Expansion None Escapes the Horde [T.H.E. Expansion Into the Rotten Highlands]

[TheThird]

The sky above the Rotten Highlands churned with black smoke and green haze. From the ruined ridge, the last Dwarven city could be seen, a battered silhouette of once-mighty stone, choked in ash and shrapnel. Siege towers smouldered around it, wrecked by explosions or twisted beyond use. And still, it held. For now.

A guttural horn blew once, then twice, deep and bone-shaking. A procession of Eshkin emerged from the cracked ravines, garbed in ragged red-black robes and lacquered armour reeking of doomstone oil. They parted like rats from a drain as the Eshkin Warlord arrived.

A towering brute, armoured in layered chitin and warped steel, his fur singed and patchy with radiation scars. His breath steamed in the cold. The runes on his halberd glowed faintly, burning with a sickly hue. With every step, a war drum pounded from his retinue, a reminder: this was not a mere inspection. He came to see victory.

The trenchline command post, little more than a rotten timber hut and a cratered map table, was already occupied by Warmaster Skeerch, the siege overseer. His tail flicked nervously as the Warlord approached. “My Warlord, great tail-lord, doom-bringer, tunnel-king, praise to the Maw, yes-yes, you honour us with claws and gaze.” The Warlord said nothing at first. He stared down at the map, ignoring Skeerch’s grovelling. “Thirty hours,” the Warlord growled. “Then it dies.”

Skeerch nodded frantically, scraping a claw across the map to indicate progress. “Yes-yes. We crush-crack their sky defences next. Then we ready the airstrips. For next attack, yes. Airbase-works nearly finished. Rats with wings, yes-yes.”

The Warlord turned his gaze to the city again. “Make sure it burns-dies bright-bright.” And the drums started again. Twenty-nine hours to go.

 

[TheThird]

The foothills groaned underfoot.

They came in a single file. Dozens at first, old folk wrapped in threadbare cloaks, wounded dwarves half-starved, mothers clutching bundles of bread and iron. Every soul carried something they thought might matter. A lock of hair. A locket. A pickaxe. They’d abandoned the city hours ago, moving under moonless skies, hoping the old smuggler trails might guide them out of the Rotten Highlands. No guards. No lights. Just hope.

It was not enough. By the time the first volley hit, half had crested a ridge of frostbitten stone. The others never even saw the guns. Eshkin scouts lined the high paths, dug into outcroppings with rusted rifles and ratling guns. They let the first dwarves pass, watched the weak wheeze and stumble through dead roots. Then came the command. One pop-flare, green, flickering, then fire.

The old were the first to fall. Screams echoed through the fog like broken bells. Panic turned the trail into a stampede, but the ledge was narrow, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Dwarves shoved each other aside in desperation. A man dragged his wife into a crevice. A grandmother hurled herself across a gap. She didn’t make it.

Wyvern rats dropped from above like carrion birds, shrieking for a meal. A clan matriarch tried to hold them off with a broken spear. They tore her to pieces and left her blood steaming on the rocks.

By dawn, there were only corpses. The ridge path, once a route of escape, became a warning. The Eshkin hung bodies on crude spikes, eyes pried open with nails. Signs scrawled in filth read:

“NO FLIGHT.”
“NO REFUGE.”
“YOU DIE HERE.”

The Rotten Highlands were sealed. And no one was coming to help.

 

[TheThird]

They were not soldiers. Farmers, woodcutters, stone-workers, old men and boys barely old enough to hold a hammer. Fleeing the eastern hamlets, they were caught on the goat-path above the last stand of the dwarven defenders, herded at spearpoint by skittering patrols into the open, where the cliff winds howled like wolves.

No trial. No words exchanged. The Eshkin simply dragged chains from sacks and began fastening hooks into the rock. By the third body, the rats had made it a sport. Ten dwarves were hung in total, their bodies suspended by neck or feet, depending on the whim of the warbands. One elderly dwarf was hoisted upside down and left to swing in the morning fog, blood dripping from his beard onto the stones below like a slow metronome. Another still twitched, even as the rope bit into his throat.

From the watchtowers of the last dwarven city, the victims were clearly visible. This was no execution. This was a message. A watch. A warning.

For hours, the rats watched in silence. No Eshkin patrols moved. No siege weapons advanced. Just the wind, the swaying corpses, and the whisper of ropes pulled taut against ancient stone. A lone dwarf, perhaps a scout, perhaps just a desperate father, attempted to climb the slope to reach them. He was spotted halfway up and reduced to red mist by a dozen ratling guns.

The rats cheered. Their voices echoed off the cliffs, foul and gleeful. By nightfall, the ropes creaked with the stiffening dead. Ravens did not come. The sky remained empty. And still the rats watched, hoping to lure in more prideful dwarves. Hoping to thin out the already fallen-apart forces of the Dwarves.

 

[TheThird]

They began with the corpses. At the edge of the Rotten Highlands, the first pyre was lit. Dwarven bodies piled like timber, armour still strapped to twisted limbs, eyes wide and blackened. The firewood was dry, but unnecessary; flesh burns easily, especially when soaked in doomstone oil. The smoke rose in a thick column, dark and greasy, curling up toward the peaks like a question posed to gods who no longer answer.

By the time the sun touched its zenith, a dozen more pyres followed. Not for sanitation. Not for mercy. This was ritual. This was Smokewatch.

The pyres were placed deliberately, at chokepoints, roadways, and mountain passes, each one a beacon to every corner of the Rotten Highlands. Every dwarven hamlet still breathing could see it. And smell it. Across ridges and gulches, the wind dragged the scent of death like a veil. But it wasn’t just corpses that burned.

Nature screamed as it was devoured. Squirrels leapt from branch to branch, only to vanish in sudden bursts of heat. Wolves fled their dens, tongues lolling, coats seared. Deer crashed through brambles and into waiting nets.

Dry underbrush, abandoned farms, lumber camps, all fed to the flames. The Eshkin rats ran with torches, cackling as they tossed them into hollowed tree trunks, low shrines, even old rune-stones. Nothing was sacred. Nothing was safe. They seeded the highlands with fire, not to flush out stragglers, but to cleanse. To erase. By the time the third bell tolled from their war camp, the highlands had become a furnace.

The ground smoked. The trees groaned. And somewhere, far in the northern ranges, the last ravens took flight. The Eshkin stood at their ridgelines, war-masks wrapped against the ash. They watched the world below burn.

 

[TheThird]

Nature screamed first. Wolves, starved and smoke-blind, came tumbling from the treeline. Deer collapsed mid-run, antlers still smouldering. Birds fell from the sky, their wings too singed to lift. The fire moved faster than thought, leaping over stone and stream. Ancient brambles and mossy glens, all devoured. Some claimed to hear the land itself crying, a low, wet groan beneath the smoke. But even that was drowned by the roar of the pyres.

Refugees fled as well. Peasants, old dwarves, miners, even warriors, staggering from burrows and collapsed tunnels, coughing, bleeding, blackened. They did not scream for mercy. They ran. The Eshkin didn’t chase. They waited. Some sat behind scorched stone barricades, blades unsheathed. Others crouched beneath scorched banners of vermin-skin, watching the slopes through cracked spy-glasses.

Patience wasn’t a virtue, it was a doctrine. Let the fire drive them. Let the smoke blind them. Let the ash smother them.

Every escape route led downward. Every canyon was already netted. The Eshkin had spent weeks mapping this terrain, every ridge and ravine. The prey was always going to burn or be buried. All that remained was time. By the evening, the entire province choked beneath a dark fog. Sunlight was gone, only brass light filtered through the haze. Fires crackled across the ridgelines like signals from another age.

The Rotten Highlands were no longer rotting. They were dying. And the Eshkin stood above it all, masked, waiting, unmoved. Their war had already been decided; now it just had to run its course.

 

[TheThird]

The high ridges of the Rotten Highlands are now crowned in ruin. Where once trees clung to stone and goat trails crossed under watchful dwarven eyes, now stand silent totems of bone and steel. The Eshkin have completed their circle, a siege not of walls, but of will.

Every approach to the final dwarven city is now sealed. Pike-lines stretch across ravines, R.A.S.H. mines scatter the mountain passes, and crude towers rise from broken trees, each crowned with a flame, a watchman, and a bell. Not to warn. To toll. The ring itself is named in whispers: the Iron Curtain. A line of death that nothing crosses twice. Eshkin troops scurry through the soot and ash, smearing their mixture along the winds: dwarf blood, fat, and heavy oils. The stench sinks deep into the stone, sour and thick, as if the very mountain bleeds.

No horns sound when the dwarves send out scouts now. No gunfire, no screaming. Just silence, and the gentle crunch of ash under clawed feet. Each refugee is swallowed by fog, and never returns. Some hang from branches. Others are simply left in piles, stripped of gear, nameless beneath carrion flies.

On the highest ridge, the warlord stands beside his field commander, Skeerch. The two look down at the ember-choked valley, the final dwarven stronghold crouched in defiance amid the smoke. The city is still. Watching. Starving. "We wait-wait," the warlord says. "The fog breaks-destroys their spirit-will. The hunger-greed does the rest, yes-yes." The Warmaster only nods. No further orders are given. None are needed.

The Iron Curtain tightens, not with haste, but inevitability. It is sentencing. And from the heights, the rats watch the last spark of dwarven hope gutter, then flicker. Then dim.

 

[TheThird]

Within a hollowed-out bunker of scavenged stone and bone, lit by doomstone lamps, the War-Cartographer kneels. His ink-stained claws dance across stretched hide, not parchment. The map of the Rotten Highlands is alive beneath his touch, veins of captured trails, blotches where towns once stood, new names scrawled over old stone. "The ridges burned-died here-here," he mutters, stabbing a claw into a dark smudge. "Smoke runs-runs westward. No-no movement from the area-land. All known dwarven burrows-homes have been sealed-destroyed or collapsed yes-yes.''

Around him, attendants hold scrolls, war-records, and bones etched with kill-tallies. One carries a piece of skull with a carving of Krag-Duraz before it fell. Another unfurls a list of corpses found flayed, not by Eshkin hands. "Still no-no sign of the survivors-leftovers from Bristlehall no-no," the Cartographer continued.

"But-but movement along the-the southeast slope.'' The Warmaster spoke up ''One-one caravan? No, a bad-bad trap-trap. Note it now-now." He taps a claw against a broken compass nailed to the corner of the table. "Winds have shifted-chnaged. Fog thickens. Scent-lines useless-bad after nightfall. Good-good. Better that way yes-yes."

Behind him, the warlord and his warmaster study the growing map in silence. The stronghold looms in the centre, unnamed, unbroken, but surrounded by crimson rings and gnawed annotations. The Cartographer turns, bowing. "When the time-time comes-arrives, the burrow-scheme is ready-ready. We know-know where to tunnel-dig. Where to strike-kill. Where their kin-weak hide-hide."

The warlord leans in, eyes narrow. "And the-the escape routes?"

"None-none remain-stay." Silence. Then the warlord speaks. “Good-good. Begin the perimeter collapse-kill, yes-yes.” From beneath the table, the Cartographer lifts another map, etched not in hide but on chiselled slabs of stone. Beneath it: every fault line, every undermined tunnel, every pressure point of the mountain itself. The Eshkin are not merely killing dwarves. They are erasing their world.

 

[TheThird]

The ash clings to his cloak. Charred flakes of dwarf-hide and pine bark drift from the sky like black snow. Smoke stings every eye in the Rotten Highlands, but Warlord Ironclaw walks tall through it all, back straight, tail held high, boots sinking into scorched mud and bones.

“Too slow-slow,” he growls, cuffing a sentry aside. “Stakes were meant to be reset-set by dawn-dawn. If dwarves-scum crawl up from the soil-ground, it’ll be your throat they bite-slit first-first.”

The warcamp sprawls in controlled chaos. Trenches ripple through the earth like scars, marked with bone-pikes and rotting banners. Tents stitched from flayed hides flutter in the hot wind. In one pit, Bloodskins sharpen their halberds with obsessive rhythm. In another, rat ogres gnaw on chains, eyes wild from the blood-scent drifting on the breeze.

Ironclaw stops at the siege yard. Dozens of crude-but-deadly war engines rest here: rusted ratapults wound tight with sinew, poison glass globes shivering with unstable fumes, and a towering burrow-drill still coated in dried fat and stone dust.

The engineers scurry from his path, one lifting a scroll with schematics trembling in his paws. "How long-long till it bites-eats rock?"

"One-and-a-half hours, warlord-sire! The drill-brood feed it doomstone-oil and rage-rage! It hungers, yes-yes!" Ironclaw nods once. He moves on.

The fires still burn across the horizon, a circle of smog around the highlands. Most life has either fled or choked. Now, the rats wait for the fog to settle, for the earth to finish mourning. Ironclaw watches a flame dance atop a shattered dwarf statue. Its eyes melted. Its crown blackened. He sneers. “Let it burn-burn. The mountain will cough-vomit up what’s left-left, and then…” He turns to his Warmaster. “Tell-tell the War-Cartographer, mark-mark the airship-ship field-land. I's want-want it flattened when the sky-sky clears, yes-yes.” War waits. But it waits on Ironclaw’s terms.

 

[TheThird]

Warlord Ironclaw stood atop the blackwood viewing platform, his black fur singed from the heat of the endless bonfires crackling across the highlands. The smoke was thick now, cloaking the sky in rust-red haze, hiding sun, stars, and scouts alike. The wind carried the stench of charred dwarven corpses and burnt earth through the Eshkin camp.

He raised his clawed gauntlet, signalling the advance. "No drum-sound. No scream. No mistake, yes-yes" he rasped.

From the scattered tents and trenches, hundreds of Eshkin emerged like vermin from a sinking ship. Silent. Focused. Trained. Clad in patchwork armour made of stolen dwarven steel and ratbone, their eyes glowed through the fog. Long lines of siege-beasts, massive rat ogres chained to iron-wheeled engines, were led forward, their maws muzzled with iron mesh to muffle their growls.

Torchlight glimmered off weapons smeared with poison-thick grease. Flailing Plagues carried bundles wrapped in cloth, swaying with hidden payloads of pestilence. Burrow-teams with hooked claws and grease-covered shovels slithered toward the flanks, already marking the points of descent.

Ironclaw marched along the central line, hissing praise and curses in equal measure. "This land burns, yes-yes. Now we finish. Now we squeeze tight-tighter. yes-yes" Smoke roiled across the battlefield like a living thing. Behind them, the great bonfires still roared, and ahead, the final dwarven settlement loomed behind crumbling walls, blinded by the ashen veil.

None saw what was coming through the fog. The dwarves had dug in, thinking it was safe. But now, the Eshkin were moving.

 

[TheThird]

The great wheels turned without a sound. Rat ogres, bred for muscle and obedience, strained against their yokes, hauling siege engines across scorched stone and ashen soil. Maschinists' faces masked, hunched over slates of bone and steel, guided the war machines into place with clicks of tongue and lash. Mortars, Doom Drakes, and ram towers creaked and rattled like rusted bones, shuddering forward under the weight of wicked intent.

Tarps soaked in moss, ash, and coagulated blood were thrown over them, disguising their jagged silhouettes in the fog that now blanketed the highlands. From the shattered battlements of the last dwarven hold, the defenders saw only faint shapes moving through the mist, shadows shifting with cruel purpose. Phantoms. Nightmares wrapped in silence.

Along the far perimeter, where the blackened soil met cliff and ruin, the burrow teams began their work. Claws scraped and shovels bit deep. Ancient stone groaned in protest beneath the weight of centuries, now torn open by Eshkin diggers. No torches lit their path. No markers told them where to go. They worked by feel, by the scent of old masonry, of firestone veins and dwarven metal. Their goal: to bypass the outer defences. To come up behind the defenders. To collapse the floor beneath them and turn the bastion into a tomb.

Above ground, Maschinists loaded their cursed doomstone rifles and ratling guns. Each load radiated the air around them as it was placed within the blasphemous machines they operated. Last touch-ups were given, ensuring everything was in place, as their Warlord ordered.

Ironclaw moved through the ranks in silence, his claws clicking on stone. His gaze, hard and cold, froze those who dared falter. Every movement of his tattered cloak sent a ripple down the lines. There was no room for failure. No tolerance for hesitation.

 

[TheThird]

Beneath the surface, the soil was warm with rot. The burrowers pressed deeper. Claws tore at the earth, soaked with old blood and new decay. Tunnels branched like veins, crooked and unstable, but quick, always quick. The Eshkin worked without light or guide, driven by hunger and instinct. And as they dug, they fed.

Corpses, dumped in forgotten trenches or buried shallow by time and war, became fuel. Dwarven dead. rats dead. Even beasts caught in the crossfire of this slow extermination. Nothing was spared. No flesh was wasted. The burrowers paused only to devour, tearing sinew and marrow in silence. Then the digging resumed.

Some collapsed, bloated with meat, only to be trampled underfoot by the next in line. The tunnels stank of sweat, blood, and the wet iron stink of subterranean madness. Above them, Ironclaw stood on a rise, watching the land buckle and shift. The smoke-fog still hung thick, but he could sense the pressure building. The engines were nearly in place. The tunnels would soon reach their mark. No horns would sound. No banners would rise. The dwarves would die in smoke and silence.

To one side, a warmaster chittered as he studied the ground, pressing his palm into the dirt to feel the vibrations of his kin underneath. His voice trembled with glee, “Soon-sure, yes-yes. They sleep-walk above. Won’t know till floor-ground cracks open. Glory to our God-ruler Esh.”

Ironclaw said nothing. He turned away and moved down the line. This was the slow part. The patient part. But the province was aflame behind them, its last stronghold suffocating under heat and dread. The jaws were tightening.

 

[TheThird]

Deep beneath the last dwarven stronghold, the Eshkin laboured in silence. The tunnel had grown vast, more cavern than passage now. Its ceiling, the very foundation of the fortress wall, groaned with ancient weight. Thick beams of stolen timber held it aloft, every support lashed together with sinew cords and smeared with slick, foul grease to keep the wood from snapping too early.

Rat Maschinists scurried over the supports, gnawing, scratching, measuring vibrations in the stone above. Dozens of claw marks stained the earth. Foul glyphs of Esh etched into the rock for luck, or perhaps as a ritual to curse the dwarves above.

The dwarves never heard them. And now, the time had come. The Warmaster Skeerch shrieked the signal. Claws and iron hooks tore through the supports, one after another. The timber cracked like bones in a furnace. The hollow chamber trembled, then roared.

Above, the fortress wall shuddered. Stone groaned. Runes flickered. And then, with a thunderous collapse, a section of the mighty defence buckled inward. Dust and debris burst like a wave, swallowing the dwarven parapets and raining rubble into the inner courtyard.

 

[TheThird]

But the dwarves had not slept. Even as the wall gave way, Stoneblood warriors rallied behind the breach. King Drunrik’s kin, veterans of flame and siege, had anticipated treachery beneath the soil. Barricades of overturned carts, shattered pillars, and stacked stone were already rising behind the dust cloud.

When the Eshkin reached the breach, they did not find ruin. They found axes. The first wave crashed into a wall of steel and fury. Crossbow bolts thudded from hidden alcoves. Flame-belchers ignited the front lines. The narrow breach, clogged with rubble, forced the Eshkin to attack in trickling numbers, never enough to overwhelm the defenders.

Blood soaked the stones as bodies piled. Rat ogres fell screaming, tangled in chains and fire. Doomstone bombs fizzled uselessly against ancient stone. Still, the dwarves held, anchored by duty and vengeance.

Ironclaw watched from afar, eyes narrowing. His clawed hand twitched. This wasn’t how it was meant to go. The trap had opened, but the prey had teeth.

He raised his hand. A long, shrill horn sounded. The Eshkin pulled back. Not routed, never routed, but halted. Regrouping. Within the smoke-choked breach, the dwarves roared a chant older than the stones themselves. The Stonebloods held, for now.

 

[TheThird]

A new sound crawled across the highland fog, not war drums, not the clash of arms, but slow, rhythmic chanting. It came from the east, echoing down the blackened ridges and over fields littered with scorched stone and corpses. The Eshkin at the siege line paused. Even the war engines stilled.

From the smoke emerged the procession. Dozens of flagellants led the way, robed, hooded, their flesh marked with self-inflicted wounds. Each bore the icon of the Maw: a jagged circle of rusted iron, its centre an eternal, yawning mouth. Behind them came the censer-bearers, swinging braziers filled with burning refuse and bone. The scent turned the stomach. The soil recoiled.

And finally, the priests. Clad in crimson wrappings and bone-laced vestments, the high-preachers of the Maw walked in solemn silence. Their feet never touched the scorched ground. Instead, they were carried on platforms borne by lesser zealots, chanting through shredded throats. Their eyes, when seen, gleamed with starvation and purpose.

The Brotherhood of the Maw had arrived.

The procession marched along the trenches and siege lines, never breaking formation. They passed dying Eshkin who reached out for blessings and were ignored. Their destination was unclear, but soon they stopped just out of reach beyond the crossbows of the Dwarven defenders.

That's when they started. Buckets of blood were poured into the cracks of the earth. Skulls were arranged into patterns only the devout could read. They sang of sacrifice, of hunger, of the Maw that devours all.

They did not speak to the soldiers. They did not answer questions. They simply began the sermon, low, guttural, unending. The air turned heavy. The valley listened. And far ahead, atop the ridge, Ironclaw watched. And groveled.

 

[TheThird]

The stink of scorched blood and incense clung thick over the siege lines as Ironclaw made his way toward the breach. The chanting had not stopped. If anything, it had grown louder, more fevered. He grimaced.

The Brotherhood of the Maw were gathered in a semi-circle, painting crude symbols across the stones with what looked like marrow-thick paste. One priest stood taller than the rest, wrapped in yellowed cloth and broken jawbones, his tail rigid with piety.

Warlord Ironclaw did not wait for the ceremony. “You’ve arrived, yes-yes” he said flatly. “Good.” The priest turned, tilting his head as if inspecting a flawed offering. “The ground thirsts, Ironclaw. We need-need to feed it. The Maw is unpleased yes-yes.” Ironclaw's ears flicked. “The Maw does not command-lead this war-war. I's do yes-yes.”

The priest said nothing, only gesturing toward the breach. “The enemy still lives-breathes.”

“I's know-know” Ironclaw snapped. “Because my warriors-rats bleed-die in the rubble while your fanatics-fools pour blood-blood into cracks and speak to the dirt-dirt.” One of the lesser zealots hissed. The priest raised a claw to silence him. “The Maw devours-feast all in time. We prepare-prepare the path yes-yes.”

Ironclaw stepped closer. His presence towered over the smaller priest. “I's don’t need your blessings, bone-rat. I's need-need the walls to break-fall. I's need the city-hold broken-destroyed. Not sung over yes-yes.” A tense silence lingered. Then the priest bowed, shallow and slow. “We-us will not hinder you, Warlord. Our rites-rituals are... complementary. Not-not competing.”

Ironclaw's eyes narrowed. “See that they stay that way-way.” He turned without another word, cloak trailing through soot and dust.

Behind him, the sermon resumed. And though his claws itched for the next move, Ironclaw knew one thing clearly: the Brotherhood of the Maw didn’t fight for victory. They fought for something hungrier.

 

[TheThird]

The breach still smoked. Chunks of stone lay twisted in heaps, a scar upon the dwarven wall. Behind it, the defenders had dug in, bloodied but unbroken. Ironclaw stood atop a viewing knoll of splintered timber and scrap, staring down into the basin of war. His tail twitched once, twice, then stilled. Warmaster Skeerch approached, armour smeared with dust and glory not yet earned.

“We press here, yes-yes” he hissed, claws stabbing toward the gap. “We broke-tore down the wall-wall, they cannot hold-live forever yes-yes.” Ironclaw didn’t answer at first. His eyes studied the mists curling along the rubble, the subtle flickers of movement, crossbows readied, oil poured. “They held,” he muttered. “Through the collapse, through the charge-attack. Held-held when-when they should’ve died-died.”

Skeerch bared his teeth. “Then I's-I's make them die-die this time yes-yes.” A wave of Maschinists was already moving, dragging rubble away, widening the breach. Ratapults were rolled up under tarps, angled low toward the dwarven line. Smoke-curtains were released, choking white plumes that drifted heavily across the battlefield, obscuring eyes and blinding sharpshooters.

Ironclaw finally nodded. “You get your second-last chance, Warmaster. Make-make it count yes-yes.” No horns sounded. No drums. Only the scurry of feet and the grind of metal. Eshkin formations began to gather in the lee of the fog, breathing deep the scent of fire, oil, and blood. Their tails lashed with anticipation.

Further off, the Brotherhood of the Maw watched in silence. They hadn’t been invited.

Ironclaw turned away, cloak dragging ash behind him. “If this fails-fails again,” he said, almost to himself, “the breach-hole will become your tomb-grave yes-yes.” Behind him, Skeerch was already barking orders, his plan, his moment, his reckoning. The second assault would either bathe him in renown or remove his name from history.

 

[TheThird]

The fog thickened. It clung to every jagged stone, every blood-soaked banner, veiling the ruined breach like the maw of some waiting beast. From within its choking folds, the Eshkin gathered in silence, rows of blades, claws, and glinting eyes ready to pounce.

Warmaster Skeerch stood at the front. His armour was lacquered in blood and soot. His snout twitched as he breathed in the iron-rich air. This was his moment, his plan, his victory to claim. He raised a rusted sword, and the signal passed without a word. The assault began. They moved like shadows through smoke.

No horns. No screams. Just the sound of paws on stone, whispered chittering, and the heavy thud of Rat Ogres being loosed.

The dwarves waited. Behind the rubble, behind hastily erected barricades of debris and bone, they saw shapes twisting in the haze and raised their shields. Bolts fired blindly. A few Eshkin fell, hissing in silence, but most came on. Skeerch had changed the approach, no frontal charge, no wild push.

Small units, creeping close under smoke. Flankers worming around side passages. Ogres only released once the line had softened. He had learned from the failure. And it worked. A section of the dwarven line cracked as rats emerged from a split in the wall itself, slashing from within. Screams echoed as defenders were caught between rubble and claw. A dwarven flame-belcher was overturned, its gouts redirected into friendly lines. Confusion set in.

Skeerch surged forward, not as a commander, but as a beast among his own kind. His sword cleaved through dwarf mail. His teeth bit down on a helm. Around him, the breach widened, slowly, bloodily.

From afar, Ironclaw watched with arms folded. For the first time, his tail curled in satisfaction. This was how a Warmaster proved himself.

 

[TheThird]

The Eshkin pressed the breach like a tide of blades and bile, but the dwarves were not yet broken. As the smoke churned and the fog shifted, horns blared from deep within the hold. Low and sonorous, like the groan of a mountain waking. The Stonebloods had called their kin. And their kin answered.

A fresh wave of dwarves surged into the breach, not with chaos, but with iron-bound discipline. Shields locked tight. Hammers raised high. A line formed amidst the rubble, and with a roar, they charged.

The Eshkin advance staggered. Warmaster Skeerch snarled as his front ranks were driven back, crushed beneath heavy boots and swinging mauls. Flame-belchers found new footing and sent gouts of fire back through the ruined wall, engulfing two full rat ogres in screaming flames. For every rat that lunged forward, a dwarf met them with iron resolve. The Stonebloods had learned as well. No more would they hold the breach. they would contest it.

Skeerch’s momentum faltered. He barked orders, rallying his warriors to reinforce the gap, but the dwarves were pressing now, using their knowledge of the terrain and the tight confines to their advantage. Hidden bolt-holes opened along the sides of the inner wall, sending volleys of crossbow fire into the flanks of the attackers.

The ground was slick with blood and bile. Rat ogres, wounded and blinded by smoke, thrashed without direction. Eshkin lines began to waver. At the rear, Ironclaw watched in silence, eyes narrowing. The Warmaster had proven bold, but boldness alone would not crack stone. The breach had become a butcher’s gate, neither fully theirs, nor fully held.

 

[TheThird]

The stone corridor reeked of smoke and blood, but now, something fouler rolled in. A low, droning chant echoed through the haze. Hooded figures approached the breach, robes slick with dried gore, icons of the Maw stitched in thread made from sinew and skin. The Brotherhood had sent their flailing plagues, not spellcasters, but chem-priests and gas prophets who carried twisted censer globes and sloshing flasks on rusted chains.

With guttural cries, they lobbed their foul concoctions into the breach. Glass shattered. Green-black fumes hissed from shattered vials, spilling thick clouds of rot and bile across the makeshift dwarven barricades. The stench burned the lungs, melted paint from steel, and left the dwarves choking on vomit and ash.

Warmaster Skeerch, watching from the rear, saw his chance. ''Now-now!” he barked.

A second wave surged forward, covered in ash-slicked hides and soaked cloth masks. They moved like a blade in the smoke, lunging through the haze while the dwarves wretched and faltered. Rat ogres thundered in behind them, smashing weakened defences. Axes found no strength in poisoned arms. Hammers swung slow, too slow.

Within minutes, the dwarves manning the breach were broken; those who did not die fled deeper into the city. The gap was theirs. Skeerch let out a savage cheer, raising his warped cleaver in triumph. His warriors hissed and chittered, bloodied and breathless, yet victorious. The Brotherhood of the Maw stood in silent satisfaction behind them, heads bowed in reverence to the rising fumes of death. But the fight was not over.

Beyond the fallen breach lay winding streets, barricaded alleys, murder-holes carved into rock, and more dwarves ready to sell their lives for every step. The city’s heart had not been pierced, only its skin. Still, it bled now. And the Eshkin would make it bleed more.

 

[TheThird]

In the heart of the dwarven stronghold, amidst broken towers and blackened stone, the airship groaned to life. A massive beast of rivets, brass, and rune-welded iron, it rose slowly from its moorings, tethered still, but burning hot with steam and roaring flame.

Around it, the last of the dwarves gathered. Children, elders, wounded warriors, all were herded up loading ramps under the watch of grim-faced Stonebloods. King Drunrik’s brother, Thrain, stood at the gangway, his axe across his back, issuing orders with a voice like steel on stone. “The city falls,” he growled, “but our kin will not.” The defenders knew their fate. Their duty was not to win, but to buy time.

Far below, in the maze of breached walls and ruined gates, Skeerch's scouts caught sight of the rising shadow in the sky. The silhouette of the ship towered above the smoke. Even in the haze, its glinting hull shone, a final defiance in brass and steel.

“They flee-fly!” a runner hissed to Skeerch, breath ragged. “A ship-ship—soon to leave!” The Warmaster’s snarl split the air. Orders flew. A wave of Eshkin surged from the breach, scrambling over rubble, skittering through alleyways and collapsed corridors. But the dwarves had prepared for this too. Gun nests opened fire from upper towers. Flamers hidden in courtyards doused the streets in liquid fire. Stone-blocked passages forced the Eshkin to funnel through tight kill zones. Their speed faltered.

Still, they came. Flailing Plagues choked on their own fumes. Maschinists dragged war-guns into place, too slow to fire in time. Rat ogres tore down barricades with raw muscle, but the defenders bled them for every foot. And above it all, the airship loomed, its engines screaming louder.

Not yet flying. But ready. So close. The race had begun.