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The Collected Histories, Tales, and Legends of the Karakigrom Clan and Their Quest to Strike the Greatest of Grudges from Their Dammaz-Kron.

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Greeting Fate with a Smiling Eye

The two runelords sat an uncomfortable distance apart, their common clan the only thing keeping them side-by-side. Lunn was beside Smakki, with Norgrim, Alaric, and Rungi almost completing the circle save for one space. The night before a Boartemper scout had delivered tales of unnatural creatures and mutated, mindless beasts. Tonight Svala was finishing a tale of an oddly armored squig and proudly brandishing the tusk she had kept as a trophy from her kill.

And then Norgrim rose. He described an encounter with cultists lead by a foul shaman. The creature was said to be over seven feet tall with a bent beak poking out from beneath a shabby cowl. As the cultists were battered away into nothingness, the coward escaped on a flying chariot pulled by glimmering sky fish. Norgrim spat with disgust into the flame, the alcohol in his spittle causing The fire to crackle loudly before complaining that had the men not attempted to rise and lash out futilely on maimed limbs, they would have captured the leader. Rungi was troubled by this. These devout fanatics were being uncovered in larger and larger groups and the crude bird shrines had often now given way to statues of polished stone with trinkets hung from its neck and hands.

His concentration was broken when Grimwold brought up the realmstone veins. Alaric excitedly interjected that these could be harnessed to fuel great machinations, but his suggestion to call in miner teams was cut short. Norgrim insisted that the bird-shaman was a pressing threat. Rungi’s quiet nods decided the matter. Speaking with the authority of an endorsed advisor, Norgrim restated the need for the miners to continue building a stable roadway so that the hammerers could advance and the ironbreakers could guard in lines instead of being thinned out and trapped by the seemingly endless swarms of grots.

“Brother Lunn,” called Rungi over the muttering commentary, “ you asked to speak with us tonight?”

“Yes my king. I've noticed rubble pilings and sloppy burial of places where the reamstone would seek to protrude from the earth. They’re frantically covered, as if greenskins are scared of them. The Rowsers, as they call themselves, have reported some indicators of crude removal. I’ve never studied the material myself, but if the designs from the Ironweld engineers are to be trusted, enough of it could be formed into a nearly impenetrable barrier.

“Sounds blasphemous,” Smakki mused.

“Realmstone is not merely neutral stone, nor is it sentient being,” Lunn explained. “Supposedly it can be activated by channeling energy through it. What that actually means though, I’m simply not sure.”

“And we’re supposed to trust ‘not sure.’ With respect brother bookkeeper, but runelore unlocks powers far beyond the energy generated by water wheel or oxen-crank.” Grimwold argued, “There would be a real threat of combustion from overloading without a mechanism for maintaining control over the whole production.”

“You seem quite amused Lord Smakki,” pointed out Rungi in reference to the chuckling elder of the group. “You don’t believe it can be done?”

“Young Lunn is not completely dreaming,” explained the ancient runelord. “Supposedly during the Age of Myth, Gods used runes to call the world into desired form. Some believe that the remnants of their construction is this ‘realmstone.’ “ Smakki took a deep breath and stared deep into the fire. “The Skaudaziwyr’ve successfully channeled ancestor spirits an’mountain powers before, but never on this scale and never to any degree of mastery. I must agree with my clan-brother. I’ve simply no way ah knowing how the dormant powers within realmstone might react t’the introduction of the energies channeled by a rune.”

“Actually my lords,” interjected Lunn, “I might. Have you heard of the Master Rune of Krol Kraggson? Legend states that he reshaped whole mountain ranges by carving his namesake into the foundation and...”

“It was called Age of Myth for a reason ye blubbering babe!” growled Smakki. “Noone has ever successfully recreated the rune. We don’t even have a record of it.”

Lunn looked to Rungi. “Friends, you know that long before the throng was assembled, some benefactors re-established the Librarian guild. Those benefactors were in fact me, at the suggestion of Lords Proudsong and Boldmane. The Boldmanes understood the changing landscape of the realms at war, and no general is more respected than uncle Norgrim, but we knew that a quest of this scale would require the accumulated experience of the ages to guide us. Loremaster Lunn has distinguished himself amongst a hall of impressive scholars,” asserted the meticulous ruler. Turning and nodding, Rungi continued, “He may have something of interest to you.”

The fire danced in the eyes of the lorekeeper as he unrolled a deeply yellowed scroll...

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Loremaster Lunn                                                                                                     Librarian Guild of the Karakigrom


One Defining Moment:

Wave after wave of the sickly grey grots broke against the shield walls of stout Duardin clansmen. Teams of hammerers emerged from openings in the lines while rangers and quarrelers thinned the charges with volley after volley. There didn’t seem to be any end to the creatures though; always another tunnel, cave, or shanty-hall for them to scramble out from. In the distance, Rungi could see their master. His frenzied orruk slaves pulled at the chains that restrained them, hungry to join the fray. His eyes played tricks though, as one moment he saw a single figure, and the next the image would twitch into a ring of the things.

Stromni’s lads were smashing their way from beast to beast, pulverizing troggoth and squig-beast alike. They should reach the cultists soon. That’s when the real chaos would start, as there was no telling what these tortured greenskins would do without the cultists lashes to drive them forward.

Then there were the ironbreaker teams. While the miners shored up their roads between these islands amongst the gorges and tunnels, the ironbreakers were pushing hard to clear space for the Skaudaziwyr to etch their runes of power into the exposed realmstone veins and uncut bluestone deposits. Runes of stability, runes of power, runes of protection… While so many in Azyr had lost faith, Rungi was staking his people’s survival on the notion that the ancient artisan-priests wielded a power greater than the magics that proliferated this realm. “How much longer wise lord?” the king called to his elder.

“Depends on the Stonespeaker. You near completion lad?” Smakki impatiently shouted to his fellow runelord.

“Nearly brother. I’ve no idea how long I’ll have control of the stones though. This rune has never been carved into a substance so volatile as realmstone.”

“You focus on waking ‘em up. I’ll control’m.”

The last double-hornblast cut through the noise and reached Rungi’s ears, a welcome reprieve from the bickering of the rival elders. Before he could turn to signal the next phase though, the earth’s rumbling reached a deafening volume. Though conscious, it was as if his surrounding has been slowed to a crawl and he could no longer hear his own thoughts, or the voices and clashing of the combatants all around. A bluish light radiated from countless points in the ground and cliffs. The only sounds discernible in the madness that had crept into his mind was a screeching chant. As quickly as it they had been torn away, his senses began to return. This was no relief to the king though, as he heard the rumbling of the ground splitting and saw islands of stone raising, shifting, and popping upward when in other places the ground fell away to rivers of unnatural warpfire, burning away grot and dwarf alike.

“It’s now or never my lords!” cried Rungi.

Grimwold looked to Smakki, the usually-steady veteran needing his elder more than ever. The nod returned to him was sufficient. With a final strike, Grimwold Stonespeaker hammered the final strike of Kraggson’s rune into a flat plate of realmstone. Nearly instantaneously fingers of power reached out in all direction, lending a glow to stones or adding similar animation if it touched other substances of power. Boulders sprung to life and the very ground rushed to reshape into beings. Exhausted by the outpouring of energy, Grimwold leaned on his dear friend Lunn as the later hurriedly jotted down everything he could see happening.

On the shoulders and fists of these manifestations of the mountains fury, the entire range climbed skyward while further boulders forged themselves into a single road into the peaks. Where these stones had been the earth fell away into the warpfire and madness the sorcerer was fueling, leaving only literal islands of nature amongst the hell-scape around it. Some floated in the air, others perched impossibly on fragile points. All around, those duardin who had survived the initial blasts of warpfire had hunkered down behind their shields, their faith in the ancient runes that adorned these heirlooms being tested as never before. Though the road to their future had finally appeared, it was just out of grasp. Moving from behind the shieldwall meant death, for though the greenskins were but burnt-out husks, the cultists were calling out incantations, stoking the color-changing flames and encouraging their assault on the Karakigrom.

And then suddenly… silence. Like before, the silence was deafening. Although this time, rather than signal the coming of powerful magic, it signaled its death.


Brothers in Arms

“Gather round lads, for as bad as you all smell from the march, you'll soon be missing eachother’s stench when th’sour of tortured and corrupt’d greenskins fills your nostrils. These aren't the squabbling raiders and their waves of skinny slave grots we hunted in Azyr, men. The Rangers tell of rock hard growths and metallic claws grown on sickly grey bodies by fell magics.” Heavy-bearded warriors exchanged sideways glances. One uttered grim curses while his neighbor spit a thick wad into the dust, each hoping the other wouldn't notice the chill raising the hair on his neck.

“An who has the pleasure of smashing through this toxic tide?” Stromni railed on. “The same brutes they always call for when they know the work will get messy. This ain't gonna be no neat rows’a Sigmar’s shiny tin men marching over some nekid cannibals or bustin’ back up a bunch of bones. The hooded bird man on that there hill is twisting and mixing up any poor wretch he can grab the soul of to enslave for his scheme. An’ that scheme will see all’a our people burn, same as they tried t’do ages ago! They called us to break through an’ send ‘im back where he come from.

“Now me boys, you might be thinkin I don't see the twitch in your leg or the white knuckle grip your flexin, that I don't know yer scared. You'd be a fool not to be! Those claws are sharp, their hides hard to pierce, an those fires will burn the beard right off ya mug! But you ain't some soft lordlings. No ones polishing yer pauldrins or hangin’ jewels in your beards. The only one paying for your treasures is you, and you done that with the blood money from grim work. The lucky of you lot’r ******, the less lucky: rejects.” Stromni paused before he continued, allowing the growls and grinding of teeth to fill the void left by his thunderous voice. He could feel the heat from their anger. “Today you carve out yer space in this new world. Today you earn your place in the clan. Today, yer deeds lay the foundation for a great new hold where your grandchildren will lay their heads and dream of fighting alongside the heroic grandpappies they keep hearing tale of.” They were ready. Stromni’s voice roared, “Today, brothers, is your day!”


Stromni Stormbeard,

Champion of the Brotherhood of the Red Bull, Thane of the Karakigrom

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Norgrim walked slowly up the right flank of the dense block of hammerers. The morning sun gleamed off of polished heart-stone armor. Light as metal, cool to the touch; the material was priceless and had not been seen since the fall of the Gharaz-Wyr. To see 48 Chosen champions of the clan wearing their ancestral mantles in resolute commitment to the king’s orders brought a slow smile to his face.

As he turned to face the ranks, the rune priest Cranneg placed a meaty dwarven hand on his shoulder. Norgrim returned his embrace and locked eyes with the devoted warrior. “They've said their prayers to their forefathers, offered their pledges and received any blessings that are coming brother. No dawi souls will be stolen today,” asserted Cranneg.

“Thank you Cranneg.” Replied Norgrim. “Should any of these great warriors die today, I'm sure they will be lead by Ghazul to feasts and ale in Grungni’s halls. We thank you for watching over us through this trial, brother.”

The great white-bearded lord strode to the center of the line and unslung his glittering warhammer. He methodically shifted the haft from hand to hand, squeezing the purple-dyed leather and testing its balance. The smile turned to a chuckle before fading under long whiskers. The great lord stared directly into the eyes of his Chosen. With an earth-shaking boom he planted the hammer-butt into the rocky dirt before lifting it in salute.

“Thrynaz!” Roared the response of 48 Chosen in unison. Norgrim pivoted into place amongst his clans prized warriors. As one they marched through the battle-line and set to their task.



Norgrim Proudsong, Lord & Captain of the Chosen of the Karakigrom

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Broken grey bodies littered the ravine as new ones hurtled forward only to be battered away by the massive steel warhammers of the Brotherhood. Ribs cracked, skulls were pulverized, and blood splattered with every duardin swing, and yet more of the unfortunate things scrabbled forth from every crack in the wall or ramshackle hut they passed. Still, onward drove Stomni’s force. Gore made the ground slick in their wake. Frenzied clawing and hacking rebounded off of the blood-tempered steel across their front. Progress was arduous at best and more than once doubt poked through the great thane’s resolve.

A foul odor scraped at the inside of his nose and dried the roof of his mouth. Seemingly as soon as he noticed it, the oddly mutated greenskins redoubled their onslaught as though they too sensed the presence of a greater threat than combat. Stromni had never encountered warpfire, but he new this was how it started. “Push dawi! PUSH!” He bellowed. “The creature on that hilltop is calling to the flames that burnt yer kin alive. You planning on cooking today?”

“Not today!”   “Nay!” “Won’ be this dwarf!” shouted the duardin between grunts of exertion.

The hammerers flattened wave after wave of enslaved grot and plodded through the grisly remains. As they neared the foot of the slope’s face, Stromni called out orders. Half of the unit fanned out as a rearguard while the others thrust forward in clusters of frenzied warriors. The Stormbeard lead the center spear, swinging his weapon in massive arcs that ruined anything in his path. The ferocious duardin grew more desperate with every indecipherable utterance that reached their ears over the din of battle. They would either fulfil the king’s orders or be engulfed in the flames of defeat, nothing left of them to be buried in shame afterwards.

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Coordinated maneuvers and precise strikes easily bested the unsophisticated attacks of the grot horde. Norgrim’s Chosen pressed deep into the pathways carved into the earth between the islands of safety. He had never seen such a maze of mayhem look so natural. It was if the land had been made to shelter these scum and as though they had always lived in these shallow ravines amongst the patches of woodland. The rangers said the maze crisscrossed the entire width of the foothills, creating a virtual moat in both directions around the cluster of mountains, and by their estimate housed no less than ten separate tribes of grot.

Norgrim struggled to call them such, as these hardly resembled the greenskins he had hunted in his youth or used as training fodder in Azyr. There was no infighting or snickering at eachother's misfortunes. These beasts were barely clothed instead of painted in bright heraldic splatters of color, and where crude markings were seen, they were faded beyond recognition. Most odd of all though was their resilient hides and piercing claws. The lord was most thankful for his heavy plate as bladed fingers slashed wildly about him. No, these tortured creatures were mere shells of the devilish raiders he was familiar with, twisted nearly beyond recognition and put to foul purpose by the bird-witch on the hill across from the clan.

How the young king was so certain that the mountains ahead were destined to be their new home, he was not sure. But it was clear the shaman did not want them to reach it. Norgrim wondered how much of this treacherous landscape had been by its design. Had the trickster architected some puzzle where these mindless savages were trapped as unwitting guard dogs of the tall, icy peaks the Karakigrom desired? Or were the mountains simply bait to draw homesick duardin into battle with his experiments?

In truth, Norgrim hardly cared about his foes. He felt exhilarated by a fight with purpose. His pride swelled as the troops split off. Mundri planted his banner and held the center while the lord and his captain, Kemril, each drove in diagonal paths, clearing wide swaths through the enemy. Behind their line, teams of ironbreakers protected Skaudaziwyr runecrafters as they hammered their inscriptions into hunks of precious bluestone and coursing veins of realmstone that protruded from the side of the ravines. The youthful exuberance of the dawi that battled all around him breathed life into his old lungs. Norgrim did not know how many years he had left, but he was glad to spend them in this king’s service. He had given life to the Proudsong dreams of a life full of honor and old traditions. Rungi had shown him a vision to chase.

...Norgrim had waited his entire life for this quest. These adversaries’ deaths were the cheap cost of the clan’s destiny. The Chosen of the Karakigrom earned their title as they carried out the ice’s vengeful promise on the fools in their way.

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The Chosen of Karakigrom

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Pillars of rainbow colored light erupted from the earth, searing everything they touched in grotesquely beautiful flames. The explosions of unnatural color and overwhelming heat were as unpredictable as they were horrific. Lunn ducked low at the first one, less so at the second, until he simply swung his head in awe at each new terror the caster called forth with its beaked maw. His plan had been working. The rare materials that were oddly common in these foothills had proven easy enough to inscribe, but they had run out of time.

And then suddenly his entire world seemed to explode with blue light. The loremaster tensed his still-muscled body with a force he had not put forth in centuries, expecting to be burnt alive by warpfire. Instead, he was surrounded by compete silence and seemed to be watching an unbelievable scene unfold in slowed time as the very landscape came to life. Entire islands became airborne, somehow released from earthly shackles. Giant fists of stone punched upward alongside massive beings of living boulder, lifting the landmasses the Karakigrom traveled on higher while the floors of the ravines fell away to reveal flickers of the mutating fire.

As quickly as it began, the burgeoning cataclysm ceased. Lunn had just managed to pull his head from the runelords pulsing with unnamed powers to look across the battle towards their feathered enemy. His eyes focused in time to see a rush of midnight-colored beard followed by the swirl of a red cloak, the arc illustrating the force the dwarf surged forward with despite the magic restraining every attempted movement around him. The glint of his hammer disappeared in a burst of blue-grey smoke and ash, as though it's strike had crushed stone to dust instead of sorcerer to corpse.

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Stromni lifted his hammer from the dent it had beat in ground, shaking the dust off of it with a frustrated muttering of vulgarities. He studied the ground to the left and right but saw no gore or splatter. At his feet was the battered remains of the bird-caster, though it was shriveled and dried as though he had struck pottery instead of a living thing. He did see, however, fire-kissed duardin survivors standing over the burnt bodies of friend and foe alike.There were few who remained more than husks after contact with the warpfire, and those not of their throng were dispatched swiftly.

...they had won.

The triumphant thane let out a roar of exuberance and pride, the defeat of this enemy the greatest victory of his life. Stromni quickly regained his dwarven composure as he felt the eyes if the throng on him. Cheers and battle cries answered him as the survivors began to grasp the miracle they had experienced. Stromni knew he was but a small part of an unfathomable feat, but that did nothing to diminish the swelling of his chest or euphoria coursing through him. For the first time the warrior had been tested not by arena challenger or swindling band of thieves, but by a true force of the dark powers. And he and his charges had emerged victorious.

The Stormbeard’s eyes found Lord Proudsong’s, an acknowledgement of relief briefly shared between them before his mentor furrowed his brow forcefully and scowled something about haughtiness. Stromni hardly saw Norgrim about-face and march his hammerers back to the body of the throng though, as his gaze had traveled upwards towards the ravine-edge. Rungi the Revenger raised his axe into the air in a salute which Stromni returned. The Brotherhood of the Red Bull had won the day with their dismantling of the enemy command, and Stromni Stormbeard had written his legend.

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Brotherhood of the Red Bull,  Outcast - Warrior Cult of the Karakigrom


The Huntress and Her Hounds:

She always had an oddness to her, or at least that’s what the old maids said. Svala “Haresbreath” Snorrisdottir couldn't care less. Small in girth for a warrior-rin, the battle-axe and stiff plate of her father’s charges never felt natural. But Snorri Saggasson was not the type to have an untrained daughter. Instead, he taught her to hunt with a crossbow, hatchet, and other woodland tools. What she lacked in heft, Svala made up for in fluid precision and calculating accuracy. The daughter of Snorri, granddaughter of Saggaas might never join her father’s famed shieldwall, but she did her clan proud nonetheless, besting countless would-be challengers in the sparring ring. Even old grim face, Norgrim Proudsong, had rested his hand on her shoulder once while praising her father for his prodigious talents as a trainer of Karakigrom warriors.


Svala "Haresbreath" Snorrisdottir, Veteran Ranger and Champion of the Karakigrom 


...Not that any of that mattered much to the Haresbreath. In the tradition of her clan, Svala had taken to ranging and exploring the wilds of Azyr. Her successes in tracking beasts and capturing them alive for sale in the markets lead Svala to be entrusted with the young king’s own missions. She scouted mountain passes, deep canyon trails, and even underground roads that few knew existed. Whereas most rangers lived on the fringe of society, the young rin was granted her own patrol of quarrelers just in time to join the vanguard on Rungi’s march from the Celestial Realms. Two-weeks ago today King Rungi had entrusted her yet again, his orders simple and to the point - “Clear the path, young sister,” directed the king. “Find a route into the mountains, leave markers for the throng to follow, and if you can do so safely, establish a valley camp from which we can evaluate the surrounding peaks.”

Sounded so simple. How wrong she was.

Wolf howls had been heard, and the potential for a greenskin raiding party to be nearby was very real, though if they were they’d remained out of sight since their first attempt at the gate. Disciplined as they were, her rangers could not survive long if a greenskin force of any real size found them. But tonight, with the sun setting on the 14th day of marching and now solidly in the upper foothills, only a lone, aged wolf had been found. About to roll over and catch some rare sleep by the fire before her watch began, a glint from the sun’s last rays rebounding off a sharp metal edge caught her eye. It was a fleeting image, but one she had trained herself to recognize.

Half of the troop fanned out and settled into paired teams, back-to-back to prevent an ambush. The Haresbreath was bracketed by her remaining team as she stood still as stone, ears searching for signs of movement. A twig snapped. Further ahead, a misstep followed by the whooshing of a sinking leg through snow. Whoever had been watching was now fleeing. With a raised point they were aimed. A brisk chop of her hand signaled to the first wave of bolts into the brush. Red feathered bolts sped between trees at knee level. The howl of pain told Svala that at least one had reached their target. As they closed on the location of the noise, the rangers were disappointed to see that in place of a body was a trail of footprints and blood. More shocking still was the bolt. It's tip, though expectedly bloody from having punctured it's target, was bent and missing a sizable chip as though it had struck armor rather than flesh. Odd for a scout.

They followed the trail, always in formation as Svala insisted. Whereas other ranger patrols operated as loose collections of hunters, or even independent warbands alongside the force, Svala had trained those in her charge to operate in tight formations. This concentrated their shots and made them harder to isolate and pick off. The Haresbreath’s “Hounds,” as they’d become known, were the king’s favored unit to hunt down key targets within a threatening force. And hunt they did in the first days since emerging into Chamon. This evening’s prey was becoming even more curious… The Hounds found that they’d reached the edge of the treeline, and though the brittle pines with their sharp, greyish needles only provided mediocre cover, it was much appreciated as they trail-blazed through this unknown land. The veteran ranger looked out at patchy grass and rocky outcroppings that gave way sharply to narrow ravines. These channels expanded outwards like a maze between the foothills, and from what she could see, they extended right up to the now clearly visible base of the mountain range she had been searching for. The whole scene reeked of grot ambushes and trickery.

Living up to her title, the Haresbreath alone crept down the rocky face into the ravine, silent and virtually undetectable. Following the bloody drippings, she noticed signs that the rock faces had been disturbed. Though there were no open passages or tunnels, she suspected that this network of outcroppings and gulleys was quite intentional. Sure enough, the bloody trail ended suddenly with a right turn seemingly into the hillside. Running her hands over several of the great boulders she settled on a crack. Ever so gently Svala rolled the cover-stone from in front of the humid burrow. Svala crept slowly into the crack in the mountain. Every so often she would halt, slide forward, and slit the throat or snap the neck of a snotling lookout.

After killing 5 of the wretches, the passage had widened. There were steps leading more sharply downward than before and an orange glow faintly rising up from the depths. The ranger continued on, the sound of ritualistic drumming growing, until the drums were drowned out by a snarling, snapping, gnashing frenzy. Svala knew this was as far as she could descend and still hope to see the sun’s rays again. The smell of blood was insulting their nostrils and she had begun to sweat from the oppressive, stagnant air in the tunnel.

“Something was building, probably alerted by the scout they had failed to capture,” thought the ranger. She only had a limited force, and based on the ruckus below they were greatly outnumbered... Perhaps she could capitalize on the overzealous nature of greenskins and their reckless love of the chase. Chuckling at the blasphemy of her own plan, Svala poured her personal tankard of especially potent ale all over the cave walls as she backed out of passageway. This was not the sort of ale swigged at by freeguild knights, corsair sailors, or other of the softer folk who might develop a taste for dwarfish refreshment, but instead a homebrew used by generations of her ranging kin to burn away the freeze of particularly harsh mountain storms. Svala hacked free brush from outside the entrance and toss it on top off the piled snotling bodies for kindling, using a small tinder and flint to spark a fire on some strips of bark. Finally she wrapped the burning material around a specially prepared bolt.

Svala noticed that the drumming had stopped. She lowered into a squat facing back into the deep, rotated and aimed down towards the rising glow. She had been raised on stories of  Saggaas and his older brother Norgrim facing down beasts of myth. Snorri had taught her to slow her heartbeat, center her weight, and think about her form as she squeezed the trigger by tightening her grip rather than clumsily pulling on it. Just as the first grot paused on the stairs, pointed, and turned backwards to scream in excitement, the bolt hit him center chest, bottle of musky oil shattering from the impact and rags lighting the entire creature in flames. Svala could hear his death screams but did not see them as she had already begun resealing entrance and hastily bracing it shut.

From the pounding and screaming echoing behind her as she scampered back up to the stone ledge where her rangers awaited, she knew her trap had held. The greenskins were roasting in their den, their panic thwarting eachothers’ attempts to escape the fire. The Hounds aimed downward at the door as smoke poured from otherwise invisible seams. Eventually the screams were less man and more beast, but even these died down. Replacing them was a deep, rumbling growl so powerful it could be heard over the crackling flames.

An enormous thud sharpened the senses of the rangers. A second thud was paired with a roar and the sound of splintering. Instead of a third thud there was an explosion of embers and burning wreckage as the giant cave squig burst from the tunnel, charred skin having scraped off over much of its body. Bolts sunk into the raw, exposed flesh. But Svala also noted how these same thick bolts clanged off the shining protrusions scattered over the beast’s back. This unnatural armor wouldn’t be enough to save it though. Her Hounds were taking their toll. The squig closed on their cliffside rampart but fell just at it managed to scrabble up the side and over the edge.

The young veteran gave the creature a shove with her boot, crossbow aimed in case the monster rose again, but it did not. She had heard rumors of squigs growing to this size but had never seen one herself. It was a fascinating, if unsettling prey. The skin around these scales, if that was what they were, was freshly grown and in some places had yet to heal from where the metalic growths had pushed up through it’s back. The Haresbreath cut a large tusk from the lower jaw of the great squig and tore loose one of the large scales. As she secured them in her pack as evidence of their findings, she noted a ring of crooked moons carved into it but said nothing. She rarely did after all. The huntress silently took to the trail again, and her Hounds followed, this time covering their tracks as they retreated back into the tree-cover.

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The Huntress' Hounds, Ranger Unit of the Karakigrom



A Strange, New Land

The First of Many Steps:


Never before had the confident king breathed the cold, sharp air in Chamon, and it’s harsh nature tore at his lungs. Somewhere deep in his heart it tasted familiar, and yet the contrast was uncomfortable nonetheless. It unsettled Rungi, the way his senses could not simply appreciate the fresh air, but instead were perplexed by its ambiguous and jarring nature. Karugromthi lumbered forward, glittering puffs of steaming breath rising from his nostrils, his rider rocking ever so slightly from side to side as the bear strode across the rubble-strewn landscape they had emerged onto. Rungi scanned out ahead of him, noting that the rangers had successfully created a perimeter and two large blocks of hammerers had positioned themselves as ordered, stoicly serving as guards ready to collide with any foe that attempted to rush the throng as it filed through the Realmgate. Ahead of the ranger’s firing-line, the battle-hardened longbeard units were positioned. They had been given the honor of crossing through the gate first, and were tasked with making the furthest extension forward in order to determine the best course of travel while the rest of the assembled clans gathered themselves. Large as the gate was, this was still an unfortunate bottleneck, and he couldn't help but notice the way helmed duardin heads swiveled atop armored shoulders as they scanned for threats.

Rungi spurned the spirit bear forward, down the stone steps that arced out before them in great semi-circles. Dark grey dust covered everything. At first it appeared to be soot or ash, but as the warp-light emanating from the massive portal behind them played across the various surfaces, metallic glints and sparkles were visible. In the footprints left by the march, detailing in the stonework was uncovered. Even dulled by uncounted ages, the precision of the work was beyond the ability of any umgi he had seen, and not embellished enough for elgi. This was the sign he had hoped for, a sign that they were home.

Letting his gaze drift upwards from the stonework to the assembling forces, and then further upwards to the landscape around them, Rungi took in the magnitude of the mountains framing the valley, as well as of their quest. The Vengeful Throng, as the warriors had come to call themselves after a keg or so of hearty dawi ale, had emerged into what Rungi surmised to be a wide grassland surrounded by lone or clustered peaks. In the bright moonlight he could tell that most did not have the elevation to maintain snow-cover, although all around them the stuff fluttered down in abundance. In the distance though, the peaks appeared closer together, and were clearly higher. He could make out foothills that presumably grew into these monumental mountains. That is where they would go. That is where Rungi’s Vengeful Throng would begin to carve out their new home in this eery, but somehow comforting world.


Snorri Saggasson took a swig from his tankard, it's once ornately engraved sides worn nearly smooth with age. The young king had given him a practically impossible task - Raise a hundred new warriors from amongst the tattered remains of the Karakigrom clan. It was an absurd demand, given that a few hours ago they’d been living (if you consider living selling their prodigious metalworking skills for hardened bread and overcooked, nearly rotten meat) in underground slums, most with perpetually dark ceilings from the soot of novice forge fires. A week ago, there was not even a throng for the warriors to swear oaths to. Snorri had been honored time and again with opportunities to join the longbeard units, whose sworn members had maintained their monastic training regimens in secret. He had even been offered to join his uncle’s Chosen, the secretive brotherhood of storied duardin warriors who were said to ever be at the ready, awaiting the moment when they would once again take up their ancestral white plated armor and hefty warhammers at the command of a great king. He took another sip through cracked, smiling lips as he remembered the sour look on the lord’s face when he had declined.

A large, meaty hand clapped the veteran on the back, making him cough up his last swig. “Ye oaf!” Sputtered Snorri angrily. “Ya made me spill me ale!”

“Yer grips getting weak with age,” retorted the unruly champion. In the next moment though, his cheeks began to grow more ruddy. “Apologies uncle, I meant no harm,” the heavily muscled warrior offered to his still scowling senior.

Snorri looked at massive dwarf they called Firebrow. He was pleased with the way the young’n had moved through training and not surprised the lad had battled his way to champion of the unit. Still, he was more tavern brawler than disciplined commander at this point. The old instructor would need to see to it that his charge’s careless antics didn’t spread to those they were responsible for. He turned away without acknowledging the foolish young thane further and nodded to a redbearded hornblower as the last warriors filled in the rear. There were still ranks to fill, Snorri grumbled to himself as he turned forward towards the lone duardin mounted on the snow white bear. Though he wouldn't dare show it, there was a spark of pride inside at the sight of his trainees. They were a determined bunch, leading a grudge-pony with relics and tomes of wrongs they had pledged to right. Snorri had also helped them bond by selling a light-as-breeze dagger to a clumsy manling for the funds to commission a tap pony. Now his regiment could remain "well-lubricated" with liquid courage as they steeled themselves for the days ahead. He locked eyes with the young king, and saw acknowledgement of his efforts returned.


Rungi nodded to the greybeard at the sound of the first horn, and surveyed the troops gathering themselves. More of the brass and copper horns bellowed throughout the ranks. As the various blasts rumbled out their signals of each unit’s presence, Rungi swelled with pride. He had worried that the ambitious order given to Snorri, to raise a grand block of warriors like those spoken of in myth, would prompt his captains, whose beards piled on the floor when they sat around his council chamber, to mutter about how he is too naive to lead. And yet, even this challenge was nearly accomplished. The preposterous dream that started as two beardlings sitting around a red-bricked hearth while their elders read from the clan’s tome of grudges continued to take shape.
Looking down to his right, Rungi signaled for the hornblower of the Grundal-Thrynaz to order a march. Shields were hefted and tankards stopped. Almost instantaneously, a freezing wind picked up. As the drumbeats joined in beating out a methodical march, the icy sting turned to a sharper, almost bladed bite that tore at the noses and other bits of skin not safeguarded by thick beard or polished plate. Nevertheless, they advanced. As quickly as it had arrived, so too did the wind depart, a glimmering, silver tail trailing off into the darkness as though it had been a creature testing their commitment. “Forward into the mountains,” boomed the Revenger, prompting answering roars from throughout the single-minded throng.

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Warriors of the Ice, sworn clansmen of Karakigrom.                                                                          Command for the 86-dwarf Strong Unit. Snorri Saggasson is the greybeard on the right.

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Upstart Thane, Brom "Firebrow" Proudsong

Duty Before Reward:

The shaking of his hands had made it difficult to take up the floorboards quietly. Repairing and polishing the nine blue-stone shields was another labor, this one more of recalling old skills. As a child, he used to hurry from cart to stall all over the mines, smoothing, buffing and polishing stones in order to maximize the profits they’d bring in market. His father had a knack for bringing out the best in a stone and while he broke his back pulling them from the depths, his young son contributed what he could.

Two generations later, Dared Sootbeard moved much slower as he wrestled stones loose while his grandchildren scampered about with rag and oil. Though it had never brought back the wealth they had lost, the Sootbeards had carved out a reasonable existence in Azyr. Curses and insults had flown hurriedly across many tables between patriarchs trying to decide if they should heed the call of this Rungi, who would call himself king. Dared understood their fear. None sought to see their line ended by following along with another’s prideful folly.

But the Sootbeards had been raised to uphold their duties. When Dared had heard others talk of the business ventures left behind his stomach had churned violent as the sea. Before the realization hit him, the thickly muscled legs that had marched under enormous weights day after day were now marching determinedly through the whispering streets under a different weight, that of honor. As dawn’s rays finally crept down into the slums to illuminate his quarters a heavy knock on the door jolted Dared from his daze. At his door stood his three sons, two brothers, and five nephews, all steady of jaw and wild of eye.

Now these nine warriors joined seventy-six others and watched as their elder firmly grasped the muscled forearm of the famed warrior-trainer Snorri Saggasson in a comrade’s embrace. The massive unit halted as the greybeards turned to face the ranks behind them, the throng around them slowing to look on as well. Dared uttered a verse in a voice so deep only he could hear the words, then slammed the iconic staff he carried into the ground. In an electric flash, the Rune of Millenia bazed across the shield mounted under the figurehead with the now-glowing eyes. Throughout the ranks the Sootbeards roared and raised similarly illuminated shields.

“You honor us master Sootbeard,” came a voice that rumbled like the storm.

“King Rungi, these shields have been in our family since long before your or my time,” replied Dared. “It is said that they rally the brave to arms, and steel the heart of the throng in the face of shamans' guiles.”

“May they serve us well, and hopefully illuminate the path in the darkness to come,” said the king as his massive armored mount wheeled back towards the front. “For those days will certainly come.”

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Tap Pony & Grudge Pony amidst the throng.                                                                                           Runic Icon visible above the crowd.


Wary Veterans

A Craftsman with a Secret:

Many years had passed since anyone had heard words uttered by Rukh Ragnolfson. As he had emerged from the massive stone archway that housed one of the realmgates spanning Azyr and Chamon, the cool crisp air was like a slap in the face. No, something colder… It was the feeling of bare skin sinking into a hidden snowdrift while climbing up the foothills of Azyr as a child; equal parts shocking and exciting. His lips parted as though to comment on the scene around him, but no sound escaped. 

His duardin senses returning, Rukh grounded himself in his oath. Without having to look, the stubborn thane knew they had been waiting. His oath of silence had taxed his entire guild, most notably the many nephews and cousins who spent decades painstaking observing every detail of his weapon crafting and being reprimanded an even the joke of creating a record. Those kin, blonde bearded and grim faced, who now stood beside him. Rukh cared not for the inconvenience he caused them. Raised in the sweltering heat of his family’s small forge, the most important rule was that the secrets of the craft were never to be recorded or spoken. No weapon for elgi, umgi, or certainly the oppressive soldiers of the storm-god would contain the Gromthi-klinked.

Before the howling came the glow. Expertly shaped jewels suddenly glowed with bright blue. In an unmistakable statement, Rukh slammed down the oathstone he had been shouldering, scattering subtly glittering dust. His unit fanned out, creating a protective line of steel-clad veterans armed with massive double-handed war-axes. Up ahead he saw white-bearded warriors move to intercept the yet-unseen foe. Other units shifted to support.

It was over practically before it had started, however. Only a few raiders, the smell of rot and spoiled flesh on their clothes and weapons was more offensive than their attack. There was something else though. In the centuries that he had passed without speaking, Rukh the Silent had learned to listen. Within the biting wind, there was another sound, a voice. This place was ripe with mal-intent, and Rukh thought he could hear its source whispering orders to its foul minions. He locked eyes with the ancient lord of the Grizzled Guard who stood over the collapsed body of a dispatched raider. Rukh recognized understanding in his eyes. Something had known they were coming.


Rukh "The Silent" Ragnolfson, Thane of the Karakigrom

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Cantankerous is a Compliment:

“Why in tha hell ye get us all pretty’d up fer jus’ a walk in tha hills?” came a growl from the back.

“Ah miss’d seein’ ye all dress’d up!” retorted Grogan Grombrisson, smirking and looking towards his champion. Trygg the Scarred returned his gaze and gave an amused snort, a lengthy compliment from the ancient veteran. Of the four units of longbeards who had marched first through the realmgate, none were as unflappable as the Grizzled Guard. Though all veterans, it was these whitebeards who were said to have survived the Time of Chaos. If the rumors were true, their youngest had tallied over 700 years, while Trygg himself supposedly had memories from before the destruction of Garaz-Wyr, the former fledgling holding of the clan.

…Not that any of them could be compelled to verify these tales. Grogan’s warriors were shrouded in mystery. Born in the Time of Chaos, to be jovial was simply never something they had the opportunity to practice. Each suit of armor was a relic of a distant past and their weapons reflected their revered ancestor status. Any who saw their white beards touching the ground and ornate suits of gromil and gold recognized them instantly, but few were brash enough to approach. There was danger in their eyes, a quiet storm waiting to burst forth.

Grogan chuckled at the grumblings that continued from amongst his ranks. This turned into an open laugh as he recalled how these same swaggering fools had drank an entire storeroom dry when they heard his news that Rungi had assembled the throng. Grogan had given up an ancient ring with a ruby the size of his thumbnail to offset the debts that were accumulated between their drinking and subsequent brawl when his charges had decided to sing forgotten songs in the crossing where the umgi brothels met reclaimed duardin slums.

When the howling started, drum-beats and jokes about rin’s bossoms were halted midway. Thanes called for shields as their units hustled to assemble and preserve an organizing space for the throng to emerge into Chamon. Meanwhile Trygg took a long, slow pull from his tankard. With a nod, he guided the only unit still marching off the left.

“ ’Ope yer boots is shin’d lads,” called one longbeard. “C’mpany thinks they’re commin’ for dinn’a!”

The first few arrows fell far short. The next few rebounded harmlessly off of shields. Soon, a small line of wolfriders could be seen advancing from the darkness. The Grizzled Guard shifted to a wedge formation and interlocked shields. The grots rode by, slashing and hacking half-heartedly before wheeling to retreat, none holding illusions about being a true threat to a force the size of the one assembling behind these whitebeards. As the final raider passed, a massive warhammer caught it in the center of its chest, knocking it from the still-running beast and caving in its ribcage.

Turning over the limp body with his axeblade, Grogan noticed the slightly greyish dint of its skin and its unusually long, sharpened claws. He had ended more greenskin lives than most here could count. Hardly anything could surprise the elder lord anymore, but between the taste of the air and now this odd creature… Rukh Ragnolfson approached and their eyes met in agreement. Something had been waiting for them in Chamon.


Grogan Gombrisson, Lord of the Karakigrom


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A King Emerges

A King Emerges:


At first the mystical light of the gate towering ahead hurt Rungi's eyes. It reminded him of when they had emerged from their underground slums in full force, and he had to remind himself not to squint in the light of the sun. A king does not squint, after all. If only Rungi could grow accustomed to his title and role as easy as to daylight. Surrounded by the greatest duardin champions he knew, and rank upon rank of their hardened warriors whose beards easily matched his own, the young king often felt more like the impulsive babe who was so frequently swatted to the floor by warriors without patience for a child's playful challenges. But he was no longer a child, nor a reckless beardling. He had spent decades rebuilding his clan in secret, reforging ancient alliances, and now he lead them to war. The weight of the clan's fate sat heavy on his shoulders. Rungi made sure that as he rode forward on his great mount, his gaze clearly communicated their resolve to any of the clusters of Devoted militia or Liberator patrols milling about. His people could not afford any hesitation in their zealous march. There would be enough to fear in the days to come.


A lone figure strode into the path of the throng. He was nearly two-head taller than an average man and armored from head to toe. Rungi knew those eyes. Growing up in the shadows of their celestial city, Rungi had learned to suppress his rage at the condescending tone of the Azyerites, so quick as they were to forget their heritage. He had learned to live under the gaze of the thunder god’s soldiers and the air of disgust they emanated when their patrols took them through Reclaimed-duardin craftguild sectors. But the pale, unblinking glow that radiated a challenge from behind the Retributor’s otherwise stoic mask; that gaze was far too familiar and no longer something he would tolerate.


Looking down from his mounted seat atop the great spirit-bear Rungi smiled and broke his stare with the defiant Stormcast. Scanning to his left and right, the young King saw his brothers in their radiant blues and crisp whites. Looking still further, he could see their brother-clans, dark-bearded in pelts and paler blues or redbearded in rich greens and oiled leathers. There were so many who had not survived to see this day. Rungi could not shake the sense of debt he owed to clans he had never even encountered. He hoped to one day find them and welcome them as brothers in his great hall.


“Your papers, dwarf,” called the golden-clad warrior. “We are at war, or maybe you haven’t heard. You must possess written orders from Sigmar to pass through this gateway.”

“I require no-one’s permission to enter my homelands. We share a common foe, and seek to avenge a most-grevious grudge. Your storm god will thank us when we’re finished.” Rungi tensed the muscles in his jaw to hide his amusement at the chuckles echoing from the throng. The stormcast was less amused.

“Your papers, or you do not pass,” he declared in opposition. Lighting began to crackle around the head of his warhammer. Other stormcast who had previously been less eager to involve themselves in the face of this sudden and overwhelming host began to inch forward and into the throng’s path.

“The Vengeful Throng will not be stopped, not by demon legion nor celestial one. Step aside guardian, or be met with dwarven steel.”


At these words the stormcast eternal’s entire figure glittered with storm energy. He strode forward, steps turning to a trot, shoulders turning and hammer hefted backwards to strike. Just as the gargantuan warrior broke into a run and tensed to unload his hammerblow at the defiant duardin king, a lone hammerer broke the line. “Not today,” roared the walnut-bearded protector. The oafish Retributor tried to shift his weight and unloaded on this new target, but he could not bring the path of his hammer low enough to strike the ducking dwarf. The hammerer though exploded from his crouch to deliver an upward strike that caught the off-balanced stormcast under his jaw, knocking him clear off his feet and tearing the helm from his now bloodied face.



Darbli Doorcarver -  King's bodyguard, childhood comrade, and a salty b*****d always in the mood for a good dust-up...


Just before the fallen’s eyes closed and he erupted in a flash of lightning, Rungi recognized the fool. He was part of a market patrol he had frequently encountered as a beardling, one that enjoyed the favors of many of the Azyrite nobility and thus had absorbed many of their same attitudes towards Reclaimed such as himself. Defiantly, Rungi stared down at the Liberators who had previously stepped forward, wondering how many had also taunted or dismissed him and his kin when their clan was at it’s lowest. Their shoulders slumped as they stepped aside.

The throng marched through the massive Realmgate. They would do the reclaiming from here on out.




King Rungi Roreksson, Revenger of the Karakigrom mounted on Karugromthi, Living Ancestor Spirit


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Meetings in the Dark

Messengers in the Dark:

Norgrim Proudsong awoke with a start. Had he been dreaming? KNOCK-knock-knock-KNOCK! There it was again. With a candle in one hand and his simple hatchet in the other, the dwarf squared his hulking shoulders at the doorway and opened to see who would come calling at this time in the night. At the edge of the shadows, backlit by the moonlight was a face Norgrim had hoped – nay, prayed for. His distant cousin Alaric Boldmane reached out to grasp the arm of his fellow warrior. He was fully clad in the runic armor spoken of in the tales of his clan. Norgrim had seen the helm before, but thought the rest of the suit lost. Tonight it was not only complete though, but seemed to glow with an ancient power.

“The time has come, old friend,” spoke Alaric, barely containing his excitement. Reaching forward, he offered a small scroll, sealed with the crest of the Boldmane Clan. “Rungi has opened the book of grudges and begun the readings. He declares it time to make good on the Ice’s Promise, to reunite our people and rebuild our homes under the mountains. He calls for old allegiances to be honored.”

“You know I will answer my King’s call, but will other thanes? Will the other clans? Will the Boldmanes?” Asked Norgrim bitterly. “So many have forgotten the stories of Karak Grim-Wyr. Some hardly believe it ever existed. Fewer still are willing to speak of the old ways in the light of day with all the Umgi and Elgi around. I fear the Karakigrom will find few friends and rush to their doom.”

Alaric’s eyes seemed to moisten ever so slightly. It was sad to heard the once proud dwarf lord speak of his kinfolk with such little faith. “Old Proudsong, do you remember the passages I showed you, leading to the underground meeting room where I asked to you to begin gathering your hammerers? Do you remember when I told you that Rungi would give life to his title and lead us to our revenge?”

“Yes… But…”

“What if I told you that you were not the only one who has been using our passages? Or that you have only seen a fraction of them? The lords and thanes have been meeting. We Boldmanes have guarded the rising of our people from even the Storm God himself. But now is the time. Call on your brothers. Follow the instructions. I will see you at the table of the Revenger, along with the other thanes and clanheads. The time of the Barazi-Wyr is near.”

And with that, the longbeard turned and marched away into the darkness. Norgrim’s heart was pounding. Could it be? Could Rungi have successfully re-united the clans under the banners of the Karakigrom? Closing the door, the aged champion smiled as he walked to his fireplace and lifted the great warhammer from the mantle. It was truly a masterpiece. He paused and drew a deep breath before raising the hammer and unleashing his might. With a handful of swings, the shallow fireplace was reduced to a pile of bricks, revealing the hidden chamber behind it. Glimmering in the candlelight after lying dormant for so long was the white armor of the Chosen of Karakigrom. Soon, dawi throughout the underground guild district would trade soot-covered aprons and rough leather gloves for ancient suits of armor adorned with long forgotten runes. United, they would march once again with common purpose… The time of the Barazi-Wyr was indeed near!


Lord Norgrim Proudsong, Champion of the Chosen of Karakigrom

The Gathering of Legends:

The purple- jeweled armor gifted to him by King Dwinbar reflected the flames burning from the sconces that illuminated the tunnels. Dwinbar had seen something special in his young heir, something that lead him to fight the passing years, refusing to die until Rungi was of age lead. On his deathbed, Dwinbar had ordered Norgrim’s armor reforged with the purple stones, marking him champion amongst the clan’s chosen elite. Dwinbar had but one final order for his champion –

 “Bring The Ice’s revenge upon those who would seek to hold the clan low. Though his chin is covered by mere whiskers, the beardling has the strength of my forefather’s in him. He will need you.”

“Lord… We have no throng. The clan is no longer what it was. The last of our kind are becoming elders ourselves… But we shall sing our deathsongs with honor my king.”

“NO! You shall sing the songs of REVENGE… *ahck*ghrahck*ahck*… Alaric carries instructions for you. Heed them… I will await you in the halls of our ancestors my brother…”

 Norgrim blinked his eyes hurriedly as he took in the congregation in the low-ceilinged hall. A tankard was passed his way as nods and grunts were exchanged. Surrounding the long, wooden table were storied dawi, some even legendary. They were the lords, thanes, and champions of the Karakigrom, along with their matches from the brother-clans Boartemper and Glitterblade… Together they comprised all the known duardin who descended from the ancient dwarven alliance at Karak Grim-Wyr. Like any learned dwarf, Norgrim had read the stories. He had heard of the legendary Karak in the World-that-Was. But so many ages had come and gone, the World-that-Was and its people were little more than family mythology. And yet, here they were, each clutching a scroll much like his own. Each escorted and announced upon entering by a member of the Boldmane Clan, architects of the secret passageways running under so many of the duardin guild.

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A few thanes, lords, and other Karakigrom of reknown... More of their tales to come.

Suddenly, at the end of the hall, a dwarf arose from his stool who Norgim had not seen in many years. His beard was fuller. His face more weathered. His eyes burned with a familiar ferocity, though his brow seemed to carry the heaviest of burdens. He placed a thick tome on the table with a resounding thud that silenced the last of the gatherers. Opening it, he began to speak.

“Dawi clinging to hope found it in the peaks of Karak Grim-Wyr, or so the legends say. They also say, that we – the Karakigrom – were the protectors of these peoples and the Kings of a great Northern Alliance in this World-That-Was. Generations have been robbed of their lives and their honor while we toiled and failed to rebuild our clans in the cursed Realm of Chamon. It is this honor, which resides at the core of a dawi’s spirit, that the demon hordes seek to take from us. They have cracked open the very mountains seeking to shatter our holds, our homes, and our oaths to ourselves and eachother…

 But we have survived. We have rebuilt. And in secret we have reforged the great alliance. It is the duty of the Karakigrom to shepherd our people back to the glory that was ours in the tales recorded. I call upon my brothers, and their brothers – Help me to realize the Barazi-Wyr! Help us raise a Karak as the realms have never seen. The Thunder God of the Umgi has declared his war. Are we to continue whispering in the shadows, or would we send a message to match? Again I call to my brothers – Help me to deliver the Ice’s Revenge and begin the age of the Barazi-Wyr!”

 Eyes glistened with tears and roars burst forth from grimly smiling jaws. But their roars were drowned out by the call of the mountain itself. Striding over the door that had been stomped clear off of its hinges, came a spirit many never fathomed could have ever actually existed. Karugromthi’s snow white fur glistened with the power of the mountains, he seemed to be afire with the blue-glow of the ancestor spirits. The dawi parted to allow the demigod to walk round the table. Reaching Rungi, he stared into the young king’s eyes, then simply lay down next to him. As the second cheer rang out, kegs were tapped and long-stoic legends embraced as they found temporarily relief for their heavy hearts.

 Norgim took in the scene, warmed by the gallery of legends surrounding him. There would be many a dark day ahead, countless duardin lost… But the Revenger had come, and the Barazi-Wyr was theirs to claim.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Disclaimer:

We'll be heading backwards to catch up on old clan history and also following dwarven heroes as they drive forward in their vengeful quest. Please leave feel free to leave feedback along the way. I've definitely been inspired by other hobbyists here and am happy to hear your thoughts. However, a few important notes:

  • Dwarves, duardin, dwarfs... The dawi have not forgotten who they are, they've simply been forced to evolve to survive in the Mortal Realms. I look forward to spinning tales that blend "modern" innovations which stubborn traditions. 
  • I'm brand-new to basing and so far all are a work in progress. Advice on a stone & snow theme welcome.
  • I prefer epic-scale everything in my fantasy
  • Dwarves like order. Their enemies break upon their shieldwalls like raindrops against the mountainsides. My dwarves like to fight in regiments! 

Introduction & Preface

Hi Everyone,

With this blog I'm hoping to join a community of painters, storytellers, hobbyists, and miniwarlords. AOS has captured my imagination after nearly 20 years away from the hobby. Here you'll find the tales of my dwarf clan with pictures of the accompanying models. As competitive gaming isn't what has me hooked, you'll find this blog centered on narratives and creating lore. If you're looking to stick to competitive lists and the finer points of rules, this won't be for you. With the newly leaked pictures of the Stormcast rangers and gryph-cavalry, I feel AOS has driven home the message that if you can imagine it and give it life through models and fluff, it's fair game within the Mortal Realms. Please feel free to leave your thoughts after reading, as this will remain a work in progress. 

With that out of the way, let me introduce King Rungi Roreksson, Revenger of the Karakigrom Clan. 


Rungi is a young king, striking out from Azyr with his battered-but-healing clan and their allies to reclaim a foothold in Chamon. Karakigrom means "defiant mountaineer" in the old dwarf language of Khalizad, and just as they tamed an icy peak in the World-That-Was and carved it into a home, the few clan members who awoke in the Realm of Metal had the audacity to attempt the same there. Generation after generation lived and died piecing together tatters of memories and fragments of legend to reconstruct their history. That is, until the forces of chaos returned to destroy everything they had built. Grieving and downtrodden, the Karakigrom took refuge in Azyr. With Sigmar now deciding to wage his war, the time is right for Rungi to wage his as well. He and his blood seek to fulfill the greatest of grudges in their Dammaz-Kron, the Barazi-Wyr. Barazi-Wyr, or Ice's Promise, state's that the Karakigrom will strike back at the forces of Chaos, avenging their ancestors and creating a sanctuary for all duardin to reclaim their honor. Rungi believes this to be the purpose for his existence, and has committed himself single-mindedly to the task. 

...More tales to come...