You toil beneath the blackened earth in quarries and workshops long blighted by the sun. Your whips crack upon the backs of slaves, wretched to
Look upon. You care not for comfort, nor light, nor warmth. In the bowels of the earth you make
Your home. You take from the ground, most blessed of Hashut, it’s raw materials and twist and malform them anew. You apply alchemy and sorcery behind the comprehension of lesser forms . From rock and ash you extract the raw elements of fire.
Not the fire of the hearth but the fire of fury. The fire of destruction that you shall bring to bear upon your foe. You alone wield these elements with such precision and when the guns of the Dawi Zharr sound off, it is the breath of the Farther Of Darkness that flows forth. Fire from ash.
Oh to see such a thing! The ranked mass infantry reloading, aiming and taking fire in perfect unison. How the barbarians scatter before you, how they weep, wail and gnash their teeth at the ludicrous brilliance of a technology so far from their understanding.
For you are Industrious. And this is an expression of war on an industrial scale.
You shall educate the lesser races on the nuances of your technology, the might of your science and the scope of your ambition, from the barrel of your gun.
It is a lesson they shall not forget.
Thus spoke Xarathustra.