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Greetings! I’ve been planning this conversion for quite some time now though with carious bits. These are the main sources of inspiration for my conversion. I Really like the White Dwarf 300 Artwork of Grombrindal with his spiked hair. It just isn’t Grombrindal to me with an unhinged snarl and eye popping out in pure rage. I absolutely love Alex Boca’s take on the White Dwarf too and all these artworks as well as the lore.

Hello, Me and my brothers bought some old units a couple years back and finaly about to bring them to battle. But, as brothers winning and loosing is everything so we need balance acording to rules. I cant find anywhere the points/per modell for the dwarf warriors and quarellers also the Empire master enginer/gunmaster? Sry for being newb, thanks on beforehand.

The living tattoos that traversed his weathered skin surged in unison with his own limbs as they sent the last wooden totem clattering to the top of the heap. Voorg noticed the light dusting of snow that had begun settling in his beard; a storm perhaps? That would be refreshing, he thought, and helpful in obscuring the sight of his fire. It would be best that the others not carry the sight of their ancestors burning with them in their minds’ eyes. His brief moment of calm was torn away by the shrill roar of the young tree hunter. The creatures' heavy, thudding strides were much like an over-eating uncle hurrying towards a feast. The cry was not familiar, but it sounded like a barkling of the treefolk and so Voorg pivoted to swat the critter aside before it could start a real conflict. The blast of ice and wind caught him directly center as he turned, knocking him from his feet. His icy blue eyes blinked repeatedly as they tried to adjust to what they saw. Behind the animated conflagration of stone and wood stood a young rin in armor of living foliage. Forests spirits practically swam around her while antlers of ancestor magic crowned her head. “Careful my child,” he cautioned. “We are kin. Do you not remember?” “How dare you,” she growled. “How dare you betray our people! You were supposed to protect these gardens, and instead you do the work of the defilers?” Voorg the Gardener straightened himself and brushed the cold, white crystals from his arms. “Insolent child,” muttered the now angered guardian. “You have not lived long enough to see war. Not the true devastation a war lost wreaks upon the history of a people.” In a mere blink the totem-keeper kicked his wooden shield into the air, caught it, and flung it into the closing sapling. It caught the creature in the midsection and knocked it skidding backwards. Without looking up to see the impact, the angered duardin tossed a lit torch onto the pile of totems. Carved wooden faces quickly lost their color to a dark char. Satisfied that the flames were taking root, Voorg turned back to face his attackers. Eliriya was stunned. The humble gardener had always been a mentor to her. Through his games and tricks, he taught younglings across the clan to commune with the spirit worlds. But in the tree-sister, Voorg had taken special interest, showing her the subtleties of growing the connections between the physical wilds and the ancestor spirits. And now he had turned on his student? Her thoughts were interrupted by the biting, icy tone of his voice. “Would you see the great necromancer play puppeteer with your lost family, child?” She could hardly believe he would ask her such a thing. C’Drak commenced his growling, lifting himself slowly to his feet. “Or would you prefer their spirit strength be drained by the Changer as fuel for some dark ritual?” He stared directly into her eyes, his pain plainly visible. “Something is afoot little sister. Tombs are being unearthed. The innocent have been hung from trees as grisly taunts. Holy sites long held secret have been discovered and corrupted…” “But that is not the way of the armies of the plague god…” “The befouled who march this way are but a cover. There is another attack being launched that we cannot yet see.” Voorg had walked slowly closer, now able to whisper. “The queen is leading an exodus, Eliriya. Our kind cannot be captured, for in the wrong talons we would become portals directly to the ancestors.” “...and so you destroy any path they might have.” Once more the gardener had enlightened his young understudy. Unspoken, the tree-sister and her bark-skinned brother understood each other and stomped past Voorg through the layering snows. “We’ll help you build the fire Uncle.” “There may not be time. There are many gardens across the home range.” “Then let us hurry. C’Drak would like to sing his death song in its entirety...” A wicked smile had crept across the cherubic face of Eliriya Tree-sister. “It’s a tad long.” A gravely chuckle was coming from her bushy companion. Voorg breathed in the moment deeply. Then, renewed by his dedicated companions, he returned to his grim task.

A Burden Long-Borne Haggrax ached from the joints of his toes to the bond between his skull and neck. His precious burden had cooled his shoulders when he first hoisted the boulder across his leathered back, but lately it had become… a challenge. The elder rememberer of the Undissons had traversed alpine trails across Skaddi’s own range for well over four centuries and had padded his way from the tree-kin nurseries that grew mighty Sylvaneth guardians to the towering Ironwood kingdoms to the South. Images flickered alongside reality in his rummy eyes. Ethereal duardin shields repelled a torrent of misty bile launched from a tentacled demon itself being unmade by the sun beams penetrating the pine canopy. In other places, heroes forgotten to time nodded a greeting from where their fogged forms had settled on stump and stone. But lately, his visions were brighter. They were loud. At times his sight darkened all around the scene until he wasn't more than a frozen audience as skeletal figures tore unsuspecting duardin from the ancestor halls and into an empty darkness. Meanwhile the kinstone rocked and shook with what could only be described as a fever. Day and night glaucous, ghostly images of battered and beaten duardin overwhelmed his vision and screams clawed at his mind. “They say all livin’ creatures have a place in Allarielle’s gardens. Guess the dawi’s is luggin’ out skree from Skaddi’s tinkerin’ “ grumbled Haggrax aloud. He had lost reverence long ago for the minor-deity who served as neglectful patroness of his clan. Powerful, she might be, but there were many powerful beings in the realms. Whereas the Everqueen grew and trimmed her creations alongside the cycles of Ghyran, Skaddi was always seeking more. It was not enough to bless her worshippers with the senses of wild beasts, she had to visit them in their dreams until they thought themselves oracles. She was not satisfied with a mountain sanctuary, instead tasking the Undissons with turning it to a living temple. At least her greed proved her nature that of a duardin. The crackling energy speared down the back of his neck, through his lung and across his bowels before scattering its shocks across his right thigh. Dropping to one knee, Haggrax almost shrugged the menacing load from his shoulders and allowed it to fall to the ground in a rune-inscribed heap, but he dared not. This stone was nothing short of a messenger to those feasting in the heavenly halls on the unreachable side of the mountain. He had been tasked to bear it passage into a distant land where it would connect a seldom-rumored duardin prophet with his lost kin, and he would not be the rememberer his babes and rin told tales about for shirking his duties. “One foot in front’ah the next, aye ya overgrown pebble? Couple more days ‘til we’re at the gate.” *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** His students were overzealous the lot of them, but they weren’t witless. To see his prized pupil in weather-torn tatters, ranting about the manipulators of fate and Shyshian necromancers reaching out to all the realms, as though he understood the gravity of such things… Even the wise rememberer was left uneasy. Maybe the lad had consumed too much of his homebrew, but Haggrax feared the madness that gripped him had more celestial origins. Wide-set nostrils drew in a gust of unseasonably damp air and rejected it with a snort. Rains tonight, maybe before the sun had crept below the earth even. “Guess we dropped further’an I’d thought,” grumbled the greybeard with a voice rough as a landslide. “Gate oughta be half a day off now, jus’ low enough for the streams t’be babbling free of the cold…” His musings drifted off, unable to focus on anything but his mistrust in Skaddi. Why send him away now, and with an object of such power? Why fill the warrior-priest’s mind with apocalyptic images but not share any such fears with Haggrax? There had been one truth the wild-eyed warrior had stated though - Skaddi was lost. Whatever schemes were afoot in the background, she could not see nor comprehend them. What this meant for her most devout clan, he was not sure. His dreams now reeked of death, and left a sour film on his tongue when he awoke each morning. It was not the stale sort found in old tombs or which clung to the relics he studied as a youth. Rather this was the stench of spoiled meat, where the remnants of corpses cooked in steaming crags and crevices, unfound or unwanted by scavengers. With each bare stomp into the snow, Haggrax the Rememberer relished the freshness of snow between his toes. An age ago he had learned to control his own thoughts as he navigated the spiritual flood that visited him in his travels. But the stone never relented, never ceased. The crackling energies that scrambled across its surface had begun to leave searing marks not only on his skin but across the stone surface itself. Haggrax thought he even had noticed a small crack this morning. Hourly meditations had preserved his sanity thus far, but he was not sure the pain coursing through the kinstone wouldn’t overwhelm him eventually. Summiting the narrow path between the steep ridge sides, Haggrax was suddenly looking down at a barren ravene floor, something akin to a natural mineshaft amongst the mountains, only lit by what little sun reflected down from the snow above. The smell of sulfur was nearly erased by crisp winds fluttering snow through the taller pines of this altitude, but his veteran senses were not tricked. Tomorrow he would carry the stone into the realm of fire, though he couldn’t entirely explain why. The persistent crying out of the kinstone had not ceased, but he had noticed a shift in it’s demands and was attempting to shift his own plans to meet them. Whereas at first he recognized the faces of the Undissons crying out as the were dragged into the darkness, more and more Haggrax had been shown lands he had never visited and duardin he did not know. It was in the oddly familiar eyes of a beaten, naked dwarf curled in what must have been an underground cell that he understood his purpose. As it lost its connection to his clan’s ancestors, the stone had begun searching for others. If his mad student was to be believed, all of the living, wherever they might be, were under assault by the dead and the souls of those passed on were guaranteed no safe rest. The kinstone was showing him brethren separated by ages, possibly when the dark powers had overrun the realms. “An yer sure this is the job, huh? Y’want my old bones to carry you ‘round the realms to find all your friends,” Haggrax chided the vessel. Inside though, he felt a warmth spread from his center. He wouldn’t presume to understand the full purpose of this journey, but the salty mystic was grudgingly honored by the possible scope of this task. Resting the stone alongside a tall trunk, the elder took a deep breath of the cold mountain air. Tomorrow, he would walk into the fires, a land of peril where he hoped to find those the stone yearned for. “Hardly the escape Skaddi had planned,” he chuckled to himself, but she did not have Haggrax’s perspective of the ages after all. With a grunt, he drove his staff into the ground and smirked as vines and creepers erupted and swirled round themselves at his feet. But first he’d get some rest he thought as he nestled himself in to commune with his visions. Haggrax the Rememberer of Clan Undisson

Skaddi's Own Haakon hadn't consumed any Blue-shroom Brew since he finished the last keg a week ago. And his newest batch, though potent as he expected it to be, was just beginning to ferment. Haakon grinned as would a child who knew he had gotten away with a particularly risky prank, thinking of his banned homebrew warming him from the inside out. It would be a welcome relief from the icy winds that swirled around him as he drove his sled through the night. His uncle’s jaw was as stone and his chest ever-full, but in his eyes there had been a look few had ever seen in the revered ruler. They were slightly wider than usual, unblinking and fixed directly on the object of their attention as though they could hold it tightly in place. Haakon noticed. “I will not be alone, Uncle. My pledge-kin will join me, and the goddess will watch over us. Haggrax the Rememberer is to come along as well,” he had tried to assure his worried mentor. And so off they had charged towards the Horn of Endruul, Haakon riding ahead of the march so as to hopefully intercede before any desecration. The beastherds should be starving on the Ice’s Teeth by now, but when they set themselves to a purpose, they were far swifter than the dwarves. “They will still be many, and there is no shortage of wild thing for them to enslave in that harsh range. Keep your wits,” the elder had cautioned. Their warrior’s embrace would hopefully not be the last they'd share, but if it was, that was the cost of Haakon’s connection to the goddess. The war dogs strained against their bonds, whining and yipping with excitement; all but the lead pair, his alphas. Closer to domesticated wolves than pets or working stock, these creatures had served the Undissons for generations. But it was Haakon who first taught them to pull a sled. It was Haakon who trained them to respond to his subtle shifts of weight, rather than the harsh command of the whip. Behind him, the smell of the first night’s fire had faded, but Haakon did not notice. All he could hear was the slicing of runner through ice as his sled raced down the trampled track of the herd. By morning, he’d have reached them and could begin choosing targets. The pack alphas, driving the sled of Haakon the Mad His fellow Oathsworn would be on the trail before sun-up. Heavily-muscled and thick of bone, they wouldn’t travel fast, but by evening his campfire would again smell of bloodbrew, weapon-polish and dreamer’s chew. Haakon’s heart pounded in his chest with the excitement of leading his comrades on the hunt. So many sacred lands had been defiled, it was time these grudges were settled and peaks cleansed. Hakkon’s blood surged in an unusually persceptable pulse through his body, his hands tightening on the reigns. He noticed the edges of his vision blurring rapidly and forced his eyes wider. He inhaled the cold mountain air in a sharp pull, flooding his consciousness back into control and using this brief moment of clarity to pull his sled to a rest in a drift not 3 feet off of the trail. As he released the clasps that confined his team, a dark-furred head presumptuously if half-heartedly snapped at his hand, only to be bowled over and pinned by a growling alpha. Remembering the teachings of Master Haggrax, Haakon lowered himself into a deep squat. He sunk from a spring-loaded crouch into relaxing balance. Haakon measured his breathing, finding a steady rhythm that soon faded into the background as his vision took over. Bloody tracks, first scattered but getting more dense until they culminated in steaming puddles of mud and gore… A spear of gleaming blue ice with gruesome offerings heaped at its base or tied round its shining surface… Heavy bodies stomped about on cloven feet, guttural utterings in the place of speech… Closest to the stone were several hooded figures, each taller than a man but not thick like the goat men… There was a melodious nature to their chanting and he could feel himself drawn to it… The enemy were too, as the gors began to walk towards the stone, many shedding their armor as they went. They began to rock forward and back, breathing in the thickening purplish fog that had begun to creep all about them, rising in snaking tendrils from their ankles until it slithered into their nostrils. His vision began to shimmer. He was losing hold. The beasts moaned both in pleasure and pain as armored scales sprouted across their shoulders. Just then, one of the hooded figures turned towards Hakkon and loosed an awful screech from its avian beak. The vision quaked violently before dissolving. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … The pack strained silently, but maintained their discipline, poised to attack just outside the ring of brush that surrounded the camp. Haakon’s eyes darted from furred hulk to cloven foot to horned mantle until he caught a glimpse of his prey. Unnaturally iridescent feathers, seemingly shifting from the green of the deep jungle to the teal of a glassy sea to a mystical pink, most comparable to the scales of a young summer wyrm, with every step of the cloaked form. The lithe figure was not touched or approached, but every beastman it passed watched it intently. Haakon unstrapped the twin hammers from his back, drew in a deep breath, and let out a high whistle. The pack alphas of Haakon the Mad War cries surrounded the camp as fur-clad duardin emerged from behind boulders and out of dense cover. Weapons were slammed into the earth in a challenge that was soon met by hungry growls and horned charges. With the slavering herd spreading out to meet the directionless attack, Haakon’s pack charged through an opening, lunging for the soft throats of even the newly scale-plated bestigors. All manner of death cry could be heard, but none took root in the mind of Skaddi’s champion. Though his visions were so often embedded within spells of dizziness and crippling pain, Haakon knew the lesser-goddess empowered her chosen alpha. Nothing distracted the predator as he strode through the fracas. The war dogs of Haakon the Mad … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … He wore scant armor and no boots, great plumage and a single high ridge affixed to an otherwise plain iron skullcap. His ruddy pink skin was not aglow with runic tattoo or mystical fire… Could this truly be the challenger who interrupted his transformation ritual? That was clearly a hero. His eyes had glowed with power. A furious heat had radiated from his densely muscled figure. No, this could not be the immortal he had seen. Xcryx’trynct the Temptor threw back the hood from his head and shook out his locks, allowing them to untangle from his crown of curled horns. He let the rest of the shoddy woolen cloak drop from his broad shoulders, admiring his gloriousness as the morning sunlight stabbed through the snow clouds to shine off of his multicolored feathers. The vain shaman hardly noticed his warband being cut down all about, for he was already imagining the taste of this upstart’s blood. Drawing a scimitar in his right hand while leveling his staff with his left, the Temptor gave a clicking chortle, taunting his foe. … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … … Haakon had never seen such a beast. Frenzied half-men of all shades adorned with claws, fangs, bony growths or even hooves were the norm. Some, more blessed by the dark powers were more goat or bull than man and had the might to tear through a city guard. The creatures his pack had surprised were even larger and possessed odd scales and bulky growths, mutations that seemed more design than organic… And now this bird-man, glowing with an eery light… But there were many things the champion wished he could unsee in Ghyran since the arrival of the plague bringers. These were just more of the same. As the creature pranced and whirled, it made hissing and clicking sounds that had an oddly self-assured tone. Haakon sank his toes into the trampled snow, making sure each step had full traction and the push could be felt from the extension of his ankle through to his hip. Bounding from side to side with each stride, he noticed the widening of his prey’s eyes. Just outside the range of a staff’s swing, Haakon shortened his step right, hopped, and then gave a full push off. While feeling the air flow from the scimitar stab where the creature expected him to be, the sneering dwarf unloaded a hammer blow that crunched into the underside of the serrated beak. His second hammer strike shattered the staff hand, causing the weapon to fall into the snow and quickly lose its glow. With a roll and wheel, Haakon squared himself to the reeling enemy. A block and counter swing was all it took to drop his foe. Stepping closer to stand over the fallen defiler and examine it one final time before he finished his work, Haakon was annoyed to hear it begin to cackle again. Before he could strike down, it's body burst into a flutter of tiny birds, each scrambling into the sky with their misshapen wings. He tried to kill them, but only was able to fell a few which quickly turned to shapeless pulp. Letting out a roar of frustration, Haakon was answered by cheers. It appeared his comrades had finished their work and were satisfied that there would be no further defiling of this holy ground… ... Haakon suspected this was just the beginning of the atrocities he would see. Haakon the Mad's sled being pulled through mud and snow by his pack of war dogs. _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Trap is Sprung Their whining had stopped and paw-strikes gone silent. The hunting dogs strained into their harnesses, working in tight coordination with their alpha’s example. Soon the pungent musk of the herd was noticeable, it's accompaniment by the stench of decay, a sign that this herd had earned favor of the grotesque one and would likely be more formidable than the last. If they traveled with knights, Haakon feared they might be beyond his prowess. He could feel the beating of his own heart, faster and faster, but he forced it to steady. There was no time for a dream now. Bursting from a brush line and joining a trail, Haakon's team was confronted with gruesome signposts made of dismembered limbs. Hands forced to point in conflicting directions were crudely nailed to stripped thigh bones and topped with decapitated heads, the edges of their mouths sawed into gory smiles. The effigies lined the way in both directions but seemed to extend more densely to the right, so instinctively he prompted the team to turn in that direction, only to come face to face with the stuff of nightmares. He pulled in the reigns hard, tipping the sled and rolling out from under it as it tumbled to a halt and the team attempted to keep free of the weight. Blocking the path were the bodies of his fellow hunters. Their limbs, where still attached, were broken into sharp angles. Cracked ribs protruded from their sides and guts were slashed open to reveal torn entrails. The bodies hung limply by nooses braided from the hair of their shorn beards. Haakon roared in fury. When it's echoes faded, he heard the cackling. The Oathsworn lashed out with his twin warhammers, striking out in wide circles to the left and then right, but the enemy could not be seen. Sinking to his knees, the warrior-priest’s growls gave way to sobs. How could he not have seen the perils facing his brothers earlier? The defilers and their bestial followers had spoiled yet another prestige wilderness, this time fouling it with an offense made from his own brethren. Haakon preparing to strike with his twin hammers. Gathering himself, Haakon bowed his head in prayer to Skaddi. He asked forgiveness for allowing such an insult to her kin. He vowed to settle this grudge or be destroyed in the attempt. But most of all, Haakon pleaded with Skaddi that she might accept these Oathsworn into the ranks of her mountains’ protectors. He begged her to see the purity of their hearts and to bestow upon them the honor of pledging their souls to her spirit-guard. Silence. Haakon sat in the complete silence only a practiced devotee could manage, waiting for a gust of icy wind to dry his tears, the howl of a wolf to guide his hunt… Any sign the goddess might send him. But for an agonizingly long time, there was nothing. And so he sat. Haakon would not entertain the thought that they could have been abandoned; not by Skaddi. When Grungni had pointed his children to refuge in the thunder-king’s heavens it was Skaddi who had denounced his cowardice. It was Skaddi who had sent the storms and the beasts to aide the Undissons in defense of their homes. And most recently, it was Skaddi who had sent her blessed out to secure the sacred sites within these ranges. She would never turn her back on her little brothers and sisters. Just then, an unseasonably warm rain began to fall. Though the air felt still, thunderheads moved overhead with force, blocking out the light save for their own electric flashes. Haakon felt no dizziness or dream-state coming, rather his benefactor simply appeared to him from within the storm as though she had walked out from the brush in plain day. Pale of skin and emanating a blue glow as she was in constant communion with the spirits who lived alongside the duardin of these icy mountains, Skaddi looked down upon her tiny warrior-priest as rivulets of pain flowed from eyes as pure as fresh snow-cover. “I was deceived little brother, and now I have lead you astray. A trickster sent forth by the dark gods drew my attention towards the Horn of Endruul and the kinstone sheltered within. Your wise teacher Haggrax the Rememberer has removed the stone from it's icy armor and carries it from the reaches of the defilers.” “But goddess, surely the stone will be safer in hiding with Haggrax than undefended as the bringers of sickness continue to befoul the mountains?” “That would be true little brother, but several of the players have only recently shown themselves. In the shadows they have managed to gain advantage that I fear we cannot recover from.” Haakon was stunned. His clan had worshipped Skaddi since the Age of Myth when she alone spoke to the connection between the mountains and the spirits of their ancestors. It was Skaddi who had helped them to settle the icy heights of Ghyran all those centuries ago, and who had taught them to use the natural energies coursing through ice and stone to commune with their predecessors. To this day, Skaddi spoke loudest to the Undissons, more clearly than to any other clan in Realm of Life. She had resolutely called Haakon and his brother Oathsworn to arms just the other night, sending them forth to preserve these sacred lands. He simply could not fathom the demi-goddess of mountain blizzards leading them astray. “In my suffering at all our losses, I was too hasty to try and prevent further corruption. The Mountainsson Grove ceased it's song. When I saw the twisted husks of the young tree-kin, I thought they had died of disease, but now I know they were bathed in warpfire…” “Warpfire?” Repeated Haakon in confusion. “That does not sound like the work of the plague-carriers or the beast herds.” “No, in fact it was not. It was simply a ploy to disarm the holy mountains, for the mature war groves are entangled in battle, and the few children of the wood that managed to survive have had to be ushered into hiding, or risk the extinction of their line.” Skaddi paused, gathering herself under the weight of her shame. “So too was there a ploy to spur Haggrax’s removal of the kinstone inside Endruul’s horn, thus dampening the communication between devoted and ancestor. The purple lightning that shattered the prayer-ledge of little brother Draketongue was not of Sigmar nor my creation. Dorbus the Shepherd even went about burying his totems for fear of what they could be used for if desecrated. Alas young priest, all these attempts have done is tear apart the webs of power that course through my once majestic ranges…” Haakon was beginning to understand, and the truth was far more grim than he had imagined. “You have not spoken of befoulment…” “For this was not the plague demon’s doing,” replied the glowing goddess sadly. “Then who?” Wondered Haakon aloud. “The god of lies and deceit has played his first hand. The trickster has manipulated me into severing the ties in our network of power. This has left my devoted, such as your clan’s Oathsworn, isolated and vulnerable. The secret-trader could prey on any of you he chooses now, and I would hardly see it at its peak, let alone in time to intervene.” “We did not pledge ourselves blindly great sister,” Haakon insisted. “If we fall, you will reshape us into blessed beasts to continue fighting alongside our brothers, in the service of our mountain temples.” “I wish it was still so…” Skaddi’s voice trailed off. After a pause, she gathered pulled her mind back from whatever was haunting her thoughts. “Another threat has been growing, and it's vile mechanations have begun to take hold. Nagash, ruler of the dead, has called to claim the souls of the fallen and his power has swelled as the tides of war have swept in. Though the ancestors are firmly rooted in stone still, your newly fallen brothers are beyond my reach.” Haakon of clan Undisson, driven mad in his hunt for the souls of kin “But you taught that sacrifice for the clan would bring the reward of ascension to the mountain’s pantheon of defenders. The other teachers and myself, our own teachers… We have preached this to those we trained since they were babes…” “It appears the treacherous one knew of Nagash’s growing reach and sought to take advantage. We thought we only fought against one evil, but cultists and bird-faced abominations have harried our flanks and forced us to stretch beyond our limits.” Blood filled his muscular frame as Haakon’s entire body tensed. The blizzard queen saw the fury in the warrior-priest’s eyes, the white of the storm flashing in her own as a warning to him. But he was no longer concerned with the demigoddess’ powers. She who had once taught them how to navigate to safety seemed to have lead them to their doom. The plague god’s minions corrupted once pristine wilds. The god of deception was slowly undermining their defenses, with what foul purpose he did not want to imagine. And now the god of the dead sought to enslave his clan for his own devices. There was only one question left to ask. “And who will protect our clan while I hunt the great necromancer?” “You know that answer already.” “She’s not ready, especially as fever overruns the range.” “And that is why the princess is leaving, your whole clan in fact,” replied Skaddi in a measured way, as though gauging the warrior priest’s reaction to each word as she spoke it. “Your uncle will of course remain king, but he has spent his strength protecting these lands. His daughter, however, has a yet unrevealed strength about her. She will join with a renegade king from Azyr and establish a new home range, one where the ancestors can once again find peace under the mountains.” “And I am to trust this upstart from another realm?” “No sweet brother, you are not. You have a different purpose…” Haakon the Mad of Clan Undisson, crackling with ancestral fury _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Riding into Darkness: Tattered leather coverings flapped furiously as the opac wind raced alongside them. Haakon ranted and muttered to himself but could not collect his thoughts. It had been a week since the he entered the shadowlands, the longest he had gone without communing with Skaddi since she had first reached out to him as a beardling. He was delirious, haunted by grinning skulls in his dreams and taunted by the echoes of cackling birds when awake. She had entrusted Haakon with the greatest of missions, so grand in scope that Haakon assumed he would meet his doom in the attempt. First he had caught up with Haggrax, tracking him by the feigntest of scent trails. The ruffian had ceased his cursing when Haakon’s panicked words registered. Equally disturbed by the demi-goddess having been lead astray and his greatest pupil’s sputtering tale of massacre and conspiracy, the old master had reached out a gnarled hand and placed it on his pupil’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. The Rememberer then revealed a plan to reunite long lost brothers under common banners. If he survived, Haggrax said with a wild-eyed grin, he'd meet Haakon in the clan’s new halls. Next he sought out Brother Draketongue. The feral duardin had sacrificed any semblance of a normal or traditional life long ago, even by Undisson standards. But it was a price he'd happily pay again for the ability to commune so fluently with generations of long-dead ancestors. They gave him the strength to accomplish feats that had made him famous from mountain temple to Ironwood keep. But even as he nodded in agreement with Haakon’s strategy to send the hermit into Shysh first to chart a path and set a rallying point for their forces while Haakon rode into Uglu to bring the clan’s most potent weapon into their plans, Draketongue knew they likely all would fall under the shambling hordes long before they could assemble for the battle they sought. Afterwards, Haakon had hunted down Eliriya Tree-sister and Dorbus the Shepherd. The mystics each had taken note of the way his eyes flashed with lightning and he voice seemed to roar as thunder. He might have only recently reached teaching-status in the priesthood, but this Haakon was quite obviously the instrument of Skaddi herself. And he was now emerging as the herald of great things to come, despite rumors that a madness had taken hold of him. Finally, he had traversed peak to valley, gathering the scattered questing knights of the Undissons. Rebellious and determined the lot, they had eventually agreed to his demand that they ride into Shysh when they heard that Elendor the Scarred would be meeting them at the portal. The legendary warrior-priestess had honored the gods time and again with her heroic deeds, and these babes were filled with pride at being invited to fight alongside her, no matter how grave the odds. Following a woodland trail through a darkness that no starlight nor fog-covered sun could penetrate, Haakon had completely lost his sense of time, but he was still acutely aware that something watched he and his team. What, or who, he could not tell. But Haakon the Mad knew one other thing with equal certainty - Even if Draketongue was able to assemble their band of heroes tomorrow night under the lone ironwood standing in the Garden of the Fallen, they would likely fall as the last of the Undisson mountain guardians to have defended Ghyran, if not simply the end of their clan’s line entirely. And so Haakon the Mad plunged deeper into the bewitching fog, following the invisible trail of spirit-power. His dogs’ surging legs never tired, for they had been hardened to the mountain’s strength. His blazing purple eye noticed what could not be seen because they had been blessed with the blizzard’s sharpness. With these gifts he had a chance to find the mother of bears and her duardin companion. ...But the real question was how to prevent the creature from tearing him apart on sight.

The Tree-Saver She watched anxiously as the tree lords strode away, their crunching steps always somehow softer than she’d imagined. They had a grace about them that was at odds with their jarring, hardwood armor. Eliriya suspected that there was more to the sylvaneth than simply sentience in tree-form. She had seen the revenant farmers nurturing young hunters and slow-growing lordlings, and she wondered what other spirits coursed through the children of the forest. As the last of the wargrove faded from view, only Eliriya Tree-Sister and her young charge remained. The Undissons had long allied themselves with the sylvaneth who inhabited the foothills and valleys below their icy lands. After generations of scholars had apprenticed and labored alongside the spiritual gardeners as they grew the next generation of forest people, Eliriya alone had been deemed worthy of learning the secrets of the soul-pods. When her brother, last of her family’s line, had been cut down by a plague-rotten knight she prayed to the clan’s patroness and was shocked to see not only the queen of the winter storm in her dreams that night, but the Everqueen as well. Eliriya’s grand work had never quite earned the acceptance of the grove’s other residents, but he grew nonetheless. As his bark had grown harder and viney reach expanded, his sapling-kin had taught him to hear the forest’s songs and listen to its needs. But while they learned to race along hidden pathways as every prior generation of guardian, her brother only grew heavier of fist and of preference for the mountain stones he stacked and balanced everyday. Snapping back from her memories, the priestess looked over at her brother’s reincarnation. He was straining to lift a small boulder the size of a grown dwarf and place it atop the tenth stack in his circle. With a comically small growl, C’Drak lifted the stone into position. Breathing heavily, he took in his latest creation before finding a seat in the center of the ring. There he let himself root into the earth and absorb her strength. He stretched towards the sky, soaking in what little warmth the winter sun could offer. The warrior-to-be drifted off into slumber while his sister and caretaker smiled proudly. That peaceful moment would be short-lived however. In the distance Eliriya could make out the discordant sounds of rusted war gongs and bent tin chimes. The defilers were coming and the few tree kin left in this valley had left for the march. C’Drak was preternaturally strong for such a young sapling, but he was still a babe compared to the great tree-lords that had grown in this grove previously, and even they had failed to hold off the tide of filth closing in on her mountain home. While he napped and soaked up the Living Realm’s bounty, Eliriya combed the plot and those neighboring theirs that had been left empty. She had previously never been allowed on those grounds. The novice gardener filled her pack and pouches with forgotten soulstones, tiny wooden carvings, and all manner of other trinkets that could amplify her connection to earth and ancestor alike. With their belongings ready, the adopted sister of the forest and favored daughter of the mountain knelt and quietly sang a woodland hymn. The small fox previously darting from shrub to stone finally settled nearby, its glittering spirit trail fading into the wind. Her heart swelled knowing that her ancestor-guide was near. Though Eliriya did not open her eyes to see them, she could feel the presence of other sprites and spirits of the forest as they joined her song of friendship. Her whispered final lines gave way to a roar of defiance. Eyes crackling with lightning and fists hard as ice, she emptied her lungs and beat the ground in furious rhythmic challenge. With a thud, C’Drak’s heavy fists joined her own, his eyes ablaze with the mountain’s power. In unison they stomped, punched, surged upwards and slammed down into the dirt. Chests heaving and steam rising from their mouths, the unbowed duo took a moment to enjoy the echoes of their ancient war dance. ...And then they left, climbing an imperceptible trail amongst the stone and rubble towards the elevated home of the Undissons. She had hoped that if a last stand was to be made, her toils alongside the Sylvaneth would’ve been the catalyst for a great alliance between the races. Instead she brought no aid and knew this climb would be her last before finding an honorable death alongside her last remaining kin. It appeared that the time of the Undissons was coming to an end. At least their deaths would be in the spirit gardens, honoring them through their sacrifice.

Hi Everyone, In an attempt to keep up a solid pace with my painting, I've started a blog. Please take a look. The Barazi-Wyr In it you'll find tales of my duardin as they seek to fulfil the "Barazi-Wyr" or Ice's Promise, along with photos as new characters and units are introduced to the storyline. I'm only minimally a gamer and much more of a hobbyist, so please excuse my drifting from the conventions of AOS as I find the right stylistic and thematic fits for my army. I will say that the wide-open possibilities of the mortal realms is what drew me back in after nearly 20 years away. Hope you like what you see! Feedback always welcome. A few of a few of the dwarves who have already made an appearance... King Rungi Roreksson, Revenger of the Karkigrom Darbli Doorcarver, bodyguard and childhood friend of King Rungi Lord Norgrim Proudsong, champion of the Chosen of Karakigrom Again, much more to come as the fluff comes together and I get more a painting done. Take a look and let me know what you think! The Barazi-Wyr

"The herald of the Stormhosts, an avenging angel clutching a glittering starblade that can carve a swathe through the hardiest of foes, the Knight-Azyros wields another, far more potent weapon. He carries a celestial beacon, a lantern radiating the searing light of the heavens, a light that falls upon the forces of Chaos as a sea of torment far more painful than those twisted agonies the Dark Gods gleefully conceive. Wherever this light shines, so might Sigmar cast his divine bolts more easily - the Knight-Azyros is the tip of the spear, bringing glorious illumination to those places thought lost to infinite corruption" My Knight-Azyros is a little different. The Azyrocopter II was inspired by a game I had at Call to Glory 2019 (Cancon) against a fellow Free Peoples player and creator of the original Azyrocopter, Danny Carroll. Danny had a beautiful Freeguild army and I enjoyed the game so much that I wanted remember it by creating my own Azyrocopter to pay homage. I have also painted up the original model in the colours of the Hallowed Knights (my favourite Stormhost) so as to use in games where my opponent may not appreciate the Azyrocopter as a proxy. The Knight-Azyros This is a pretty solid support hero, 5 wounds (normal), 12" movement and fly (very nice), 3+ save (:O) and 9 Bravery, very solid stats. Not to bad on the attacks front, 1" range, 4 attacks, 3+/3+, -1 rend and 1 damage. Abilities This is where he shines (pun intended). Illuminator of the Lost - You can re-roll hit rolls of 1 for attacks made by friendly units that target enemy units while the enemy is within 10" of this model. This is where the Knight-Azyros is worth his weight in gold at 100 points. He makes all your basic Free Peoples better with the re-roll 1's - Greatswords, Handgunners, your Griffon's and even basic become so much more consistent in their attacks. Buff up some of these troops where they are 2+ hit re-rolling 1's and you get some nasty outcomes. Light of Sigmar - Once per battle, in your hero phase, this model can use it's celestial beacon. If it does so, each enemy unit within 8" of this model suffers D3 mortal wounds. Chaos units with 8" suffer D6 mortal wounds instead. Whilst only once per battle, this is a serious deterrent to enemies getting close to the Azyros, especially Chaos plebs. Keeping the Azyros next to a large unit or a General on Griffon and closing with this winged angel becomes and ominous proposition. Positives Cheap - 100 points! Resilient at a +3 save. Highly maneuverable with a 12" move and flying. Re-roll 1's within 10" of an enemy - ultimate pathfinder for making those Crossbow, Handgunner and Lumianrk of Hysh shots more consistent. D3 / D6 (Chaos) motal wounds for those peeps who get too close. Negatives Screams "Kill Me!" to your opponent. Tricky to maneuver without being put in a position that will lead to it's untimely death. 5 wounds. Easy line of sight on those large wings for shooting/sniping units. Misses out on all the Free Peoples buffs Hot Takes Use cover! He likes holding hands - Keep him with a Freeguild General on a Griffon as a deterrent or close to large units for Look Out Sir! REMEMBER! He has to only be within 10" of the enemy for re-rolling ones on any friendly units that target the enemy he is within 10" of. Run all day with this guy, who care's, you don't want him in combat and it doesn't turn off his abilities. Must have for a Free Peoples army - makes the attacks of all the things more consistent.

Brothers in Exile: Nori spat dust from his mouth, cursing his brother for choosing this inn as their night lodgings. “Nobbin ye right git! You ‘aven’t the coin for ale t’wash the taste a’bones from me mouth!” Sweating with exertion despite the midnight cold, Nobbin didn’t appear bothered with his twin’s complaining now, nor had he ever. The younger by nearly two whole candle-marks, Nori had known that any position Nobbin was entitled would not have been similarly awaiting him. From a young age he had hefted axe and mace, training from dawn til dusk to make his own place in the clan. It had never made much difference though, as Nori always seemed to find a way step on his own beard as they say. When their father’s exile was announced, Nobbin had solemnly knelt before the moonlit altar of the great Beast-Mother, opened his palm in silent blood oath, and strode down the winding ice steps into the depths of the Ursine Labrinthes. ...Nori had muttered sullenly the whole way. He chuckled to himself remembering his brother’s dismay at his defiant rant. “Nobbin where’d th’beasts go?” he called in annoyance. “They best be back soon.” “Mind yer tongue, brother,” reprimanded Nobbin. “Verminbane might not be bothered by your insolence, but Grizzlemaw will not suffer it lightly.” With her usual imprecise timing, his companion came crashing through the single-plank wall of the inn. She tossed undead swordsmen aside as though they were babes, their remnants clattering to the floor. “Nori, retrieve your mount and clear a path to the road. We’ll be fast on your heels,” his brother bluntly ordered, oblivious that the younger had already set to the task. Nori smirked and tried to swallow his sarcasm back down. “Finally your senses have emerged brother. Follow then!” *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** Soft footpads pressed effortlessly from the powdered ground. Nori could feel thick bands of muscle undulating beneath him as his mount strove to keep pace. Up ahead, instead of surging muscle carving through snow, the bear carrying his twin seemed to lope weightlessly across clouds. Despite being half of her size, Verminbane was not blessed with Grizzlemaw’s speed. A toothy grin burst across his face, then split into a chuckle, before finally erupting in boisterous laughter. He could not contain his love for the undersized bear, poorly crafted and tempestuous tempered though she was. Snatching him from his amusement, the loping grizzle bear skidded to a halt in a flurry of glittering, white snowflakes. Nobbin nodded ahead of them towards a warm flickering amidst the tall, thin trees of the Omenwood. “Friends?” asked the younger. “Perhaps,” replied the older twin. “We should be closin’ in on th’meetin place, b’with all th’dead walkin around, we oughta still be cautious…” His voice trailed off as he felt Grizzlemaw’s haunches rise under him and her fur bristle in his grip. “Where girl?” he asked in a whisper. Without looking, Nobbin knew his twin had taken up a rear-facing position, staggered from his own, in order to spy any trailing threats. “We aren’t hiding lads,” said the red-bearded rider as he and his beast strode out from the shadows directly in front of the young dwarves. “You jus’ di’n’t see us.” A second rider appeared to the left, staring without speaking. They were mounted on grizzle bears as well, though by the size of them, they were practically different creatures. Much as their enormous mounts, the armor covering the two duardin was almost beyond description. Scaled cloaks, runes and live-metal all over - they must have been questing in the wild’s of the realm for an age. Before either brother could formulate a question though, the red-beard beckoned them and wheeled his mount to walk towards the fire. “C’mon young riders. Best we get back t’the fires before the others leave us starvin’ away to bones. Poorly-timed joke, thought Nori. But his objection never left his lips, because again the veteran rider spoke first. “Besides, she arrives tonight.” Follow the Leader: Scale and tooth and claw of beast Forged in underhill fire Quenched in blood of legends deceased To make the live-metal desired... The shaman sung with the bouncy energy of a babe or aelf-maid. It unsettled Nobbin, but he hoped they wouldn't notice and so redoubled his focus on polishing the live-metal shield that had kept him alive through these last, harsh years. He stole a peek up from his work saw his twin sharing ale with the three other knights sitting round the fire. It felt awkward being here, in this band of exiles. Norri savored the warm flush in his chest he got from every swig of the wilderness brew, it's unrefined harshness be damned. He relished the company almost as much… Nobbin had always been the wiser of the brothers, and Norri had kept his place, following orders and respecting their “duty.” But it was the choice to pledge themselves to an overgrown forest sprite that pulled at his mind when ice was whipped past his bare skin. Their father’s exile at the hands of the demigoddess was a mark on the family for sure, but had he not committed a crime? And now they were making some point by refusing to serve her? Norri’s gripe was a familiar one, and so it hardly delayed his sleep. Nobbin smirked as his proud brother stumbled over to his mount and curled up against her dense hide. Now that the group had begun to settle themselves, Nobbin ventured over and joined them in their drink. They had hardly made a round of jests about his brother’s drunken boasts when the red beard looked past Nobbin, over his shoulder, and grew silent. From the treeline emerged a rinn the likes of which he’d never seen before. “She’s here,” he whispered, almost to himself, as he moved onto a single knee. Gisselle Ghullazi, the Verdant Knight, exiled Knight Questor of the Undissons She wore ornate metal plate over tunic and scale. Similar scales fell down her back from under shoulder guards of live-metal. The same invaluable material had been shaped into a helm, shield, and sword, but this rinn was not to be confused with some show-lordess. A dark patch covered one eye, unhidden by the way her travel-greased hair was sloppily braided behind her. A raised scar was visible down from her nose and cutting across her lips. This rider had seen many battles, and from the way her massive mount stared down at the now kneeling company, the legend was accurate. “Good evening brothers,” she began, the bear below her sauntering forward until his snout was a mere hop from the fire. “We are all that is left.” Even the deferential duardin exchanged sideways glances to see if another might understand her words or find them more believable. “We are the last remaining questors of the Beast Mother,” she restated. “Long ago you took the same oath as I, rejecting those who would seek to own the mountains of this realm and vowing to return them instead to their natural state of wild harmony. I share with you now a message that perhaps only you will be prepared to hear…” her voice trailed off with a malicious smile. “The would-be prophetess asks for our help.” Nobbin looked over at the red-beard, who appeared the most veteran of the bunch. He too smirked subtly at the humbling of the demi-goddess. “It appears that storms can cloud even Skaddi’s vision, and she was caught unaware by the great necromancer. The ancestors are cut off from the mountain clans, just as the clans need their aid the most.” “And what d’you propose we do?” asked a blonde-bearded warrior, his impetuous tone exposing both his arrogance and ignorance. “After all, we left Skaddi an’ her clans fer a reason.” “An’ y’already said there ain’t many o’us left,” Norri chimed in rudely, rubbing his eyes as he stumbled back to the group. “Mayhaps we jus’ stay t’our own busin…” His voice trailed off as her beast’s growl swept over their complaints. “Brothers, perhaps you misunderstand me. Hunting the petulant tree-goddess’ scaled pets is a matter of pride, preserving your clan’s burial sites and other places of importance is one of devotion, but this is a matter of duty. The mountains gave birth to our kind. They have swaddled us, fed us, and shielded us from the rain. And when our own kin allowed us to walk alone in the cold, the mountains always welcomed us home." Even Norri had grown silent, alternating sheepish glances at his feet and awestruck stares at the rinn. “This is not a mere sorcerer seeking objects of power, nor corrupting demons looking to spread their dominion. This is no greedy neighbor, nor all-consuming herd. The unquiet dead threaten all living things. They have begun to harvest souls for their master’s unknown plots. These cruelest of captors now beat down our door to claim our kinfolk; aged and weathered, newborn and pure, it matters not… Either we release our kin from this hell, or we concede the end of our kind. It is as simple as that little brothers.” Exiled Knight Questors of the Undissons The Race: The fire hissed as ice and snow smothered it. The great grizzlebears snorted and snarled threats at the darkness as they were roused. But the duardin knights did not speak. Armor was strapped and tightened, worn leather packs latched and hoisted, but not a word was exchanged. They had days to ride before their death songs would be sung; they'd save their voices. Lives spent writing their own legends - what greater ending could be written than a heroic death, their service mending wounds with the clans with whom they had feuded and avenging those who still held them in their hearts. Far off on the horizon a persistent glow illuminated the tree-tops that blanketed the rolling hills. That it could shine out above them spoke to the sheer size of the realmgate. As they closed the miles between it and themselves, the fluid movement within it became visible. This was no ancient relic or crumbling artifact. No, she had been awoken from her centuries of slumber to throw the doors to the underworlds wide open. The duardin knights continued their silent ride through the night, savoring every sensation. Without having to acknowledge it, each was aware that the smell of the pines, the sting of the snow, the taste of a beast’s musk on the air, might very well be their final linkages to this land should they not find their way home. A particular sensation that perked the attention of each rider was the way in which the forests were racing alongside them. Tree-kin scrabbled and wound their way between trunk and limb, keeping ample pace with the duardins’ mounts. Further along, the bright heraldry that demarked the unified forces of the free cities highlighted their marches towards the same gates. Even high above them, the green-scaled drakes they had ritualistically hunted, swooped low above the thinnest branches and beat their powerful wings, carrying themselves and their Aelven riders towards the target. None knew for sure what awaited them beyond the gates. None knew for certain what the great necromancer had planned for them. But across realm, race, and region the unquiet dead had threatened to enslave their people for time without end. This threat was greater than any dispute between nations, and the magnitude of this unified response spoke to that. Firm of jaw and clear of purpose, the stoic duardin knights undertook this one last quest, perhaps their last, not to find a new trophy, but instead to deliver a final message - The ancestors and their homelands would remain free. The Verdant Knight leading knight questors

The Unburnt: Sickly grey-green corpses, red shreds of gore, and dark charred husks intermingled down the steep slopes and littered the floors of the trenches and larger ravines. The sweet, thick smell of cooking flesh rose from mounds where bodies had been stacked and set ablaze. Purple and pink sparks occasionally accompanied sizzles and pops as unnatural gifts were burnt away. Above on one island of greenery amongst the few remaining that dotted the hellscape, Rungi and his council sat in silence, contemplating the cost of their victory. Though it was long after the adrenaline had stopped coursing through their veins, it had not been long enough for the screams of the dying to fade along with those emitting them. It was those screams that now robbed the victors of their speech. Loremaster Lunn had been maniacally scratching away with quill and parchment until he felt the weight of the other lords’ stares. He slowly laid his materials to the side and waited for the inevitable reproach from Grogan and Norgrim. The simpletons might be strong of arm and back, but they lacked his foresight. Even the runelords failed to grasp that they had unlocked the magics at the core of the realm, the ability to shape worlds to their will… The long-bearded librarian nearly choked on his breath when instead, old lord Grombrisson called across the fire, “What old secrets are ya bout to pull out fer us tonight, Master Librarian?” To his surprise, bright eyes all round the ring of duardin were fixed on him, reflecting the warm dancer in front of them. There was a soothing nature to the red and orange flickerings, something familiar and comforting, unlike the hissing greens and exploding purples from before. “My good thane,” Rungi interjected between Lunn’s sputterings,” what do your scrolls tell you? Is there anything we can do to comfort the wounded?” “The ruinous powers don't simply create fire that burns away the flesh,” Lunn slowly explained, “it mutates. That which the flames touch is twisted and changed, often beyond function and recognition.” “But for those who are strong enough to fight this change…” began the young Stormbeard, his words as much a plea as a question. Lunn could see the wetness in his eyes. Powerful as the lad was, the aftermath of battling warpfire terrified even him. “Young brother, they would need strength that few possess.” “ ‘Ave ya looked in ‘ere?” asked Smakki, his voice ringing with an optimism few had heard. “Is this not your private journalings m’lord?” the loremaster cautioned. “I couldn't…” his mouth said tentatively while his hands eagerly received the heavy tome of leather and gold. “I’s not jus’ mine. That there is th’last surviving record a’my forefathers’ experiments with th’ancestor runes.” Jaws were agape all around the fire, but none more so than Grimwold, whose face seemed to battle between surprise and embarrassment. After all, even he had thought these secrets lost to the ages. “The master rune you used t’wake th’mountains was torn from this ‘ere tome lad. Maybe you’ll find something else useful if’n ya give’t a read.” And with that, the elder of his clan rose on creaking knees from his seat near the fire and staggered away. In a matter of five sentences the usually isolationist runelord had shared the greatest treasures of one of the few remaining runeguilds in the mortal realms. The survival of the Skaudaziwyr and their secret art was now interwoven with the Karakigrom and their crusading king. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Clusters of duardin polished away the stains of battle from their shields and armor or changed the bandages on a brother’s wound. A warm hand on the shoulder or solemn acknowledgement of sacrifice was handed out from lord to warrior wherever appropriate, but words were scarce. Most of the throng had been raised in safety and chased to bed as babes with tales of the evils Chaos had waiting for them. The reality had been far more devastating to the psyche of these soldiers. First encounters with warpfire tended to have that effect. Though he’d never admit it, Rungi found himself waking several times each night, shaking and dripping in cold sweat as he relived the battle and imagined himself among the less fortunate. Though inevitably a blade or slavering maw had managed to slip through the novice warrior shield wall to hit home here or there, by and large the blocks of infantry had been successful in blunting the onslaught of their pursuers while the miners, and later runeguild, had etched the beginnings of a path into the mountains capable of carrying their caravan. But a different fate entirely had befell the ironbreakers. Where others had the the shieldwall these professional guardians had been the shieldwall, repeatedly anchoring themselves in the ravines to allow the Skaudaziwyr time to craft their runes. When the earth had rent open and pillars of unnatural flame had stabbed skyward, it was these great defenders of the clan who had been cooked inside their metal suits. A great canvas village had been erected to shelter them and provide some semblance of privacy, but the clan knew plenty well the source of the groans and whimpers clawing at their bravery day and night. The king looked around him to make sure he was not followed before stepping through a curtained doorway and into the ward of the burnt. As he strode down the center aisle between two rows of cots, the ground wet with the blood of the afflicted clung to his boots slightly tighter than outside. Wherever they lay, jars of cooling salve and great flasks of hearty spirits accompanied those who hadn't succumbed to their burns. A second partition hung further back, blocking the surgeons grim duties from the view of those trying to recover. Rungi continued on through the tent wards until he reached the back of the hastily erected structure. Here the ceiling opened up to the crisp air once more; billows of steam and smoke rising high into the midmorning sky, only distinguishable from the glittering clouds of the wilds by the fiery orange embers carried with them, every so often. “Welcome King,” greeted Lunn with his usual, awkward over-cheeriness. Rungi’s jaw tightened with discomfort at the excited nature of one of his trusted advisors in a place as dark and unfortunate as the makeshift burn-ward. “All around you dawi are having flesh cut from their bodies to prevent the dark gods’ corruptions from burning their identities away,” Rungi slowly questioned, ”Forgive me librarian, but what could possibly be fueling your optimism?” “Go easy on ‘im lad,” called Smakki from a far corner. “The musty ol’ scroll-keeper is’bout tah save a whole bunch’a dawi.” Rungi was still looking toward the old runelord, waiting for an elaboration, but the whitebeard had turned back to a fire he was painstakingly growing to just the right temperature. Instead the king turned back to his loremaster to sate his sudden appetite for runelore. “Lord Smakki is being very generous with his praise,” Lunn blushed undwarfishly. “You have raised a throng of the ages, and many of our kin are protected by ancient runic armor…” “Yes, the Karakigrom are known for our traditions,” Rungi interrupted impatiently. Behind him a duardin groaned loudly, likely biting into a piece of wood so as not to cry out as a warpfire burn was scraped away. “But I hardly see the connection between honoring our kin with our battle armament and saving our wounded from the corruption of the wicked fires.” “Ah, but young king where you see armor I see a vessel. Of course you know that runecraft, all but forgotten in Azyr, once allowed duardin to harness the magics around them. What many do not realize is the extent rune craft can be taken to. As we all bore witness, the right combination of runes shaped of the right raw material can move the very mountains.” The elder librarian, cheeriness aside, had seemingly earned the respect of the rune-guild. All around Rungi, sparks were beginning to fly as armor was rent and reforged. Apprentices scurried about tossing handfuls of kindling into hungry furnaces and dodging the scorching belches that resulted. Alongside them, runesmiths hammered away at glowing characters with everything from massive mallets to precision hammers, sparks launching into the sky with each blow. “Go on…” he mused. “The Skaudaziwyr have maintained their craft amidst an ever changing landscape, and we are fortunate they have, for through their understanding so too has survived…” Rungi was growing impatient. It must have shown because Grimwold lifted his head from his labors to interject. “The master librarian is suggesting that we may have rediscovered something of great power, my king. May I show you?” Rungi approached the anvil to see heavy plate with red-glowing runes across the chest-plate. “No doubt you’ve seen plenty of runes of strength and protection, and just the other day witnessed the might of an expertly-crafted master rune. However, here we are adding ancient family runes to channel the strength of the wearer’s predecessors into such common runes. Finally, we’re adding a few forgotten runes of protection and healing, relics of a time thought lost to myth.” Unable to contain himself, Lunn burst out, “Mind you, my lords, we have never seen this amount of runework successfully balanced before. We are hoping though -” “Shaddup bookkeeper,” muttered a now attentive Smakki. “Rungi, ye need tah trust in th’old ways. You’ve seen th’powers of the ancestors.” Smakki suddenly whirled himself to face the king, extending forward a layered shoulder plate covered in runes that seemed forged of living fire. “These runes giv’em a map t’their kin in need. D’ya think yer grandpappies are goin’ ta sit round a table when you’re rightin’ a grudge this ‘uge?” “Our clansmen have never been the type to sit idle,” the king smirked. “You believe you can call all the way to the feasthalls in the underworld?” “Shysh ain’t as far away as ye might think lad,” replied Smakki in a hushed tone. “ I’s more a matter of givin’m a smooth road t’travel, withou’ too many critters gnawing at’em along th’way.” Not slowed by the veteran’s words, Rungi was about to give further praise as he walked out of the tent. As he turned though, his words froze in his throat as melt on an icicle. Steel helms were lined on a cooling rack, some with red runes ablaze, others only radiating the heat of their neighbors. Each had a tempered-steel faceplate, expressionless and cruel. They were shaped without emotion, many in imitation of skulls, and served as a reminder that the wearer walked amongst the living in defiance of death itself. The king had grounded his life’s work in the traditions and wisdom his clan had gathered over the ages. From the deepest part of his stomach, he felt a slight rumble as he wondered if Lunn understood the full power of the forces at play here. Only time would tell. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ Enlag Har-Runkal, The Fire Thrasher Champion of the Har-Smakazi, the Flame-Tested Karakigrom Survivors of the Battle for the Road Each time a hot steel boot lifted from the earth it left small whisps of smoke rising from a scorched print. Though few connected where it came from, many noses wrinkled at the odd odor of burnt metal emanating from the enriched earth. Enlag Har-Runkal (fire thrasher) strode forward from the ranks of his Har-Smakazi (flame-tested). Even in the bright midday sun, the runes adorning his armor swam with molten heat. Every so often a small flame would flicker to life and dance across the rune-script. The gathered, whispering crowd parted to allow the fearsome warrior passage. Lunn met him in front of the spent campfire where the king’s council was reviewing the latest headcount of able-bodies. He paced around the figure, ostentatiously admiring the finished masterpiece, even though he likely had seen the resurgent warrior more recently than the other onlookers. “My king, you remember Enlag, champion of the fallen Deep-Guard,” interrupted Lunn as he turned back towards the company. “He now leads the Smakazi, the unburnt from the Battle for the Road.” The elders of the council stared in shock, some muttering vexes against the dark gods while others thanked Grungni by name. For his part, Enlag returned their stares unflinchingly. Whereas every eye in the crowd was pulled wide and wet with tears at the miracle before them, Enlag’s were as stone, unblinking and set directly ahead. If the steel covering him from head to toe was hot from the flaming runes, he showed no sign of it. Rungi approached the heavily armored figure, noticing the scarring visible on the rare openings of exposed flesh. The young leader’s brow grew several more creases that afternoon. For despite his knowledge of the magnitude of runic magics being harnessed in the tent-forges, and even having seen the extent of Smakki and his kin’s abilities when they had literally awoken the mountains themselves, he could not fathom anyone recovering from the kiss of warpfire. “How do you stand here champion? I have walked through the tents every day and every night for a month. I have seen the extent of the burns. No mortal could withstand the corrosive effects of such an inferno, and yet here your so-called Smakazi stand.” “Revenger,” began Enlag in a tone so guttural as to cause discomfort to all those who listened, “you have given all of your kin the opportunity to confront those who have stolen our lands, our heritage, and our honor. Alone, the flames of the damned would have been our ruin.” His eyes locked on the young king’s, a white-hot light suddenly projecting more forcefully outward from the already violet glow. “But we are not alone. Our brother runecrafters have enveloped us in runes of fortitude, endurance, and healing, while Loremaster Lunn has helped them find even more rare creations with which to call on our lost ancestors, warriors of renown who are honored by our settling of their grudges against the wicked enemy. My king, it is the assembled brethren of your throng and those who came before who have carried us back from Shysh itself…” From beard barely long enough for a basic fork to those woven into great styling so that wrapped round their owners, each shined a bit more resplendent that afternoon. The Vengeful Throng had survived the first great test of those who would twist this realm, but the test had only increased as they tallied the cost. And ever since, the hamstrung throng had spent day and night trying to repell advances while nursing themselves back to health. Today, heroes who had given the most stood ready to sacrifice even more, and their fervor had spread to the others who had gathered from throughout the camp. “When you are ready to lead us into the mountains, we stand ready to repay this debt my lord. ” Har-Smakazi, the Flame-Tested Karakigrom Survivors of the Battle for the Road

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

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

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. Warriors of the Ice, sworn clansmen of Karakigrom. Command for the 86-dwarf Strong Unit. Snorri Saggasson is the greybeard on the right. 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.” Tap Pony & Grudge Pony amidst the throng. Runic Icon visible above the crowd.

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

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. 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!

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...