The Journals of Khvath Slaveborn.

Scythe of Tenebratha Obsidia. Hand of the Scales of Justice. Forbidden Loremaestro of Maker's Run. Lord-Marshal of Waystone Arena. Entrepeneur. Black Pilgrim of the Prime Dominion. Seneschal of the Gilded Eye. Information Broker. Public Accountant.

[khvath-slaveborn]

"I used to dream I'd run this city. Now that dream is over, and the Serpent of Carngrad is awake. The Gilded Eye gazes over the city and sees what is not ours, and now it knows: This cannot be. It would take overwhelming force, divine wrath, and bitter scorn to take Carngrad. And what do you know? I've brought all three." - Khvath, formerly Slaveborn, on returning to Carngrad mid-late Era of Ruin.

[474lyse]

Parallels

[khvath-slaveborn]

A Scandalous Breakout; The Serpent of Carngrad Walks Free Again!

In an absolutely shocking turn of events in the distant and blighted realm of Eightpoints, the trial of the era saw an unforgettable postponement this morning during the pre-trial process. What was at first believed to be a swarm of petty raiders turned out to be masking a far deadlier foe in their plume of dust - a great force of mechanical abominations direct from the City of Carngrad!

It is believed that the city acquired these mechanical horrors shortly before the infamous Serpent of Carngrad - Khvath Slaveborn - returned to the city after many years of absence. Following his every order, it is speculated that these metal abominations were critical in the Serpent's recent securing of the city's streets.

Curiously, no two units of machine were found to be the same. Although the dual Stormcast forces of the Order of the Path's End and the Sojourners of Indraga were able to crush many of the rampaging machines, they reported that the force varied wildly from crude greenskin and Skaven technology to machines far more advanced than should be possible on the world stage of the Mortal Realms.

Although the battle was long and hard, in the end, Slaveborn's considerable Carngrad force was able to burn the Order of the Path's End's courthouse and secure the Serpent before justice could be meted out. He is currently presumed to be hiding back in his blighted Bloodwind Spoil city and its many hideouts, although the Knight responsible for representing Khvath in court - whose name is here anonymized for public safety concerns - suggests that he may be headed for another of his numerous safehouses throughout the Mortal Realms.

Readers of the Hammerhal Herald, from our home in Aqshy and Ghyran to our informed patrons in Hysh, Shyish, Chamon, and beyond, are advised to keep watch for the sinister workings of the Serpent of Carngrad. Any sightings of the notorious Eightpoints criminal are to be reported immediately to your local Freeguild, temple, or Stormkeep.

--From the Hammerhal Herald, dated mid-late Spring, mid-late Era of Ruin

[khvath-slaveborn]

TRIAL OF THE ERA!!

Stormcast vs. Stormcast in an impossible legal battle for the life of a vile sorcerer!

It has been a stunning, months-long trial in the halls of the Metalgate, where once it was said that Chaos' servants go to die. Now the legal teams of the merciless Order of the Path's End and the capricious Sojourners of Indraga clash in a heated courtroom battle of words that has left all of Eightpoints stunned!

Where the Order demands the death of the hated and feared fugitive Khvath Slaveborn, the Sojourners speak to the good in the sorcerer's rotten soul. With compelling evidence of his redemptive works, even in restoring cities the Grand Alliance once thought lost such as Maker's Run and Eklysium, the Sojourners of Indraga put forth a stirring case in line with Sigmar's own beliefs - that all deserve redemption, even the lowliest of dregs.

Yet the hardliner foes of Chaos in the Order of the Path's End are not so stirred. Pointing to the history of atrocities in Khvath Slaveborn's wicked life, from his failure to protect the Prime Dominion to his conquest of Carngrad using almost certainly stolen Azyrite technology, this callous wizard has cost more lives to Order than the hated Ruinstorms over Chamon.

The legal arguments continue long into the night, until mortal frailty calls that court must be adjourned. Will the Serpent of Carngrad see redemption and protection from Sigmar's own Stormcast? Or will he finally face justice for his many vile crimes, at the merciless hands of the Order?

This reporter can but speculate, but the results of this trial could not only change the fate of Khvath Slaveborn, but of all relations between Chaos and Order throughout Eightpoints, for generations to come. Let us hope the right choice is made in court, for the good of all the Mortal Realms! Praise Sigmar and the Order Pantheon!

--From the Hammerhal Herald, dated early Spring. mid-late Era of Ruin

[khvath-slaveborn]

To the Stewards of the Sojourners of Indraga, Stormhost of Great Renown

I bid you good tidings: I am Khvath. I understand you know that, just as I understand you know this greeting is a formality, especially now. I regret that I cannot offer you anything of my grand estate in my present condition, bound beneath realm of Chamon like Lokai the Trickster below the star-serpent Dracothion's purifying gaze. I apologize a thousand times for the outburst regarding the eye; I was hysterical, under horrible duress.

The truth is, I need your help. In my time in this once-godsforsaken hole, I have proven myself a fine tenant and a capable steward yet again. In just six months, I have already organized a community effort to clean the cells of filth and graffiti. You know I am not a good man. But you also know I am a useful one.

My handler with the Order of Azyr has made it clear he knows the extent of my crimes. He has made it equally clear that the Order of the Path's End and the Court of the Mercurial Gate would see me hanged, likely by my own intestines. I have taken this as inevitable, given the weight of my sins.

This is why I am taking a desperate gambit for survival. I have invoked the Right of Orderly Representation and refused to be represented by one of the Path's End's mad Ordinators. This leaves me with two choices, I represent myself…or I reach out to you. As former partners. As enemies of the Path's End. As someone who will literally owe you my life: Stand for me at court and put every ounce of trickster will and spirit your finest orator's electric blood can muster into ensuring I do not die here.

Forever in your debt, if you succeed; Khvath

[khvath-slaveborn]

KHVATH SLAVEBORN ARRESTED!

People of Azyr and All the Realms Beyond, REJOICE! The foul criminal empire of the wretched gang boss - and Chaos kingpin of a thousand vices - KHVATH SLAVEBORN, THE SERPENT OF CARNGRAD, has been laid low!

In a daring midnight strike against the Chaos-occupied city of Carngrad in the blighted Allpoints "Bloodwind Spoil", the mighty Hammers of Sigmar - aided by the pitiless vanguards of the Order of the Path's End and the roguish tactical aces of the Sojourners of Indraga - crushed the city beneath their heel!

Returning to their watch fortress at the Metalgate with many foes of Chaos slain and the dread criminal K. Slaveborn in their grasp, the city is certain to collapse on its own any day and become only a sore memory in the effort to reclaim the Allpoints.

Slaveborn's sentencing is expected to be swift and judicious, with no mercy spared for the accused. Already he has been branded as an apostate and granted a cell in the blackest pit of Koreisch Prison, so all will know his shame.

[khvath-slaveborn]

Dark Deeds of the Great Ages Chapter 1:

Boris the Ox

Boris the Ox, Breaker of Hearts

In the deadly art of Umak-tai, few moves are illegal, for the brutal art's deadly blood-shedding techniques are meant to maim or disfigure the strong and utterly slaughter the weak. The terrifying grapples of an Umak-tai Deathbringer can crack a man open at the waist and pull the legs from an Azyrite cogfort. When combined with the wicked chants and blessed growls of a Slaughterpriest, they can crack open the walls of a fortress and still sunder dozens of warriors for meters around.

Yet there is forbidden attack in Umak-tai, for in its dark history, all around its practitioners have suffered until the Blood Gods angels come to repay the insult. Most only perform this technique once, for the shame inflicted on both warrior and victim is enough to drive most Umak-tai disciples to an early grave. This technique is known as the Heartbreaker Punch, a devastating and decisive blow to the chest that only a handful have ever survived. Channeling all the warrior's hate into the knuckles of their primary striking hand, the blow must be delivered swiftly and without hesitation. If successful, the anger felt by the Umak-tai practitioner will channel straight to the foe's heart, causing it to burst completely. Yet the cost of this technique, and the reason it is considered an insult to Umak-tai's principles, is that the foe drops dead in a moment – and all their blood remains within, denied to the Blood God's sight. Although some have tried to redeem themselves by defiling the corpses after, offering Khorne his skull in hopes of penance, the fact remains: They have bent the iron purpose of Umak-tai to selfish ends, channeling its secrets to kill a foe for selfish reasons, instead of for the Blood God's sake. Denying the Charnel Lord is a dark insult indeed, and the Umak-tai warrior who performs a Heartbreaker Punch is forever denied entry through the gates of the Brass Fortress.

During the Second Skullpike Subjugation Wars, during the middle of the Arcanum Optimar, the greatest champion of Umak-tai was Boris the Ox. Not yet called by the title that defines him now as a traitor to the Blood God, Boris the Ox became the Umak-tai champion of the Iron Bulls, an Iron Golems warband with roots in Eightpoints since the Everchosen's return.

In the final trial to determine who would serve at the right hand of the Master Dargarot, he resisted a twisting grapple known as the Horn of Dazgar which could snap a man in half just below the ribs. Instead, Boris devastating counter-tackle – Kaggar Pulls the Nose-Ring – which locked around his rival's limbs and shattered all six into uselessness.

When sent against the rebels of the Twisting Coil – a Slaaneshi revolution that had turned against the Iron Golem overseers in the varanite forge of Tullius' Claim – the fighting turned bitterly against the Iron Bulls. Master Dargarot was slain in the first encounter and their forces decimated from a grand detachment to a lowly force of a dozen claimants. Boris the Ox was to be the new leader of the Iron Bulls, a role which he had coveted yet strangely found himself ill-suited for.

Before long, they had sabotaged a good amount of Twisting Coil supply lines in deadly guerilla warfare. Yet four more of their number had died, and they were no closer to escaping Varanthrax's Maw back to the relative safety of their village. All they could imagine was to push on and destroy as much of the rebellion as they can before facing heroic death for the Blood God. In the face of the mocking rebel lord Vargas Wormsoul, however, Boris the Ox could imagine no peace. In a climactic battle that cost yet more of the Iron Bulls' lives, Boris baited Vargas into a duel and was nearly slain. Yet at the moment of almost certain death, he called on the deep well of hatred that brewed within him and lashed out with the Heartbreaker Punch.

At first he believed he had done no harm at all. Although the hubristic lord stumbled back, his bare chest had scarcely a mark on it. Then, within moments, a terrible bruising spread across his body from the left side of his chest, and he fell dead from the effort of attempting to point his sword in challenge. Their morale broken, the Twisting Coil warband fled from the Iron Bull ambushers. Left without a leader, the Twisting Coil rebellion soon splintered and was crushed by the Iron Golem forces around Tullius' Claim. The forge had been recaptured. Yet the few survivors of Boris' warband now distrusted their warmaster, who had taken an enemy's life with Umak-tai yet given no blood to the blood god.

Yet Boris the Ox felt no shame. Instead, he taunted his allies. They were doomed to die until he executed the Heartbreaker. That decisive act doomed the Twisting Coil and won the forge of the ancestors back into their fold. Why should it matter that the Brass Hound felt spurned by the act? The glory on these realms would vast outweigh the glory denied to Khorne. Affronted, the remainder of his warband attacked and each found their hearts pounded away in their chest. Two remained, and they trembled before Boris in fear that he would deny them, too, the afterlife they sought.

Sated by their cowardice, he took them under his fold and twisted their minds. The beginnings of this new martial cult more resembled the twisted ways of Be'lakor's Legionnaires than Khorne's mighty bloodbound, and soon a mighty warband grew indeed, defying Khorne with all their prowess. Blunt instruments for those who could not master the Heartbreaker Punch; strict indoctrination of those who could.

Before long, Boris the Ox had fallen from Khorne's grace but risen in Archaon's favor. When at last Khorne could bear the insult no longer, the eerily patient warbands of Skulltaker were soon on his heels. Boris the Ox, Breaker of Hearts, who had hoarded a thousand souls for his selfish pride, fled from Skulltaker in evidence of his true nature.

This act of cowardice caused him to siphon off followers. He rapidly spent his final days trading every favor his wicked trail of conquest had gained him for another few moments of life. Even the favor of the Iron Golems, at first willing to look the other way at his underhanded methods, had finally dwindled away to nothing until he was alone. Lost in the Hungry Forests, Skulltaker found it too easy to corner the foe and challenge him for the Blood God's due.

Trapped, desperate, and starving for life, Boris the Ox, Breaker of Hearts, fought Skulltaker for nearly eight minutes. As the battle slowly slipped from Boris' grasp, his lacerated limbs lacking the strength the crush the daemon, terror and hubris overtook him. With a technique never before tested, he attempted the first anti-daemonic Heartbreaker Punch. This technique would go unnamed, for his most powerful strike – the strike of a man who had killed a thousand foes with his bare fists, who craved survival like a clanrat craves warpstone – glanced harmlessly from the heartless chest of Skulltaker.

Skulltaker did not even spare his foe a mocking laugh. He caught Boris the Ox's arm from his chest, raised it to expose his ribs, and slowly slid his god-slaying blade into Boris' flesh. The wounded warlord grasped desperately with both hands, trying in a panic to remove the blade or crush his foe's bones or claw the daemon's eyes. All his struggling was for nothing, and the pain that consumed him second by agonizing second was nothing compared to what awaited him in the Brass Fortress, now that Khorne had at long last collected his blood tithe.

[khvath-slaveborn]

Dark Deeds of the Great Age: A History of Wretched Acts in the Bloodwind Spoil

Written and Compiled by Khvath

Introduction

As you may know from following my histories, I am a firm believer that to know the extremes of Chaos is to avoid falling prey to its excesses. Anything is justifiable if done with purpose, with a goal in mind. Yet to indulge yourself in unnecessary cruelty in depravity, you give up more than your soul to Chaos. You give your mind to it, your body to it, it hollows you out and fills you with a black intelligence no longer your own. Some thrive on the Path this way, becoming monsters of legend who tear their way through a thousand souls. These candles burn twice as bright, and when their time runs out, it leaves behind scattered warbands and broken machinations. Ambition unfulfilled.

I feel that disproportionate use of force is good as a deterrent. It is always good to brandish overwhelming strength or numbers, but to execute them without cause is to dull their effectiveness. You lose bargaining chips when your reputation turns to that of a butcher; the enemy would rather die than face you in negotiation. Chaos demands souls, and though it galls them so, not all souls are promised to Chaos. Yet if they promise to Chaos in waking, their souls belong to the gods live or die. An unwilling soul is treasured, but a willing servant is relished. Therefore, to devolve into the sadism Chaos so relishes, you sacrifice the ability to serve Chaos as anything but its puppet.

Therefore, I have recorded these wretched deeds of Chaos champions through the Great Ages of the Mortal Realms. Some fell to their hubris, some lay dormant or even fell to other gods, while some still stalk the wastes of the Mortal Realms today. These mortals have earned their infamy, whether its consequences have come to bear or not. These deeds are chronicled as a warning of the excesses of the Path to Glory. If these deeds shock and horrify you, you will last on the Path to Glory by heeding their lessons. If you revere or envy these black acts, you will be damned as Chaos' puppet and of no use to the Everchosen.

[deejwalker]

Hey, yall, won't hold you. This is my ex and dear friend, Amari, who does what I do for others here elsewhere. She's a black trans woman with a heart of gold and a low tolerance for the bullshit.

She's in need of general survival funds. She's very reserved. Please help, however you can.

I'm not sure I'm allowed to link or share much else. If I can, I'll follow up with a goal, more info and some art incentive if she'd like.

If you could do me a favor and comment dm or tag me when you've shared with her, as she has preferred apps but any and all help would go a mile.

Here's her post:

Thanks yall. Stay safe out there. Happy Pride 💜

[deejwalker]

Speaking of. Amari is also consistently putting others first and leaving herself vulnerable to potential housing crisis. She's awesome and I wish we could see each other more. Instead, we spend our time grounded a vulnerable. She's been in two similar ruts since this post. I try to drop in and out of circulating her stuff for her safety, but now is the scariest time for all of us. So, if u can help her out, you should.

[nettlesandvines]

When you get P O S S E S S E D by a project.

[nettlesandvines]

I know I showed this off in a generalized update. However, I think it needs it's own post.

14cnt, approx. 6 hours, pattern link, inspo link

[khvath-slaveborn]

Journal of Khvath Slaveborn, Dated Early-Mid Vermindoom.

Skarash visited tonight. He hasn't changed much, but I had his long-awaited secrets. He thought I'd forgotten; as if I ever could. We drank and spoke of philosophy. He threatened me many times. I could not have asked for gladder tidings. I leave for Eightpoints at dawn. Good night.

--

I had a vision last night. Just as I lamented the silence of the gods, the path to war stretches before me again.

I've been doing a lot of lamenting lately, really. My nightly journeys have availed me no deeper insight into the secrets of the cosmos. My life as a statesman sees me showered every day with scorn and treachery. Profit has frozen as my home-away runs red with blood and the cancer in its streets try to reject their only cure. I am beginning to fear for the safety of my storehouses of liquor.

Last night I lamented to Skarash that the Gods were unfair. At first I had wondered why I did so. Now I know - I needed a perspective grounded in reality. I lament the lack of paradise to a man who has lived in Hell all his days. He reminds me that his fists are caked in gore, while my hands are powdered, painted and wine-stained.

I've become too soft, too used to the benefits of my position. I shirk the responsibilities I once adored; fear the challenges I once faced with cold, calculating logic. Once I was an executioner. Now I am merely an executor.

Yet when I feel paradise has abandoned me, paradise opens again. A premonition in my dreams calls me to the future. Only visions and shadows now, but promising to take shape. Four great warriors, each the pinnacle of the primal forces of the Realms. Each bathed in golden light.

Then the golden light cracks behind them, and they are forced to defend. Green light pours into their heavenly realm. A force of rage too brutal to be Khorne, yet too cunning to be the Horned Rat, bears down on them.

Then I awoke in dizzied atrophy. Hung over. Badly, very badly.

I'd not felt this way since I cowered in Furnace City; thrown in with the greenskins until I could escape to Chamon.

I felt like I did in the war. And now, war calls me again.

More later.

[khvath-slaveborn]

Hello, new journal. My name is Khvath Slaveborn. Your successor served me well over what still remains one of the most taxing times of my life, and now I put my hopes in you, that you shall not fail where it did. I fear that journal is lost forever in the caves below what is now Furnace City, and I dread to think of the terrible fate that befell its fine leather cover and hand-mâchéd pages in that grot-infested hell.

There will surely come more scowls and malcontent in your pages in the future, but for now, I am committing to memory the positives since I escaped Hysh's most Stygian depths. For one, a favor from my dear friends in the Templars of Our Burning Savior saw me spending some time on a drilling rig bound for Chamon. There I lived for some weeks among the oft-whispered but rarely seen duardin of Hashut, the Chaos God of Industry and Commerce. I found their arguments – or at least the arguments conveyed by their translator – highly convincing and believe I shall implement elements of Hashutian worship into my melange of spiritual practices.

When I and my surviving men arose in Chamon, it was to great fortune. I found myself aiding in the siege of an Order city on the brink of wretched completion. Ten years in assembly and on the eve of its founding, I conspired with honorable knights of Nurgle and cunning Skaven engineers to subvert the city's own leylines. Little did we know, but Death had also tampered with our magic – a circumstance that still haunts the city to this day.

Regardless, the Orderlings called this city Maker's Run, a name which we kept on its eruption into plague and ruin. After some time of conflict, I secured an undamaged fortress in the city's heart. This prize gained me both my new base of operations in Chamon – the handsome club-fortress of Veridia Deux – but also the Waystone Arena beside it. Now in charge of the city's two chief sources of entertainment, I'm working to my own ends (profit, mostly) hiring both mercenary warbands to secure my fortunes and gladiatorial champions to maintain them.

My retinue have secured victories of their own. Many of my warriors have begun their own paths to ascension, using our time in Chamon to construct their mighty suits of armor. I myself feel the touch of the gods, as my communion with more and more spiritually attuned beings have taught me deeper and deeper secrets of arcane might. I shall not stray from the path I have already set, for to reach higher is a terribly potent hubris, but I feel I have been rewarded at last for my efforts. To cease them now would be to dishonor all that came before me.

One thing does trouble me, however. Unlike many beneath the eye of the gods, I have a home, which I have not seen in some years now. Few things phase or terrify me any more, but the thought of Carngrad's fate without my guiding hand does give me pause. I've dreamed neither sign nor portent of the great city where my name was made, and one day I will have to return to it. I am a Black Pilgrim now, a sorcerer on the march to the status of Varanguard, and one day I will have to petition before the throne of the Everchosen.

So what becomes of my mind if I find Carngrad in ruins? What becomes of my soul when I see my works undone – or, perhaps worse, the city unchanged from how I left it? What will I do when I return to Carngrad a far different man from the simple courier praying for survival in its gore-soaked streets?

We will see. There will come a time when I return to Carngrad, to pass through the Eightpoints. If all goes well, it will not only be the forces of Chaos who march me to that destiny.

[khvath-slaveborn]

War Journal: Salvation of the Prime Dominion #8

I'm sorry I've not written in you more, dear journal. Worse, I fear that I've come too far to ever write in you again. I'm out of options. Mogrek's forces have found my secret base in Merlara and deployed their idol to destroy it. It seems I've become a nuisance, and I hear the Kruleboyz have trained some of their allies to whisper my name. It's like they know it maddens me.

I'm donning a suit of armor and heading for the front. I had it packed in preparation for this event, but I prayed I would not need it. Now, may this gift from the Gilded Eye of Carngrad ferry me to victory. If not, I will see you all when the world ends again.

More later. Or perhaps not.

[khvath-slaveborn]

Concerning The Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades #5

Chapter Four: On the Short Reign of The Brute

I recall my first impression of this history being one of disbelief on having first read it. Indeed, it and the third very nearly convinced me that there was naught in The Recent Histories of the Dawnbringer Crusades that might affect me anywhere near to the future. However, my persistence was rewarded by the future volumes, and I consider this one now with fresh eyes.

We open on a brief epigram on the nature of sacrifice by Prime Commander of Hammerhal, Katrik le Guillon. My experiences in the War for the Salvation of the Prime Dominion proved the truth of her words, that war cannot be fought without sacrifice. When forces come together for the good of all, it strengthens your chances to win the war, but it weakens your heart. It opens it to break. Your allies will stand beside you, and they will die, and if you're lucky you will too.

The introduction to The Recent Histories of the Dawnbringer Crusades: Book Two: The Reign of the Brute concerns the struggle of the Twin-Tailed Crusade against the mighty Troll-King Trugg, a battle which seems eminently laughable to me. We shall see in future chapters why my faith in the Troll-King's weakness is misplaced, but it still seems to me that the Dawnbringers were far less equipped for the battle they faced than would an equivalently sized horde of Darkoath. “March boldly into the murderous wilds!” exhorts some distant Azyrite scriptorium monk, a sentiment I find laughable in the face of what is to come for them.

The opening narrative essentially restates the ending of The Harbingers, but expands its scope. So many Crusaders are being recruited that even in Aqshy, some of the city's defenders doubt anyone will be left in the city for defense. This Hanniver and Toll are a dour couple, and if this undertaking causes even them to express doubt, the stakes must have seemed dire indeed. I, of course, regard their caution as cowardice, but one can hardly blame one's lessers for expressing doubt at a time like this.

The initial phases of the war seemed, from Aqshy's point of view, to be a phenomenal success. Under the command of Fist Marshal Tahlia Vedra, their progress seemed invincible. Her progress seemed opposed only by her marching partner, Pontifex Zenestra, head of a cult so foolish and stupid I dare not even commit their name to further paper. Soon their steel was put to the test against a horde of orruks, over whom they triumphed.

Yet as ever, their plan to abandon their cities proved foolish – their walls abandoned, they were immediately besieged by a force of the Blood God's finest, and their precious commander had to flee back to their citadels and pray there was anything left. How humorous.

Next, we rejoin the grot swarms deep below the earth. Here, they have found the presence of a mighty monster – the great Troll-King Trugg (Here called Troggoth King, seemingly by Braggit's own recommendation – likely an old grot word) resting in his cavern. He was partially awakened by a surge of energy from Alarielle's lifeswell, but was taken to full lucidity (and unspeakable, savage anger) by the belligerent howling of the Rabble-Rowza.

Trugg's rampage is speculated to follow along the great leylines and geomantic nexuses, first steering him and a horde of other trolls clean through twin Fyreslayer lodges, ever-doomed are they. This process left a single survivor, which as I understand it makes him a new Grimhold Exile? This survivor, Thul, crosses the Adamantine Chain to warn of the great troll march.

The next page concerns the near-complete takeover of the abandoned Aqshy crusade by the dreaded Pontifex Zenestra. Seemingly more concerned about the welfare of her army's wheels than she is the purging of heretics and greenskins, I have my suspicions she is not who she appears – like an agent of the Great Changer, in the way she commands fanatical devotion while convincing her servants to do the most foolish acts. It is very bold and conniving.

It is here in the narrative that I recall growing concerned about the might of this Troggoth King Trugg, for it is said he faced against mighty empire of the Clotting River Tribes and soundly thrashed them. Even one of their loosed Khorgoraths was no match for the Troll-King, its body shattering on its horns like a corpse presented as a trophy. Yet my heart swelled, for though the mighty king may have been what felled the Tribes of Burning Blood, his unstoppable might was still aimed now towards the Dawnbringer Crusade.

Suffice it to say, the attack on Trugg in the open field was utterly doomed from the start. Though offering an impressive first showing, this Marshal Malchon who challenges the sinister wisdom of Zenestra failed his men and his family in a stunning failed assault. These victims were outsmarted by a horde of grots and overpowered by a barely-awake mountain. Now Trugg's horde marched towards Trucebreak, where the rest of the crusade waits by Zenestra's side.

This Zenestra is a curious character. With only a token few words, she drove this Malchorn from the edge of despair at a humiliating loss and into a frenzy of suicidal devotion. As his men fell to blades guided by their own terror, Malchorn gave his life in a suicidal attack at the center of their defenses. However, the cold reality of battle is that heroic gestures are not the be-all, end-all of conflict, and scores of trolls and armies of goblins still pursued the rest of the crusade as they fled eastward.

At the very last, this mysterious Pontifex created a great sorcerous weave – a “wheel” of eight “spokes” that burned all grots and troggoths caught within to flames, but healed and empowered the fleeing Dawnbringers. Surely this is no scene of Chaos sorcery, and their mighty spiritual purity remains so. Especially in light of her command that her soldiers surge forward and be willingly buried under a mountain crushed by her mighty “blessing”. Ever thus to the Great Wheel, indeed.

The final passages regarding the Aqshy Crusade call it the Crusade of Fire, a fairly archetypal name but one I'll use nonetheless. The final passage speaks of the horrific dangers of the Great Parch (which sounds frankly rosy compared to some places in the Bloodwind Spoil), and of the legendar endurance of the marching soldiers of Hammerhal Aqsha. The book strikes me as propaganda, which it may still be, but I can safely it is an illuminating and even-handed propaganda piece, remaining incredibly honest about the terrible costs of their previous battles and the perils the Crusaders faced along the way. Although it may seem soft to those of use who march below the banner of Chaos, this was the most brutal struggle of many of these men's lives.

Finally, the book speaks at some length to the known history of Trugg the Troggoth King. Written of only fleetingly, under strange names such as 'Old Stoneshatter' to the Khazalid and 'Grampa Charlie' to the Ironguts. Mostly seen in Ghyran, its appearance in Aqshy was an unclear anomaly to me – it passed through a realmgate, but where was this realmgate, and how was it led there?

On its back is a great realmgate of its own, built by druids in a long-ancient past while Trugg slept beneath Androceia (a land my research has availed precious little about), seeking to protect themselves from Nurgle's plagues. However, the gate they built was limited in utility – it could not serve as a portal to anywhere except the fringes of the realms, where their energy is focused through the strange gate. Trugg's current form is most affected by the damage wrought to the leystone in the Age of Chaos – given to great Ghyranite elements of regal beastliness, he grew horns and his own natural vines and plants.

Overall, Trugg is a terrifying entity, not just for its strength and size, but for the terrifying focus of life and fire that flares in a rage on its back. Whether healing its already impossibly-dense form, or casting flame on Trugg's enemies, he is a force to be reckoned with, nearly resembling a sorcerer in his own way. That he is loosed on the Mortal Realms now after centuries asleep bodes ill for us all.

[khvath-slaveborn]

Concerning The Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades #4

Chapter Three: Perspectives on the Eve of a Twin-Tailed War

I am not as familiar with this portion of the history as I was the initial Book of Harbingers where this saga begins. I read it shortly before I departed this war, and am grateful to have found another copy during the Salvation of the Prime Dominion, to keep me staid during such a harrowing time. When I began to study these new materials, I felt ecstatic – like a true academic, feeling papers from a time that will be echoed in song, even though they were so recent on a cosmic scale. The histories of the Twin-Tailed War, told in the voices of those who fought it.

Our first missive – near as I can tell within the chronology – begins with the report of a familiar face visiting an unfamiliar (and certainly doomed) Sigmarite settlement. Lord Jerrion comes to the people of Greenwater promising to deliver them from the Shudderblight Pox that rests on their bodies and souls. How very noble. Of historical note, this document sheds some light on a mystery of the Maggotkin I'd heard whispers of in the shadows of Carngrad. It seems on the eve of his arrival in court to rise before the Varanspire as one of its guard, Maggot Lord Wolgax of the Blighted Hort faced off against Sir Jerrion “in single combat” and lost dramatically. More likely he was seized violently into the dirt by a horde of howling cannibals and ripped apart starting with his armor, but I do not doubt that this Jerrion's prowess at murder overcame Lord Wolgax's famous stoutness. After all, there was much of Wolgax to consume.

Of course Jerrion's visit to Greenwater (apparently resting on the former site of lost Cristoria, interestingly enough) is pretense, and as he unleashes his magics upon the city, those who do not fall to his cohort's claws instead fall into the sway of his madness. The man who wrote this missive is one “Captain Hazelwood”, which intrigues me – I have heard of this Captain Hazelwood, and it is said he is both ruthless and hideous, even to the enemies of Order. It is said he aided in the grand operation that built the city of Stanleigh's Mulchuarium in Mosscairn. A true foe to Chaos.

Next comes a document concerning the brave Ser Phulgoth, Harbinger of Decay. The author, Thom, describes his experience at the start of a great turning point in his life. Observing the drawing of a child and hearing her strange story, her warnings of a great horned presence at the time registered to him only as an aelf scout or perhaps a large but ordinary beast. His strange employer, Mistress Beryn, seemed far more curious.

The Shudderblight then fell upon his village in short order. In nauseating detail, he describes his home festering into nothingness in a matter of weeks, then days, then mere hours, perhaps more, perhaps less – he spent much of it catatonic. A chance – and horrifying – encounter with noble Phulgoth sees him split open and left to die...only to rise again as a hollow servant of Nurgle hours later. His ruined body served as a trap for Jerrion's forces, and though he nearly fell in combat to the mighty herald, a mighty battalion of Phulgoth's fly dragoons drove the lord and his wicked knights away. He fell in as a new member of their mad contingent, which I suppose is good enough for him.

Next is a tale of the admirable but misguided Fyreslayers and their mighty warlord Fjori. This is a letter from the warrior Volgard to a cousin in a more distant part of Aqshy, he describes assaulting a prideful fellow warrior over a mix of boasts and insults that he took personally. Their battle was immediately ended and their fury tempered by the Grimhold Exile known as Fjori, who carries the sorrow of a thousand slaughtered duardin on his shoulders.

The brutal tragedy of Fjori's tale, his tribe tortured and slaughtered in hideously cruel fashion by the Skaven, put me in a state of mind not unlike humility. When reading his words, relayed by another warrior, a warrior of a people known for their moving words, I simply cannot help be moved. This, then, is why I do not value torture. I try to limit the amount of cruelty my enterprises put out, often for no other reason than to maintain the psychological advantage. There is a myriad of reasons for this, but this chapter puts me in mind of one I know for a fact: A killer is always better than a warrior. A warrior is capable of anything; like torture, or mercy. A warrior leaves victims, and victims seek revenge. A killer simply executes a foe, then the foe beside them, and on down until no one grieves. No loose ends.

Next is...difficult to decipher as fact or fiction. It is the account of an Aqshyian anthropologist who claims to have spent months following Rabble-Rowser (who he writes as “Rabble-Rowza”, which I suppose I will have to incorporate into this document) Braggit Big-Talka, studying its habits. He documents an event in which Braggit's great swarm deep beneath Aqshy discovered a settlement near-wholly made of glass, and razed it to the ground. There they discovered that much of the glass was imported from Hammerhal Aqsha, prompting him to make a quick exit.

I am familiar with the author of this miss, a Mr. Ator Feohtan-Aquila. Formerly a doctor, he was stripped of his title and rank shortly before his execution for the paper this document is drawn from. It seems the Order of Azyr of Hammerhal-Aqsha did not at all approve of the fact that he pursued a goblin warlord for over a year, adopted valuable intelligence regarding the abomination's movements, and reported none of it to the authorities for fear of compromising his research. I regard him as a coward and a fool.

The final missive dated during the Era of the Harbingers is a highly prized one in my paperwork collection. Although minor players in the overall Era of the Harbingers, everyone knows the name Callis and Toll, and this document sheds some light on their acts in purging the corruption from Hammerhal Aqshy. This endeavor of theirs would prove critical in the ultimate outcome of their Aqshian Crusade. This letter speaks of a secret meeting in the words of an attendant to the spymaster of Hammerhal Aqshy (the attendant himself a spy for the Chaos Legionnaires).

This letter confirms the Order of Azyr's hand in the dismantling of the Shudderblight Cult, not exceptional news in and of itself...except that it implicates them in the murder of Lorenz Dominus, heir to the Dominus' seat on the Grand Conclave. I have stashed this letter in a secure place where it can later benefit the will of the Everchosen, and even now I can recall how my hands shook in anticipation to open the next great history.

[khvath-slaveborn]

Concerning The Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades #3

Chapter Two: On Matters of Strategy During the Time of Harbingers

Enticingly, the tome ends in a wealth of tactics for a thousand forces throughout the realm. The effects of the Shudderblight Plague have a wicked life cycle listed within (first fear, then clouding of the mind, then a cloud of woe that effects other foes, then finally an overcoming despair in which they simply lie down and expire of grief).

Agents at this time were expected to travel in search of allies and spread the word of mustering forces. This early, the war had yet to wholly explode, but its coming was vastly apparent. Communication outposts were important at this time, with the assistance available to armies varying by their own methods. Among order, the marching Dawnbringers would consecrate ground to protect it from the transformational energies of others while their mighty Stormcast received blessings directly from their God in exchange for favors and duty. Sort of familiar. Meanwhile, their Seraphon angels wove great unbinding protocols into the fabric of the land's leylines, able to be sprung as a trap that deletes any spells raging across their lands.

The Khainites deployed secretive agents (I myself have reversed attempts on my life by Khainite spies in the past, and can vouch for their efficacy) while their forced allies in the Idoneth could conjure strange, blinding mists in exchange for their works. The Lumineth upstarts shored up their magical acuity with the use of their precious Aetherquartz, making them a certain irritation on the battlefield. Finally, the terrifying treekin (here called Sylvaneth, a name I had not heard before) could infuse nature touched by themselves into an amplifying site through which they could effortlessly cross.

At long last, the sky-duardin of the Kharadron (ruthless negotiators if ever I've met) spent this era providing transportation services to their warriors and others, while the mighty Fyreslayers forged new runes to honor the coming undertakings below the earth.

In more familiar territory, the servants of Chaos were no slouches. The filthy Skaven and uncivilized Beasts of Chaos brought their own charms to the war, with the Beasts establishing dominance over the many beasts of the realm (no mean feat given their era), while the Skaven wove complex schemes that are not related here. I anticipate they operated in the shadows through this phase of the war.

The mighty Everchosen's legions set about their work in the traditional way: By turning battlefields where they sang of their victories into blighted wastes unable to ever be cured or forgotten.

Of the great dichotomies, Nurgle's warriors spread hideous, flesh-melting blights upon the land while Tzeentch's sorcerers worked their magics into the veins of fate itself (though how they worked this magic is untold, and I will have to conduct my own research into the phenomenon). Ironically, in their own way, both Khorne and Slaanesh were celebrating at this time – the Purple Prince in the traditional way, via revels and depravity, while the Blood God gathered sorcerers from across the land and savagely put them to the sword.

Amid the forces of death, whose sorceries make me ill but whose ability to pay their dues is truly impressive, there was much ado. The Flesh-Eaters spread their delusion, the most obvious tactic, while the deathly Soulblight worked into the very bloodstream of their enemies, with sleeper agents of particularly delicious vintage stationed among the enemy without themselves ever knowing. In preparation of some great invasion, the Ossiarchs ran drills and mustered great defenses and the Nighthaunt conjured the souls of the dead and occupied the ruins of ancient fortresses and temples.

At long last we come to the chief beneficiaries of the Era of the Beast. Those who march below the terrible Kragnos' hoof found their stratagems most efficient. The goblins grew whole towns and cities into fields of hallucinogenic mushrooms. The Ogors feasted on anything near where they set their encampments, and a surge of energy found them with strength and duration equal to their ravenous hunger. Even the savage orruks and their steel tyrant brothers found themselves following the orders of their most clever, lanky brethren, while the giants found great sums of rocks to throw in the ruins left behind by their kin.

Next the tome goes into a series of traits known to be possessed by the Harbingers of each great alliance, particularly those mentioned in our writings. The Grimhold Exiles, who featured heavily in this telling of the history, are known for the blessings of their god making them near-impossible to fell in a struggle. As they grow in might, their powerful voices can swell the bravery of their allies and make possible deeds that had only moments before been beyond their strength. Experienced and celebrated Exiles can leap with the rage of a blazing meteor, and strike with the flames of the deep places in the earth. Finally, their skin becomes like the stone itself, as if fate and their god alive both favor them.

When Nurgle's noble Harbingers begin their gruesome work, their sodden flesh resists blows as their great steed drives them tirelessly on. Those who survive can bring on a great wave of exhaustion and feebleness on their enemies, who surrender to the knowledge in their hearts that death and decay take all. Great Harbingers who curry the favor of their gods and masters can invigorate their foes with the power to ignore pain and fear, while striking low their enemies with a curse that sags their muscles from their bones. At long last, when it seems that while no blow from man or daemon can fell the Harbinger, the enemies who have not laid down to die will simply flee in horror from the will of a god made manifest.

The wretched Marrowscroll Heralds bring to themselves to a fight with their strength and stomachs fortified on a fresh selection of choice and energizing cuts of meat. As word of their deeds grow, so too does their presence – perhaps seeing the indomitable knight they envisage themselves as, enemies quaver and flee or else hesitate to approach and are stricken for their cowardice. These emboldened Heralds fight with the ferociousness of nine of their fellows, inspiring their cohort to great deeds of slaughter and butchery. Finally, a truly exceptional Herald can sway the minds of enemies at nearly enemy distance, and those who serve it are infected with its fervor for bone and blood. Truly nightmarish.

Last and certainly least, we come upon the wicked grot Rabble-Rowser. These nightmare headaches given the form of a tiny green man are known for their speed and viciousness, scrambling past enemies as they howl in rage, hobbling knees and cutting heels with wild abandon. The rare Rabble-Rowsing grot who can survive their trials grow to be a stubborn thorn in their enemy's side, enraging the enemy with their constant goading taunts. As they grow in influence at their unlikely survival, they grow cleverer by the day, and their contemporary mobs feel an instinctive need to surrender and obey. It is even said that there is an alpha Rabble-Rowser of such great influence and irritation that he can resist the deadliest blows with an endless horde of commanded monsters from deep within the caves of the realms. Worryingly diabolical little creatures.

While worthy of study, and the subject of many countless hours of my time, I will be brief. The book concludes with six common combat situations in this era (protection of secret plans whilst surrounded by the enemy, wars fought to prevent the enemy from clearing the narrow passes common to the realm's hidden passes, conflicts over sources of magickal power to either claim or corrupt, delivery of secret missives to behind and around enemy lines, protecting your champions and important figures from enemy ambush, and deceiving the enemy during the transfer of important wartime assets), as well as profiles of the particular warriors highlighted in the relevant historical events.

I am given to expect that the subjects of these profiles – Bjori the Exile, Phulgoth the Harbinger, Herald Lord Jerrion, and wicked Rabble-Rowsing Braggit, and their armies – will be important in the supplementary information. It is good to be made aware of these events and their subjects, and I pray that half or less of them still live to the modern day.