~POV: Lord Rurik Grundadrakk~
The Black Gulf wind howled like vengeful spirits, clawing at Lord Rurik Grundadrakk's cloak as he stood upon the sea-bastion of Barak Varr, the Gate to the Sea. Even above the ceaseless thunder of waves smashing against the cliff-carved harbors, he could hear them, the Urks. Their crude, guttural roars rolled across the Borderlands like a plague wind, burrowing into every dawi's bones.
The walls of Barak Varr had never fallen. They still held today, unbreached beneath this rancid, bellowing Waaagh! that choked the hold like smog from a bad forge. Yet victory tasted bitter as black iron.
Hundreds of dawi had been taken in the weeks before the siege, merchants ambushed on roads leading to the hold, fisher-folk dragged from their boats at dusk, sentries snatched in the night, and grieving parents who dared venture beyond the outer defenses. All silenced before a single horn could sound.
And somewhere in that writhing mass of hostages was Torik, Rurik's only son and heir. The stubborn lad had led a desperate sortie to find and free the missing people. Yet, now he shared their chains and ancestors forbid he might suffer their fate.
"Torik… hear me, lad," Rurik growled, gauntleted hands crushing the stone rail until his knuckles whitened. "Yer da stands. Yer da endures. By Valaya's oath and Grimnir's blazing axe, I'll not fail ye."
Below, in the trampled lowlands between the cliffs and the outer harbor, the greenskins reveled in their cruelty. Orcs and goblins paraded dwarven prisoners through the muck, jabbing them with spears and hooks. They hacked off braids with rusty blades and, in the worst cases, tore beards out by the roots—an obscenity that curdled the blood of every dawi watching from the battlements.
A beardless dwarf stood naked before the ancestors. To be shorn by urk hands demanded blood and iron in return. Many would rather die than suffer such shame.
Rurik watched one of his veteran Ironbeards choke back tears, beard trembling with equal amounts of rage and shame. The stall ward warrior voice came out as a whisper. "My brother's down there, I saw the Urks tear chunks from his mane and left him only whiskers."
Rurik laid a heavy hand on the dwarf's pauldron, firm as the mountains themselves. "Hold fast, Durvar. We'll get our kin back. Or we'll avenge them so thoroughly the urks will curse the day their gods taught them to walk upright. Grudge-bound and iron-true we will make them pay."
Across the blood-soaked plains, the greenskin horde writhed like a living sea of filth. Crude banners of hide and looted cloth snapped in the wind. War-drums pounded like hammers on rotten bone, thick with Waaagh! energy—violent, hungry, and strangely disciplined.
At its heart stood the monster in charge. Magdoof da Chompa. A Black Orc of impossible height and girth, clad in scavenged plate studded with ship-rivets and shattered cannon fragments. His left pauldron was the broken prow of a merchant vessel; his great axe, a snapped dwarven gangplank. Yellow eyes gleamed with cruel cunning. This was no mindless stampede. The orcs had learned just enough tactics to make the siege hurt, using living shields of dawi captives to silence Barak Varr's famed cliff-face cannons and blockading the sea-gates with their ramshackle fleet. Some claimed he'd been a feral whelp once — a beast from the southern Badlands with nothing but hunger and violence in his skull. But he'd grown, and grown, and grown, devouring all in his path. He'd earned the name "Chomper" not through boast or title, but through deed — for he'd eaten dwarves whole, and men, and halflings, and anything else foolish enough to fall beneath his shadow. Rumor held he once chewed through a steel portcullis simply because it "annoyed him." Rurik spat over the parapet.
"Magdoof the Chomper," he hissed, naming the brute aloud—an act of power in the old ways. "Ye gluttonous son of fungus. I'll carve yer name into the Dammaz Kron so deep the stone will weep to bear it. Every crime. Every shame. Etched forever."
A horn blast rose from the lower bastion. Rurik strode along the walkway as engineers and Thunderers saluted. Soot blackened their armor from the morning's bombardment.
"Report," he barked.
"The urks tried the sea-locks again, my lord," an engineer said, wiping grime from his brow. "Our torpedo mines held. Their raft-heap burns bright enough to light half the Gulf."
Another added grimly, "They've dragged more hostages to the forelines. Taunting us. They know we won't fire on our own."
Rurik's stomach turned to stone. "Cowardly filth. Urks were always too scared to face a dawi straight."
Muttered curses rippled through the dwarves, rage simmering like coals ready to erupt. Yet they could not sally forth. A single breach could doom hundreds. Their navy lay pinned in the sea-caverns. Their caravans were cut off. The horde beyond the cliffs was too vast for any breakout to be anything but slaughter.
"We endure," Rurik said, voice like iron on an anvil. "We prepare. We wait for the ancestors' sign. And when it comes, we'll carve these urks into chum."
He leaned on the rune-etched railing, staring down at the burning camps. Somewhere in that nightmare was Torik, his brave, stubborn Torik, who once swore he'd become a Hammerer like his father. Rurik's throat tightened. He forced steady breaths.
"Grungni… Valaya… Grimnir," he whispered. "Guide me. Lend me strength. Give me a path… a weapon… anything to save the boy. Anything to save our folk."
As if in answer, thunder rumbled from the distant northern peaks. No storm had been foretold by the runesmiths. The dwarves fell silent, heads turning upward.
Something moved in the clouds. Fast, silent, unnatural. A flicker of light against the grey, too swift for any bird or gyrocopter. It banked sharply, descending toward the shadowed cliffs high above the orc lines, vanishing into a hidden overhang as though the mountain itself had opened to receive it.
Rurik's eyes widened. A low murmur spread along the bastion.
"By Grimnir's beard…" one Thunderer breathed.
"An omen," another whispered, voice thick with awe. "The ancestors have heard us."
Rurik straightened, hammer rising so the runes caught the fading light. A fierce, grim hope kindled in his chest, the first in weeks.
"Aye," he growled, voice carrying across the battlements like rolling stone. "The ancestors have not abandoned Barak Varr. They send a sign in our hour of need. Hold fast, dawi! Sharpen your axes and recite your grudges. Tonight, we remind these urks why the dawi never forget."
A thunderous shout rose grim, unbreakable, hungry for vengeance.
Far above the chaos, unseen by orc or dwarf, the "sign" stirred in its shadowed nook. Pulling out a mask, as horrifying as the deeds he planned to commit. "Terror time."
~POV MagDoof da Chomper~
Night's creepin' in over da Black Gulf, all purple an' sticky like a bruise dat won't heal. Da wind stinks o' salt, fish guts, an' burnt squig. Me belly's rumblin' louder dan da thunder rollin' over Barak Varr. Dat big stone sea-hold squats at da end o' da cliffs like a fat stuntie waitin' to get stomped — walls thick as me arm, cannons pokin' out everywhere, shiny metal bits what would look proper good once I bash 'em loose an' wear 'em.
But right now, all I can fink about is how 'ungry I am.
Real 'ungry. Ogre-'ungry. Da kind what gnaws from da inside like it's got teeth of its own.
Ever since I crunched dat big ogre lad last winter — still kickin' when I bit through his arms an' started on da legs — me gut ain't been right. It grew proper mean after dat. Nuffin' fills it no more. I tried squigs (too squishy), gobbos (too stringy), umies (too squeaky), horses, even a whole Troll wot kept regeneratin' in me belly till I got bored an' punched it out.
Dwarves used to hit da spot. Bones snap nice an' crunchy, beards get stuck in yer teeth like stringy meat. But dese ones? Dey taste like old boots left in troll spit. Weak. No fight left in 'em.
When me boyz drag over three stunties what tried runnin' away earlier, I tear into 'em anyway. Crunch—crack—splurt. I rip da first one's head off wiv me teeth, chew through da beard like it's gristle, an' swallow da rest in three big bites. Da second one I sit on till 'e stops squirmin', den I start on da legs. Da third… I don't even remember. Just blood an' bits.
I spit out a clump o' beard hair an' kick da corpses aside. "Bah. Stunties used ta taste better. No meat. No bite. No… nuffin'."
Dat's when Snik'Tongue scuttles up like da sneaky little git 'e is. Me gobbo shaman, always rattlin' 'is bone-staff, mutterin' to Gork an' Mork like dey actually answer back. Sneaky. Bossy. But clever. An' right now, me belly listens to 'im more dan I do.
"Boss!" 'e squeaks, eyes all shiny-green. "Da Great Green whispered tonight! Gork an' Mork lit up da sky earlier — dat big flash! It's a sign, see? A propa sign! Da juiciest, fightiest, most fillin' meal you'll ever eat is waitin' inside Barak Varr! But ya gotta get inside da walls first!"
I stare down at da little git, dwarf blood still drippin' off me helmet an' runnin' down me chin. "Barak Varr? Full o' beard-fings? I already crunched three. Dey're goin' soft, Snik. Tastes like grotty old boots."
Snik waves 'is skull-stick so hard 'e nearly brains 'imself. "Not dem ordinary stunties, Boss! Da special one! Da one wot'll make yer belly stop hurtin' forever! But da stunties won't fire der big cannons if we waves der kin in front like shields! We push da hostages forward, dey hesitate, we krump da gates!"
I snarl deep in me throat, tusks bared. Shields. Bah. Shields is for weak humies an' runty gobbos. Not for Magdoof da Chompa.
But den me belly twists — hard, ogre-hard — like it's tryin' to chew its way out through me ribs. I hunch over, one massive hand clutchin' me gut. "Uuuugh… Mork's stinkin' nose hairs… Fine. We do it yer gobbo way. But once we's inside, I'm eatin' everythin'. You hear me, Snik? Every stuntie, every cannon, every shiny bit o' metal. All goin' in da belly."
Snik'Tongue bows so low 'is skull mask bonks da dirt. "'Course, Boss! 'Course! Da Great Green provides!"
Thunder cracks across da sky again. Snik's eyes glow brighter. "Dat's da sign, Boss! Da gods say attack tonight!"
I grin wide, tusks gleamin' wiv spit an' blood. "Night-fightin'? Good. Stunties won't see me chompin' 'em till der legs is gone."
But Snik actually grabs me arm — bold little zogger. "Not you yet, Boss! Gork says wait! Let da boyz go first, make a big mess, draw der eyes!"
I bare me tusks an' growl. I hate dat word. Patience. Makes me want to krump somethin' just for sayin' it.
Me belly twists again, worse. Pain shoots through me guts like a choppa twistin' inside.
"FINE," I roar. "But I need a SNACK right now!"
Snik points back toward da far pen where da rest o' da hostages are kept, all cheerful-like. "Help yerself, Boss. Plenty o' fresh beardies back dere."
Me an' da shaman stomp toward da hostage pen, me Iron Boyz — big, heavy-armored Black Orcs — marchin' along as guards. Da camp is alive wiv noise: boyz bellowin', squigs bitin' each other, gobbos scamperin', war-drums still thumpin' slow an' mean. Fires burn low an' smoky. Da smell o' burnin' meat an' fungus beer hangs thick.
But as we get close… somethin' smells wrong.
Too clean. Too sharp. Not proper Orky celebration smell… but fresh Orky blood.
I shove da gate open wiv one massive hand—
An' see me guards dyin'.
Not fightin'. Not even shoutin' proper. Just fallin'. Helmets split clean down da middle. Chests opened like tin cans. Necks sliced neat as a butcher's cut. Blood splashes fresh an' hot on da dirt. One Iron Boy tries to swing 'is choppa but 'is arm comes off at da shoulder before 'e finishes da motion.
"WHAT DA ZOG?!" I roar, snatchin' up me massive choppa — da one made from a snapped dwarven gangplank.
Snik shrieks an' throws up a barrier, 'is staff cracklin' wiv green Waaagh! fire. "Boss! Magic! It's aimed at YOU! Stay close!"
A wave o' bad golden magic slams into us — bright, burnin', wrong. Too clean. Like sunlight dipped in pure hate. It rolls over da camp like a tidal wave o' fire an' thunder.
Me Iron Boyz — da biggest, meanest lads I had — get roasted, melted, or blasted apart in seconds. Armor fuses to flesh. Boyz scream like panicked squigs. Da ground cracks open. Tents explode. Squigs pop like overfilled balloons.
Even I stagger, me belly howlin' in pain an' rage.
Snik strains, squealin', holdin' da shield wiv everythin' 'e's got. It scorches da air, burns da dirt, bends stone. But da little git holds it. Barely.
An' den I see him.
A shape steps from da shadows — movin' too quiet, too smooth. Armor all shiny in a wrong way, like moonlight on polished bone. An' 'is helmet… Gork's big iron arse… it's a skull. A long, stretched, dead-thing skull wiv a daemon's grin. Hollow eyes burnin' cold blue-white hate.
Even I flinch.
An' me belly? It roars wiv hunger louder dan any Waaagh! I ever felt.
"Dat skellie…" I mutter, drool runnin' down me chin. "He'll taste propa."
Before I can charge, da dead'un lifts 'is glowin' blade — not at me… At Snik.
"BOSS!" Snik squeals. "Dat's a—"
FWIP.
One slash. Too fast to see.
Snik'Tongue pops apart like a spoiled squig. Chunks fly everywhere. 'Is head rolls across da dirt, jaw still flappin' weakly: "—dangerous—"
Den it stops.
I blink once.
Den I grin wide, tusks gleamin'.
"So da snack walks to ME now, eh?"
I pound me chest wiv one massive fist, makin' da armor ring. "OI, SKELLIE! You got guts sneakin' into Magdoof da Chompa's camp! Big bone guts! Good bone guts! An' soon I'm gonna EAT 'EM, chew yer black bones to dust an' spit out da bits!"
Da bone'ead just stares. All cold. All dead inside. A right propa skeleton dat learned to walk an' kill.
'e reaches into 'is armor… pulls out a tiny clicky thing.
I laugh loud. "What's dat? A skellie tickler? You gonna tickle me to death, ya bony git?"
'e presses it.
KA-BOOOOOOOOOOM.
Half me camp disappears behind me. Fireballs shoot up like mad suns. Tents fly. Squigs burst. Orcs scream an' burn an' stomp each other tryin' to run. Flames roar high enough to scorch Gork's nose hairs. Me ears ring. Me vision shakes. Half me Waaagh! — da half I kept back for da big push — is gettin' shredded.
"You…" I growl, voice like grindin' boulders. "You zoggin' WITCH! I'll rip yer legs off an' beat ya wiv da soggy ends!"
'e tilts 'is skull-helm. Just a little.
Den 'e moves.
Too fast.
I swing. 'E slides. I chop. 'E's behind me. I smash da ground — 'e ain't there. 'e cuts me — arm, ribs, den knocks me helmet clean off me noggin just to anger me more. Small cuts. Quick ones. Cuts dat hurt inside, not out.
I roar, swingin' harder. Smashin' wagons. Smashin' tents. Smashin' everythin' but him.
But 'e keeps comin'. Quiet. Focused. Deadly.
"I'M GONNA EAT YER 'EART RAW! GET IN ME BELLY!" I bellow, spittle flyin'.
'e doesn't answer.
'e just leaps—
Flash.
Da world spins sideways.
Feels light. Feels wrong. Feels far away.
Me body's kneelin' in da dirt… But me head ain't on it no more.
Da skull-face daemon lifts me head by da hair, stares into me eyes like 'e's inspectin' bad fungus.
Den 'e ties me head to 'is belt. Like a trophy. Like a squig toy.
Magdoof da Chompa — belt decoration.
If I had lungs, I'd scream. If I had a neck, I'd turn to bite 'im. If I had hands, I'd smash 'im to paste.
But all I got is hearin'.
Last thing I hear… Dwarves shoutin' from da walls. Fire cracklin'. Da skull-helm daemon walkin' away calm as you like, like 'e just finished a chore.
An' me belly… still rumblin'. Still hungry. Always hungry.