On Thread Etiquette:
I'm not going to weigh in on the logic of either side's arguments, but I will ask that everyone read over what they write and really consider if the words they used are polite and won't be inflammatory intentionally or not. You cant account for people's tolerances perfectly but at least try to say your piece without saying things that can be easily construed as overly dismissive of the other side of the argument, thank you.
Divided Loyalties has Dum in contact with the rest of the Karaz Ankor until the war against Chaos that Magnus the Pious fought in, so unless that's another bit where BoneyM is diverging from canon, it'd be rather less than that.
Divided Loyalties has Dum in contact with the rest of the Karaz Ankor until the war against Chaos that Magnus the Pious fought in, so unless that's another bit where BoneyM is diverging from canon, it'd be rather less than that.
It's going to be interesting once we, hopefully, get rid of this temporal effect. A lot of stuff could have been trapped by this effect over the decades that will be released once this is resolved. I can imagine that there are a lot of nasties from the Incursion still here.
In any other circumstance, you would give your advice as is the wont of any Elder, but not here. The lives being held are the lives of her kin, the choice is hers and hers alone to make.
(Roll, The Choice: 17 +30[THEY ARE KIN] +10[Rekindled Hope] +10[Oathsworn] -15[Pragmatism] -15[Lurking Enemy] =37, DC 50 to send group)
Igna closes her eyes.
She takes a deep breath and exhales quietly through her nose.
"Ancestors watch over them," Igna whispers quietly before staring back up at everyone, eyes hard, "We march for Dum and end this nonsense at the source."
Everyone at the table nods, some stoic, others less so, but none gainsay her decision. Not when they understood the sacrifice Igna was making, the burden she took on, with her decision.
"Was there anything else we ought to discuss before this is adjourned?" Valma asks.
None say anything.
"Then I'll call this meeting to a close," Igna announces with a barely noticeable sigh, "Lord Snorri, I fear the enemy may try something especially egregious during your watch tonight."
You snort, "Maybe they can actually give me something approaching an attempt this time."
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Burlokk grimaces in the face of the wind, his torch flickering in the breeze. The cutting cold streaked across his face and slowly built a layer of frost on his beard over the course of his watch. Behind him his Clansmen set up camp for the night, moving the wagons and carts so that they can shelter behind them and do their best to keep the heat from escaping their fire.
Months now they have marched, searching for their kin, and have found nothing but frozen earth and flat plains.
Their supplies hold out, but will not indefinitely. They'd long passed the point of no return, and the only recourse was to carry on south and hope they got out of the Zorn Uzkul. It is maddening because their maps tell them they ought to have seen even the barest inklings of the mountains on the horizon.
But they see only windswept plains and the bare bones of the dead.
He only grumbles at the thought just as he had every time it reared its unwelcome head. Meanwhile, his eyes squinted and looked for anything, anything, different in the otherwise barren landscape.
Only darkness.
Only death.
"Lord Granitebrow, the rangers have returned with news! They're requesting your presence immediately at the Western checkpoint!" an out of breath voice shouts from behind him, stopping just shy of him to take deep lungfuls of air.
Burlokk turns to stare down at the panting youngster, a boy no older than seventy for Grungni's sake, before sniffing loud enough that the boy stands upright once more. Taking a moment to make sure the beardling won't keel over without his supervision, he grumbles out an order to have someone take over his watch and walks off towards where the lad informed him the rangers waited.
(Roll, ???: 76 +60[Finder of the Forgotten, Keeper of the Lost] =136)
(Roll, ???: 8 +60[Finder of the Forgotten, Keeper of the Lost] =68)
(Re-Roll, ???: 32 +60[Finder of the Forgotten, Keeper of the Lost] -10[Burning Fuel] =82)
He blinks when he comes up to the recently returned rangers, and stares at the dwarfs they came back with.
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Just as Igna predicted, that night you are not at all surprised to see that whoever has been futzing about with magic does not let up their "assault." A continuous series of magical nonsense attempting, and failing obviously, to endanger the lives of the Dwarfs around you. Lightning falls only to be captured and repurpoised by the banner's barrier. Multi-hued fire rains down from the heavens like a blizzard, just to fizzle out and disappear before a few well-timed taps on your amulet. Mystifying miasma dissipates, comets are broken and rendered to nothing more than dust, golden creatures tearing their way into existence in the middle of the camp for only seconds before a stern glare on your end destroys them utterly. On and on you and those working with you keep the rest of the Throng safe from the trickery of the foe. Come morning the only real signs of damage from the enemy are a few scorch marks on the far outskirts of the Throng's camp, well away from any dwarf, and the groggy grumbling of those unlucky enough to have had their sleep interrupted by your dispelling efforts.
Bah! Better tired than dead.
Siggrun's expedition is quickly and easily incorporated into the greater Throng, many of them eager to head home with the knowledge of why they've seemingly been left alone for decades. Your combined forces march for a week under a barrage of spellfire before the first true enemy reveals itself. The day is like any other, bleak skies and barren plains, but when one of the Brana returns with a recently dead harpy locked in their beak the Throng is set to full wakefulness. It is the first true sign of hostile contact you all have faced, and likely not the last.
Good.
A part of you has been eager to see just what your new equipment can bring to bear!
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The temple is silent, one of the few times when the rest of the clergy have left Grunna to herself. A rare and precious thing to have considering her position, especially given the amount of work that Karaz a Karak always seems to generate for them. Time that could be spent managing, directing, or otherwise improving the lives of others somehow falling into her lap with nothing to spend it on.
A gift, a rarity.
Grunna gives this resource freely to the dwarf sitting across from her, listens to the seeming madness of her requests and accepts them without question. Gingerly, reverently, she takes the chest offered to her and moves it to her side.
"We'll see it secured my Lady, I'll shave my plaits if we can't. If you would permit me this question though my Lady, why us and not her?" the High Priestess of Valaya asks carefully.
The dwarf across from her shakes her head, a rueful smile visible even in the dim firelight.
"She won't take it, and it isn't as if my son has enough weapons already. No, someone who will need it will take up the old girl I reckon. You need only keep her safe until that day comes. I've been laying seeds for a good long time now and a few are growing rather well already," Valaya says cryptically, the glow of the hearth behind her framing the Ancestor with a halo of warm orange light.
"By your will my Lady," she says, "Did you have any other tasks for us?"
"No dearie, those two things will be all. Go and spend your day with your children hmm? Free time is a rare thing to have for folk like us after all, what better way to spend it than with those we cherish?"
"Of course my lady," Grunna says with a bow.
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As you march ever closer to the Karak the terrain begins sloping more and more while the foes that have conspicuously been absent finally begin to appear. The harpy is only the beginning of the deluge of enemies that now begin to harass the Throng as it marches onward. It begins slowly with packs of freakishly mutated hounds, Ungor raiding parties, the odd group of emaciated Gors and a few easily destroyed flocks of harpies. Nothing the beardlings can't handle frankly, which gives you time to ponder your current situation while you make sure the enemy's attempts at magic are stymied over the next few weeks.
This was an enemy with enough base cunning to withhold their forces and try to soften you up with an artillery barrage, only now sending the dregs of their forces in the face of so little progress. By this point, you've narrowed down at least two possibilities. Either they held a staggering level of arrogance in their abilities or they lacked the tactical knowledge about the Throng's ability to stymie their magic. In either case, it is a possible advantage you and likely many others have to keep in mind.
A shrill whistle is heard in the distance, coming from the direction of the forward scouting parties. The pattern is succinct, loud and unmistakable, something kept in reserve for when subtlety and stealth are either unnecessary or no longer viable.
Enemy army approaching.
"READY UP DAWI!" Igna's voice suddenly booms from the center, "SLOW MARCH 40 METERS, OPEN FIELD FORMATION!"
Like a well-crafted crossbow, the Throng springs into action. The front line widens and shifts as dwarfs draw their axes and hammers, shields held laxly but ready to be raised at a moment's notice. Companies of quarrellers stagger themselves into overlapping zones of fire while Longbeards grumble their way into position. Siege equipment soon finds itself protected from all sides while supplies are moved aside so that they can't impede any maneuvering that may need to happen. In a manner of moments, the Throng is arrayed for battle, ready to face whatever foe was apparently heading towards them.
For a while, there is simply nothing but the howl of the wind, the murmurs of anxious beardlings and the grumbling of their elders. Then, from your position near the front, surrounded by your Hearth Guard, you can barely make out the sound of rumbling in the distance.
As it grows louder, the silhouette of the rangers can be seen swiftly making their way back to the Throng. As they get close enough that your eyes can make them out in greater detail, you scowl. It is a grim thing to see, wounded rangers being carried on the shoulders of their brethren, others sporting less crippling but still serious wounds marching swiftly alongside them. The sight of Dawi blood staining the ground in splotchy lines as the forward skirmishers returned sets the Throng rumbling fiercely.
It seems the enemy spellcaster is cunning enough to enshroud its forces in some form of sorcery, the Throng had far less foreknowledge than was optimal.
Bah, you've dealt with worse.
The shieldwall splits apart, letting the wounded rangers through and into the tender mercies of the healers while those still fighting fit are sent back to recuperate and protect the artillery. There is a static in the air, the kind of heady, anxious energy that sends the stomach rumbling and the mind abuzz with adrenaline. All the while the rumbling has only grown louder, the earth quietly shaking as it grows while the silhouettes spotted in the air slowly grow more visible.
"EYES UP BEARDLINGS, FOES ATOP THE HILL!" a Thane at the very front bellows, axe pointed north.
Just as he proclaimed, you can now see the faintest blurry outline of forms on the ground, cresting the small hill ahead of you. The sight of the enemy sends a jet of anger coursing through your veins. Khazalid fills the air while Thanes and Lords bellow final orders and shore up the shieldwall. The horizon slowly fills out with yet more shadows cresting the hill, close enough now that you can just barely make out the dark tongue the things of chaos speak being chanted like a fel choir. The tide continues, pouring out from behind the hill like the contents of a spilled oil jug. Bodies moving in an uncoordinated mass towards their target.
This was no raiding party, no bunch of half-starved dregs sent to harass you, but an actual army come to face you in a pitched battle.
"AT LAST, THE FOE APPEARS!" Dwalin bellows, voice carried through sheer volume, "BATTLE CALLS AND WE SHALL ANSWER IN KIND DAWI!"
He is met with a thunderous roar torn from the throats of thousands of incensed Dwarfs and Brana.
Just as the main bulk of the enemy passes into range the sky above you is filled with the shadows of Rune empowered siege weaponry fire. The initial mass volley of rocks and bolts screaming through the air like the very magic that proved so ineffective against you earlier. The Throng watches, then cheers as they strike true and leave gaping spaces where clumps of the foe were wiped out entirely. Whatever the case, the sight of their forces being turned to a bloody paste sends the already ungainly march of the enemy into a frenzied charge of fur and horns. The ever present braying and roaring of the Cloven Ones grows almost deafening as they charge closer.
"STEADY NOW DAWI!" Igna yells.
The artillery changes tactics as the enemy closes, bolt throwers focusing on the oncoming form of the largest of the enemy forces while the grudge throwers do their best to paste the largest groups of the foe they can find. They reap a bloody toll, culling many of the frontline fodder and main army, but the great tide of flesh and metal charges ever closer, slowed but not broken. They get so close that your keen eyes can see the matted, bloodsoaked fur, the crude armour and swooping horns that the beastfolk are known for. Interspersed among the oncoming horde you can make out the most obvious marks and gifts of their foul masters, clawed hands, tentacle limbs and foul energy and even the rare daemon among their ranks. What draws the greatest amount of your attention however is the mass of minotaurs at the van of the charge, diminished by the artillery and magic of the Brana, but still numerous enough to do a great deal of damage to the line should they connect.
The Quarrellers begin firing, filling the air with a veritable storm of quarrels from their crossbows, some aimed at the oncoming tide but others at the swarm of Harpys that follow closely behind.
You grunt at your Hearth Guard and, understanding your order immediately, they begin making room for you to move towards the oncoming charge. Around you, grim-faced dwarfs and anxious beardlings part like water at your passing, pushed along by the grumbling of your retainers.
The enemy is close enough to see the whites of their eyes, make out the viscera and offal staining their forms and the crudely shaped approximation of armour on their forms.
You grip the shaft of Zharrgal tightly, ignoring the orange-gold fire that erupts from where your hand grips the shaft. The flames travel down the weapon and up your arm until the hammerhead is engulfed utterly, and the energy of your armour matches the colour perfectly.
Huffing, you break the cordon of Hearth Guard around you, stepping forward until you stand alone a half meter out from the shield wall.
The minotaurs roar and speed up, seeing your armour and position as both a challenge and inviting target to crush before doubtlessly continuing on to the beardlings behind you.
You grumble, the light of Zharrgal growing in intensity, almost as if it was anticipating the coming moment.
Fifty meters.
You snort, the pulsing of your armour matching the furious palpitation of your heart as adrenaline and indignant anger fill you.
Forty-five.
You spit out a wad of phlegm and square your feet.
Forty.
You let Zharrgal slide down until your hand is near the end of the haft.
Thirty-five.
You firm up your stance, tense the proper muscles preparing.
Thirty.
You raise the hammer.
Twenty-five.
You bring it down.
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Gimli watches the ground in front of the Runelord literally erupt in fire and death.
A series of cracks erupts from the point of contact, buckling and cracking the frozen earth. The force of the blow and upheaval of the land disrupting the oncoming minotaur charge. Hoofs lose their footing, bodies stumble and fall, hurt by their own momentum and the oncoming rush of those behind them. Several minotaurs, Gimli notes quietly, simply have their heads crushed as they end falling face-first into some exposed rock, stunned and unable to move as their own weight and the weight of those behind them crush their skulls against the rock like stone against an anvil.
The survivors of the initial disruption fare no better, partly or fully buried beneath the bodies of their fellows, they can do nothing but bellow and scream as jets of molten rock erupt in a violent explosion from the cracks. The liquid stone burning flesh and melting the crude metal on their bodies. What was once a gently sloping plain is now a scene straight from the aftermath of a violent eruption, molten stone oozing like pus from cracked earth in a large triangle stemming from Lord Snorri.
It is to the enemy's credit, or perhaps their stupidity, that they simply charge around the carnage and into the shield wall. The last thing Gimli hears before he gets preoccupied by the horde of foes rushing at him are the bellowed orders of Thane Rockbrow and the grandiose laughter of Lord Dwalin all the way on the left flank. Then the foe is upon him and he turns his mind to battle.
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You swing Zharrgal and an enemy dies, body pulped and burned, armour sundered utterly in a single lightning-fast blow. Above you, the scream of Brana and the crackle of thunder abound over the screams of the melee. You pay little mind to your avian allies, trusting them, the Quarrelers and the other Runesmiths to keep the harpies at bay. Around you, the Hearth Guard has slowly moved up to secure your flank and stop you from being cut off. From behind the shields of the Valkyrie Guard, the axes of the Huskarls swing out and cleave beastfolk in twain.
You slam Zharrgal onto the ground once more, this time a wave of golden fire erupts from the point of contact, burning the beastmen around you horribly enough that you can smell the scent of cooking flesh and burning fur around you.
To your right you spy Prince Gimli cut the head off of a particularly large Gor, the axe edge bubbling with boiling blood. The lad is a whirlwind, axes swinging and screaming through the air. He cuts and cleaves a path through the enemy, making sure to stay well within the reach of the Huskarls who fiercely fought behind him.
The youngster does not notice the Shaman in the far back, a swirling mass of putrid green energy coalescing on the tip of its staff, aiming straight at him.
You duck under the axe swing of a Gor, pulp its head with Zharrgal then dispel the magic just as it leaves the Shaman's grip. The explosion of rot that quite literally melts an entire group of beastfolk, Shaman included, is enough to rouse the lad's notice it seems. He turns to look at you, eyes bright and clear.
You grunt and get back to fighting.
Damn beardlings can't even keep track of enemy casters.
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Igna shouts and the crackle of lightning follows soon after. From her position atop the shield her retainers hold aloft she can quite clearly see the battle line that has formed.
Lord Snorri in the center, the rhythmic boom of broken earth or wave of golden flame wiping out more and more monsters with each passing second, slowly building a pile of burnt corpses and ash around him. Lord Dwalin on the left, his laughter and chanting booming over the sound of the battle and banner waving defiantly in the distance. The scream of bolts flying through the air whizzed above her, launched by artillery or thrown by the massive hands of Valma's gronti behind her.
Things were going well enough.
Then the screaming above them grows and crescendos.
Glancing upwards she sees the massive forms of the Brana duelling with the mass of harpies and above. She sees several of the foul blighters twist and shift in the sky, appearing to transform and grow before continuing their assault with renewed vigour. One of them, their transformation proving a failure, falls to the earth where she can clearly see whatever foul magic overtook them did. The dead harpy's feathers have the look of wrought iron, rusted edges sharp and covered in blood rust. The beast's stomach is a ruin of flesh and metal half fused together while the talons of its one transformed foot have grown to double the size of the regular one.
She curses, then orders the quarrellers to redouble their efforts before transferring her attention towards stopping yet more of the harpies from shifting.
For a time her efforts bear fruit and many of the Runesmiths soon pick up the task, having been informed by the runners she sent.
"IN THE DISTANCE!" a Dwarf to her right yells, "YET MORE COME!"
Igna deigns to look in the direction they pointed towards, and grunts at the sight of yet more blobs coming over the hill.
She squints, then grabs at her farseer. The Runes on it glow, giving her far greater detail than even the engineer who made the contraption envisioned.
Igna's eyes widen, yet before she can yell her order the scream of a Brana grabs her attention. She turns and sees one of the massive griffons fall to the earth, surrounded by and duelling several harpies even as they fall to the ground, other Brana swooping down to render aid after them. She has only a second to blink and think about sending some of her own warriors before she is physically tackled by one of the beastwomen, one of many that managed to slip through the failing Brana defence and down towards the waiting Throng.
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"My Lord!" Rudil yells behind you.
Smashing the downed Minotaur's chest in, you turn and grunt at your grandnephew.
"What is it lad?"
"Reports of some strange beastmen reinforcing the enemy," Rudil shouts before swinging his axe with a shout and bisecting an Ungor, "Strange harpies as well. Your orders?"
"Keep at it, send the rangers back to see if Igna and Valma need aid. The rest of us hold this position and draw their attention," you grumble before dodging the probing strike of another beastmen.
"Aye Lord!"
Bah.
Looking to your left you see that Dwalin is getting dangerously close to being cut off from the shield wall, while above you see a few Brana being covered by a cloud of...very odd looking harpies.
Bah!
Raising Zharrgal skywards, its glow acting like a beacon in the dark, you bring it down to your left. A crack in the earth tears through the enemy, terminating just three meters in front of Dwalin before it begins spewing molten Magma. Still not finished, you tap the hammer and watch as the harpies above you are set alight with a familiar golden flame that sends them crashing to the earth, shrieking in pain all the way.
"HAHA, HOW FORTUITOUS! MY THANKS GIFT GIVER!" you hear Dwalin bellow, "A PINT IN YOUR HONOUR WHEN THIS IS DONE!"
Before you can say anything, an axe blow descends on you. Had you not been wearing Barak Azamar it may have hurt you just a little bit, as it is, the blow simply bounces off your plate. Turning your head towards the foul thing that broke your guard, you find yourself staring at a most unusual looking beastman. Its form is far more heavily armoured than expected, but what draws your eye is how the armour itself is made. Though it looks as if it was quite literally bolted onto the massive Bestigor's frame, the dull-eyed creature shows no sign of discomfort or pain. Even as you pulp its knees in retaliation, it simply swings its axe ineffectually, but skillfully so for a beastman, at you from the ground. When that fails it grabs your legs in an attempt to aid the next Bestigor that comes for you.
The coordination, the armour, the actions of these beastmen…
...it bore further investigation after all this mess was over.
You feel something as it slams into you, your body physically moved by the impact of a fireball you were too busy ruminating to notice.
BAH!
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Rudil watches his Granduncle get consumed by the fireball, his body thrown a good three meters away by the blast. He swings his axe with a yell of anger, cleaving through the Bestigor's shield and burying the blade deep in its chest. Another swing severs the head and Rudil breaks formation, running towards the impact crater. His eyes desperately looking, searching, only to find...
...his Granduncle alive and well.
He blinks when the Runelord turns to him and regards him, his literal stony visage judging him before casually tapping his amulet. Rudil blinks when he sees a burst of blood in the distance, the Bray Shaman responsible suffering the deadly feedback of its next spell being disrupted mid formation.
"What in the Ancestor's name are you doing out here Rudil? Get back into the shieldwall!" he grumbles, voice more like the sound of two grinding rocks than they usually were.
"Aye lord," Rudil says, rushing back to follow the order more out of shock than anything.
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Valma swings her axe, ducking under the swiping claws of a harpy and relishing its squawk as Kemma crushes it in her fist.
"ATTA GIRL!" she yells lopping off the wing of another mutated harpy, "SHOW THEM WHAT WE CAN D-"
Valma's declaration is cut short by the panicked shouts of the dwarfs below. Looking down she finds several of them rushing to the left, forming an ad hoc shield wall. Eyes following the pointing fingers and moving bodies she spots a column of dust barrelling straight for the Throng's flank and the artillery.
"KEMMA," she shouts, patting the massive construct's shoulder, "TO THE SHIELD WALL!"
The sound of grinding stone and the flashing of the gronti's eyes prove that she'd heard her creator over the screeching overhead. With a grace that belied her size, the giant begins moving forward, her two sisters following right behind her. The dwarfs below make way, parting before the thundering steps of Valma's creations as they make their way to the front.
"We're no Gift Giver with his lava spouts but this ought to do in a pinch," she mutters, hand shielding her eyes as she gazed out at the growing dust cloud.
Centigors, odd ones covered in plate and carrying axes or some sort of pole in their hands. Spears, she recalls learning from an Elgi book. Never expected the damn things to have that.
She'll study it after the battle.
With a shrug Valma touches the ring on her pinky finger, the Runes on it flaring as she does so. At that moment the eyes of her gronti alight, blazing with sudden power. She waits, gronti still as the material they were made from, until just before the charge connects when the enemy cannot correct their course. With a mental command her Gronti spring into action, slamming their shields into the ground the earth rises to fill the gaps between them with a flare of Rune light.
The resulting impact is as devastating as expected, hundreds of Centigors slamming into slabs of Gromril and stone, crushed by the momentum of their own bodies and that of their fellows behind them.
"SWING!" Valma roars.
One after the other the golems bring down their weapons in front of them. Axes and hammers fit for the giants that wield them pulverizing and cleaving any stragglers that survived the initial crash of bodies.
Grisly business she thinks as she stares grimly down at the charnel pit below, but I'd rather it be them than us.
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The day and battle end when the enemy sounds the horn to retreat. Many are raring to pursue and cut them down, but Igna demands they hold back for now and see to their wounded. You march upwind of the battle, cresting the hill where she orders that camp be set up for the night. After dinner a messenger comes to your tent with a request to meet Igna and the others in her command tent.
Of those injured you are told, only one in twenty were cripplingly so. Many of the Hearth Guard, the former Valkyrie Guard especially, were stationed at the medical tents of their own volition, doing what they could to help tend to the wounded and if the worst came to pass, prepare the bodies of the dead. The rest were elsewhere in the camp doing the same in their own way, seeing to the state of the camp's defences, offering to help repair what armour required it, cooking meals, or even filling out the ranks of the now understrength ranger companies during their watches. In fact, only ten of your retainers were actually with you, chosen amongst themselves to safeguard your person in the event of a nighttime ambush.
Not that you need it, but it's the principle of the thing.
The walk there is uneventful, dwarfs part as you pass while the roar of campfires and the smell of food almost overpowers the scent of blood and the cries of the wounded. Though you must admit that many of them, those not of Kraka Drakk at least, are a tad more respectful in their demeanour. Whether be it by your actions or those of your followers, they certainly think higher of you. As for the dwarfs of your home, it's simply further confirmation of their own belief in your capabilities.
When you enter the command tent you note that about half of those present are bearing wounds of some sort. Many of them glance at you, a few offer nods of respect while others raise their mugs to you. Taking one of the free seats you note that you're rather early, and content yourself to sip from a mug handed to you while you wait.
Eyes scanning the room you note that Logazor's arm is currently hanging in a sling, though the old ranger doesn't seem to mind considering how fervently he scans over stacks of papers in front of him. Dwalin is in a similar state, heavy bandages wrapped around his head and hand kept still with a makeshift cast. Igna too bears signs of injury, fresh gauze covers the bridge of her nose and parts of her cheeks. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Valma and her equipment look no worse for wear, as does Gimli and Blizzardwing, the latter of which now has a bloody claw the size of your head dangling from her neck.
Good for her.
"It seems like everyone's here," Igna mutters, glancing as the final Thane, who walked in with his leg in a cast, finally settles into his seat, "Let's start with the obvious. These weren't normal beastmen."
"Coordinated, far more than usual, no sight of the Beastlord either," one of the Thanes says.
"Proof of yet more sorcery no doubt," another continues.
For the next several hours the lot of you pour over the information you all provide. The picture it paints is an undeniably grim one. Doubtlessly something either controls the lot of them through sorcery or the beastlord in charge of them. Whether that something is the same one futzing about with the weather and local state of causality none can say. Regardless, the breath of its magic doesn't seem limited to simply compelling the beastfolk, seeing as there's eyewitness accounts of several beastmen shifting and growing more ferocious throughout the battle. What's more these bursts of mutation always seemed to occur at points in the shieldwall that were buckling or under the greatest assault.
You'd been fairly certain it was the work of a servant of the Changer since the magic came hurling down, but the scale and power at play….
...bah.
"The Cloven Ones abhor the work of civilization, they make nothing with their own hands. Which is what makes their armament such a disquieting thought. Dwalin mutters, uncharacteristically quiet.
Many nod and grumble in agreement.
"I've something to say about that as well," Valma rumbles, "I took a peek at the armour on some of the corpses. My preliminary findings and personal assessment lead me to believe the plate was specifically forged to fit them. A very clear departure from their usual methodology. Something or someone's arming the foul things, and from the fact that some of the plates are quite literally bolted on, it doesn't care all that much about their consent in the matter."
A round of grumbling ensues.
"The Changer and its ilk are not ones for such work, more likely to gamble on some sorcerous answer," Dwalin replies, "Though I shall admit that such a departure from their norms is also within their wheelhouse."
None speak for a while, contemplating the facts before one Thane dares to ask the question on many of your minds.
"Where...did they get the material?" he rumbles.
With it out in the open many look rather uncomfortable with the obvious implication.
"We have no concrete proof, but unless the enemy is taking the time to conjure metal on such a scale there is no other source of naturally occurring material to our knowledge. More damningly, my own examination of the enemy's armaments tells me that they've been utilizing the mineral deposits of Dum. With that in mind, I am operating under the assumption that the Karak....that the Karak has been breached," Igna says, smothering the new silence in its crib.
A dark mood fills the tent at the revelation. You have no clue what Siggrun and the other Dum survivors will feel when the news doubtlessly reaches them.
"Regardless, we operate on the assumption that the enemy will only become more heavily armoured as we press forth. Further, there's the likelihood that killing the Beastlord will not route the Cloven Ones like it usually does, what with the anomalies we've borne witness to. Now before we end things I'd like to discuss the arrangement the Throng will take in light of this…"
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The following weeks are one of constant conflict and battle. The enemy army constantly harasses the Throng as it marches, sending waves of more and more heavily armoured Beastmen at you to impede and stop any progress towards your goal.
But you progress.
A nighttime assault that sees you setting a part of the battlefield alight using Zharrgal and one of Valma's Gronti almost buried under a swarm of harpies before the massive Gromril helmet atop its head flares with power and a wall of fire erupts around it. Dawi are injured, Brana downed for days from the melee…
But the injured are loaded onto carts, the Brana regenerate and the Throng marches on.
The days are a constant aerial attack of harpies and flying screamers, the first sighting of the latter, while Centigors circle the throng and hurl javelins and magic rains down on you. Several Runesmiths are pushed to near their breaking point, forcing you to grumble loudly enough to get them to sit down and recuperate.
The injured are tended to, the dead are buried, and the Throng marches on.
The Throng finally sights the Beastlord during another assault, but before you can kill it a sudden push on Dwalin's position forces you away. Letting the hulking behemoth retreat with what remained of its army, or the parts it cared to keep alive, in good order while the chaff stayed behind to bog you down. A good third of the force it brings to bear in the encounter are killed to bring low only a thirtieth of your own. Were it any other foe such strategies would be untenable, but this far north and with the magic at play? It's perhaps more viable than many of you would wish. A cycle of continuous attacks, both mundane and magical, that are meant to whittle away at your will, sanity and strength before you eventually reach Dum no doubt.
Clearly, the enemy underestimates Dwarf stubbornness, because you load up your injured, bury the dead as deep and far from the airborne magic as you are able and the Throng. Marches. On.
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The last true assault by the enemy happens a week's journey away from Dum.
Where before they were simply content to throw wave after wave of ever more armoured Beastfolk and daemons after you this time marked the first true forms of variety among the enemy.
Found among the horde this time are great beasts, bound in iron collars and armour that burned with foul magic. Manticores, Chimaeras and what appeared to be the Mammoths Lorgazor spoke of all those weeks ago. They thunder down at the Throng, bellowing in pain and rage, egged on by whatever torture and magic have made them so compliant. What should have made the conflict more difficult, simply does not.
Chimaera, Manticore and Mammoths and more, all but a few of them die. Gored by bolts, crushed by boulders, broken over the knees of the Gronti or swarmed by Brana after being crippled by Runecraft. Whatever the enemy expected from their gambit fails, utterly, in the face of a Throng now utterly incensed with the weight of Grudges and continuously pricked by a torrent of probing attacks. What should have made the Throng paranoid, twitchy, fatigued, and likely to make foolish mistakes simply does not. It only hones your focus, builds your rage, like the spirit of Grimnir Himself possesses the lot of you. A grindstone upon which the axe's blade is honed to an air slicing edge
The battle is short-lived, the Throng slicing through the enemy but just at the cusp of victory again you are denied. You are forced to let the Beastlord retreat, turning back to aid Dwalin as he is swallowed whole by a Chimaera, only to snort in relief and annoyance when he cuts his way out, screaming about having another go.
But that was the end of it. No more impediments, no more raiding parties or harpy flocks. Just the simple march towards Karag Dum.
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The enemy is outside the gates.
That last defiant spark in Hogrur's mind, the last shard not broken and twisted in service of his master, rages at the thought of being confined behind walls and towers while the foe is so tantalizingly close.
Kneel, a voice in his mind thunders.
His armoured body falls to one knee, the stone cracking as the armoured flesh impacts it. Yet even in this position Hogrur still towers over the rest of his Brayherd, fattened with the best flesh, armed with the greatest equipment and enchanted by the ministrations of the Holy One. He is Hogrur, his mind rages, the one that could rally the Warherds on a crusade that will wipe clean the filth and prey that claim dominion over the land. It is a testament to the chains that bind him that all he can do is stare, for his lungs are not his own, his muscles obey a different mind, his blood pumps at the command of another, and his soul is forever shackled to the one before him.
A pawn of a pawn.
"Damn them," the lord rumbles, "Now they come, on the cusp of my victory. Where were they when our kin starved, when babes died in the wombs of our wives, when our homes fell beneath the predations of the scavengers and filth that scurry like carrion over a corpse? Now, only when we have thrown away the shackles of the Ancestors and claimed our place they come to censure us!"
A crushing blow falls on the earth next to Hogrur, the blood forged stone cracking beneath the blow. Heavy breathing, the scent of rage and the look of hatred levelled at the fallen statue nearby, left as a mocking monument.
"It matters little, not when the work is almost complete," the Not-Stone one says eventually, "I knew that blasted fool's magic would do little to hamper them and I am proven right once more. I have waited for this day, for countless centuries I have waited… and now they will die. They will all die, and what remains of their flesh and souls will serve a higher purpose. You will lead what can be spared among my forces, battle will come soon enough. Hold them, delay them, with your life if it comes to it. The business below will not take long, and then we will march out to slaughter them. Do you understand?"
Hogrur nods then bows his head, his body utterly shackled while his soul bellows in a furious rage.
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The Throng stares at the Karak in near-total silence.
It is a scene that brings about a great deal of grief and anger. Where a proud home of your people once stood, some cruel mockery of a structure has taken its place. The mountain itself is cracked open, a great hole is carved into it. One that burns with a pulsing, baleful light from within. The fortress itself is built around and in it. Tall black walls that impose themselves on the surrounding landscape like some cruel master jut out of the rock face like a putrid scar. Towers of that same obsidian-black stone jut out like the fangs in an animal's maw from the walls and along the slopes. From your position you cannot tell exactly how many layers of wall stand between you and the entrance, but the gate bears a baleful Rune that, even from this distance, exudes a sense of foulness and wrongness to it.
But even that pales in comparison to what you see next.
Littered around the earth the ruins of solid Dwarf masonry can be seen, likely cast down with malicious intent in mind going by how the sigils and emblems of Karag Dum are conspicuously visible for all to see. Statues of the Ancestors, defaced and broken, line the road to the gate house.
It is foul.
It is wrong.
It is a desecration of the highest order.
For a solid five minutes, none dare speak. A type of horrified silence smothers the rage and anger you felt burning in the back of your mind for the past several weeks.
To no one's surprise, Igna is the first to break the silence.
"A grudge...A GRUDGE FOR THE FALLEN, ONE I WILL STRIKE OUT WITH MY LIFE IF I MUST!" she whispers before shouting hoarsely, grief evident in her voice.
The Throng roars back in agreement, all of the Dawi present feeling righteous anger at the sight of such desecration.
"MAKE CAMP AND PREPARE FOR AN ASSAULT, THIS FOUL MONUMENT DIES. EVERY STONE CAST DOWN AND GROUND TO DUST. EVERY MONSTER THAT DEFILES THE HALLS OF MY ANCESTORS RENDERED TO NAUGHT BUT ASHES!" she continues, raising the frothing anger already present to ever higher levels.
"KHAZUK KHAZUK KHAZUK-HA!" the Throng, you included, bellow.
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The command tent bubbles with barely controlled rage. Around you dwarfs smack the sturdy wooden table or stamp at the ground impatiently. Minds pulling and struggling to control the fury that threatens to overtake them even now.
Howdare they, many rumble, how dare they despoil the work of our people? How dare they wallow in the ruins they wrought, plunder the wealth of our homes and sully the mountain we have claimed.
Igna is not shouting with apoplectic rage like many around her but has instead gone almost deathly calm since her outburst. It is that cold and logical anger, a pure blue flame honed to a razor point that comes from only the greatest rage.
Preliminary scouting by the Brana is limited. Harpies, archers, magic and what appears to be enemy artillery of all things turn anything more than distant observation into a death sentence. Still, the Brana are able to paint a picture of what the enemy defence consists of at least. Three layers of walls, two complete and one only half-built, towers and what appears to be dug out trenches. The front two walls and the space in between seemingly in a flurry of activity. None of the Brana can pinpoint the exact number of enemy combatants but by their best guess, about two-thirds of what you fought the week previous are present. Though how accurate that number could be is in debate, Blizzardwing specifically notes that the sheer amount of magic in the air makes it difficult to discern if any illusions are being cast, but that she cannot discount the possibility considering the earlier evidence. Any attempt at dispelling such a magic, if it exists, would bring them into artillery range regardless.
It likely makes a siege untenable. You have no clue as to the level of supplies within the former Karak but all are well aware of the Throng's own logistical position. A year or two is doable, but any more than that was far less certain. Moreso because the rationing required to make it possible could weaken the Throng to the point of combat ineffectiveness.
Igna takes the information in silently, eyes never leaving the map Logazor had made based on the Brana's scouting. One Thane argues that a siege cannot be maintained, citing the likelihood that whoever controlled the Beastmen had enough sense to make use of the Karak's own siege stores. Another countered by arguing that such a possibility was uncertain, especially so if the Karak had undergone a siege and emptied those initial stores before falling itself. Some like Valma, Dwalin and Blizzardwing were more concerned with just how something on such a scale ought to be overtaken. While not a true Karak, it was certainly built on the bones of one and that accounted for something. Of that group there were proponents for purposefully undermining the walls, saving time and lives. A few others, Dwalin included, argued that it was more efficient to simply take the gates, making any defense of the walls unviable.
Igna is silent for a good long time, letting the arguments and information wash over her, hands clasped and brows furrowed. Eventually, however, she tells the lot of you about her plan. A prolonged siege is out of the question, and so an assault on the walls will be the main course of action. It is methodical, textbook and about as efficient as you can manage considering the undeniable haze of anger that impacts many of those present. An artillery barrage aimed at bringing down the towers and forcing the enemy into cover, all while siege equipment built by the engineers will push towards the wall with the main thrust of the Throng. All agree that dividing the enemy's attention with multiple feigned avenues of attack is key to breaching the defences, but where the main thrust of the assault will be aimed at is still in debate.
Where do you think the main thrust of the Throng ought to be?
[ ] Argument: Undermine the Walls
Undermining the walls, prescribed by Morgrim and a solid tactic for opening gaps and isolating defenders from each other.
[ ] Argument: Storm the Walls
The threat of an enemy raining fire from above, while mitigated, cannot be denied. The walls must be taken and the airspace contested to best utilize the Brana's abilities.
[ ] Argument: Take the Gates
Break the gates open and cut off the walls from further reinforcement. A gamble that relies on your ability to overpower the enemy.
Where will you serve regardless?
[ ] Assault: Undermine the Walls.
You have a hammer that can cause earthquakes and can survive most anything thrown at you. It's a simple choice. Any attempt to bring down the walls will doubtlessly be sped along by your presence.
[ ] Assault: Storm the Walls.
You are a tireless and otherwise impervious dwarf sized hardpoint that can set entire groups of enemies ablaze. In the tight confinement on the top of the walls such a thing is quite the boon indeed.
[ ] Assault: Take the Gates
You have a hammer that continuously weakens armour, and burns hotter than a forge. The massive black gates are as fitting a target as any. With your equipment it also makes the ensuing battle to secure the breach a good deal more manageable.
Gain:
- Grudge: Unknown Mastermind Mage: For the continued magical assault upon the Throng, the indirect aid in the injury and death of many dwarf lives, and the desecration of the hold of Karag Dum the only recompense shall be death.+15 Bonus to Breaching Roll.
- Grudge: The Unnamed Beastlord: For the death of seventy-six Dwarfs, the Injury of a further one hundred and seven, the crippling of Thane Gorlbag of Clan Gorltrommal and for aiding the enemies of the Dwarfs in the destruction of Karag Dum, BAH! The only payment is death. +15 Bonus to Rolls against Beastmen.
Current Situation:
- (*Updated*) The storm has still been removed from play for the march to Dum.
-- The Brana are attempting to recreate the Storm over the course of the coming siege.
-- Brana are still giant magical murderbirds who can chuck lightning bolts and throw arm length shards of ice however.
- A large amount of magic is being pulled north in what is likely the last known location of Karag Dum.
- It's all but confirmed in your mind now that whatever's cleared the Zorn Uzkul of its gribblies and nasties is also the cause of the odd magical occurrences.
- (*Updated*) The enemy is casting all sorts of nasty magic at you that is, sadly for them, proving utterly ineffective at doing any real damage save slowing you down.
-- They have proven that they can do more than simply throw fireballs at you, providing their forces with a level of coordination and fighting ability beyond that of regular Beastmen.
- Karag Dum has sent out two, to your knowledge, expeditions to try and make contact. One you have found and discovered that far less time has passed since the Incursion for them than it has you.
-- The fate of the first expedition is unknown, but if they're undergoing the same event as Siggrun's group there's a chance they're alive given the amount of supplies they took with them.
-- You don't know if any other groups left Dum after Siggrun's.
- (*New*) The Karak has seemingly fallen. Beastmen lurk and squat in its desiccated ruins. Their, as of yet unknown, foul master raising a fortress in its place and purposefully leaving the defaced remnants of the former hold for all to see. BAH! UNBAK, UZKUL, DRENG THEM TO THE LAST.
- (*New*) The Throng has now faced a gamut of Beastfolk, Daemons and enslaved creatures. Armoured to a level that leaves many disquieted and further enhanced by the continuous use of magic upon their bodies.
There will be a two-hour moratorium for discussion.
AN: So, its been two weeks I think. Sorry for that, I had a midterm (that I did well in thankfully), then some other stuff came up, but when I finally got to writing it sorta got away from me. So I hope you enjoy what I managed to put together, thanks for waiting and don't forget to C&C. :^)
When Rolling, if combatants have over +50 to their bonuses, I will mark it with a vertical mark and roll with the individual differences. So for instance
All bonuses = +70 In rolls, its would be marked as +20 | with the "|" to denote the original +50.
You're essentially doing a reverse siege. You have to win 3 rounds of combat to get to the Karak. 3 Wins a combat round is a suxx, 3 Wins in a magic round means I add one suxx to a combat round. Suxx don't carry over.
Grudge grudge on the foul beastmen! The smart thing is to undermine the walls but the anger in me says we storm the walls with the us leading the charge.
I'm not hugely knowledgeable about Warhammer Fantasy, but it feels like the beastmen were the corrupted dawi of Kazak Dum, what with the talk about abandoning the ancestor gods, what sounded like a pretty bad siege (starving, common miscarriages, enemies at the gate, etc.), and all the other bits. I'm honestly hoping that a few survived and didn't fall, but don't think it's likely given that they seemed to have fallen due to lost hope, and at least some of them having lost Faith with the Ancestor Gods.
Also, what happened with the other exhibition? Who did they meet there? Does anybody know?
Edit: Wait, and was that a possessed in there? From my re-read, it looks like at least Khorne and Tzeentch are involved.
Fairly certain gazul and his followers found the other expedition. So that looks to be going good at the least. Damn the chaos dwarves. Dreng them to the last.
Ok so from the looks of this the Chaos Dwarfs were trying to make Karak Dum there new home and we've partially stopped them and from the looks of it they are the ones equipping the beastmen. And finally there may still be survivors of Karak Dum deeper in the hold that's holding out.
Also I seriously think we should undermine the walls here our hammer is literally perfect for doing just that.
Though how accurate that number could be is in debate, Blizzardwing specifically notes that the sheer amount of magic in the air makes it difficult to discern if any illusions are being cast, but that she cannot discount the possibility considering the earlier evidence. Any attempt at dispelling such a magic, if it exists, would bring them into artillery range regardless.
We haven't slept since we put Barak Azamar on, so that's been pretty helpful, the fancy magma/fire stuff only works with the armor too, plus we took an axe strike to the head and just kinda wondered what the beastman thought it was trying to do. So I'd say it's working pretty well so far.
I'd put the main focus on breaching the walls as attrition is never in the Dawi's favor unless fighting elves, but then chuck Snorri at breaching the Gate as that's the best spot to call out the enemy champion, and headhunting is something Snorri would be great at.
The Makerstrike combo is absolutely perfect to bring Smednir and Thungni to censure and destroy that big ass Rune smack dab on the middle of it. Given what we know about focuses courtesy of the Wyrm Banner.
And Barak Azmar is best suited to tank and negate whatever blowback would come from taking out said gate as well
It is literally the biggest possible flex, especially if it pisses off an enemy Champion to show up and get smacked down by Snorri.
Huh, are those Harpies with metal wings expies of the Stormwings from Tortall? Because they're reminding me of that.
And yes, we should shatter the gates. Personally. A false Rune is actual literal Dawi HERESY, and we are a High Priest of Thungni, THE High Priest for the area. Doing anything else feels like having Beardlings clean up a major mess.
"I knew that blasted fool's magic would do little to hamper them and I am proven right once more. I have waited for this day, for countless centuries I have waited
So, the Sorcerer and the Chaos Dwarf Lord are not the same.
Still, for all that the CDL calls him a fool, the Sorcerer was still powerful enough to wrest away the control of the storm from the Brana and to launch massive magical assaults for weeks.
It could still be a Chaos Dwarf Sorcerer, or a Greater Daemon, or maybe even a particularly gifted Fimir.
"countless centuries"...
Even having in mind the timewarp (and it being the work of Hashut himself rather than his mortal servants), the Chaos Dwarf Lord sounds too old to be one of the Eastern Dwarfs, even Astragoth (none of who should be in the timewarp in the first place), nor one of the Dum cultists, as that would mean that the difference in timespeed between within and without timewarp is 100:1 or even 1000:1.
An arch-heretic? Someone who fell long before the Incursions?
Ho boy.
This is gonna get bad, I can just feel it.
Hmn, I wonder what the contingent of Uzkulaki Dawi, and their Order of the Watchers leader think of what happened to Dum.
for reference, I'm talking of these guys:
On the eve of the month's end, just as the Throng is settling down to make camp, the rangers return with news.
Approaching from the south, a group of some hundred Dwarf rangers from Uzkulak. At their head a member of the Order of Watchers.
Many watch as the group passes through the storm and into camp. Their leader marches off towards the tent Lady Igna resides, while his followers are pointed towards a place to pitch their tents, near the other rangers and quarreller companies.
I know Dawi are secretive and all, and there is no secret more dreadful and shameful than The Zar, but one wonders if a briefing to the throng would not be a prudent course of action at this point.
