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Vander's Pride, A Warhammer 
Tale, were written and performed

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by Owen Staton. 
For centuries, a silence older 

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than the roots of the mountains 
had seeped into the soul of the 

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caverns, an oppressive stillness
that cloaked the forgotten dwarf

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hold of Karaksigar in shadow and
memory. 

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That eternal quiet shattered in 
an instant, sundered by war 

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cries that roared like the fury 
of a waking dragon, fuelled by 

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an enmity as ancient as the 
peaks themselves. 

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Two forces collided with a 
cataclysmic might that trembled 

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the foundations of the Elder 
Mountains, dislodging slumbering

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snow from the towering slopes 
miles above in a cascading 

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avalanche of white wrath. 
After aeons of stillness, the 

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fate of a long abandoned bastion
of dwarven glory hung in the 

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balance. 
The greenskins surged forth like

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a pestilent tide, their vile 
essence poisoning the very air 

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of the caverns. 
Goblins of every twisted form, 

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squat snotlings, wiry runts and 
hulking brutes swarmed with eyes

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ablaze with hatred and minds 
bent on slaughter. 

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They scampered and shrieked, a 
cacophony of malice echoing off 

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the fungal crusted walls. 
Yet the dwarves of Zafbah met 

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them with unyielding valor, 
their numbers scant but their 

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spirits forged in the fires of 
ancestral pride. 

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The clash was thunderous, a 
Tempest of steel and blood. 

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Dwarven axes hewn from the 
forges of old cleaved through 

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goblin flesh, spraying inky 
inkor across the rocks, while 

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crude greenskin blades slithered
through the rare chinks in 

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dwarven armour, striking at 
their hated foes with desperate 

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savagery. 
At the heart of the maelstrom 

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stood Vander, second son of the 
Lord of Zafar, a colossus of 

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dwarven might. 
His warhammer sang with a dirge 

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of ruin, shattering the skull of
a towering Great Goblin. 

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In a burst of bone and brain was
his ironclad fist crushed a 

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squealing snottling against the 
cavern wall with contemptuous 

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ease. 
After centuries of simmering 

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resentment, he was a storm 
unleashed, his voice arising in 

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an ancient war hymn, soft as a 
whisper at first, then swelling 

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into a resonant chorus as the 
warriors of Zafbah took up the 

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song. 
It was a melody of defiance, a 

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hymn to Grungy's glory, 
reverberating through the 

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tunnels like the toiling of a 
great bell. 

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The greenskins faltered. 
The air thrummed with a dwarven 

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song, a force as palpable as the
blades, and the tide of battle 

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shifted through the goblin 
numbers darkened the caverns 

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like living shadow. 
Their great charge broke against

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the unyielding fury of the 
dwarven line. 

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Smaller goblins and snotlings 
were trampled under foot by 

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their own kin, their pitiful 
cries lost in the din, while 

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larger brutes felt their fragile
courage fracture, fleeing back 

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into the depths. 
Vander's heart swelled with the 

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pride of battle, the 
intoxicating promise of victory 

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cursing through his veins. 
Karek Cigar, the lost jewel of 

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his people, lay mere moments 
away, its ancient gates within 

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reach, its glory his to reclaim.
Then, in a heartbeat, the world 

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turned to chaos. 
As the dwarves pressed their 

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advantage, the fleeing 
greenskins parted like the 

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rending of a great veil. 
Goblins scrambled up the tunnel 

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walls or grovelled in the dirt, 
abandoning their pursuit to 

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escape to reveal a new terror. 
The Triumphant Hymn of Zafbah 

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reached a haunting crescendo, 
only to fall silent as a dread 

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presence emerged from the gloom.
The stagnant air of the caverns 

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stirred, heavy with menace as a 
hooded figure lurched forth from

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the shadows. 
It spun with unnatural speed, a 

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whirlwind of destruction, its 
cackling laughter a jagged blade

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against the silence. 
The dwarfs froze, their blood 

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running cold as they beheld the 
nightmare before them. 

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A goblin fanatic, this was no 
mere greenskin, but a fungus 

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crazed harbringer of doom, 
driven to madness by the 

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intoxicating spores of the 
madcap mushroom that festered in

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the deep places of the earth. 
A whirling dervish of 

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annihilation, it swung a massive
ball and chain above its head 

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with such ferocity that the air 
itself seemed to scream in 

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protest. 
The weapon, a crude orb of iron 

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studded with jagged spikes, tore
through the cavern towards 

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Vander's warriors, an 
unstoppable force of ruin aimed 

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at their very hearts. 
The dwarves, clad in mail, 

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forged to withstand the 
mightiest blows, stood no chance

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against this relentless terror. 
Their stout legs, built for 

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endurance rather than flight, 
faltered as they sought to evade

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the fanatics path. 
It struck their ranks like a 

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Thunderbolt loosed from the 
heavens. 

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The tunnel erupted in chaos. 
Dwarves were held skyward, their

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armoured forms crashing against 
the stone like broken dolls. 

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Bones thick as ancient oaks 
splintered like dry twigs. 

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Shields crafted to defy Dragons 
shattered into shards of useless

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metal. 
The triumphant Song of Zafbah 

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was drowned by the anguished 
screams of the fallen, the air 

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thick with a copper Tang of 
blood and the stench of death. 

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Vander's spirit plunged into an 
abyss of despair. 

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Victory, so tantalizingly close,
had been snatched away by this 

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grotesque fiend. 
Around him lay the wreckage of 

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his kin, brothers he had known 
for centuries, their bodies 

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broken and lifeless beneath the 
earth, far from the hearths of 

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home. 
Guilt seared his soul like 

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molten iron, a torment born of 
leading them to this doom. 

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Yet from that pain rose a 
defiant roar, a bellow of rage 

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and sorrow that shook the cavern
as he faced the whirling fanatic

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alone. 
Ducking beneath the deadly arc 

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of its chain, Vander charged, 
his hammer raised like the first

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of a vengeful God. 
For a fleeting moment, his eyes 

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burning with the fury of 1000 
grudges, met the drooling, manic

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gaze of the fanatic. 
With a prayer to Grungy 

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thundering in his chest, he 
swung. 

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A sickening crunch resounded as 
the hammer met its mark, caving 

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in the fanatic skull in a spray 
of gore and splintered bone. 

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The whirling terror stilled, its
ball and chain crashing to the 

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ground. 
With a final hollow clang, the 

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battle ended as abruptly as it 
had erupted, leaving silence in 

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its wake, a silence heavier than
the mountains above. 

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Vander sank to his knees, 
victorious yet hollow, 

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surrounded by the carnage of his
triumph. 

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Time stretched into an eternity 
as he knelt upon the blood slick

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stone, the weight of loss 
pressing on him like the depths 

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of the earth. 
At last he rose, his gaze 

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sweeping the devastation. 
Of the 50 warriors who had 

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marched with him into the mines,
scarce 20 remained exhausted, 

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battered, bearing wounds that 
would have fell the mightiest 

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beasts of the wild. 
The goblin dead. 

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They were beyond counting, a 
carpet of twisted corpses strewn

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across the cavern, many slain by
their own fanatics, reckless 

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fury as by the dwarven steel. 
With a voice like breaking 

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stone, Vander rallied his 
survivors. 

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Karaksagar loomed ahead, its 
ancient gates a beacon against 

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the darkness, a prize forged in 
blood and sacrifice. 

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The lost hold of his ancestors 
called to him, its shadowed 

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halls promising either eternal 
glory or a final reckoning. 

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Hammer in hand, he led his 
broken band onward, each step a 

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testament to the unyielding will
of the dwarves, each breath a 

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vow to reclaim what was once 
theirs. 

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Join me again for the next 
chapter in this saga. 

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But in the meantime, why not 
buymeakofi@ko-fi.com/owen 

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Stayton for those gifts of gold?
Allow me to carry on this quest 

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for you and the Crown of 
Command. 

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You can contact me at 
thewelshstoryteller.com or look 

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for my podcast and give it a 
listen. 

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It's called time between times. 
My name is Owen Stayton. 

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Take care my friends. 
Nostalgia.