Besieging the Black Crag (Campaign Results Turn 1)
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At long last, picks and hammers chisel their way through the ancient stonework of the great cistern which once watered the Dwarfs of Karak Drazh, and into its depths pour the rangers. Swiftly, quietly, they make their way upwards to the lids of the great containers, up stairway upon stairway of slick stone, polished smooth by thousands of years of water. Here, the rangers seal all entryways they can, fortifying them and soundproofing them as best as can be done, so that the great roaring and whooshing of the trains does not intrigue those who battle within the depths of the hold.
As hours and then days pass, however, no warhorns are raised, and stonemasons by the hundred begin flooding into the ancient vessels—widening the steps and roughening them so that hundreds of feet may march upon them with none to fall before their appointed meeting with Gazul is reached. At the base of the shafts, tracks are emplaced and all the necessities of a supply station for the Dawi are put in place. Blacksmiths are established, larders are created, and gunpowder stashes are built, before finally the brewery is erected within the depths, to muted cheers by the onlookers.
Then the army begins to march in—tens of thousands of shod feet, walking for the first time into the hallowed halls of this ancient hold of the Dawi, locked under the oppressive rule of the greenskin, and potentially, should they fail, the Liche Lord, Nagash himself. All would rather see the hold itself destroyed than see it fall into the hands of the creature whose grudges number higher than all save for those totaled by Caledor the Second and Malekith himself.
Then, with the mighty host assembled—with more than a hundred thousand Dwarfs, and not a small number of Umgi as well—the blasting charges are set upon the ancient and northernmost walls of the cistern. With a thunderous roar, the Urk are notified that the Dawi are here to reclaim their ancient birthright, as hundreds of the war golems of Dawi design stride out from the still-dissipating explosion, blades gleaming in the torchlight and thunderous booms echoing throughout the chamber as dozens of great guns, far too large for any Dawi to carry, fire into the gloom. Behind this metal wall comes another, as the High Throng charges forth, vengeful oaths streaming from their lips as they water the gardens of the northern galleries with the blood of the Urk.
What followed could more rightly be referred to as a massacre than a battle, as no battle line was ever able to be formally constructed by the Urk. Like metal pouring into a mold, the tide of Dawi spread out to fill all the recesses of the northern galleries. Mushroom farms were put to the torch, and squig ranches were butchered and slaughtered. Only on occasion was local resistance great enough to stall the streaming Dawi advance, as here and there local bosses managed to take control of the chaos and gather their boys into knots of a thousand or two. These were swiftly dealt with by the thanes that Glorin oversaw, his steady hand guiding the machinations from afar.
But still, casualties mounted—as ever they must—for here or there, Dawi or Umgi fell to brutish axe or grobi knives. Eventually, though, word reached deeper into the deeps, and with an enthusiasm for battle unmatched by any civilized race, those Orcs who had been fighting Nagash's legions instead found a more interesting foe and marched to the sound of the guns.
Glorin had expected this, however, and beneath his glowering gaze, the Dawi war machine turned. His instructions had been clear: the passages between the galleries were to be seized with haste, and all Urk structures were to be torn down—or repurposed, if need be—for the inevitable Urkish strike. Thus, demolition teams were deployed en masse.
And on the third day of the charge, as the call to Waaagh! echoed through the deeps, the great mass of charging Urk found themselves face-to-face with nearly sixty guns—and between them, a solid core of the Oathsworn, the High Throng, and the Throng of Vengeance, plus support from the regular throngs, barring their path.
Thoroughly bruised by the first massed display of cannon-fire in the history of the Karak, the Urk withdrew, their cries of "Cheating stunties!" echoing through the passageways.
In the eastern portions of their advance, however, Rangers began pouring in, reporting of Ork boys fleeing toward them rather than away. But here again, the hand of Glorin could be felt. Troops who had led the charge on the first and second day of the invasion had now been rested and refreshed as others took over their portions of the assault. And now, just as the advance approached the known lines of conflict between Urk and Undead, this refreshed group rejoined the fray.
Thus it was, as the first bone legions of Nagash arrived in formation—greenskins fleeing in their wake—they encountered not the disorganized remnants they may have expected, but a wall of steel and gromril awaiting them. Just as the skeletal ranks were about to break contact, those walls of steel opened, revealing Runic Destroyers packed to the brim with blasting powder who, with no vitals to pierce, plunged deep into the oncoming tide of armored bone.
Then, in a series of titanic eruptions, the cavern was lit in tones of red, yellow, and orange while a wave of heat singed the beards of those who were too close to the erupting inferno. So when the forces of the High King again lowered their shields from their eyes, they saw little before them but the shattered remains of thousands of skeletal warriors—only a few scattered remnants able to so much as stand upon their legs.
The sweep forward from there was more of a foregone conclusion. Even as more skeletons were brought forth from other fronts, little could be done in the moment to undo their crushing defeat here—only delaying actions and harrying attacks remained. Melchior, seemingly having decided to all but abandon the area, was found to have pulled back his forces instead. As the Dawi finished sweeping the Bankers' District, it became clear that the vampire had chosen to create a far firmer line of defense within the Industrial Districts, rather than throw good bone after bad against a well-prepared Dawi war machine.
To His Majesty, High King Glorin of the Karaz Ankor, Keeper of the Ancestral Oaths, Lord of the Saraeluii,
It is with measured satisfaction that I convey tidings of our continued successes in the prosecution of our shared campaign. The efforts to intercept and unravel the designs of our enemies have borne fruit.
While the humans you have assigned to our vanguard are, by temperament and refinement, a trying presence, I must concede they perform their martial duties with a diligence commendable for their kind. Crude, yes, but not wholly incapable.
Whilst aloft upon the wing, I espied a host of the restless dead—numbering no fewer than twenty-four thousand—marching with grim purpose to reinforce their cursed kin. Their column bore signs of prior conflict, having evidently endured the attentions of the Malavodri's brutish cousins ere they met with our blades.
The foe was commanded by some manner of blood-soaked wretch—no doubt a creature of necromantic pedigree—whose ambitions met their conclusion within the gullet of Deathfang, who deigned to grace the field with his wrath. The ensuing engagement, bolstered by our arts arcane and the might of the ancient wyrm, unfolded as one would expect. Though the dead held cohesion for a time, their end was ever assured.
Timely compensation is, of course, customary. Yet I note, with no small appreciation, that the Dawi have ever honored their commitments in such matters, and thus I speak not from mistrust, but tradition.
I remain, in victory and vigilance,
Prince Anhaldis, Heir of the Silver Spires, Voice of Ulthuan in Exile, Twice-Favoured of Hoeth
As hours and then days pass, however, no warhorns are raised, and stonemasons by the hundred begin flooding into the ancient vessels—widening the steps and roughening them so that hundreds of feet may march upon them with none to fall before their appointed meeting with Gazul is reached. At the base of the shafts, tracks are emplaced and all the necessities of a supply station for the Dawi are put in place. Blacksmiths are established, larders are created, and gunpowder stashes are built, before finally the brewery is erected within the depths, to muted cheers by the onlookers.
Then the army begins to march in—tens of thousands of shod feet, walking for the first time into the hallowed halls of this ancient hold of the Dawi, locked under the oppressive rule of the greenskin, and potentially, should they fail, the Liche Lord, Nagash himself. All would rather see the hold itself destroyed than see it fall into the hands of the creature whose grudges number higher than all save for those totaled by Caledor the Second and Malekith himself.
Then, with the mighty host assembled—with more than a hundred thousand Dwarfs, and not a small number of Umgi as well—the blasting charges are set upon the ancient and northernmost walls of the cistern. With a thunderous roar, the Urk are notified that the Dawi are here to reclaim their ancient birthright, as hundreds of the war golems of Dawi design stride out from the still-dissipating explosion, blades gleaming in the torchlight and thunderous booms echoing throughout the chamber as dozens of great guns, far too large for any Dawi to carry, fire into the gloom. Behind this metal wall comes another, as the High Throng charges forth, vengeful oaths streaming from their lips as they water the gardens of the northern galleries with the blood of the Urk.
What followed could more rightly be referred to as a massacre than a battle, as no battle line was ever able to be formally constructed by the Urk. Like metal pouring into a mold, the tide of Dawi spread out to fill all the recesses of the northern galleries. Mushroom farms were put to the torch, and squig ranches were butchered and slaughtered. Only on occasion was local resistance great enough to stall the streaming Dawi advance, as here and there local bosses managed to take control of the chaos and gather their boys into knots of a thousand or two. These were swiftly dealt with by the thanes that Glorin oversaw, his steady hand guiding the machinations from afar.
But still, casualties mounted—as ever they must—for here or there, Dawi or Umgi fell to brutish axe or grobi knives. Eventually, though, word reached deeper into the deeps, and with an enthusiasm for battle unmatched by any civilized race, those Orcs who had been fighting Nagash's legions instead found a more interesting foe and marched to the sound of the guns.
Glorin had expected this, however, and beneath his glowering gaze, the Dawi war machine turned. His instructions had been clear: the passages between the galleries were to be seized with haste, and all Urk structures were to be torn down—or repurposed, if need be—for the inevitable Urkish strike. Thus, demolition teams were deployed en masse.
And on the third day of the charge, as the call to Waaagh! echoed through the deeps, the great mass of charging Urk found themselves face-to-face with nearly sixty guns—and between them, a solid core of the Oathsworn, the High Throng, and the Throng of Vengeance, plus support from the regular throngs, barring their path.
Thoroughly bruised by the first massed display of cannon-fire in the history of the Karak, the Urk withdrew, their cries of "Cheating stunties!" echoing through the passageways.
In the eastern portions of their advance, however, Rangers began pouring in, reporting of Ork boys fleeing toward them rather than away. But here again, the hand of Glorin could be felt. Troops who had led the charge on the first and second day of the invasion had now been rested and refreshed as others took over their portions of the assault. And now, just as the advance approached the known lines of conflict between Urk and Undead, this refreshed group rejoined the fray.
Thus it was, as the first bone legions of Nagash arrived in formation—greenskins fleeing in their wake—they encountered not the disorganized remnants they may have expected, but a wall of steel and gromril awaiting them. Just as the skeletal ranks were about to break contact, those walls of steel opened, revealing Runic Destroyers packed to the brim with blasting powder who, with no vitals to pierce, plunged deep into the oncoming tide of armored bone.
Then, in a series of titanic eruptions, the cavern was lit in tones of red, yellow, and orange while a wave of heat singed the beards of those who were too close to the erupting inferno. So when the forces of the High King again lowered their shields from their eyes, they saw little before them but the shattered remains of thousands of skeletal warriors—only a few scattered remnants able to so much as stand upon their legs.
The sweep forward from there was more of a foregone conclusion. Even as more skeletons were brought forth from other fronts, little could be done in the moment to undo their crushing defeat here—only delaying actions and harrying attacks remained. Melchior, seemingly having decided to all but abandon the area, was found to have pulled back his forces instead. As the Dawi finished sweeping the Bankers' District, it became clear that the vampire had chosen to create a far firmer line of defense within the Industrial Districts, rather than throw good bone after bad against a well-prepared Dawi war machine.
To His Majesty, High King Glorin of the Karaz Ankor, Keeper of the Ancestral Oaths, Lord of the Saraeluii,
It is with measured satisfaction that I convey tidings of our continued successes in the prosecution of our shared campaign. The efforts to intercept and unravel the designs of our enemies have borne fruit.
While the humans you have assigned to our vanguard are, by temperament and refinement, a trying presence, I must concede they perform their martial duties with a diligence commendable for their kind. Crude, yes, but not wholly incapable.
Whilst aloft upon the wing, I espied a host of the restless dead—numbering no fewer than twenty-four thousand—marching with grim purpose to reinforce their cursed kin. Their column bore signs of prior conflict, having evidently endured the attentions of the Malavodri's brutish cousins ere they met with our blades.
The foe was commanded by some manner of blood-soaked wretch—no doubt a creature of necromantic pedigree—whose ambitions met their conclusion within the gullet of Deathfang, who deigned to grace the field with his wrath. The ensuing engagement, bolstered by our arts arcane and the might of the ancient wyrm, unfolded as one would expect. Though the dead held cohesion for a time, their end was ever assured.
Timely compensation is, of course, customary. Yet I note, with no small appreciation, that the Dawi have ever honored their commitments in such matters, and thus I speak not from mistrust, but tradition.
I remain, in victory and vigilance,
Prince Anhaldis, Heir of the Silver Spires, Voice of Ulthuan in Exile, Twice-Favoured of Hoeth
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