Ugly Green Trog:
Hi all this is my first post outside the introduction thread :).
This is a short story about my battle standard bearer, I like to create fluff for all my armies and characters but like to stay fairly acurate. As my own CD fluff knowledge is limited I’d really appreciate it if you guys could critique it.
A young warrior of growing fame was chosen to lead a punitive force north into the ash wastes to re-take a mine captured during a greenskin slave insurrection. After a few initial successes the warrior’s confidence and arrogance grew. Convinced that the superiority of Chaos Dwarf warrior prowess and technology would prevail in the face of superior numbers, The young general chose to attack. Outmanouvered by the leader of the rebellion, an orc of above average cunning and guile, The warrior found his forces dwindling and pinned with their backs to an enormous lava flow.
The Orcs scrambled back in panic leaving their dead piled at the feet of his bodyguard, the number of Chaos dwarves decreasing with every charge. With the din of immediate battle receeding, the warrior gazed across to the spot where his contingent of useless but loyal hobgoblin slave-soldiers are butchered by the orc boss and his retinue. “Useless slave-scum”! he spat venomously, not himself knowing to whom he refered, his own slave-soldiers or the rebels that slaughtered them. Glancing behind him he took in the hopeless nature of the situation, He had lost too many warriors and almost all of his Arquebussiers(sp?). Things had been going well His warrior bodyguard and Hobgoblins had surged into the mine pit driving a tribe of rebel goblins before them, forcing them back and over the edge of the gorge into the lava flow. They had savoured the pathetic creatures shrieks of terror and despair as they plunged to their super-heated deaths.
Then the cruel and fickle favour of Hashut had left them! The main Orc force and their rebel leader had emerged from concealed tunnels in the sides sides of the pit, screaming their mad war-cries as they hurtled forward into the flanks of the Arquebussiers he had positioned to provide supporting fire. The Blunderbuss-armed dwarves had had little time to react as the orcs ripped through them scattering the few survivors. Now bereft of supporting firepower and horrifically outnumbered it would be the greenskins turn to savour the moment as now his back was to the gorge.
His only chance was to demoralise his enemy, the greenskin is a terrible foe but also cowardly when the leaders are slaughtered, he thought. Knowing it to be his only chance he strode forward bellowing a challenge at the biggest orc, whilst brandishing his Daemon-forged axe. Avarice lit the orc’s eyes as he gazed at the weapon wanting it for his own. With an answering bellow the beast bounded forward. The two champions met with a clash, the orc had brute strength on his side but none of the skill of a son of the Father of Darkness. Blows rained as both warriors sought to gain an advantage. Before long the orc stumbled to the side before falling down headless. The Warrior swept up the head by its lank greasy top-knot and hurled it into the former warbosses retinue. The creatures howled with rage and leapt forward racing eachother to claim the kill, the axe and leadership of the tribe with his death.
He cut the first down and the second, the third was quicker, several blows were traded between them before the orc span away with blood pouring from its throat. His remaining bodyguard were being slaughtered and he realised that the stain of failure was upon him, fury at the audacity of these lesser creatures built within him and he roared a challenge to the sky, calling his foes to come and die by his hand. Suddenly he caught something out of the corner of his eye, movement, to his right. A runty goblin twirling an improvised sling was creeping round in an attempt to outflank him, desperately he whipped round bringing his shield up to deflect the missile. He was too slow!
His helm and his skull were reverberating under the blow, he staggered to his left, his vision blurred, His heartbeat pounding in his ears drowning out the battle making it seem far away. His skull throbbed where the lump of volcanic rock flung from the goblin’s sling struck his temple. His vision darkened and his limbs were like lead, his axe slack in his grip. He stumbled backward his left boot crunching on rock his right finding only air. With a strangled yell he tumbled from the ledge plummeting downwards, striking his head on a rocky outcrop he remembered nothing more.
Heat! Flesh scorching, breath stealing heat! His every nerve ending aflame, his bloodstream seeming to pump nothing but pure agony arround his tortured frame. The resolute nature of his species enabled him to climb to his feet his joints screaming in protest. Peering groggily round he realised he was on a ledge about 15’ up from the surface of the lava flow, he must have landed here after the fall. Wait! He fell? From Where? His mind was foggy, his thoughts and memories were a seething mess of confusion, Who was he? Where was he? Why was he here in the first place? All he could make out was the bitter sting of failure and an unbearable shame. Looking down at himself he noticed he was wearing armour, scorched and battered beyond usefulness, the flesh of his hands is scorched and seared, he touched his face, that too had felt the caress of the lava flow. He checked his other wounds, his temple was bruised and sore, he was generally battered and bruised, wait the cut on his thigh, caused by a blade not rock and the damage to his pauldron too. He had seen battle! Reaching down almost instinctively his hand grasped the familliar haft of an axe lying next to him,. Almost at once he was filled with a new strength as the aches and complaints of his battered body seemed to ease slightly, A desire to inflict pain and slaughter coursed through him. This felt right, This axe was His! Driven onward by his thirst for battle and the desire to avenge whatever failure had shamed him he entered a nearby cave. He stopped just inside the entrance sniffing the air, there, almost hidden by the reeking smells of sulphur, burning and his own charred flesh was the unmistakeable stench of the greenskin. The Shame and anger flared in his soul at the thought of those worthless slave-creatures. Gripping the haft of his axe with a vindictive grimace on his ravaged features he set off into the dark.
Several months later a lone warrior looking little more than a beggar arrived at the gate of the Black Fortress asking acceptance into the garrison there, He had, he said, a failure unremembered in a life forgotten, but failure is failure remembered or not. The guards noticed his appearance, he had staggered in out of the ash wastes bearing a wicked axe at his hip, his armour torn to shreds. Although his flesh looked half scorched from his bones he stood strong with the stance and arrogance of a born warrior. He smiled grimly as he was encased in the forge-hot armour of the Infernal Guard.
Over the next few years the warrior became known as the Kinless as he had no kin that he remembered and shunned the contact of all others. In battle he slew the foes of the black tower with extreme brutality and followed the orders of his sorceror-masters without question.
He now bears the ancient battle banner of the black tower as its guardian and and although his victories have granted him the right to reveal himself countless times over, he to this day refuses to remove his iron faceplate, prefering its skull faced visage to his own twisted flesh beneath.
The End
Phew sorry that took so long it kinda went on longer than intended, my thanks to anyone who reads it through, feel free to write any comments about any of it, I tried to reflect the chaos dwarf arrogant/ superior nature into it a bit.