[Archive] An AOS Creation Myth

Uther the unhinged:

The following is reproduced with the kind permission of Harrdap Pastrane Lovecraftsson, chief librarian of the Grand Lodge of Khazrack Zharr.

The Nameless City
Being taken from ’ The Dream Scapes’ of the mad Runemaster Hadred ap Azral as contained in the forbidden Dolzharrmonikan.

1. Of the Coming of the Duardin

The age of myth was yet young when the duardin first started to explore the mortal realms. The realm of fire attracted many its’ stark beauty and harshness, calling to something deep within their souls. So the children of Grungni spread and flourished settling into the land and putting down roots of stone and iron. Yet there are always some  who do not settle, who seek ever over the horizon for that bit more to fill the hole in their souls that they did not know was there. It was ever thus. Whether these few souls drew their need from their life in the world that was or whether it grew anew none can know. Ever onwards they went seeking for they knew not what. Till they came at last to the great desert. Some settled there on the borders of that unforgiving waste and grew and prospered in their hold on the edge of the desert. Others gazed across it and wondered.
So it was that eventually the bravest or most foolish of these that set out across the waste. Drawn by siren calls of the unknown for many days they travelled. Long after they passed the point of no return they trudged on.  Finally, with death nigh upon them and all hope fled they came at last to the nameless city.
Like the bones of some long extinct behemoth it rose from the sands. Ancient beyond belief, ruined and grand its’ black stones defied the elements. Vast and sprawling it was but crouching in the very centre, incongrous in that desolate waste, a great ziggurat rose.

Thus the duardin came at last to the nameless city and strode through her empty halls. There they gazed upon strange runes and glyphs that called to something in their souls. Carvings of an age long forgotten, worn by the passing of unknown aeons.  A city out of time, a relic of the world that was.
In time they came to the great ziggurat and passed within her ageless obsidian ramparts. Here the walls were carved in deep bas reliefs, a story of a long forgotten race that had dwelt here in their power and glory. In wonder they gazed upon their own faces for surely those ancient antedeluvian warriors were duardin like themselves. Their faces stylized and  dress strange but clearly of their own stock. The newcomers pressed on following the story of the reliefs; how in the unimaginable past a clan of duardin fleeing some great terror had sought refuge here and built around this place the great ziggurat where they now stood, how they grew strong in the nameless city and spread to the lands around, how they conquered grot, orruk, ogor and even magic itself till they stood masters of all they surveyed.

The duardin stood and wondered at the past. Wondered at the power and machines of the lost race. Wondered at their mastery of magic. Wondered what fate might have befallen such masters of the world. But wonder does not slake your thirst or fill your belly and there they might have died had they not found the caverns beneath. Part hewn part natural the mine shafts broke into a system of caverns that led at last to the banks of a wide sunless river. Basking in the eirie phophorescent glow of that buried waterway forests of twisted fungi grew. And so the weary duardin blessed the nameless city. Blessed their saviour who had provided food, fresh water and protection from the wild sandstorm that raged and howled in frustration outside her walls. Trapped, for the while within her, the duardin explored the nameless citys’ halls, chambers, corridors and temples. Thus duardin once again brought life to the nameless city and she stirred in her slumber and woke once more from her dreamless sleep.

And so it was that the Duardin came once more to dwell in the nameless city. Finding rich veins of ores, minerals and coal in the rocks beneath they stayed long after the sand storms passed. They lit the great furnaces and smoke belched once more from her ancient flues. Once more the chambers of the nameless city echoed with the boots of duardin and her smithies rang with the sound of hammers. The Runesmiths poured over the strange runes and slowly but surely unlocked the secrets of the past. From these they learned of the stuggles of their predecessors of their wars and victories and eventually of the saviour who had come to them in their hour of need and taught them the secrets of Magic. From these  they learned the secrets of controlling and shaping wild magic without the need of runes and of Hashut the Saviour, the Teacher,  the founder of the nameless city, the Father of Darkeness. In time their children grew up on the stories of the deeds of the ancient race who had dwelt there in the immeasurable past. They claimed their heroes for themselves, they celebrated their victories and mourned their reverses. Their children forsook the gods of their ancestors and turned to Hashut seeing him as the guide who had prepared the way that led them from the wilderness to the safety of their great mother, the nameless city in the desert.

The duardin of the city grew strong and numerous possessed of a strange fecundity for their race. So enamoured of their city, their magic and their new found god were they that when the first children were born with deformities that once they would have loathed they celebrated. They saw in these evidence of their faith, evidence of their god, evidence of their destiny.

2. Of the Coming of Zhargoth

For centuries in splendid isolation the children of the nameless city waxed strong and powerful. The city, their mother, provided all they needed and from their father they learned secrets that no other duardin of their time had dreamt of. Till it came to pass early in the reign of the young sorceror king, Zhargoth, who would be called great, that the mines beneath the nameless city began to fall barren. For the first time the children of the city raised their eyes from their mother, gazed out across the great desert and once more began to wonder what lay beyond. The king commanded that scouting parties be sent in all directions out from the city save that from which they had come so long ago.

Thus it was that the children of the city learned of the great mountain range to the east. Sharp peaks that pierced the arid air and twisted the senses.’ The Mountains of Madness’ they were called by the strange grot tribes that dwelt in their shadow and feared to scale them. It was these same tribes that assaulted the first explorers from the city and drove them back across the desert. Great was the celebration of this victory by the greenskins. Better that they had died that day. For Zhargoth waxed wroth at this challenge to his people. The gates of the city were opened and a great host sallied forth. Acompanied by the dread machines of war that they had created, the children of the city marched to avenge their comrades.  Long was the war that followed and great the slaughter that was visited upon the grot tribes that had dared defy Zhargoth, who would be called great. Untold thousands were slain and thousands more gave their souls to the Father of Darkeness on his sacred pyres. The rest were left to work the vast mines that the children of the city excavated in the mountains and to envy their brothers the boon of death.

The riches of the mines to the east brought a new bloom to the nameless city and she waxed strong in the zenith of her glory. Yet the hubris of mortals knows no limits and in time the thoughts of Zhargoth, who wouuld be called great, turned to the west and the lands beyond the great desert. The sorceror king sent ambassadors back across the desert, back to those lost ancestral lands of the distant past. Whether he sent them in curiosity or in his greed it mattered not. For when the lords of the hold on the edge of the desert beheld the changes in their brerthren they were horrified. They cast out the ambassadors, their oiled beards shaved  and their tusks filed short. Thus in their shame and nakedness the chosen of the nameless city struggled back through the desert. Few it were who reached her welcome and the bones of many of their company they left in the sands.
The fury of Zhargoth, who would be called great, knew no bounds and it is said the very walls of the temple shook with his rage. Yet this time it was no collection of grot tribes that faced the children of the city. So it was that the king calmed the fires of his anger and set about his vengeance.
For years the children of Grungni who lived in the hold on the edge of the desert gazed across it. Waiting for the assault they knew would come. Scouts went forth to find the enemy that brooded in the wastes. Yet few returned and those exhausted and near death. None they averred could cross that waste. None could travers the trackless desert. No army could withstand the heat and thirst. So it was that over the decades the watch on the desert faltered. The guards grew complacent and the scouts less adventurous. Slowly the children of Grungni forgot their lost cousins, a strange aberration, an old tale the greybeards used to frighten the beardlings.

The children of the nameless city did not forget. The children of the nameless city did not forgive,  for that was not their nature. Slowly and surely they laid their plans. Slowly and surely they gathered their strength. Slowly and surely they stoked the fires of their anger. Thus it came to pass in the 444th year of the reign of Zhargoth, who would be called great, that the children of the city marched forth once more to the lands they had left so long before. It is said the host blackened the sands.That grot slaves beyond number flanked the children of the city and that the sun was darkened by the smoke of the terrible machines that crawled towards the hold on the edge of the desert. From carefully hidden cache to hidden cache the army moved over the face of the burning sand. Ahead the battle sorcerors of the king wove a great sandstorm to hide the host from their foes.

So it was that the coming of Zhargoth, who would be called great, was not marked. The children of the hold on the edge of the desert knew nothing of their fate untill the army fell upon them. None escaped from that terrible onslaught. Those that fled were run down by the grot slaves and their great wolves. Those that stood were cut down. Those that foolishly appealed to mercy fed the victory fires to the glory of Hashut. Great was the joy in the heart of the king at the humbling of his foes. It is said Zhargoth, who would be called great,  stood at the highest point and gazed down at the bodies of his enemies and smiled. Yet it is ever the doom of mortals to reach further than their grasp. So it was that Zhargoth, who would be called great, raised his eyes and gazed upon the lands of the realm of fire and lusted for them.

The children of the nameless city rested in the hold on the edge of the desert. Yet it was just the indrawing of breath that precedes the roar. For Zhargoth, who would be called great, now called for a Grand Enterprise. He called for the children to spread across that land and bring all they could to the feet of Hashut and any that refused to his pyres. Thus scouts went forth in secret across that land and the host prepared once more for war. The storm when it broke was fierce and the forces of the children raged across the land. Zhargoth, who would be called great, went with them and looked with joy and pride on the fire and destruction wrought in the name of his god. The children of Grungni, so long lulled by the  soporific daze of peace, were thrown into confusion and dissaray. Thus it was that the realm of fire shuddered at the coming of the children of the nameless city.

Yet even as hold after hold fell before the Grand Enterprise unnamed and unnoticed shadows gathered. In all her glory and pomp the nameless city stirred with forboding. The dreams of Astrazhan the high priest became troubled. Night after night he saw the boots of strangers tread the sacred streets and the sky above the nameless city boil with black smoke. Thus it was that Astrazhan called the conclave of sorcerors to him and spoke of his visions. So it came to pass that Astrazhan learned that others had been plagued by similar visions of impending doom. Therefore the conclave sent to Zhargoth, who would be called great, to tell him of their fears. But the king, in his hubris, laughed and dismissed their fears as superstition. So the Grand Enterprise continued and the conclave of sorcerors brooded in their temple. Yet the dreams continued and as months passed worsened. Again the conclave called to the king and again they were dismissed for he was busy with the Grand Enterprise.

Thus it came to pass that Astrazhan called the Great Gathering of all the leaders of the children of the city still within her bounds. There was discussed the meaning of their dreams and the future of the children of the city. So it was that scouts went forth throughout the desert and the Mountains of Madness. These scouts were tasked with looking for a place of safety for the children of the nameless city. Looking for a place to go should the visions be fulfilled. In the city preparations were made and a watch was set upon the West and the hold on the edge of the desert.

Who it was that found it, is not known nor how in that vast waste. Yet  beyond even the Mountains of Madness lost in the endless dunes it stood.  A remnant of an age long past. Countless aeons had washed over it but still it stood, a vast arch of flickering power and antediluvian stone. An escape. A gate to elsewhere.

Far to the West the writ of Zhargoth, who would be called great, continued to swell. Yet beyond it the children of Grungni were gathering. Even as they fell back before him they set aside their ancient grudges. Slowly a force was gathered. A force greater than had been seen before. Soon the children of the nameless city would face a force larger than any seen since the end of the world that was.

So it came to pass at a place long forgotten that the army of Zhargoth, who would be called great, was brought to battle by a force far larger. For three days the battle raged. On the third day, pressed by the children of Grungni, the grot slaves broke and fled. Their treachery was not rewarded. Thousands died beneath the blades of their foes, more beneath those of their masters. Surrounded by their enemies the  children of the nameless city fought on. For two days as their war machines fell silent one by one they fought. Till at last the king stood with only his guard around him and still they fought and sang as they died. None fled. None broke, it was not in their nature. At the last Zhargoth, who would be called great, gazed upon the wreckage of his dreams and his army. In anger and despair he called upon the Father of Darkeness one last time. It is said the blast could be felt at 1,000 paces.

When the first grots made it back to the hold at the edge of the desert the watchers took them. They put them to the question and then to the pyres. Then they sent word back across the desert. Thus it was that when the bloodied victors reached the edge of the desert they found the hold deserted and nothing but the trackless waste before them. In search of vengeance the children of Grungni marched into that waste, seeking the nameless city.

Once again duardin ventured into the desert. Duardin in search of what, they were not sure. No caches  had they and a hard time they had of it. Fury and Revenge drove them long past the point they should have stopped. Fury and Revenge drove them though their companions dropped by their side. Drawn ever onward by the promise of blood they trudged across the sands. And so it was a ragged army that came at last to the nameless city in the desert. Came at last to that great remnant of a lost age. Came at last to a empty shell over which a cloud of oily smoke hung. Through open gates they marched, down deserted streets and empty corridors. Their blasphemous boots trod the echoing halls of the her temples. Yet inhabitants found they none. All that remained were the charred bones of thousands crowded into the great pyres. Duardin and grot remains mixed in mutual immolation. Sickened by the stench of death the ragged army filled their water cannisters and left.

The children of Grungni in the hold by the desert waited for the return of the army. For weeks they waited.  They gazed across the burning sands. They shielded their eyes from the relentless sun. They hid their faces from the huge sandstorm that roared from the waste and scored the rocks of the hold. They shivered thinking of their brethren that might be out in that maelstrom. Of the victorious army that had marched so imperiously into the desert, but one returned. Starved ragged and half mad  he stumbled from the desert. A garbled story of a nameless city lost in the dunes he told. A city filled with the stench of burning bodies. A city that had consumed her own children. The children of Grungni turned away from the accursed desert, turned away from the abandoned hold by its edge. In sadness they marched from that desolate place and swore never to return lest the ancient evil of that nameless city ensnare once again their kind.

Thus it was that the children of Grungni never knew of the great exodus. How Astrazhan led his people out from the nameless city. How they left behind the great pyres where burned their slaves and captives from the Grand Enterprise. They never knew of the hard road through the Mountains of Madness or the thirst maddened trek through the desert beyond. They never knew how Astrazhan led his people through the ancient flickering gate to the realm of metal beyond and out of history itself. None know where the children of the nameless city went. That they sought out the dark deep places seems likely. Perhaps they lie behind the rumours of unknown Khazath in the iron wastes. Perhaps in those forbidden halls they wait, sharpening their axes and polishing their memories of their lost city in the desert.

And of the nameless city herself? With the loss of her children she fell once again into  an unquiet sleep. Stirring occassionally in her slumber of millenia she dreamed strange dreams and waited for her children to find her once again.


Nice tale, a fun read, thank you! Zhargoth, who would be called great, was a nice touch :slight_smile:


Indeed! This is a beautiful history, of a lost city of ancient grandeur and terror found and repopulated, ensnaring once again Dwarfs in the Bull God’s dark embrace. Of such slow and ponderous war plans, of hardships and massive death. Of mortal hubris, seeming mass-suicide, trickery and exodus.

Great read! :hat off

Uther the unhinged:

Glad you liked it. The lack of fluff for cds in AoS always irked me. Anyway that is only part 1, the nameless city will be found again…but not till after the GH comp. Too much gs and painting to do

Uther the unhinged:

Of the Coming of the Children of Grimnir

The wheel of time turns ever onward and the grist of centuries is ground to dust beneath it. The children of Grungni recovered slowly and rarely spoke of the shame of their fallen kin. The stories of old soldiers became tales, which became legends, then myths, till little remained outside of old tomes, of the memory of the great war. All that was left was a ancient fear of the great desert. Zhargoth himself, he who would be called great, was reduced to little more than the Zarg. A childhood terror who took naughty children to his lair in the desert.

So it was in time that the duardin lost their abhorrence of the old holds abandoned in the war. Once again they spread across the realm and dusty halls rang with their iron shod boots. In their search for new lands and wealth they roamed far and so first heard the voice of the Shattered God.

None recall or record where knowledge of the Shattered God came from. Some say his voice was heard in the lava fields of Ghark Ma Kharr. Some say all was made clear when the fathers first held Ur-gold on the slopes of Mt Grimnarchk. Yet others whisper darkly of forgotten tomes and ancient runes. However knowledge of the Shattered God came it swept all before it. Old stories were lost in the maelstrom of the new. The children of Grimnir took their new stories and spread across the realm.

Thus it was that the children of Grimnir came at last to the Hold at the edge of the desert. There they settled and cleared out its’ broken halls and chambers. Once more the sounds of life rose from within. Once more the ring of hammers filled its forges. Once more duardin voices echoed from within and drifted across the wastelands to the east, stirring memories as they went.

For years the Lodge flourished and the children of Grimnir grew strong. The drove the wild beasts from the broken lands to the south. They tamed the magmadroths that now dwelt there. They drew all lands around under their rule. Yet they never looked to the east. They never looked to the desert, as their ancestors had done so long before. For though the stories had long been lost the dread of that empty waste lay still upon the memory of the duardin.

Nothing lasts. The time of peace so long in its youth passed like a fleeting dream and Chaos came to the realm of fire. Long the battles raged across the realm. News came even unto the lodge at the edge of the desert. Runesons went to war, never to return.

So it was that Chaos came even unto the broken lands to the South. The father of the lodge spoke unto his children to prepare the people for the storm that was to come. Together they sang their death songs as they strengthened their home. Yet the father of the Lodge spoke also unto his favorite son. To him he charged the defence of the broken lands. To him called to slow the inevitable. To him he called to sell himself and his part of the Fyrd dearly that the lodge would have time to prepare. Thus it was that Kilain went South with his part of the Fyrd and vanished from their knowledge.

It came to pass that Chaos came to the broken lands to the south of the lodge at the edge of the desert. Scouts entered the twisting ravines and climbed the jagged ridges. They came not out. Others followed and found no trace or only the flayed bodies of their comrades. Larger forces marched with braying horns and brazen pomp only to fall silent in that accursed land. Rare survivors spoke of attacks in the night, of screams of the dead and dying lost in the sulphorous fogs that filled the canyons. They spoke of half seen figures at night, of an enemy that never showed its face and always, always of the flayed bodies found in the morning. They began to whisper of the Flesh Harrower that claimed the lands for itself.

Eventually word came to Grazz’t of the Yellow Blade, Lord of Chaos and master of the Sulphur Plain. Such insult could not be born and in his hubris he gathered an army that darkened the land. The host of Grazz’t marched North and the ground shook beneath their feet. The host of Grazz’t marched North and the very rocks groaned as they twisted in their sorcerous wake. The host of Grazz’t marched North, and the broken lands waited.

Thus it was that the host of Grazz’t came at last to the broken lands that lie to the South of the lodge at the edge of the desert. There they raised a camp of rock and stone to mark their passing. There Grazz’t commanded H’rkat Hir to hold his reserves and to build the great monument that marked his victory. There Grazz’t led his force into the fogs of the broken lands to crush the Flesh Harrower.

It is said that for 9 cycles H’rkat Hir watched the passes of the broken lands and waited. It is said that the great monument was nigh completed when the rider was spotted. It is said that when H’kat Hir demanded of him news of the host of Grazz’t that he replied

‘I am the host of Grazz’t’

And so H’rkat Hir slew the warrior and gathered his force around him. He shook the dust of that forsaken place from his boots and left the monument to Grazz’ts’ pride. Returning to the sulphur Plains he claimed Grazz’ts’ lands for his own. Whether he would have returned none can say. For the Wrath of the Blood God fell upon the other Great Powers and the broken lands were forgotten in the maelstrom that followed.

In the lodge at the edge of the desert the children of Grimnir waited for the storm that did not come and the blow that did not fall. Till at last from the South came news of their reprieve and the return of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower. Great was the feast that followed. Long and loud were the songs that were sung.

It is not recorded of what crime he was accused. Some say he sought to replace the Runefather, others speak of the jealousy his victories inspired. Others whisper of a change in him wrought by his time in the broken lands. All that is known is that he was accused and found guilty by the Runefather. That such was the magnitude of his crime that he was given the greatest sentence.

So it came to pass that the whole Lodge gathered at the edge of the desert to witness the banishment of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower. Stripped of titles and honour. Forbidden all but a knife and single flask he was given to the long walk into that terrible waste. That from which none returned. Beside him only the heretic Runesmiter Uther banished for crimes of blood and darkness.

Yet not alone did those two take the long walk. Fully a tenth of the lodge cast down their possessions. Man and woman walked with them. The whole part of the fyrd that had gone to the broken lands left that day. Crying that they were oathbound to go where the Flesh Harrower went. Into the desert they walked and shook the dust of their home from their feet. None looked back.

They say that the Runefather wept at the loss. They say he stayed not one.

Thus it was that duardin once more set foot into the great desert. Once more embarked on the great trek. That they should have died is certain. Yet they did not. That they should have never found the Nameless City equally so. Perhaps fate guided them to some long hidden cache? Perhaps it was some forbidden knowledge unearthed in Uthers’ studies? Perhaps the aid of a forgotten god?

So it came to pass that the remnants of the people of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, came unto the Nameless City. Duardin once more explored her temples and Shrines. Once more they marveled at the strange carvings and reliefs. Once more they sought refuge within her walls. Once more the Nameless City stirred in her slumber, roused by the voices of her prodigal children. She woke.

Of the War Beneath.

The people of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, found the caverns beneath the city. Found the great river that ran there. Found the fields of strange fungi that made that dismal place their own. Yet this time they were not alone. Their progress was marked. Their presence noted and recorded. Great was the consternation of those that dwelt there and hid from the interlopers. Great the debate of what this strange return meant. Great the hidden bloodshed as faction fought faction in caverns far removed. Through it all the children of the nameless city moved ever onward, ever downward. It was Thralin Herald of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, who found them. Diminutive greenskins, shurunken grots inured to the long dark of the undercaverns. They prostrated themselves before him, gabbling in broken Khazlid of the return of the ‘Masters’, of how they had kept the faith through the long years, of how they had purged themselves of the faithless, of how they were ready to serve once more. It is said that Thralin accepted their obeisance in that dark place and took their leaders and shamans to Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, that they could do homage to him and restore the order that once was.

So it came to pass that the circle turned and the children of the Nameless City regained their birthright. The order so long forgotten was restored. In their new found power the children of the Shattered God left their broken deity, left their false oaths and foolish honour and embraced once more the joy and freedom of service to the Father of Darkeness. Fyreslayers no more but Darkeslayers. From their flesh they ripped the fools Ur gold. In rites of power and ancient ritual they branded their flesh, dedicating themselves anew to their Darke Father and their Nameless Mother. In that dedication they grew strong. Chief among them, to the left hand of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, stood Uther, that the foolish named Unhinged. It was Uther that first deciphered the Runes of Hashut. Uther that first brought sorcery to the service of these new children of the Nameless City. Uther that unlocked the mysteries of the Father of Darkeness.

Yet it was not to Uther, that the foolish named Unhinged that the strange grots came in their need. To Him that they had first abased themselves they went. To Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, the strange grots came. To Him brought their woes. To Him that they spoke of the creature of the Darke Marshes that plagued them. So it came to pass that Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, went forth to seek this new foe that would contend with Him for mastery of those caves. That would challenge the chosen of Hashut and the beloved son of the Nameless City. The scribes record that they met by the side of the great river. They say that they fought for two days. That the great Jabberslythe howled in final despair and in its’ death throes fled to its lair. They say there it turned to defend its eggs and there burbled its’ last.

Thus it was that Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, stood above the carcass of his foe and raised his axe to extinguish its offspring. What stayed his hand none can say but strike he did not. That he took the eggs is certain and that he gifted them to Uther, that the foolish named Unhinged, is known. That that sorceror raised them and twisted them in the flesh furnaces of the Nameless City is undoubted. For Uther, that the foolish named Unhinged, came to ride these beasts as his predecessors rode the winged bulls of myth, and all would marvel and all would fear.

For years the Children of the Nameless city grew strong and numerous. The weapons of their hated forebears they twisted to their new purpose and new Darke God. Yet ever they sought beneath. For the mines were sparce and the metals they needed rare. The reliefs of their home spoke of mighty constructs of machines of conquest, but their mines spoke of age and ancient greed long sated. And they wept for their lack. For revenge lay upon their hearts like a shadow upon the sands. Like a shadow it lengthened. Like a shadow it darkened. Blood and pain they dreamt of. A settling of scores. A Reckoning. A Reckoning with those who they had served, with those who had cast them out, with those that had betrayed them.

Thus they delved ever onward, ever further, ever deeper. Till at last they broke into the Undercaverns. The Undercaverns lit by strange crystals glowing like violet stars in the rocky firmament. The Undercaverns warmed by sulphorous pools and bubbling magma. The Undercaverns home of the T’Syrannith. The T’Srannith that called themselves the Star Spawn. The T’Syrannith that swarmed upon those darke Benighted plains. The T’Syrannith, degenerate offspring of a long forgotten empire. Thus began The War Beneath.

The children of the Nameless city fell upon the T’Syrannith foot soldiers. Strange blood smoked black on the Blades of the followers of Hashut. Across those cursed plains so deep beneath the earth, the forces of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, ranged far and wide. Glorying in their strength and power. Driving those strange reptilian creatures before them like sheep. And yet in the very moment of their seeming triumph they faced destruction. For the foot soldiers of the T’Syrannith were many. Many were their strongholds. Many were the fell beasts they called to war. Great monstrosities that drove against the children of the Nameless City. That threw back the forces of the Father of Darkeness. That which had started as a war of conquest became a war of survival.

So it came to pass that Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, called a council of his trusted lieutenants within the very temple of the Father of Darkeness. Called upon them for advice, called upon them for aid. Called upon them in the hour of his need and despair. It was Uther, that the foolish named Unhinged, who spoke first. Spoke of the T’Syrannith he had put to the Question. Spoke of how through their screams and incoherent babbling he had learnt of the Hive Minds. Learnt of those strange creatures that controlled the foot soldiers of the T’Syrannith. Learnt of their power and the mindlessness of their thralls should they abandon them.

Thus it was that in their desperation a plan was conceived. That Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, would go forth with the members of his council. That wrapped in the darke Mists of Hashut they should pass unseen through the Hosts of their enemies. That they should come unto the great minds that sought their destruction and there contend with them.

So it came to pass that the hosts of the T’Syrannith entered then the great Ziggurat. Entered the halls that had known Zhargoth, who would be called Great. Defiled the holy places of the Father of Darkeness. There Thralin and those Sworn to the Iron contended with them. There they stood so that no foot of the Nameless city be lost without the bloodprice being paid in full. There they stood. There they fought. There they died.

In that very hour Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, passed from the Nameless City. Passed through the host that assailed them. Passed through the Undercaverns and the benighted plains of the T’Syrannith and came at last to their strange city.

No songs are sung of that battle deep beneath the earth. No lays recited. No epics written. For of all the council that would contend with that foe but two returned. Of the great lords, the mighty warriors, prophets and sorcerors, but two. Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, and Uther, that the foolish named Unhinged came along from that bloody place. Came along back through those benighted plains. Came back to the Nameless City.

Thus it was that Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, came back through the confusion of his enemies. Leaderless and mindless they fled from the halls of Hashut. They fled from the very gates of the temple where Thralin had stood in the blood of his brothers in arms. So it came to pass that Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower, gazed at last upon the wreckage of his people and waxed wrathful.

When the children of Hashut marched forth once more against the Star Spawn they went not to conquer but to purge. Without their leaders the T’Syrannith fell in droves. Butchered like sheep they covered those benighted plains with their life blood. Blood enough to water that dry earth. Blood enough to douse the magma. But not the wrath of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower. Thus it was that the Star Spawn were brought to the edge of extinction. Yet Uther, that the foolish named Unhinged, stayed his hand once more and took the great beasts of the T’Syrannith in chains back to the Nameless City. Back to the the flesh forges, there to be twisted and melded by sorcery. There to have Daemons bound to their flesh as once they were bound to machines. Yet of the foot soldiers, Uther, that the foolish named Unhinged had no need.

So it came to pass that the race of Star Spawn, that claimed once to have ruled the Heavens passed from record. Their temples desecrated. Their writings burned. Their flesh fed to the fires of Hashut to feed his Glory and the rage of Kilain, called the Flesh Harrower.

The circle of time turns. Once more the children of Hashut grow strong and numerous. Armed with twisted weapons. Mounted on fell Daemon-ridden beasts they wait. Planning, plotting in their desert fastness. Let the peoples of the Mortal Realms tremble. The Nameless City calls her lost Children to her once more. For Hashut has a new Champion and the Nameless city a Favored Son.

K’hiya! Black Hashut,

Great Father of Flame and Darkness,

Lord of the Hidden Fire,

All shall fear,

All shall feed his Hunger!


This is a wonderful epic cycle. Fantastic writing and style, Uther! I really like it, it’s got very good buildup and there are lots of great details and memorable moments. E.g. “Uther, that fools would call Unhinged” and “Zhargoth, who would be called Great”, and the practically prize-winning turn of phrase “I am the host of Grazz’t” (never saw it delivered with such punch before, great turn of phrase). I can’t remember any personal army background origins built up this carefully before, and we’ve seen a lot of good personal army fluff through the years.

If you haven’t already, would you please like to share this your growing background on whatever AoS FB/forums exist out there, with a link to CDO as bait?

By the way, I should have figured out that Jabberslythes figured into your monstrous menagerie’s origins somewhere. :wink:

Uther the unhinged:

Glad you liked it Admiral. I would love to claim credit fot the phrase �?~ I am the host of Grazzr�?T but sadly it is shamelessly stolen from history. The retreat from Kabul in the 19th century. The army of the Indus was wiped out, one survivor rode in and when asked where the army of the Indus was he answered �?~I am the army of the Indus�?T. Good writers borrow, great writers steal!

I am very computer illiterate but I will try to get out there to find out about AoS forums and put links in ( I�?Tll get my daughters to show me how).

Fuggit Khan:

Quite a good read, and I admit I overlooked this post originally because of the AoS title. That was obviously a mistake on my part, because I really enjoyed reading through this after it was recommended to me.

The epic titles of characters, wonderful hints to historical passage of time and the style of writing is all very well done.

Thank you for sharing :hat off


Great story, very creative! :hat off  It was a lot of fun to read it!  :cheers



Wonderful. I specialy like the idea of seeing the old warhammer world chaos dwarfs as an “antediluvian” myth, the way jews and babylonians wrote about their creation myths and Gilgamesh.

Uther the unhinged:

@ Ashur. Thanks. Glad you liked it. It started as my solution to linking AoS back to WHFB then ran with Lovecraftian ideas of ruins from 10s of thousands of years ago. Rather than have reincarnation of previous WHFB CD directly the idea is they do come back unknowingly. However given who they are they tend to repeat their lives in a whole wheel of time thing. Thus Zhargoth/Zargon both bring CD culture to its knees via their hubris and Astrzhan/Astrogoth are high priests who protect the culture.

Of course the second Story is just fun to justify my weird cd army.

The next instalment will be needed to explain my GH XXXIII entry. It might need some explaining to be honest.