[Archive] War is coming!


And so it came to be that the unstoppable Greenskin tide had brushed all asunder that stood before it. Galvanized from whence it came by the taste of oh-so-sweet a holocaust, and hungry to gorge itself on the soft belly of an old adversary amidst the Chaos the world now stood in, it once more turned its eye twixt here and the Dark Lands of the East, and with that hateful gaze brought its ugly head to bear upon the ancient and holy city of Zharr-Naggrund.

Known and hated amongst Greenskins for treachery shown toward the Black Orcs during the great rebellion, a cruelty never to be forgotten was bestowed upon the Orcs by the Dawi Zharr and the Hobgoblins of the East plains. Many past years ago was it written into eternal lore and documented, that one day this old city would pay the price. Now aptly Grimgor, one of the greatest Black Orc generals in Old World history, answered the cry on this day to deliver the final reckoning, for these are the unabated End Times of the Old World and none shall desist.

The air was thick with the acrid funk of burning flesh, like a thick veil of smog it hung on the air, to be seen as such a mist on a gentle autumn morning, hanging low over a valley of folded grass, but this was no such sight. For this was a dense thick mist of pain and suffering, of torn souls and butchered dreams, formed of rampant gas emissions and steamy condensation caused by the en masse annihilation of thousands. As each poor writhing wretched body was tossed helplessly asunder into the perilous molten slag, so came with them a hiss, like the striking of sulphur, as it bubbled and filtered away into the metallic gloop that pulsed and gushed through the veins of the temple of Hashut. And so it came to be that a living soul was snuffed out, as if never existed.

The Bull Centaurs, sacrificing slaves this way for many weeks on end, relished greatly their daily ritual. For as Guardians of the Temple they take great solace and pride in the duty of performing such ceremony. To them the smell of freshly cooking flesh on metal is as intoxicating as the promise of meeting their Bull God at the end of the warrior’s path.

The Learned Ones foretold, from their great towers of Daemonsmith-wrought Steel and Iron, that a great shadow descends over all, one that would eclipse and engulf their land in a festuous cloud of bleak destruction.

The slaves to put it bluntly were now a burden, and not so were the Masters willing to relinquish their slave legion to any such despoiler. It fell upon them to make a much maligned decision. One based out of self preservation, damage limitation, and not least in so much as to present an opportunity, it fell on them to make the greatest holy sacrifice in history, to appease the Great Bull, the sacrifice of several hundred thousand slaves every day for 50 days and 50 nights.

The molten metal coursed through the veins of the great Temple, from the great Brass statue of the Bull God, it flowed, instilled with dark energy, filling ornate cauldrons, bubbling in vast sacrificial vats and vessels, gushing down through to every other part of the city. This was the energy, lifeblood and circulatory system coursing through the great Ziggurat of Zharr-Naggrund, from the heights of the Holy Temple of Hashut right down through to the slave furnaces where the great Dawi Zharr Metalsmiths toiled beneath ground. And now freshly imbued with the bodies and souls of hundreds of thousands of slaves, it malformed, the temperature rising, a less viscous, more ferocious, boiling metallic splurge. A splish splash splay of effervescing and boiling metal violently akin to the pain and horror with which those tainted souls of a million screaming victims were snuffed out, ceremoniously day in day out.

The temperature of the Black Obsidian rock out of which the Ziggurat was hewn now rose daily. And, so too much like the black souls of those inhabitants within; when told there were those who would take what’s theirs and seek to destroy Zharr-Naggrund; it pulsed and thronged with heat so unbearable that any such mortal man would wither and pale.

And so it came to be that Zharr-Naggrund blistered, a volcanic oven, a hornets nest of hatred and spite, a murderous furnace of pain and fury, carrying the scent of burnt flesh and the screams of the dying far on the tainted hell-wind from the East.

For this my friend, is the Great Fortress of Mingol Zharr-Naggrund, and the Dawi Zharr people will not go quietly into the night.


Magnificient storywriting. This is a solid debut! Out of all the good entries of Scribe’s Contest II, yours was the only that was a certain choice for my vote right away without pondering and comparing. I was surprised to see it didn’t claim a medal, but the random fickleness of Chaos must surely be a part of Chaos Dwarfs, eh?

Well done, Doombeard. :hat off


Its all good , was the first time I ever entered a comp on Cdo , figured it was time to contribute something!