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The Eternal Struggle (DW1)
The vast host of Amon Chakai surged forwards, bolts of darkness raining down from the battlements of the fortress. The Daemons
screamed and twisted, exploding in a kaleidoscope of colours. Thunder and lightning rumbled across the angry sky and storm
clouds glistened with the colours of the rainbow as thousands of Demonic entities were sent screaming back into the Realm
of Chaos.
In return the army of Tzeentch unleashed their own spells, destructive magicks crashing against the fortress walls and
incinerating the defenders in their hundreds.
Winged monstrosities assaulted the battlements from the air while the bulk of the army swarmed over the walls, crashing
into the waiting ranks of Plague Bearers, the Tallymen of Nurgle. Sorcerous explosions erupted in the thick of the fighting
as Daemon fought Daemon with immortal fury.
Such was the magnitude of Chaos magic evoked by both sides that a great, swirling rift opened in the sky above, siphoning
the raw energies of the warp.
Within this churning vortex the all-seeing eye of Tzeentch appeared and gazed down in amusement at the great game in progress.
A foul wind of decay swept over the battlefield, signalling the observing presence of father Nurgle.
Then with a terrible screech, the winged form of a Greater Daemon leapt up from the mass of assaulting Daemons. From the
glowing staff it held in its hands, fiery destruction rained down upon the enemies of Tzeentch.
Amon Chakai soared higher and higher, above the cloud line, until he reached the uppermost walkway between the two tallest
towers of the Fortress. Waiting for him there, surrounded by a swarms of nurglings, was the Stenchlord SlythRa.
The Daemons addressed each other by their true names before commencing battle
On the ground below, Plaguebearer and Horror alike looked up as dark, rumbling storm clouds engulfed the two towers. Lightning
flashed and for an instant the silhouette of two distant figures could be seen struggling in the heavens above. The storm
was about to begin.
The two Daemon Lords struggled with each other for what could have been an age, long after the two armies had wiped each
other out. Infernal weapons clashed with shattering force and magical energies of terrible power were brought to bear. Then
the Great Unclean One seemed to be on the verge of ultimate victory. His nemesis had prepared for this battle for countless
centuries, but blow for blow, the Lord of Change could not match the seemingly indestructable Stenchlord. Suddenly, however,
the winds of magic shifted and swirled with renewed vigour.
Empowered by the sudden surge, Amon Chakai let loose with a reckless spell the result of which caused a cataclysmic explosion,
disintegrating the Citadel and consuming the two Daemon Lords in an instant. Both Daemons were banished back into the Realm
of Chaos where their eternal struggle continues to this day.
So the Mortal lands would be safe for many years to come, but the return of the Daemon Wars is as inevitable as the setting
sun. And when the immortal Greater Daemons did return it would not be just two of them, but four who would strive for ultimate
dominion over the Warhammer world.
Of the involvement of Skaven (DW3)
It was the Vermin Lord Krasslik who attempted to rebuild the portal through which he could summon the Greater Daemon of Tzeentch
and use him as an ally in the ongoing war against the Dwarves.
Krasslik's first task was to find the book that gave instructions as how to build the portal. The book had been in Daemon's
possession for centuries untold, but after his death, Ozdal of Khrone had found it amidst the rubble that was once the Pyramid
of Light. Unable to break past its arcane wards and destroy the book, Ozdal sealed it in vault deep underground, intent on
keeping his Daemonic rival trapped for eternity in the void.
As a daemonic creature himself, Krasslik was able to locate the book and embarked upon a massive expedition to the Chaos
Wastes. After many weeks of fruitless exploration, Krasslik finally found what he thought to be the magical presence of the
book, below him in the earth. Just as his slaves began digging a host of Khorne Daemons descended upon them. Amidst the ferocious
fighting Krasslik met Ozdal met face to face once for the second and last time. This time, however, it was the great Bloodthrister
who was beaten into submission. The resolve of the Bloodletters wavered and Krasslik, seizing the moment, hastily ordered
a retreat with the book and the tattered remains of his expedition force.
Back at the Skaven camp, Krasslik realized that the book was utterly useless to him as he did not understand any of the
complicated, arcane instruction. Fortune favoured his cause, however, for the council had decided to reinforce the expedition
with a retinue from clan Skyre. Among them, was their chief engineer, Skarath Warpfang. After hearing word of the reinforcements
from clan Skyre, Krasslik copied the bulk of the book onto a series of scrolls and then gave the scrolls to Lurk, the captain
of the Stormvermin. Lurk was ordered to give the scrolls to Skarath as fast as possible.
On the journey to Skarath's camp, Lurk was ambushed by a scouting force of Dwarves and only just managed to escape with
the scroll and a handful of his ratmen. Upon reaching clan Skyre’s camp, Lurk learned that his involvement in the
northern campaign has only just beginning. Skarath was able to read the scrolls and identified mysterious materials that were
required for the construction the gate.
Rather than sending an entire mining team out into the Chaos wastes on what could be a suicide mission, Skarath decided
to venture into the wastes himself, taking with him Lurk, his apprentice Neymos and a group of his best troops. When the materials
had been found, Skarath planned on sending a message back to his camp instructing a mining team to come out and start excavating.
All, however, did not go as planned. Upon finding the materials, Skarath and his companions stumbled upon of nest of Daemon
Spawn. In the mayhem that followed, Skarath, Lurk, and Neymos were lost and most of the elite Stormvermin were killed. A lone
messenger, however, managed to scramble back to camp with news that thematerials had been found.
It was to no avail, though. Upon escaping the carnage in the wastes the messenger found no camp. The council of thirteen
had withdrawn its support from Krasslik's campaign and ordered that the clan Skyre reinforcements return home.
The Council of Thirteen unanimously agreed that Krasslik's campaign in the north was risky and proving too costly. Too
many resources were being wasted in their veiw. The Elves and Dwarves, aware of the growing danger to the north, had begun
to gather their forces, and the risk of unleashing a Greater Daemon unto the material plain was too great.
Krasslik failed to heed the Council's warnings and as result the Council ordered his assassination. Four of the best from
clan Eshin were sent into the Chaos Wastes and although Krasslik was never seen again, neither were the assassins who failed
to return to Skavenblight.
Further tales are told of the adventures of Lurk, Skarath and Neymos and their escape from the Realm of Chaos.
Lurking Peril
After what must have been several hours of climbing the treacherous mountain slope, Lurk looked up and saw a jagged ridge.
"That must be the peak up there", he shouted back at the other Skaven following him, "Not long now!"
Skarath attempted to respond but all that came from his grizzly maw was a rasping cough. He paused for a moment, grasping
onto an outcrop of rock as if his very life depended on it. He began to fiddle with several switches on the iron tank strapped
to his back. Pulling on a long tube, he brought his hand up and placed a breathing mask over his mouth
"You go ahead", wheezed Skarath after a deep breath, "I'll catch up up".
The troop of Skaven disappeared beyond the ridge as engineer took time to compose himself. This high altitude was doing
his condition no favours.
Skarath chittered with excitement as he finally reached the plateau atop the mountain. His beady, black eyes widened as
he saw before him a lake of sparkling crystal within a giant crater. Skarath winced as he stepped forward, feeling a sharp
pain beneath one of his feet. He looked down and saw that the ground was covered with clusters of blue crystal.
"Skarath!" Lurk called out, appearing with the rest of Skaven from within the crater.
"Fascinating" said Skarath, "I've never seen anything like this".
"Is this it?" asked Lurk, "is this what we came for?"
"Yes" the engineer replied slowly, his eyes glinting like the crystals all around, "but now we must report
back to camp and send word to the Council that we've found the ore. This is just the beginning. Soon we will have an army
slaves working here."
Taking a small pick axe from his belt, Skarath crouched down and prepared to strike one of the clusters of crystal.
"Master", Neymos whispered "I think this is a bad idea"
The pick axe hit the cluster and sent fragments of blue crystal flying in all directions.
"What's the problem", said Skarath, picking up one of the larger fragments, "tests will need to carried
out on this sample; warp density and..."
The ground suddenly began to tremble, cutting Skarath short. Cracks suddenly began to appear from the centre of the crater,
spreading outward toward the Skaven. The mountain groaned and heaved, and cracks opened and widened, swallowing the floor
of crater and releasing steaming gas.
"We must flee this place! Quick, quick!" cried Lurk, leading the group back over the ridge.
Suddenly the ground gave way beneath Lurk and he fell forwards, his clawed hands scrabbling for solid rock as his feet
dangled above a gaping black hole.
Skarath appeared before him. He turned to see the other Skaven scurrying back down the mountain; and then he turned to
Lurk with an evil glint in his eye.
He reached for something behind his back when suddenly a hideous roar pierced the air, louder than the rumble of falling
rock and derbri.
Lurk looked down and saw a swarm of monsters slithering up the crater walls towards him.
"Help, Help!" Lurk screamed, "pull me up, up!" The engineer hesitated for a moment before reaching
down and pulling distraught stormvermin captain.
"When this over you and me are having a little talk" Lurk snarled.
"Look at that!" the stormvermin said to one another as huge plumes of black smoke and ash rose up from the trembling
mountain. Skarath and Lurk reached the bottom of the mountain along with Neymos who ran screaming in abject horror.
"What are our order, sir?" asked one of the stormvermin as Lurk joined their ranks
"We keep running", replied Lurk, fighting to catch his breath.
"No" said Skarath, taking off one his shoulder straps and unhooking several grenades, "we make our stand
here".
"Are you crazy, warp engineer?!" Lurk shouted above the growing rumble of the approaching Daemon swarm.
"Here. Give one to each of you" said Skarath and Lurk reluctantly obeyed. When each Skaven had a grenade in
hand, Skarath barked his orders:
"These are your standard issue warpstone grenade. To prime it, remove to silver pin. They detonate on impact so be
sure not to drop them once the pin is out. You will throw them high on my order. Is that clear?"
The Skaven nodded grimly and stared defiantly at the approaching horde of daemons. The stench of blood and decay filled
the ratmen's nostrils and the gibbering horde of spawn grew closer, talon and claw labouring in the charge, daemon clambering
over daemon in their eagerness to consume living flesh.
"Hold!", said Skarath as he saw his companions pull out the pins.
"HOLD!!" Skarath's voice barely audible above the cacophony of sound.
"NOW!!!"
As one the warp stone grenades were thrown high into the air. And as they hit their mark green fire erupted in tremendous
explosions. The spawn screamed and bellowed in rage as warpfire quickly spread throughout the closely packed horde. The spawn
stumbled over the bodies of their fallen and were in turn set slight. Within a minute the bulk of the horde was engulfed in
iridescent flames.
Halberd and sword in hand, the Skaven readied themselves as the surviving spawn charged forwards, their fury doubled.
Every skaven except Neymos was in hand to hand combat, desperately fending off blows form the enraged monstrosities. One
of the stormvermin was severed in two by a gigantic claw. Another was knocked to the ground before a dagger-like claw sank
into the back of his neck.
"Fall back!" Lurk ordered as he rammed his halberd into the snapping mouth of a spawn. Beside him Skarath fought
like a rabid wolf. He weaved and ducked, slashing out with twin blades. Skarath's opponent finally fell after sustaining close
to a dozen cuts and stabs, the creature's internal organs spilling out onto the scorched earth.
"Neymos!" Skarath called out, looking around for his apprentice.
For a moment he thought caught sight of a small shadow, darting along the outskirts of the battle, making its way back
to the cursed mountain.
The Awakening (DW6 Chapter 1)
The High King's eyes lay fixed in a glazed stare at the charred object in his old hands, and in the depths of his steely-blue
eyes his soul was centuries and leagues away.
"Ahhh, my friend" he whispered to the one standing near. "Vengeance and hatred make a strong alloy in the
heart, but it is a bitter one to the taste."
"You feel the blood of our fathers, my King" muttered the Runesmith with a age-worn voice broken by sadness
and grief. "Ever has it granted us strength, but courage and vengeance melded with too much hate is a poisonous broth.
In these dark times me must ask of our ancestors the strength to be the perfect alloy, for when we are balanced we can never
be defeated."
"The sword that is forged from an uneven blend shatters in battle." recited the King. "Yes I have heard
that spoken from many lips, and yet in these times I now understand its true meaning."
Turning his eyes away from the Runesmith, the King looked back at what lay in his hands.
The battle axe had been melted into a charred lump of blackened oak, and the runic script of the metal had been warped
by an intense heat. The handle still bore a faint resemblance of the Kings family rune, for this was the battle axe of Thori,
King Osrics son. He now feasted in the halls of his ancestors in Valaya, but would await his final peace when vengeance for
his death was wrought.
Three days earlier the body of the Kings son had been carried through the Dwarven city down into the burial crypts at
the roots of the mountain. It had been a day so silent that the faint pattering of falling scree in the mountains chinked
echoingly throughout the stronghold. The Kings first spoken words had been only this morning, and it had been an oath of vengeance
bellowed in grief.
Now in the Kings Throne Room under the flickering light of wall lamps, the Kings heart had cooled slightly and he was
at council with his trusted friend the Runesmith Tel. Here he stood by the Kings side, pondering on the mystery and dread
that had awoken in their hearts with the news of the Princes death. Soon they would find out the truth of what had happened,
and Tel had a terrible feeling it would prove further ill for the Dwarven people. The air was stuffy and thick with the winds
of magic, and to Tel it felt as if a storm was fast approaching.
The last time King Osric had seen his son alive had been the day he had left the Stronghold in high hopes leading an expedition
to a recently rediscovered ancient fort many leagues to the east on the borders of the accursed Ash Lands. Word had come from
scouts ranging in that area of a lost citadel from the times of the ancestors which had lain forgotten for countless centuries,
for activity of the accursed Dark kin of the east had increased over the years troubling the Thanes of the mountains and their
advisors to see what evil they were up to. Over the millennia of battles the Dwarfs had waged in the Old World, they had come
to learn never to underestimate the utter corruptness and evil of the worshippers of Hashut, their Dark Kin, and ever had
they been a shame on the name of their race. No other enemy were hated more, for they showed that even the proud race of the
Dwarfs was not uncorruptable and that the granite foundations of their race had deep splits running through its base.
The ancient citadel was on the borders of their dark territory in the east, and from the scouts reports seemed long deserted
and home only to the twisted scurrying creatures of that grim border land that made lairs in its dark passageways, although
the cursed brethren were once more active in the area. As soon as word reached the King that the Dark kindred may have uncovered
one of the ancient lost citadels, it was immediately agreed that efforts must be made to prevent it falling into their evil
hands. The Kings son Thori had volunteered to lead a fully armed expedition to reclaim this ancient citadel and to defend
it against the Dark Ones. Troops had been sent from the Thane guards of the surrounding cities from all across the Dragon
Spine Mountains, and soon a large force many hundred strong had assembled before the Gates of Karaz a Karak. They had left
many moons ago singing deeply as their footsteps faded up the steep and twisting mountain paths, now the city echoed only
with the mournful songs of grief and sadness.
"My friend, are any of the survivors able to talk?" asked the King gruffly.
"From the expedition sixteen returned whether standing... or carried upon their round shields." muttered the
Runesmith, his deep brows furrowing in worry. "Only five remain alive. I think we will get answers now, but the healers
will not be happy for they are in a bad way"
The King nodded glumly and raised himself from his crystal-crusted throne. "Let us go at once" he muttered and
the two proceeded out of the throne room to the healing chambers.
After a brief exchange of words with the healers, they retired from the main chamber reluctantly, leaving the King and
the Runesmith to question one survivor they deemed fit enough to speak. The Dwarf lay moaning in a stretched bed, much of
his body covered in bandages. The first thing the King noticed was that the Dwarf was clean shaven, and he later found out
that this was because most of his beard had been singed away and had to be removed with little hope of ever growing back.
Half of his face was wrapped in bandage so that the poor Dwarf could only look at the King through one blood-shot eye, and
when the King addressed him he tried valiantly to rise but Osric quietly bade him relax and tell them what happened...
Their force had marched directly eastward towards the dust-blurred rising sun in the east, and ranger teams of gunners
had been sent to scout ahead and make the passes safe. Minor skirmishes with mountain Goblins had been fought, but all had
been destroyed by the scouts themselves and the Troll Slayers who accompanied them with no need of the main force having to
go into battle. Yet all around them the Dwarfs could sense that the Mountains were growing wilder and untamed the further
east they went, and they felt that the rocks just beyond the edge of sight were full of leering eyes, watchful and filled
with cunning hatred. For a week the force had marched keeping a steady pace, and often they would pass ancient crumbling towers
that had not been used for centuries and had fallen into decay, standing lonely as rune stones to the fall of their mighty
Kingdom to the enemies of the Dwarfs.
On one occasion a fool-hardy pack of Stone Trolls had actually leaped down from their layers onto the forefront scouts
and had slain many Rangers before the Slayers could bring them down. It was a shocking example of how more wild and dangerous
the land became the further eastward they went, for Trolls would never normally have the courage for such a bold attack, no
matter how foolish it had been. Yet apart from the occasional skirmish with filth Goblinoid creatures, their pass went relatively
unchallenged, and on the second week of march the force climbed the last of the eastern range mountains and looked beyond
into a vast Dark land stretching far below to the edge of sight that looked as lifeless and twisted as the northern wastes
themselves. At the foot of the Eastern range hidden in a valley, they could now see the crumbling stone walls of the ancient
eastern fortress the scouts had reported of, and they set an eager march towards it, tightening their grip on their weapons
and bringing together the scouts into closer formation as they felt the dangerous watchfulness suddenly increase. Each Dwarf
had advanced feeling a dreadful threat in the dusty air increase with each step, and at any moment they expected an attack.
The Captains were glancing nervously all about them for they could feel the danger they were in but knew not where it would
come from. Only Prince Thori held his eyes fixed straight ahead towards the ruined gateway of the ancient fortress as he lead
a march resolutely towards the dark entrance.
They had hardly past the two ruined outposts when the expected attack came in a billow of acrid black smoke and the screaming
and vile sniggering laughter of twisted Hobgoblins which suddenly leaped down from the rocks on either side. Thori had expected
such an attack however, for reports of the Dark Kins activity in this area had not gone unheard, and so quickly the force
assumed a defensive position so that the pitiful Goblinoids broke on a wall of steel and fell to the skilled axe blows of
Prince Thoris' honour guard in droves before scampering in a disorganized retreat back up the slopes. Yet this had merely
been a cunning distraction, for while the Dwarfs had been busy slaughterring the Hobgoblins, a deep column of accursed Dark
kin armed with brazen blunderbuss guns had formed behind their steel lines, and from out of the dark entrance to the ancient
citadel ranks of heavily-armed Dwarfs in black spiked amour emerged followed by monstrous snarling beasts with bull-like lower
muscular bodies red as flaming embers, and a twisted Dwarven torso with a tusked bearded face of a dark one. They had walked
straight into a trap...
In terrible moments deafening with the crack of gunpowder blasts the mountain air was filled with the acrid stench of
sulphurous smoke, and in that instant of chaos before their ranks tightened themselves into a defensive formation many warriors
fell riddled with bloodied shrapnel holes from the dread blunderbuss weapons of the devil spawn kin. It was then that the
air was torn by the screaming whistle of vile Death Rocket cannons forged from Hashuts' black fires of the Ash lands, and
the Dwarven ranks exploded in violent yellow flashes where they hit, sending bloody bodies tumbling through the air. Many
of the devil fire spiraled uncontrollably spewing circling streamers of dirty smoke before landing amidst their own foul warrior
ranks, but this seemed only to grow their sniggering laughter for their dark masters care not for the lives of their followers
who are indeed slaves to their terrifying will.
It was clear that they were in a very bad situation, but the sight of the corrupt brethren fuelled the hatred in their
veins and many Dwarfs in the front ranks rushed forward yelling battle cries. Seeing it was hopeless to escape, Prince Thori
raced after his fellow soldiers and blew deeply on his golden-gild battle horn, sounding a full thunderous charge towards
the black kin. They knew that if their ranks could be broken, the rest of the vile army, mainly made of cowardly Goblinoid
slaves would scatter. But it was a desperate plan for the ranks of the dark kin were well armed and deep and their black hatred
burned just as brightly as the Dwarfs from the western Mountains. In this instant the evil brethren were stunned for to see
ranks of well armored angry Dwarfs charging towards them was not something they were expecting for warriors of such cruel
hearts prefer attacking with greater numbers and from a distant with foul-smoking weapons, not hand to hand with a determined
and deadly foe. They hardly had time to raise their cruel blades before the front wave of charging Dwarfs slammed into their
ranks with a deafening grinding of steel and a bellowing of deep voices, and the battle swiftly descended into a chaotic melee
with Dwarf fighting Dwarf, and with the hatred bubbling between the two brethren neither side would give an inch.
Outside the ancient gates of the ruined Dwarven citadel it was bloody chaos. Monstrous Bull Centaurs snorting fire stomped
through the masses of warriors hewing left and right with their gigantic bludgeoning blades, not caring that they often felled
their own dark brethren. Heroes were born and lost in that battle as both sides were equally matched in skill and weaponry
and neither side was willing to give ground. For even though the evil kin had embraced the evil underworld god Hashut and
had been twisted by the tint of the dark gods of Chaos in days long ago, they were still partly Dwarfs and so possessed the
skill of the metal craft beyond mere Elves and Humans could dream of and were fuelled with their races stubborn bravery to
stand and fight to the last.
The harshly croaked battle songs of the dark kin were in old Dwarvish which they could understand even though it was in
a mocking cruel tone. The words were spiteful and talked of the fall of the Dwarf kingdom to be consumed in the terrible black
fires of Hashut, and this taunting turned their blood to boiling fury. Back they chanted in spitting roars and oaths of vengeance
of the fall of darkness to the gods of Valaya, and this became more than just a battle, it became a spiritual fight for the
purity of their race against corruption. Neither side backed down, as in all eyes the fury of the Dwarven race was set to
flaming hatred, and the dead piled up on both sides giving a great feast for the flocks of hungry carrion crows that circled
and cawed evilly in the choking dusty air above, making it difficult to keep a foothold on the slippery carpet of bloody hacked
bodies and fallen smeared weapons. Even in the days of the War of the Beard when the weakling white-faced Elves had been annihilated
from the Old World and fled back over the seas to their Isle in their white swan ships, such hatred as this was unknown, for
no other enemy under the sun stoked the fires of the Dwarfs fury more than their Dark Kin, for they were a shame on their
ancestors and a curse on their race.
Through the visors in their gromril helms the Dwarfs could hardly see anything, for thick black smoke rolled over the
battlefield and their hearing was deafened by the constant cracking of gunners from both armies and the screaming whistle
of Death Rockets roaring over head and exploding in the ranks. In front of them they could see the amassed forces of the enemy,
their evil flaming eyes burning red from beneath horned helmets of ash-forged black iron, advancing upon them with the dark
blades of their lightless slave forges. Often fiery explosions would bloom from the side of the cliffs nearby, for the War
Machines of the dark kin were very inaccurate up to a point that some even found their mark in the midst of their own ranks
as if they had been crudely wielded by greenskins and not Dwarfs. No one knew how long the battle raged; for the smoke blanketed
all sight of the baking hot eastern sun and the battle never ceased for none were willing to stop slaying the other. Yet sometime
in the midst of all this carnage a deep brass horn note bellowed loudly above the scream of rockets and the blasting of powder
weapons. This had a very strange effect for the Dark Kin immediately raised their bronze shields into a defensive wall of
metal and backed away slowly, spitting taunting curses at the Dwarfs through foul tusked mouths and blood-streaked beards.
The Dwarfs would have pursued them then and there had it not been for their leader Prince Thori who bellowed a command
to hold, for in his heart he feared they were leading them into another trap. Their numbers had been felled dramatically with
merely half their numbers still able to stand and they could ill afford another battle whilst the enemy still outnumbered
them more than two to one with fresh reserves of Hobgoblin slaves at the ready which could be seen high on the cliff sides
in dark masses under their crude black banners, watching and waiting for their cruel masters whips to command them. Backwards
the evil dark Kin marched, crushing the dead and dying of both armies underfoot with evil relish. Their black ranks fell back
and swelled around a trio of strange-looking figures that had appeared from the ancient crumbling entrance of the citadel.
It was easy to recognize them as accursed Black sorcerers, for parts of their foul bodies had been hideously turned to stone
because of their evil acts, and a dark corona of black magic swirled around the three like a sickening plague. In their midst
was a large object that pulsed with a light none could focus on completely. It stung the eyes to look at it for it seemed
to shift and change and move of its own accord between existence and nothingness, yet from its strange metallic surface burned
bright flaming runes of a script none of them recognized and looked nothing like any language carved under a sun. One of the
Dwarf sorcerers hobbled forward dragging a leaden leg of crystalline volcanic rock in a grotesque show of how corrupt the
kin had become. It was said that when Grungi had awakened the first seven sleepers under the mountains, he had warned them
never to use the dark magic, and that if they should ever dare to go against the command of their maker; they would be turned
back to the stone from which they were molded in the time of starlight. From the front ranks Thori yelled a command to the
standard bearer, and he unfurled the shining battle standard of Valaya which pulsed with silvery protection against magic,
for it was clear this new devilry was the dark-rumoured magic of Hashut. At least that is what they thought...
With a shrill chattering of an evil dialect, the closest Dwarven sorcerer turned round and slammed a red crystalline object
into the strange metal shard the other two carried. Instantly the air burned hotter than a forge masters pit and the vision
of the lands behind them blurred and wavered as if the lands had been turned to roasting desert, and from the strange objects
warping surface there shot a huge torrent of spluttering fire into the sky towards the front ranks of Prince Thoris guard.
No one was sure of what had happened next, for sheer chaos fell on the ranks of the Dwarfs and the air shattered with the
terrible screams of the dying. The front thee ranks of warriors collapsed with screeches of agony onto the blood-soaked ground
as their beards burst into flame and their flesh charred. The very armour of their bodies began to glow red and the stink
of burning bodies smote the air as the Dwarfs were cooked alive within their own armour.
Thori himself was in the first rank, and through tear-blurred eyes the survivors saw him fall in burning agony as beside
him the battle banner blazed into fluttering ash and embers. With the fall of the front ranks the enemies charged forward
in a mass attack chanting evil songs and laughing at the pitiful screams of the dying. Somehow, before the enemies could reach
them some Dwarfs managed to lift up the blackened body of Prince Thori though it scorched their hands to the bone, and beat
a hasty retreat while others sold their lives dearly against the dark kin to give them time to escape. All that could be remembered
after that was the mad dash to escape under the command of the surviving captains, and the horrible sound of the evil mocking
laughter from behind them as the evil kin took chase and hunted them down one by one. They managed to break through the ranks
of the Blunderbuss armed warriors to their rear and fled into the mountains on their long run back home to warn the kingdom
of the terrible new weapon the Evil Kin had found. Those few dozen that made it back alive returned the burned body of Prince
Thori to the High King before collapsing with exhaustion.
Now, piecing together the strands of information from the wounded survivors, the Runesmiths had delved deep into the old
archives of the ancient Days. There in old dust-shrouded tombs written in an ancestral runic script unused for millennia and
known only to the oldest longbeards in these days, they pieced together a possible explanation of this dread new weapon. There
is a legend that in times far back when the ancients lived before even the dark days of the first Great War against the dark
gods, great beings from the stars walked the earth and had powers beyond imagination. Lands they raised and fell, and great
armies of strange servants they had at their call. It was they who taught the seven ancestors the craft of tool making and
of mining for metals, and sowed the seeds of their first language.
So powerful were they that it was said the very elements of nature were at their command...
If such beings truly ever did exist, then they must have been Gods. But the legends say that they did not themselves control
the elements with will, but with machinery and intelligent craft. These were not beings of magic as the Elves in their foolishness
believe them to be, but beings of engineering and craft who were respected as mighty by the Dwarven ancestors. It is said
they fashioned eight machine devices to control the four elements, two for each, and that with these machines land and life
itself could be created or destroyed.
But most records and knowledge of these mighty machines of the Old Ones was lost when the time of Darkness came unto the
World many millennia ago in the ancient past, and it is thought that in this time when the great Old Ones perished and their
kingdoms were smashed into ruin, those machines had been destroyed. Somehow in those dark days the ancestors of the Dwarfs
and Elves managed to fight off the Darkness from the North, for they had learned well from the Old Ones. In that time even
the primitive tribes of humans showed their strength and courage, and where the Old Gods had fallen in daemon fire mere mortals
somehow prevailed.
But things that should not have been forgotten were lost from record. Perhaps the ancestors assumed all craft of the Old
ones had perished with them, but it was not so.
Now piecing together the tragic story of the fall of Prince Thori and his army to the accursed Dark Kindred, the Runesmiths
had looked over the scrolls concerning this ancient eastern citadel they now learned had been called Karak Ange'loch, translated
from the ancient tongue as "The Gods Forge".
What they learned filled the Runesmiths with fear when they discovered old scrolls referring to something that they called
'the fire of the gods' which the King of that eastern citadel had mined from deep beneath the great eastern ash steppes, and
others referred to is as the 'fiery gift from the skies' that had hurtled to the ground in ancient days as a burning star
that was buried deeply in the ash of the east. How this knowledge had been lost is uncertain, but all that is known is that
the Dwarf Empire had lost contact with the citadel in ancient times very suddenly. This happened long ago at the start of
the Days of Woe when many citadels fell into ruin and were conquered by the enemies of the Dwarfs, and it was assumed that
this far eastern citadel, isolated and cut off from the other struggling citadels who themselves were ringed with foes, had
fallen long ago to enemies in a similar way...
Now the Runesmiths of King Osric fear differently. Such a device was never meant for mortal hands, and the ancient scrolls
suggest that shortly before the citadel suddenly perished, their ancient Runesmiths were experimenting with the dug up shard
of the Old Ones machine.
If this truly is the Fire of the ancient Gods and it has been awakened, then it must mean that the machinery of the elements
was not lost with the Old Ones as was always believed. If that is the case, the Dark Kindred have awoken a power that should
have slept forever, and dark times have fallen upon us. The power of the elements has been awakened...
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