshy that filled that place making her brave in all the entirely wrong ways. Perhaps it was being reminded of the War of the Ancients every five seconds as she looked at the walls and saw snarling dragons, pretentious elves, and great spirits of fire summoned by the mightiest of magics and allied by the will of mages. Or perhaps she was just a braying jackass, perhaps there is not always a reason. Perhaps the Dwarfs are not always so rational as certain authors would have us believe. I would certainly never speak of the good Magister Weber. I enjoy keeping my head firmly attached to the rest of my body.​

Either way it matters little, for a Windseeker put down his needle. Leocadio Valiente, himself no slinking coward, stood from the table, where a half-finished buff coat of bright red but with little other decoration, though hard and resilient to the cutting, stinking, slashing knives of the Skaven. "Mad because my work supports me rather than having to run to mommy and daddy until someone is willing to accept my prima donna behavior and let me blow an unreasonable amount of time that could be spent arming three or more to instead make something my overinflated ego can accept?"

"Blow time, Umgi?" At this point the other mages could simply look on. Most were simply stunned, and those few that weren't conceded that either way, an ego that badly needed to be punctured would be punctured. Either Leocadio would need to finally back down, face something he could not bear simply bull over with all the fury of Aqshy and all the fire of Myrmidia. Or else Kazadna Winterhearth, Runelord of Karak Izor, might finally have to stop talking for once, and there could be peace. Either way, in spite of being in a hall filled to the brim Aqshy, the temperature might, in fact, drop as hot air was released. "I put as much effort as is demanded to make it right."

"Nonsense! You put ten years into making that last suit of armor you insufferable git, all to 'get it right.' Well you know what, my 'horrible, sloppy, no good no craftsmanship' pieces can go out three to a year, and they're still more than good enough to let a man survive taking a blow from a damn Rat-Ogre you lout! How many men live because I know how to produce what people need rather than what vindicates my overinflated ego!"

"I think that's what you tell yourself to justify your sloppy work, you half-Elgi! I think you lack the strength or the will to put your back into it, and everything you've just said is nothing more and nothing less than an excuse to justify that simple fact!"

"That's rich coming from someone who can make all two weapons, one sort of armor, and a smattering of banners! If anything your behavior is a mask for your fundamental inability to be independent and creative, since the ancient, ossified geriatrics you call Elders won't let you be anything but what they want you to be, and you lack the will to tell them otherwise and burn your own path!"

The Dwarf marched towards him, grabbing her Rune Hammer. Aqshy blazed around the Gale Caller like he was a living furnace as his rage and bravery and courage and skill all twisted and warped and danced around him, fed by his burning confidence. His Focus, his bright sash studded with the Power Stones of Aqshy, blazed with light, with life. It would have been a battle for certain, for the Winds of Magic struggled around the Dwarf, but Leocadio was stubborn and angry and cunning enough to at least try to make through, and skilled enough in the battle not to fear her mighty hammer.

At this point a few of the other Gale-Callers prepared to grab their companion and the Dwarf, only for him to bark, "a competition then! And I will show you how I put my damn back into it!"

"And I'll show you the value of doing it right and I'll do it creative, you insufferable jackass!" The Dwarf stomped out, distaste written on her face, even as Leocadio himself began rummaging for his leather and silk and other valuable things.

His once master placed her palm on her forehead, and began to mutter himself. "This is so stupid, I mean this is so very stupid, I mean I think I can feel myself getting stupider boy."

"Don't you try and talk me out of this master," Leocadio barked even as he began to wet the leather, "You and I both know the Dwarfs have needed somebody to tell them to shut the hell up since they crawled out of Zorn. I'm sick of it!"

"And what, you don't? Need I remind you of the Doom Incident?"

"Not as much as they do master." He smiled, and it was not a happy one. "Thank you for the reminder, however."

"Oh Holies above, NOOOOOO-"

And with that, both Windseeker and Runelord set to work, for the next six months perfecting their craft.

---

It was a clearing, just outside of Magritta. A great field. A party of Ironbreakers, sent to watch over the Runelord, stood around her, even as she held her spear. Montantedores surrounded the Windseeker, who held a finely made oaken chest that shook with each second, like a great beating heart waiting to be unleashed, thumping and beating and pushing.

"I did not think you would have the gall to stand here, Umgi."

"I'm afraid of precious little, heir of spite." He gestured, spinning his hand in a disinterested way. "Now then, age before beauty, so you may go first."

"Age is beauty, Umgi, the fact that you can't stand it speak to your weakness." She thudded the shaft of the spear onto the dirt. Its head was gleaming silver gromril, while the shaft itself was troll bone stained blue. A fine grip had been delicately cut into it, in the form of scrawling writing dedicated to mighty Grimnir, mundane but powerful. Delicately carved into the surface, aside from that, and then layered in purest silverine was a depiction of the Skaven War below, or perhaps more specifically the Skaven fleeing, failing, falling, filled full of fear. Running away, cowardly and frightened. One could imagine themselves there, imagine the fury of the fighting, the stink of fear, the Khazalid chanting. The violence. Three Runes burned on the surface of the head, fed with who knows what. The Master Rune of Grimnir, the Rune of Dismay, and the Rune of Striking.

"Now this is a weapon to bane the foe, Umgi. The Master Rune of Grimnir, that you can actually fight half as well as your insufferable egos contend. The Rune of Dismay, since I know you lack the strength to withstand the vermin tide. And the Rune of Striking, so your dancing, fancy little blows might actually mean something. Ancestors know you need it." She sniffed. "And with that, I believe I win."

"Not yet you haven't, you insufferable thing." He opened the chest and pulled it out and in one smooth move tossed the buff coat within at the dwarf, even as he grabbed a good sized rock from the ground. "Here. Put this on."

She examined it. It was a depiction of the Estalian Wars, or more precisely, the Battle Against the Skaven, when their mighty Warrior King Rodrigo had fought the accursed Clan Pestilens. Many thousands of the Rats had died, so many that they had lain thick on the ground like carpets; and damn near the whole leadership of that particular clan had been unmade, and weakened. It was embroidered in gold on the red silk, itself layered atop the leather that gave it weight and heft, though it was still a flimsy thing. She did, grudgingly, acknowledge that the work was better than most she saw out of Estalia. The battles depicted, Prince Ciro Priest of Myrmida and bearer of Winged Victory, facing the hordes by himself. Cristina, World-Walker, who ensured that the Skaven would not know magical superiority on that day. Ines, who split open Nurglitch's throat like so much paper. She slipped it on without too much complaint.

But...

"You think this flimsy thing is acceptable, Umgi?"

"I think it not too flimsy, Dwarf. And I can show it, too, if you'll let me."

She nodded at him and at her guard and so he threw the rock, as large as a stone, and it exploded into sparks. "But that's not all. If you don't mind, however, I'd like, to get everybody behind you before I show the better part. That will be the safest place, I assure you, for all of us." He and his guard moved; and when that was done, he spoke. "The buttons on the front, the one marked with the elf writing. Press it."

She did.

And the world became fire.

"Conflagration of Doom. The mightiest spell I know. See rat. Burn rat."
--
At this point the story becomes difficult to discern. The Dwarfs continue to claim that in truth the Runelord won, for hers was the better art, and the more consistent, and the more trustworthy; while the Estalians, while I, continue to claim that Leopaldo won. What is certain is that the Dwarfs gained a fine buff coat, which is the Silken Fire; and we gained a fine new spear, Vengryn Wutraz.

And the Skaven gained a whole new reason to curse our names.
-Leandre Agua, the Miscellanea of the World
--
Eh. An idea that wouldn't leave me. A crossover of sort between my Estalia Quest and Rhunrikki, in that it's one of my Windseekers and a Winterhearth Runelord in a timeline vaguely like a good if not golden one developing from exactly where the most recent update for it ended.

(Leandre is a biased narrator and I feel like that should be obvious, but like, I just think I should mention it before somebody yells at me)

 

[Voikirium]

Skavor a Zagaz

The reclamation of an artifact from the Golden Age and the Time of the Ancestors is, by rights, a happy occasion for the Dwarfs. Oh, there may be a twinge of melancholy in that it was lost in the first place, but the Dwarfs are not entirely without good sense, and to have a precious gift from their Ancestors returned to them is a thing of great worth. They still mourn the loss of Drongumdum, the mighty hammer of Grungni, and too the loss of Kradskonti, sharp ax of Valaya. They cling to the Axes of Grimnir, the many, with a great effort; more than one Dwarf has lost their life ensuring they return with the Throng. But there are exceptions to every rule, and this mighty hammer is one of them.

It is a great beast of a hammer, to be born by a Dwarf themselves a great beast, easily as tall as a human never mind a dwarf. The head is forged of the same mountain hard metal as the armor of Grombrindal, and is split into thirds, two hard striking surfaces shaped like rectangles projecting from a center portion that flows into the panel, lacquered brightest blue. In the middle where it attaches to the haft there is a panel of gold, depicting scenes of mythology, though precisely what scenes I shall describe later. On the sides of the striking surfaces, there is intricate knotwork made of purest gold, shaped and shaved and worked over ages until it was to be perfect.

Then there is the haft. At base it is a hard length of Wutroth, stained a bright sky blue and then stained and worked and shaped until it is smooth as silk in the palm. Two lengths of gold serve as grips, and as murals. But perhaps the most striking is the intricate knotwork of fine gold, that itself depicts the Ancestor Gazul, holding a son. Skavor, father and bringer of the Skaven in Dwarf conceptions of the world. Traditionally it has been held that He would be cast out and exiled because he lacked the skill to shape stone and metal, and would not or could not stand to protect His home. But He would learn to shape flesh itself, and one day made the Skaven as vengeance. This is not that unusual, in the grand scheme of things; many have depicted their foes as a promise they would slay them.

However, the knotwork and decoration on Skavor a Zagaz tells a very different story. Skavor was skilled in at least one respect, the finest of Rangers, most stealthy and most adroit of movement. Even elves acclaimed His agility, His grace. When He desired not to be seen, none, not even His Father, Gazul, could find Him. The shadow was His domain, and He ruled it well. The Rangers, it seemed, were to become His children in spirit, and to follow His path.

And then there came Hashut. And then there came corruption. And then there came fire. The Elder of Clan Brighthope fell to the Aurochs of Greed, and hoped to claim the entire clan for his new master. Gazul, Lord of the Dead, caught wind of this, and with His son, fell upon the Elder and those who followed him like death itself. But a Grudge was levied against the whole Clan; and the only sentence, was death, from the Judge of the Dead. From lowest to highest, youngest to eldest, not a one would be spared Gazul's Fire, for His Wrath was but a little kindled and yet terrifying.

But Skavor, Skavor was moved to pity. Skavor was moved to mercy. Skavor was moved to forgiveness. For He was unlike Father, Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin alike. He spoke, hoping to turn His Father's heart aside from that slaughter; but it could not be done. He had not the tongue for it, and Gazul's soul was a great furnace that desired fuel.

So Skavor struck His own Father. His hammer shattered as it struck Zharrvengryn, for they did not lie to call Skavor least of the smiths and least of craftsmen among the Ancestors. Wrestling ensued between father, thunderstruck that His own spawn would dare to strike Him; and Skavor, who would not allow such bloodshed. In that time what remained of Clan Brighthope fled, fleeing west, and of course it is often an impolite topic of conversation among those who believe such thing to theorize which Clan of Grey Dwarfs now may claim descent from that band.

Father defeated son, and in His rage bound Him. He turned His gaze away from Clan Brighthope for the moment, believing they could be claimed later. Vengeance would be had, later. Blood would be shed for their crimes. So bound Gazul and Skavor went to far Karaz A Karak and was judged by the seven. Exiled, branded, and cast out. For beyond striking His father, He had also struck at the core of Dwarf Culture: Mindless obedience to the aged, the Elder, the Ancient. And thoughtless, blood soaked vengeance on every level.

And so He parted, doomed, it seemed, to die, for even for a god the world can be a dangerous place. But Clan Brighthope, they did not forget what they owed to Him, they never would. So again in defiance, and again in secret, under their new name they took Him, and they sheltered Him, and in time He married; and so He became the Ancestor of the Grey Mountains, and that, in part, is why they are so much less ostentatious than the Dwarfs of the World's Edge, and of Norsca, and of the East. The Seven remained spiteful towards the wayward son, and so they blackened His name.

Such is the story engraved in knotwork on the haft of the Hammer. Aside from the metal, itself as I said the same as that worn by no less than Grombrindal Himself, its provenance as the work, at least, of a mighty Runelord, and perhaps even the Ancestor Himself, may be ascertained by the Runes burned onto it:

The Master Rune of Smiting. The Master Rune of Breaking. And the Rune of Might. All this to ensure that the next time father must fight son, it shall not be hammer that breaks. To burn two Master Runes onto the same piece is the provenance of the most ancient and skilled Dwarf work indeed, including the pieces of the Ancestors which remain. And though it is a lesser piece of work compared to the Axes of Grimnir that still exist, it is hard to say that it is not, in some sense, beyond merely mortal talent.

The hammer itself was located in Karak Ziflin, in a small shrine located not far within a spring. Rangers located it, and now the Dwarfs are faced with a query of sorts:

It is, undoubtedly, Dwarf work, for it bears their Runes. It is surpassing work. And yet the story inscribed, it is, it is at best a challenge to their Ancestors, and at worst the purest, most hard hearted blasphemy. Whether it is true, of course, does not seem to enter their calculations. So they are forced to ask: Pressed on all sides by every enemy, is it worth using it?
-Leandre Agua, Works of the Grey Dwarfs

 

[snow eternal]

Spoiler: AN

wrote this a bit ago when I first read this story, partially because I wanted a crossover with my own story and fantasy and this was the best thing from fantasy I've read. didn't see anything about writing something like this in frequently asked questions so I do hope it isn't an issue. My own story is 'Fabricated Hazards' but you don't need to read that for context here, just a suit of power armor from it thrown into the setting. Critiques are lovely, comments equally so.

Yet another lost Armor

Deep in the factory's depths there is a flash of light, a burst of electricity, a loud cracking sound, and a newly designed and crafted suit of armor vanished from its housing. The minds made note of this abnormality and began construction on a replacement suit. Stuff like this really happened far to often for this to be of too much note, just an annoyance.

Deep in the woods on an unknown world there is a flash of light, a burst of electricity, and a loud cracking sound as a six meter tall suit of armor appears and… does nothing. Days pass, leaves build up at the armor's feet, a storm blows through and the waterlogged soil causes the suit to sink partially. Multiple tons of metal sitting inert in a clearing.

Months pass, it sinks a further five feet before hitting solid ground, more and more leaves and detritus build up around that suit, and slowly the armor is buried, its jewel encrusted, engraved, and polished surface stays untouched by the forces at work around it. Erosion matters little to a machine under multiple layers of shielding, its atoms not even decaying.

Years pass and the only trace remaining of the armor on the surface is a small hill that formed in an odd location, nothing of particular note. Beneath the surface its power core burns hot, its shields and weapons waiting for a fight it may never reach, to defend a bearer it may never have. It's pseudo intelligent systems offline in the absence of threat or stimuli. It could wait centuries before even imagining running low on power.

Decades pass, the forest itself has shifted, life within becoming fraught with mutations as tainted energy seeps throughout the world. The suits' sensors log it as passive scans from an unknown source, the scans fail to find the suit and so it slumbers on. The hill the suit is buried under beings to grow more and more plants.

The forest begins to team with corruption, more and more creatures are born every moment, more than the forest could ever hope to sustain. They turn on one another, ripping flesh from kin and growing ever stronger. The creatures fight on, not knowing of the metal monster slumbering beneath their claws.

The energy crests to a new height, and the barest tendrils find the suit. They reach insid… with a lurch the suit wakes, a burst of energy pouring from within and pushing the foulness back, no match for a star no matter how small. It was awoken and the suits' sensors search, finding more sources of the tainted energy throughout the woods. The suit digs its way out of the soil and is immediately beset by a tide of horrors, each screaming and clawing towards it.

Fleshy corpses infected with a myriad of diseases and parasites, plants and beasts driven to madness and given foul strength, creatures formed of that tainted energy trying to tear out the armor's heart. The armor has no heart, and even if it had flesh had little chance of piercing pure metal deep enough to matter.

They all die. The suit moves on, more sources of the energy have been discovered, more enemies, and in even greater quantities. The source of the attack will be found and purged. Threats will not be allowed to remain, even without a wielder to protect. Proactive defense is a tried and true strategy, one even a freshly made armor had been implanted with, your enemies cannot harm you if they are rendered down into their component atoms.

The entire forest is tainted, the energy the armor now recognized as an enemy pervades every leaf in every tree, and so the suit purges every leaf and every tree, striding through the forest with bounding leaps, the plasma reactor at its core burning ever hotter, radiating enough heat that the trees outright combat. The armor glows with white pulsating heat. A portion of a shackled star at its core, bathing its surroundings in radiation to kill life on the most fundamental level.

It had been designed as a new defense mechanism, but it served well enough in its new role as a fire starter. The armor noted the beasts steadily becoming more humanoid, some even wielding crude weaponry. But the effectiveness of a stone arrowhead was much reduced when both the wooden shaft and stone arrowhead would evaporate before coming near the suit, even without the laser defense systems.

The armor was not a weapon, but it certainly wielded many. The suit strode towards a point where its sensors noted the energy was congregating, it watched the motes of power nearly become visible as the ash it left in its wake began to be pulled by unseen winds. And it readied its weapons systems.

It slowly strode from the treeline, its sensors picking out hundreds if not thousands of the 'beastmen' in the clearing, along with hundreds of the hostile energy forms. But while its sensors noted them as a threat they pinged the suits' nascent AI with what the creatures had been attacking before it burst forth with a wave of fire, heat, and ash. A group of stout humanoids in heavy armor, along with another group of taller, more slight humanoids with pointed ears.

They were not tainted, and they were certainly not producing the waves of tainted energy like a fair majority of the beastmen and energy forms. So they were noted as non-hostile. And given they were fighting the same energy forms it was the AI saw no need to kill them in its purge.

That did mean it needed to be slightly restrained, but the armor would not broker being called a crude tool of war. It could wield itself with mechanical precision. Even its waves of radiation could simply be diverted by its systems, preventing them from striking its maybe allies.

The suits reactor spun up higher, its energy stores skyrocketing to unsustainable levels. And the glow and heat put off by the suit began to ratchet up at a rapid pace. The beastmen, warped and tainted by their foul masters, had been granted supernatural strength and durability. But the dark gods could do nothing to save their servants as they were shredded on the most fundamental level. Their very cells and DNA turned to sludge.

But the daemons had no such issues, they cared not for the physical laws of reality. Radiation damage could not so easily kill them. The heat would, fire and heat still burns them. But it would not stop them from using their fellows as shields to close the distance. And that is exactly what they did, turning from the elves and dwarves and charging the suit, their press of bodies forcing the ones heading the charge to take the brunt of the heat.

It was a good thing then that the suit hadn't intended for the heat and radiation to kill its foes. Those were just unshielded byproducts of its power production, no it had stored so much energy for a far more productive reason. Immediately the tide of daemons slammed to a halt as they crashed into solid air, and then within that white glowing sphere the suit maintained around itself lances of energy shot out. Lasers pierced through scores of daemons with every shot, and the suit watched as the energy was dispersed into the environment around it, only to be pulled in another direction.

With all the known threats dead, the suit rapidly cooled down, the radiation it emitted would not linger for long and it had numerous systems to disperse the heat it had built up. Cycling it back into the suits' power stores, leaving the environment somehow even colder than when it had started, bits of frost forming on the ground around it. The suit cared little for these details, simply striding through the scorched field to the only part left untouched by its heat. Its own shields having kept both the radiation and the burning air from reaching the humanoids.

Its own walking towards them wasn't even because the suit was interested in them. It did have some inclination to keeping them alive, yes. But it could do that from a distance, no it was following the trail of energy.

On the suit strode, only take faint note as the elves and dwarves followed in its wake, even if it had understood their language and quiet chatter it would not have cared.

------------

The dwarf Gimli, a prince of the northern Kraka Drakk had gone with the elven prince Laequalys on what they had thought would be a simple beastmen hunt. A friendly competition to strengthen the bond between the two races. Something they had done on many occasions. They had left with only a few dwarven and elven rangers and bodyguards and set out to investigate the beastmen sightings.

It hadn't taken long for the pair to realize it had been a trap or trick of some sort, and they had resolved themselves to fighting through it together. Only for the majority of the enemy to just die outright when a metal behemoth the size of a gronti walked into the clearing with a wave of ash and nearly blistering heat. Gimil had thought it a champion of Chaos and had been about to charge through the beastmen horde to cut the strike off at its head, only Laequalys hand clamping on his shoulder stopped Gimil's charge. "The winds of chaos do not touch that thing, it rejects them utterly" that got a grunt from the dwarf "so what is it then?" he spoke between each swing of his heavy runed hammer.

The elf responded after cutting the heads off of three beastmen. "I do not know, but look, it burns the beastmen and Daemons." the dwarf hacked through to sets of knees and crushed a daemon under his heel "I'm not some freakishly tall thing like you, I can't see past the crush of bodies" that was only partially true, it was large enough he could see parts of its head, and he seemed to be making an admirable attempt to solve that problem by making a massive pile of bodies. But soon the flow of bodies stopped to a trickle as the beastmen grew sluggish and then just fell over dead. Blood pouring out of every hole on their bodies, what little skin could be seen under their fur red and peeling.

"I thought you said they didn't have magic? Not that this is a bad thing mind you" the elf shook his head as their remaining bodyguards pushed out in front of them. "It doesn't, whatever it is doing doesn't affect the winds in the slightest." by now the last beastmen was a bloody corpse on the ground, not even twitching. And Gimli could see that every daemon they hadn't killed was charging the metal beast that had to be some seven meters tall, and outright melting before they reached. "You've seen a gronti right? Does this look anything like that to you?" Laequalys shook his head "they pull up the deep magic to power themselves, this thing just has something at its core. Burning the unseen winds but not consuming them"

Then before either could decide to help the thing it showed that it really didn't need their aid, lances of bright light the uneducated would think was magic. Punching holes straight through the daemons but always only lightly singeing the ground or plants it struck. Even the larger forms fell when a hole bloomed where their heads should have been. Gimli felt his jaw nearly drop, few weapons could do that and none could hit so many daemons so rapidly. "Well at least this just got far more interesting" Gimli spoke and Laequalys nodded "if we could learn such a technique… I imagine the arcane scholars would be interested in studying.. Whatever this is"

Now that it was coming closer Gimli could make out the details on the armor better, delicate swirls and gems coated its metal surface, the swirls and lines so fine and small it'd take a dwarf craftsmen months. He might not be a craftsman himself, but any dwarf would agree that this thing was a work of art. Tastefully using gold and silver to accentuate what looked like tempered steel. Though given the heat it had withstood Gimli doubted it was just steel. The thing had been glowing white when he first saw it, and the metal wasn't even the slightest bit warped.

His guard went up as the thing only walked closer, not even slowing its pace. But given the range on its weapon and the fact it hadn't yet attack…. Gimli certainly wouldn't be making the first attack. The runelords' gifted armor might be a masterwork of runes but that was no reason to heedlessly attack something that might not be a threat. Still the prince's guards formed up around them both.

Only for the thing to walk past them like they weren't there, "it heading the same way the winds are being pulled. There must be a ritual sight there! I should have known!" the elf's mutter grew to a growl at the latter part of the sentence. "We can't just let them do whatever they are doing!, this many beast men and daemons?, it won't be good" Gimli just snorted at that "stating the obvious there ain't ya elf, but are ya sure we need too. That thing's got this handled." not to mention they had wounded.

Laequalys only let out a haughty scoff, the same one he did whenever he spoke something that would upset gimli. "You'd leave something this important to an unknown? Thats not very dawi of you" Gimli knew it was just friendly ribbing, but the elf wasn't wrong per say. Even with wounded they weren't in danger of dying and looking around everyone still seemed up for another fight. "Aye, I'll give you that, we follow"

They set out with a clattering of metal, mostly metal gauntlets against shields or weapons pounded into armor. creating a symphony intentionally as a sort of matching chant. it wasn't like the sorcerer wouldn't know they were coming by now, so they might as well put the fear of dwarven steel into them, and elven Gimli supposed.

As Beastmen after Beastmen after Daemon fell without even the elf managing to loose an arrow Gimli was starting to think they wouldn't be needed at all. And his vague worries over their wounded lessened, though he still had them moved to the center of the formation. That was only common sense.

It might have even been safer to follow in the wake of this thing. Not only was it clearing a path through the dense woods, but any thing that could be considered a threat was just unmade. Nothing had even managed to get close enough to touch the… he was just going to call it a gronti in his head. As long as no runelord heard it he was fine. As time went on the only things he spotted about it were an ever increasing amount of weapons. Something like a catapult that launched explosive balls, another that launched small metal balls at insanely high speeds. Some odd self propelling arrows that also exploded. Actually there was little this thing did that didn't explode in some way. Even its heat had made anything with water in it pop.

------------------------

The suit walks through the forest, its plasma fusion core pulsing gently within its chest. As gently as a tiny neutron star can when sheltered and controlled by machines advanced enough to be considered magic. No longer is the heat from the star burning everything around it, the fires that would start would more than likely burn those that followed in the machine's wake.

The utter carnage it is causing is barely an afterthought to the machine, nothing near the density of foes, and those few scattered groups it fights are weaker by far. Massive trees are uprooted by invisible tendrils of solid air and thrown from its path, bushes and plants, so corrupted they weep blood and scream, grow thorns and lash out at the suit as it passes, trying to entangle it in their magically enhanced roots.

The suit does not care, the bushes and plants are killed with bursts of radiation, cooked and burnt by microwave radiation. Heat and energy can be transferred through a myriad of methods, and nearly all are deadly in excess. Occasionally a beast large enough that the radiation would fail to kill it instantly arrives, in those instances a molten bullet barely larger than two inches immediately removes its upper skull.

The suit's limited fabrication uses its similarly limited stores of metal to fashion replacement ammunition, its magnetic cannons getting fed new ammunition types. So far no explosive shells have been needed, the suit notes that as optimal as explosives are harder to fabricate with its limited fabrication systems. It's energy to matter conversion systems taking hours to make a single grenade or mortar shell, rather than minutes for a simple metal bullet.

The suit could not make ammunition faster than it could use it, but it could make enough to function behind enemy lines and without support without concerns of becoming overly reliant on energy weapons. Some things couldn't be easily killed by the application of heat, light, or radiation.

If it wasn't an armor, with the hollow core that entailed, the suit would have been far stronger than it was, but the suit could not and did not care for this knowledge. It was what it was.

The suit walked on, and its foes fell on it with a desperate fever, trying to slow the metallic font of violence for just a few moments. They failed, their deaths doing little but cause the suit to have a use for its ample power generation. The Elves and Dwarves walked in safety behind the machine. The few beastmen who made an attempt on the considerably more killable creatures of flesh soon learned that the armor was much better at defending a creature than it was at killing them. Even if half its methods of defense were just murdering the enemy.

Loosed arrows and bolts of piddly magic did not even have the chance to fail against the masterworks worn by the dwarves and elves. The magic was disrupted by explosions or redirected by the very air refusing to move from its path, the arrows and bolts and even the occasional thrown rock were outright disintegrated through precision application of intense vibration causing the object to fall apart.

And eventually without even suffering a scratch the armor's sensors led it to the source of the foul energy and to where the energy forms and fled once the suit had torn them asunder. A massive tear in reality outputting the foul radiation like water from a dam. The suit had its attention split between monitoring the portal and planning just how it was going to kill the odd creatures guarding it, the things had to be some ten meters tall, larger than it by 3 meters, and at least one could manipulate the energy.

Well the portal would most likely close once its guardians stopped maintaining it, and they were just creatures of flesh. Even the tide of daemons rushing from the portal would fail to stop the suit from just launching a missile into the odd four legged creatures. So while its laser point defense dealt with the smaller creatures rushing it, a section of the armor's back lifted up exposing its missile bays, ten high explosive missiles launched in rapid succession, one for each of the large beasts.

The missiles screamed as they tore through the air, rapidly shattering the sound barrier and accelerating faster and faster, even if they had just been solid metal the missiles were traveling at enough speed they would have sunk deep into the beastmen's flesh, but these were made to rip holes in much larger and far more armored creatures. The missiles sank into the beastmen's flesh like the air it had flown through to reach them, its sharp angles and form serving to part the flesh with little resistance.

Then they detonated, before the beastmen could do so much as recoil all that was left to show they had existed in the first place were the various pairs of legs just now starting to fall over, and the raining viscera falling everywhere but on the armor and its entourage. The flesh was tainted, and could arguably be considered a bioweapon, so the armor simply didn't allow the flesh to fall upon its metal form.

The portal began fluctuating, its ragged edges losing even more cohesion as its size seemed to both grow and shrink at the same time, the energy it put off rapidly destabilizing and tearing at the few surviving daemons just as violently as it tore at its surroundings.

But the foul energy was not done, it writhed and screamed, audible even to those without the suits' advanced sensors. And the portal snapped into stability for just a few instants, before slamming shut with an explosion larger than the armor's missiles had been combined. That had been long enough for something to come through, something just as large as the beastmen the armor had killed. And the amount of energy it had was considerable even by the armors standards. A portion of the ambient taint and the energy from the portal's collapse had been funneled into the energy form, making it even stronger than it should have been and giving it the power to remain in the material world for a time.

Not that the suit cared, fear was a hormonal response and even if the suit had been capable of that well…. The thing was far smaller than what it had been made to kill, and there was only one of it, rather than a never ending tide.

It did note that the dwarves and elves behind it began spreading out of their group and fanning around the clearing, but besides noting that it was probably an attack formation and that it'd make them more difficult to shield the suit did nothing to stop their preparations.

It just strode towards the massive energy form, who let out a roar that was more than physical, brandished its massive blood soaked axes, and charged. The suits' lasers and bullets tore into the beast but failed to slow it down or even meaningfully harm it, the creature seeming to relish in its bleeding wounds. Which the armor noted shouldn't have been bleeding regardless given the heat of its lasers. Its vibration disintegration didn't have any matter to destabilize, energy forms being made of solid energy. The armor's missiles might have been able to kill the thing, but its estimated toughness based on how the bullets had penetrated showed that it'd take twice as many missiles to kill this thing as it had taken to kill all of the beastmen.

No, this was a foe of much greater quality than those it had just finished killing. It would actually be able to reach the armor before it died. And those blades likely had some esoteric effect granting them greater cutting power than the edge implied. But still the suit walked closer, its analysis had already shown the best way to beat this thing. Simply cut it into small pieces with the armors mounted blades. Resource efficient and relatively effective.

The energy form reached the armor and lashed out with one of its blades, seeking to bisect the armor. The armor however showed that it's sedate pace wasn't because it couldn't move quickly, rather that it just hadn't needed to. To the eyes of the dwarves and elves the armor became a blur, the earth under its feet shattering as it lunged forward using both its legs and it's maneuvering thrusters, with its wrist blade held in just the right position that as the armor dodged towards and past the greater daemon it's blade tore the daemon in half in turn.

Still, a greater daemon was no weak thing and it's second ax lashed in a counter strike, the daemons form bending in a way no flesh could to strike the foe now behind it, the armor simple kept moving out of it's reach, then turned on a dime and rocketed back towards the daemon, who was still in the midst of both it's swings and lopped of its right arm, then it's left, and finally with one last lunge, the daemons head fell to the ground.

The armor dropped out of its combat stance, its wrist blade sliding seamlessly into its shell and monitored the clearing. The energy levels were dropping rapidly, and the armor made certain to scramble the energy forms retreating self into an even more chaotic form. It wouldn't stop the thing from coming back, the suit not capable of outright destroying memetic energy. But it would take the energy longer to assume its previous configuration.

With that the battle was done, the elves and dwarves stared at the suit who even though its form remained stationary, stared back. The suit had options here, it was obvious these creatures had some civilization, given the primitive but well crafted tools. It could follow them, and learn about them, maybe even protect them from danger as it was made to protect its maker.

Or it could simply stay, let time wash away the blood, let the plants regrow and slowly be buried yet again. Waiting for the day its maker returned.

 

[Voikirium]

Rebellion and Rebellion

The world dies. Runes, perverted, cast themselves against the Gifts of the Gift Giver, and they prove themselves mighty enough, and certainly there are more of them: for the Dawi Zharr are not bound by shame. No, no, of all the flaws roiling, boiling, burning and writhing within the hearts of the Dwarfs that are magnified a thousand fold by the touch of Hashut, pride qua pride is not one of them. Or perhaps, it is that the pride they feel is the pride of surpassing those they hate, no matter the cost. Aye, the pride of a fulfilled Grudge is not too far, some part of you must acknowledge, and there is little you would not do for that.

Little...but not anything.

But as you were saying, to look upon the Dawi Zharr is certainly to see everything wrong with your people laid out and bear like some great feast. See the men bound in chains and hooks and left upon the great banners of the enemy and know that they have a spite beyond yours: A good, proper, follower of Grungni, after all, would kill them and be done with rather than this nonsense. See the gold and treasures each damn Overseer has heaped up in chests taller than they are, the short little engines of wrongness that hurt you even to smell and not only because the stink of oil is thick on them: You aren't ignorant, naive, or arrogant enough to say no Dwarf has ever in effect wronged somebody for money, but you will say it's not business the way it is for your fallen kin, nor that you would march out hoping to kill men and women and little children just for booty and plunder. And "xenophobes" you may be, but no Dwarf trucks in a business as black hearted as slavery, not even of the grobi and the urks.

But what hurts more is seeing what is right in your people, twisted to vile ends. Discipline. Oh, the hordes of Hobgoblins and other greenskins may not be, in fact they're little more than targets for your bolts, but the Frundrar themselves? They certainly are. Maliciously they advance, glimmering, malicious metal armor glinting in the sun as though it's been lacquered in the blood of the daystar itself. Red steel and vicious bronze, though at least they have no Gromril. Industriousness: many war machines bear the mark of their creation and of advanced technology and of hateful, arrogant ability. Dedication, to hold a Grudge, even a wrong one, a foolish one, a stupid one against the wrong targets, for generation after generation after generation.

It has been these virtues that have let them advance against your people. They have not broken any of the major Holds, at least, but the fighting has been fierce and they have not relented in spite of anything. But it would be a mistake, a grave mistake, to think they are winning. Have won. That you can do nothing but wait and hope that the Holds further south can send aid before it is too late. No. No, you still have one last card to play, whereas the traitors, the victims (both?) have played the fullness of their hands. Have sent their Destroyer, their spirits of fire, their everything. You know what powers they posses.

They are considerably more ignorant.

Azrildrakki is ready.

It is certainly an appropriate time for a it, in any case. The winds are whipped into a frenzy. The skies crack and burn and shake as magic is unleashed, magic on a scale not seen for some time. Even under the power of so many Runelords, it is this active as they strive to reclaim their god? If you were all not here, would reality itself be running apart at the seams? Would logic and sense and reason no longer hold command over the world, as much as they ever did anyway, in favor of fire that sears and scorches and corrupts? You doubt it would be good for anyone except the forces of darkness.

You don't tell the Beardlings racing about you that you can sniff magic not of the traitors, either. You doubt it will matter either way, and if it does, it will be, for the first time in a very long time, a pleasant surprise.

The beast comes to life. The enemy is stretched thin and taut even as they advance on your Hold, on your home, on the beardlings and garazi and innocents that live within it. The Rangers have made sure of this, and a false retreat has as well. Their heavy hitters have been spread as far and as wide as you can manage, helped by constant attacks by Izgrom, Zharrok and Grimgal, each joined with one of the Throngs that marches against one of their Throngs and so split to three direction, west, south, and east. There will be no damn mobbing of this creature, no sir. Not that they could anyway; good steel they may make, but this is Adamant and no steel forged by mortal hands can threaten it.

There is a roar, as your Dragon and Gronti comes to life. And so now the northern throng gains its champion, its idol. The Deep Magic is forced up by Khazagar itself and fed to your beast, even as it twitches claws as long as you are tall and hard and sharp enough to break through, to cut, even stone. It is hardly the only Gronti you have active now, fighting and killing and bleeding against the enemy. Everything from the simple-but-promising work of apprentices with half-a-brain and some good instincts, to your own ancient work, to the master crafts of students long passed, face the foe.

But none of them are equal to Azrildrakki.

Near simultaneously, close enough to fool a beardling even, there is another roar. It is higher, brighter in register. Almost more like music, like a rhythm pulled up from some ancient memory from the dawn of time, pouring out from a...a piercing, you suppose, and not in the way an arrow pierces but in the sense of an earring...yes, a piercing in the world. And then a portal appears, swirling blue and white mostly, though of every shade you can imagine and several dozen more you can't, never could have; you are too old for much to inspire you in your art, have seen much and grown jaded, but in this one instance, you get a few new ideas.

What marches out of the portal is tall and somewhat thin, like the Elgi, though they are pretty damn muscular for an Elgi.

But that is the only particularly Elgi thing about them. Their leader wields a two-handed hammer for one, and while it's a good bit more delicate and thinner than you'd really prefer it's a good height even on them, never mind for you. The head is mallet like, rather than a square striking surface and spike as you prefer, more like the Bretonnians really. The haft is hard wood stained pure white except for where bands of gold act as a grip; the surface is pure gold, except for where white engravings serve as pictographs for an image that you don't like. Probably for the bull, to be honest, though it doesn't strike you half as wrong as the Broken does.

It's a recurring theme, as well. Their helmet, a tall, pointed thing has the horns of a bull made of white bone except, again, for where bands of gold with burning, searing--no, not searing, not scorching, not corrupting. Again, like the Bull, but not. They burn, yes, but this fire will purify, will refine, will harden-- runes, not merely mundane but quite distinct from what you work with (which is good, since you already have more than enough on your plate without having to hunt the thief down). Their armor is a combination of plate and scale, white and gold and brilliant and bright. One of their pauldrons, larger than the other, is the form of a bull's head on their left, likely weaker, arm, not unlike the Tilean armorers who do much the same though less exaggerated, to help offset the loss of a shield without "too much weight" (Bah!). It is an intricate, ornate, lifelike thing, though again much the friendlier than any of the many images of the Enemy that float around the battlefield.

For some reason, an image continues to play in your mind. An ax splits a bull's haunch, a beast of pure red and black. Blood flows, falls, mingles with the mud and the dust and the dirt and the water. And that mud and blood and dust and dirt and water commingle, come together, flow together, make themselves like one another, slowly and slowly and slowly becoming a bull. And it roars and it challenges its father. For there is no love lost between father and son.

Magic, you hate magic.

The leader of the Elgi (?) stares down at the traitor, even as the rain falls and lightning cracks and the world burns. Here to decide which will kill you, then? Other Elgi, of similar theme and similarly unelven (some wear armor shaped like the mountains themselves, for the love of the Ancestors!) trait though in considerable variation otherwise, march through the portal, armed with swords, spears, bows, axes, and hammers.

Then they bring the hammer down, and that puts the problem aside, for the moment.
--

Spoiler: Only read this if you don't mind losing the mystery

It's Lumineth, kind of, in that for yet another of the fifty-trillion projects that burn around my brain the thought that Lumineth, or more specifically the Stoneguard (and those attached, I don't actually know that much about Age of Sigmar) would actually make a surprisingly good aesthetic for like, a good Hashut (Kind of it's complicated) would not leave me. I don't expect there will be more in this little series, in that most of the rest of it would be even more tangential than Project Prometheus is which is quite a statement, but you never know.

 

[soulcake]

━<><><>< 6827 A.P. ><><><>━​

Jorri sits in his chair with apprehension in his gut. The walls are richly decorated, fine tapestries and ancient shields worth more than the entire hoard of their Clan hang from the wooden rafters and walls in such numbers that he can barely see hints of the original architecture beneath them all.

The wonders he's seen are indescribable, and yet the knowledge he possesses make them all pale in comparison.

An Ancestor lives.

Their Ancestor lives.

And now they would meet him and Clan Winterhearth of Kraka Drakk.

In stark comparison to the fidgeting messes that he and his cousins had become, Uncle Kraus appears to be the picture of perfect serenity, not even chewing on the end of his pipe.

"Enough," his uncle orders, still sitting, still staring at the room's entrance with single minded focus. "Act with some decorum boys. Whatever you feel now, bury it. Bury it with will or from the pride only the vindicated have. Whatever comes, we were right. Remember that."

"Well said." a new voice compliments, making them all turn at once.

He is old.

From what Jorri can tell the man in front of the door is dressed rather plainly beneath the cloak he wears. Dull, aged reds and whites that have since gone grey despite obvious signs that effort has been made to keep them clean. The glint of Gromril shines through, passing in and out of sight as whatever tool it is that dangles from the strange Dawi's belt swings out from under his cloak every so often. The mysterious' Dwarf's face is downcast and hidden beneath a threadbare hood with only his silvery beard protruding from the shadow it casts, so pearlescent its almost glowing, to droop down to where it looks as if he has tucked it round his belt multiple times over.

Jorri can count the number of Dwarfs old enough to have beards that long on one hand and be left with fingers to spare.

"How did you get in here, stranger?" Uncle Kraus asks, getting off his chair and holding Bludbaraz loosely in his hands.

"Through the door."

"Aye? Then may I have your name?" his uncle asks, stepping forward boldly.

"I think you know it already, lad." The odd Elder says, lifting his face to reveal an unnatural glow emanating from where one of his eyes ought to be underneath the shadows of his hood.

At the sight they all furrow their brows, but Uncle Kraus seems to go stock still.

"May I?" the stranger continues, nodding his head towards Bludbaraz.

"A final test, to know if you're who you say you are," his Uncle says, voice barely above a whisper and thick with apprehension.

He pulls an amulet out from under his shirt and holds it in his hand. Jorri remembers seeing it multiple times; the vibrant silver disc that bears the emblem of the Clan, studded with and encircled by miniscule rubies and diamonds. An artefact, like Bludbaraz, from the end of the Golden Age, also created by Karstah. Passed down from parent to eldest child just as the mythical Hammers of Storri were, and said to bless its wearers with good fortune.

"Blood." Uncle Kraus asks, "a drop."

The stranger nods, pulling a knife out from beneath his cloak and with a single motion cuts his finger so that a bead of crimson bubbles into existence. Without a word, he presses it down onto the amulet and holds it there.

Jorri is thankful that he can see the events that unfold afterward.

The amulet shines, shines brighter than the brightest star, than the sun, for a brief moment as Runes that have lain dormant for an epoch awaken with and burn with vibrant light. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it shifts once more, the light emanating from the amulet shimmers and coalesces into a single beam that is shot towards the floor.

To the amazement of everyone but Uncle Kraus and the mysterious Elder, the light makes a final transformation, forming into the image of an ancient matron. The image is positioned so that none of them save the stranger can see this image's face, only the cloak that adorns her back, the cloak which matches his Uncle's with startling accuracy.

He sees the image gesture, sees what appears to be Klinkarhun made of light appear in front of her, though much of it is also hidden by her body. What he does see is the stranger's hand reach out, stopping just shy of touching the image's face, before falling to his side as the amulet's creation fractures into motes of light.

━<><><><==><><><>━​

Thorgrim did not think he would come face to face with an Ancestor God.

Yet here he is, sitting across and staring face to face with a Dwarf that walked alongside Grungni Himself. A man that lived before the creation of the Elgi Vortex, before the Golden Age, all the way from their rise and through their precipitous decline. And he looked every part the image Thorgrim held in his own mind about what a Dwarf from that bygone age would look like.

He wore glimmering silver armour that glowed with an otherworldly white aura underneath a vermillion red cloak, he wielded a hammer straight out of the oldest songs in one hand and an equally magnificent axe, an equal to the one wielded by his uncle, dangling from His belt to partner with it.

"My newly reunited kin tell me," the Gift Giver begins, voice bereft of any emotion, "you seek the mantle of the Gormrik."

"Aye," Thorgrim confirms, speaking with a calm he does not feel, "I do."

The Ancestor hums thoughtfully.

"I am in your debt," the ancient Dwarf begins, "for giving me some measure of peace."

He lifts his hammer and waves it in Thorgrim's direction, stopping him from replying.

"I already know what you would ask for in return. Even if you don't say it, I'm old enough to see the desire in your heart lad. I could craft you a weapon that could sunder armies, armour that could survive the end of the world, talismans and trinkets that do things beyond your imagination. Hell, even a Gronti-Duraz if you'd like. But I see it in your eyes, what your true wish is."

"Aye," Thorgrim says, swallowing quietly.

"It is no easy thing." the Old Dwarf rumbles, looking Thorgrim in the eye. "No easy task you would endure. Your words would alter the course of history, decide the fate of countless lives, innocent and guilty alike."

The Gift Giver's artificial eye bathes him in its light, strong enough to make him tear up, but not enough that it can overpower his will and make him blink.

"The last High King who had my complete and total support was Gotrek Starbreaker, and Snorri Whitebeard before him." the Gift Giver says, voice quiet but words louder than any avalanche.

Thorgrim does not falter in the face of such damning words.

"For your deeds, I cannot offer you my support Thorgrim of Clan Durazklad, but what I can offer you is a chance. Prove to me that you would be a High King in the vein of Snorri Whitebeard, and I will give you my support. Speak, and I will listen. And when you're done, I will tell you if you have my support or not."

━<><><><==><><><>━​

When Thorgrim returns to Karaz a Karak it with several Kings and notable northern Thanes in tow. They speak of his deeds, of the valorous acts done to aid them in their plight. Of the many foes slain and the battles won. He reunites a part of the empire once thought lost with their kin.

He returns with a descendant of the King of the Skies, and brings some comfort to the Dawi in the knowledge that they did not completely fail their most ancient ally during the Time of Woes.

He offers the assembled Kings treasures long since lost, now returned and, thanks to the Northern Runesmiths, reforged.

In a similar vein he returns to the southern Runesmiths not only lore long thought lost, but the greatest cause for celebration in millennia.

He brings news of an Ancestor God, of the Gift Giver, alive, and willing to offer the opportunity to any Runesmith who would brave the trek north to prove themselves worthy of learning lore they have lost. A boon he earned from the Ancestor Himself for his deeds, a feat that likely earns him a great deal of goodwill among the Rhunki going by the fervent handshaking and ale he's received from Kragg the Grim of all people.

He speaks of his dream, of his promise to see every Grudge struck out from the Dammaz Kron.

When he puts the Dragon Crown upon his head, before the assembled nobility of the Karaz Ankor, he promises them an age of Vengeance.

By all accounts he has succeeded, beyond his wildest dreams even.

Yet-

-as he lays in his bed, drifting off to sleep his mind always returns to one moment.

The Ancestor, the Gift Giver's small frown and quiet shake of the head.

Have you learned nothing lad? Or have you learned all the wrong things?

It does not keep Thorgrim up at night, but it does keep him company more often than he'd like.

━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━​

Gormrik - "High King"/High King. (No actual canon reference I could find for this being the case tho)

━<><><><==><><><>━​

AN: Look, I have a plan that I will enjoy writing. Its a bit spicy, and may ruffle feathers? Idk. Just think about it okay? Snorri is a jaded old man who has his own conclusions and opinions, and how Thorgrim at this time may appear to him interacts with that. Let me cook. Ples I beg. :^)

 

[Voikirium]

The Battle of the Border Princes

Prologue: Once, long, long ago, the god of fire and tyranny was whole. Hashut, lord of the Frundrar, master of cruelty, forger of chains, makers of slaves, rose up within the halls of Karag Dum. He battled Gazul. Was slaughtered and broken for his trouble, shattered into a thousand-thousand pieces. His slaves, his subjects, his prophets wandered into the Chaos Wastes, becoming the Dawi Zharr, masters of Fire and Death, constructing hard steel and wicked machines to serve the foe, constantly attempting to reclaim his pieces, his fragments, and rebuild their broken god so they might taken vengeance.

I too, hunted for them. Sought them out, sought their hiding places, their hidden halls and holes. Destroying them absolutely and utterly, leaving nothing behind wherever could. But there were as many as there are pebbles in a mine. They became rarer, and rarer, and rarer. Rare beyond rare. Until now.

There is only one left. A portion of him, found in the Border Princes, and now screaming his place to all and sundry, hoping that his thralls, his slaves, might revive him.

I will not allow this. We must not allow this. Stand with me, Umgi, Elgi, and let us put an end to this darkness once and for all! Ancestors know as much as I'd like you to go away and let me do this right, you'll never listen so I might well get some work out of you and make sure your bungling is kept to a minimum.

Alliance Leaders:
Snorri Klausson: I'm a Runelord out of Kraka Drak, and that's all you need to know. This cow and I have unfinished business, and I will not rest until I've seen him sent off to hell where he belongs. I've called in all the favors from as many holds as I can--there will be no lack of Dwarfs to see things done right. But I've always had more cachet in the North, so don't expect too many of those new fangled flying contraptions, overwrought firespitters, or glorified balloons. On the other hand, our Runesmiths haven't forgotten how to read so you'll see plenty of our treasures and artifacts around, strengthening ourselves, and our allies when and if they should prove worthy of it.

I intend simply to destroy the damn thing, when I've secured it.

Silval: Glade Lady of Tal Varigan, near Wydrioth, otherwise known as the Pine Crags. That is, in fact, part of why she came here in the first place: They and Norn have had their skirmishes, their wars, in the past though for the moment there is the peace, and I'll not be the one to break it, Elgi. So when she heard there was a number of Dwarfs moving towards their forest, she was keen to make sure it was not some ill-considered flanking attempt on our part, and instead discovered the truth: it was me, here to finally put that old wrong to right, along with a Throng. A follower of Kurnous, how could she not seek to slay such worthy prey?

As Wutelgi, her forces are of course built more for running and hiding and shooting more than a real, honest, battle, though they do that very well. She does have a secret however: she has made friends with the spirits of that cursed wood. She can summon them, Dryads and Treemen and worse, more ancient things and they are a damn sight harder than mere flesh and leather as the Elgi like running around in, I can tell you that much, so she might actually contribute at some point. She, herself, runs around with an appreciable ax shaped to honor her lion god, and for an Elgi she fights well enough.

She intends to give it to Daith, that he might craft it into art worthy of Kurnous. Bah, she wants art she had best seek a true Runelord!

Vardanis of House Snowmane of Chrace: One of the Mages of Ulthuan, he "felt Asuryan's wrath and judgment at this usurper of titles that do not belong to him" (his words, not mine) and came running to put it right. An appreciable two-thousand years old himself, he could rouse a pretty good army himself as he came, too. He's proven aloof, if not quite rude, more driven by his strange Elven god and the oddities of magic than good plain strategic and diplomatic sense as he tries to hunt down the Shard.

A Mage himself, he managed to bring damn near the whole tower with him, it seems like, along with enough "heavy" (Hah, as if the Elgi know the meaning of the term) infantry to withstand damn near any blow. Swordmasters of Hoeth, White Lions, Phoenix Guard, Sea-Guard, he's managed to wrangle all of them to follow. What he really brings to the table, however, are warbeasts: Phoenixes, White Lions, even Dragons (Which must mean Caledorians, right? Right?), if it roars he's got it.

He intends to burn it in the Shrine of Asuryan, to honor his god. Bah, a fitting fate for the Aurochs that he should be fed to the fire he loves so much!

Ernest Neff: An Imperial out of Hochland, Sigmarite through and through. That rarest of things, an Umgi who keeps his word, when he heard the Dwarfs needed help he came running, as his god demands. Good lad, that. Armed with a good hammer and a good attitude he's also got a more personal score to settle with the damn beastmen, and some skulls to smash.

He's not entirely unlike we Dwarfs in that his army's built for anything, though as a Hochlander he's got a bit more powder in his barrel than anything else. The Colleges, both of magic and Engineering, are trying to help but neither Engineers nor Battle Wizards grow on trees and even the Hochland branch can only produce so much so blackpowder and magic are both a bit expensive, but not to worry: the Hochlanders have plenty of bows. On the other hand, the Cults, Sigmar or otherwise, have raced both to do some good and to one up each other so plenty of knights and Warrior Priests have been seen and they can cause all kinds of trouble themselves.

He intends to give it over to the Grand Theogenist to destroy. Hmph, sensible enough, but better I think to trust the Dawi.

Leandre Agua: Oh gck, Ancestors spare me...She saw this coming in the future, and for all she does not like my people she seems to understand that when we say a damn god, we mean a damn god. She grabbed as many mercenaries, foot-sloggers, and others as she could spare out of the newly united Estalia and made a beeline straight east.

She didn't exactly have a great amount of time to put together a proper Tercio, what with all that math and nonsense. It's very much a melee force she's brought with her, many Rodeleros and Pikemen and Diestros and all the others running around with various sharp bits of metal and a bad attitude. In abeyance of what you'd expect not many guns nor artillery however, mostly crossbowmen from the militia. Not much cavalry either, hard to transport and again she didn't have much time. The Cults are not fond of her, as you'd expect since she doesn't know how to stop running her mouth, but more surprisingly neither are the Windseekers; seems trying to say I don't exist and getting the rest of the Guild mad at them has made her few friends.

She intends to use the Shard to craft the greatest Focus imaginable, one that will let her turn Azyr into her own realm. Bah, good luck with that!

Patriarch Anastas Markov: A Patriarch of the Great Orthodoxy from Praag, none but Dazh Himself, apparently enraged at a claimant to His title of King of Fire, gave him visions of the cow's current, broken status. Speaking to the Ataman, he managed to arrange a good Pulk quick enough to make it here before things were too late.

Cavalry is his real strength, that's what the Patriarch brought with him. He wanted to be fast, and to do that, he needed mounts. Oh, he managed to slap a small number of infantry into boats and get them here, but he is built on cavalry. Ungol and Gospodar alike, mounted on horse and bear and sled, he's brought it all. That also means, of course, that he has artillery, since so much of it is also artillery. His magic is lacking however, the Orthodoxy and the Ice Court do not see eye to eye in the least.

He intends to use the Shard to drive the corruption out of Praag once and for all, burning it away in Dazh's fire. Bah, use corruption to drive away corruption? Manlings...

Lord Baldwin du Grismont: A Grail Knight of Bretonnia, the Lady did not send him visions nor premonitions; but he did hear words of an orcish force in the Borderlands and sensibly decided he should deal with it. He rounded up his army, and journeyed to the south from Parravon, bringing the word of his Lady and a mighty host of Knights.

Cavalry, Cavalry, and more Cavalry, that's what he brought. Knights Errant, Knights of the Realm, Questing Knights, Grail Knights, they all followed him. Don't get me wrong, he's got bowmen and men at arms even some trebuchet, though they pale before a proper Dawi Grudge Thrower, but his bread and butter is cavalry. But they do it well. The skies are filled with the beating wings of Pegasi and Hippogryphs too, and so the air war has often turned on the chivalry of Bretonnia. His magic is nothing to sneeze at either, for he is married to the Prophetess Martha, and it seems they've a happy marriage for many of the Damsels and Prophetesses have, in turn, followed him.

He intends to keep the shard as a trophy within his chapel of the Lady. What could I even say to that?

Bai Zhu: Dragon Blooded offspring of Li Dao, out of Cathay. It seems he "smelled the red wind on the breeze" and decided to journey to claim it for himself with his father's soldiers, for there has been peace between Ind and Cathay for some time and he too was curious. It burns to rely on a dragon, of course...but I can live with it, with all the troops he's brought.

Guns. Lots and lots of guns. So many guns. And crossbows and bows, for that matter. And artillery, lots of artillery. His melee infantry and cavalry may be lacking in comparison, but that hardly matters when he can shoot them so often. His magic is strong as well, of course, having brought many of his siblings born of the Fire Dragon as well as Astromancers and Alchemists. It seems he intends to kill everything before he needs to engage it in melee. Not a terrible idea, but I do not expect it will work.

He will shatter that god and take its power for his own. I can only hope he succeeds.

Wahkin the Skink: Even the strange lizard beastmen from Lustria have sent someone to deal with this matter. Now if only he weren't such a Wazzock! It seems they intend to remove an enemy permanently.

One of the smaller Lizardmen, and yet listened to by the whole force that has come with them, apparently under the authority of the "Slaan" (now if only I knew what that was, or why it makes my beard itch with trouble...). They have only scarcely bothered to deal with the rest of us at all, arrogantly convinced of their own superiority to a level beyond what I thought possible. The Umgi get along well enough, I've ridden herd on the Dawi, the Wutelgi are more focused on the hunt than on their own sense of superiority, and even the Zunelgi are more distracted by their magic than they are truly being rude. Not so with the Lizardmen. In return however, they seem to be at least adequate in just about everything, though adequate may not be adequate in this case.

Wahkin intends to sacrifice the Shard to his god, Quetzl.

I hear also the Arabyans have caught wind, though I doubt they will be coming.

And then there is the enemy...

The enemy:
The bad news is, we will be interrupted by the foe. It seems ever enemy any of us has ever had has journeyed here also hoping to take the Shard. The good news is, they are even less capable of working together than we are. The bad news is, they don't need to half as much.

Takarth Blackfang: An old enemy of the House of Snowmane, it seems he's come to take Vardanis' hide for killing his father, Thayus. During the Sundering the House split in two parts: House Blackfang, the original House, which was loyal to Malekith; and House Snowmane, which split from the traitors and remained loyal to the Phoenix King. He wants to settle the score, and gain a treasure in the process.

Monsters and Magic, that is what Takarth has brought with him. His wife, a Sorceress Supreme, has ensured his force is filled to the brim lesser sorceresses, and he is himself a Beastmaster. He has few properly Elgi troops in return however, from the simple Dreadspears to the vile Witch Elves to the bleak Executioners he could not convince many other of the Druchii to come, for they have learned to fear the Champion of Asuryan. The monsters and mages might be fearsome, but too they are expensive and cannot garrison land he captures.

He intends to give the shard to his Wife as a five-hundredth anniversary present.

Qorkan: A champion of Slaanesh, though she is more inclined to seek for absolute perfection as a martial artist than the usual vices of Slaanesh, and what better place to find worthy foes than here? Make no mistake though, even the Greenskins consider her a bad lot.

Fast and strong but a bit of a glassjaw, both her forces and her herself as a person. If you can endure her flurries, withstand the abuse she flings your way, and come out the other end, giving both her and the mortal followers of Chaos a good blow to the head in return, she'll crumple well enough. That's harder than it sounds, though, and it might be better just to shoot the lot of them if you can and spare yourself a headache. Her wizards are also...well they aren't bad, per se, but it's not exactly hard to imagine them being surpassed, either, being mostly auto-didacts.

She intends to use the Shard to raise a constant parade of challengers, so that she never has to be without battle again.

Mahrur the Bronzeback: He's got a score to settle with Qorkan, and so where she goes he follows, hoping to take her head once and for all. Make no mistake, he is a Black Orc, and so his army from the lowliest Goblin on up will be forced to be as disciplined, murderous, and capable as possible as he pursues his vengeance.

At base, Mahrur has formed a surprisingly balanced force, for he has pushed all his troops to be as able as possible from the lowliest of goblins to the mightiest of his fellow black orcs. He has both Goblin and Orc Shamans, even River Troll Hags, to help protect him from magic. He has Boar Boys and chariots and Pump Wagons to serve as cavalry. His War Machines, though shoddy as all get out, are...well I can't say "well-maintained" but I wouldn't rely on them just breaking either. His greatest weakness is his reliance on the Black Orcs, for they serve to maintain discipline.

He's going to use the Shard to scorch what remains of Qorkan when he's done with her, and I wouldn't even blame him for it. Still going to kill him first, of course.

Adrek Furybearer: An Exalted Bloodthirster, first he scented that so many worthy champions had made their way here; then he sensed the Skull of Hashut (IE the Shard); and then he sensed me, and remembered...much. Altogether that seems to have clenched it.

The forces of Khorne are simple. They prefer melee, only grudingly accept ranged, and abhor magic entirely. But in return, even the lowliest of his Daemons will be a force to be reckoned with as a melee combatant, and for all they have no love of magic they are not entirely defenseless against it. I suggest shooting them from very far away as your best option, and so hope that you might send the Wutelgi to avoid engaging with them in the first place. Wahkin might also be acceptable with all his little fellas, if you can convince him.

He intends to offer all our skulls to Khorne: you, me, everyone. Including Hashut.

Hellfang Redhorn: A Doombull, one a cut above the rest, clad in hellforged armor. He was tormented by visions of the bullgod and so heads towards his Shard.

His common forces, though manuverable, are lightly armed and armored in comparison even to the men-at-arms, never mind the rest of us. They will require ambush and numbers to face us; or else bide their time, waiting to gather Bestigors and Minotaurs and all other manner of vile things, waiting to unleash them upon us in secrecy. In either case their Bray Shamans are not to be trifled with: all of you likely have a broader pool of knowledge, to be sure, but the Shamans cheat with the help of the gods and sufficient Dhar, meaning they can still be a threat to us.

He will revive Hashut, intending to do onto the Dawi Zharr that which was done onto the Beastmen. Apparently he believes that Hashut will feel obligated to them. A god of Dwarfs, Chaos or otherwise, he may even be right.

Khit Headstalker: Clan Whitefur was near where the broken Hashut landed; their fortress was ravaged and burned by his carcass, though they have not been slow in rebuilding.

As always, they seek to drown the foe in their bodies with slaves and scum. What they cannot bury, they intend to destroy with the unreliable contraptions of Skyre, the plagues of Pestilens, the subtlety of Eshin, and the monsters of Moulder. But such does not come cheap and so by weight it will always be the Slaves, Clanrats, and Stormvermin of this lesser Warlord Clan. They have little, if any, magic however, for they had few Grey Seers before looking on the hideous remnant of Hashut and did...what it did. And they can hardly call up more, for they are keeping his presence close to their chest. Khit himself is something of an aberration, for he is a proudly warrior Skaven, cast in emulation with his idol, Queek Headtaker.

They seek to use the Shard to become a mighty Clan, a fifth Great Clan.

Konna Bleakfire: Leader of the Dawi Zharr Throng, and oldest living sorceress prophet of Hashut. Long has she dreamed of restoring him prominence; now that his shard mgiht be found, nothing will stop her but us.

The Dawi Zharr have many of the same strengths we have. They are strong in the shield wall, enduring, and well-capable of crafting good construction. Too, aside from the knowledge of Runes they have ripped from the grasp of Thungni, and for which they will pay, they have access to magic proper, in its wild, untamed form, too used to bind daemons to vast, evil machines. They do have a glaring weakness however: they are even fewer than the Dwarfs proper, for the Chaos Wastes are no fit place to erect a true realm. If it were not for Beastmen slaves they would simply be swallowed up whole by some more numerous foe; as is they are ever pressed and ever attacked.

They will ressurect Hashut to preeminence, to rebuild their empire and take their dark vengeance on us all.

Too they say vast leviathens are seen coming from the east, bearing a grim cargo from the lands of Khuresh...
--
The Instruction Manual for the hit 2010 RTS Game Warhammer Fantasy: Battle in the Border Princes, an AOM alike created to harness nostalgia for the quiscent genre. It hardly resurrected the genre entire, but it was a nicely sized success within its niche, earning two DLCs and a sequel, with a second the way.

---

So we were talking about what if Hashut's final shard (or something) was found in the modern day, which inspired me to make this.

 

[Voikirium]

The Ancient and the Avenger

"For millennia we have waited. For millennia we have bided our time. For millennia we have prepared. We have forged. We have lost so, so, so much. We have seen our children slaughtered; we have seen our homes burned. It is a bitter brew we drink; and it is a bleak hope we have."

A doughty band of Dwarfs marches through the snow. Their armor is a pristine and pure white, white as the very top of the highest peaks, the clouds that rim the mountains and the snow that weighs heavy. A blizzard whips around them as they march, heedless of the peril. A shadowed, horrific forest surrounds them, sprouting up from the night-dark stone like knives thrust into a body. It is an old armed army that marches out for the sake of vengeance, and for the Grudge; no Thunderers, no Iron Drakes, no Cannons. Simply muscle powered forces. Many mighty Valkyrie, Gromril clad and Gromril hard, march with them, mighty shields and sharp axes in hand. Gormlhune shines bright in the darkness, illuminating the band, though even its silver rays cannot penetrate the shadows that surround them, hung within the trees.

At the front, not so much a dwarf, not even an elder any more, but a true Ancestor. His ax is mighty jeweled, blue as the deepest, darkest ocean. His hammer is wreathed in teal fire, which falls to the ground and scorches the ice and the snow but does not burn. His armor is the mountain itself, carved and shaped and beaten in to Adamant. A billowing cloak hangs from his, low to the ground, intricate and covered in jewel and wealth and the greatest, finest craftsmanship. Ancient beyond ancient, an Ancestor that walked at the very beginning of the world, who stood at Grimnir's own side.

Snorri Gift-Giver.

They approach the trees, unafraid even as they shift. Elgiwork, surely. Nothing they have not fought before; nothing they have not beaten, before. Multihued eyes shine in the darkness. They catch the antediluvian dwarf, and the two stare each other down for a moment. And Snorri Winterhearth challenges them, moving his weapons in a plain threat towards that which would defy him. He has burned many forests in his life after all.

"Not the hope that we might reclaim everything that you have taken from us, for so much has been taken never to be regained. So much has been burned, never to be rebuilt. But the hope of vengeance, that still burns in our breast, in spite of everything. For every burned home, for every elder slain, for every life lost I swear there will be a reckoning..."

A staff taps on the frosty snow. The rocks shake, the world seems to twist and roil and burn and twirl as a sheer thing of magic touches the world, corrupt and foul and powerful. The Dwarfs raise their weapons, arrogant, as they believe it will be an easy fight.

Then there is a whispered syllable, and the world becomes fire. Great streaks of fire slam into the Dawi line, turn them into ash and cinder and memory as the very power of a daemon flows through that which strikes at them. Snorri snatches his axes up, and the power flows through them and cuts down the magic to what it should be, even as he grimaces in a pure rage and in confusion.

The fire at least, allows them to see. Aye, they have their prey. Fimir, ancient and horrible and terrible, many Dirachs of course, but most shocking of all, a handful of Meargh. One is greater than the other, greater than the rest, a true thing that drips with all the power of Chaos. Her robes burn with dark power, sea-silk dyed a royal purple and then intricately painted with the profane symbols of the Dark Gods. A cape hangs from her back, Slaanesh's grimly beautiful visage before a prayer written in the Dark Script, exhorting her for power. Her staff is a well-made thing of oak, topped by a raven carved from obsidian, with nine eyes and nine wings. Dark sigils have been carved and then filigreed into it, and they make it burn with an awesome power.

But it is what she bears upon her hand that most draws the eye. A well-articulated gauntlet, made of black gold, that wraps like a second skin around her forearm, and yet allows her sharp claws out. Five animals are carved on it, one for each knuckle. A bull, a wolf, a serpent, a toad, and an eagle. Their maws are open, waiting to receive something. Except for the Serpent's, filled with a rose pink jewel, the rune of Slaanesh carved upon it. Snorri's eyes widen, then narrow in a rage as he lifts his ax. Skarrenbakraz sparks to life. Lightning falls from the sky.

The gem burns, and where that lightning falls, it strikes...nothing, shadow rising up and sending it somewhere. Fimir, clad in vivid red and shining brass, shimmering gold and scintillating blue, searing pink and imperious purple, or putrid green and rotten gray, step forward, all holding massive weapons, each easily larger than the Dwarfs they fight; one, larger than the others, has even more intricate armor, and a belt of skulls tied around its waist. Swords, hammers, clubs, axes, all of these and more.

Snorri nods to the Valkyrie Hearthqueen, and she races to meet them.

"Snorri Gift-Giver."

Snorri grips his hammer and charges, even as the Meargh lights her gauntlet.

Order The Ancient and the Avenger to receive:

-The new Legendary Lord Snorri Gift Giver! A positively ancient, wise old Runelord, marked with ancient power and ancient Grudges, who went to war against the Fimir once long, long ago and now march against them again!

-The new Dwarf lord Moonplaits! Leaders of the armed members of the Cult of Valaya, they are as brolic warriors and skillful dispellers of magic, who armed with brews of Valaya are well able to heal any damage done to the Throng.

-The new Dwarf hero: Moonguard! Higher members of the Cult of Valaya, they are goodly warriors and skillful hunters of enemy wizards, too capable of healing.

-New Dwarf unit: Valkyrie! The warriors of Valaya, they disdain all magic and cowardice, and fight fiercely in the defense of hearth and home, karak and kin.

-The new Norsca Legendary Lord, Etnu the Avenger! Youngest and yet perhaps most powerful of the Fimir Meargh-Queens, she leads her kin in vengeance against the accursed Snorri Gift-Giver, seeking the Gems of Chaos!

-The new Norsca Lord, Fimir Meargh Queen! Mightiest and rarest casters of the Fimir, they bear ancient grudge against all surface dwellers and an insatiable appetite for power.

-The new Norsca Hero, Fimm Lord! Leaders of the Fimm, nobles and warriors of the Fimir, they fight with an awesome rage in the melee and are all but immune to missile fire.

-The new Norsca unit, Fimm Elites! The best of the Fimm nobles, armed with all manner of weapons and darkly disciplined and brave in the service of their gods.

Also coming with patch 4.0:

FLC Lord Ines Diaz! Diestro and general of Estalia, she seeks death for the vile Beastmen invaders!

 

[Voikirium]

Windseeker Becomes Wind Bringer

"You want me to what?"

Leandre is covered in the thickest, finest, warmest clothes she can imagine. First a long cloak, the finest sea-silk harvested from the Southern Oceans themselves, trimmed with the fur of Thundertusks from the Mountains of Mourn, dyed night blue and star white. Studded in the shape of constellations are a number of pearls, and at the center the world, then Mannslieb, then the Sun, made from bronze, silver and gold respectively. The Astromancers' Tongue, one of the many, many languages the Celestial Dragon Emperor has taught to His subjects, is written in diamond around the edges of each, culminating in the character for meteor. It hangs around her neck by a golden chain. Azyr crackles around it, woven with her hands and her spirit and her will as much as she studded the diamonds and wove the silk and placed the fur and dyed it all. Craft is craft, and magic is magic. It is the Mystic made manifest.

She'd be lying if she said it wasn't a significant portion of why she was willing to venture to Khazagar...to the glares of so many damn Longbeards. Not that she cares: She says Snorri Gift-Giver is not real, is the mixture and cementation and homogenization of many Dwarfs into one figure in the face of limitless tragedy? Well they have tried to say that Fortunata Blanco was nothing but a damn scoundrel, a thief, and useless aside and is that not the worse? If anything she is showing more patience, more forebearance, more calm than they; if she said the same about, she'll be charitable and say Durin, as they say about her founder, her source, they'd kill her.

The next item of note on her person is a simple sleeveless tabard made of thick furs and silk, quartered into four portions and reaching to her knee, covering nearly her entire underrobe. The top right and bottom left are a silvery storm cloud unleashing blue lightning, in falling fractals, bright and colorful. The top left and bottom right are the snarling visages of Thundertusks, a white as pure as snow, on black, the color of the mountain stone. The lessons of Vrag, of the Elemental Azyr, are woven into it by her hand and her will and her skill, much as she made the Tabard itself.

But her favorite is her mask. Stained wood covers her face, shaped and shaved and worked until it resembles a Storm Dragon's snarling visage. It is two toned, a darker azure like the night and a softer white like the clouds. Elven Runes are painted in the brightest, fieriest blue, a paint filled with crushed sapphire and Lapis Lazuli. The purest expression of what Azyr is, one not modulated by Mysticism or the Elements, only just Azyr. Storm Dragon Horns peak from the forehead and rise, high and proud. They were a gift from that self-same beast for leading a band of Slayers away: as the moon has its phases so too the horns of the beast and they were to be shed anyway, so she was given them as a gift. They have been reinforced with bands of steel-blued for hardness and studded with sapphires.

"I want you to repair the damage your forefathers did to the Gronti, Windseeker."

The rather average Runesmith gestures at the true goal of them both, and all of her workings seem rather paltry in comparison.

A dragon, forged out of damned adamant. It is white as snow, white as the harshest, most hollowing blizzard, white as the moon. It must stand more than forty-five feet, at least if it did stand up straight. Items, things of power, cover it, still burning with Runic might; but where the heart would be on a real Dragon, the Runes that should make it live and move and breath and fight are, instead, absent. Oh she can see them, anyone with Windsight can see the channels of magic burned into that metal. It lived.

It moved.

It fought.

Supposedly forged by the Runelord Snorri Gift-Giver (Pull the other one, though it is at least more plausible than that nonsense with the Shard Dragons) it was a Gronti. Unlike some she believed that it had, in fact, been a gronti. For one, pure damn logic would suggest even the Dwarfs would not want to spend their precious, precious Adamant (and hadn't learning about that explained some things) on a pure art piece. For another, the enemies of the Dwarfs--and of Kraka Drak in particular--had stories of a mighty, white scaled dragon of metal appearing from nowhere to attack. The Daemons of Tzeentch had burned it into the Obelisk of Amnesia, a pictograph and many depraved curses, before the Bretonnians tore it down. The Beastmen spoke of Hyahkneth, the White Lord of Slaughter, who in the time of Akamneth, Guardian of the Lord--a Great Bray-Shaman who sought to destroy the Norse Dwarf Holds--was crushed under its mighty. The Tong, purest of the Warriors of Chaos, spoke of Azleth, the Celestial Lord, with great approval as a fight that was worthy of them and their time, a rare honor indeed. Galgit the Mighty, a Goblin War Boss, had sought to attack Kraka Drak with alchemical concoctions to blast the gate open, only in turn to be filleted by claws.

So it was perhaps no great surprise that the Dwarfs grew arrogant in their pet white dragon. And as the War of the Beard began in earnest, they hatched a plot. A great fleet would set sail from Kraka Ravnsvake, guarded by the Dragon and by the Brana, to strike at Caledor directly and end the war in a single blow. As easily as they had burned Kor Vanaeth would they burn Tor Caled, and with similar results: the hatcheries of Dragons burn and destroyed, and every egg shipped off to Grudge Laden Runelords to serve as Reagents. For surely the soft, weak, delicate, magic loving Elgi could not turn aside the might of the brave, valiant, manly Dwarfs?

It was a blood bath. The Dragons of Caledor, the Phoenixes of Eataine, and the Great Eagles of Avelorn blanketed the skies, spewing red fire and facing the Brana with an unmatched savagery. Archmages overpowered Runes, instructed by the Ironwill, until they exploded in bursts of rainbow light that turned the wearer and their retinues into statuary, blasted them into ash, or buried them under ice. Dragon Ships carved through the waves and through longships like scissors through yarn, sending Dwarf sailors to the deep and Mathlann's realm.

But defeat...they had not truly been defeated until the Dragon was cast down. Mounted atop the Star Dragon Unathos, the Archmage Cyla Ironwill who had first learned to unmake the Runework with her magic came to grips with it. There was a struggle, even as down below the two armies fought and the Dwarfs learned things that day that no preening speech would ever shake from them:

The Elves, the Elves could endure. They had might in their thews too. And their magic was of worth.

Try as she might, for all her power Cyla could not unmake the Runes burned into the Dragon's hide. They had been too well made, were too thick with power, were too mighty fed by Adamant. But she would not yield, would not give up, and so if she could not destroy them she would choke them. Speaking the very tongue of the gods and the secret language of the priests of Vaul, she wove a curse over the Runes, a terrible thing that cracked the earth and split the air with thunder as in the Realm of the Gods, Vaul cast Himself against Thungni.

And then the Runes faded, choked of their magic, and the Dragon plummeted into the seas.

And at that, the Dwarfs fled. The King of Kraka Drak, the King of Kraka Ornsmotek, the King of Ravnsvake, and the King of Dorden all perished in the fighting. And for thousands of years, the Dragon itself was lost, sometimes considered a fable but not to the Dwarfs and not, in truth, to her.

And then, as the portents of war grew thick in the air, it washed up on the shores of Kraka Ravnsvake. As word of an Everchosen split the air, as the Dark Elves prepared either to march west against Ulthuan or south against the Lizardmen, as Heinrich Kemmler and Mannfred Von Carstein prepared to battle for the command of the undead, as Grimgor Ironhide prepared to march against the World's Edge Mountains and against the Dwarfs, as the Skaven plot in their pits. A gift from Thungni? A beneficence of Mathlann? Both? In any case having it functioning would mean...much.

For the Dwarfs.

"Why me?"

"We can't even look at what the Ironwill did without turning to stone. We certainly can't call the Elgi for it, can we? Teclis, maybe, but he is, or so I am told, busy. If we asked the Colleges of Magic for it it would be too damn obvious. But you? You? Who everyone knows we hate? Who hates us in turn?" Looking again she does find that his beard is both immaculate and longer than any other she's ever seen, as it's split by a particularly nasty smile. "Attested by King Durak Firebolt? A madman perhaps, to trust Umgi, but an honorable one too. The Enemy will think in their arrogance that we have wasted this gift, even as in truth we see it restored to function; until it soars the skies again, and they remember ancient dread."

She considers. The Skaven...they will come for Estalia. For revenge. Pestilens has wanted them punished for their temerity, for their arrogance, for a century now, for daring to resist, and the other rats are not far behind. There are Grudges to settle against the Skaven, many that the Dwarfs would see brought to an end. Will Dwarf help, if it comes, mean more than what she can do in what time she has left? "You truly think I can unweave a curse laid by an Archmage of the Golden Age?"

"I think, with your back against the wall and no other choices, that you'll figure it out."

She closes her eyes, and lets Azyr fill her, and so fate guide her.

"Very well. I swear on the soul of my brother, it will be done."

 

[Voikirium]

Windseeker Becomes Wind Bringer 2

It was a dragon.

An obvious enough statement, of course. It was the Dragon of Kraka Drak, of course it was a damn dragon.

But it was more than that, it could have lived for how real it was, how like the beasts of Caledor. The scales were shaped in perfect imitation, exactly shaped and polished and hammered until they were like unto that which had been formed by nature, by the gods, by the Winds of Magic, by whatever force one credited with the beautiful Apex Predators among Apex Predators. Its horns were as well-shaped as any living beast, framed by the sun, as it hunted its evening meals on the Annuliis. Its veined wings shifted and moved like the serpentine beasts as they carved through the air as graceful as any eagle. But such minor details could be "faked," could be copied without true understanding, could be like the shoddy imitations of pike the greenskins sometimes gave to their goblins, an emulation of good Estalian work without understanding the whole.

But the whole worked. Every proportion was not simply accurate, it was an absolute reflection of the Dragons of Ulthuan. Rather than the bulk of a Magma Dragon for the sake of more durability, the claws of a Chaos Dragon for the sake of cutting, and so on and so forth, or because examples were easier to gather if nothing else, it was nothing more and nothing less than an absolutely perfect copy of the mightiest Star Dragons. Sinuous and graceful, lithe and quick, and yet terrifyingly powerful. But more than power there was beauty: the eyes were beautiful marble, dotted with a sapphire pure and blue, and they captured the wry wisdom and pride and nobility that had burned in Ythoras as he had introduced the Dragon Mage to the Ruby Guild. Etched onto what would be horn and claw were carvings, not of mighty kings avenging Grudges, of slaughter and bloodshed, was the creation of beautiful things, and the going about of life. There, on that one, the weaving of a fine tapestry. The next, the forging not of hammer or ax or pick but a simple, beautiful door.

You will never make anything like this.

It was a rotten, bitter, ugly voice that sounded in her head. And that, she was strong enough to admit, was the root of it.

She could make books that would call down lightning. She could make a cloak that would call down the stars themselves. She could summon a blizzard. She could make a mask that would allow her to force the heavens themselves into auspicious signs. And it would be fine work.

But it would never, ever, match up to this thing from an age long, long past. To a figure steeped in myth and legend, a figure she wanted to believe could not exist. But even if he hadn't, even if Snorri Gift-Giver truly had been the Dwarfs attempting to form a mythologized past to deal with a miserable present, a hypothesis seeming more and more the scrambling of an arrogant mind itself (oh the irony). Then somebody had still taken up the damn hammer, and lit the forge, and put in the effort, and made a damn Star Dragon of a metal so hard she was not sure her entire country could destroy it, short of some treachery. They had even copied the abilities as well. Torques and amulets, still burning with Runic power themselves, made it an even closer simulacrum, an even closer mirror. It could breathe fire as hot as the stars themselves must burn.

But most importantly they had put in the time.

And that was the real root of it, wasn't it? Time. She would live longer than most of her species, but she did not have the time to pour the years--the decades--that had made this art what it was. She couldn't, she didn't, she never would. Morr would take her. She did not have the ashes of a dead god to sustain her; she could not coat her body in metal and become undying; she had not grail to sup from; she could not take on the constancy of stone.

She would, with time, die. Sooner than any Dwarf, short of the unlucky. With grand dreams, only half-realized, thanks to that which was the fate of mortality. She would, at least, pass to Morr's Garden, to a peaceful slumber and rest; but she would leave behind artifacts that only half-resembled what had been in her mind. Every blade she had made, only a fraction of what had appeared in her heart. Every suit of armor only a portion of what she desired in her mind. Everything, only a reflection of the forms, passed down to faltering material reality from merely mortal hands.

And the Dwarfs did not suffer that. Every one of them could make what was in their mind, exactly as they saw it.

And that, that was at the heart of it, wasn't it? Jealousy.

That even so fallen from their Golden Age, they had what she would kill for, had killed for in fact; never anyone who hadn't deserved it in at least some sense, servants of Chaos and Skaven and Orcs and worse, but she had. She had covered her hands in blood in service to that ideal, to try and get even a fraction closer to it.

And the Dwarfs? The Dwarfs simply had it. Whether some gift of merest fate, of biology, or more likely the knowledge passed down by the Ancestors, they had the perfect blueprint to take what in their mind and make it real. And that burned, that burned to realize.

That burned so much even to think.

She looked at the thing, the monument to her inadequacy. To what she desired to have, but never would. She felt bile rise in her throat to see it.

She could leave, and spare herself the indignity. Estalia would need her in wars to come, in reproaching the Skaven once more. She could be somewhere without the glares of ancient old Runelords, angered...angered for what? Angered that she had insulted their Ancestors, like as not. Not without cause. She could be somewhere with wine. Somewhere the cold did not seep into her bones, somewhere the sun was a companion and friend. Somewhere the Four did not constantly tempt her. Khorne, whispering that she could have revenge. Nurgle, promising he would dull the pain if she would but rot with him. Tzeentch, swearing knowledge in return for treachery. And Slaanesh, Slaanesh most of all. Promising that all she had to do to please him...was please herself.

Yes, she could have it all.

In contrast, the only thing keeping her there was an oath on the soul of a dead man.

She sighed, and began studying the curse again.

---

It was a beautiful, terrible, wonderful piece of spellwork Cyla had laid on the Dragon, particularly for something she had to have, for all intents and purposes, come up with on the spot. Aye, it was similar enough to the mystical matrix she had made that destroyed but still, that was like going from riding a horse to riding a gryphon, all in the span of the, at best, minutes she would have had to fight. A thing of Qhaysh, beautiful and pure and vicious. Chamon of course, the better to solidify the magic flowing within. Shyish, to ossify it. Ghyran, to lull it to sleep. All to ensure it would not move, could not move. And yet to destroy it, to remove it, would be to destroy the dragon itself too. Not the Runes, but the structure would implode, rust, and overgrow with moss all at the same time. There would be no repairing it, certainly not in time for the brewing war of all against all.

"The ages have not been kind to either of us, have they?"

She saw the old Dwarf again. But he was different this time. His beard was still the longest and whitest and purest she had ever seen, ever even imagined even the Dwarfs could produce. But he bore a hammer, and it was coated in Runic Magic, teal-golden light that seemed to shine more brightly than she could ever imagine. The faces of the Ancestor Gods Thungni and Smednir were placed on the sides, and though still grim of countenance there was, oddly, a comfort to their faces in the ensuing darkness; if nothing else, it seemed likely they were madder at the foes gathering against them than against her, for all she could not imagine they were well pleased with her. Their Runes burn on them, and on the center, the mighty striking face, the Master Rune of Conduction.

His armor was...it was right. Layers of plate, silver and white, like Mannslieb against the gray clouds, rest atop the craggy hide of not just a dragon, but Haruzrildrakk himself. Mail, made of gromril, covers what few spots are not covered by that same hard Adamant, resting just as snugly against the dragon hide, like a blanket of metal that rests well against his form. The mountains of Norsca are made in knotwork, placed along the entire harness, evoking the strength and surety of the mountain home of the Dwarfs, so perfectly she can even imagine living there herself, what life must have been like then. Burning on it, the Rune of Stone, the Rune of Fortitude, and the Master Rune of Unyielding.

But it is the hooded cloak of Shaggoth hide that clenches it for her. The three plates of Gromril, that bear stylized clouds. Framed within those clouds, at the center the Master Rune of Grungni, to the right the Rune of Lightning, to the left the Rune of Fury. The outside dyed a crimson like the setting sun, and a thin layer of adamant scale over the leather. Depictions of everyday life as it was in the Golden Age of the world, when things were right. So detailed, so beautiful, so well-made that one could see them as moving, shifting, going from scale to scale as easily as she could walk from one door to the other, blinking, breathing. Alive.

"Snorri Klausson."

"Gift-Giver." He turns, and one eye is covered with a patch, bearing the heraldry of Clan Winterhearth. The empty socket where the Eye of the Ancestors should be is covered; whether that means he has replaced it with a different one, if he simply isn't wearing it, if it was lost, or if it never existed in the first place, hardly compares to the absolute preponderance of evidence staring her in the face. Snorri without the eye is still a Dwarf who marched with Grimnir; She is not foolish enough that would not confer a certain weight to him. "I am more impressed with you than I thought I'd be, Umgi, but you've blackened my name enough don't you think?" His glare is cold, very cold, cold as the northern winds, cold as the blizzard.

But not quite as cold as the shoulder her own mother gave her when she discovered she was a witch. Though a seed of fear is planted she strangles it out and glares back at him. "Historical skepticism is not blackening your name."

"No, but your mad crusade against my apprentices is."

"Madness seems like it would require a bit more heat than suggesting that deeds may have been attributed to those who did not do them."

"Perhaps, but to cling to it in the face of everything saying otherwise hardly suggest a sane human mind, either."

She sighs and shakes her head. "I can't imagine you've called me all the way from Estalia to bandy about crooked words." She stretches out her Windsight, and as every legend has ever claimed, her magic has been reduced to nothing. With time, perhaps she could cast a spell; but she would need much more than a single spell to have even chance. "Perhaps, I suppose, to kill me and settle the Grudge?"

"Hardly. I intend to have you retract the insults you've laid against my person, and against my apprentices, and against my craft; and you're damn well going to help me fight off the oncoming horde; but word for word, not blood for word. That is the wisdom of Grungni, and I will not fail my Ancestors. Not again."

"So what did you want me for then? I can't imagine you need my help."

"No, I don't need your help. But I could use it for reasons that will be clear enough. But first, I'm going to tell you some damn thing: my legacy was not used to slay children."

"The Dragon was clearly lost--"

"I do not mean the damn Dragon. That is not my legacy. Or at least, it's not all of it. My legacy is this," he stretches his hands outwards, unfolds his arms, gesturing to the whole of the glittering might of Khazaghar around him. "Khazagar. My apprentices. My students. The knowledge I've shared with the worthy. The protection I've offered to my people. The Urks and Dumi slain by it, aye. And yes, even the war against the Elves: I'm no killer of children, but vengeance was needed. How else to show the world it had better be ready to catch it in the eye if it tries some nonsense than to carry that vengeance in the face of a wicked thing?"

"Then what did happen?"

"I had heard there was a shard of Hashut, far, far far to the east. And so far, far, far to the east I journeyed, hoping to finally see the aurochs destroyed, a Grudge so personal and so terrible that I needed to see it done, followed by my heir and my former apprentices, oaths of old called upon. I was gone; but I would not leave my people undefended. I would not. So as a show of loyalty to my king, I offered him command of the Dragon. And then he was slain; not by the Elgi, no, but by the Daemons for they had decided it was time to settle old Grudges themselves, while we were distracted and I think, to ensure cooler, wiser, heads could not, would not be able to speak against them. The new King was barely two centuries old, thrust into power and into a war that has few matches, four-hundred years of strife and slaughter between the two mightiest powers this world has ever seen.

The King of Ravnsvake, who imagined colonies loyal to him, was a thousand. So he spun tales of, and such promises he offered, to each king in turn, of a fast end to the war, of glory, and aye of dead dragons. I will not deny that some of my people have a hard heart towards the Drakk, we did not invent the Rune of Dragon Slaying because our history is a thing of peace and beauty and wonder. But then," the walls shake as something vast and ancient and terrible makes its way from the underground. Distantly she feels the world turn upside down as the Daemonhost finally arrives; and her mind races as she places all things together, "Not all have lost their sense so badly that they would become the slayer of children."

"You truly did raise Shard Dragons." She has seen wonders to excite the senses, terrors to stop the heart (fortunate she can shock herself to force it work again), and everything in between, but that, that finally forces her voice into numbness and wonder as the truth of it is revealed.

"Oh aye. What was the other option, a particularly hardy breakfast of eggs?" She chuckles, against herself, and he does too, and in that moment something in the air breaks. It's not the hardest she's laughed, probably because it's far from the funniest joke, but the absurdity of the image combined with the darkness of the implication forces her to feel again. "So that Beardling of a prince misused my damn Drakk to try and become a Slayer, and I'm sure he promised Reagents to the students of Khazagar; or if not him then the lord of Ravnsvake. And you know what? Not a damn one of them went! Oh they marched to other campaigns, but if he had Runesmiths...if my kin, if the Thungni-blooded had tossed away their honor in infanticide...it was not in the name of my school. How else do you suppose that the Elves found using their magic so easy? I'll admit, they likely had some as old as I am and so as able to draw up magic, but I promise you this, they would not have had so much luck popping the works we made if the Khazagari had been there, I can tell you that damn much. Why else train so much with the Brana?"

"That does lead me to the question, of why the Branakroki themselves would have joined such an endeavor."

"The Sky King had transcended," Snorri said, fiddling with his ax even as he walked towards the statue himself, "Left behind this plane. And for all He's been better at incarnating Himself than your gods, or the Ancestors, it's still not the kind of trick He can pull too often. So the Brana were stuck following His legacy and His example; and His legacy, and His example, were to aid the Dwarfs so they did, in the entirely wrong way. Some of them, anyway. And I would not be shocked if the King of Ravnsvake had kept his full intent hidden from them; a lying, subtle thing, for a Dwarf."

"Alright...but I am at last left with the question of why you summoned me, who has, as you said, sullied your name."

"I was curious. Who has the gall to speak so? The Colleges will not. The Tileans will not. The Elves of course, but they can stand against me well enough. But a mere wizard, even a mighty Wizard; but one who too, aids the Dwarfs. Who knows them, even as she rages against them. Who is attested by, as I said, no less than a King as a woman of honor, who keeps her oath."

"The vow was made." She closes her eyes, and she can hear her brother's voice on the horizon, in a far distant, warm country. "It will be kept."

"Ah. I don't know if I'd help those I hate for my brothers," He closes his eyes and remembers, remembers both, long gone now, "but if anything was going to make me, aye, it would be them."

"But then, why else? It would be strange to summon me now, of all times."

There is the crack of thunder, and the pall of lightning. "I did not...fully...lie. I truly do intend to use you as a hell of a surprise. As a wizard of course, but for more than that. Ever since I slew Kholek Suneater, the Dragon Ogres have wanted to slay me and destroy Drak, more than anything. Now they intend to use the storm their masters summon to become as powerful as they can possibly imagine. I'm hoping you can be clever and take it from them, since I can only use so much of Skarrenbakraz at a time so near home."

The stars twinkle in her mind's eye. "I may have a plan."

"As for helping me repair my Dragon, well, I suppose having you point out what was elf and what was Vaul was helpful enough." He raises his hammer. "Since I think the Smith god is slightly preoccupied turning Khaine's face into hamburger at the moment."

---

Outside, the armies of Beastmen and Daemons race towards the Throng, itself a glimmering thing of steel and gromril barely holding. They are relentless, horrifying, beyond all measure, beyond all reason. Without pity, or sanity, or mercy.

And then there is a roar they have not heard in four-thousand years.

And they freeze.
--
Don't know if there will be a third part. If there is, it will be coming after a palette cleanser that will hopefully make fewer people mad at me.

 

[Voikirium]

Skufgor Klad

Being a Translation from Reikspiel

Noble is a man. How do I reward him? Suit of courage, suit of hope, carved from the mountains with a hard knife. From the Forge of Hirn. Worked by the Runelords, Skufgor Klad has its name.

A finely made suit of good, strong Gromril plate armor, made red and gold to protect from rust. There is not a place uncovered in the metal, but not simply with mail or scale--instead fine lames, articulated, offer the necessary freedom of movement for a warrior not to be pinned down for his slowness and pulled apart, and yet still much the same protection as a proper plate, leaving the entire body covered in the hard metal in its strongest form. Engraved in gold on the metal, the slaying of Blacktusk, along the lames, the fine bands of the star-metal. Twin pieces are the helmet, one portion like visor and the other ever resting on the head. Place them together and the helmet bears form of a boar, long snout and hard tusks, sharp and hard enough to punch through flesh and skin.

Three Runes burn, three Runes flash, three Runes live.

Above the heart, the Master Rune of the Boar. The bearer becomes hardy, tough and strong as a boar, and by rights as personable. But there is more in this armor. For this bears the heart of Redtusk, the mount of Kazakuz, whose name is to guzzle war. Bigger than any such beast, and mighty. Strong was its rage, and strong its flesh. Too strong for any hammer to break, until Johann ripped its tusk from its jaw and used it to pierce the thing's eye. Its heart he gave to the Runelords; its heart feeds the armor. As tough as that hide his flesh; as stubborn that will, his.

On the right pauldron, the Rune of Hope. Hearken now, hear these words, and live in hope. For by that hand. Sigmar rebukes the darkness. So too the Warrior Priest, who stands with the Dwarfs. Hope burns in the breast; hope shines in his allies; hope, tenacious, stands. The darkness his tongue rebukes; the darkness his will defies. Like Sigmar Himself he stands. Dragon and wyvern and boar he defies, dragon and wyvern and boar.

On the left, the Rune of Courage, as a shield. The will becomes enduring; the will becomes absolute. No fear can take him; no fear can claim him, as resolute as Sigmar Himself. It is a will of iron that fills him, a will of iron that shines. None may break him, none can best him. Metal worked by old Thea Disl, shaved and worked, strengthens it, and gives it a will; and that courage doubles against the Greenskins and the trolls and all the servants of Mork and Gork, Gork and Mork, and the Spider too, even as it takes from them as surely as they take from all the world. But all that seek to shake him from the path, they are rebuked by that will, which is touched by mighty Sigmar Himself.

Earned it was, earned it has been, in blood. Long, long ago, when my grandfather's father was young. The Grandmaster Johann. And souls of the Reikland. Marched to the aid of Hirn against the Greenskins. The Vows were remembered; the Oaths were kept. Kazakuz, Black Orc who hates the Dwarfs, scurries about the mountains. He is willfull and skillful. But he takes no wyvern. He rides a boar, and earns the love of his Boar Boyz for it.

Dwarf King. Human Priest. Face the Warboss. The boar is strongest; the strongest of all. Redtusk. Touched by Gork and Mork, or Mork and Gork. No arrow can pierce its hide, no sword can cut it. Angered becomes the Knight, master of an order, angered becomes Johann. Marches he does, marches in strength. Grips the tusk, rips and pulls and takes. Slays the boar. Slays the Orc. Saves the King. An Old King. A Good King.

He vows. A gift he promises to the human; a gift he promises to the knight. Fine work, good work. Mighty Karstah, heir of the Gift-Giver, he seeks; mighty Karstah, he finds, and employs, to create an emulation of another great Boarslayer, Sigmar the Mighty, Sigmar the Young. The first of the Heldenhammer's deeds, the first of the Heldenhammer's acclaim, the first piece of his glory.

She forges and makes, makes and forges. Every blow is strong; every blow is perfect. Art. Time it takes; effort it claims. Years and years pass. Decades.

Old is Johann when the gift is complete; old and stubborn, old and ready yet to pass it along. Young when he marched to war, and not young now. An heir he has claimed, a village boy of will. Alexander the Burdened, for his beauty is great; Slaanesh desires him. Slaanesh will not have him, Slaanesh cannot claim him, for his faith at last is rewarded. So his teacher instructs, and so the armor, forged by that Heir, that Runelord, passes on to him; and with that Johann breathes his last, is finally satisfied, and passes to Sigmar's side.

A Warrior of the Gods, a Knight of the Just, becomes Alexander; and fury becomes him. A mighty poleaxe he wields, and blessed armor. Herald of Sigmar, Herald of Hope, as together the world seeks to defy the darkest things. He brings courage and hope, hope and courage as he goes, preaching the word of Sigmar in the darkest places.

And that is the story of Skufgor Klad, Armor of Hope.
--
This was written in an ancient language, a distinct dialect of Imperial spoken only within the north of the Reikland then translated into Estalian. I hope, Lady Domina Fortunata, that that explains some of the oddity in language. Reikspiel is a difficult thing to translate at the best of the times, old Reikspiel moreso, and old, dialectical Reikspiel most of all.

-Personal Correspondence of Leandre Agua

---

I'm imagining the armor as constructed roughly like Henry VIII's foot combat armor.