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.
Like Grom the Paunch? Doubt it heavily. Discarding the possibility that Grom survived because of more esoteric means, Snorri doesnt eat poorly cooked troll.
According to the warhammer wiki "Bar" means "A fortified gateway or door" and "Unbak" means "break permanently" so I would assume it means Gatebreaker or something similar.
If we were getting a title? I'd probably expect it at the end of the campaign. They usually come paired with deeds.
Or did you mean as a translation of the title?
If we were getting a title? I'd probably expect it at the end of the campaign. They usually come paired with deeds.
Or did you mean as a translation of the title?
I am curious however about translations which seem to work on the principle of 'how many words of this compound language can possibly slot into this word. (Its not oath breaker guys that would be Barunbaraki its definetly not
that would be something like Barskakenunbarakiunbakaki
maybe? putting the different bits in order is weird. That might also be the breaker of the oathbreakers who steal gates.
I am curious however about translations which seem to work on the principle of 'how many words of this compound language can possibly slot into this word. (Its not oath breaker guys that would be Barunbaraki its definetly not
that would be something like Barskakenunbarakiunbakaki
maybe? putting the different bits in order is weird. That might also be the breaker of the oathbreakers who steal gates.
Titles: Drakksdottir, Snorrisdottir, Firemane Age: Born c. 103 A.P., 120 Years Old by Dwarf reckoning Specialties: Odd and Esoteric Runes, Weapon Runes.
Description:
A lass who wears a neutral expression at all times, though she is very well capable of being roused to truly terrifying and respectable anger more suited to a Longbeard if pushed. Your efforts are bearing some fruit in turning all that pent up energy and anger towards something productive, though she's got far less of the latter in her nowadays. She's is always seen wearing the colours of Clan Winterhearth, though they are rather muted in comparison to others. Whatever it is your mother told her seems to have given her a great deal of comfort and sense belonging, because she devours the texts and stories of the Clan whenever she isn't learning under you or the rare times she's out drinking with the few friends she's begun to make. She's started to wear a muted red cloak in very obvious imitation of someone. Reputation:
Normally polite if a bit gruff, years as a foundling have nevertheless marked her. She has few things she truly considers hers, and guards them ferociously. Many still remember the terrifying tongue and devastating verbal lashings of her youth, but it takes a bit more work to get her there nowadays. If asked about her Clan, she will quietly, but proudly, call herself a member of Winterhearth.
Aww. That's sweet.
Don't know when this was updated, but if nothing else it's new to me.
Like Grom the Paunch? Doubt it heavily. Discarding the possibility that Grom survived because of more esoteric means, Snorri doesnt eat poorly cooked troll.
Actually, based on what we know of troll regeneration and how it interacts with acid, wouldn't you need to more or less swallow a significant fraction of a whole troll raw for it to be able to regenerate faster than your digestive juices AND its own blood loss/suffocation? Like, cramming a whole limb, or better yet, head, down your throat.
I don't think the tiny bits hacked off trolls in combat tend to regenerate into full trolls before some scavenger disposes of them.
You let the arguments wash over you, mind far away from all this arguing and discussion and back to the hilltop. Back to the image that, for all its distance and lack of clarity, burns in your mind.
Even with your roughest extrapolation, the gate was likely larger than Valma's tallest Gronti, composed of blackened metal and stone. But that doesn't matter in your mind, what matters is the dull burning glare that emanated from it. Your beard, your gut and your nose all make twitches and signs that it must fall. That befouling light that felt and still feels so utterly wrong to you that it makes your fist clench in anger and sets the head of Zharrgal alight.
Ignoring the startled chuffs of some of the Thanes, you slam the still flaming hammer onto the table to grab their attention.
"I don't give a damn what gets chosen. Either as a distraction or at the van, I'm heading for that abomination etched onto that shoddy slab of metal and rock they're calling a gate."
(Roll, Focus: 57 +20[Combined Advice] = 77, DC 60)
They stare at you, your armour pulsing in tune with the angry beating of your heart and hammer burning with teal light, then at each other.
"That settles that then," one rumbles.
"Aye I suppose it does," another says, nodding decisively.
"The gates have my vote."
"If that's where the elder says he's going then it's where we ought to go," a Thane from the back says, earning a round of grumbling agreement from those around him.
"Sensible really."
The tent is filled with rumbling approval, everyone moving on to the next stage of the plan now that the main point has been decided upon.
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She grunts as she adjusts the straps on her armour, the new pauldron still takes some getting used to but she doesn't have the time nor luxury to break in the newest piece of her panoply. Not when they were set to march off so soon. Not when the interlopers seemed to be so easily distracted these past few days.
She stares down at the axe, looking for any more imperfections that she can correct, before nodding decisively and holstering it once more. Even after so long without proper care the ancestral axe of Clan Zantrommi bears little more sign of it than a worn handle. Another year at war for a hold only mostly fallen, another year of conflict for kin long dead, for homes long defiled and the ancestors whose tombs they failed to seal. All done by the command or at the hands of those who should have known better, the Frurndar, those foul misbegotten Unbaraki who killed their Lord. It would be so easy, she thinks, to sink into the hate in her heart and find death slaying as many as she could.
She quashes the thought as she's been doing for so many decades now, mind turning to more important pursuits. Running through the information her subjects paid dearly to retrieve, all to aid their coming battle. Supply shipments, patrol routes, tunnel expansions and managing the front. All part of the long war against the interlopers that have taken so much of their home. A war that, despite her efforts, has only grown in the Frurndar's favour as her people are pushed further and further into the deeps. The reports she's been receiving, the movement of material, slaves and bodies towards the Hold's heart, all for the purposes of some foul ritual that leaves a sense of foreboding in her mind.
"My Queen," Gammur interrupts, the sound of his footfalls drawing her out of her musing, "News from the surface."
"More reinforcements?" she asks, voice not belying the bone-deep weariness that comes from the question.
"Those of us who braved the tower they say, they say…." he says before pausing, cracking voice betraying his emotions, "Our kin have returned. The Banner of Karag Dum waves, among many others, atop Zargin's Doom. A veritable Throng has come, a reckoning is at hand."
She blinks, then stares at her second in command. She can tell that so much more of him burns to yell and shout in vindication. She knows that he is one of those that dare hope to think they were not forgotten, it's partly why she afforded him the position in the first place, and this report seems to prove him right in his belief.
For her, it is an altogether different experience. It is that same terrible mix of joy, relief, hope and dread that rises in her, only brought to heel by the centuries of broken dreams and bitter truths that have tempered her heart and hardened her will.
"How certain are they?" is all she asks.
"They would swear their beards on it," he replies, eyes shining.
In another age, in another place, far from the trickery and foul magics at play, she would have taken it for certain. But here? Here it is only enough to warrant the effort to scrounge up a second party to confirm their words.
"Bring out the wards," she rumbles, "And send another party. Forty of us, one longbeard per four beardlings, they'll be the ones that carry the Wardstones. They can report back after we return from our assault."
Gammur blinks before nodding fiercely, understanding just how much of an investment this was for them. Especially now, just an hour before a solid third of the Throng marched off and when the enemy seemed to be redoubling their efforts to wipe them out with every passing day.
"By your will my Queen," he rumbles, "Vengryn a Zan un Uzkul!"
"Vengrynn a utzan un uzkul."
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Morning comes, the night's darkness giving way to the dim light of day.
A sea of metal and wood is the sight that greets the enemy on the walls, the Throng mustered to full war footing standing in formation. The warsongs of their people bellowing out of their mouths. Jutting out from the orderly mass siege towers stand proudly. Each one built by masterful hands that were themselves driven by vengeful will over the course of a single night. Their work just out of range of the enemy artillery and protected from any magical sabotage by the vigilant eyes of the Runesmiths and Runelords.
At the head of the grand display of force, four figures and three giants stand. Three in shining Gromril, the fourth in brilliant silver whose shine dances with flecks of teal or gold. One, armoured head to toe in such a thick suit of Gromril that it boggles the mind just how smoothly they can even move, steps forward. The monsters atop the walls do not know what she shouts, only that her rumbling shouts are punctuated by purposeful gestures and angry movements. All they know is that when she is finished the entire army begins to rumble. First, it is the slamming of weapons against shields, the crack of hafts hitting cold hard earth, a rhythmic wave punctuated by the cacophonous boom of the racket they raise. Then, out of the noise and sound, a single word begins to crescendo. One they know well, heard by the stone ones down in the depths and on the lips of the masters who call for their blood and labour. One that promises death, painful death, to them and those like them.
"Dreng!" the Throng bellows, voice eerily synchronized and growing louder by the second, "DRENG! DRENG! DRENG!DRENG!"
Another one among them, a set of banners hanging from his back, pulls something from his hips. The defenders have only seconds to cover their ears before a chilling note sounds across the battlefield, the echoing voice mimicking the rancorous scream of a dwarf wronged. The sound driving the weakest among them, already unnerved by the sight of the army before them, into a panicked flight.
Their leaders, Gors and daemons loyal or more often bound to the point of trustworthiness call and scream for order. Butchering those cowards who are within their grasp, desperately trying to restore some semblance of control. For a time it seems to work, but then the horn sounds again and with it the war cry of a Throng bent on retribution.
Like a moving mountain, the army begins marching, teams of warriors and engineers pushing the towers forward while companies form up into blocks of steel and bristling edges. Siege weapons are drawn up behind them while the three giants march forward and begin hurling rocks and javelins at their creator's command. The defenders scramble to meet them, crude artillery, inexpertly manned and shoddily made, doing what little they can.
Then the skies crackle with thunder, and the harpies and screaming horrors above screech in shock and pain as lightning, fire and stone find their mark amongst them. Scores are burnt to ash, fire and lightning carbonizing them. Others find themselves peppered with flechettes of stone and wood, purposefully made to break apart mid-air, that tear gaping holes in their wings and bodies while more still simply fall to the ground, crushed under the weight of a mountain. Then, with their air cover so thoroughly distracted, great looming shadows scream down from the heavens towards their batteries. Massive winged forms set alight with lightning or covered head to toe in thick, razor-sharp, layers of ice. They slam onto the tower tops in groups of three to four, booms of sound and debris in their wake, before they get to the grisly work of rendering the artillery useless.
All the while the Throng marches, suffering little under the fire of what few crews remain unmolested.
Then the enemy artillery enters the field, finally within range of their most hated foe.
And the air is soon filled with stone and steel.
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You stare at the gate, its form slowly growing larger as the Throng marches ever closer to it. Behind you Dwalin blows his horns and chants his war cries, rallying hearts and invigorating the already energetic air about the dwarfs following you. Not one word leaves your mouth, busy as you are staring down at the monstrosity before you.
It's even worse up close, a giant monument to vanity and cruelty made of blackened metal, blood coated iron and stone. The antagonistic glare of a Bull marked across its surface with that abomination of a Rune emblazoned on its forehead. The air of wrongness, the feelings of distaste grow into outright loathing and disgust as you get closer. You take those emotions, those feelings of sheer wrongness and channel it into your anger, your will straining to keep it under control.
You grip Zharrgal ever tighter, not ignoring how the flame seems to be pulsing angrily as well.
This was as much a show of force as it was an actual battle, a reminder to yourselves and your enemies why it was a fool's gambit to anger your people. Every sight on your way to the gate is catalogued, every broken stone, every desecrated piece of the Karak seen, remembered, and recorded in the library of your mind.
Your steps falter until you stop completely, behind you Dwalin has gone silent as well. The sound of the Throng, the cries of the dying, the screams, the boom of artillery and the shrieks of Brana and Harpy, all of it phased out.
This close to the gate, no...this absolute violation of all that was well and good, you can see the intricacies of its construction. Mind analyzing and figuring out the processes that went into its creation out of instinct.
They have done more here than you thought, this was no mere desecration, no malicious act of mockery. This...this was an attempt to subvert, to usurp your work. There, plain as day to your exacting eye were the marks and works that were far too similar to Runework to be no mere coincidence. It was no true Rune, otherwise you'd be frothing at the mouth and charging headlong into that Karak to slay whatever foul heresy was being done within, but it was as clear an attempt as any that whatever was within was attempting to steal the secrets of your people.
Someone dared attempt to steal the gift of Thungni. Someone dared taint the work of your Ancestors, take and convert the homes and sacred places of your people, to paint some dark mirror of Runecraft.
"Stand back lad," you rumble at Dwalin, mind dredging up the commandments of your Guild out of instinct.
Never allow any non-Dwarf who has stolen the knowledge of runic magic to pass on what they know.
"I fulfill Thungni's strictures this day," you mutter, the Runes on your arms and armour blazing as brightly as the anger in your heart.
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The Gor is too busy screaming at its lesser to notice Thyk's axe before it buries itself in the foul interloper's neck. The signal is heard and soon enough the Tower is overrun by Dawi who hack apart the survivors and hide their existence just as easily.
This tower was counted as low priority, its artillery having been destroyed and position deemed too far from the battle to contribute as anything more than an observation point. Isolated, lightly patrolled, and perfect for their needs. Thyk turns to Ragni, the Wardstone on his back glowing with uncharacteristic brightness.
It is as good a sign as any.
"Rorek, Skaldor," he barks at the two dwarfs nearest the window," Go take a look at what's going on outside. I want numbers, identifying marks. Anything and everything your eyes can glimpse. The rest of you secure the path out and check in on the sentries, I'm going topside."
They grunt in affirmation.
Thyk pauses just before the stairs, eyes warily watching for some trap before finding it safe enough to pass. Stepping lightly, more out of habit than any need to, Thyk walks up and into the open air.
He dislikes it immensely. To open, too exposed, nothing like the tunnels and hidey-holes that have kept his people safe for so long. Pushing his discomfort down he makes his way to the edge, staring out at the scene before him.
It sets his heart aflutter.
A great sea of metal and wood, the chanting of Proper Khazalid screaming vengeance at the interlopers who squat in their home. The sight of daemons and Gors being cast low, the siege towers rumbling ever closer to the walls and the sea of dwarf bodies, more dwarfs than he has ever seen in his life, marching to claim bloody retribution upon the foe. It's almost too much to process, yet he finds his gaze drawn towards a literally blazing figure at the forefront. Pulling out his farseer he takes a closer look, blinks, then looks again.
It is a dwarf, but not? His skin is stone, like the Frurndar and the giants that hurl bolts and rocks at the enemy, yet his armour is glittering silver, and the Runes upon it glow with a mix the comforting teal hue of the Wardstone that has kept his people safe and molten gold. In his hand a hammer is doing its best to look like the blazing fireballs the Frurndar's sorcerors so love to throw at them.
He watches, befuddled, as the figure walks forward alone. The army behind him stopping where they were even as their fellows kept marching towards the walls. The errant thought that perhaps this silver figure was going to break the gate himself passes his mind, but is brushed off as madness. That is, until a stray artillery bolt is fired directly at him from a nearby tower, only to have it quite literally shatter against his armour and for the tower's insides to erupt in golden flame.
Thyk watches the figure disappear behind the silhouette of the walls, now so close that he cannot see him past their bulk.
He moves to start examining the rest of the army before a massive boom is heard at the gates. Instantly he turns to the commotion, as does everyone in the entire battle it seems. He stares in wonderment at the, now heavily deformed, gate. The metal, made from the blood of countless sacrifices, the iron stolen from their mines, then forged and empowered by the foul sorceries of the Frurndar, is quite literally melting at the site of impact. Cracks splay out from the point where the blow was struck towards the individual hinges, each as tall and thick as a dwarf.
Thyk blinks.
A second passes before the doors are literally blown apart in an explosion of smoke, rock and molten lava. The fragments killing or outright pasting the defenders that foolishly stood behind it.
The silvery figure walks out of the smoke, his thunderous voice bellowing so loudly that even Thyk can hear his furious declaration.
"NUGOTIT UMRAG UN UZKIT ORURKI. OR ANUNBAK UN DRENG AF WAZZOCKI! OR ANSTROLIT AF BIN AFDUMGROMTHI ANU!"
The ancestor's challenge is met by a furious bellow, and soon a massive minotaur, covered head to toe in thick black iron, comes charging out from among the defenders with its axe raised-
-only to fall, headless and with its upper torso transformed into a carbonized chunk of flesh.
"We ought to tell the queen," he mutters to himself.
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Snerra stares down at the work before her. Behind her both Jolla and Siggrun stand, awaiting her judgement.
Improvement, she thinks, almost as much she hoped. Almost reflexively her mind begins rearranging her lessons for the future while the rest of her focus is split between personal critique and assessing the children's work.
While it was more tedious than it was difficult, constantly reassessing both her own expectations and the growth of her students was quite the time-consuming task. She calculated that for every hour she spent actually teaching the girls she put in four times as much simply planning their lessons out! She reckoned that she'd get more efficient in time, especially as she got to understand her apprentices a bit better and when she got some more experience under her belt. Forty years was so short in the grand scheme of things after all!
So many variables went into a beardling's ability to retain and understand knowledge that she began to see her uncle's work in a new light entirely. A small change in work ethic, mood, life events, background developments, injury, general temperament, heck even diet, could completely alter how a student learned! And it was up to her to keep on top of all those minute little details and account for them to make sure the little ones came out proper Runesmiths like her uncle.
No wonder Master Snorri always seemed so grumpy!
Deciding that the girls had marinated in their thoughts long enough, she turns to give them her best scrutinizing look. It took a bit of work to make her usual smile convey more constructive emotions and sometimes she caught herself taking it too far, but she reckoned she got the point across well enough.
"Better than last time, worse than where I expected you both to be," she says with a wag of the finger, "Siggrun, you've fixed the problems you've had with the fifth stroke but have become lax in other areas. I want a report of at least fifteen errors you've continued to make and as many new ones as you can find. Jolla, you need more experience planing and sanding the handle, I could feel the roughness through my gloves!"
"Yes Master!" they shout in unison.
"Off with you then! I want those reports before the month's end and I expect you to keep up with your lessons in the meantime! Cookies are in the oven if you're hungry!" she says as she shoos them out of her workshop.
Snerra watches as the two trundle off, hands on her hips until they round the corner, where she finally closes the door shut with a firm click.
"Hmmph," she mutters, turning to look at her own little work in progress with her characteristic grin, "let's see if I can't fix those mistakes eh little fella!?"
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You believed you couldn't get any more upset.
Yet this foul place continues to prove you the fool for believing you'd reached the bottom of this barrel of belligerence.
They had more of those foul pseudo-Runes, not just on the other gate in front of you, but also on the piles of slag that were once the elites of the enemy army. Just the memory of seeing a Bestigor in that accursed black plate, with those shoddy forgeries of a proper Rune glowing baleful red on them, sent another burst of anger up your spine.
You swing Zharrgal and a wave of fire erupts from you in a widening arc. Ungors and lesser Gors are killed outright while the more powerful beastmen are burned horribly by it. The scent of burning hair and the screams of the enemy bring you no true pleasure, only grim certainty that they will pay for their actions.
Taking a moment to turn around and look at the Beardlings who came rushing in after you to see that Dwalin has things in good hands. Looking upwards, you see that the other prongs of the assault are doing well enough in the wake of your earlier efforts. The tops of the siege towers peeking over the walls and the sight of Beastmen being blown off of the walls tell you that Igna has things well in hand. You give it another fifteen minutes before this area is secured.
In the meantime, it gives you the chance to vent a few more frustrations on your way to the next gate. They swarm from the walls and cluster around the next most obvious point of interest. From the looks of things, the enemy leadership is keen to stop you from reaching their walls.
You spit off to the side and glare at the horde of Beastmen between you and your objective.
It does not matter, you think as Zharrgal seemingly pulses in agreement, they will simply fall earlier than the rest of their misbegotten kind.
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She motions for her rangers to move, eyes never leaving the two Frurndar who stand guard over the door below.
A few quick taps on her shoulder inform her that the other groups are in position. Nevertheless she waits, holding back the oncoming tide of vengeance until the exact moment the guard rotation is meant to occur.
Two, four, six seconds, now.
Just as the guards look at each other, both wondering where their replacements were, the free Dawi of Karag Dum fall upon them just as they did their compatriots naught one minute before. It is a simultaneous strike across several key positions and supply vaults that cost their fair share in lives and time to discover, parties of saboteurs wipe out the sentries and make a mad dash for the contents inside.
"Gammur take two dozen rangers with you and take up sentry positions on the southeast entrance, the reports of movement there weren't accounted for and I want more bodies there just in case. As for the rest of you, follow me. We don't have long before the rest of the Frurndar arrive with their thralls. Go!"
"Khazuk Khazuk Khazuk-ha!" they chorused back.
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You pulp a minotaur's head with a single blow of your hammer. Following through with your swing you slam Zharrgal into the earth where it causes the earth to split open and spew molten rock right in the middle of a group of Centigors that would have trampled through a group of cut off dwarfs.
"KEEP YOUR WITS ABOUT YOU BEARDLINGS, REFORM AND REGROUP WITH THE THRONG!" you bellow before moving on, letting their yell of acknowledgement pass without comment.
The youth these days.
Eyes scanning the battlefield you cannot find anything that requires your attention. The first wall had fallen under your control only a minute ago and the attackers were now raining down fire on the enemy from their new highground position. Searching for your fellow Runelords your gaze is drawn towards the right, having felt the earth shake as one of Valma's gronti crushes a group of Beastmen with its foot. Its master standing atop its shoulder and casting her Runes with impunity. The other two stone giants just behind her, ripping chunks out of the captured wall to throw at the towers along the second wall.
"HO LORD GIFT GIVER!" Dwalin calls from behind you, "HEAD FOR THE GATE AND SUNDER IT! WE HAVE THIS NONSENSE WELL IN HAND!"
You glance back to see the battle poet swing his weapon and cleave a Bestigor in two with a single swing. Farther back your Hearth Guard mows through the enemy with impunity, slowly marching their way towards you.
"I'll hold you to that," you rumble before turning back around.
Sniffing loudly, you decide to trust the lad to keep things well in hand and begin making your way to the gate. As if sensing your decision the Beastmen surge once more, trying to make another concentrated effort to stop you from reaching the gate.
Try.
One swing pulps the chest of a heavily armoured Bestigor, another turns a group of Ungors into a charred mess of dead flesh. You march forward, heedless of the enemies that strike ineffectually at you, slowed down only by the sheer volume of bodies between you and your target.
Then the gate opens.
The sound of squealing metal, one that sounds eerily like a scream of anguish, draws the eyes of many. What comes out even more so. A massive cygor, its body encased in equally large plates of blackened steel and totting a massive warhammer. Squat forms, covered head to toe in that same material march in an orderly formation out from beneath its shadow, each one carries a massive rectangular shield and axe in their hands. Their armour decorated with more of those foul forgeries and depictions of a giant bull right down to the horns on their helmets. The one in the front, their leader going by the especially gaudy armour they wore, bore a staff capped with an iron bull's head that seemingly dripped with blood and spewed smoke.
Given the way the beastmen part ways for them it's likely these are the favoured servants of the mastermind behind all of this.
Good.
"KAZUKI-DUM!" you bellow in Khazalid, "OR DAR AFVARRKHULG HA!"
You expect the enemy to rumble in their dark tongue. To shout some profanity in the name of their foul gods.
You don't expect them to reply in some odd dialect of Khazalid.
"OR APIT EKDAR UNBARAKI!" the leader bellows back. His followers slamming their shields in unison with his declaration.
Your eye twitches at the words he uses, to call you of all people an Oathbreaker?!
How dare…
Your path towards the enemy leader is no longer barred, the beastmen either making way for you or getting cut down by either your hammer or the weapons of the enemy's retainers. After a minute of cutting your way through you eventually reach your opponent.
There are no words, no speeches nor grand declarations.
Only combat.
You break his guard, hammer coming down on his head only to be stopped short by his staff. For a moment the metal seems to hold before it eventually turns hot orange and begins sagging beneath the force you've been applying consistently against it. Your opponent falls back, releasing the staff and using their magic to make it explode into a cloud of shrapnel that would have done a great deal of damage, had you not been wearing Adamant and had stone for skin.
The duel continues for a moment or two more, the enemy champion futilely throwing all manner of spells and ruses at you, but you push on through. A relentless wall of death and unbreakable will that eventually tramples over its quarry.
You swing Zharrgal, only just missing his head but sending his helm flying into the air.
The helmet lands with a dull thud, the area where Zharrgal has connected red hot and semi-melted already. The enemy champion falls back, scrambling for purchase and only just rising to face you. His eyes stare at you with utter loathing, his mouth snarling in rage and posture reminiscent of an animal.
It is the face of a dwarf.
You-
-but. It, it cannot be. They cast magic it, it-
-you instinctively stop the axe from slamming down onto your neck. Not that it would have done anything. Looking at the offending limb your eyes follow it to the attacker's head, one of the leader's bodyguards. Dreadful curiosity burning inside you, your hand reaches out and grabs their helmet. And ignoring the struggle of the warrior with contemptuous ease, you yank off his helmet in one smooth motion.
Another set of baleful eyes, another grim snarl.
Another-
-another Dwarf.
"What madness is this?" you mutter, letting the Dawi struggle out of your grip and fall to the earth.
"IS YOUR MIND ADDLED OATHBREAKER? DO YOU NOT SEE? IT IS THE TRUTH BETRAYER, THE TRUTH OF WHAT BETRAYAL BEGETS YOU AND YOUR ANCESTORS! YOU WILL DIE JUST AS THE PROPHET DEMANDS! YOU AND THE REST OF YOUR TRAITOROUS ILK!" the leader roars, a fireball forming in his hands while his eyes glow with magic.
Following some unseen command, the towering cygor looks down at you, and with a speed that belies its size swings down with its massive hammer. No doubt meant to crush you in one blow.
Zharrgal swings out to meet it, causing the massive hammerhead to erupt into shards of stone and metal as long as your forearm. You ignore the scream of pain as the behemoth is impaled by the shards, and charge at the enemy.
They have been enthralled, your mind rants, there can be no other truth. No right-thinking Dwarf would do this, would allow what has occurred here to happen to their home. There must be some cause, some foul magic at play because the alternative is simply too impossible to believe. Your very being screams and rages at the idea of...of betrayal on such a level.
You do not notice Zharrgal flare like a star, the ethereal golden fire almost glowing white.
One way or another, you'll get to the bottom of this madness. Behind you the roar of the battle continues, your Hearth Guard picking up the pace in the face of your mad dash towards these...these mind controlled Dawi.
Zharrgal's fire dims as you lessen its power, yet your aim proves true regardless. Hammer blows that would have destroyed body parts simply send these Dawi sprawling to the ground in a groaning heap. You know not what controls them, only that you will ruin what has forced these dwarfs to act in the manner they have.
"Free yourselves my kin!" you roar, voice belying your own emotions, "Break free of this madness!"
They only roar back hatred, those still standing coming at you in a flurry of blows and armoured forms.
You knock them to the ground one after another again and again. Screaming for them to fight the magic controlling their minds, constantly attempting to dispel whatever foulness has taken hold of them.
Nothing works.
Eventually your Hearth Guard reaches you, and you order them to hold down the warriors on the ground, and stand guard. Around you the battle rages on as the rest of the Throng pushes forward, all the while you stare down at the leader. A boy, no older than a century and half going by the length and colour in his beard, his face black and blue, mouth bloody, but eyes shining with clear, unrestrained hatred.
"By the Ancestors boy look at what has happened to your home! Gori prowls the halls, they squat in the homes of your people and desecrate your Ancestors. Fight! For all that is good, fight!"
"..damn…" he mutters, "damn the Ancestors…"
You blink, mind stopping utterly at the...at the blasphemy he speaks.
"They were not there...when our families died. When our kin grew sick, when our...women lost their children, when the daemons came they were not there. But Hashut was, Hashut saved us… Feh. You fool, you think us..think us enthralled? We are free,freer than we ever were before. We let them in, we took vengeance on those who were yet slaves...sending the best among them out to die in the cold, stoking their hope..only to reap the vengeance they sowed. The detestable Ancestors have no hold here Rhunrikki, only Hashut...only Hashu-"
You punch the boy in the face, hear the crack of bone and feel his straining body go limp in your hands.
You get up off of him, body shuddering. Your own retainers look to you, faces no doubt filled with confusion.
In your mind a stray thought rears its head, breaking through the storm of confusion, anger and grief.
Beware this symbol, the monster's touch could be hiding in every corner...
"Bind and gag them," you whisper just loud enough to be heard, "the magic that controls them is...is too strong to remove here. I must consult with my fellow Runelords."
If they have any doubts your Hearthwardens do not show it, simply doing as you asked.
"Return to the camp, half of you will stay and keep guard while the rest return. This battle will end soon enough," you mutter.
The gate stands before you, unguarded and defiantly barring your way. The forgery on its surface glowing that same baleful light on the forehead of that damnable bull. Your own mind, once a tumult of emotions and conflicting feelings finds clarity once more now that you stare at a symbol of the enemy that has so defiled this place and its people.
Zharrgal ignites once more, the fires swirling and twisting as if blown about by some unseen wind. The Golden flames flickering blindingly white in some instances.
You had far less compunction about destroying this.
━<><><><==><><><>━
He smashes his hammer against the hard stone, the chips flying through the air and whizzing past the stoic face of his servant.
"How many did your forces kill?" Grumkul asks, voice dangerously quiet.
"A third of their number my Lord Prophet, a further sixth of their sum total captured and are being sent to the pits as we speak."
It is a balm, but it is not enough. Far too many reagents had been burned, far too many sacrifices rendered useless by the impetuous acts of that foul princess and her band of fools.
"We continue with the ritual, I will ensure it proceeds even if shall not be at the pace I desired. Send a twentieth of your failures to the pits, they shall serve Hashut even in their failure."
"As Hashut wills."
"As Hashut wills," he replies, before turning his attention back to the ritual at hand.
Only two thirds as many slaves…a voice whispers in the back of his mind, It is not enough to revive your god~~
Silence wretch, Hogrimm thinks, I am well aware of this setback. This demands only Dawi souls, else I'd have used the Gori. Hashut knows they could take the blow to their numbers. The foul rats.
Perhaps, the voice cedes, but there is perhaps...another way to power.
Oh?
"Yes," the voice continues, now physically present, "what is another sacrifice...what is another price to return your god? After all, the accursed Ancestors, for all their weakness, are not broken into shards."
Damn Gazul, Hogrimm thinks darkly.
"Speak plainly planner, I have no time for riddles and foibles."
"Aaaah, not fun at all are you?" the daemon risks, "very well, very well. I shall teach you, I need only...a down payment."
There it is, he thinks, another gambit for my soul and servitude. Bah.
The ceiling tremors and shakes, almost imperceptibly, but the fact that even this deep beneath the earth the conflict raging above can be felt.
"There is little time," the daemon chitters," Decide quickly now! I will survive, obviously, but you...you will die. So tell me Prophet, what shall you do?"
Hogrimm stares at the daemon, notices the glimmer of amusement in its birdlike eyes, the fidgeting of its feathered hands and cannot help the flare of anger he feels at the creature. How dare this foul thing use him blatantly, as if he was some simpleton who did not know just what the Daemon planned? He was a Prophet of Hashut, taught by the Ironhand himself. Few more know than him and the majority of those that do are dead by Gazul's own hand.
Hashut guide me, he whispers in his mind, the hour of your return is soon at hand, but I will not find myself bound like a slave! I swear myself once more, body and soul to you, grant me succour and let me see this wretch and his hubris brought low!
A whisper, unheard by all but His chosen, echoes from the fragment atop the altar.
Hogrimm begins to extend his hand, the last few traces of trepidation fading away with the sheen of resolve that fills his gaze, then gruffly takes the creature's hand.
"Let it be done," he rumbles, eyes never leaving the Daemon's.
"Yesssss..."
━<><><><==><><><>━
The Gates are broken. You stand among the wreckage of the final door, massive half molten shards of metal and stone laying around you in a half-circle from where they were launched. The broken corpses of Beastmen and Daemons being hauled off to a pyre to be burned after having pieces of their armour get taken to be later turned into trophies to commemorate this great, if partial, victory.
There's a whole Karak ahead of you after all.
Around you Dawi are going about the business of putting the last of the defenders out of their misery, the cheering and anger are present, many singing and drinking in the face of such a comparatively easy victory.
You wish you could say the same, but the past few revelations have done much to damper your mood.
Tongues of flame flash for a second along Zharrgal's surface.
"Lord," Vikken calls from behind you, drawing your attention, "The other Runelords have assembled. They're waiting for you in the command tent."
Turning, you nod at your nephew and begin making your way to the tent, set up just outside the wreckage of the final gate. Around it the still forms of Valma's Gronti stand as silent sentinels while yet more Dawi bustle about around them, busily destroying the walls and fortifications brick by brick whenever they can. No official effort has been made, not while there is an enemy still beyond the doors. Still, the Dawi are nothing if prudent, and take the grim satisfaction of breaking random bricks and stones from the wall they come across every so often.
There's something to be said about continuing with your existing momentum and stopping the enemy from recovering, but considering how easily you've broken the gates earlier Igna has seen it fit to give the throng time to recuperate. A way to rally and regroup in the face of your blistering pace. This was a, albeit minor, Karak after all, fallen and dilapidated it doubtlessly was in the face of Beastmen occupation its defences would be formidable.
Of course, there are other issues.
The group of mind-controlled Dawi you encountered are not the only ones found. While not common, enough of them have been found that people have been following your example and holding them up in tents, knocking out their sorcerers and keeping them separate and under the guard of at least three Runesmiths worth the name.
Around you, Dawi break out into bows and grunts of respect at your passing, the name Barunbakazi, Gatebreaker, on the lips of the particularly fanciful after your work breaking through the defences almost singlehandedly.
Bah, anyone could do the same if they put in the effort.
You pass through the tent flap and see your fellow Runelords sitting at a table, and the lone member of the Order of the Watchers that came with the rangers from Uzkulak. His presence seems to confound both Dwalin and Valma, though they do their best to hide it, but not you nor Igna.
Hmmph.
"Lord Snorri," Igna greets you by sliding a full tankard of ale across the table to you, "There's a bit of time yet before we move, and I want things squared away as best as possible before we go marching into...into the Karak."
You nod, sensible enough.
The lot of you watch as Igna unfurls a series of maps, one for each of the Karak's deeps and marked with a few more additions to them, helpfully provided by Siggrun you are told.
"We'll have to march through the main throughway and defences on the first and second deep, from there the Karak branches off into the Commercial and Foundry districts respectively. The main residential area will be in the fourth deep, connected to the Halls and Temples of the Ancestors on the same level. The King's Hall, and the Karak's main vaults lie just a level below on the fifth deep, though I've been told there were plans to excavate even further below that to follow the Iron vein the Karak was built upon. We have to decide which way will provide the least amount of resistance. The first and second deeps will be a slog regardless, but the crux of this will be when we get to the branch between the Commercial and Foundry districts and I'd like some input about which way to go. If we head through the commercial district we'd have to go through the residential district to reach the King's hall and the lower levels, if we take the foundry we'd have to go through the Halls of the Ancestors, we can get through all four areas if we're inclined, but it'll either be a long circuitous route or we'd be forced to split up on the third deep," she says pointing out the paths on the map.
"A troublesome thing. I'm not fond of potentially leaving our flank exposed if we take one path, but neither am I fond of splitting up the throng," Valma speaks up.
"There is also the matter of what exactly we may find in each district. The foe has squatted there for Ancestors know how long, but given the state of their arms we ought to work under the belief that the foundries are being used still," Igna adds, just barely hiding her grimace.
"Look upon the diagram and be illuminated! I see no point for the enemy to completely remake each cavern's purpose too radically, nor do I think them particularly capable of such. Doubtlessly we shall face a greater body of foes should we march through the stalls and markets, and I'd bet my pinky on the inverse is true for the great forges," Dwalin points out.
"They may be better armed, however, going by that logic" you counter, parsing through his speech.
"There's something to be said about taking each deep wholesale, even if it means we take a great deal longer we are here to reclaim this place nai?" Valma says.
A round of thoughtful grumbling.
"But that risks letting our sorcerous mastermind create yet more foul befuddlement or worse," Dwalin rumbles.
"I'm inclined to agree with Lord Thunderlung. For good or ill we can't gamble that the sorcerer will stand idle as we clear each deep. Giving an enemy wizard time to plan and enact some ritual or another is a danger we cannot afford. Better to guard the flank and push to remove the beast's head."
"Whatever we decide here isn't set in stone. We simply don't have enough information for me to be comfortable committing to a plan. At the very least we'll probably have the luxury of doing some preliminary scouting when we get to the third deep and decide from there. But the reason I've called you all here wasn't about the plan to clear the Karak just yet. No, it pertains to...our prisoners and their mental state," Igna says with a great deal of reluctance before looking at the member of the Order to her right, who until now has been as still and silent as a statue.
Taking the cue they lower their hood to reveal a Dwarf with the barest flecks of colour in his otherwise white beard.
"I am Katalin Dourhelm, senior member of the Order of the Watchers and veteran of the Deep War persecuted in the east, and I've been tasked with informing the right people about the current situation so that they may act appropriately," they explain.
"Get on with it then," Valma grumbles.
"What I'm about to say will seem...patently false and outright impossible to those who haven't yet suffered under the machinations of the Bull. But I swear it both on my beard and the seal I carry, signed by both Prince Bhardukk and Gazul Himself that I speak only the gravest truth," he says while pulling out a piece of incredibly fine parchment.
Each of you takes turns to read through it, and quietly marvel at the inscription of an Ancestor Himself of course, before returning it to Katalin.
"A lot of vetting there. Must be quite the revelation for you to need us to believe it," Valma comments.
"Indeed the young Stoneshaper speaks the truth! Come on then, reveal to us this earth-shattering knowledge. You'll find we're made of sterner stuff than you'd think Beardling!" Dwalin adds.
He looks at Igna, who only nods before he eventually speaks.
"Our order exists to slay the forces of Chaos as Gazul taught us. But the reason that our order was made, and the reason we exist separately from the greater Clergy, is the nature of the quarry we hunt. Our foes do not solely encompass daemons and Beastmen but all servants of the Great Enemy. Even..even our own kind, which appears to have happened to the dwarfs here."
No one says anything.
The boy keeps talking, recounting the events that transpired in the east that caused the rise of his order. Their isolation, the daemonic incursion, the spottiness of the Runes and the vile, treacherous, hideous mockery of a Daemon that took advantage of their plight. He speaks firsthand of the rise of the cult of Hashut, of the short term power his followers gained, of the disappearances, the kin strife among various Clans and the dwindling of the east's Runesmiths. Of the first openly hostile action by the Bull Daemon's followers; the assault and subsequent fall of Karak Irkul and its conversion into a blackened citadel that draws far too many similarities to Karag Dum for your liking. A dark tale that grows ever bleaker as the loyal Dawi were slowly falling to an ever-increasing number of Frurndar as Katalin calls them until the story takes a completely different turn.
Zharrgal and your armour pulse and flare with your changing mood.
Whereas the youth spoke with ever-growing moroseness and anger before, his tone changes when he begins recounting the arrival of Gazul. The turning of the tide, the rise of then-Prince Baggroth and his rallying of the last few loyal holds among the east. The great assault on the blackened fortress of Zharr Naggrund and the titanic battle that occurred there that led to it becoming nothing more than a flaming hole in the earth they'd since named the Maw of the Underearth. Of the breaking of Hashut, and the collapse of his cult. To Gazul charging the order with the eternal hunt for not only those that survived the initial purge, but also the destruction of any other entities that sought to subvert the Dawi from within.
"Who else knows?" Dwalin mutters eventually, none of his usual pomp and pageantry present.
"The Ancestors most likely, Prince Snorri, Whitebeard that is, and a few select individuals in positions. The throng's involvement is the greatest concentration of Dwarfs who have been exposed not from the east," he replies succinctly.
Valma slams her axe into the earth with a yell, muttering darkly.
"...Then they are lost." you mutter, a small part of you broken at the idea of any dwarf voluntarily worshipping one of those...those things.
Her hand falls limp.
The thought of it...
It infuriates you on a level that only staring at that accursed forgery has come close to. A burning hot spike of anger and betrayal that you grab onto and refuse to release. Hashut, you swear to remember that name and mark it forever in your mind.
"Indeed," Katalin nods, "The sorcerers especially. Only the Broken's most fervent believers have a chance at gaining such a gift. I don't know how much time has comparatively passed for the inhabitants of the Karak but its also possible he was born with that gift."
A boy no older than a century stares at you hatefully.
You let your head fall just a smudge, just a fraction. The extent of your failure, the absolute weight of the shame-
Your shoulders square themselves, your back straightens and your head returns to its previous position.
-is only a fraction of what Igna must be feeling. And you won't dare wallow in your misery when the Runelord next to you refuses to break in the face of such news.
"What will we do with these...Unbaraki," Valma asks, voice dark.
"Interrogate them for what little they may let slip through, then...it is up to lady Igna to decide," the Order member says, turning to face the Runelord in question.
"They die," she rumbles, eyes closed and breathing audibly through her nose, "For the fallen and betrayed, they will die."
"Do we tell the Throng? There will only be more of them within," you ask.
"Gazul warned us that the secret could not be kept forever, that eventually the darkness would be known for what it was. The Order would like to keep it secret, but we'd also like for the Karak to have not fallen. Again, the decision remains with Lady Igna, though if you tell anyone...I have no authority to stop you, only recommend that you keep the list short. Trusted family members, retainers sworn to you and the like. The Cult's presence this far north already necessitates that we tell the northern kings more than we've already told them about the threat they face. The King of Vlag is already fully aware, so it only stands to reason that Ungor and Kraka Drakk be made aware as well at this point. The reach of the enemy doesn't necessarily correlate with the Underway, but it's the easiest way for them to infiltrate a Karak without suspicion. Posing as Rangers have... their own complications," Katalin explains.
You think of Kraka Drakk, of your Clan, your Apprentices, your family and the chance that..that one of them could even-
-Zharrgal finds itself slammed against the table with a shout of anger, teal flames bursting into existence. When you lift the hammer the area you struck looks a great deal newer than the rest of the table.
You growl angrily, something you've been finding yourself doing a great deal more often these past few days.
Damnable daemons. Damnable Chaos.
Bah!
Khazalid Trivia:
Zantrommi - Redbeard
Unbaraki - Oathbreaker
Frurndar - The Tainted. Ones who have purposefully and maliciously befouled all they have touched, forever marring what was once pristine. Those who break the most sacrosanct of oaths, whose deeds have dishonoured all those they were even tangentially related to.
Vengryn a utzan un uzkul - Vengeance/Justice with our blood and bone.
NUGOTIT UMRAG UN UZKIT ORURKI. OR ANUNBAK UN DRENG AF WAZZOCKI, UN OR ANSTROLIT AF BIN AFDUMGROMTHI ANU! - Come and die my enemies! I'll break and slay you fools and send you to your gods soon enough!/ Come and die! Come and let me send you to your gods!
Kazaki-Dum - Warrior of darkness
Or dar afvarrkhulg ha - I challenge your chieftain to battle!
Or apit ekdar unbaraki - I accept your challenge oathbreaker!
Barunbakazi - Gatebreaker/ Waymaker
Karak Irkul - Pillared Vault Hold/ The Pillared Stronghold
Gain:
- Epic Deed, The Gatebreaker:Over the course of only a few hours you not only broke open the gates of the Fallen Hold Karag Dum's outer defenses with only your will, armour and the hammer in your hand, but you also singlehandedly slew more Beastmen and daemons than anyone else.Barunbakazi, the Gatebreaker, some call you, for nothing stands in the way of your vengeance.
- Eternal Grudge, Hashut: For the corruption of innocent Dawi, the tainting of so many innocent lives, the desecration of our traditions, the assault of an Ancestor's person and-and RAAAAARGH! UNBAK. UZKUL. DRENG! DRENG! DRENG!
- The dark, horrible truth of just what the eastern dwarf's suffered and knowledge about what foul thing that played a part in the fall of Karag Dum.
Updated:
- Grudge: Unknown Mastermind Mage > Unnamed Prophet of Hashut: For the continued magical assault upon the Throng, the indirect aid in the injury and death of many dwarf lives, the desecration of the hold of Karag Dum and the corruption of her inhabitants the only recompense shall be death. +20 Bonus to Breaching Roll.
- Grudge: The Unnamed Beastlord: For the death of eighty-three Dwarfs, the Injury of a further one hundred and fifty-four, the crippling of Thanes Gorlbag of Clan Gorltrommal and Thane Algrim Emeraldeyes of Clan Bronzebrow, for aiding the enemies of the Dwarfs in the destruction of Karag Dum, BAH, and serving a prophet of the perfidious Hashut. The only payment is death. +15 Bonus to Rolls against Beastmen.
Current Situation:
- The outer defenses of Karag Dum have fallen.
- An unknown number of Dwarfs within have turned to the worship of Hashut and likely part of the reason why the hold itself fell.
- Siggrun and Thane Granitebrow were likely sent away in no small part due to the Cult's influence, to weaken and lower the number of loyal Dawi within.
- The unnamed sorcerer is likely one of the prophets of this so-called Hashut. A cretin who usurped control of Karag Dum and controls the Beastmen.
-- This same Unbaraki has most certainly used his followers and control over the hold to equip the beastmen to a level otherwise unthinkable.
- Whatever has happened to the loyal Dawi remains unknown.
- You'll have to struggle through two levels of the Karak before needing to make a decision.
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Uh, anywho in return for a lack of votes, if you have any questions about the War in the East and the layout of the Karak I'll do my best to answer (IC of course) since I realize the former may be of great interest to some of you and the latter may have been a tad too difficult to parse (which I'll be tinkering with for an hour or more after regardless. I just wanted an update out).
AN: So there's no vote here. The Update just sorta felt like it was okay to stop here, but if it isn't obvious the next vote will be the path you take down to the King's Hall most likely and dealing with the big bad. Sorry this took so long, would you believe me if I told you I didn't even realize this was almost 10k until I put it in? So, sorry for the wait, thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy! Don't forget to C&C :^)
Gate 1 has 6/6 Life
Gate 2 has 10/10 Life
Gate 3[Incomplete] has 8/14 Life
Snorri Bonus, every two of his successful combat rolls will deal 2 damage regardless of round suxx.
Every won round deals 2 damage, suxx carry over, 3 suxx needed to pass.
Magic Rounds have DC 60 to deal 1 damage, suxx don't carry over, 3 suxx needed to pass.
Round 1
50| vs 94| (Snorri) W
41| vs 38| (Dwalin) L
57| vs 67| W
58| vs 43| L
2 W 1 Snorri W
Magic Round 1
47
71
48
63
2W
6/6
Round 2
58| vs 33| L
31| vs 62| (Snorri) W
43| vs 64| (Dwalin) W
29| vs 71| W
3 W +2 Snorri W = 4 Damage
2 W roll over
Magic Round 2
64
63
43
63
3 W +2 Snorri W = 3 Damage
1 Snorri W roll over, 1 Damage Roll Over.
You smack the gate twice, it flies apart at the seams.
Round 3
62| vs 79| (Snorri) W
57| vs 67| W
69| vs 43| (Dwalin) L
57| vs 55| L
3 W +2 Snorri W + 1 Rollover Damage = 5 Damage
1 W Roll over
5/10
Magic Round 3
72 W
61 W
47 L
81 W
3 W +2 Snorri W = 3 Damage
2/10
Round 4
56| vs 104| (Snorri) W
58| vs 67| (Dwalin) W
35| vs 44| W
36| vs 70| W
4 W = 2 Damage
2 W and 1 Snorri W Roll over
0/10 Gate 2 Dead.
Magic Round 4
46 L
61 W
77 W
73 W
3 W +2 Snorri W = 3 Damage
5/14
Round 5
44| vs 65| (Snorri) W
69| vs 50| (Dwalin) L
37| vs 43| W
27| vs 38| W
So, the Chaos Dwarfs got up to their Start as per Canon...and then Gazul came in, turned the Tide, Hashut and most of his Followers got killed and now the remaining Chaos Dwarfs are desperately trying to resurrect him.
So, loyal survivors persist yet. But their time is running out since the traitors seem to be focusing a fair bit in eliminating the loyalists within the hold before turning their full might against the Throng.
