A continuation of the background story for my Suneaters

The tomes of Azyrheim tell little of the battles that quelled Gorkamorkas rebellion, nor the atrocities that followed it at the hands of those who fought in the name of justice and Order. The few tales that have survived to the modern age speak of a host of men, aelf and dwarf the likes of which the young realms had never before seen, all marching in the shadow of the Man-God Sigmar under the mighty flags of Azyr. This massive host was drawn not just from the noble houses within Azyr, but every general (disgraced or otherwise), pirate, corsair and mercenary who owed fielty to the Barbarian king. This vast host spanned from horizon to horizon, some say that its footfalls could be heard across the entire spanning continent of Ghur as it marched across the lands, that its nightly campfires were so many that they threatened to drown out the darkness entirely as though day simply spanned into day once more. It is said that the tides of Gorkamorka were met by this host on the plain of Rok-Gor, a once verdant and beautiful landscape in a realm of savages, the green tides number were twice that of the Order host and beneath the combined footfall of the legions every spec of grass within sight was crushed out of existance. It is said that the mages of Hysh wielded their sun based powers with reckless abandon, forever changing the intensity of the sun in this part of the realm to scorch all life from the grounds below, that so savage was the combat that no native fauna escaped the onslaught.

The battle was savage, with vast number of casualties on both sides, but eventually the god of destruction found himself brought to heel, beaten and bloodied but his thirst for mayhem and war thoroughly saited the mighty Orruk god lay down to revel in his heady onslaught. With the rebellion quashed Sigmar returned back to Azyr, with matters more befitting a god to focus his attentions on he left his grand host to disband themselves, here he trusted in the souls of men to do as they were instructed… a fools hope. His vast host had been raised on the promise of bloody conquest, of glorious trophies and heroic deed, but moreover they had been promised a wealth of gold and treasures that they might use to raise kingdoms of their own. Men lured by such temptations are not so easily swayed into forgetting them, and Sigmars conquest against Gorkamorka had cost them many lives and far more gold than they had been repaid, now left in the midsts of the savage landscape of Ghur these weak men sought to find treasure of their own.

Corrupt generals and greedy nobles all spurred their legions forth into Ghur, they butchered the local populace indiscriminately, Ogors that had no part to play in Gorkamorkas rebellion and mighty beasts older than human memory all under the guise of bringing order and civility to the Realm. Whole Ogor migrations found themselves on the wrong side of man-forged blades, any lands of worth or found to be rich in metals and minerals soon became annexed by Dwarven kings and merchant guilds, the previous owned put to work in slave camps or executed as warning to the savage populace of Ghur as to what happened to those who resisted the recent influx of Order into the Realm.

The Iron Klaw Ogors, who had lived in relative harmony with the man-kingdoms of Ghur for as long as records existed, never took more meat than needed from the human villages around their migrations. To blame them for taking their share would be to blame the man for taking the sheep to slaughter, these Ogors demonstrated immense discipline only picking the elderly or weak from human villages to sait their hungers, never staying in one place long enough to diminish the populace beyond reason. Their demise came without warning, unbeknownst to the tribal elders their migration had setup camp atop a wealth of mineral deposits high up in the mountains at realms edge, it was in the dead of night amidsts a thunderous storm that a dwarven cannonade sought to bring the whole mountaintops down upon them. Flashes of black powder detonating lit up the nights sky, punctuated by streaks of lighting racing to the heavens, war scarred and embittered dwarven veterans marched up the mountainside to butcher those Ogors who survived the savage cannonade. It fell to the young Chieftan of the tribe to muster what little defense he could bring to bear, a mere handful of champions atop mournfangs raced down the crumbling mountainside to meet with their attackers. Fortunate was not however with the young chieftan, struck in the helmet by an oncoming cannonball he found himself flung backward off of his mount, foot still tangled in the saddle straps he was dragged down the mountainside, dazed from the strike and beaten by every rock on his descent his blood crazed mount ran throughout the night deep into the deserts beyond the mountains.

As the dwarves butchered all those Ogors who remained they lacked the insight to know what they had instigated, the nightmare that they had unleashed upon the realms with the soul survivor carried far beyond the charted edge of the realm….