Spoiler:
Darkness. A foul stench of rot and a debilitating headache crept into his awareness. A feel to his noggin
confirmed his fears; he'd been knocked out and had laid unconscious, who knows for how long. There was a wound
with blood still dripping from it near his temples; it encouraged him a little that the blood had not yet
had time to coagulate. There would be hope still. But what was this place he found himself in?
There was a Dwarf, one of the stout people from the cold mountains. His name was Rodni.
He was the oldest of a trio of brothers, a caretaker of the proud house in which his family had lived and died
for centuries. There was a name attached to the house, a clans name of great importance, and not so little was
said about that name throughout the Halls. It was the sort of name that became synonimous with obtaining Honor
and Glory in battle; the sort of name the young ones would mutter in awe without truly knowing the full meaning
or legacy they'd touch upon. That name is now forgotten.
There was a battle, one of those that gets mired in obscurity and legends even before the smoke has cleared;
a battle at a hillfort, at the intersection of rainy mountains and sloping valleys, where the giantfolk live.
This battle was like any other battle in many ways; foes and friends alike were cut down and slaughtered
to the hymns of singing steel - existence was ceised for most of the participants. There were few survivors,
thanks in most part to the underwhelming numbers of the defending forces, who struggled so fiercely
and determined into the early hours of sunrise. They were overrun, but they were not defeated.
In the dead of night, one lone gunner took to the walls of the besieged keep. He would place loaded munitions
around the edges; he would place extra powder and slugs; he would stack grenades and hide mines under the stones.
The fires below were unable to properly light up this theater of war; small intense glimpses of light,
each followed by a roaring blast, each again followed by an exclamation of pain from the invaders below.
Rocks and boulders were hurled at the walls in an attempt to crush the tenacious defender, but
the glimpses of light would merely appear elsewhere, in the darkness above, seemingly ethereal and evidently
oblivious to the approaching death below. There was fire and smoke, and there were explosions; anything that
moved in the dark, outside the walls during that night, was sure to have its life snuffed out,
one way or the other. The courtyard sang with screams of pain and the tiles were covered in blood and soot.
Come time for the sun to rise and behold the splendors that had unfolded during the night, not more
than 4 souls were left alive. The highest ranking among them was now Rodni, the lone gunner. By his subordinants
he was respectfully dubbed "Dangerfield" as a testament to his fierceness and resolve on this night.
He had been tested and tried in combat; for his valor and commitment he was awarded command over a small
unit of artillerists; the cannons and the organ guns were the pride of the Dawi forges and smitheries.
He took to the task with courage and commitment; many a night his unit marched, towing their deadly cargo to
a predetermined destination on a battlefield somewhere far off. Many a day was spent in dreadfully
unforgiving conditions; poisinous swamps, cluttered forests, rocky hills swept by cold winds, and sandy expanses
torn up by winds so hot, nothing would grow there. He did all this because it was necessary; because it was right.
Perhaps he had overdone it a little; perhaps the long days of marching had taken its toll on his lads.
They certainly had taken its toll on himself. As he soldiered on through the wilderness, hauling the
machines of death to their stated destination, he eventually became awfully tired; he lost his focus,
his keen senses and sharp mind started to play tricks on him as lack of sleep set in.
The march had become an exhausting haul, from which only arrival would liberate them. As the days became weeks
and the grueling condotions continued to harrow away at the travellers, Rodni lost his cool oversight and
would eventually lead his kin into the inevitable ambush.
It was a morning. The sun had merely started to light up the world once more. There was a rustle in the bushes.
There were a few pebbles that trickled down some larger rocks. There was an eerie silence then,
followed by the sudden noisy eruption of greenskin war cries, the clanging of poorly made armor and weaponry
and the yelping and barking from the Squigs and the goblins who reered them. To Rodni it only lasted
a few seconds; enough time to realize the severity of the situation, and to see the spatter markings painted
onto their green hides that would identify this tribe as Savaj Boyz. But not enough time to react to the
orc coming down from a tree above, brandishing a stone club. There was a *thud* and a shooting star,
and all went black.
In the darkness before the world returned to him, Rodni was encroached upon by visions of spirits past.
There was no presence nor talk, merely a transference of thoughts and feelings;
various impressions of urgent importance was delivered onto him, but they seemed to be otherworldly spiritual
matters thoroughly out of his control, given his mortal practical form.
The darkness in which he found himself after the world had returned to him once more, there was this smell of rot there.
His head ached and bled still. He couldn't have been out for long. Why was it so dark in here? Where is here?
Echoes coming down the tunnel revealed to him the world had not gone absent. So there was a tunnel.
He must've been under the earth, but he did not feel at all at home. This was the domain of someone else.
The sounds that reached him were those of battle. Cannons roaring, fire blazing, explosions and
screams that would send a chill down the spine of even a deamon. To Rodni it sounded like a plead for help.
But there was something else in the tunnel. A dragging sound, of something living coming towards the
dark chamber where he had been confined to. He was not tied or bound, but the severity of the situation was
not lost on him; he had to escape.
The dragging feet were coming closer, and he could now also hear the rasping breathing of its owner.
It coming towards his position, instincts won out over pain; he got up on all fours, checked that there was
no stone ceiling right above his head, slowly stood up and adjusted his eyes to the darkness as best he could.
There was a dim aura of daylight around a corner up ahead, but it was soon blocked out by the approaching
as of yet unseen horror. It was coming closer still. Time was running out.
Rodni felt his own pockets silently then; his weapons and most of his equipment was missing, but a few minor things
of his were still on his person; a hankerchief, a flint and tinder set, two stumpy candles that had almost
served their purpose fully already, and his Lucky Gromril Bullet. In a fit of desperation, Rodni started
fiddling with the flint and tinder. If he could only see properly! He cut his own thumb but made no sound other
than the striking sound of metal on rock. Sparks flew but gave no light. Finally one of the sparks caught some
threads in the hankerchief, a small flame erupted briefly, and Rodni was able to light the stumpy candles.
The room was indeed a cave under ground. He instantly realized it was once a Dawi Hold of sorts, but it was now
the lair of some witch or hag, or some other hideous monstrous wench who had given in to temptations
of dark powers over the earth. Such a horror as he had never seen before now came around the corner
and into full view; a scraggy mutated womanly shape, disfigured and tormented, claws on her hands,
a mouth full of blackened but sharp teeth, and evil, cunning, black eyes, that only became apparent
from the reflections of the dim candlelight.
Rodni shivered; such a foe was a tribal matter, not a dare for any single Dawi.
Who knew what dark forces had reinforced the living husk of this harpy!
The thing opened it's mouth and was about to speak, when Rodni saw his opportunity; before it had managed to say
a single enchanted word he was darting for the exit behind it, narrowly dodging a reactionary claw to his neck.
He was almost blinded by the light as he ran towards it, but he kept going; the howls of the thing behind him
were more than enough of a deterrent to go back there: "I am Kyreia Sek, lady of this domain! You have been
given to me by the warring kind! They now roam my land! I will have my payment!!"
The enchanted words of the hag rang out in the distance as Rodni fled and tumbled down the hills.
She was thrashing about near the cave entrance further up, looking for her escaped convict; Rodni would be far
away by the time she would pick up on his trail. But other noises came at him also at this time. There was a
sound as if from an angry boulder, rolling back and forth in one place, grinding pebbles underneath.
Then, after a while, a few cannons went off in the distance up ahead, and some organ guns fired their last
salvos before they retreated into frantic silence.
Rodni steeled himself for what was to come as he walked out of the underbrush at the foot of the hill,
but nothing could have prepared him for the sight that he saw that day; utter and total defeat.
There was a valley in the cold mountains. There was a trainrail which was religiously upkept. There were trains
that would roll in on time, deliver goods and materials and get loaded up again just as swiftly.
For the Savaj Boyz, living at the edge of known civilization, the rails and its loading Junction were unheard of,
until the day when mighty Gazbag himself decided to inspect his subordinates-to-be in the wars to come.
It was no hard case for Gazbag to make for the chieftain, that riches and glory were to be had from the
downfall of a stunty supply facility. It was in fact a decree that the Savaj Boyz would relocate and begin
stalking the mountains, weeks ahead of the final attack. Gazbag had a cunning plan; he was secretly inspired
by the Fireworks and Boomsticks that the stunties deployed, thoze dat wut wut hit so noisily!
It was his vision, that with the firepower of a few commandeered cannons, the trainstation's defense forces
would be eliminated, and all the spoils would be free for the taking and making of more War!
However, Gazbag had grossly underestimated the effective firepower of his New Toyz to be.
Rodni stood in shock and awe. He beheld the carnage visited upon his kin. He saw it all as if through a screen
of unreality. He was untouched by the events, but he knew he was tied to it. The chaos was complete.
It was clearly obvious to anyone what had happened. The trains had been in the middle of loading when
the attack had started. The stolen cannons had been lined up on the hills surrounding the station,
all pointing inwards. They now stood silent, their twisted purpose fulfilled.
The very cannons Rodni had committed himself to protect and transport had been hijacked and used to smash
the mighty Gromril Junction into unrecognizable little bits. Most of the trains now lay tilted on their sides,
the ones still standing marred with bloodstains, painted in soot, grime and dirt and bent and dented from the
direct hits of high velocity Dawi projectiles.
Rodni's kinfolk lay slayn on the ground, or worse, hung crucified around the scene, to bleed out
while witnessing the downfall and destruction of all their hard work and toil.
He found one of the lads from his own division. Poor fool must've escaped and made it down here just in time
to have his own cannons pointed at him.. Rodni sat in disbelief in front of the dead kinsman. He tried to move the dead body,
but realized it to be too gruesome a task, when he saw the guts sacking out on the ground beneath the body.
This was all his fault. How could he have been so reckless? Why hadn't he taken proper precautions during
the march? He knew there'd be ambushes along the way; that's War. Why hadn't he seen this coming?
Such a small contingency of soldiers to carry and protect such a valuable cargo, it was too good of a target
to simply pass by. And the cunning of the greenskins, it should never have been underestimated.
Firing a cannon isn't so complicated that a goblin cannot figure it out over time. Blasted gobbos!!
The safety of the cannons had been his responsibility. The safety of the lads as well. He had failed
in both these objectives. Furthermore, his failure had resulted in the total destruction of a location vital
and important to all Dawikind, indeed to all Man- and Elfkind as well. His ineptitudes had escalated into a
critical blow to the War effort as a whole; It would be felt by many, and for a long time to come.
Rodni was besides himself with grief. His honor shattered. His companions and trusted friends,
all dead in front of him. The legacies for which he had fought so hard to uphold were in tatters.
The works of the ancestors themselves were in jeopardy from now on. All balance was hanging by a thread.
What could he possibly do? Should he take the Oath? Bah! What Oath could possibly cover such failure and
neglect of duties? What words of honor would ever right this wrong? To him, obscurity would be a blessing;
oblivion would be absolution. But how can one forget such bitterness? Death would be a kindness.
As the day turned to night, and the nights turned into a full week, the coal fires of the Junction kept burning
strong. The fires crept across the Junction, igniting all and consuming everything. The plume of black smoke
was seen all the way from the uplands of Thunder Mountain in the south, to Castle Stonewatch itself in the north.
The rails being out of service, and Gromril Junction itself being so far off into the wilderness, it took a
contingency of royal investigators a full week to arrive at the scene. What met them there was utter devastation.
It has been reported that the coalfires had died down to hot embers at the time of arrival. The fires did manage
to color the underside of the spanning bridge above with a thick black soot, however. The damage to the station
was deemed to be complete and irreversible at the time being, given the situation and circumstances.
While travelling witnesses have reported a figure initially lurking around in the debree, presumably in an
effort to save comrades or perhaps even scavenge the remains, no survivors have been found at the scene.
The Savaj Boyz tribe left behind enough markings to let their crimes be known. Their transgressions have been
duly noted and has been conveyed to the proper authorities; a page has been turned in the Book of Grudges.
