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