Dwarfs

The 'other' Survivors of KaraG Dum

To stone unbroken, and grudges deep,

Karag Dum in our hearts we keep!

Ah, listen well, and mark my words, for this tale reeks o' sorrow, loss, and grudges that will ne'er be forgiven, not in this age or the next! It begins with Karag Dum, a proud Dawi hold once stout and strong, now swallowed up by the twisted lands o' Chaos like a beardling losing his first fight. Aye, for years upon cursed years, the sons of Karag Dum battled those foul, Chaos-begotten wretches. But no matter how many skulls they cracked or how many beasts they slew, the hold was slowly eaten away, devoured by the Chaos Wastes themselves.

Our people retreated, aye, deeper into the hold, deeper into our long-prepared Secret Fastnesses, and there we hunkered down like badgers in winter. But even the thickest stone cannae stand forever, and one by one, the fastnesses fell, like an anvil crumbling to rust. Until at last, only two remained.

King Thangrim Firebeard, may his beard ever grow long in the halls of the ancestors, held one, and his most battle-hardened general, Thodrik Greymane, held the other. Aye, they waged a bitter guerilla war against the forces of Chaos, but word between 'em was cut off, and no matter how many rangers we sent, the holds stayed silent.

King Thangrim, we thought him dead. Aye, Thodrik assumed the worst, and no doubt Thangrim thought the same of him. But one day, whilst Thodrik's rangers were out scouting, they heard it—a battle, aye, the clash of steel and the roar o' beasts in the distance. Half the rangers turned back to deliver word, while the rest went to investigate.

When Thodrik heard the news, travel-worn though the messengers were, he wasted no time. Gathering his grizzled veterans, he marched, aye, he marched with the grim hope that maybe, just maybe, his king still lived. On the way, they found their rangers in dire straits, beset by a retreating horde of Chaos filth. Thodrik and his warriors slaughtered the beasts and pushed onward.

And then they found it. Not a battlefield of victory, nay, but a tomb. King Thangrim Firebeard, fallen, alongside five hundred Dawi warriors, their bodies heaped in the ruins of what had once been a glorious stand. At their feet lay the broken corpse of a bloodthirster of Khorne, a monster that had taken our king but paid for it in blood.

Aye, they said their ancestral prayers, bitter words spoken through gritted teeth. They gathered what they could from the fallen—axes, shields, anything that might serve the living. Then, with heavy hearts, they returned to their fastness, carrying with them the weight of a hold’s doom.

Upon his return, Thodrik was crowned king, though there was little joy in it. Karag Dum was a shadow of what it had been, but he swore vengeance. He swore, by Grungni’s hammer, to push the Chaos scum back, and for three years, he did just that, bit by bloody bit. Reinforcements came, thanks to King Alrik of Karak Hirn—a hundred stout Dawi every twenty days, arriving on airships with letters of hollow congratulations. And for a time, aye, for a time, the warbands of Chaos were driven back.

But the accursed legions of Chaos, they don’t forget. Nay, not like we Dawi do, but in their twisted way, they remembered. Soon enough, the warbands, who spent as much time fighting each other as they did us, set aside their petty squabbles. They united, and their eyes turned once more toward Karag Dum. The hordes came like a black tide, and this time, there would be no holding them back.

King Thodrik, aye, his heart weighed heavy with bitterness, inscribed a new grudge in the Damaz Kron, one that will ne’er be forgotten by the Dawi. And with that, he gave the order—Karag Dum would be abandoned. We would retreat south, away from the cursed wastes, away from the warping touch of Chaos.

As they left, King Thodrik could feel it—the light of Valaya dimming, the spirit of the hold slipping away. Karag Dum had fallen, not by the might of enemy blades, but by the creeping corruption of Chaos. And though the hold may be gone, the grudge lives on. By the ancestors, it will be settled, if not by us, then by our sons, or their sons after them. This, I swear!

Written by Lokrin Rammellson - Runesmith and Remembrancer to King Thodrik Greymane

By axe and beard, by stone and steel,
We speak the words our hearts conceal,
To Karag Dum, our mountain's pride,
Where honor lived and heroes died.

O Karag Dum, so proud, so high,
Beneath your peaks, we touched the sky,
Your halls, a fortress strong and grand,
Were shaped by our ancestors' hand.

The forges roared with iron flame,
Each hammer strike, a Dawi's claim,
Of mastery, of craft and lore,
Echoed loud from shore to shore.

Your gates of stone stood firm and wide,
No darkness could your light divide,
But Chaos came, and war did rage,
And on your walls, a darker page.

Though foes poured forth from every side,
We held our ground, we never cried,
For every Dawi fought with pride,
In Karag Dum, our mountain guide.

But shadows crept, and winds did wail,
The mountains shook, the stone turned pale,
Our banners fell, our hearths grew cold,
Yet still we stood, defiant, bold.

O Karag Dum, in heart and mind,
We leave no soul, no kin behind,
For though your stones we now depart,
You hold forever every heart.

Each hall we carved, each rune we cast,
Was not in vain, though days are past,
For in our blood your spirit lies,
As steadfast as your ancient skies.

Your memory will never fade,
In every axe and hammer laid,
For every stone we walk upon,
Will sing your name at day’s first dawn.

O Karag Dum, though fallen now,
We leave you with a solemn vow:
One day we’ll march through halls of pride,
And take back what the foe denied.

So raise your cups, my kin, and cheer,
For Karag Dum, both far and near,
Her soul lives on, her spirit strong,
In every Dawi's ancient song.

Karag Dum - In the Words of King Thodrik Greymane

Karag Dum, the greatest o’ the Dawi fortresses in the northern lands, a jewel carved from the bones o’ the mountains, standing proud and defiant at the very threshold of the accursed Chaos Wastes. For centuries, its walls held strong against the foul tides of corruption, the northern winds howling like lost souls as they battered against its gates. But the mountains, aye, they sheltered us, protected us, and we loved them for it. The rock itself seemed to hum with the ancient power of our ancestors, and beneath its peaks, we were unshaken.

But even the mightiest mountain can weep, and Karag Dum, our beloved hold, did fall.

The armies of Chaos came, like a storm, endless and hungry. They swarmed over the land, sweeping down from the wastes, twisting the earth with their cursed steps. And when they came to our gates, Karag Dum stood as it always had, proud and unyielding. King Thangrim Firebeard, the heart of the hold, led our last stand against the tides of filth, axes in hand, grim as only a Dawi king can be. But then the cursed leader of the Chaos horde summoned forth a Bloodthirster, a daemon so foul that its very presence made the air burn and stone crack.

Aye, we fought. By the ancestors, we fought. But in the end, we were forced to retreat. Thangrim led what few remained of our once-proud warriors deep into the hidden halls of Karag Dum, the places only the Dawi knew. But even as we fled deeper into the hold, something inside us cracked. We could hear the mountain itself groan, as if it mourned for the fate it couldnae prevent. Only a handful of us made it out, and even those who did carried with them a sorrow that would ne’er leave their hearts.

Karag Dum became a hellscape, a place where the forces of Chaos turned our forges against us. They desecrated our furnaces, forging twisted weapons and armor, not with the skill of a Dawi smith but with the blackened arts of their dark gods. The very halls where our ancestors walked, where we forged weapons in the name of Grungni, were turned into battlegrounds for the warring factions of the Dark Pantheon. Whole levels of the city became twisted shrines to their foul gods. The mountain we had loved, that had sheltered us for so long, had been defiled, torn apart by the very creatures we swore to keep at bay.

And yet, we fought on. Aye, those few of us who remained, we fought a bitter war in the shadows, striking from hidden chambers guarded by the ancient runes of our ancestors. But for every blow we struck, the grief weighed heavier. The loss of Karag Dum was like a wound in our hearts that would ne’er heal. We knew the names of every stone in that hold, and to see it in the hands of the enemy was a torment beyond words.

Worse still, two of our greatest treasures, bequeathed to us by the Ancestor Gods themselves, were lost in the depths of Karag Dum—the Hammer of Fate and the Axe of the Runemasters. Artifacts of such power that their loss felt like losing a piece of our very soul. But Borek Forkbeard, stubborn and unyielding as only a Dawi can be, swore to retrieve them. Alongside his nephew Varek Variksson, and the likes of Snorri Nosebiter, Malakai Makaisson, Gotrek Gurnisson, and the human Felix Jaegar, he set out on an expedition aboard the Spirit of Grungni to reclaim what was lost.

When they reached Karag Dum, they found not the hold we had known, but a graveyard. The skeletons of armies littered the halls, warriors who had fought and died, forgotten in the endless battles of Chaos. Packs of Flesh Hounds prowled the corridors where our ancestors once walked. But they found survivors, Dawi who had hidden so deep in the mountain they believed the outside world had already fallen to Chaos. For them, only twenty years had passed. But for the rest of us, two hundred years had come and gone.

Even then, those survivors, stubborn as stone, refused to leave. How could they? Their treasures, their history, their legacy, all buried within the mountain they had sworn to protect. But their refusal drew the attention of the same Bloodthirster that had once defeated King Thangrim. It came again, drawn by the axe Gotrek carried, and another great battle was fought.

King Firebeard was slain in that battle, his spirit joining the ancestors at last, and the Greater Daemon was banished. But by then, we were too few, too broken. Even the survivors knew they couldnae hold Karag Dum any longer. And so, with hearts as heavy as stone, they agreed to leave, to abandon the hold they had fought so long to protect.

We left Karag Dum behind, but we took with us the memories, the grudges, and the pain. The mountain itself seemed to mourn as we turned our backs on it for the last time. Its halls, once filled with the sound of hammers and laughter, now echoed with silence. Karag Dum had fallen, but the love we had for it, the deep connection to the stone and the earth, that will never fade.

But know this—no matter where we go, no matter how far we roam from the hold, the grudge of Karag Dum remains. One day, the debt will be paid.

The Chronicles of Clan Svengeln of Karag Dum

In the Great Book of Dawi Histories, inscribed with the ink of honor and pride, is the illustrious record of Clan Svengeln of Karag Dum, a clan whose legacy shines with the brightness of a thousand forges and the strength of the deepest mountains.

The Founding of Clan Svengeln

In the ancient times, when the great mountains of the north were young and the fires of the world were freshly kindled, there arose Clan Svengeln, forged from the stout hearts of our ancestors and the unyielding spirit of the Dawi. Founded by the noble Lord Svengir Ironhand, a hero of unmatched valor and sagacity, this clan carved out a place of honor among the holds of Karag Dum.

Svengir Ironhand was renowned for his prowess in battle and his unbreakable will. Under his leadership, Clan Svengeln flourished, their skill in metalwork and mastery of the forge becoming legends whispered in reverence throughout the holds. The clan’s name was etched into the annals of Dawi history, celebrated for their unparalleled craftsmanship and their fierce loyalty to Karag Dum.

The Golden Age of Clan Svengeln

In the height of their power, Clan Svengeln became the stewards of the great forges of Karag Dum, crafting weapons and armor of such quality that their reputation spread far beyond the mountains. Their works were imbued with runes of protection and strength, and it was said that no weapon forged by Clan Svengeln could be broken by the hands of any foe.

Their greatest achievement was the creation of the Forge of Eternal Flame, a masterpiece of engineering that was the heart of Karag Dum’s armoury. This forge was said to burn with the fires of creation itself, and its output was the envy of all other clans. Under the protection of Svengeln, Karag Dum became an impenetrable fortress, its walls and defenses a testament to the clan’s skill and dedication.

The Dark Days of Chaos

The era of glory was not to last forever, for the forces of Chaos cast their shadows across the lands. When the armies of the Dark Gods came forth to besiege Karag Dum, Clan Svengeln stood as the bulwark against the encroaching darkness. With their mighty forges and weapons, they held the line in defense of their home, fighting with the ferocity of a cornered beast and the discipline of seasoned warriors.

During the great siege, Clan Svengeln’s heroes fell one by one, their deeds of valor becoming the stuff of legend. Lord Thristor Svengeln, the last great chieftain of the clan, led the final defense of the hold’s western gate. His leadership and bravery in the face of overwhelming odds became the very definition of Dawi honor.

The Fall and Legacy

As the Chaos forces overwhelmed Karag Dum, Clan Svengeln’s fate was sealed with the fall of their beloved hold. Yet even in defeat, their legacy endured. The surviving members of Clan Svengeln were not deterred by the destruction of their home. Instead, they became wanderers and defenders of the Dawi’s honor, vowing to avenge their fallen kin and restore their clan’s honor.

In the aftermath, the name of Clan Svengeln became synonymous with resilience and bravery. Their tales were told in every hold and fortress, their exploits serving as an inspiration to all Dawi. The clan’s symbols of strength and craftsmanship were preserved as sacred relics, and their honored dead were enshrined in the deepest halls of Karag Dum, their spirits forever watching over the Dawi.

The Eternal Flame

To this day, the legacy of Clan Svengeln is remembered with great pride and reverence. Their contributions to Karag Dum and their sacrifices in the defense of their home are immortalized in the great halls of Dawi history. The Forge of Eternal Flame stands as a monument to their greatness, a testament to their enduring spirit and unyielding honor.

May the memory of Clan Svengeln be forever cherished, their deeds celebrated in the grand halls of the Dawi, and their legacy a beacon of pride for all who walk the path of honor and duty. For in their story, we find the true essence of what it means to be Dawi—stoic, steadfast, and unbreakable in the face of darkness.

So it is written in the annals of the Dawi, so it shall be remembered for all time.

The Dawi of Lost Karag Dum

Entry in the Book of Kings of Karag Dum:

Thodrik Greymane, Son of Khargrim
High King of Karag Dum
Crowned in the Year of Bitter Winter, after the fall of Thangrim Firebeard, last of his line.

Let it be known that Thodrik Greymane, son of Khargrim, took up the mantle of kingship in the darkest of times. The hold of Karag Dum had suffered grievous losses, and the light of Valaya waned in its halls. Upon the death of King Thangrim Firebeard, who fell in battle against the foul Bloodthirster of Khorne, Thodrik did rise from the ashes of despair, not as a conqueror, but as a protector of the Dawi people. With no choice but to lead, his reign began amid ruin and war.

Thodrik bore the ancestral heirlooms of his line: the Runic Axe Grudgesettler, forged in the deepest fires of Karag Dum by Borin Ironhand, its edge ever sharp with the power of runes that hungered for vengeance. In his hands, this mighty weapon struck true against the enemies of the Dawi, settling grudges both old and new.

Upon his body he wore Baraz Azul—Metal’s Promise—a runic suit of Gromril armour, a gift from the ancestors. Bound with the ancient runes of endurance, its plates turned aside the foul blows of Chaos and withstood the ravages of war. Encased in Baraz Azul, King Thodrik was a living fortress, unmovable and unbreakable in battle.

Upon his brow, he bore the Winged Helm, an heirloom of the Greymane line, its wings a symbol of the enduring spirit of the Dawi. Under its protection, his eyes shone with the grim fire of those who carry the weight of ancient oaths.

In the years of his reign, the war against the forces of Chaos raged unceasingly. He led his people from the front, carving his way through the accursed hordes that blighted the lands of Karag Dum. His victories, though hard-won, came at great cost. Though the Dawi stood their ground, Karag Dum itself was slowly consumed by the creeping corruption of the Wastes. The once-proud hold fell piece by piece, until it was clear that even the stoutest of hearts could not save it.

It was in his wisdom, and with the heaviest of hearts, that King Thodrik ordered the retreat from Karag Dum. With bitter sorrow, he commanded the Dawi to abandon the hold, to preserve what remained of their people, and to journey south, far from the twisted lands. Though Karag Dum was lost, Thodrik’s unshakable resolve ensured the survival of his people.

Let it be written that Thodrik Greymane inscribed a mighty grudge into the Dammaz Kron that day, against the dark forces of Chaos that defiled Karag Dum. This grudge will not be forgotten, nor forgiven, until the day the Dawi return to the hold, and the debt of blood is settled.

Thodrik led his people to safety, his armor unblemished, his axe still sharp with the runes of vengeance. His coronation, a sorrowful affair, was but a prelude to the unrelenting war he fought in the name of his people. He did not reign from gilded halls, but from the battlefield, where blood and stone became one.

Grim Oath of the King:
"By the stone of Karag Dum, I swear that the blood of the fallen shall not be in vain. The debt owed to us shall be repaid, in steel, in fire, and in blood. The mountain may have fallen, but the Dawi will rise again."

Thus ends the entry of Thodrik Greymane in the Book of Kings. May his name stand for all time, and may the mountains one day echo again with the sound of Dawi hammers in Karag Dum.

Halgar Azriksson, Thane and Bearer of Grobkufleg

Arbrek Silverweaver: The Runelord of Clan Svengeln

In the hallowed halls of Karag Dum, among the ancient stone and echoes of a proud lineage, there lived a Runelord whose name would be etched into the annals of Dwarfen history with the deepest reverence and respect. His name was Arbrek Silverweaver, and his legacy was one of unparalleled mastery over the runic arts and unwavering devotion to his clan.

Arbrek Silverweaver, of the Line of Svengeln, was born under a rare celestial alignment, which the elders took as a sign of great destiny. From a young age, his natural affinity for the runes was apparent. His father, Thrain Silveraxe, a respected member of the Tromm Kazukhan, noticed his son's extraordinary potential and ensured that Arbrek received the finest training in the ancient and revered art of rune-crafting.

Under the guidance of the greatest Runemasters of the time, Arbrek's skills flourished. He became renowned for his ability to weave powerful runes into both weaponry and armor, each enchantment imbued with the raw power and ancient wisdom of the Dawi. His mastery was so profound that even the most venerable of the Tromm Kazukhan sought his counsel on matters of rune and magic.

One of Arbrek’s most celebrated achievements was the creation of the Silverweave Rune—an enchantment so potent it could turn the tide of battle. This rune, said to be imbued with the essence of the mountain itself, provided unparalleled protection against the forces of Chaos and other malevolent entities. It was inscribed into the very heart of the hold’s defenses and became a cornerstone of Karag Dum’s resistance against invaders.

In his later years, Arbrek took up the mantle of Runelord with a fervor unmatched. Under his stewardship, the hold’s wards grew stronger, and the power of the runes he crafted became the stuff of legend. His knowledge of ancient lore and his ability to harness the energy of the mountain allowed him to create some of the most potent artifacts ever seen.

Among his many accomplishments was the creation of the Stoneheart Beacon, a powerful rune-stone that guided lost Dawi back to their hold, even through the darkest and most perilous of times. This beacon became a symbol of hope for the clan, a reminder of their unbreakable spirit and the guiding light of Arbrek’s wisdom.

Arbrek's later years were marked by a deep sense of duty and an unshakeable commitment to his people. Even as the forces of Chaos laid siege to Karag Dum, he labored tirelessly to maintain the runic wards that protected the hold. His runic enchantments were said to have held back the tide of darkness, allowing the hold to stand defiant against the encroaching chaos.

In the twilight of his life, Arbrek Silverweaver's health began to falter, but his resolve remained as strong as ever. On his final day, he gathered his closest disciples and imparted his final teachings, ensuring that the secrets of his runes would be preserved for future generations. His passing was mourned deeply by all, and his funeral was attended by every member of the clan, from the youngest beardling to the most venerable of the Tromm Kazukhan.

Arbrek Silverweaver's legacy endured long after his passing. The runes he crafted continued to protect and empower the hold, and his name became synonymous with the height of Dwarfen mastery in the runic arts. His life was a testament to the strength and enduring spirit of Clan Svengeln, and his story was recounted with pride and reverence by generations of Dawi who followed in his footsteps.

To this day, the halls of Karag Dum echo with tales of Arbrek Silverweaver, the Runelord who wove the very essence of the mountain into his runes and whose name will forever be remembered with honor and respect.

The Lament of Karag Dum

By the Hand of King Thodrik Greymane, in the Year of Our Bitter Departure

The quill scratches on this page with a weight heavier than any axe I’ve ever swung. The halls of Karag Dum, once filled with the ringing of hammers and the voices of my forefathers, now stand hollow, bereft of life, and smothered in shadow. A retreat I never thought I would command, and yet here I sit, penning these words with a heart full of sorrow as we prepare to leave our ancestral home.

Karag Dum. Ah, the name alone once struck pride into the hearts of the Dawi and fear into the hearts of those who would challenge our strength. Built deep within the bosom of the northern mountains, she was a fortress unrivaled. Her gates, carved from stone as old as the world itself, stood as an unyielding sentinel, defying both time and the Chaos Wastes that ever encroached upon us. The world outside could rage and boil, but within our walls, we were the mountain, immovable, eternal.

The Throne Hall—how it shimmered with the light of golden braziers, casting long shadows across the towering pillars that held up the ceiling as though the very sky rested upon the shoulders of Karag Dum. I sat beneath the Rune of the Kings, its ancient glow illuminating the deeds of those who came before me. Now, the fires have dimmed, and the halls that once echoed with the songs of victory are filled with the quiet, bitter whisper of retreat.

The Forge Halls... by the ancestors, I can still hear the hammer blows! The anvils rang out day and night, a symphony of creation, of industry. From those forges came the mightiest weapons and armor, the fruits of the labor of our finest smiths. Baraz Azul, my own armor, was forged in the heart of Karag Dum, its runes gleaming with promises of protection and power. Now, those same forges lie cold, choked with the dust of defeat, their fires long quenched by the foul breath of Chaos.

The lower halls, the once-thriving heart of our kinfolk, are now little more than memories. Families who lived there for generations have left their hearths behind, their fires extinguished. Children who played beneath the glow of runic lights will now grow beardless in foreign holds, never to know the true warmth of Karag Dum. The stone beneath my feet, once warm with the heartbeat of the mountain, now feels cold—cold as the breath of the abyss.

I remember the first days of Chaos’s creeping touch. How the winds of madness swirled and howled beyond our walls, but inside, we held firm. They clawed at us, seeking to tear us from our mountain, but Karag Dum stood as a bulwark against the storm. For centuries, we fought them, as did my father before me, and his father before him. But even the mightiest of stone can be worn down by endless tides. Our forges slowed, our halls emptied, and the great gates that once stood tall now groan under the weight of the ruin outside.

As we march away, each step feels like a betrayal of all we have been. The stones beneath our boots are silent, for they know what we leave behind. The wealth of Karag Dum, not in gold or gems, but in history, in the deeds of our ancestors, remains entombed in the rock, unreachable by those foul creatures who infest her. No daemon, no Chaos beast can ever truly take Karag Dum, for her soul belongs to the Dawi, even in absence.

The stones fired from our grudgethrowers—those precious fragments of our home, now our weapon of last resort—are all that remains of the once great city. Each boulder hurled carries with it our rage, our sorrow, and the fury of a people forced to abandon what is rightfully theirs. They are more than mere stone; they are Karag Dum’s wrath made manifest. Let the enemies of the Dawi feel the weight of our loss in every strike!

Now, I lead my people south, away from the place that cradled our history, our future. My heart grows heavy with each passing league. Though my hand grips Grudgesettler, and my helm bears the wings of kings, I feel more a refugee than a ruler. I look back often, knowing each glance is a wound I’ll carry for all my days.

Karag Dum is more than a hold—it is the blood of our blood, the stone of our stone. It will stand forever in the memories of those who fought for it, who lived and died within its walls. Though we leave her behind, she will never leave us. Our ancestors carved this mountain, and though the forces of Chaos have laid claim to her flesh, they shall never own her soul. That, she carries with her Dawi, wherever we go.

Karag Dum has fallen, but not in vain. One day, perhaps, our kin will return. Perhaps the mountain will call her children home once more. And when that day comes, the stones will speak of our valour, of our grief, and of our unbroken will.

But for now, we march away from our mountain, leaving behind the cradle of our kin, and with it, a part of our hearts.

Lokrin Rammelsson Runesmith

Fengrim Dourscowl Daemonslayer

Halgi Dragonhide - Dragonslayer

Tromm-Khazukan Longbeards

Clan Svengeln

Ok-Khazukan Rangers

Gudri's Sureshots

The Grim Brotherhood Slayers

The Pledge of the Slayers of Karag Dum

In the dark days of Karag Dum, when the hold's mighty halls echoed not with the sound of forges, but the cries of war and despair, many of the Dawi turned to the only path left to those seeking redemption: the Slayer’s Oath. With their hold besieged by the relentless forces of Chaos, honor lost, and their ancestors’ blessings clouded by the foul taint of corruption, these Dawi chose a life of self-imposed exile, driven by one purpose – to seek a glorious death in battle and reclaim their honor in the eyes of their ancestors.

For centuries, the Slayers of Karag Dum walked the halls of the fallen hold, their heads shaved, their beards dyed bright in the colors of shame and defiance, seeking death at the hands of the countless beasts and daemons that defiled their homeland. Each of these brave Dawi, though bound by shame, took upon themselves the sacred pledge of the Slayer, vowing never to rest until their doom was found.

The Slayer's Pledge of Karag Dum:

"By the stone of Karag Dum, by the blood of my kin, by the shame of my failure, I swear this oath.
I am no longer worthy of my clan or of my hold, for I have failed to protect them from the enemies that besiege us. I have failed to defend the halls of my forefathers, and the honor of my ancestors lies shattered like broken runes at my feet.
Thus, I take up the path of the Slayer, not for glory, but for redemption. I shall face the mightiest foes, the daemons and beasts that crawl from the Chaos Wastes, and I shall not rest until my honor is restored through my death in battle.
No king, no lord, no hearth nor home shall claim me now. My only master is my shame, and my only destiny is a worthy death.
Until that time, I shall roam the twisted halls of Karag Dum, the cursed Wastes, and the lands beyond. I shall seek the strongest of our foes and bring death to those who brought ruin to our hold. I shall strike until my axe is broken, until my blood stains the stone, and until my soul is judged by Grimnir himself.
For I am a Slayer. And in my death, Karag Dum shall be avenged."

The Slayers of Karag Dum:

Many a Slayer fell within the corrupted halls of the hold, their axes buried deep in the flesh of Chaos beasts, their doom finally met in glorious battle. Over the centuries, their numbers swelled, for each new generation of Dawi bore the shame of their lost home, and more sought to walk the Slayer’s path.

From the smallest tunnel to the grandest hall, the songs of the Slayers echoed through Karag Dum. Their oath, repeated again and again in the face of endless enemies, became the heartbeat of the hold itself—a grim reminder of what was lost and what must be reclaimed. For every Slayer that fell, another would rise, until even the most wretched creatures of Chaos came to fear the sight of a bare-headed Dawi, bloodied axe in hand, seeking his final moment.

In the years of Chaos occupation, it is said that the Slayers of Karag Dum became the most relentless and feared warriors within the hold. Their unquenchable desire for death meant that no foe, however strong, was safe from their fury. Entire warbands were brought low by a single Slayer seeking a doom worthy of his people.

Honoring the Fallen Slayers:

Though their names may be lost to time, their deeds are carved into the walls of Karag Dum. It is said that, in the final hours of the hold’s life, when the forces of Chaos mounted their last great assault, the Slayers stood as the last line of defense. With axes raised high and their eyes burning with the fire of Grimnir, they held the gates, buying time for the rest of their kin to retreat.

None who took the Slayer’s Oath ever fled from battle, and none who pledged their life to Grimnir ever returned without meeting their doom. Each Slayer who fell in Karag Dum did so with a heart unburdened by fear, knowing that, in death, they would reclaim their honor and stand beside the ancestors once more.

May their sacrifice be remembered in every telling of the fall of Karag Dum, and may their axes strike true for all eternity. Their honor restored, their shame forgiven, their deeds forever etched into the Dammaz Kron.

"For Karag Dum! For Grimnir! Let death be our reward!"

Warmachines of Karag DUM

1. The Doomspike

Bolt Thrower

The Doomspike is the oldest of Karag Dum’s surviving bolt throwers, renowned for its history and the precision of its shots. Crafted by the finest engineers before the Chaos invasion, it stands as a symbol of the hold's resilience. The Doomspike’s bolts are feared for their deadly accuracy, having struck down countless foes during the siege and in the subsequent guerrilla war.

This bolt thrower was meticulously maintained even in the darkest hours of the occupation. Its crew, bound by duty and honor, swore to keep it operational, knowing it was one of the last remnants of their hold’s defensive might. The Iron Avenger’s bolts, fletched with the feathers of crows, are a harbinger of doom for any enemy that faces it.

2. The Deathknell

Bolt Thrower

The Deathknell is a bolt thrower that gained its fearsome reputation through its relentless effectiveness in battle. Known for its robust construction and formidable power, it was forged in the final years before Karag Dum's fall. The machine’s runes ensure that each bolt flies true, penetrating even the toughest armor of the enemy.

During the final defense of Karag Dum, the Deathknell played a pivotal role, taking down numerous enemy leaders and daemonic threats. After the fall, it was relocated to the deep fastnesses, where it remains a vital part of the Dawi’s defense. The Deathknell’s crew, hardened by years of conflict, maintain it with an almost religious fervor, ensuring that every shot delivers death to their foes.

3. The Long Eye

Bolt Thrower

The Long Eye is renowned for its unmatched accuracy, a testament to the skill of its creator. Built with precision and care, it is capable of targeting enemies at great distances. The Long Eye was used to defend the northern reaches of Karag Dum, where it took down numerous invaders before they could breach the hold.

After the hold's fall, the Long Eye was transported to the lower fastnesses, where it continued its deadly work. Its crew, dedicated and skilled, ensure that it remains in top condition, believing that every bolt it fires is guided by the spirits of their ancestors, striking true against the forces of Chaos.

4. The Wrathstone

Grudgethrower

The Wrathstone is an ancient grudgethrower, its history etched into every joint and rune. It is said to have been a crucial part of the hold's defenses during the early days of the Chaos invasion. The stones it hurls are imbued with the anger of the Dawi, each one taken from the wreckage of Karag Dum itself. These stones are known for their devastating impact, shattering enemy formations and fortifications alike.

During the occupation, the Wrathstone was hidden deep within the hold’s vaults, only to be brought out when the need was greatest. Its crew, bound by the grudge against their enemies, load each stone with the rage of their fallen kin, ensuring that every shot serves as a reminder of their enduring hatred for the invaders.

5. Grungni's Hammer

Grudgethrower

Grungni's Hammer is a grudgethrower forged from the ruins of Karag Dum, its frame reinforced to withstand the tremendous forces it unleashes. The stones it hurls are hewn from the wreckage of the hold itself, each one imbued with a fierce, vengeful energy. Grungni's Hammer has been instrumental in the defense of the hold, delivering powerful blows that have turned the tide of battle on numerous occasions.

When Karag Dum fell, Grungni's Hammer was relocated to the hold’s remaining strongholds, where it continues to unleash destruction upon the forces of Chaos. Its crew, driven by a deep-seated anger, load each stone with a fierce determination to avenge their fallen hold, ensuring that every attack delivers a crushing blow to their enemies.

These war machines, each with its own storied history and a purpose driven by deep-seated grudges, represent the last bastion of Karag Dum's might. Despite the hold's fall, their legacy endures, striking fear into the hearts of the forces of Chaos and ensuring that the debts of Karag Dum are repaid.

Runic Items

Grudgesettler - Axe

Baraz Azul - Armour

Grobkulfleg - Standard

Grim-Grondal - Talisman

Drakk-Az - Axe

Grudges Recorded in the Dammaz Kron of Karag Dum

1. The Fall of Karag Dum
"For the loss of our ancient hold, Karag Dum, to the foul legions of Chaos, who defiled its sacred halls and twisted the stone with their corruption. For this, we swear undying vengeance. The hold shall be retaken, and the blood of the enemy shall soak the stones they sought to claim as their own."

Grudge Level: Unforgivable
To be settled with the utter destruction of the Chaos invaders and the reclamation of the hold.

2. The Death of King Thangrim Firebeard
"For the slaying of King Thangrim Firebeard by the Bloodthirster of Khorne, a creature of darkness that defiled our king in battle. His death will be avenged, and its skull shall hang in the deepest hall of Karag Dum, as a warning to all foes of the Dawi."

Grudge Level: Blood Oath
To be settled by the collection of the skull of the Bloodthirster, and the restoration of King Thangrim’s honor.

3. The Desecration of the Forgewells
"For the corruption of our sacred forges, once blessed by Grungni himself, now tainted by the vile hands of the Chaos filth. The furnaces of Karag Dum were turned to crafting cursed weapons and armor for our enemies. This defilement shall be cleansed in fire and blood."

Grudge Level: Sacred Vengeance
To be settled by purging the forges of corruption and reclaiming them for the Dawi.

4. The Loss of the Hammer of Fate
"For the loss of the Hammer of Fate, a gift from the Ancestor Gods themselves, now lost in the depths of the Chaos-infested halls. The hammer shall be reclaimed, its power restored to the Dawi, and the thieves who dare lay hands upon it shall be torn asunder."

Grudge Level: Divine Retribution
To be settled by the recovery of the Hammer of Fate and the destruction of its defilers.

5. The Theft of the Axe of Runemasters
"For the theft of the Axe of Runemasters, the most sacred of all our artifacts, forged by the first Runelords and imbued with their power. This sacred weapon lies lost in the hands of our enemies. Its recovery is demanded, and those who hold it shall pay the price in blood."

Grudge Level: Holy Wrath
To be settled by the retrieval of the Axe of Runemasters and the death of its thieves.

6. The Betrayal of Our Scouts
"For the treachery of the warbands of Chaos who ambushed and slaughtered our brave scouts in the Wastes, their bodies left to rot under the corrupted sky. Their deaths will not go unanswered. Every Chaos warrior who walks the Wastes shall be slain until the last of them falls beneath our axes."

Grudge Level: Oath of Blood
To be settled by the death of a hundred Chaos warriors for every fallen Dawi scout.

7. The Destruction of the Runes of Protection
"For the destruction of the ancient runes of protection that guarded our hidden chambers and shielded our people from harm. The forces of Chaos shattered these wards, and in doing so, invited their own doom. We shall carve these runes anew in their blood, and the mountains shall remember."

Grudge Level: Eternal Oath
To be settled by the reforging of the runes and the destruction of those who defiled them.

8. The Fall of the Eastern Gate
"For the breaking of the Eastern Gate of Karag Dum, once an unbreachable bastion, now shattered by the twisted forces of Chaos. The gate shall be reforged from the finest gromril, and the hammer that strikes its final blow will be the one that fells the last Chaos invader."

Grudge Level: Ironbound Vow
To be settled by the restoration of the Eastern Gate and the death of all who breached it.

9. The Murder of Clan Stonehammer
"For the slaughter of Clan Stonehammer, whose halls were overrun by Chaos beasts and whose blood stains the floors of Karag Dum. Their name shall be avenged, and the Chaos-spawn who took their lives will be hunted to extinction."

Grudge Level: Clan Oath
To be settled by the destruction of the Chaos warband responsible and the restoration of Clan Stonehammer’s legacy.

10. The Loss of Karag Dum’s Glory
"For the loss of Karag Dum’s glory, a city that once stood as a beacon of Dawi strength and resilience, now fallen to ruin. The glory of Karag Dum will be restored, and the enemies who defiled it will know the fury of the Dawi before the end."

Grudge Level: Unyielding Resolve
To be settled by the full restoration of Karag Dum and the obliteration of its defilers.

11. The Mockery of Our Ancestors
"For the foul heretics of Chaos who dared defile the statues of our Ancestor Gods, carving blasphemous symbols upon their sacred forms. Their hands shall be severed, and their skulls piled high as a warning to any who dare insult the Dawi’s ancestors."

Grudge Level: Blasphemous Wrath
To be settled by the destruction of all who defiled the statues and the restoration of their sacred forms.

12. The Loss of the Hall of Records
"For the destruction of the Hall of Records, where the deeds and history of Karag Dum were kept in runes as old as the mountains themselves. The knowledge of our ancestors lies in ruin, scattered and broken. This affront shall be answered, and those responsible will be made to suffer a thousandfold."

Grudge Level: Eternal Reckoning
To be settled by the recovery of lost records and the death of those who desecrated them.

13. The Corruption of the Great Furnace
"For the defilement of the Great Furnace of Karag Dum, once the heart of our hold, now twisted by the dark magic of Chaos. Its fires no longer forge for the Dawi but for our enemies. We shall extinguish this flame of corruption and reignite it with the pure heat of Grungni’s blessing."

Grudge Level: Sacred Flame
To be settled by reclaiming the Great Furnace and restoring its fires to Dawi hands.

14. The Ambush at the Red Ridge
"For the treacherous ambush at the Red Ridge, where the Chaos Marauders fell upon our warriors as they marched to reinforce the Eastern Gate. Their cowardice shall be met with Dawi steel, and their bodies will line the roads they sought to defile with our blood."

Grudge Level: Oath of Revenge
To be settled by the eradication of the warband responsible and the cleansing of Red Ridge.

15. The Desecration of the Shrine of Valaya
"For the desecration of the Shrine of Valaya, where our ancestors sought her protection in times of need. The foul forces of Chaos defiled this sacred place with their unholy rituals. The blood of these defilers shall flow until the shrine is sanctified once more, and Valaya’s blessing returns to us."

Grudge Level: Holy Vengeance
To be settled by cleansing the shrine and annihilating the blasphemers.

16. The Murder of Lord Dromm Firehammer
"For the death of Lord Dromm Firehammer, warden of the Western Hall, who was slain by a daemon’s hand while defending his clan. His death demands retribution, and the creature that took his life shall be hunted until its foul existence is ended."

Grudge Level: Daemon’s Doom
To be settled by the death of the daemon responsible for Lord Firehammer’s murder.

17. The Ruin of the Stone Bridge
"For the destruction of the Stone Bridge of Karag Dum, a marvel of Dawi engineering that spanned the chasm of Kazgrim’s Rift. Chaos beasts tore it asunder, and the pathway to our western holds was lost. The bridge shall be rebuilt, and the beasts that caused its ruin will be slaughtered."

Grudge Level: Iron Resolve
To be settled by the rebuilding of the Stone Bridge and the elimination of the Chaos beasts responsible.

18. The Plundering of the Rune Vaults
"For the theft of our most sacred treasures from the Rune Vaults, where artifacts of great power were kept safe from the hands of our enemies. Chaos thieves broke into these vaults and stole what was not theirs to take. Their theft will be avenged, and every artifact shall be returned to Dawi hands."

Grudge Level: Righteous Wrath
To be settled by the retrieval of the stolen artifacts and the slaying of the thieves.

19. The Collapse of the Lower Tunnels
"For the collapse of the lower tunnels, where many Dawi miners perished beneath the rockfall caused by Chaos sorcery. Their loss shall be avenged, and the tunnels reopened. The dark sorcerers who caused their deaths will be cast into the earth to suffer the same fate."

Grudge Level: Stone’s Vengeance
To be settled by reopening the tunnels and killing the sorcerers responsible for the collapse.

20. The Insult of the Warlock-Prince of Norsca
"For the insult made by the Warlock-Prince of Norsca, who dared send a missive to Karag Dum claiming the Dawi would soon kneel before him. His arrogance shall be rewarded with the bite of Dawi axes, and his head shall adorn the gates of our hold as a reminder of his folly."

Grudge Level: Oath of Iron
To be settled by the death of the Warlock-Prince and the destruction of his army.

These grudges, like those before, shall not fade with time. They are carved into the Dammaz Kron by the hand of King Thodrik Greymane, and they shall be fulfilled in blood and iron, until the last debt is repaid and Karag Dum’s honor is restored.

We huddled by the side of the mountain trail, the crisp, cool air filling our lungs as we took a much-needed break from our grueling march. The sun was setting over the peaks, casting long shadows over the trail, and the mountain breeze brought with it the faint, familiar scent of pine and rock. We were four longbeards, each of us bearing the weight of centuries upon our shoulders and the marks of countless battles etched into our faces. Our beards, long and white as the snow-capped peaks, brushed against the ground as we settled down with pints of ale.

I am Oskar Granitebeard, and with me were Thrain Stonefist, Bromar Ironfoot, and Haldor Grimaxe. We sat in a haphazard circle, each of us cradling our ale mugs and letting the rich, malty liquid warm our old bones. It was a rare moment of respite from the endless march, and we took full advantage of it, though our minds were not so easily at ease.

"Look at 'em," Thrain grumbled, his voice a gravelly rumble as he gestured towards the line of beardlings trudging past. "Barely a whisker between 'em, and they march on like they’ve seen the depths of the earth. Bah! None of ‘em have the length or the white to their beards that we’ve earned."

I took a deep draught of my ale, savoring the bitterness that seemed to mirror my mood. “Aye, it’s true, Thrain,” I said, wiping my beard with the back of my hand. “These beardlings think they’re seasoned warriors, but they haven’t seen a fraction of what we’ve endured. They haven’t felt the sting of the grudge in their bones or tasted the bitterness of loss.”

Bromar Ironfoot, always the stoic one, nodded solemnly. “I remember when I was their age,” he said, his voice softer. “I thought I knew the world. Thought I knew what it meant to be a Dawi. But it wasn’t until the years turned my beard to silver and my muscles to iron that I truly understood.”

Haldor Grimaxe, ever the cynic, snorted. “It’s not just their beards, it’s their attitudes,” he said. “They think they’ve got it all figured out, but they’re just children playing at war. They don’t know the half of it. They haven’t earned the right to complain about the weight of their gear or the chill of the night.”

We all fell silent for a moment, each lost in our thoughts. The sounds of the marching beardlings and the distant clanging of metal from the camp were faint compared to the weight of our musings. The struggles of the hold weighed heavily on us, and it seemed as if the world itself was turning against us.

Thrain broke the silence, his voice gruff but with a hint of sadness. “We’ve seen our home fall to ruin, watched as our people were scattered and our legacy tarnished. And now, these young ones, they march with little understanding of what we’ve lost or what we fight for.”

I looked at my comrades, their beards flowing like the great rivers of the past, and felt a pang of sorrow. “They will learn,” I said, “but only if they survive. It is our duty to teach them, to show them the true meaning of being Dawi. It’s up to us to carry the weight of our grudge and ensure that the legacy of Clan Svengeln endures, even if they don’t yet understand it.”

Bromar raised his mug, and the others followed suit. “To the longbeards,” he said solemnly, “and to the lessons yet to be learned.”

We clinked our mugs together, the sound echoing in the evening air, and took another long, hearty sip. As the ale warmed our insides and the shadows grew longer, we knew that our grudge was far from over, and our duty to our hold and our people would continue as long as we drew breath.

And so we sat, four old warriors with beards of white and hearts of stone, watching as the beardlings passed us by, hoping that one day they would understand the weight of their legacy and the depth of our sacrifice.

A Dwarfen Toast to Karag Dum

Raise yer mugs, ye stout o' heart, and lift 'em high!
To stone and steel, to axe and beard, we give our cry!
To Karag Dum, our mountain bold, the hold o' old,
Where tales o' glory never die, and courage's cold!

May the stone beneath our feet stay strong,
May the fires o' our forge burn long!
May every grudge be settled true,
And every battle see us through!

To the halls we've left behind, yet never lost,
To every Dawi who stood, no matter the cost!
To the kin we've fought beside, now far or near,
We drink to their names, and shed no tear!

To Karag Dum!
Her walls may crumble, her gates may fall,
But in our hearts, she stands tall!
So drink ye deep, and drink ye fast,
For Dawi honor forever lasts!

To stone, to steel, to hearth and home,
To the mountain that forever roams!
Karag Dum, we drink to thee!

The shadows of Karag Dum stretched long and deep, swallowing the forms of Thodrik Greymane’s scouts as they moved through the crumbling ruins of their once-proud hold. Their steps were silent, boots barely brushing the cold stone floors, while the echoing din of Chaos warbands clashed and howled in the distance. Cloaked in dark, rune-stitched fabric that clung to the shadows, they became ghosts within the mountain’s heart, blending seamlessly into the ancient halls where once the Dawi thrived.

At the head of the scouting party was Durnir Stonefoot, an old ranger with eyes sharp as an eagle’s and a heart as heavy as the stone they trod upon. His hand gripped a heavy crossbow, its bolts tipped with barbed iron, and across his back was slung a short-hafted axe, its runes faintly glowing. His breath was steady as he led the others deeper into the ruin, where the foul stench of Chaos lingered like rot in the air.

They crept through the forsaken corridors, slipping past shattered statues of their ancestors, their faces long worn away by the passage of time and the relentless corruption of Chaos. Durnir motioned with two fingers to the group as they neared the sound of guttural voices ahead. Hunched figures, twisted and grotesque, squatted in the once-holy hall, their blackened armor and mutated limbs illuminated by the faint, sickly light of warped fires.

Durnir’s eyes narrowed. No words were spoken, for the scouts of Thodrik Greymane needed none. A single gesture told the tale. Two scouts silently raised their crossbows, fingers resting lightly on the triggers. The soft twang of release was followed by a dull thud. Two of the Chaos marauders crumpled, the barbed bolts buried deep in their necks. Another figure twitched, beginning to rise, but before he could cry out, Durnir’s axe flashed in the dim light, and the corrupted creature fell, lifeless.

The rangers moved on, quick and soundless, skirting the edge of a Chaos camp where larger numbers of the foul beasts had gathered. There were too many to confront head-on. They knew their mission was not to fight but to gather information, to move unseen and report back to Thodrik. Durnir paused, his ear pressed to the stone. Faint, distant echoes reached him. The sound of battle—but not the skirmish of a small warband. This was something greater, something fiercer. His heart quickened, though his face betrayed nothing.

He turned to his scouts, his hand sweeping through the air. “We split here. Gurni, Varrak, take half the lads and return to the Greymane. Tell him what we’ve seen. The rest of you—follow me. We find what lies beyond those echoes.”

Gurni nodded, his eyes grim, and with a quick motion, half the scouts melted back into the shadows, disappearing into the labyrinthine passages of Karag Dum. Durnir led the remaining few forward, towards the growing sound of clashing steel and roars of fury. They passed more Chaos warriors, avoiding them with skill honed from decades of living in the mountain's shadows. But even here, in their ancestral home, it was no easy task; the twisted creatures prowled the halls in greater numbers as they pressed onward.

The ground beneath their boots trembled as they drew closer to the source of the battle. The air grew thick with the metallic tang of blood, the unmistakable scent of death. Durnir motioned for a halt. Ahead of them, the great gates to the deeper halls had been shattered, their rune-carved surfaces scarred and defiled. Beyond the wreckage, the sound of battle grew louder, the echoes now clear as the clash of steel, the roar of beasts, and the unmistakable bellow of a Bloodthirster.

Durnir and his scouts moved to the edge of the ruined gate, peering out into the vast chamber beyond. What they saw struck them with both awe and sorrow.

The chamber had once been the Great Hall of Kings, where Thangrim Firebeard, King of Karag Dum, had ruled with unshakeable might. Now, it was a battlefield. At its center stood King Firebeard himself, bloodied but unbowed, his mighty axe cleaving through the tide of Chaos as his warriors fought by his side. But it was not just the twisted hordes of Chaos they fought. Towering above the battle, a Bloodthirster of immense size swung its fiery whip and ax, its unholy roar shaking the very walls of the mountain. And beside Firebeard, a figure caught Durnir’s eye— a man by the looks of him, yet standing fearlessly against the monstrous horde. Gotrek Gurnisson fought beside him, his axe gleaming with a furious glow.

The Bloodthirster reared back, roaring in rage as Gotrek and Firebeard struck it in tandem. But even as the dawi fought like the ancestors themselves had returned, the horde pressed ever closer. It was clear now why the echoes of battle had carried so far—the very soul of Karag Dum was being fought for in this hall.

Durnir’s heart sank, for though the bravery of the king and the slayers was unmatched, they were few, and the horde was endless. He knew that this would be King Firebeard’s final stand. His fingers clenched around his crossbow, but he knew better than to join the fight. His duty was not here—not yet.

With a final glance at the battle, Durnir pulled back into the shadows, motioning his scouts to follow. They had seen enough. Now, they would return to Thodrik and carry the weight of what they had witnessed. The King of Karag Dum, the slayers, and the man they did not know—Felix, though they would learn his name later—fought valiantly, but the mountain would fall. They moved quickly and silently, slipping back into the tunnels as the roar of the Bloodthirster shook the stone once more.

In the deep halls of Karag Dum, where the stone walls still bore the scars of ancient battles, a small group of Ironbreakers stood resolute. Their shields were locked together in a tight wall of iron, an unbreakable barrier forged in the fires of duty and tradition. Before them lay the darkened passage leading deeper into the mountain, where the twisted forms of Beastmen snarled and howled, desperate to claw their way through.

The Ironbreakers, their faces hidden behind the thick iron of their helms, remained unmoving. Their shields overlapped, forming an unyielding wall, while their axes gleamed from behind the protection of their shields, ready to strike should any foe dare come close. The Beastmen hurled themselves against the line, claws scratching at iron, horns splintering on steel. But the Dawi held firm, as solid as the mountain they defended.

The leader of the group, Haldor Bragarson, stood at the center, his broad shield braced against the tide. He had fought through countless battles, his beard now streaked with grey, but never had he faced an assault so relentless. For three long weeks, they had stood here, holding the passage while the rest of Karag Dum’s defenders gathered deeper within. There had been no reprieve, no relief. Just the endless tide of Beastmen throwing themselves against the shieldwall, only to be cut down and added to the growing pile of the dead.

Their bodies formed a grisly barricade before the Ironbreakers, a mound of twisted flesh and shattered bones. The stench of death hung heavy in the air, but the Ironbreakers paid it no mind. They had become part of the stone, as eternal and unwavering as the hold itself.

In the moments between the surges, when the Beastmen retreated to regroup, the Ironbreakers took turns to sleep, standing as one, leaning into each other for support. They slept in their armor, shields still locked in place, never breaking formation. It was a strange kind of rest—eyes closed, bodies still braced—but it was all they needed. For they knew the enemy would return, and when they did, the Ironbreakers would be ready.

On the fifteenth day, a great beast, larger than the others, bellowed from the darkness. The ground shook as it charged, but the Ironbreakers did not waver. With a roar of their own, they braced as one, shields locked, axes ready. The beast collided with the shieldwall, but the line held. Haldor’s axe flashed out, cutting deep into the creature’s flank, and with a mighty heave, they pushed it back, driving it into the pile of its own dead.

As the Beastmen retreated once more, the Ironbreakers took a moment to breathe. Their shields were dented, their armor battered, but their spirit was unbroken. They stood still, a wall of iron and stone, knowing that no matter how long the assault lasted, they would hold.

For they were Ironbreakers, the first and last line of defense, and no foe, be it man, beast, or daemon, would ever break their shieldwall.

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