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The Glittering Host: There was a smell… A smell beyond sweetness - more ripe - that would’ve turned the stomach of a less seasoned soldier. As Dhurgan Dorginson marched his ranks of hammerers out to the ridge where the patches of sword-grass gave way to rocky slopes, he noticed slight vents of the pugnant steam rising from beyond the line of battle. Growing quiet he plodded on grimly, aware that this mission would likely require more than routine hammer-work. Others noticed their captains change in mood and tightened their grips on their double-handed warhammers. What they saw as they advanced over the edge made hair on their necks bristle. Frenzied grots were scrambling forward in waves, as many slashing with claws as wielding any sort of actual weapon. They screeched at an unnatural pitch and snapped needle-lined jaws at duardin and eachother alike. More alarming still was the strangely-colored steam that burst from the ground every few feet. Some insidious brand of sorcery was at work here. To his right Dhurgan heard a usually steady warrior stifling his gags and the captain didn't have to guess why. They had all been raised on tales of warpfire burning their kin alive. The silence of the dwarves as they set to their task spoke volumes as to their fears. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …. ... … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …. ... … … … … … … … … … … … … … … As the enemy closed, it mattered not that the champion could not make out the details of their faces at the speed they were scrambling. The gnashing teeth and disheveled scraps of leather were a blur that only became harder to distinguish as it got closer. The way his clansmen had planted their feet, suddenly in a more perfect shield wall, white knuckles wrapped around axe handles… They were ready. Thane Brom Firebrow was sure his grandfather could see his excitement and pride in his charges, even at a distance and at his advanced age. With massive shoulders, a barrel chest and the legs of an ox, Brom was made to cut down the clan’s enemies. Brom took a deep breath, attempting to slow his pulse. Today he would display the leadership he had lacked thus far and which had stalled his invitation to join The Chosen.… Thane Brom Firebrow of the Karakigrom, Champion amongst clansmen … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …. ... … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … …. ... … … … … … … … … … … … … … … Norgrim Proudsong looked about at the glittering host as they went about clearing a path through the greenskins. The golden embellishments suggested a decorative or ceremonial purpose to the armor which belied its power to protect the King’s chosen right arm. The deep blue cracks would be considered flaws in ordinary craftsmanship, but in this case were revered as a sign of the materials origin, from the heart of the mountains of this world. The sun gleaming off of their polished white helmets and shoulder guards stood in sharp contrast to the disfigured wretches with their blotchy pale skins and scabbed, metallic growths. This was truly a case of the noble cleansing a blight from the world. Lord Proudsong glanced behind him. Holding the line was a massive shieldwall. In some places clan heraldry was illuminated by the glowing runes that framed it. In others they glittered with ornate phoenixes wrought in mithril and gold. In most places though, copper effigies of the ancestors adorned a blue-painted field. In the heart of the line stood a wild, red-bearded warrior hacking in broad arcs through every grey-skinned foe that came near. Where most made amateur attempts at the defensive maneuvers they’d been taught, this dawi still wore his shield on his back and maintained the offensive in bold defiance of the enemy. The fool was a force to be reckoned with, no doubt, and probably envisioned himself as some type of inspiration. He also might be the downfall of the clan against a stronger opponent. Norgrim’s heavy white whiskers lifted in a small smirk as he turned away, amused at what his son must be thinking as he evaluated the next generation’s performance. Honor in Waiting: Norbrum Proudsong held one of the greatest honors a duardin could be afforded. As captain of the Peak Guard he fought at the king’s right hand and was responsible for selecting and training the king’s new personal bodyguard. His excellence with either warhammer or short sword and shield were well known throughout the clan. Norbrum had successfully commanded units of reclaimed in legendary encounters: holding realmgates alongside the thunder god’s stormcast, cutting through herds of beastmen to deliver the Azyr’s words of hope, and most recently, standing guard at his king’s side as the slave hordes pressed close at the command of a beaked shaman and his cultists. “The hammer and shield” they were admiringly called - father and son leading the greatest the Vengeful Throng had to offer. His father trained every hammerer to pass through The Chosen, including the revered who raised the king’s banners, carried his grudges, and had whispered him advice since childhood. Norbrum’s climb was swift, rising to captain the Chosen, then into the guard, and finally refining his maneuvering and tactics enough to be trusted with calling the orders alongside the king himself. He was his father’s finest weapon, forged in fires of battle as red as his wild beard. If only he was as skilled as a teacher... The king would be addressing the survivors tomorrow morning as soon as the sun crested the ring of mountains around their valley sanctuary. That meant the Thane would be having a quick bite of stonebread and nap by the fire for his late dinner and full armor and sharp wits for his breakfast. Too many nights like this and even this disciplined soldier might find himself astride a wooden bench, arm-wrestling for the next round as beardlings and rin looked on and fueled his ego… “I’ll leave that to you now son.” Norbrum said aloud, chuckling as he settled by the fire. Shifting his weight back and forth until he was comfortable, Norbrum’s senses heightened, as they were wont to do when he was anxious. Brom had saved lives. Brom had out-dueled several scores of desperate grots. And tonight there would not be a shortage of tales told about the carnage Brom brought. But come the morning, Brom would stand with his warriors while his father and grandfather stood with the hammerers. For all his accomplishments, Brom had not been able to outgrow his youthful impulsiveness and prove himself worthy of a place among the elites. For his part, Norbrum had tried to council the fool, and his son had played his part, nodding agreement as the shame burned in his flushed face. Why did he lack so much discipline? Why did he feel the need to always play the lone hero? Could he not see the honor of the shieldwall? The way it honored not just the warriors beside him, but his ancestors? **CRASH** The glass tankard shattered as it fell from his hand and collided with the stones he sat on, snapping the thane to his senses. He would speak to his son again when time allowed, but tomorrow the lad would be lucky to catch his steely blue gaze as it scanned the ridgeline for threats. His mouth was sticky at the edges, dry from his clenched grimace. Theirs was the warrior arm of the family; captains of broad-shouldered heroes and smiters of hell’s creations. Rungi had called on the honor of great duardin clans in order to bring to life the stuff of their childhood games, the Barazi-Wyr. His family would uphold their oaths, and the bull-tempered son would learn from the father’s deafening silence. Thane Norbrum Proudsong, Captain of the Grundal-Thrynaz A Great Honor Bestowed: Norbrum could recall the day the king bestowed onto him the gifts of the Grundal-Thrynaz, the first honor guard of emergent king. Now they added new hammerers to their ranks and grew to a full force under his command. It would be a somber ceremony; a moment of honor earned on a painful day so many had not survived. The broadbacked Darbli Doorcarver had lined wooden chests in a row before those to be recognized, each decorated with ornate carvings. The carvings depicted the great deeds of the clan since their emergence into Chamon. As Norbrum addressed each warrior, the clan’s grudge-caller opened the chest and laid out the contents one by one on the ground before him. Each item was a symbolic gift. Gleaming blue breastplate, gromril helm, runic warhammer; all inlaid with purple jewels of the kingsguard. Thick black leather gloves that could withstand the hottest forges. Talismans holding ancient powers. Brass tankards from the clan’s brewmasters, always to be kept full for as long as the honored could sit upright on a bench. Babes in the front row of the attending crowd could barely contain their excitement as each gift was bestowed. This was a day that would change the path of the dawi’s family for generations. Darbli Doorcarver, trusted advisor and childhood friend of the king Grudge-Caller of the Karakigrom Norbrum turned and faced a hammerer who had stripped to his underclothes. As he handed the great warrior each item, the dawi was transformed before their eyes. He was no longer an individual within the clan. He was the clan, the finest of themselves they had to offer. There were dark days ahead of them, but so long as these dawi could hold a warhammer the sun would rise again and chase away the night. This was why the ever-stoic Norbrum served. This was why he held this position sacred. He believed Rungi was the sun that would drive the darkness from the duardin holds, and he, Norbrum Proudsong, would make sure this prophecy was fulfilled. Grundal-Thrynaz, personal guard of King Rungi

So I have a busy week ahead of me! I've got a 3v3 game organised next week of order versus khorne. We will have myself and my freeguild along with Dan & his Pheonix Temple & Chris and his freeguild. It's going to be a tough game and we're likely going to have to try and win it through cunning, attrition and a boat load of shooting! So what I have available so far, in various stages of painting: 10 gunners 10 guard w/ sword and shield 10 guard w/ militia weapons 1 freeguild general on foot 3 demigryph knights 1 cannon (albeit lacking in dwarven crew) What I plan to finish building this week: 1 general on griffon 10 greatswords (mostly done just need to do a couple heads. They're a jaguar warrior conversion so take time to build but should be quick to paint) 20 guard (I hate building the guardsmen so this will hurt) 10 crossbowmen Possibly 1 luminark depending on how many points I have left as it would be nice to have something to buff my teammates. Also a 30" range gun will be nice for upsetting bloodsecrators. I'm going to be detailing my progress on the blog and also brainstorming some lists. Should be good fun! I do love my freeguild but they are a pain to get built and painted sometimes At least the demigryphs were fun when I did them. Also note to self: Buy some rocket batteries at some point... and make an engineer.

So today was an epic clash between my disciples of tzeentch and my friend Dan's vicious mixed elf army! His elves are all linked by a firey colour scheme and pheonixes hence the name fire elves. My tzeentch are instead linked by the fact they all refuse to die. I may be bad at killing but at least I hold out well For our scenario we had to try and hold both objectives with no enemy models near them to win. It was a super fun and close game with lots hinging on lucky (and unlucky) dice rolls. I tried out 6 skyfire and oh boy is it much better than 3! Though had difficulty displacing dans eternal guard and his phoenix tore through my warpfire dragon. I had a lot of units hold on well though and my 20 tzaangors took MVP for me for just holding their corner for practically the whole game! fending off dragon knights, bleaksword and a hydra! I made a lot of mistakes and forgot some things as it's been a while since my tzeentch force came out to play. As usual they did really well at holding their ground and a few tricks allowed me to keep some of his units locked in combat to keep my objective safe. I also played some of my units a bit poorly, although they did well my tzaangors were locked in a corner all game and my warpfire dragon drawing the attention of a phoenix and his guard really hurt. He should have instead launched forward to mess with the eternal guard on Dan's objective. I also didn't use my destiny dice enough which was very silly of me. It's a powerful mechanic and I need to utilise it better. Unfortunately I forgot to take notes for a full batrep so I shall remember for next time but it was nice to get more playtime with my tzeentch and tzaangors and they definitely remain a firm favourite for me. So many attacks! Next steps with the army (besides painting) are gonna be test out horrors some more as extra shooting and cheap wounds could be useful and see about maybe a second tzaangor squad. I also need to really practice different things with them and nail down a good list mixing the DoT and STD units. Regardless I'm constantly learning new things and really got to see my strengths and weaknesses today. Below are a couple of late game pics (apologies for my lack of paint, it pains me too). And sorry for this odd and sparse recount! Better to remind me to write it down next time! Regardless it was a fun clash and ended in a draw. I shall have to organise a rematch sometime and do a proper writeup. Me and dan will join forces next week for a 3v3 vs khorne where my order boys will come out for a spin. I'll try and get notes and a batrep for that!

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... 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 ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 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 ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 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. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 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. The Chosen of Karakigrom ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 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. ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... 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. 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. The Huntress' Hounds, Ranger Unit of the Karakigrom