Chaos Dwarf Fables [WHFB]

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    • Once upon a time, there was a steadfast Castellan of the dread Infernal Guard. Hardened was he by war, and by years of warcraft had he become wise, strong and unfaltering. One day, the Infernal Castellan led the Guard on a distant battlefield against a coalition of Night Goblin tribes, when suddenly there burst a whirling Fanatic from out of the Greenskin ranks.

      His underlings stepped aside from the Night Goblin Fanatic's most likely trajectory, yet their leader stood his ground, unflinching and hard-bitten.

      "Cowards! I spit on you! Hold your positions!" yelled the Infernal Castellan to his warriors.

      Moments later, the Night Goblin Fanatic's heavy iron ball crashed into the Infernal Castellan with such force his Blackshard armour buckled and crushed his innards. The Night Goblin Fanatic sped on, leaving the Infernal Castellan dying slowly by haemorrage in a pathetic puddle on the ground. A Deathmask stepped up to his dying superior and remarked:

      "It is neither brave nor devout to stand your ground needlessly in face of certain death, unless your master commands it."

      - The Infernal Castellan and the Night Goblin Fanatic, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was a cunning Daemonsmith Engineer who wished to make his artillery pieces unassailable upon the battlefield. One day, the army he was detached to faced a High Elven host on a distant island. For some days they faced off and waited for the enemy to make a move. Meanwhile, the Daemonsmith Engineer scouted the island's terrain ahead of the battle, and found the perfect position for his rocket launchers, mortars and Magma Cannons. It was atop a steep cliff with good firing arcs over the whole area.

      Its walls were nigh inaccessible, yet still the Daemonsmith Engineer had his slaves dismantle the artillery pieces, climb the rock and hoist the artillery pieces up the cliff by means of crude cranes. Then the crew, then the ammunition, then the signal braziers, field altars, rations and supplies had to be hoisted up onto the cliff. It took days. Hundreds of slaves died during this labour, yet in the end they were succesful. The artillery park had gained its unassailable vantage point.

      When the day of battle arrived, the Daemonsmith Engineer stood atop the cliff and directed the batteries' deadly barrage into the High Elven ranks. Yet in the midst of carnage, dark shadows swooped down from the skies and ripped the artillery crewmen to pieces. The batteries fell silent. Sharp talons ripped the flesh from off the Chaos Dwarfs and dropped shrieking slaves down the cliff face. Beaks snapped and wings fanned. The Great Eagles even tore down the cranes.

      "Reinforcements to here! Help!" shouted the Daemonsmith Engineer down to his Overlord.

      "How could we reach you without the cranes? We can't climb, and even if we could, we would be too slow to save you. You are doomed!" barked the Overlord.

      At this, two Great Eagles snatched the Daemonsmith Engineer from the cliff and ripped him apart, high in the air. For such is the fate of those who would not see the deathtrap in the safe hideout.

      - The Daemonsmith Engineer and the Great Eagles, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was a strong and cruel Sorcerer-Prophet who hated his rival. One day, they waged an open battle in the streets, and the rival defeated the Sorcerer-Prophet. As the defeated one stood on his knees, awaiting torture and death, the victorious rival showed mercy:

      "I choose to spare your life and leave you unchained. Walk away and do not trouble me more," said the rival.

      And so the astonished Sorcerer-Prophet survived with his power intact. He thought deeply upon this turn of events, and reached the conclusion that his acts should become more gentle, following the example of his rival. The Sorcerer-Prophet was thereafter kind and understanding towards his subjects.

      The Sorcerer-Prophet's newfound mercy and gentleness made him spare his Daemonsmith subordinate, who had failed with an important invention.The surprised Daemonsmith picked up on his master's ways, and did not punish a failing supervisor whose quarry could not deliver its full quota of stone. The grateful supervisor changed his ways and became softer, and thus the supervisor did not exile a lax slavedriver into the dread Infernal Guard. The relieved slavedriver in turn did not set a bloody example of his Hobgoblin henchmen who dozed off at their shift, and the lazy Hobgoblins were thus sleeping in pure daylight when the vengeful slaves strangled them with their chains and broke free.

      The slave rebellion spread like wildfire through the meek Sorcerer-Prophet's holdings, and slaves freed further more slaves. They then killed the slavedriver, the supervisor, the Daemonsmith and at last they slew the reformed Sorcerer-Prophet in his own palace. The raving slave hordes spilled over into the rival's palace. As loose thralls tore down idols and smashed altars, the shocked rival asked his retinue how such a calamity could have befallen him. At this, his most trusted advisor stepped forward and said:

      "When you spared the Sorcerer-Prophet's life and position, your strength failed you. Unwittingly, you thus planted the seeds of your own doom. Weakness begets weakness, and now you will pay the price for your vice."

      And so the slaves overwhelmed the rival's retinue and tore him to shreds on his obsidian throne, for such is the fate of those who would fail to uphold the virtue of strength and cruelty.

      - The Cycle of Weakness, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was a taskmaster who beat his slaves to make them labour harder. One day, he found an exhausted Goblin slave slacking off, and roared at it to get back to work at once. The Goblin slave rushed up, and the taskmaster thought to drive on the thrall with strikes. And so it was, that the taskmaster gripped a sledgehammer and killed the Goblin slave with a single hammerblow to the spine.

      Seeing this waste of property, the taskmaster picked up a barbed whip instead, and soon found another dozing thrall. It was an Ogre slave, whom the taskmaster gave a good thrashing. However, the thick Ogre was not harmed much by the whip, yet its anger was kindled by the feeble beating. The Ogre slave ripped the whip from the taskmaster's hand and bound the taskmaster's beard to the barbed whip. The Ogre then flailed about with his master on the whip like a toy, and trounced the taskmaster to death against a brick wall, for such is the fate of those who fail to choose the right tool for the task at hand.

      - The Taskmaster and the Slaves, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was a salpetre slave who always craved for more food. When he had dug up the urine-soaked earth floor of the cattle stables, he set hungry eyes on more mouldy bread than he was due to receive for rations. When he had hauled coal and boiled the manure soil to macerate it, he longed for more lentils. When he had added lime and ashes and boiled away the filthy water to crystallize the salpetre in the large cauldron, he tried to steal more grain porridge.

      One day, the taskmaster had had enough of the salpetre slave's ravenous ways, so he set the slave to toil in a salpetre barn next to a blackpowder mill, where the slave was to receive no rations for seven days and seven nights. The salpetre slave hauled and mixed soil, lime, manure and waste from creatures and plants all day long inside the brick barn. Before long, he was wasting away from famine and hard labour.

      On the third day of starvation, the famished salpetre slave dug through manure and found a chunk of meat so rotten even slaves and lousy wolves had rejected it. His will was weak, and so the lowly slave devoured the rotten flesh, only to fall sick and die from disease on his last day without food. For such is the fate of those too weak to endure hardship.

      - The Famished Salpetre Slave, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was a bolter who screwed bolts through nuts in metal plates and beams of every kind, and who could install roof support bolts in mining tunnels with fractured ceilings. All this he knew, yet the bolter knew little moderation in his work, and he would often apply too much force and continue to screw bolts further in where sounder men would know it to be enough. One day, the bolter was honoured with the task of fastening fresque-adorned bronze plates onto the hull of a Daemonforged Golem.

      The bolter turned the bolts in the screw threads until the fastenings were made hard, yet the bolter continued to screw in the stuck bolts for far too long until finally, one of the bolt heads snapped and fell to the floor with a clink. The sound made the construct come alive.

      "Why have you destroyed my bolted joint? Would you see my plates fall off my frame? Would you see your hide fall off your body?" asked the Daemonforged Golem.

      "The head of the bolt was too weak to endure screwing," complained the bolter.

      "The head of the bolter was too weak to endure screwing," replied the Daemonforged Golem, and twisted the bolter's head off his shoulders. For such is the fate of the careless.

      - The Bolter and the Golem, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was a cheeky Hobgoblin slavedriver with a viper of a tounge and a heart of cruelty. Spiteful were his words and wicked were his deeds, and his foul temper was ever easily aroused. One day, the cheeky Hobgoblin visited bestial mistreatment upon his underling thralls.

      "I'll teach ya ta 'old yer dung til gutz burst! No zoilin' on da floor on my watch!" snapped the Hobgoblin slavedriver and flogged a Gnoblar hard enough to crack its bones.

      Truly, the Hobgoblin savoured his power over others and delighted in their torment. Yet when the Chaos Dwarf master interrupted him to give new orders, the cheeky Hobgoblin was angered and directed his violence and oaths at his strong superior who dared disturb his moment of pleasure.

      The master was not amused. In one strike, he felled the cheeky Hobgoblin, whereupon he tore the slavedriver limb from limb with his bare hands and threw the mutilated body parts into defiled River Ruin to deny the cheeky Hobgoblin of any afterlife. For such is the fate of those who do not know their place in the Order of Things.

      - The Cheeky Hobgoblin, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was a silent and stealthy scout, who used to remove his hat and cover himself in ash before sneaking up on Greenskin camps. He was uncannily good at keeping a low profile and report back on things which other scouts failed to see. One day, the scout's master needed a spy planted right in the middle of a vast tribal Orc campsite, yet the scout despaired and could see no way to approach, yet alone infiltrate such a rowdy place. It would surely be his death.

      Out of desperation, the scout visisted an outcast witch, who skulked among the rocks and starved as she tried to eke out a living on lizards and stray Gnoblars. So hungry was she, that the crone accepted a mere payment of bread and ale in exchange for brewing a forbidden elixir who would help the scout achieve his impossible task. The witch instructed the scout to drink the brew at the outskirts of the Orc encampment.

      So he did, and the Chaos Dwarf shapeshifted into a primal barbarian, a snarling and snorting Orc, little more than a furless boar standing upright coloured green from sickness. In the form of this untamed beast did the shapeshifted scout wander unhindered into the Orcish camp, and at first no one seemed to take notice of the stranger.

      Yet as the shapeshifted scout slinked near the huge dried dung pyre which served as the Warboss' campfire, the big Orcs in the retinue of the Warboss soon noticed the meek and quiet Orc who behaved little better than a wretched Goblin, for he did not brawl, did not bawl, did neither yell nor fart nor bash nor stomp. The Orcs caught his smell but not his noise, and they wondered: Who was this silly tenderfoot?

      Offended, the big Orcs started picking on the silent shapeshifted scout, who merely cringed and tried to keep back from their prying eyes. This sneaking away only provoked the savage brutes to punch and kick the shapeshifted scout, who in response once again tried to melt into the background and remain silent and still, whereupon the Warboss himself enraged at such un-Orcish behaviour, and charged at the weakling and rent him in two with a mighty swing of his rusted blade. The shapeshifted scout fell dead before the Warboss' warty, stinking feet, transformed back at the moment of death into an ashen Chaos Dwarf spy, cut in twain. For such is the fate of those who do not know to act hard when in hard company.

      - The Shapeshifted Scout, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was a renowned slaver who specialized in rare and exotic thralls for wealthy and refined customers. For him it would not do with any sloppy raids on Goblin camps and ambushes with guns blazing at migrating Orcs, no, for this slaver took pride in seeking out highly demanded prey and capturing it with precision, and he was aided in his work by Daemonforged amulets and fell wards about his armour. Thus many a foreign spellcaster found himself impotent and pressed into a tight black iron cage, and many freaks of nature and individuals from far-off races such as Elves, Fimir and the fabled Half-Men of Ind were carried back hissing and spitting to the Plain of Zharr. So valuable were the famous slaver's catches that he fed and watered them extravagantly and rarely risked mutilation even of screaming tongues due to risk of infection, for to him a dead slave was a considerable loss of income and invested labour.

      One day, the famed slaver ranged far and wide with his Hobgoblin underlings, and they happened upon a Human caravan, heavily armed and hailing from the western Empire. Yet the Manlings would never reach distant Cathay with all its marvellous wealth, for they were already decimated and scattered and bewildered like a pack of whipped Snotlings, and the scars of Greenskin arms were plain for all to see. The famed slaver eyed the Manlings through a spotting scope, searching for valuables, and he soon found one. Sitting in a cook's wagon was a hairy-footed Halfling, plump and weak and merry despite all the travails and sorrows of his companions.

      A Halfling would yield a steep enough price as a rare curiosity back in Chaos Dwarf lands, yet it was of little use for labour, soulharvest or flesh reaping in Daemonforging and vile experiments. The true connoisseurs in the Halfling trade were to be found further eastwards, for the hulking Ogres of the Mountains of Mourn were known far and wide for their huge liking as well as good taste for Halflings, whom they petted like little brothers until their cannibal core betrayed them in rumbling hunger.

      Thus the slaver waited and watched, and followed at a distance the meanderings of the Manlings. At nightfall, the Humans made camp in a wagon fort manned by nervous sentries, yet such a ploy was no match for the famed slaver, who let his Hobgoblin Wolf Raiders range to the other side of the camp and stage a noisy diversion while a vial was uncorked so that smoke and heinous Empyreic vapours were let wafting upon the winds into the camp on the opposite end of the wagon circle. The foul miasma of ash and curses of malignant spirits clouded the slaver's approach and threw the weak Manling guards choking and gasping and vomiting to the ground, all thrashing in primal panic as the insidious gasses spread into the abruptly woken camp. The deadly smoke did not affect the famous slaver or his two Sneaky Gitz who guarded his sides closely and stabbed down any threat within reach, for his fell wards kept off the shredded Daemons while the intruders' mouths and noses were covered with cloth soaked in urine.

      In this fashion they stormed into the middle of camp, blasting and cutting, knifing and kicking in the ensuing chaos, until they reached the cook's wagon and snatched the snoring Halfling from his soft straw bed. The slaver and his lackeys left the camp swiftly, leaving behind only fear and disarray while their precious catch were to know nothing but the discomforts of a very small iron cage, tasteless mushroom cavesbread and brackish water.

      The petty delicatessen ware was gagged and hauled all the way to the Sentinels, where the famous slaver sought out a visiting Ogre Tyrant wealthy from loot, bullying and pitfight murder. Negotiations took place with vigour, and they haggled furiously back and forth. The Famed slaver demanded exorbitant barter and a whole horde of fodder slave Gnoblars, and the sheer greed and guts of the Chaos Dwarf's demands almost made the brute stomp him flat upon the spot. What stopped him from doing so, however, was the futile pleading of the Halfling, which soothed the Ogre's savage heart as the famed slaver knew it would, enough to win the slaver a spectacular bargain. Fuming at the perverse greed of the slaver, the Ogre Tyrant nevertheless gave in and agreed to pay the hefty price, and the Halfling slave was his. The famed slaver said goodbye to the doomed delicatessen and welcomed his new wealth.

      When the Halfling was let out of his cage, the terrifying Ogre petted it on the head as if it was a fat Ogre cub, and this show of affection made the pathetic Halfling break down in tears and sobs. The tiny runt shrieked and whined and told of his suffering at the hands of his cruel captors, of how they had starved and locked him up and pinched and punched him bruised. At hearing of this, the Tyrant's wrath at the outrageous barter finally snapped, and in black rage he grabbed his giant mace and smashed the famed slaver into gory pulp. For such is the fate of those who would sell a prized pet slave without first ripping out its tongue.

      - The Famed Slaver, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time

    • Once upon a time, there was an able-minded driller of immense strength and a stubborn temper. So many deep shafts did his drill-team carve into the ground, that he hollowed out ash plains and made rocky heights crumble. And hundeds of unwitting slaves plummeted to their doom as they fell down drill wells that had not existed there days before. One day, the hardy driller paid a Daemonsmith handsomely to craft a fearsome device of a kind never before seen, for it was a drill that could eat through any rock and never dull its ensorcelled diamond-tipped edges.

      Upon seeing this demented tool, the driller's personal Hobgoblin slave taunted him for a wasteful fool and laughed at the drill.

      "Ya've frewn yer muneey in da cesspitt for such uh puny drill!" cried the Hobgoblin and bent double with laughter.

      Infuriated, the driller swore to prove the drill's worth, so he put his bulging arms to power the tool and drilled straight down through porous lava rock, metallic ore veins and obsidian layers alike. Far down into the darkness did the driller go before he yelled his triumph up to the surface. No kind of rock could withstand the bite of his new drill.

      "Bet ya dun' dare go further fer fear uv breaking da drill!" shouted the spiteful Hobgoblin down the drill shaft.

      In response, the furious driller put his back into it and drilled down and down, until he broke straight through the crust of the world and was swallowed by the roaring, molten depths below. Upon seeing this, the driller's work companions grabbed the spiteful Hobgoblin in wrath and hurled him into the bottomless shaft. For such are the fates of the obstinate.

      - The Furious Driller and the Spiteful Hobgoblin, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time
    • Written by: KNC
      Illustrated by: @knightinflames

      Once upon a time, there was a Hobgoblin who excelled at taming and riding the deadly Camel-Squigs. Yet his skill in the saddle-seat was not at all matched by his handling of arms, for he fumbled with his bowshots and did not strike true with spears, and his knives did not stab effortlessly through flesh, but glanced off the bones of ribcages and broke inside his victims. Every weapon he tried his hand at, proved beyond him to master. And so he contented himself with whip and javelins, and put instead all his efforts into riding his feared Camel-Squig, for he claimed that the beast alone would suffice for his armament, swung by his reins. One day, the Hobgoblin's tribe happened upon a Manling caravan bound for the East. They set an ambush and assailed the enemy, and all the Hobgoblins were exhilarated by their success.

      "Bring your most skilled warrior to me, for my mount deserves the best of meat, for he can lay low the best of you," declared the Camel-Squig Rider.

      Somehow, his challenge was answered by a tall Manling wielding a greatsword, and for a while this foreign Manling darted to and fro on foot, slashing and thrusting at the Camel-Squig's thick coat of fur with his long blade, and evading all its lunges and frothing bites. Truly, the Hobgoblin had found the best of the Manlings.

      After a while, the Camel-Squig grew rabid at its prey, and its rider grew vexed at the Manling's defiance, and so he swung his whip in fury and lashed out blunderingly at his foe from a low angle. Yet the skillful Manling managed to both throw himself aside from the lunging beast, and present his blade for the Hobgoblin's whip. He held firm as the whip whirled around the greatsword, and pulled with might and main, thereby throwing the Camel-Squig Rider from his saddle-seat, flat onto the ground.

      The Hobgoblin shrieked and ordered his beast to recognize its master and let him live, yet the frenzied Camel-Squig proceeded to gulp down both its former rider and its Manling prey in a red fury. For such is the fate of those who could only master part of their craft, and not the whole.

      - The Camel-Squig Rider and the Manling, by Despot Zhargonidus Doombeard, the renowned Chaos Dwarf author of fable stories, of our present time