Thank you both, i’m from Spain i can pay! 
- WHIP: 10 Slaves (Chaos Marauders)
I’ll use these poor boys, girls and gits to fill up 1 of 2 hobgoblin units (handweapon + shield or flails, respectively) in case I wanna reinforce them in a game. Some of these models are from my old slave units back in WHFB days, with only slight adjustments made.
- also WHIP, only slightly less hard:
20 Horns of Hashut without their hats. War thralls or not, hats are for proper hashut-fearing dwarfs, not umgi maggots! Also, I’ll need those to deck out my Immortals and Gorebeast Chariot crews.
There’s also just a hint of another daemon engine in the pic. Nothing too fancy, just a second Soulgrinder.
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Part 5 - Masters and Slaves
As decades passed, the duardin of Dumang expanded their reach ever further. Where formerly their raids had claimed but a handful of captives, they now used their daemonbound engines of destruction to butcher or enslave entire tribes. Both greenskin and ogor tribes were mercilessly hunted down, above ground and below, until their trembling and beaten survivors either bent to their duardin overlords or were utterly annihilated. At the height of this vicious campaign, a hundred greenskins a day were dragged before the Bull God’s shrine atop Mingol Dumang, and the grand statue was known to radiate an immense heat for hours on end after their screaming ceased.
Of all the tribes the Dumang duardin faced, only the nomadic hobgrots of the Fasting Veldt gave themselves over willingly to their rule. Treacherous and reviled by their kin, most of them decided that serving under the Dumang and saving their own lives was preferable to fighting alongside their rival tribes only to ultimately suffer the same crushing defeat. In exchange for survival, a dozen clans were absorbed into the armies of the Dumang, serving as auxilliaries to their duardin masters or enforcers in their slave pits.
To this day, the hobgrots maintain that this was an agreement based on mutual interest; that contracts were made and pacts forged in secrecy between them and their masters. In their own minds, they see themselves as shrewd mercenaries hiring out their services to a powerful employer. However, the reality is much more bleak: They are nothing more than another group of slaves to their duardin overlords, albeit with a modicum of freedom that allows them to occasionally take their whips to those even lower in rank than themselves.
Although treacherous and backstabbing even for grots, only one tribe of hobgrots ever dared to indulge these natural tendencies and betray their duardin masters.
Decades ago this tribe, its original name and customs now lost, managed to double-cross the Dumang duardin an place themselves at the head of a slave uprising that almost saw Doomforge Tower itself overrun. However, shortly before they could claim victory they were crushed by the forces of Zarnath the Taker, most prominent among the slavers of Mingol Dumang. So cruel and vain was Zarnath, who lost an eye in that battle to a hobgrot blade, that he demanded the hobgrots not to be executed like all the other rebels, but for the entire tribe to be gifted to him to exact his own justice upon them. Through endless tortures, the tribe’s will was eventually broken, but Zarnath, not content with this, demanded another toll of their much decimated number. To this day, every single hobgrot of the tribe now known as the Blind Eye is personally mutilated by Zarnath to match the wound he received so long ago.
Strangely, this ritualistic butchery actually seems to bind them irrevocably to Zarnath’s will, and there are many among the Dumang duardin who believe that it is dark and unnatural sorcery indeed which can overcome a hobgrot’s desire for treachery…
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I love the hobgrot unit, models paint job and fluff. Awesome
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We all know the devil carries hooves and horns!
And he also is a plastic toy, I’m sure.
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Part 6 - The Dumang and the Six Smiths
In the fashion of his people, upon being chosen as the leader and High Prophet of his kin Gurhan cast aside his previous honorific of “Iron Shaper” and instead claimed the name of their new fortress for himself and his kin. “Dumang” therefore became known as a term not only for his own family, nor the tower they ruled from, but for all the duardin under Gurhan’s rule.
In the year after the tower had risen from the earth, Gurhan’s first wife, Ikharul, died in childbirth. While he had previously insisted on aiding the birth himself and had nit tolerated any other to enter his wife’s private chambers, the terrifying screams from within were still overheard by servants and led to some strange and terrible gossip. It was said that Ikharul had been ripped apart from the inside, giving birth to a monstrosity so malformed and horrible that its father had to strangle it with his own hands only seconds after his wife had taken her last breath. If true, such a tragedy would have crushed any lesser duardin, and that Gurhan, being their prophet, must certainly interpret this as punishment by the Bull God himself fir not exacting his will in some matter or another. However, to the surprise of his subjects, soon after Ikharul’s death, a great feast was held for all of the Dumang, and Gurhan had his stonemasons dig out a colossal tomb for her in the lowest, blackest reaches of the spire, more akin to a treasure vault than a gravesite, and after her burial its giant ornate gates were sealed shut through runes of binding devised by his own craft, never to be opened by any duardin besides himself. Gurhan seemed filled with even more conviction during his sermons atop the black spire thereafter, his eyes ablaze with renewed fanaticism, his whole demeanour that of a duardin who had taken a glimpse at a grandiose future that would open itself up to him if only he followed the path which his god had set him upon.
Soon after, Gurhan took his second wife, a duardin maiden called Urazhka, and in the following years, she bore him six sons, all healthy and strong. As the realm of the Dumang grew, these six grew also, for they proved as cunning as their father, and he taught them the arts of runecraft, of daemon-binding and the construction of fell machinery. To the Dumang they became known as the “Six Smiths”, a determinate mockery to the dwarven ancestor god Grungni and his own offspring, who had abandoned them to the predations of Chaos. In time, the Six Smiths became the leaders if warbands and outposts, enforcing Gurhan’s will in the farther regions if his groing realm, but also creating many great works of dark artifice that brought honor and glory to their clan on slave raids and battlefields alike.
Throughout the Age of Chaos and into the Age of Sigmar that followed it, the Realm of the Dumang would grow and prosper. When Sigmar’s Stormhosts were sent out of Azyr to claim back the Realms, their empire remained largely unnoticed by the Stormcast Eternals, free to prey upon those weakened by their attacks. However, when Nagash’s Great Ritual failed and the Necroquake hit the Realms with waves of uncontrolled magic, the Dumang duardin were faced with a downward spiral of misfortune that almost spelled their doom.
For it was that at this time that Gurhan and his Six Smiths were conducting a grand ritual themselves. For a year now, they had been faced by a new and terrible enemy: A crusading army of Nurgle-worshipping zealots that had invaded their lands from the continent of Rondhol via a forgotten underground realmgate. To stand against this army, Gurhan and his sons had begun a summoning of powerful daemons to bind into arcane machinery which should ensure their victory - But at the ritual’s most critical point, a sudden surge of malevolent energies flooded the arcane circle they had drawn, eliminating the runes of binding that had ensured their protection. Gurhan himself was the first to meet his fate. Trying to channel this new and unbound energy to restore the wards protecting himself and his kind, his aging body betrayed him, overcome by a thaumaturgical backlash so powerful that it transmuted his flesh into a statue of lifeless rock. Five of his sons, screaming in agony, were consumed in turn by the daemons who they had sought to bind - Raging, half-mad war spirits that possessed their bodies and proceeded to rip their minds apart, falling upon their acolytes in an animalistic frenzy.
When the energies dissipated and the dust cleared, their surviving acolytes finally managed to subdue the raging daemonsmiths, assisted by the only one of their number who had managed to escape his brothers’ fate. Bound by sorcerous chains, they dwell now in hidden cells away from prying eyes, growling madly in the darkness. Only rarely are they released from their imprisonment, and even then only to be unleashed on enemies encroaching upon Mingol Dumang itself, for the bloodlust of those daemons fused with their mortal flesh knows neither friend nor foe.
With the High Prophet dead and five of his sons, his Six Smiths, lost to madness and damnation, it seemed there could be only one possible heir to Gurhan’s dominion. Swooping down from soot-choked skies atop his gholem-steed Koofteh and donning his late father’s ceremonial hat and tools came Gokhran the Elder, first of the Six Smiths and oldest of Gurhan’s sons, to adress his people.
Cruel and wise in equal measure, he stood before them on the day of his father’s enshrinement, talking about how he alone was fit to interpret the will of the Great Bull God, to bring desolation to their foes and to lead the Dumang to greatness beyond their wildest dreams. At first, the crowd cheered, for Gokhran had spoken well, and he seemed the only contender for the throne. With Gokhran had also come his entourage of Daemonsmiths and soothsayers, and above all of them loomed the terrifying figure of Paz’U’zuhl, the Fogborn, Maker of Chains - enthralled Daemon Vizier to Gokhran and master of the Furnaces Below. Whoever had not been convinced of the heir apparent’s power and ambition was quickly reminded by his mere presence that the Elder possessed both in equal magnitude, for it was a mighty sorcerer indeed who could enslave a Daemon Prince and viceroy of the Soul Forge and bind them to their will in eternal servitude.
But then the applause ebbed, and the crowd began to part as armed soldiers pushed them aside, approaching Gokhran and his followers. For another had come to claim rulership, and many bearded and tusked heads turned at his approach, for he was a figure both renowned and reviled in equal measure, and a challenger not to be taken lightly indeed…
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Oooooh I want more!
Great fluff
Great figures.
Just great!
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A very cool story up to this point. I am curious how it continues! 
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Great kitbashes and clever bits sourcing! Not to mention substantial throughput of painting. I particularly like the grated mask/hat of the last construct. The painting on the fiery bull is awesome too! Keep it up!
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What are these models (the Horns of Hashut) and I’m curious what you plan to do with the little rhinos! 
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The Horns are from Warcry - A human AOS warband that worships Hashut. Essentially thrall soldiers of the Chaos Dwarfs.
Let’s see about those rhinos in a bit 
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Rhinos? Why do I feel centaurs or a chariot coming?
Can’t wait.
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Part 7 - The Taker
Zarnath had never been raised by his father. He had never been taught the art of binding daemons, nor had he been granted command of any forces to lead in battle. He had never been chosen to bring glory to his clan, for in truth, his entire existence was nothing if not a blemish upon the clans honour itself.
Zarnath the Bastard and Zarnath the Shamed he had been called, born under unlucky stars as the product of a dalliance between an aging Gurhan and one of his servant girls.
Zarnath the Betrayed he had called himself later, for though his father’s honour prevented him from simply having the unwanted child killed, the grand prophet and his clan had never accepted him as one of their own, betraying their own blood.
Finally, Zarnath the Slaver he had become, a leader of raids independent from the Dumang army, selling his captives for profit back to his despised kin or to the fighting pits where lesser duardin placed their bets. With this wealth, he had built up a militia for himself, comprised of other outcasts, bastard sons, and even the strongest among his pit fighters. It had been him and his followers who stopped the rebellion of the treacherous hobgoblins, breaking and remoulding them into the Blind Eye tribe, earning him his final name - Zarnath the Taker.
Vain and cruel, he now strode down the streets towards his half-brother Gokhran bedecked in armour of a shining golden hue and dressed in large pantaloons of the finest silks, the stink of musky perfume emanating from his oiled muscles and accompanied by a retinue of both lickspittles and hardened blade-slaves.
His birth had been to a lowly servant, but since then he had accumulated much power and wealth of his own, and if the Dumang respected one thing equally as much as noble blood, it was these two things. Proudly, he stood before his brother and and the crowd and announced that while his father and his Smiths had attempted a botched ritual to save their people from defeat, he and his armies had marched out on their own accord and beaten back their pestilent foes all on their own. He pronounced himself their saviour and Prince of the Dumang, and claimed that it was him who was therefore most suited to lead them further on regardless of birth or laws of inheritance.
At this, Gokhran fumed, and a sorcerous glow shone from beneath the eyeslits of his mask. His finger stretched outward, he accused Zarnath of being a shame to his kin and a heretic to the Great Bull God, citing many of the foul rumours circulating about the Taker and his decadent and depraved ways. There was some truth to these rumours, for Zarnath had indeed been witnessed engaging in orgies and debauchery far beyond that which was deemed acceptable in Dumang society, and there had been reports of flayed and mutilated corpses being dragged out of his personal quarters to be diposed off discreetly by his servants.
Insults flying from one to the other, it seemed certain that the great gathering would soon erupt into violence. But just as Zarnath’s slaves and Gokhran’s warriors drew their weapons and prepared for slaughter, a hollow drone erupted from the earth as the tower behind them shook to its very foundations. Paralysed by perpexlity, the two armies stayed their hands as suddenly, the tower’s great gates began to open and another figure emerged…
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Really enjoying this.
A third contender?
Can’t wait.
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I’M BACK!
After an almost year-long hiatus playing nothing but Mordheim, running a Mordheim blog and writing a Narrative campaign, I’m finally back to AOS and my beloved Chorfs.
Beware, O Children of the Dumang, for the last, long awaited challenger shall arrive soon…
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Part 8 - The First
From the deepest chambers of the Spire She came, a creature so monstrous that the ground trembled with the vibration of Her hooves and scores of slaves and lesser duardin were pushed aside by the sheer weight of Her titanic frame.
In the darkness She had grown, hidden away in what all the world had believed to be the tomb of her late and ill-fated mother. Many-limbed and split in aspect between duardin and bull she had been born - The progeny of a union most blessed by the Dumang’s patron god. For when Gurhan Dumang, Prophet of the Great Bull God, had led his people out of the Fallen Hold, the gaze of his dread deity had fallen upon Her who was yet unborn, and so She had emerged a physical manifestation of his divine will, ripping Her mother to shreds in the moment of Her own birth.
But where others might have wailed in despair, Gurhan had seen Her as a sign of his Lord’s favour - A prophecy of things to come; the ascendance of the Dumang made flesh, their glorious future made manifest.
In the dark, he had fed Her with slave-meat, and She had grown, grown until She was larger than any duardin nor man nor orruk. And when Her growth had started to slow, he had used his knowledge of dark sorcery and wicked machines to make Her grow even more. Yet no word did pass Her lips, and so even Her father believed Her mute and dumb - More beast than duardin indeed.
But Gurhan had known that, if he were to lead his people on the path which the Great Bull God had deigned to show him, this creature was to be only the first of many steps to take. And so, while his Six Smiths began to govern more and more of the realm he had built in his stead, in secrecy he began to bend all his will and all his darkest artifice to the task of creating Many from the One he had been granted, and perfecting them as a gem-cutter might a diamond in the rough.
Yet this creature, god-gift or not, was still of his blood, and so the thought of tainting Her with foreign seed repulsed him. Many nights he brooded and pondered this problem, studying tomes and scripture taken from those defeated by his armies. It was here that he stumbled upon a piece of man-skin parchment taken from an invasion force of the vile rat-kin many years ago. It had belonged to one of their abominable moulder-warlocks, a breeder of beasts and shaper of flesh, and in their crude glyph-tongue, it detailed a secret alchemy that once he might have discarded out of disdain - But not anymore.
So it came that he began to tirelessly brew concoction upon concoction, poultice upon poultice, mixing powders of realmstone both pure and corrupted, and he cut Her flesh and placed inside it pumps and tubes of his own design to fill her with a terrible fertility. Years passed again, and in the darkness, she bore him horrors beyond counting; her womb a weapon against the world.
But whatever creatures She spawned, they never were quite the same as Her - Untouched by Her aura of divine and regal authority, and so he deemed them unworthy, and they were taken away, to be raised in secret as She had been - An army of the imperfect. So on and on it went, this quest for ascendancy, and all this time, She remained silent.
But now Gurhan lay dead, and She had risen from the deep. The moment his flesh was turned to stone, her chains had cracked and broken, and long hours She had spent breaking down the doors of Her underground prison - And after that, those that held her children.
Now She towered over the Dumang, and they looked upon her divine flesh with terror and amazement. Some gripped their weapons, but then She lifted up Her mighty arms in a gesture that bade silence. Wise Gokhran bowed his head, for even he recognised Her power, different from his own, but drawn from the same source nonetheless. And as he bowed, so did his entourage, duardin and daemon-thralls alike, and even mighty Koofteh knelt down and folded its wings.
And as they saw this act of prostration by their betters, the rest of the Dumang followed suit - As did Zarnath’s blade-slaves, for they felt naught but terror at Her sight.
Only the Taker himself stood defiant, his one eye staring at Her in challenge. But before he could speak, She did, and Her voice was low and booming, and his knees gave under its weight as She spoke her first words:
“Dumang-Drath-Zharr! Brothers and Kin! Children of Mighty Hashut!”
These words seemed strange and yet familiar, like spoken fire that licked at and kindled something within their very souls, and at the mention of that last, terrible name, it burst into a raging wildfire of dark devotion, and so they repeated it - “Hashut!” - “HASHUT!”
And She lifted her four terrible arms, and on She spoke:
“Rejoice, for I bring you words of domitash - Of Conquest and Rightful Subjugation! I bring you words of Fire, which consumes those who are unfit to serve! Words of Tyranny, which is the right of the Strong to rule the Weak! I bring you words of Greed, for is it not Greed that motivates all things? The greed to take and hold what rightly should be ours? For we are Strong! We TAKE! We RULE! We BURN! These are the tenets of Mighty Hashut, and he urges us to live by them!”
“HASHUT!” - “HASHUT!” the Dumang chanted, and in their minds, a picture formed - A blazing bull of shadow and flame; its eyes like red-hot coals.
But again She lifted up Her arms, and again they fell silent.
“There are those among us who might have fallen from our Lord’s graces. Those who seek power for its own sake, which is a prudent thing, for they may believe that power begets Tyranny, and Tyranny is a just thing. But forget not that all Tyrants are naught but Slaves to our Lord, and Him alone. To him, their power alone means nothing. And power inherited means less than nothing.”
And here, Her gaze touched Gokhran, and his head bowed before he could control himself.
“For it is Hashut’s will that we take power by force; that we first prove dominance through Conquest - For only through Conquest does Tyranny become just!”
And on She looked, Her eyes directed towards Zarnath, and the Taker rose, yet by what unknown shackles Her voice had put around His soul could still not utter a word.
“And there are those -” She spoke, not without a trace of spite, “- who wear the skin of a Bull, mayhaps to hide a Serpent’s coils.”
The Taker snarled, yet stood defiant.
“Know this, my kin: Our Lord and Father is a righteous god. No thing does He demand from us but that we serve as befits us, for we are Weak, and he is Strong. And as we punish a slave who lends his tongue or ears or eyes to another master to harm us, Mighty Hashut will pluck the ears and tongues and eyes from us if we do the same. And yet - Does not a just master welcome back his errant slave after the proper punishment was dealt? So, too, does Mighty Hashut - For our god is a just god.”
And it might have seemed that she had bowed Her head in mocking fashion toward the Taker, but later, no-one dared to testify.
Her sermon almost at an end, She rose to Her full hight, and She roared.
“TAKE and BURN! For they who reap the richest spoils will find the favour of the Bull! They alone shall RULE!”
She stood tall, casting a long shadow, and She finished Her words and finished them thus:
“I am Shtarr, the First. Shtarr, the War-Mother. Blood of Dumang. Blood of Mighty Hashut. Follow His demand of Conquest, and you shall ascend to Tyranny Eternal!”
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