Putting together a collection of stories, and lore that I’m working on related to Warhammer fantasy, hope you enjoy 
The Underway and The Road to Luccini
The labyrinth beneath the world’s edge mountains was a place of silent menace and ancient secrets. Here the Rune Reader’s company forged a new destiny amid the ruin, among the serpentine labyrinths of shadowed tunnels and cavernous halls. Their masks, worn as symbols of defiance, reflected flickering candlelight as they moved through tunnels echoing with the distant rumble of collapsing stone and the skittering of things unseen. The air here is thick with the scent of damp earth, burnt oil, and rusted iron. Amidst this chaos, the warband’s caravans and iron daemons move cautiously through the dark, their presence a rare beacon of order in Ungdrin Ankor. These expeditions are perilous, threading through unstable tunnels prone to collapse, large chasms, and ambushes. Their travel is vital for forging connections between places long though inaccessible or unreachable.
The scars of centuries; bearing the marks of war, ancient rituals, and the relentless erosion of time. This underground realm is alive with sounds of distant echoes; of dripping water, the scurry of unseen vermin, and the restless whispers of the earth itself. Occasionally, the rumble of distant machinery or the clang of metal on stone signals the movement of warbands navigating the treacherous corridors. The very ley lines that thread through the tunnels pulse with raw, unpredictable energy. The Rune Reader had learned to harness these currents channeling their power into spells that could rend reality or to shape the elements themselves. The warband’s caravans laden with supplies move cautiously along the narrow, unstable pathways. Though these expeditions are fraught with danger, each journey also offers opportunity; treasure, ancient knowledge, or a strategic foothold that can shift the balance of power in the shadowed depths. The Rune Reader had become a master navigator of this treacherous realm, learning to read the subtle signs in rock.
Within the depths, strange and deadly creatures lurk; mutant rats, cavern-dwelling monsters, and restless spirits that refuse to find peace. The Skaven, ever cunning and treacherous, have established their warrens here, waging constant war against any outsider brave enough to enter their domain. The Undead, remnants of long-dead miners and adventures, shuffle through shadowed halls, driven by dark necromantic forces. While cultists, goblins, and rogue factions carve out their own territories, vying for control over lost relics, ancient pathways, and arcane secrets. Every step taken deeper into Ungdrin Ankor is a gamble; one that could lead to unimaginable riches such as those in Karak Azgal, cursed relics like those the depths of Karag Dron, or death in the dark like with the perils beneath Karak Eight Peaks. Amidst the chaos, the warband’s existence is a delicate balance; an ongoing struggle to survive, to harness the ancient magic, and to carve out a trade route through the darkness.
Often the warband’s trade convoy snakes its way eastward, threading through the perilous terrain of the Border Princes and to the prosperous port city of Luccini.
The Princes have become a patchwork of outlaw kingdoms, bandit clans, and mercenary strongholds. Here, the warband’s scouts navigate narrow mountain passes and scarred plains, wary of rival factions and desperate warbands seeking to claim the trade goods for themselves. Exiting the mountains, and through the borderlands, the route descends along the swift rapids of Blood River, and towards the Black Gulf. A cursed, tempestuous sea of darkwater, submerged rock outcrops, and wreckage. Ships brave enough to traverse its waters report ghostly vessels and unearthly lights beneath the waves; spectral ships haunted by their doomed crews, forever cursed to sail the storm-torn waters. Pirates and smugglers use the Gulf as a haven, lurking amidst the whirlpools and fog banks, trading stolen goods and forbidden knowledge. The warband’s caravans here skirt along the coast, seeking safe passages between the storms, often stopping at hidden coves or trading outposts nestled in the rocky coves. The route then climbs through the Apuccini Mountains, and the Maidens Pass. A narrow road that passes through the range of jagged peaks, and it is said that somewhere beneath one of the peaks lies the resting place of a long-forgotten artifact.
Finally emerging from the shadowed passes of the mountains and the storm-wracked waters of the Gulf, the warband reaches Luccini. A sprawling and ancient city of wealth and intrigue, it serves as the hub of trade for all manner of illicit goods; arcane relics, daemonic artifacts, and forbidden technologies. It is the destination for many a warband or caravan seeking to sell their spoils, begin a campaign as sellswords, or to obtain goods from distant lands.
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The lost Anvil of Karak Zorn
Long before Karaz-a-Karak rose to power, before the War of Vengeance sundered alliances, there was Karak Zorn; the First Hold, the jewel of the southern mountains, and its king, Gordion Emberforge the wealthiest Dwarf who ever lived.
Karak Zorn hollowed halls were so vast and echoing that footsteps would take days to reach from gate to gate. Gordion’s throne was carved from a single meteoric gemstone, and his beard was braided with links of platinum. Traders came from across the world; lizardmen from the jungles, elfs from the sea, and men from distant Khemri, Ind, and Cathay, all for the riches and craft of Karak Zorn’s bounty. Its peaks pierced the heavens, its halls shone with gems the size of a fist, and its people; stout, noble, and unshakably proud, were unmatched in craft and courage.
But Gordion was not satisfied. The veins of gold that ran through the mountain fed his coffers for centuries, and the rivers of molten metal flowed so freely that gold became as common as iron. Still the King’s pride demanded more than riches, not a throne built on wealth, but a kingdom forged in the image of eternity. He sought not gold mined or forged, but gold born of magic. He turned to the deep runes, those forbidden, and ancient scripts said to be etched by Grungni himself. Against the counsel of his Runelords, he inscribed a rune upon his hammer: the Rune of Endless Gilding. With each strike of that weapon, stone turned to gold.
At first, the rune seemed like a miracle. Every strike of the king’s hammer turned stone into pure, gleaming gold. He gilded the walls of the hold, the pillars, the forges, the floor beneath his feet. Statues of iron and granite became monuments of unmatched opulence. Even the air took on a golden shimmer in the deepest halls. Traders traveled from across the world to witness the wonder. Kings sent emissaries bearing priceless gifts, begging to glimpse the halls, for Karak Zorn glowed like the sun, even in the deepest depths. But gold is soft. Gold is heavy. And gold buckles where stone holds fast.
In time the first collapse came without warning. A feast hall, newly gilded, caved in upon the royal family. Then the western aqueducts cracked under the weight of golden pressure. Vaults buckled, gates jammed shut. When miners went to shore up the foundations, they found magma had begun to leak where once stone held firm. Gold had replaced the natural bedrock, and the mountain was no longer stable. Then came the quake. And so Karak Zorn collapsed inward. The Rune of Endless Gilding, no longer sated, gilded the king himself. With his last breath, Gordion screamed not in agony, but in awe, as his flesh turned to shimmering ore.
The jungle swallowed the smoke, and deep beneath the jungle the Rune still glows. A remnant of survivors breached a forgotten side tunnel, and emerged into the blinding sunlight of the jungle. For weeks they wandered, battered, and ash-choked, through the heat, and green madness of the Southlands. They carried no gold, only relics, tools, and the stories of what they had lost. They built no new hold, instead they lived in hidden stones along cliff sides, and hunted jungle beasts. Deep within the Jungle of the Gods, some say their descendants still dwell, cloaked in secrecy and bitterness. They guarded the last riches of Karak Zorn, and the Anvil of Songs, the last and greatest heirloom of Grungni’s first temple.
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The Stingrays of Luccini
The Stingrays are a mercenary company originally formed to defend the harbours and merchant convoys of Luccini. Provided there’s enough silver, their services are now available for a variety of tasks, whether dealing with hunted pirate fleets, northern raiders, and other ever-present dangers of the ocean. Helmeted and heavily armoured sailors, they are specialists with pike and shot. Their renown and namesake comes from their use and knowledge of “Manann’s bone meal”, a mineral dredged from sunken sea caves, when lit it burns with a white flame that neither water nor wind can quench. Survivors tell of battles at dusk, of the horizon lit like a second dawn, or of marksmen wreathed in spectral fire as they reload within the roar of the surf. This devastating munition can be found among many of the company in grenades, shot, and shells. The Whaleback their fearsome flagship is designed for stealth, though small in stature it has a likeness to the great ships of Barak Varr. Its eerie appearance often accompanied by a low rumbling fog, strikes fear into those who encounter it. The crew’s renown makes them a versatile company for hire, whether escorting merchant fleets or caravans. Those seeking the company should contact the docks of Luccini or Sartosa for their services.
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At the Root of the Mountain
Beyond the Black Gulf, a river ran from the mouth of an endless cavern, only accessible on the largest of full moons and at the lowest of tides. Within innumerable stalactites hung from the ceiling, lost in darkness, their tips dripped steady rivulets that fell into the black water below with long hollow echoes. The drops bouncing off the walls, multiplied like rain, as if the cavern itself were whispering secrets that no one could fully understand. The water stretched out before them, black and silent, swallowing any reflection from the lanterns on the ship. Beyond the dim glow, the water deepened and vanished into shadow. The crew had no way of knowing if they had made a wrong turn in this labyrinth of veins that ran beneath the mountain, only time would tell, and so in the solitude it was days before the Whaleback finally drifted toward the end of the river’s source, a long wide lake, and finally a causeway near its end. The ships low hull a fragile silhouette against the cavern’s monstrous scale, its lights glimmered like tiny sparks in an infinite sky, their light lost almost immediately in the surrounding void. Each movement of the ship across the lake created faint ripples that stretched out endlessly, consuming any sense of distance or direction. From the causeway, the dwarves and exiles could see how small and vulnerable the vessel truly was, dwarfed by the cavern as if it were a toy adrift in a sunless ocean. They were the best sailors money could buy, yet still beard-lings compared to the dwarfs who had hired them, they hoped the young crew was stout enough still to help them retrieve it from the depths of the mountain. As in response the Stingrays began to land, each in turn leapt onto the stone with careful movements, boots ringing sharply against the cold, damp surface. The sounds swallowed almost instantly by the cavern, bouncing back in distorted echoes that made every footfall feel both near and impossibly far. Even the seasoned sailors, who had faced the strongest of storm tossed seas and boarding actions, felt the unease crawling along their spines. The emptiness of the space was total; there were no walls in sight, no ceiling to anchor perception, only the distant, flickering glow of lanterns, torchlights, and the faintly phosphorescent sheen of wet stone. The way sound bent in the cavern, folding in on itself, made simple coordination difficult. An echo meant to carry across the lake could come back distorted, distant, and threatening, making it hard to tell friend from foe. Beyond the Whaleback, shadows shifted as if alive. The dwarves and exiles exchanged silent glances as they watched the crew disembark, their tension mirrored in the way they shifted their weight, adjusted their weapons, and scanned the darkness. There was a shared understanding between them, both unspoken and heavy.
Finally the captain barked orders from the deck of the ship, and the crew sprang into action. From the ship’s sides, they began firing flares into the darkness above the lake. The powder ignited the moment it left the vessel, bursting into brilliant white flames that burned with a cold, unwavering light. The flares spilled across the cavern, revealing more than stone and water; of dust that had settled in thick layers along ledges and pillars, untouched for centuries, of moss and lichen clung in patches, pale and fragile, suggesting light had once touched this deep cavern if only in the distant memory of some long forgotten time before eruption and fissure. The air itself seemed saturated with waiting, as if the cavern had existed in patient silence since before the surface kingdoms of men were founded, keeping its secrets beneath layers of stone and shadow. For every ripple on the black water mirrored the brilliance above, and so the lake appeared both shallow and bottomless, reflecting a world doubled and made strange. Of archways, stone pillars, and rock-faces, all towering in endless directions like the columns of a foundation, in some vast and forgotten hall. Sharp reliefs gleamed with faintly opalescent colours as the flares passed by, catching angles of light the eye could barely follow. Every step of the crew along the causeway echoed against these cathedrals that surrounded them. The dwarves, exiles, and sailors alike paused, momentarily struck silent, as if realising that for untold ages, that this beauty had existed unseen, waiting here in the depths. Finally, with all assembled, and the last flare fading into the horizon, they began to march.
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