Vander's Pride, A Warhammer Tale, were written and performed
by Owen Staton. For centuries, a silence older
than the roots of the mountains had seeped into the soul of the
caverns, an oppressive stillness that cloaked the forgotten dwarf
hold of Karaksigar in shadow and memory.
That eternal quiet shattered in an instant, sundered by war
cries that roared like the fury of a waking dragon, fuelled by
an enmity as ancient as the peaks themselves.
Two forces collided with a cataclysmic might that trembled
the foundations of the Elder Mountains, dislodging slumbering
snow from the towering slopes miles above in a cascading
avalanche of white wrath. After aeons of stillness, the
fate of a long abandoned bastion of dwarven glory hung in the
balance. The greenskins surged forth like
a pestilent tide, their vile essence poisoning the very air
of the caverns. Goblins of every twisted form,
squat snotlings, wiry runts and hulking brutes swarmed with eyes
ablaze with hatred and minds bent on slaughter.
They scampered and shrieked, a cacophony of malice echoing off
the fungal crusted walls. Yet the dwarves of Zafbah met
them with unyielding valor, their numbers scant but their
spirits forged in the fires of ancestral pride.
The clash was thunderous, a Tempest of steel and blood.
Dwarven axes hewn from the forges of old cleaved through
goblin flesh, spraying inky inkor across the rocks, while
crude greenskin blades slithered through the rare chinks in
dwarven armour, striking at their hated foes with desperate
savagery. At the heart of the maelstrom
stood Vander, second son of the Lord of Zafar, a colossus of
dwarven might. His warhammer sang with a dirge
of ruin, shattering the skull of a towering Great Goblin.
In a burst of bone and brain was his ironclad fist crushed a
squealing snottling against the cavern wall with contemptuous
ease. After centuries of simmering
resentment, he was a storm unleashed, his voice arising in
an ancient war hymn, soft as a whisper at first, then swelling
into a resonant chorus as the warriors of Zafbah took up the
song. It was a melody of defiance, a
hymn to Grungy's glory, reverberating through the
tunnels like the toiling of a great bell.
The greenskins faltered. The air thrummed with a dwarven
song, a force as palpable as the blades, and the tide of battle
shifted through the goblin numbers darkened the caverns
like living shadow. Their great charge broke against
the unyielding fury of the dwarven line.
Smaller goblins and snotlings were trampled under foot by
their own kin, their pitiful cries lost in the din, while
larger brutes felt their fragile courage fracture, fleeing back
into the depths. Vander's heart swelled with the
pride of battle, the intoxicating promise of victory
cursing through his veins. Karek Cigar, the lost jewel of
his people, lay mere moments away, its ancient gates within
reach, its glory his to reclaim. Then, in a heartbeat, the world
turned to chaos. As the dwarves pressed their
advantage, the fleeing greenskins parted like the
rending of a great veil. Goblins scrambled up the tunnel
walls or grovelled in the dirt, abandoning their pursuit to
escape to reveal a new terror. The Triumphant Hymn of Zafbah
reached a haunting crescendo, only to fall silent as a dread
presence emerged from the gloom. The stagnant air of the caverns
stirred, heavy with menace as a hooded figure lurched forth from
the shadows. It spun with unnatural speed, a
whirlwind of destruction, its cackling laughter a jagged blade
against the silence. The dwarfs froze, their blood
running cold as they beheld the nightmare before them.
A goblin fanatic, this was no mere greenskin, but a fungus
crazed harbringer of doom, driven to madness by the
intoxicating spores of the madcap mushroom that festered in
the deep places of the earth. A whirling dervish of
annihilation, it swung a massive ball and chain above its head
with such ferocity that the air itself seemed to scream in
protest. The weapon, a crude orb of iron
studded with jagged spikes, tore through the cavern towards
Vander's warriors, an unstoppable force of ruin aimed
at their very hearts. The dwarves, clad in mail,
forged to withstand the mightiest blows, stood no chance
against this relentless terror. Their stout legs, built for
endurance rather than flight, faltered as they sought to evade
the fanatics path. It struck their ranks like a
Thunderbolt loosed from the heavens.
The tunnel erupted in chaos. Dwarves were held skyward, their
armoured forms crashing against the stone like broken dolls.
Bones thick as ancient oaks splintered like dry twigs.
Shields crafted to defy Dragons shattered into shards of useless
metal. The triumphant Song of Zafbah
was drowned by the anguished screams of the fallen, the air
thick with a copper Tang of blood and the stench of death.
Vander's spirit plunged into an abyss of despair.
Victory, so tantalizingly close, had been snatched away by this
grotesque fiend. Around him lay the wreckage of
his kin, brothers he had known for centuries, their bodies
broken and lifeless beneath the earth, far from the hearths of
home. Guilt seared his soul like
molten iron, a torment born of leading them to this doom.
Yet from that pain rose a defiant roar, a bellow of rage
and sorrow that shook the cavern as he faced the whirling fanatic
alone. Ducking beneath the deadly arc
of its chain, Vander charged, his hammer raised like the first
of a vengeful God. For a fleeting moment, his eyes
burning with the fury of 1000 grudges, met the drooling, manic
gaze of the fanatic. With a prayer to Grungy
thundering in his chest, he swung.
A sickening crunch resounded as the hammer met its mark, caving
in the fanatic skull in a spray of gore and splintered bone.
The whirling terror stilled, its ball and chain crashing to the
ground. With a final hollow clang, the
battle ended as abruptly as it had erupted, leaving silence in
its wake, a silence heavier than the mountains above.
Vander sank to his knees, victorious yet hollow,
surrounded by the carnage of his triumph.
Time stretched into an eternity as he knelt upon the blood slick
stone, the weight of loss pressing on him like the depths
of the earth. At last he rose, his gaze
sweeping the devastation. Of the 50 warriors who had
marched with him into the mines, scarce 20 remained exhausted,
battered, bearing wounds that would have fell the mightiest
beasts of the wild. The goblin dead.
They were beyond counting, a carpet of twisted corpses strewn
across the cavern, many slain by their own fanatics, reckless
fury as by the dwarven steel. With a voice like breaking
stone, Vander rallied his survivors.
Karaksagar loomed ahead, its ancient gates a beacon against
the darkness, a prize forged in blood and sacrifice.
The lost hold of his ancestors called to him, its shadowed
halls promising either eternal glory or a final reckoning.
Hammer in hand, he led his broken band onward, each step a
testament to the unyielding will of the dwarves, each breath a
vow to reclaim what was once theirs.
Join me again for the next chapter in this saga.
But in the meantime, why not buymeakofi@ko-fi.com/owen
Stayton for those gifts of gold? Allow me to carry on this quest
for you and the Crown of Command.
You can contact me at thewelshstoryteller.com or look
for my podcast and give it a listen.
It's called time between times. My name is Owen Stayton.
Take care my friends. Nostalgia.