# Scribe’s Contest Gallery

**URL:** https://discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/t/scribe-s-contest-gallery/28287
**Category:** Contest Galleries
**Created:** [27 June 2026 15:18 UTC](https://discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/t/scribe-s-contest-gallery/28287 "2026-06-27T15:18:18Z")
**Posts on this page:** 1
**Showing post:** 15

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### Author: ![Reaver](https://discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/user_avatar/discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/reaver/32/209_2.png) [@Reaver](https://discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/u/Reaver)
#### Post date: [28 June 2026 15:15 UTC](https://discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/t/scribe-s-contest-gallery/28287/15 "2026-06-28T15:15:06Z")

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1. The Bold and the Bastardly - Character Lore  
[Announcement](https://discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/t/scribes-contest-xiv-the-bold-and-the-bastardly-character-lore/25772) - [Entrants](https://discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/t/scribes-contest-xiv-voting/25845) - [Winners](https://discourse.chaos-dwarfs.com/t/scribes-contest-xiv-winners/25865)

* * *

Gold: @Brawniac  
**Entry #13**

> [@](#):
>
> **Sequins, Skulls, and Slaves:**  
> Ashgar’s Hat Conundrum
> 
> “Not enough hat…” Ashgar Golden-Nose thought critically as he examined himself in the mirror. Wearing his full war panoply in his living room, he looked ready for anything.  
> Preparing for a slave raid took meticulous attention to detail, as he had learned to his cost.
> 
> His wardrobe slave, a hobgoblin answering to Fidget, lurked nervously beside a mountain of hat-boxes.  
> Ah yes, the hat. Always the most difficult choice. The specimen he wore now complimented his golden prosthetic nose brilliantly, but the dark velour clashed with his moustache.
> 
> Not that his moustache was much to look at. His own wife had a bigger one, for Hashut’s sake. Ashgar sighed. The women of his race where hidden and guarded jealously. Ostensibly to protect them from the evils of the world, and to hide their beauty from prying eyes. But Ashgar suspected that shame was involved as well. At least in the case of the monstrous harridan he called “Yes, dear.”
> 
> He abandoned this depressing line of thought. “Fidget,” he demanded “You despicable offal of a dog, bring me the really big hat.” Fidget remained motionless. “Er…” the Hobgoblin tried. “They’re all… They’re all pretty big, m’lord…”.
> 
> Ashgar had famously little patience. “The big one! With the sequins, the skulls and the golden arrows!”
> 
> Fidget looked panicky.  
> “Could you narrow it down a little, m’lord?”
> 
> His lord’s countenance now matched the dark velour perfectly. “The super tall one! With three levels and the golden skull with a spike on top!”
> 
> “That’s still all of them, m’lord!” Fidget wailed.
> 
> Ashgar unfastened the Nr. 3 whip from his belt and said in a perfectly level voice: “Fidget… Add New Wardrobe Slave to my sacking list, will you?”

* * *

Silver: @ashur  
**Entry #12**

> [@](#):
>
> North of Uzkulak, where the highlands give way to the northern moors, a horde rushes towards him, and he feels nothing but anger, thinking of so much wasted time.
> 
> He doesn’t feel much of anything anymore, neither the freezing wind nor the earth shaking. Four hundred of his kin raise shields and openly relish the coming slaughter, and all he can do is look at his hand.
> 
> It barely looks like something that once was alive. It is fossilized, almost part of the basalt throne waiting for him in Zharr-Naggrund.
> 
> _STATUE._
> 
> The word intrudes, as so often, and for a moment has free reign in his mind.
> 
> _SOON._
> 
> He banishes it and bars the gates. His mind reasserts itself; his eyes go back to the wall of flesh trying its luck, again.
> 
> Manlings.
> 
> Scum, braying their oaths to the vermin gods of anarchy, their minds too primal to harness power without degenerating. Contempt shields him like an armor, contempt for the two-legged animals subverting Hashut’s order, contempt for the northern gods wallowing in their own madness.
> 
> Contempt for his kin, lost in their petty ambitions, finding contentment in killing cattle, planning the succession behind his back.
> 
> Let them. Let them dream of a future without him! They will never see such a day, he knows, for he has seen what no one else can.
> 
> As years pass, the curse takes its toll, reality blurs like a veil. He can barely see his brothers anymore. He can barely care for the coming battle. More and more he closes his eyes and sees the future.
> 
> Himself, petrified, eternally alive.
> 
> _SOON._
> 
> But it will never happen. For as years pass, he sees something else. Deep in the roots of the world, where reality unravels, he sees the Dark Father, the Black Bull, lurking in chambers of magma. Chambers oozing a tick, crimson tide, a river of liquid rubies, sliding up between rock and ore. Slowly crawling into reality.
> 
> The blood of Hashut, the blood of the Father. Power given form. New life for him. And for his god, supremacy.
> 
> He will find it, whatever it takes. Success is the only ritual Hashut rewards.
> 
> He will succeed. He is High Priest, and he will be until the world shrivels into cinder!
> 
> _“FOR ZHARR-NAGGRUND!”_
> 
> He roars, he raises the hammer and four hundred dwarfs answer in kind. The marauders crash on the shield wall and barely move it.
> 
> Only now does he feel the old kinship. The pride of killing with his clan, of restoring order with every swing.
> 
> He even dares to think he misses it.
> 
> _WEAKNESS_ .
> 
> No more. He cannot go back. The High Priest cannot retrace his steps.
> 
> So he banishes the thought and kills vermin.
> 
> He cannot feel their blood on his face. He doesn’t feel much of anything anymore.
> 
> But he will. He will again. Somewhere in the Darklands, the great drill stands and waits.
> 
> So he laughs, he laughs, and kills vermin, and dreams of anvils resonating into eternity.

* * *

Bronze: @MudHutGrug  
**Entry #4**

> [@](#):
>
> It’s a different life, sure, but nothing can beat it.
> 
> The shunting, whirling and hurtling of the great machine beneath Karlum reminds him why he calls himself “King.” For this machine is Karlum’s “kingdom.”
> 
> It isn’t what many of his kin would call a “kingdom,” sure, sure… but to him it sure does beat the life he used to live.
> 
> You see, Karlum is a caravan master. Moving across the world in an enormous land ship in search of plunder, trinkets and treasure. Karlum considers himself a collector of rare baubles and potent weapons, proudly entering battle with an entire arsenal to file through.
> 
> Karlum looks out to the glittering sky and rolling hills of a foreign land far from home. He reclines back into his pampered, stolen seat. The open air and sunshine tends to disagree with his crew, who would prefer the smog and darkness of Zharr Naggrund. Not Karlum. Though he doesn’t admit it, the quarters beneath remind him a little too much of home.
> 
> Taking a long draw of his pipe, Karlum lets the pristine, unsoiled landscape overtake him.
> 
> With the aid of the sweet leaf he smokes, he is now forced to remember.
> 
> Ka-thunk! Kling! Ka-Splat!
> 
> A body there, a sword there, a severed head somewhere else, Karlum wasn’t with it that day. The clang of battle isn’t a place for thinking, it’s a place for doing. And Karlum was certainly doing. He glanced anxiously, checking for any stray arrows. Though he knew an axe to the back of the neck was far more likely. With trembling hands he begins scooping up the coin pouches of his fallen comrades.
> 
> “Hashut rewards those who take” so they say.
> 
> Choking on a bad puff of smoke, Karlum’s reminiscence shifts to a new place…
> 
> This new place is dark and heavy. A fell mood hangs thick in the air. Dhrath Zharr courts are never a good sight for anyone.  
> It was a shame that while he was purse snatching, his Garrison Overseer had fumbled the last battle so badly that both he and his retinue were now subject to punishment. Karlum included.
> 
> It’s a show court. The verdict is already decided.  
> With the grim sentence struck in iron, Karlum had time to think.
> 
> “To be fair,” he thought to himself, “the infernal life just ain’t for me…”
> 
> Karlum wasn’t going to pay for someone else’s mistake. He never understood why his kin would just go ahead with it because of some dumb oath.
> 
> “Hashut teaches us to take, not to give.”
> 
> Karlum lets out a spluttery cough. It is dusk now. About 40 miles North where he dozed off. He reflected on his youthful sentiment and laughed.
> 
> “To take indeed!” glancing towards his treasure carriage, “To think I could’ve been stuck at home all my life. Ha!”
> 
> Karlum did as Hashut would. He stole 450 Dhrath Tons worth of train. Hijacked straight from the depot. And now he is barreling forward with it.
> 
> Forever taking, and never giving.
> 
> Karlum, King of the Caravan.

* * *

**Entry #1** @Admiral

> [@](#):
>
> **Azhar-Kadedron the Vile, Enslaver of the Meek and Crusher of the Innocent, Despot of Despots and Maimer of Whole-Bodied Slaves**
> 
> _The hairy Dawi Zharr babe Azhar-Kadedron was born into the harem of Overlord Zhalim-Ashuma, on a night when Morrslieb waxed bright and bale creatures stalked the gloom. Azhar-Kadedron was the fifteenth son of Melizhu-Mukannnizat-Ninurta, seventh wife of Zhalim-Ashuma. It was evident even at a frail age that Azhar-Kadedron had inherited his father’s ruthless drive of ambition, and his mother’s sadistic glee in torture and atrocity visited upon lesser beings. In any year during his wild childhood and adolescence, the toll of slain slaves at the hands of energetic Azhar-Kadedron would exceed the tall number of thralls killed in industrial accidents in his father’s holding of Mazharnukk Manufactories downstream from Mingol-Zharr Naggrund the Great on the west bank of River Ruin._
> 
> _Indeed, the caprice and cruelty of this baleful man would only grow and harden with age, and never would it mellow. Never would fell deeds give way to mercy. Always the rending horn, and never the open palm. The rich father Zhalim-Ashuma never once tried to rein in his bloodthirsty son, for the Overlord considered the immense waste in slave property at the hands of young Adad-Kadedron to be an ostentatious and proper display of his wealth. Likewise, the mother Melizhu-Mukannnizat-Ninurta only spurred on her eager offspring in his heinous misdeeds, until the infertility of old age saw her tongue ripped out and the honoured wife sent away to become a Harridan._
> 
> _As a beardling coming of age, Azhar-Kadedron proved himself a cunning and strong warleader again and again. At the low age of onehundredtwentyfour, his father Overlord Zhalim-Ashuma tasked his ambitious son with a dastardly mission: To traverse the Mountains of Mourn and raid the western frontier districts of Grand Cathay._
> 
> _Azhar-Kadedron the Vile succeeded against all odds._
> 
> _Where rockslides and snowfall would have hindered less determined expeditions, Azhar-Kadedron drove on his army and forced his mechanized war caravan to steam through with Daemonforged machines glowing hot, even as hordes of slaves died amid snow and ice, shovels and pickaxes frozen in their dead fingers._
> 
> _Where less prepared expeditions would have turned back due to attrition or even succumbed to roaming monsters and ambushes from Ogres and Yhetis, Azhar-Kadedron expertly countered the lumbering brutes with fireglaives and artillery at every turn. Not once did he suffer heavy casualties in battles that would have ripped through the ranks of others._
> 
> _Eventually, Azhar-Kadedron and his underlings reached the harsh steppe reaches of westernmost Cathay, guarded by strong fortresses manned by hereditary peasant-soldiers and supported by human nomadic cavalry in the hire of the Cathayan Dragon-Emperor. Under the cover of an ashstorm, the Chaos Dwarfs of Azhar-Kadedron managed to overpower three frontier forts, which opened up newly-colonized lands to be ravaged. The defilement and violations and torture and bloodsoaked maiming of the screaming innocents would become infamous in the victim land, and legendary in Mingol Zharr-Naggrund the Great and all her holdings._

* * *

**Entry #2** @Gargolock

> [@](#):
>
> ```auto
> The History of Nabonazzar the Beaded
> 
> ```
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2346 IC** - Nabonazzar is born below the Falls of Doom. His birth was attended by his clan’s sorcerer-prophet Nabakadal the Inexhaustible.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2388 IC** - Slave Rebellion in Uzkulak. The Blackguard are engaged in a lengthy campaign to retake the lower pits.
> 
> - Nabakadal’s Clan begins patrolling underground. Guarding the waters of The River Ruin within the Ghalzharrdrin.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2389 IC** - Skaven raids begin to occur in the Ghalzharrdrin.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2402 IC** - The Battle of Seep Gore
> 
> - Nabakadal traces the Skaven to the black pit of Seep Gore. He promptly organizes an attempted extermination of the vermin. Witnesses of Nabakadal’s demise claim a fully sentient -if not intelligent- abomination to be the being that picked the poor sorcerer off the ground and threw him into a nearby concrete pillar.
> - The Unneytong’ Gamblas hobgoblin tribe penned the marching shanty “Nabaka-dal, Crunch! Crunch!”
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2413 IC** - The Conclave appoints Rheturhak Fireborn as ruler of the Falls of Doom.
> 
> - Nabakadal’s Clan sails South to Zharr Naggrund to seek reassignment by the conclave.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2432 IC** - Nabonazzar The Beaded ascends to the conclave at the young age of 86. This made him one of the least respected, and most openly mocked prophets of his generation.
> 
> - Nabonazzar ascended to the ruling elite of Zharr Naggrund before even serving on his Clan Council. The conclave mocked his inexperience and surmised him a malefactor who eliminated his competition in an iniquitous manner. Nabonazzar cared not for their insollence. He turns to intensive prayer, sacrifice, and study.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2466 IC** - on Ar’Uzkul Nabonazzar The Beaded conducts a mysterious ritual inside a chamber located deep within the easternmost peak of the Ash Ridge Mountains.
> 
> - Unbeknownst to all, Nabonazzar began his apprenticeship with Allamu; A mighty blue Lammassu who ferociously demands service from the young sorcerer. It would be many years before the beast would allow the mage to ride atop its back. For now, their relationship consisted of errands and exhausting meditative sessions in which Nabonazzar would breathe Allamu’s sorcerous breath. Unconscious; Nabonazzar would find himself confronted by tempting daemons, or in a hauntingly bare white plain alone far from anywhere, with no sense or ability to conceive reality from this nothingness. Nabonazzar would find himself trapped in these hellish insanities for what felt like days before Allamu would relent and release the young dwarf.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2469 IC** - Nabonazzar is sent on a quest to butcher a Thunderlizard. Allamu instructs that after this all will become clear.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **2474 IC** - Nabonazzar returns from the Dragon Isles wielding the Sceptre of Crackling Doom. It’s made from Terradon Bone, grasping a solid wyrdstone Orbuculum. Discovered deep within the stomach of a Thunderlizard, which Nabonazzar slew from offshore using his Great Leveller Battlebarge.
> 
> - After returning, Nabonazzar was reportedly different. It is after this that his title ‘The Beaded’ began circulating. He was noticeably erratic and consumed with unquenchable greed for magical artefacts. His cackling was more frequent, and far more concerning in pitch and volume than ever before. His condition worsens every day, but his sorcerous abilities only increase as his sanity ceases.

* * *

**Entry #3** @anon65047651

> [@](#):
>
> It is right for the prey to be. There is no sight more satisfying than the slave carriage replete with goblins, fulfilling their fates as they ought be fulfilled; That is, be prey. The gold I have won has not mattered since the first year of sequentially successful raids. ‘Dismembered Mountain’ as my workmen have named it in jest, is not meaningful to me in its power to acquire. It exists as a monument to the perfect execution of the natural order, and I would see it exceed the very height of the capital with some help from Hashut and at the expense of all my waking time.
> 
> The economic beauty is that for every caged grobi through the gates of the capital, the more gold can be mined for payment for the next carriage load. There are others who farm and breed them, but thus they lose the ability to demonstrate supremacy over them. Every greenskin I defeat has been in fair fight, the untamed wild does not choose favourites, and victory there is irrefutable proof of the natural superiority of the Dawi-Zharr. When my father passed, he left me with a small pile of gold ingots just 10 dwarfs high, the monument I have built is of my own manufacture, so great is that gold pile now that the mining guild tell me mining beneath it is forbidden for the risk of cave collapse!
> 
> It is the birthright of every Dawi-Zharr to be granted the relish of the cries of the miserable greenskin, should he accept it.
> 
> - Slaver-Lord Jarlor Gradubaz the Massigolden

* * *

**Entry #5** @Hashoooot

> [@](#):
>
> Uldraw Antimondrake
> 
> He was the worst of them all – and I his second in command. But do not judge me until you have heard all! Already in the bottomless pits of Azgorh he stood out among his peers. Ambitious, industrious and calculating with a mind as sharp as a sundered flintstone he rose through the ranks fast. But at the same time the elders sensed that there was more within him – boredom, discontent and a readiness to see everything razed to the ground rather than give in. We Black Dwarfs are not known for our mild manners, but eventually we all settle down, content to warm our backs on the infernal furnaces, push about our hobgoblin serfs and give Hashut what is due to him.
> 
> But not Uldraw Antimondrake. Oh no! His was the spite of a volcano, seemingly dormant for ages but all the more certain to erupt one day, consuming all around him. The elders knew this. Now, among us servitors of the Blazing Bull even suspected disloyalty is a road to downfall more surefire than a dreadquake mortar. And so they cast him out. He in turn had foreseen this fall from grace and had already hatched a plan. Together with a handful of stalwarts and malcontents with nothing to lose he set off to seek his fortune in distant lands. For a faraway city of men had been blessed by Hashut with the boon of a fallen star, bearing within it a mineral of strange and wondrous properties. If only he could harness this unknown power, he thought, his return to the Dark Lands would be inexorable and triumphant.
> 
> Why I followed him? I wish I knew. He has a way of inspiring… not devotion as such, but an overwhelming curiosity to witness whatever shall become of his furious aspirations. I can describe it no better. Anyhow, our most able hobgoblin scout led us hither to the ruined city, where you warlike maidens bested us in battle. Now that you know everything, you might as well let me go my ways. Just because I am partial to slavery does not mean I do not value my freedom! And no, I shall not rejoin his warband. I plan to find my way back to Azgorh and beg for forgiveness there instead. For even the Ashen Wastes are more likely to be lenient than that horrible despot Uldraw Antimondrake.

* * *

**Entry #6** @KhamdrimSkyMaster

> [@](#):
>
> Long have my brothers fought the never-ending vile hordes of daemon-kin, settling grudge after grudge while lost in the hellish landscape of the Warp. We bear the weight of history, cursing the weaknesses of our ancestors who awakened Galrauch but failed to see him slain. Yet, it is this very tragedy that plunged our once-mighty hold into the chaotic depths of the Warp, that led us to discover a higher calling and a formidable patron: the mighty lord, Hashut. In our darkest hour, Hashut himself came to us, gifting us his fiery essence and instilling in us an unyielding hatred.
> 
> Whilst Thurgrim Rockarm, a pitiable figure, could not overcome Galrauch and his might, his son, Ghalzharr Drengudrakk, achieved the unimaginable. As the great dragon laid waste to our halls with his scorching fury, Ghalzharr alone held ground. Leaping onto the dragon’s back, he fearlessly slashed at the beast’s ever-changing flesh. Each blow inflicted disfiguring magical wounds upon him, as Galrauch’s Tzeentch-stained blood sprayed into the air, yet Ghalzharr tenaciously clung to the creature’s hide.
> 
> But the dragon’s power was overwhelming, and with a mighty swing, Ghalzharr was violently hurled to the scarred stone floor. It was at this very moment that Hashut’s presence descended upon him, offering a chance to prove his power in return for unwavering service. Embracing the offer, Ghalzharr, his face stained with fresh blood, boldly leapt back onto the beast. This time, he aimed a devastating blow at Galrauch’s right arm, preventing the creature from mending the wound with trickster’s magic.
> 
> Seizing the opportunity, the empowered Ghalzharr climbed onto the dragon’s back, plunging his arm into the beast’s open wounds and grasping at the heart of the demon-tainted dragon itself. Corrupting its essence with his own blood in an act of supreme dominance, Ghalzharr enslaved Galrauch to his will. Now, the once-terrifying dragon serves us, granting us the ability to phase in and out of the Warp, capturing weak slaves to fuel the fires of our furnaces.
> 
> With Galrauch under our control, we stand united in the service of Hashut, empowered by his unquenchable and ravenous flame and unwavering hatred. Our legacy has been transformed into a purpose greater than any before, and together, we shall forge a path of dominion and vengeance. The name of Ghalzharr Drengudrakk shall echo through eternity as a testament to the indomitable spirit of our clan and the might of our lord, Hashut.

* * *

**Entry #7** @Uther.the.unhinged

> [@](#):
>
> In the Sagas moments like this were always silent. ‘You could have heard a pin drop’. They never were.
> 
> He could hear the moans and bubbling breaths of the dying, the drip of blood, the coarse calls of the crows already collecting their share of the butchers’ bill. The Skalds never mentioned the smell either. Sweet sweat, excrement, the metallic tang of blood, undertones of the acrid taint of burnt flesh. The stillness though. That, they got right. The thump of his heart, the trickle of sweat down his temples. That was all. His opponent was equally motionless. Eyes locked over the twenty feet of dusty square that separated them. Twenty feet, close enough to cover in a few seconds. Twenty feet, far enough away for your opponent to draw the pistol at their waist. Twenty feet, near enough for a pistol ball to puncture gromril. Or the black, oily, chaos scales that his opponent wore.
> 
> So, here they were. Weapons gripped in one hand. The other hovering over the handles of their pistols.
> 
> Waiting. Watching. Still.
> 
> There was a click, a whirring. But not from his opponent. He did not stir. Did not flinch. To his left the mechanism of the clock tower span into life. Two manikins slid into his peripheral vision and began to hammer out their pointless chime. Noon.
> 
> DING, dingada-ding, dinga-ding, dinga-ding, DING.
> 
> Hil Buonosson squinted through the bright sunlight at his opponent. Oiled beard, gross tusks, fixed gaze. Neither moved.
> 
> Once upon a time, as the skalds would say, this had been a peaceful land. Then that bastard had brought his warband to this quiet western village. Brought his warband. Brought death. Brought pain. Brought slavery. The villagers had come for help. A pathetic fistful of coins proffered in desperation. Well, he and his six companions had brought help. A magnificent vengeance. A reckoning. Now, it was just him.
> 
> DING …… dingada-ding ……… dinga-ding ……. dinga-ding ……… DING.
> 
> The mechanism was running down. Soon.
> 
> DING ……… dingada-ding…………… dinga-ding …………………… dinga-ding ……………………………… DING.
> 
> Any………. Moment ……… now …….
> 
> “Stoopid dorfs, never wear ‘nuff groin armour. Boss?”
> 
> “Good work, Brutto.”
> 
> Brutto stood up from behind the prostrate dwarf. Khativo watched the wretched hobgoblin licking the gore off his long-curved blade. The scumbag was right. Stupid, romantic, drama-loving idiot. Should have taken the shot while he could. After all, Khativo’s pistol had been empty all along.

* * *

**Entry #8** @Fuggit_Khan

> [@](#):
>
> Looking back over his shoulder, the orc big’un noticed a hobgoblin casually looking in his direction. As any greenskin will attest to, a furtive glance from any hobgoblin is never welcomed.  
> The orc big’un immediately pulled out his sword, spit on the alleyway cobblestones, and in a threatening voice he demanded “Who da hell are you?”…the hobgoblin looked down nervously, not making eye contact, and replied “Me? I’m the hobgoblin you’ve never heard of, the bestest of all assassins, the hobgoblin that’ll be da last thing you looking at, my name is Da’coy”. And then a hobgoblin boss quietly appeared out of the shadows and shoved a dagger through the heart of the orc, and the orc realized in his last breath of life that the Hobgoblin named “Da’coy” was just the decoy.

* * *

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