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Chaos

Chaos Dwarfs

The dawi-zharr of Zharr-Naggrund — dwarfs twisted by Chaos into cruel masters of fire, iron, and slavery, who worship Hashut the Father of Darkness and forge their empire from smoke and screaming.

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Chaos Dwarfs — faction art

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Once they were dwarfs like any other. When the ancestor gods led their people out of the east in the world's first ages, one great host marched too far and settled in the bleak volcanic country that men would later name the Dark Lands — and there, cut off from their southern kin and pressed on every side by the rising power of Chaos, they changed. Slowly at first, and then eagerly, they turned from Grungni and Grimnir to a crueller god who offered them power in exchange for everything soft in their souls. Their skins hardened, their beards grew rank with forge-smoke, and their hearts turned to iron and ash. They became the dawi-zharr, the Dwarfs of Fire — the Chaos Dwarfs.

They raised their empire around a single monstrous edifice: Zharr-Naggrund, the vast ziggurat-city on the Plain of Zharrduk, black with soot and lit blood-red by a thousand forge-fires that never die. From its terraced summit the Sorcerer-Prophets rule a land of smoke, slag, and screaming, where volcanoes are yoked as furnaces and the very sky is stained the colour of rust. It is a place built without pity, raised by suffering and running on it, and its masters would have it no other way.

The Father of Darkness

The Chaos Dwarfs worship Hashut, the Father of Darkness — a god of fire, tyranny, and the forge, whose sacred beast is the great black bull and whose altars run with molten metal and living blood. Hashut demands industry, cruelty, and endless sacrifice, and rewards his priests with terrible sorcerous power. But his gift is also his curse: a Sorcerer-Prophet who works too much magic slowly turns to living stone, his body seizing from the feet upward until he stands forever a statue at his own altar. The dawi-zharr accept the bargain without complaint. To them, to petrify in Hashut's service is the highest of ends, and the temples of Zharr-Naggrund are lined with the frozen stone forms of priests who gave everything to the flame.

An Empire of Iron and Chains

No Chaos Dwarf labours if a slave can be made to labour in his place. Their empire is raised upon the broken backs of a numberless host of captives — orcs and goblins, men, and any other race the raiding-columns can drag home in chains — worked to death in the mines and forge-pits beneath the lash. Chief among these slaves are the treacherous hobgoblins, whom the dawi-zharr elevate as overseers and cutthroat auxiliaries, trusting them exactly as far as fear will stretch. Everything the Chaos Dwarfs make, they make on an industrial scale and at an inhuman cost, and they reckon the arithmetic entirely sound. A slave is cheaper than a machine, and burns just as well.

The War-Machines of Zharr

The dawi-zharr go to war as they do all else: with fire and iron. Their armies are grim ranks of black-armoured warriors, hordes of expendable hobgoblins driven ahead as fodder, and above all the terrible engines of their forges — cannon that spew molten rock, rockets that shriek as they fall, and vast daemon-fired war machines that grind forward under their own smoking power. They fight not for glory or plunder alone but to take captives and resources for the furnaces, and every campaign feeds the bottomless appetite of Zharr-Naggrund. Where they pass they leave slag, ash, and empty chains, and the red glow of their forges burning a little brighter behind them.

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