Imperium Ascendant

by Jayfiction19

We all know the tale, The Emperor of Mankind creates Twenty Primarchs to conquer the Galaxy. Nine Fall to Chaos's taint and Let the Galaxy Burn. What if this was not the case? What if the Ruinous Powers never got their claws into the Emperors Sons? What if the Imperium Ascended instead of falling into darkness and suffering? This is the story of that possibility

34. Chapter 24: The Last Hold

Book II: The Great Crusade

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Last Hold

Notes from the Tome: "Astropathic Choirs and Mankind's Mastery of Instein-Relativism"

The development of the Imperial Astropathic network was one of the most important and substantial tasks of the early Imperium and required hundreds of thousands of psykers to be soul-bonded in massive rituals within the City of Sight. This act created a system of telepathic communication that could reliably connect the distant worlds of the Imperium. Allowing effective faster than light communication to bridge the stars. Yet the development of this network of choirs and relays served more purposes than simple communication. It allowed for a feat of relativistic linkage unseen even during the Age of Silicon Technology.

Faster than light communication was possible through a myriad of practices, ranging from consecrated to heretical with numerous methods available to the Imperium and used across its broad domains such as Entangled Data-Cores, Noosphere bonds, Grav-dar, and of course the Astropathic system. With all of the options available to it, the Imperium primarily used the resource-intense system of astropaths. That requires a near-constant supply of psykers to High Terra for soul-bonding and training. The reason for engaging in this costly system is the Astropathic System's ability to effect Instien-Relativism.

Instien-Relativism is the ancient Terran astrophysics term for how gravity and energy/matter effect time. The closer one gets to light speed, the slower time moves and how this relates to gravity and space/time. This means that time flows at different rates across the galaxy. One Terran year passing in the Sol System might be minutes or decades in other star systems.

Even at the height of the Age of Silicon, the problems related to this phenomenon were never fully addressed. Entire sectors and human civilizations existed in radically different flows of time, increasing the already fractured nature of humanity across the galaxy. The Silicon Age Federation of Mankind was never truly successful in fully synchronizing their perception of time. They chose to rely on Abominable Intelligences capable of thinking and calculating at such rates that the differences could be minimized. When the Age of Strife ignited the death throes of the Federation, the progress made to the end of unifying 'human time' was obliterated and the extensive uses of Chrono and Datavore weapons during the Iron War only made the problem worse.

This left the Emperor of Mankind (Augustus Imperator, hallowed be his Light) with a unique problem. He needed mankind to be unified under his Aegis and form the Imperium of Man. Yet such a centralized and monolithic entity could not exist with different timescales across itself. Having an Empire fractured in such a way left it open to countless threats. The Imperium needed to operate at the same time scale or extremely close. This is where the Astropath systems come in. Astropaths perform Faster than Light communication not by exploiting some fundamental aspect of reality but circumventing it entirely. Using the impossibility of the Warp to communicate across vast distances. This long-range telepathy has a curious effect on space/time. When the connection is made from one astropath to another the flow of time between the two synchronizes.

This allows Astropaths to force entire star-systems thousands of light-years apart to experience time the same. This property is what makes the Astropathic system so incredibly important. A chain of Astropaths starting on High Terra and ending in the far reaches of the galaxy will experience time at nearly identical rates. The only delays are caused by Warp phenomena and the time it takes for one Astropath to dictate a message to another, letting the Imperium calculate time-based on Terran Standard and accounting for the minor shifts in Astropath connections.

When the Imperium adds a new system into itself, that system joins the rest of the Imperium in chronological consistency. During the Great Crusade, the great fleets of the Primarchs left chains of time-corrected systems in their wake, applying Imperial Law and reality to the galaxy itself. Systems that had been centuries to even thousands of years out of line with Imperial Standard time found themselves bound to mankind once again by shared chronology. The Imperium of Man is the greatest achievement of our species. This is but one example of the Emperor's (Augustus Imperator, hallowed be his light) genius, the bountiful resources of the galaxy and the hard work of billions across the stars. Working together to bind even time to our collective will.

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Sample texts from: "Homo sapiens rotundus: Imperial Primer on the Coreworld Peoples"

During the Ages of Expansion, when mankind spread throughout the galaxy, the peoples who settled in the mineral-rich worlds of the Galactic Core became renowned for their hardiness and sheer persistence. They survived in the unforgiving environment of the Coreworlds despite the natural and unnatural dangers involved. They dug great subterranean strongholds into the high-gravity rock of their newfound Homeworlds, facing incredible risks from the unstable rock and pressure of these planets. They dug deep into mineral riches that helped forge the ancient human civilizations of the Galaxy.

The Coreworlds are extremely hazardous and even the most simple of mining operations could have upwards of fifty percent mortality. This is not even counting the dangers of the Orkish hordes that periodically raid the Coreworlds or the nearby threat of the Maelstrom. Extensive use of cloning and accelerated gestation was required to keep the strongholds populated, with the genome of the most successful and skilled Coreworlders being used to create the next generation. Genetic tweaking, though frowned upon, was not unheard of across the Strongholds. This process assisted the Coreworlders in growing denser bones and stronger muscles to help in the high gravity. Additionally, the intricate system of mines and caverns used by these settlers required exceptional memory and spatial awareness. Their ability to accurately estimate direction and purpose of frequently damaged tunnels being the only thing saving them from horrible deaths.

These factors lead to extraordinary evolutionary and cultural pressure to produce durable, hardworking, methodical and borderline obsessive humans of short stature. This combined with the extreme chrono-dilation found close to the Galactic Core led to the development of an abhuman sub-race of mankind. The heavy worlds of the Galactic Core experienced time at a vastly accelerated rate compared to most of the galaxy and the strongholds within them experiencing decades to even centuries for every Terran year.
Even with these drastic chrono-dialations, the Core-Worlds kept in close contact with the rest of Mankind. With a steady stream of new migrants, technologies, and culture flowing in and out of the Core-Worlds. The chrono-dilations still had major noticeable effects. With every new trade-ship encountering an entirely new generation and in some cases cultural period of Core-Worlders when it docked. Doing business and operating with the outside galaxy was hampered by this, with Terran Ships arriving at a Stronghold after a few years of travel, demanding a mining contract fulfilled. When the stronghold in question had been plunged into civil-war lasting decades and the company the contract was signed with had been destroyed years earlier.

The consequences of incidents like these forged an honor-bound and communal culture into the Core-Worlders. Who had gained the semi-affectionate nickname as the "Squats" for their increasingly shorter stature when compared to most Human strains. The responsibilities and wealth of individuals were bound to their extended families in great Clans. With monolithic Guilds replacing the unstable network of corporations, workers-communions, and mining-colonies. With oaths, contracts and the general business of these organizations viewed as matters of generations of workers, instead of temporary members. The stubborn obsessiveness bred into the Squats by the difficulties of Heavy-World life combined with this idea of generational responsibility to produce cultural values of extreme-diligence and work. With entire linages working on a project or venture. Doing everything they could to ensure the quality of it, and ensuring their descendants were capable of continuing the work.

These factors led the galaxy to value the industries of the Core-Worlds as much or if not more than its mineral wealth. With the products of a century of a Squat Clan being of equal quality to those produced by Abominable Intelligences. Along with the heart and soul of its creators being poured into the creation in ways a thinking machine could never replicate. A combination of genetic engineering and the success of clans with large quantities of Old-Masters started to increase the Squat lifespan past standard humans, with Squats being capable of living multiple centuries without the use of rejuveanut treatments.

When the Iron Wars of Dread Silicon and the Fall of the Aeldari happened, the Core Worlds suffered like the rest of mankind. Countless strongholds were lost to insane thinking machines and the growth of the Maelstrom. The chrono-dilation had the unexpected side effect of limiting the disastrous effects of the Abominable Intelligences collapse. With the relatively insular and increasingly tradition-bound Squats shirking many of the more powerful Silicon-monsters that entranced the rest of Mankind. Putting more faith in (ab)human grit and spirit than shoddy machines.

The psychic awakening of mankind was not unfelt among the Squats as well. With some of the Strongholds close to the Maelstrom falling to the call of Chaos. Others were cursed with mutation and were exiled from their Strongholds. These Brotherhoods of Exiles were given fleets of mining vessels and countless tokens from their Clans. Fearing the spread of the mutations these exiles left the Core-Worlds and sought to make new worlds for themselves to live upon. Within the majority of the Squat-Holds, the development of psychic powers occurred differently. Instead of a semi-random eruption of people with higher emotional activity becoming Warp-Touched. A handful of the oldest Crafts Folk and Clan Elders suddenly found themselves awash with psychic energy.

These elders were some of the most strong-willed and capable of the Squat subspecies. Who found themselves able to master these powers relatively easily when compared to most humans. At the price of being on average less powerful and in some ways effective with these newfound Psychic abilities. As the Age of Strife bore on, more of these elders started to gain psychic powers. A handful across the strongholds every year. The existing psychic-elders also seemed to stop-aging, and steadily increase in psychic power as the decades wore on. While still capable of death by injury or calamity as one would expect from withered ancients, their minds and skills were further sharpened by age. Ancestor Worship had grown into the semi-official faith among the Core-Worlds and the advent of these "Living Ancestors" as they became known only solidified the status of this religion. With many Living Ancestors claiming they could feel the power and protection of generations of Squats infused in whatever their people built.

For the Solar System, the Age of Strife was five thousand years of darkness and horror. For the Squats it was something more like twenty or thirty thousand. With the densely packed stars of the Core-Worlds and the generation-ships of the Squats allowing the strongholds to keep together and even lend aid during this time. Yet anything from outside the ring of Squat systems around the Galactic Core was almost completely unknown. What information did get through was tale after tale of strife and horror. The few expeditions that returned told of entire worlds burning in madness. Storm Ghosts (Squat term for Warp predators) haunting entire star systems and clashing at the mouths of a thousand miniature Maelstroms. Worse still were accounts of Xeno Horribilis on the move, with Orkish hordes in specific rampaging through the stars in horrific numbers. The crone-worlds of the Aeldari wiped from existence and no contact from the Craftworlds the Squats had regular communication with.

For those long millennia of the Old Night, the strongholds persisted. They reforged themselves into coalitions called Leagues. Severed from Terra, and with Sol a distant myth, the Squats viewed the Core Worlds as their homeworlds. A harsh realm of black holes, dying stars and wealth beyond measure that they would hold for all time. Such was the split from the rest of the Galaxy that the Coreworlders started to refer to themselves as the Khazakhun, instead of Humans. A term in the local dialects meaning 'Deep Survivors'. At first, the Squat Leagues experienced something of a renaissance. With new technology developed to replace what was lost during the Iron War and new Strongholds founded across the Homeworlds, each League grew into close-knit pseudo-nations. They were bound by pacts of trade and defense but still very independent. Of course, not everything was peaceful during this age of isolation. Squabbles over mining rights, matters of honor and other such matters lead to great feuds forming between the Leagues.

War between Leagues never broke out aside from a few small skirmishes. To turn blade or bolt upon kinsfolk was considered the gravest crime by the Ancestors. However, honor was still held above all, with deep resentment brewing between leagues and factions. With the bitterness of these slights poisoning the hearts and minds of the Squats. Culturally and genetically, the Stronghold's peoples were trained to be obsessive and blunt. With the idea of unsettled grudges gnawing away at the psyche of Squats. A cultural innovation of the Grudgekeepers was born to deal with this problem. The dishonored and criminal were used as living tomes of bitter memories. Living Ancestors could transfer the pain and stress into the Grudgekeepers, who became a living embodiment of the rage and grief of the Squat People. Each Stronghold holds at least one Grudgekeeper, with some larger ones having thousands. All those who failed their holds and clans. Bearing the sins and suffering of others as penance.

This development could not have come at a better time. With the Strongholds, and their larger planet-sprawling brethren of holds soon facing the greatest threat yet. An Orkish Warboss of particular cunning brutality had set its sight upon the Squat Homeworlds. Grunhag the Flaya as he called himself followed the Orkish "philosophy" (if such a word can ever be applied to the Greenskins) of "Tota WAAAGH!" While all Orks exist solely for the goal of fighting and winning. The definition of such concepts varies across the Orkish hordes. Grunhag believed the only true victory was to utterly and horrifically destroy his foes. While true sadism is rare among the Greenskins, their origin as a living weapon and their distorted view making their understanding of the cosmos radically different from noble human thought. Grunhag is one of the exceptions to this rule, being a truly cruel and malicious being who derived great pleasure from ruination and petty malice.

The Warboss' brutality and atypical thoroughness in making war allowed him to amass a colossal WAAAGH! Unlike his cousins at Ullanor or Gorro. Grunhag had little desire to build thuggish fiefdoms. Instead, he led billions of Orks in a migratory wave of death that was responsible for the complete destruction of multiple pockets of mankind and Xeno species. Stripping the planets taken from the Orks foes of anything of value or interest. Leaving barren husks populated with scant Orkish fungoides living in the ruins of civilizations butchered down to the last man, women, and child.

Growing bored of the scattered fragments of culture that proved little challenge for him, Grunhag turned his bestial intelligence towards the Squat homeworlds. The stalwart civilization residing in the Galactic core seemed a perfect challenge. Declaring the dread warcry of WAAAGH! Grunhag rallied the largest body of Orks found outside the Beast-Boss Empires. Looking to crack open the diamond-hard worlds of the Squats and loot the technological and mineral wealth within. Which admittedly was a secondary goal compared to fighting the infamously determined and mighty Squats. Breaking the "Puny Stunties" under the crushing fists of Gork and Mork.

When the Orkish war fleets first entered the Squat Homeworlds they were hailed by the mighty Generation-Ships of the Squats that patrolled their piece of the galaxy. Demanding an explanation for the Orkish fleet and their intent. To us, the idea of attempting to discuss anything with an Ork is utterly ridiculous. The closest the Greenskins have to diplomacy is how high up you are on their priorities to fight. Yet ancient records from the Age of Silicon indicate the Orks might not have always been as vicious as they are. Still warlike and brutal there are a surprising number of accounts with successful trade occurring. The Squats especially had a reputation for this. With stories of Orkish WAAAGH!s and Squat Mercenary Brotherhoods having bizarre working relationships as Soldiers of Fortune during the Age of Silicon. It seems most Orks found the brutal siege work needed to claim Squat Holds boring. With the Squats able to easily convince the Orks with a few token gifts and directions to a nearby enemy for them to fight. Not to attack the Strongholds. Still, the reason for this shift in the Orks to purely aggressive and near-feral barbarism is unknown.

In typical Orkish fashion, the Greenskins responded with a deafening storm of roars, curses, and threats. Prompting the Generation Ships confronted by the Orks to transmit warning across the Homeworlds of the impending invasion. The Generation Ships were brutally wiped from the Void by the Orks. The superior weapons and armor of the Squat design insufficient to deal with the Greentide. Thankfully the warning did not go unheeded. Across the Galactic Core thousands of Strongholds and systems prepared for battle. The mighty Generation Ships that ply the Core with short warp-jumps and gravitic skipping. Assembled to face the oncoming WAAAGH!

A council of Living Ancestors, Guild Masters, and Hold-Lords assembled within each League. Planning the defense of each network of Strongholds and the entire Homeworlds. Even the smallest Strongholds were fortified and defended immaculately. The Dangers of the Age of Strife and existence upon these Heavy-Worlds had forced the Squats to master the art of defensive warfare. This factor would be central to the Squat strategy. The Strongholds would become anvils to pin the Orks in place, allowing the Generation Fleet to strike wherever the Greenskins were weakest.

The masterful skill of the Squat Void-Masters reaped a grim toll upon the Orks. Who did not seem to mind at all. Happy to engage in the brutal warfare they were built for. Squat splinter fleets were used to lure the Orkish fleet towards the most heavily defended Strongholds and away from their weaker kin. The Squat fleet fought much as they mine. Using powerful ordinance to blast holes in the Orkish battle lines. Splintering the greenskin "formation" letting hulking armored Squat Ships charge the displaced parts of the Orkish Fleet. Grinding them to dust with withering fire and in some cases weaponized mining equipment. The powerful Las-Drills used by Squat void-rigs were designed to punch through Asteroids. Space-Hulks and Orkish "Roks" was similar enough.

The first battles went well for the Khazkhun Alliance as the united Squats called themselves. With millions of Orks and their ships directing their wrath on the Diamond hard Strongholds of the Squats. The battles that took place during these mighty sieges were legendary. Such as when the Land Train Dureks Shield dueled a dozen Gargants to protect a supply convoy traveling between strongholds. Or when the Hearthguard of Gorri Rock-Skull held a compromised mine-shaft for three weeks by themselves.

Yet these efforts were not enough to stem the tide of Greenskins. The Orks applied the entire force of the WAAAGH! To each individual stronghold, they attacked. To claim any individual stronghold took years or even decades of fighting. Slowing the Orkish offense to a crawl, but a steady one. This suited Grunhag the Flaya just fine it seemed. The Ork took great enjoyment in watching each Stronghold weaken and die under his armies chokehold. Grinding the deep-homes of the Squats to ash and dust. The sheer bloodshed and aggression the Orks were producing, had a twofold effect. Calling out through the Warp to the Greenskins of the Galaxy. Attracting billions more Greenskins from the Beast-Boss Empires and scattered lesser WAAAGH! Secondly, it dredged the Neverborn spawn of Khorne (PA8) into the Squat Homeworlds. With some entire Strongholds losing their minds to the bloody whispers of the Warp. Throwing open their gates and charging to death against the Orks.

The continuous materialization of Neverborn and the possession of some Orks are theorized to have been part of Grunhags plan. The Neverborn and "unOrky" Orks providing plenty of entertainment for the WAAAGH! during the slow periods of the Sieges. By Orkish, and even human standards Grunhag was something of a savant for cruelty. The Warboss turned each siege into a game. Seeing what it would take to make each Stronghold crack. Unlike true humans, the Squats do not fall into despair or misery in hopeless situations. Instead they go mad with rage and grief. Becoming almost as brutal as the Orks themselves. Which was exactly what Grunhag wanted. Like a simple animal working to crack open a shelled meal. Grunhag would work to make each Stronghold break, and provide an excellent fight for the Greenskins.

Squat sagas and ballads are glutted with accounts of Grunhags evil. Using captured children from fallen Strongholds as shields or entertainment in full view of Squat defenders. Carving a crude drawing of Gork or Mork onto a Moon with stolen Squat mining gear and then launching the moon to crash into the world below. So the occupying stronghold's last sight was the cruel grin of the Orkish gods leering down from the heavens. Other events were banal by Orkish standards. Like the flaying of Squat champions in front of surviving civilians. The tanned skin was then stitched onto Grunhags "Big Banna." A thirty-meter tall flag composed of the skins of Grunhags kills and the origin of his epitaph.

After the fall of the Great Stronghold of Maran-Duur the Squats reconvened the Council of the Khazkhun to plan new strategies against the Greentide. Against the ruling of some of the more conservative members a blanket distress call to any surviving allies from the rest of the Galaxy. Next, a series of blitz-attacks against the Warboss and his Nobs was planned. Hoping to eliminate Grunhag and drive the WAAAGH! Into chaos. While many of the Warbosses favored lieutenants met their fate fighting death-pact bound Squat Kill-Teams. Grunhag managed to survive every time. In a desperate measure, the Living Ancestors called a great Diaspora. The Squats would evacuate to the oldest and greatest Squat worlds. These ancient homes of the Khazkhun could withstand anything and hold nearly the entire Squat race if needed. They had been constantly expanded over thousands of years in the case of an event such as this.

With great bitter grief Stronghold after Stronghold was emptied. With only the most aged and stubborn Squats staying behind. Ready to make the Orks pay for every inch of their ancestral halls. With the natural and automated defenses of each Stronghold remaining. The hope was each empty stronghold would tire out the Orks and bore them. Giving the Hold-Worlds of the Squats time to prepare for what was coming.

Millions of Squats across hundreds of worlds fled to the Seven Hold-Worlds of the Squats. A heptarchy of close-knit worlds that traced their lineage back to the first colonists of the Galactic Core. Nearly a quarter of the Squat fleet was lost in the desperate battles to protect the refugees. The seven Hold-Worlds existed along a chain of systems near the galactic core. With a single stable Warp route connecting them all. The first of the Hold-Worlds was Linnar-Khaz. A fortress of uncomparable hardiness. Where the Squat Fleet and the forces of a thousand strongholds would break the Orkish hordes.

It took the Orks centuries to smash their way through the abandoned holds. Increasing the petty rage of Grunhag with each empty fortress. Buying the Squats valuable time to fortify Linnar-Khaz. During the diaspora, the Squats had taken everything of value they could. Including weapons and Void-Ships devastating potency. The thousands of years and thousands of strongholds of Squats history came together to create a fortress that could even rival High Terra itself.

When the first Ork ships exited the Warp they faced complete annihilation. Mined out Asteroid belts were turned into mazes of death. Where every rock could hold automated defenses or suicide charges. Floating cities designed for Gas-Giant mining were repurposed as colossal artillery platforms. Hiding in the thick atmosphere of Linnar Systems outer worlds, ready to unleash moonlet cracking firepower at a moment's notice. The Squats fleet patrolled the system, creating a system of moving kill-boxes. Great cryo-vaults were assembled upon Linnar-Khaz. Massive temporary tombs where millions could be kept in cryo-sleep, freeing up supplies for the siege. Great Brotherhoods of Squat Warriors marshaled. Throngs hundred thousand strong and eager to spill Orkish blood.

At first Grunhag simply sent a steady stream of Orkish ships through the Warp route to Linnar-Khaz. When this did not work he started assembling fleets of his maddest Orks to use the uncharted warp to travel to Linnar-Khaz. Avoiding the defenses built around the Warp route by passing through the frenzied Warp currents that were beyond navigation. Grunhag thought to combine the sheer numbers of the Orkish fleets deployed and the psychic resonance of said fleets psychotic Orks. Making it somewhat likely a few of the fleets would survive the trip. The Warboss was correct, and the Squat fleets faced numerous inclusions across the System from insane Ork Ships.

These strategies were proving too slow for Grunhag. Methodical and patient by any sentient standards, even he was growing bored of the siege. Having to continuously crush insurrections led by terrified Nobs. Fearing being fed into the meat grinder that was assaulting Linnar-Khaz might have also had something to do with it. Despite what the Squats and many of his fellow Orks believed. The Warboss was not sending millions of Orks to certain death for a cheap laugh. They were a distraction while his secret weapon was finished.
Grunhag had long dreamed of creating a tool of destruction so formidable and utterly mad it would force his rivals on Ullanor and Gorro to acknowledge him as an equal. For thousands of years, the Ork leader had designed his weapon in fever-dreams of Gork and Mork given inspiration. Now with the resources of the conquered Squat homeworlds and a veritable army of Mekboys in his thrall. Grunhag had all he needed.

As the siege of Linnar-Khaz bore on for dozens of generations the Orcs of WAAAGH Grunhag worked on a mechanical monstrosity that could break the stalemate. In his lifetime of war and raiding, Grunhag had acquired a truly massive amount of loot from the countless planets he had methodically destroyed. The machines, ships, weapons, stations and general equipment of these worlds would form the core of this Orkish doomsday weapon. Like many Warbosses, Grunhag used a modified space-hulk as a Flagship of sorts. Now the Orkish Warboss intended to upgrade his vessel. For hundreds of years, swarms of Gretchins and Mekboys added onto the Space-Hulk. Bolting and attaching everything and anything that caught their beady eyes. Entire void-ships were peeled apart and added to the space-hulk. A dozen Squat mining orbitals were turned into a jury-rigged keel for the monstrosity. Asteroids were caught in huge nets and reeled in like schools of fish. The cosmic debris was mined of everything of value and lodged into the labyrinthine structure. Becoming additional segments of the ever-growing ship. A combined thruster system that when fully ignited was brighter than Sol itself was strapped to the Super-Hulk's back. Ramshackles cities of Orks sprung up across Grunhags magnum opus. Fleets of Orkish ships circled it like pilot-fish. One particularly insane Orkish Dok created legions of "Killa-Kans" to stalk the hulks' surface as additional defenses.

Scholars might be tempted to compare Grunhags monster to the Attack-Moons of the Beast Wars. This is not an accurate comparison. The "Bigga Hulk" as the Orks started to call Grunhags new vessel was not a modified planetoid, designed as both fortress and relay. This leviathan of a Space Hulk was quite simply the end stage of the evolution of such celestial trash-heaps. Nurtured and cultivated by the Greenskin tyrant much like he might a favored Squig. After nearly a thousand years of construction, the Bigga Hulk was considered finished by Grunhag. It measured more than half the size of Luna and looked like a comet of wreckage. With Grunhags personal symbol covering the front half of it. The effort to send the Bigga Hulk through the Warp caused nearby systems to be engulfed in Warp Storms. After hundreds of Weirdboyz reduced to pink-mist and many death threats directed at Grunhags Mek gang. The Bigga-Hulk careened into the Immaterial and rode the Warp-Rift towards its destiny.

For the months it took to travel to Linnar System, the Hold-World was plagued by nightmares and strange psychic phenomena. The spiritual equivalent of the tide going out before a Tsunami. Then after weeks of apprehension, the Bigga Hulk arrived. Ripping into the material like the vomitus of an angry god. Its presence instantly affected the gravity of the system. Orkish grav-tech and its own bulk sending minor tremors across the Linnar-Khaz system. The Bigga Hulk did not so much destroy the first lines of the Squat defense, but literally crash into them. Entire Squat ships and Star-Forts crushed under the Orks flagship, their ruined frames adding to its armor of wrecks.

Thankfully for the Squats, the effort of such an impact and the ensuing damage crippeled the Bigga Hulks thrusters. Reducing its momentum from the blazing fist of Gork and Mork to a glacial pace. The Khazkhun defenders reacted remarkably well and turned the entire force of the system's guns onto the Bigga Hulk. Which pummeled its shoddy shields and turned its surface to molten slag. Grunhag barely seemed to notice the Squat bombardment. He knew his masterpiece could survive it, and it would buy him time. Time for the rest of the Orkish fleet to arrive. With the defenses of Linnar focused on the scrap-behemoth. The main body of WAAAGH Grunhag entered the system.

Realizing the threat the Squat defenders took a different strategy. The hidden orbital artillery platforms directed fire at the Bigga Hulks thrusters. Repurposed mining ships launched explosive-laden asteroids as the Orkish flagship. Cutting the Bigga Hulks momentum and directing its orbit through explosive impact. Allowing the main body of the Squat fleet and defenses to turn their attention towards the incoming Orkish fleet. This quickly became a costly mistake. The mass and momentum of the Bigga Hulk were not it's only threat. Hidden across its bizarre design were as many turrets and armaments as multiple Imperial Battlegroups. At Grunhags's signal of psychotic laughter, the Bigga Hulk opened fire.

Filling the void with a literal cloud of munitions and energy bolts. Ordinance ranging from finger-sized to frigate sized exploded across the system. For fifteen solid Terran minutes, the Bigga Hulk poured its firepower into the Linnar system. Shredding hundreds of Squat vessels and thousands of unlucky Orkish ships. The Hulks guns aimed in literally every direction. Not caring what they hit, as long as they hit something. After this storm of "Dakka", the Bigga Hulks bombardment was cut short thanks to the Orks themselves.

The shear strain of the simultaneous weapon fire detonated five of the Bigga Hulks' "main" reactors. Disemboweling the ship with a mixture of nuclear detonations and structural collapse Stripped of nearly all of its maneuvering ability and a decent chunk of its firepower. The Bigga Hulk became a new planet in the Linnar system. While crippeled it was still a ferocious beast. Grunhag seemed to decide to make do with his ruined ship. Thinking he could rebuild it even bigger and better with the loot from the Squat Hold-Worlds.

With the remaining firepower of the Bigga Hulk, the Orks managed to take the outer reaches of the system. Yet the stalwart Squat defenders held the line and kept the inner system. With Linnar-Khaz acting as fortress and home for the Squats and the Bigga Hulk for the Orks. An impossible siege was underway. The Squats still held control of the Mandeville Point leading deeper into the Hold-Worlds. With a steady stream of resources and defenses coming through it to aid the Squats. Similarly, the carnage of the Siege called out across the galaxy and countless Orks would answer its call from the other Mandeville point.

The stories and legends from the Siege of Linnar-Khaz could fill a hundred books. It lasted for thousands of years (Squat time of course) and is considered one of the greatest testaments of the will and fortitude one can find across mankind. Even in its abhuman members. The time between the first Orkish ship entering the Linnar System to the first living Ork touching the ground of Linnar-Khaz was over two thousand years. A feat of survival and fortification only matched by the Steel Wardens exploits at the galactic Hell-Mouths millennia later.

The saga of this great siege might have lasted even longer than that. If not for a key event that spelled doom for the Squat Hold-Worlds. The arrival of an Eldar fleet. Materializing from seemingly nothing the Eldar weaved through the Orkish armada and Squat defenses. The incredible precision and skill of the Xenos on full display. When the news first reached Linnar-Khaz the eldest of the Living Ancestors are said to have shouted with joy. Long ago before the Ork Wars and during the Age of Silicon and the Squat Renaissance. The Aeldari Craftworlds had been counted as some of the closest trade partners and allies of the Squats. It was thought that the ancient oaths of aid signed long ago were being honored. The call for aid from millennia ago finally answered.

Lean and beautiful, the Aeldari ships were not the cruel designs of the Dark Cities. These were indeed children of the Craftworlds. Yet they came for reasons of their own. Reaching orbit of Linnar-Khaz. The Eldar leader with little ceremony or decorum demanded something returned to her people. In ages long past the Craftworld Zandros had entrusted the Squats with a cache of gems for safekeeping. Psychic stones taken from the Temple of Isha and stored elsewhere. A memento of a fallen civilization, saved by the foresight of an ancient seer. Puzzled but happy to oblige the contract, the Squats still held the gems. Even during the diaspora, they refused to blemish their honor by failing their oath of stewardship. The Squats had one condition, however. Craftworld Zandros would honor its own pledges of aid in exchange for the gems. Those binding words were meant for the Squats' darkest hour, and that was now.

The unreadable Eldar leader simply cut communications. Her final words in the Aeldari lexicon. A phrase that could be translated in one of three ways. Apologizing for a failure, dismissing something unimportant, and strangely a promise of protection to an unborn child. Before the Squats could even attempt to hail the Eldar again. A force of Eldar warriors burst into the Elder-Hall of Linnar-Khaz. Leaping through a webway portal, a coven of garishly clad soldiers tore through the surprised Squat leaders. Unarmored and surprised, the elderly Khazkhun were cut down easily. Before the guards could react to the attack, the Eldar had cut pieces from the Councilmen and women and stolen their Oath-Keys.

Like a gale of blades and blood, the Eldar fled through the heart of Linnar-Khaz. Evading the wrathful Squats and making their way to the Great Vaults of the Squat Clans. Using the flesh and keys of the High-Council the Eldar picked the locks. Retrieved the gems from the vault and fled back through the Hold-World. Losing a handful of their number to Hearthguard and other defenders. With the target of this raid secured the Eldar escaped through a Webway portal and onto their ships. The small Craftworld fleet spent this time strafing Linnar-Khaz and refusing the Squat hails, and demands for an explanation. Once the Eldar were safely on board the ships. The Xeno craft unleashed a volley of weapons across Linnar-Khaz and its defenses before escaping the system.

The sudden death of the near entirety of the Squat High-Council sent shockwaves throughout the defenders. Living Ancestors of the first generations snuffed out. Clan leaders and revered elders cut down without explanation. Then the fleet attack across Linnar-Khaz had damaged key infrastructures and defenses. The strange alien weapons penetrated the fortifications easily and reaped a great toll. Just as the Squats started to recover, the true damage of the attack was revealed. The life support systems of millions of cryo-pods had been damaged. Leaving their occupants to die. The lucky ones simply froze solid, others woke up and suffocated or starved in chilled coffins. Entire clans were wiped out. Relatives and friends killed by the thousand.

Shock and horror filled the hearts of every Squat. The pain and inconceivable loss burrowing into the Abhumans obsessive minds. Many went mad with grief. Some simply wasted away. Doing their duty for the Hold-World but refusing to eat. The steel-hard spirit of the Squats had been cracked. A crack the Orks took great advantage of.

As the full effects of the atrocity wounded Linnar-Khaz the Orks prepared a great offensive. The Bigga Hulk had been somewhat repaired. With Grunhag at the helm of the mighty vessel. Eager to finally break open Linnar-Khaz. As the Orks closed in on the Squat world they faced a new challenge. The grief of the Khazkhun became unbridled wrath. Maddened with pain and fury the Squat defenders became the attackers. Throwing everything they had at the Orks in a violent act of ritual suicide. More than half the population of Linnar-Khaz was clutched by this Oath-rage. Ready to die and kill as many enemies as they could in the process. The Orks loved it. This was the payoff they had been promised. A final good and proper fight for the ages.

The other half of the defenders who retained their sanity prepared to evacuate. Leaving Linnar-Khaz and joining the other Hold-Worlds. Helping them survive and defend themselves. The Oath-Rager Squats were happy to die defending the evacuation. Letting those who wished to survive fight another day. Even mad with grief and less than half their original number the Squats of Linnar-Khaz fought on. Delaying the Orks for centuries. Dying to the last in combat with the Greentide. With oaths of vengeance upon their lips and Greenskin blood soaked into their beards.

At last the Orks moved on from Linnar-Khaz. While some stayed behind to loot and pillage. Grunhag pushed them forward. Eager to break the next Hold-World. They did not have to take long. The losses during the siege of Linnar-Khaz were irreplaceable. The damage done by the Orks and Eldar weakened the surviving Hold-Worlds. Steadily the Orks broke each one. Working there way down the chain of stars. Almost leisurely enjoying the death and carnage they caused. By one and a half thousand years after the fall of Linnar-Khaz, all the Hold-Worlds had fallen. All except one.

---

Location: Khazrik Hold, Hold-World of the Karag System
Date: 889.M30 (Imperial Standard Time)

The Last Hold of the Squats lay at the end of a chain of stars, a small dying ember of the Khazkhun Alliance. After thousands of years of warfare, the Orks had finally butchered their way here. To Grungron, the most sacred world of the Khazkhun. Neither the first settled nor largest Homeworld, it held its place of honor for two reasons. Within its rocky citadels the first Living Ancestors came to be. The first of the ancient Squats who had touched the Warp and molded it to their will with a master craftsman's tenacity. And if the legends are to be believed it is also the place where the first Squats altered themselves to survive the Core Worlds. Surrendering the frail long-bones of the Outsiders for the stout strength of the Khazkhun.

Considered the ritual heart of the Squat people, it made sense it was where they made a final stand. It had been fortified for millenia even before the Ork Wars. In case a final stronghold was ever needed. Now it's time had come, and it has proved itself over and over again. For nearly as long as Linnar-Khaz had held Grungron stood strong. With a fraction of the defenders and resources the first besieged Hold-World possessed. This was in no small part due to the nature of Grungron and the Karag System.

Orbiting an ancient Red Supergiant of a Star. Grungron was easily six times the size of Terra. A hulk of a rocky world. Orbiting close to its star and bathed in the heat, radiation and intense gravity of the system. Transforming its crust in a miracle of stellar and geologic phenomena. The crust of Grungron was composed of natural Adamantium and macro-diamonds. Adamantium is perhaps one of the most sought after and useful materials in the known galaxy. Ironic since mankind discovered it only long after it left Sol. The stable yellow star and its neighboring systems are unable to produce the miraculous material. Here in the galactic core it was practically common. The violent ancient stars of the Galactic Core forging it within their children-worlds.

Now the adamantium crust of Grungron had been polished to a sheen by the constant bombardment of the Orks. Futilely trying to break through the nigh impenetrable surface. The Greenskins had long searched for a way to crack open the Last Hold. Looking for any way to subvert the world's natural and artificial defenses. It was all for nothing. Only once in recorded history had the surface of Grungron been punctured. During the heights of Mankind's first Golden Age. The intellect and might of humanity, both flesh and steel was put to the test. A laser drill powered by a dying star had been constructed. Blasting a hole through the Adamantium crust in a surge of energy visible across the galaxy. Punching a country sized hole into Grungron. Liquid stone and metal spat out of the wound. A fountain of the planet's innards bubbling into Grungrons atmosphere.

This would be the ancient miners entrance into the Adamantium world. Decades of work allowed them to take control of the nation-sized volcanic eruption. Sculpting the flow of stone and metal to create a place of wealth and safety. A stronghold arose in the world's wound. Over centuries and then millenia the Mining-Clans of Grungron had burrowed into the crust of the world and constructed a leviathan Stronghold where they had punctured its surface. Below the hard outer crust layer of Adamantium was a realm of riches beyond belief. Gems, Metals, Gas-Pockets, anything and everything needed to forge an empire below the surface. Away from the surface, molten seas of Adamantium flowed. It was here the Stronghold of Khazrik rose.

Now all these millenia later it stood strong. The Super-Volcano born of the hole in Grungrons crust had grown massive. A massive hundred-kilometer tall spire of obsidian, adamantium and volcanic rock. Spanning the size of a country and hollowed out by diligent work of the Squats. From its peaks and carved tunnels a steady stream of lava poured. Covering the Stronghold with a cloak of molten rock. Growing the mighty fortress-nation in size and protecting it from any attackers. From the top of the fortress to its base a waterfall of molten rock fell. Channeled into deep canyons carved in ages past. Forming a moat-ocean of lava around the Stronghold. Which reached deeper into the world than its peaks touched the sky. Billions lived beneath the crust and volcanic seas of the Hold-World. With the great stronghold the only access point into the deeps.

Now the Orks threw the full terrible might of their wrath at Khazrik Hold. Storms of dropships and Roks picked from the sky by turret fire and weapon systems built into the Mountain. Yet these were not the main defense available to the Squats The Karag System was home to many natural threats. From rogue moons, too wild asteroids. The ancient Squats had devised a tool to defend their great hold against such things. The Super-Volcano of Khazrik Hold had been harnessed to break planets. Its peak which normally bubbled a steady river of Lava held a secret. That natural flow was a pressure valve on its true volcanic heart. A system of tubes and caverns that put the Squats' knowledge of geology, thermodynamics and mass-drivers to the test had been created. The raw explosive power of Grungrons core leaking out of the hole had never abated. The wound had never been allowed to heal, instead it was harnessed.

A compressed blister of heat and molten stone carrying the contained energy of a heavy-worlds core. Channeled through a series of coil-guns and gravitic-launchers larger than those used on Starforts. Resulting in a triggered eruption of super-heated heavy-metals and silicate. This crudely aimed shot-cannon capable of blasting entire planets apart in a stream of plasma and super-heated metal moving at relativistic speeds. The Squats had turned their last-hold into a self-fueling Nova Cannon many times larger than Olympus Mons. Inaccurate and obscenely dangerous. This weapon the Squats called Rikkazrik, or Hammer of the King.

Which had its site set upon Grunhag the Flaya and his Bigga Hulk. The now planet sized mass of scraps and scavenge had swollen with spoils of each fallen Hold-World. On discovering the Entrance-mountain f Khazrik Hold. The Warboss is said to have laughed maniacally as he ordered his Mekboyz to prepare the Bigga hulk for "Rammmin Speed!" From the system's Mandivellie point to Grungrons orbit the Bigga Hulk accelerated as fast as it could. A rogue planet of cruel Xeno wrath rocketing through the system. It alone carrying billions of Orks across its labyrinth of wrecks and scavenged parts. All united in a maddened chant of "FASTA! FASTA! FASTA!" as the Bigga Hulk flew towards Khazrik Hold. Ready to smash the mountain entrance to powder. As it approached the Squats prayed to their Ancestor Gods. Over the millennia of warfare with the Orks. The Bigga Hulk had become a symbol of misery and doom for the Khazkhun. Entering their cultural sagas as an ill omen and sign of evil. The Bad Moon of the Urk.

Larger and more terrible than ever before the Bigga Hulk bared down upon Khazrik Hold. Ready to slam itself into the spire of molten rock that capped the Hold-World. The indomitable peak of the Last Hold a prime target for Grunhags cruel rage. Just as the Squats had hoped. They prayed to their Ancestors not for deliverance, they prayed for vengeance. Beseeching the honored dead for accuracy and power. The Squats had long known they were doomed. The Greenskins would wipe them from the galaxy like a river washing away so many pebbles. That did not mean they had to go peacefully. Grunhag must die with them. That was the goal now. No longer to withstand the Orkish assault, but kill Grunhag and make his WAAAGH suffer for every Khaz life taken.

The Rikkazrik would be the tool of vengence. The Squats had anticipated Grunhag would seek to smash the last remaining monument of their people from the galaxy. The greenskins' cruelty would be his downfall. As the Bigga Hulk got within a million kilometers from planet Grunhag. The Rikkazrik prepared to open fire. Great adamantium flood-gates were opened and engines of ruin ignited. The entire mountain-spire trembled with the building heat. Its Adamantium skeleton vibrating as some primordial tuning fork. Heat and pressure built within a manufactured caldera. The life-blood of Grungron molded through gravity, magnetic fields and adamantium valves. Pressed into a capped geyser of plasma and molten metal. Thousands of Squats across the Hold-mountain worked desperately. Using generations of ancestral knowledge to prime and aim the Kings Hammer.

Deep under the mountain the Hold-Lord of Khazrik gave the order to fire. The grizzled old Squat was the ruler of the Last Hold and had longed dreamed of this day. When his ancestors revenge would finally come. At his word the ancient mechanisms of Rikkazrik opened up. An electromagnetic beam and gravitational assist pulse flared out from the Entrance-Mountains peak. Destroying a few unfortunate Ork craft between them and the Bigga Hulk. A nice side-effect of what was the largest targeting array in the known galaxy. Designed to form an electromagnetic corridor and gravity tunnel. The Bigga Hulk did not notice the beam and continued onward. Even if the Orks knew what was about to happen they had no method of stopping it. The Bigga Hulk was on a full collision course and it would take unfathomable energy to slow or redirect it. Which is exactly what the Squats unleashed.

A geyser of metal and stone superheated into pseudo-plasma. Moving at relativistic speeds spat forth from the Rikkazrik. The ancient red giant of the Karag system seemed to dim in comparison to the Kings Hammer. Space/Time convulsed under the pressure. Dozens of micro-blackholes formed and dissipated. Creating celestial detonations of hyper-dense Hawking Radiation and unstable singularities. A shotgun blast of aborted stars cloaked in a nebula of plasma and molten metal slammed into the Bigga Hulk. It's a testament to the Orkish WAAAGH! Field and their old-one gifted knowledge that the Bigga Hulk was not simply atomotized. An engineering nightmare of overlapping and mismatched shields covered the Bigga Hulk. Successfully shunting enough energy into the Warp to destabilize entire Daemon Worlds before overloading.

The Orkish ability to alter reality is often misunderstood. It is not some god-form of all powerful reality warping subject only to the beliefs and number of the Orks. In truth its a form of probability manipulation. With advanced Orkish technology reliant on this ability to "grease the wheels" of reality to work. An Orkish gun works in theory, but is shoddily made and would misfire ½ of the time it fires. The WAAAGH! Field does not miraculously make the gun better quality, it simply betters the odds of the gun working properly. This effect with sufficient Orks can scale up in incredible ways. Allowing spot-welded wrecks and conglomerates of space-junk to act as effective Void-Ships. With the billions of Greenskins within WAAAGH Grunhag this probability affecting power could twist the laws of physics to extremes. If it was theoretically possible for the Bigga Hulk to survive such a blow as the Rikkarik it would.

That is not to say it would be unharmed. Instead of reduced to exotic molecules and cosmic dust. The Bigga Hulk was shattered. Even the power of billions of Orks believing in the invincibility and power of the Bigga Hulk and Grunhag. Could not save it from the Squats wrath. The energy of the super-volcanoes discharge found the path of least resistance. Cutting through the ossified ships that bound the Hulk together. Superheating lesser metals into detonations of plasma. Like some great gem hit on its shatterpoint by a hammer the Bigga Hulk fractured. Its planet-sized bulk exploded into millions of pieces. Ranging from celestial ash to smoldering mountains. In a single moment the Orkish super-weapon had been broken.

Grunhags sadism had demanded he personally break the Last Hold with his greatest weapon. The Squats had made him pay dearly for his bestial cruelty. For decades of adjusted solar time Khazrik Hold was orbited by an artificial asteroid belt. The long feared Bigga Hulk, the Bad Moon of Squat myth. Reduced to a circlet of trash. This cloud of debris along with the great clouds of plasma left by the Rikkarik firing shrouded Grungrons orbit. This did little to stop the rest of the Orks from attempting to continue the invasion. Hundreds of Orkish ships were lost crossing this girdle of debris. A small number compared to the thousands more who fell upon Grungron in a rain of slag. The war continued and soon its architect would rejoin it.

A near permanent meteor-shower existed across the Last Hold-World. The remnants of the Bigga Hulk decaying from orbit. Eventually one of these large fragments fell to Grungron. A continent sized chunk of semi-molten metal and burnt rock. Crashing into the Adamantium crust at an angle and leaving a 8,000 km trail of debris. From the moment it landed the Orks congregating across Grungron rushed to it. A new mania embracing the already psychotic Greenskins. Entire Gargants and more bizarre contraptions dreamed up by Mekboyz were used in this salvaging operation. Frantically digging through this titanic shard. Guided on by some deep-seated sense born of the WAAAGH! The call of the Warboss. Despite everything the Squats had done to destroy him. The Planet cracking force generated by the Rikkarik. Grunhag the Flayer had survived.

Survived might be too strong a word, persisted would be more accurate. The sheer power of the Orkish WAAAGH focused on its Warboss had spared him certain death. It had twisted probablity to ensure Grunhag lived, even in the most basic of ways. Cooked alive and sealed within the compacted slag that was once the Bigga Hulks bridge. Little more than a torso and head covered in fourth degree burns. Grunhag clung to life. When the first of the Gretchin dig-teams unearthed the entombed Warboss. The mostly dead Ork had still managed to bite the head off one of the Gretchin diggers. Proving to WAAAGH! Grunhag, that the boss was still himself.

An elite force of Painboyz and Mekz were assembled to put the Warboss back together. Cybernetic limbs and organs born of Squat Technology and Orkish brilliance were assembled. A dozen Nobs who had attempted to claim the Warlordship for themselves after the breaking of the Bigga Hulk were disassembled for parts. Pried apart by giggling Dokz, giddy to try new experimental methods of Cybork surgery. By the end of this promethean event, Warboss Grunhag the Flaya was back. Bigger, meaner and quite thoroughly insane even by Orkish standards. His skin had been seared clean off and refused to heal. Leading an enterprising Dok to a solution inspired by his Warbosses epitaph. Great sheets of flayed skin, taken form unlucky Orks, and even more unlucky Squat prisoners. Were stitched together in a macabre suit of stolen skin.

Dressed in this patch-work skin and reborn with incredible cybernetics Grunhag was back. Exploding from the "Operatin Sweet" in a mad-rage Grunhag returned to his WAAAGH! and proclaimed the dread-warcry of the Orks. As the call of WAAAGH! Echoed across Grungron the Squats prepared for the final battle.

---

Location: Khazrik Hold
Date: 890.M30 (Imperial Standard Time)

The Orks had come. Millions if not Billions of the Greenskins had landed upon Grungron. Marshalled by their Warboss and aimed at the mighty fortress of Khazrik Hold. The lava moat and constant rivers of molten rock flowed across the Holdfast and protected it from most forms of assault. Turrets and Flak-Spires dotted the surface of Khazrik Hold. Hiding between lava flows and cooling obsidian. There was only one entrance into Khazrik Hold for the Ork hordes. The Ancestor Gate.

Tall enough to accomodate Titan Walkers of the Golden Age and built into a gatehouse the size of a city. Recessed into Khazrik Hold, the Ancestor Gate was the grand entrance into the subterranean Squat Kingdom. Defended by the full might of the last Khazkhun. A mighty bridge crossed the volcanic ocean-moat that seperated the Ancestor-Gatehouse from the ash-plains of Grungrons surface. Carved from Adamantium by centuries of Squat craftsmen it was where the last stand of the Squats of Grungron would be.

Every day for over a millenia, a Greentide pushed across the elder-bridge only to be beaten back by the firepower and grit of the Khazkhun. Many times the Orks had made it fully across the elder-bridge. Entering the hollow of the mountain that held the Ancestor Gate. Each and every time they had been beaten back. The cavernous Gatehouse acted as a kilometer wide kill-box. Where bolt, and blast smashed the Orks and a controlled river of Lava cleaned the filth of Orkish blood and bodies from the cavern. Gargants and Squat Hearth-Golems had dueled atop the elder-bridge. With great sweeps of the Golems storm-hammer knocking scores of Orks into the volcanic abyss below.

The Orks had been pushed back time and time again. Yet their number was endless and the call of War held absolute sway. Even by Orkish standards WAAAGH Grunhag had reached a pathological level of obsessive violence. Unlike most Orks they resisted boredom and fear. Gladly plunging themselves into the fray with manic energy. The reason for the sheer persistence of the Orks had long mystified the chroniclers and Archivist of the Squats. The ancient golden data drives and the memories of the eldest Living Ancestors told a different tale of Orkish behavior. Of a easily distracted breed of idiotic killers who wandered between Wars with little direction. Not the focused cudgel of green-tinged malice they now faced. What the Squats did not know and would likely never discover was the true purpose of WAAAGH Grunhag.

The Greenskins are an artificial species of incredible complexity. Analogies modeling their behavior must call upon examples of Eusocial arthropods, Rogue Machine Armies and Fungal infestations. The single greatest masters of the biological and warp sciences had crafted them to be the ultimate weapon. Even millions of years later and long decayed that nature still shone through. The ancient Krorks were designed to hold the line against the Silver-Extincion of the C'tan. Designed to be able to rapidly evolve and devolve as needed. To calibrate themselves to whatever threat they faced. Allowing economic use of resources and adaptable defenses.

In the Age of Failed Heirs, as the Necron chronicler Trazyn the Infinite called the period between the War in Heavens conclusion and the Fall of the Eldar. The Krorks had regressed. Their devolution was guided and controlled by the Aeldari, K'nib, Kinebrach and Mankind. Turning the now uncontrolled weapon into a galaxy wide infestation and nuisance. Now in the Age of Strife no great powers existed to push back the Greentide. Only war awaited the Orks. Which they relished. Unconstrained by the will of the Old Ones and robbed of purpose the Orks warred across the galaxy with glee. Steadily advancing higher along the designed evolutionary path gifted by the Old Ones.

Yet things went awry. The Krork had been guided and controlled by the Old Ones and had this process of development regulated. With the "Brain-Boyz" gone, the Orks started to slip into something new. Something unseen except for perhaps during the Dawn Age of the Aeldari Empire. The Orks were not evolving into true Krork as some scholars thought. They simply started becoming better Orks. With all the knowledge and power instilled in them unleashed. No longer the Twin-Headed War of the Old Ones. Now little more than a feral Beast. Even if they had millions of years of bloody conflict to marinate in. The Orks would never become what they once were. Any guidance or control was either dead, gone or unwilling to act. Instead of Krorks these Greenskins if unmanaged would become a Great Beast of Extinction and Destruction.

This process of leaving the path set forth during their genesis had many unusual effects upon the Orks. Foremost of these was WAAAGH Grunhag. Where the other WAAAGH and Greenskin empires consolidated under the Beast-Bosses and their Kingdoms of thuggish-malice. Some Orks refused this "progrest" wanting to continue the old ways of raiding and wild brutality. The Great Green psychic field of the Orkiod species lacked a proper response for these rogue elements. Much like the feral Orks who refused to surrender rock and spear for Slugga and Choppa. The Orks of WAAAGH Grunhag refused to become something new. Shirking the dreams of conquest and domination that rose upon Ullanor. Propelled on by primitive urges and long buried programming instilled by the Old Ones. WAAAGH Grunhag threw itself at the single most powerful enemy it could find and go out in a blaze of glory. Feeding the Great Green psychic field of Orkind and seeding countless worlds with Orkish spores

Thus WAAAGH Grunhag continued its millenia long suicidal campaign against the Squats. Compelled on by Gork and Mork themselves and the madness of Grunhag. For the Warbosses point he had no desire to die. He wanted to prove his ways and his WAAAGH was better than the Ullanor or Gorro Beast-Bosses. Crushing the Squats and looting their worlds. Drawing greenskins away from the Beast-Bosses and to his great WAAAGH! The self destructive nature of the Orks struck once again. Just as Gork and Mork fought within the Warp. Grunhag and the Beast-Bosses struggled. Fighting over what future the Orks would take. If Grunhag could destroy the Squats and prove he was the "ardest" Ork around. Then just maybe the old ways might triumph over the new.

To the Squats this amounted to a never ending tide of maddened Greenskins. Focused and directed unlike anything the Khazkhun people had ever dealt with before. In every engagement the Orks took hundreds of casualties per each fallen Squat. Which meant nothing to the Greenskins and everything to the defenders. The stone of the Khazkhun was steadily being worn away by the Greentide. Still the Ancestor-Gate held. No Greenskin had gotten close enough to even touch its Adamantium bulk. Cut down in the surrounding Gate-house cavern. Which in its own way was a masterpiece of Squat engineering. A hollow in the mountain with murderholes, artillery emplacements, shifting deployment tunnels and armored ramparts.

Grand ballads and sagas were written of the battles for the cavern. Stories of how the Orkish Great Gargants had dragged themselves across the elder-bridge at the head of a mob of Orks and Stompas. Pushing through lines of Hearthguard and field guns to reach the Cavern. Only to meet their end when a throng of Hearth-Golems ambushed them within the Cavern. Smashing the orkish meks to pieces as a flood of lava poured down from the Gate-houses defenses. Squat bound-silica and Ork war-walkers dueled in a river of lava up to their mechanical knees. That swept and burned away the Orkish horde.

The Squats had existed in a state of constant siege for thousands of years. Fighting a losing war for generations. A great sense of weariness could be found among the Khazkhun. Not apathy, or a desire to give up. Instead, a general exhaustion. A melancholic affliction brought on by the slow death of their civilization. Where most of humanity had only the vaguest ideas of what they had lost to the Galaxies cruelty. The Squats and their ancient records kept a near-perfect recollection of all that was taken from them. Every lost world, every destroyed clan, each lost wonder and ruined relic. Hope of any kind had long since been lost, and yet the Squats endured. Partially out of sheer stubborn pride, but mostly out of a single desperate desire. To stave off the end for just a little longer. For maybe one or two more generations to live. In that terrible mentality of fighting for each day. The Squats survived for millennia.

Until one fateful morning, when the bloated red giant of the Karag system crested the horizon of the heavy-world of Grungron. The defenders of the Last Hold were met with a curious sight. A strange Orkish procession of trukks, transportas and other contraptions approached the Mountain spire. In the middle of this train of greenskin machinery was a massive device of unknown purpose. Easily the size of the largest Gargant the Squats had ever seen it was roughly cube-shaped. With great brass lined indents across its front. The Khazkhun defenders opened fire with a few testing shots. Great mortar shells spit from the great mountain's crevices. Arcs of green lighting shot out from the convoy and blasted the shells from the sky. The Orkish procession eventually stopped, outside the range of the most powerful guns of Khazrik Hold.

A steady bombardment of mortar shells continued as the Squats observed a force of Mekboys and Gretchins making modifications to the massive cube. Then frantically fleeing it after nearly an hour of tinkering. With a great thrum of energy, the cube activated. Emergency Void-Shields and countless defense measures were prepared by the Khazkhun. Fearing whatever Orkish weapon was to be unleashed.

Instead of any great gouts of plasma or world-cracking gravity surges the Orkish machine spoke. In a technologically amplified voice loud enough to damage the eardrums of Squats manning spotter posts upon the mountain many kilometres away. "OI! IS DIS TING ON!?" Bellowed the machine. It seemed the Orks found the easiest method of getting a message to the Squats was through sheer volume. In the pigeon language of the Orks, Grunhag addressed the last hold.

"AIGHT YA STUNTIES! ERES DA DEAL! I IZ GETTEN BORED AND NEED SOMTING NEW! SO MORROW IMMA COME TO YUR BIG ROCK AND FIGHT THE DEAD ARDEST STUNTY YA GOT INNA DOOL! IF HE BEATS ME MY BOYZ WILL LEAVE! FINDA BETTA FIGHT! IF I WIN, WELL WE GETS SOME PROPA FUN! AND IF YA DUMB NOUGH TO TURN ME DOWN! WELL I'LL BE FORCED TO GET PROPA NASTY! SHOW YOU STUNTIES WHAT WE ORKS DO TO GROT-GUT HAVING COWARDS!"

With that the giant vox-caster the Orks had constructed overloaded. Unleashing a small mushroom cloud in its detonation. No Orks assaulted Khazrik Hold for the rest of the day. Leaving the Squats to debate the Greenskins message. Deep within the ancestral meeting halls of the Last Hold a great debate raged. Clan Elder and Guild Masters from all varieties argued. Not over whether the Khazkhun would take the Greenskins challenge. Instead they argued who would be the Squats champion. The Silica-Smiths wanted to unleash an experimental Golem to strike down Grunhag. Guriai the Granite, Living Ancestor of the now extinct Clan Redaxe wanted to personally avenge his kindred. The Hearthguard of the attending leaders compared deeds, seeking the greatest of the power-armored warriors to take the challenge.

Every Squat alive wanted to be the one who ripped Grunhag the Flayers head from his shoulders. This opportunity to enact vengeance could not be squandered. After several hours of spirited debate, a conclusion was reached. A group of the eldest Living Ancestors came before the War-council of Khazrik Hold and declared that only one Khazkhun was worthy of this mighty deed of slaying Grunhag. The oldest living Grudgekeeper. Ur-Dammaz: the breaker of grudges and bastard of Grimnir

His identity long forgotten, he had been one of the first to take the Oath of Penance. Having the sins and misery of millennia of squats transferred into his mind. The Sin-Eater for an entire abhuman race. Yet more than a living confessional. Ur-Dammaz and all his ilk had been changed by Grudgekeeping. Every grudge and every dark memory the Living Ancestors had transferred into him had power. It was not memories given to the Grudgekeepers, but emotions. Maddened fragments carved off the grieved by the psychic skills of the Living Ancestors. Enough so the Squat in need of this service could cope with the pain. Turning the burning pain of loss, grief, anger and shame into a survivable ache. For millennia the Ur-Dammaz had taken in pieces of souls at their most powerful and potent.

This process of Grudgekeeping was a primitive apotheosis. Shards of Soul-Stuff conglomerating in the Grudgekeeper as spiritual sediment. Crushed under its own weight into something strong and unbreaking. Granting the Keepers powers beyond even the Living Ancestors. Innate psychic ability that knitted together broken bones and torn muscle stronger than before. Flames of fiery wrath so hot they materialized in waves of fire pouring from the Keeper. Adamantium willpower and dogged obsessive focus. Creating berserker demigods. Who knew only the pain of their kindred.

The incredible age and amount of Grudges and Sins Ur-Dammaz had taken alone did not make him what he was. During the Golden Age of the Squats the Grudgekeepers held a secondary role aside from locking away collective pain. When clans, guilds or even holds got into conflict it was up to the Grudgekeepers to settle it. By manner of ritual combat. The Keeper bound to each body represented in the conflict would face in a sacred arena. The idea was simple. Grudgekeepers are empowered by the pain they held. The more grieved parties Grudgekeeper would be stronger by power of misery and win the duel. Trial by combat mixed with arbitration.

These ritual duels would only end when the losing side surrendered. Not the losing Grudgekeeper, but who they represented. The patron could choose to let there Grudgekeeper die in the conflict. A drastic action only done in the most severe circumstances. Usually, these duels ended when a victor was apparent. The Squats unwilling to risk dishonor or the loss of their groups Grudgekeeper. No matter the outcome the losing side would find its Grudgekeeper relieved of some or all of their burden. Living Ancestors would transfer an agreed sum of Grudges from the loser to the winner. Or all of them in case of death. Leading to generations of increasingly powerful Grudgekeepers, empowered and tormented by victory.

According to the ancient Gilded Archives Ur-Dammaz had never lost a ritual duel. Even electing to take on the burden of Keepers who lost their patron during the Ork Wars. Over the millennia Ur-Dammaz had become incarnate of the Khazkhun people's pain. So powerful and psychically resonant he was kept in stasis-sleep when not needed. Wrapped in chains of Mourn-Metal. A psychically enhanced Adamantium alloy. Forged using the remains of dead Living Ancestors and Grudgekeepers. Kept in a temple near the Mountain's heart.

The council quickly fell behind the Living Ancestors decision and preparation to awake the Grudge Breaker started. His armor was pulled from the deepest armories. A suit of Power-Armor forged from Adamantium, Mourn-Metal and lost technologies. The most powerful relics and inventions of the Guilds were assembled. Clans donated heirlooms and treasures from before the diaspora. All used to arm Ur-Dammaz for his duel. Living Ancestors skilled in artficary and greatest smiths and Guildsquats set to work. In turn the Priests of Grimnir, God of War, Grudges and Vengeance. Prepared to awake the living avatar of their deity. All across the subterranean world of the Last Hold, great bells rang. Brass artifacts echoing in a melodic cacophony. The symbolic hammer of the Squats ringing out with each mighty boom.

Every Khazkhun from the oldest Living Ancestor to the youngest child knew in their hearts what was coming. This would be the last day of glory for the Squats. Even if Grunhag was struck down and his WAAAGH left. So much had been lost. The Homeworlds had been devastated and they would never recover before the next great threat arose. One way or another the end of the Khazkhun was upon them. They would not go without a fight. As they had done since the days of the Iron War the Squats would struggle against the inevitable. Ur-Dammaz would be the Axe of the Squats and he would carve a red ruin into the Orks. The Greenskins would fear the Khazkhun. Khazrik Hold would etch its tale into the Orks like a chisel through stone.

A massive stasis-sarcophagus was pulled from its tomb. A monument of carved obsidian, built into the deep caldera's walls. Eight Hearthguard in full armor marched into the deeps along with the War-Priests. Who carried the sarcophagus from its resting place along the Infernal roads. Pathways cut into the massive volcanic chamber then fed into the Rikkariz upper caldera. The War-Priests wore the minimum protective gear, their skin a collection of burns and battle scars. In unison chanting a dirge of vengeance. Carried up from the deep the coffin of Ur-Dammaz was taken to the Royal-Armory. Where the Hold-Lords and High-Kings of the ancient past readied for war.

Surrounded by the War-Council and the Priests of Grimnir the ancient rites to unlock the coffin begin. Soon, the sarcophagus opened and a cloud of steam billowed out from it. Emerging like some primordial titan of the Old Earth. The Grudge Breaker arrived. Easily twice as tall as the largest Squat and big enough to tower over even the thin-boned cousins of the outer galaxy. Ur-Dammaz was a giant of a Khazkhun. Proportioned like his kin, but magnified by psychic power. Every injury he had taken over millenia had healed stronger. Bones grew denser and larger. Organs engorged and grew more efficient. Flecks of shrapnel from countless wounds grew into his skin. Faint slivers of gunmetal forming a pattern of internal chainmail upon his body. Bald except for a mighty flowing crimson beard. With ruddy skin of copper tones. Nude except for a tattered loincloth Ur-Dammaz looked around him with onyx black eyes and spoke in a deep rumbling baritone: "What must die by my hand?"

While Ur-Dammaz had been awoken many times throughout the Ork Wars. It had not been for centuries. He was to be only roused when no other options were available. The sheer quantity and power of the grudges stored within Ur-Dammaz was more than his soul could take. His very presence leaked an aura of bitter fury that seeps into the soul. Already weaker willed Squats in his presence found the wrathful melancholy the Grudgekeepers were created to stop entering their minds. Like an overfilled cup, the stuff of Ur-Dammaz's gestalt soul poured into the world around him.

The Hold-Lord of Khazrik stepped forward. Buri Flameshield was his name. Leader of the Flameshield clan which ruled Khazrik for as long as there were clans. A noble and proud lineage who had produced many High-Kings of the Khazkhun. Before that elected monarchy ended with the fall of Linnar-Khaz. Burin in a shocking display of respect knelt and spoke: "Lord Keeper, Grunhag has come. He wishes to face the mightiest Khazkhun in single combat this coming dawn. If slain the eternal siege may be lifted."
To this Ur-Dammaz simply nodded and bellowed to the Guild-Masters and Armory-Thanes "You heard the Hold-Lord, Bring me an Axe! I'll take the cursed Greenskins head when Star-Karag crests the horizon"

Throughout the rest of the day and night, which lasted nearly a relative terran week. The Grudge Breaker was armed and armored. His mighty suit of Power-Armor, was bolted into his flesh. Its mind impulse units jacking right into his spine without any pain-aids. Ur-Damamz did not seem to even notice. Instead of a proper helmet a mixture of a gorget and coif that covered his neck, sides and back of his head. But not the face or top. The MIU plugged into his nerves would allow the armor to keep up with his movements. A helmets display would never match his own eyes. Ur-Damamz's mighty beard covered his breastplate and reached his legs. Adornments ranging from ancestral charms to miniaturized energy shields were woven into it.

In a final touch scores of runes were painted on the armor in ancient red ochre from long distant worlds. A memento of the eldest magic known to mankind. Wizened crones known as Daughters of Valaya inscribed the runes as they prayed to their ancestors. Bowing his head in respect to the blessings laid upon him Ur-Dammaz thanked the Daughters and went to claim his weapon. A pair of Squat war-walkers lumbered into the Royal-Armory. Each piloted by respected Golemnauts. Entrusted to carry the Axe of Doom to its destined owner. Crafted by generations of Squat artificers over millennia. It was arguably the single greatest weapon meant for close quarter combat the Khazkhun had ever produced.

It was a titanic and beautiful thing. Originally crafted for use by a Mountain-Guardian class war-walkers. Which were the largest and most powerful of infantry class war-walkers. The Axe of Doom had turned out to be simply too heavy for even the prodigious synth-muscle and hydraulic systems of the Mountain-Guardians. Three meters from its knob to its double-head. It's haft was of Mourn-metal and inscribed with runes and circuits. A grip of Lava-Serpent leather covered most of the Axe's bottom third. The massive weight of the weapon came from its head. A single massive pseudo-diamond from deep within Grungron had been carved into a double axe head. The super-dense crystal lattice of metallic alloys further refined by techno-alchemy to be indestructible by all known means. Atomically-welded to the mourn-metal haft with inlaid precious gems carved in the shape of divine symbols.

It had required two war-walkers to transport into the Royal armory and present it to Ur-Dammaz. The ancient Squat demigod examined the weapon and picked it up with a single hand. Casually twirling the many-ton Axe of Doom like a reed-stone staff. In his grip the runes on the Axe started to glow and its power field flickered into being. Remarking more to himself than anyone else Ur-Dammaz muttered: "It'll do."

Leaving the armory with a procession train of renowned Squats behind him. Ur-Dammaz headed for the Ancestor-Gate. He walked slowly, a plodding pace that required his attendants to jog and keep up with his giant strides. Ur-Dammaz entered into the heart-road of Khazrik. A mighty thoroughfare that wound from the Ancestors gate deep into Grungron. Forming the bottom of an artificial canyon carved into the stone and hosting a city. The heart-road had cleared of traffic, from the volcano-trams, lifter-cars and cyclops defense tanks to common pedestrians. Empty save for the Grudge Breaker and his cohort. All across Khazrik, bells were rung and songs of vengeance were sung. Great throngs of Squats from all walks of life teemed the cliff-boroughs and carved citadels along the heart-roads walls. All seeking to witness Ur-Dammaz march to war.

Ancient hymns as ingrained in the Squat culture as the stone itself carried through the vast canyon. An impromptu choir millions strong chanted in a dirge for the Last Hold.

" When the hammer falls, And it sounds through the halls, When the hammer falls, Freeing treasures from the walls, When the hammer strikes, And the kingdom comes to life,"

The Hold-Lord and his followers started to weep softly as they followed behind Ur-Dammaz. The psychic effects of the Grudge Breakers overflowing souls already being felt. So much pain, so much lost. Worlds stolen, treasures lost, bloodlines ended, wonders forgotten, and so many dead. The long bottled grief of millenia started to flow free. Every single Squat that lined the canyon and filled the Last-Hold was scarred by the Ork Wars. By personal loss of family and friends. Or cultural decay and the pressures of constant siege. The Khazkhun were a dying people and this was their living wake.

"When the hammer falls, Forging weapons for all, When the hammer falls, Songs of battle fill the halls,"

Ur-Dammaz finally reached the Ancestor Gate. The wall of adamantium stretched towards the enclosed heavens of Khazrik. Flanked by twin statues. Titan-sized monuments to the Squats endurance. Standing before the Gate. the champion held his axe high. The twin statues started to move at this signal.. Not statues but each a massive golem designed to guard the gates against all. Stone shaking footfalls rumbled through the canyon as the Golems each grabbed hold of a massive adamantium handle upon the Ancestor-Gate. Slowly the metal giants pushed open the gate. Its colossal hinges letting out a plaintiff groan as they swung open. Just enough for Ur-dammaz to exit the Last Hold.

"When the hammer falls, Back our enemy crawls When the hammer quakes, Orkish cowards' bones will break, When the hammer cracks, And it beats their armies back, When the hammer's boom, Sends the monsters to their doom,"

The last few words of the song of the Squats echoed behind the Grudge Breaker as the great adamantium gate closed behind him. The Gatehouse cavern was not empty when Ur-dammaz entered it. Rows of Khazkhun soldiers formed up across its battlements and yard. Standing perfectly still like an army of statues. The mighty of the Khazrik hold assembled to stand against the Greenskins. Ur-Dammaz marched past them and out into the pre-dawn light of Grungron. One way or another today would be a reckoning for the Orks.

---

Location: The Elder-Bridge of Khazrik Hold
Date: Dawn of the last battle of the last hold.

Slowly the red-giant Star crested the horizon of Grungron. Its crimson light casting bloody shadows across the Last Holdworld. Reflecting off the armor of two armies facing each other. The Squats of Khazrik Hold standing behind their champion. Armored in shining Adamantium and wielding mighty hammers and drill-guns. Across the Elder-Bridge a tide of roaring green awaited. Orks, Gretchins, Stompas, Gargants, Weirdboyz, Killa-Canz, Buggies and Battlewagons all awaiting what was to come.

At the forefront of the Squat forces stood Ur-Dammaz. Walking slowly towards the middle of the bridge. Stretching across the volcanic abyss below. At the elder-bridges apex the champion of the Squats stopped. Planting the butt of his axe into the solid adamantium. In a voice that echoed across the ash-plains infested by the Orks and the titanic peak of Khazrik. Ur-Dammaz roared: "Come out and face me you swine-sticking shite stained excuss of a warrior! I've got my axe and your neck has an appointment with it!"

For a single moment the sound of the Orkish horde stopped. The Greenskins staring at the mightiest of the Squats. Soon a thunderous sound cut through the silence. A slow gallop of massive legs across the ground. The Greentide parted from the sound. Coming into view was a lumbering Squiggoth. As large as an Orkish trukk, covered in a mixture of armor and graffiti. The thuggish beast approached the elder-bridge. Upon the creatures back was a throne of blasted metal and bones. Occupied by Grunhag the Flayer himself. Standing seven meters tall the Warboss was a living mountain of muscle and cybernetics. Releasing the reins of his steed, Grunhag leapt from the Squiggoths back. Sending a large cloud of ash into the air around him.

Orks and Squats were both silent as Grunhag approached Ur-Dammaz. The Greenskin Warlord was a monsterous amalgamation of Orkish technology. Ugly mega-armor was fused into his flesh. Its servos and internal mechanisms let out a feral growl with each movement. In a display of twisted Orkish genius the Mekboyz and Dokz had rebuilt Grunhag with four arms. Two primary ones each clad in hulking power claws with underslung shootas and flame spitters. While spindly secondary arms stuck from Grunhags shoulder-blades like mechanical parasites. Those two each carried exotic Orkish guns. One crafted from the severed head of a Weirdboy, acting as a psychic-lighting cannon. The other a miniaturized Traktor Kannon designed to toss about small-vehicles with abandon.

Grunhag lumbered across the elder-bridge until he was maybe a hundred paces away from Ur-Dammaz. The two champions of this long-fought war eyed each other. Raising his power-claws towards the air Grunhag let out the ancient war cry that had shaken the galaxy for sixty million years. "WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHH!"

The assembled Orkish horde roared an ear-bursting echo. In response, all of the Khazkhun warriors stamped their feet and weapons or beat their shields. A roar of primal fury dueling with the steady drumbeat of a dying peoples wrath. Ur-Dammaz was the first to charge. Psychic flames billowing from him, creating a great mane of fire atop his head and beard. He moved quickly, far faster than his stout frame would suggest possible. Even without the generations of psychic enhancement, Squats possesed natural explosive speed and power. Their short and dense frame contains muscles like a coiled spring ready to unleash at a moment's notice.

Grunhag matched his Squat enemy's charge and leaped forward. His shootas and Zzapp gun opened up storms of lead and lighting. Ancient Khazkhun energy-shields deflected and absorbed the weapon fire. This battle would be decided in melee. Closing the distance Ur-Dammaz responded to the hail of munition with his own sidearm. With his greataxe in one hand he unholstered a master-work drill-gun from his waist. This Squatborn relative to the Boltgun fired a burst of spiral-grooved rounds at Grunhag. Green-lighting spat from the Warbosses armor. Robbing the drill-shells of momentum, letting them tumble to the ground. Holstering his sidearm Ur-Dammaz gripped the Axe of Doom with both Hands. Whirling it around to face the Ork tyrant.

Grunhag brought his power-klaws down in an energized hammer-blow. The Klaws met the Axe of Doom. A storm of sparks detonated from the impact. Pushing both champions back a few steps. A lopsided grin spread across the Warbosses face. Teef of adamantium, gold. silver and natural Ork calcium shone in the early star light. Roaring his race's ancient cry, Grunhag threw himself back at Ur-Dammaz. His claws and munitions testing for any weakness in the Squats guard. Flames born of psychic power and promethium crackeled along Ur-Dammaz. His Axe-head and his own flaming scalp leaving a trail of fire and embers as they weaved between the Warbosses blows.

Crafted from exquisite materials the Axe of Doom was designed to be used more than a mere axe. Balanced with hyper-dense alloys hidden within its haft. Ur-Dammaz could wield it as both axe and pole-arm with ease. The Grudge Breaker leveraged the range his weapon gave him. His compact form letting him easily dodge or parry incoming blows. Then strike out with the crackling head of his axe or its molten-hot haft. Whenever Grunhag overextended or got cocky the Axe of Doom was there to punish him. So far the Ork had gotten lucky. Ur-Dammaz only had a collection of smoldering scratches on Grunhags armor for his effort. Fighting with the patience of mountains and the fury of molten stone. The Squat Champion intended to wear the Warboss down. Steadily chip away at the enemy of his people like a mason through rock. Until all that was left was a broken, beaten Ork.

Grunhag the Flayer was busy having the time of his life. The Warboss had gotten so massive and powerful that few things posed a threat to him. Throughout his WAAAGH! against the Squats he had taken to bullying and humiliating less useful Nobs. Just so he could have a light spar when they snapped and challenged his leadership. Now facing this"Big Red Stunty" Grunhag was thoroughly enjoying himself. Even as the Ork clashed with the Squat and intercepted his lethal blows. Grunhags twisted mind filled with dark fantasies of what he would do once he had won his duel. How he would desecrate the Squat Champion and break the last hold with his death.

The two combatants could not be more different. Grunhag was a hulking mass of machinery and muscle. Cobbled together with insane technology and hungry for battle. Fighting not like a warrior, with any particular style or technique. The Warboss fought like some mixture of a feral beast and back-alley brawler. Animal cunning combined with the skill born of thousands of brutal scraps. Watching Ur-Dammaz for any weakness and striking out with his arsenal at any sign. Power-Klaws acted as both a predators' claws and a thugs' fists. Hacking and smashing the Squat with a near constant flurry of blows. All while Grunhags shoota, flamma, Zapppa and Traktor Guns fired at the Grudge Breaker. A primordial monster testing its foe constantly. Waiting to rip Ur-Dammaz apart with sadistic glee.

Champion of the Squats and bearer of ancient misery. Ur-Dammaz was solid and stoic. A living being forged into the ultimate weapon by his people's best and worst attributes. Where Grunhag was the beast and brawler. Ur-Dammaz was the guardian and champion. Each of his blows a calculated assault, powered by incredible fury. The Axe of Doom striking out like a Dragon's maw. Leaving behind burning scars that cut into Grunhags armor and augments. The Grudge Breaker could feel the beady red eyes of his foe upon him at all times. Grunhag had elected to replace his eyes burst in his near-death aboard the Bigga Hulk with organic parts. Colossal Squig and Orkish eyes spliced together by a particularly nasty Painboy. The Warboss wanted to look upon his enemies as they died with natural eyes. The hardened warrior-intellect of Ur-Dammaz saw a weakness and sought to exploit it.

Whirling his Axe in a great arc. Ur-Damamz summoned a storm of flames that covered him for a moment. Forcing Grunhag to look away from the firestorm that erupted. Ur-Dammaz shot forward, a living fire-spout. Pulling his Axe up across Grunhag. The Warboss barely lept free of the attack. Snarling and relying on his other sense Grunhag pushed back. Green-Lighting born of Orkish technology and the WAAAGH empowering the Warboss dueled the Flames of Ur-Damamz. A slight wetness started to form on Grunhags forehead.

Reaching up with a deactivated Klaw. The Warboss felt his ichor run onto his armored hand. Ur-Dammaz had taken first-blood. His axe cutting through Grunhags shields with ease. Igniting his klaw, Grunhag quickly cauterized his wound, ending the bleeding. Staring at the readied Squat before him. He saw a ragged snarl of war-lust painted on Ur-dammaz's face. Grunhag realized he and the "Big Red Stunty'' had more in common than originally thought. Twin combatants, both creatures of bloodshed and red-ruin. Meant to live and die upon the fields of war. Each their happiest with a bloody weapon and new battle-scars.

A deep rumbling laugh echoed from Grunhag and the Warboss growled: "Datz wot Iz talking bout! YA GOT ME TINKING YU DIDENT AVE ANY GUTZ!"

The battle continued, the might of the two champions clashing. Each searching for weaknesses to exploit. In turn adapting to any trick or technique used. Grunhag had quickly learned to compensate for the flames' heat. In turn Ur-Dammaz had tasted the energized-metal of his foe's Klaws after failing to realize the gambles his foe was willing to take. This was a duel between two masters of combat. It would be ended by one decisive blow. With the Squat champion carving away at his foe. Building up to the shatterpoint he would use to end the fight. While Grunhag fought with feral intensity that would eventually find its killing strike. Ironically a contest for a final blow was being fought with attrition.

Neither side tired as the duel raged on. The augmented endurance of both sides faring equally. For hours they clashed. Grunhag would attack, attack, and attack Ur-dammaz. Switching his patterns and style not for any strategic reasons. Only doing so when he got bored. Using his Traktor Cannon to try and rip the Axe of Doom from the hands of his foes. Or attempting to drive him off the edge of the bridge. Ur-Dammaz resisted it all. Wethering a hundred blows. before striking out with a response worth a hundred of Grunhags attacks. Dragging on both fighters found themselves host to patchworks of wounds. Scratches and burns that healed quickly. Leaving ugly scabs and layers of dried blood to coat them both. Wherever Ur-Dammaz struck he had little effect. Layers of redundant systems and armor filled the Warbosses reforged body. Not products of any planned system of augments. Instead the result of dozens of Meks and Doks competing to impress the Warboss once he awoke.

It seemed only one target was worth the Grudge Breakers energy. He had sworn to take Grunhags head, and he was not one to forsake such an oath. Parrying dozens of blows and dodging weapon-fire when he could. Ur-Dammaz started to concoct a plan. One that would require all his patients and skill. Steadily the greatest Grudge Keeper let himself be pushed back. Letting the weight of his foes blows driving him towards the Bridge's edge. Eager and pressing his advantage Grunhag surged forward. The Warbosses' covering of stolen-skin dried under the noon-star heat. The red giant Karag hanging directly above them. The fight had dragged on for what were many terran days. A grinding duel between an unstoppable force and an immovable object.

Ur-Dammaz rationed his energy carefully. Falling back into the methodical marital-styles of the Squats. Not meant to slay the foe, but hold the line for the great cannons and guns to do their work. Drawing his flames in tighter, burning hotter and denser. Lashes of blue and white replaced the billowing waves of red and orange. Deflecting and parrying every strike with exquisite concentration. All while Grunhag laughed and taunted. Mocking and insulting the Squat in the ribald tongue of the Orks. The Warboss was confident victory was his. This had been a fun fight for Grunhag but he doubted the Stunty had anything else to surprise him. Which in a way was true. Ur-Dammaz had no tricks or secret techniques left to win this duel. Instead, he had the one thing that had never failed his people, the Mountain. Grunhag attacked with all his might as the Sun above passed behind the peak of the Khazrik Hold. Its indomitable heights hiding away the light in ancient shadow. In an instant, near-blackness covered the elder-bridge. The Mountain's shadow lay thick. Grunhags eyes proved their worth and adapted near instantly. The Orks had been designed to breed within great subterranean caverns. Darkness was no hindrance to them. Yet the threat came not as shadow, but as the one thing Orks fear. It came as Fire!

As Grunhags crimson eyes dilated to swallow the remaining light. Ur-Dammaz ignited his flames as bright as possible. Burning as hot and mighty as he could. All his psychic power poured into birthing a nova of white-hot flame. Wreathed around the Axe of Doom. Brighter and hotter than an Atomic Blast. The Axe lived up to its name. Grunhag screamed as his eyes burned and his senses overloaded. Flinching from the blinding light and creating an opening. With a mighty swing that used all the energy left in Ur-Dammaz's stout form, the Axe cleaved through Grunhag. Tearing through armor like foil in a clean horizontal slash. With a mighty roar of vengeance, the Grudgekeeper cut off Grunhags head.

The tusked head of the Warboss flew high. Carried by the sheer energy of the blow. Spinning through the air as a morbid standard of victory. With the sound of an avalanche, Grunhags body fell to its knees. Ur-Dammaz stared at his hated foe, the enemy of his people. The ancient warrior-squat had torn one of his arms from its socket with the force of his strike. His body and souls spent in the duel. Sweat dripped into his mighty beard and the flames dancing along his scalp simmered into steam. Propping himself up with his Axe the exhausted warrior let his body slump against it.

Just as he prepared to pop his shoulder back into its proper place. A noise caught Ur-Dammazs attention. A strange mechanical growl. Looking up he did not have time to react before a massive Power-Klaw plunged into his stomach. Impaling him on three crackling talons. Staring up in bewilderment Ur-Dammaz watched the headless body of Grunhag pull itself to its feet. Then with its unoccupied hand reach up and with a sickening plop, catch its own severed head. Jerkily the body deposited its head atop its severed stump. A clicking noise came from the free arms built-in shoota. Its internal mechanisms changing out ammo-types. With the sound of an ill-maintained industrial-press, Grunhag fired two-pronged metal-spikes into his neck. Forming a ring of staples, reattaching the severed head. A savage grin of primal cruelty spread across Grunhags face.

The revenant Ork stared into the stunned Squats eyes. Taking his Power-Klaws, Grunhag ripped into Ur-Dammaz's gut. With one Klaw gripped onto the Squats rib cage he started to disembowel Ur-Dammaz. In an almost casual tone Grunhag said: "Well now, itz lookz to me like yah actually got gutz yah stunty! Take a good look at em. All the rest of yur kind will get too soon when I string em up me boss-pole."

The Grudge-Breaker let out a mournful cry as he slid off the Orks Klaws. Not a cry of pain or defeat. A cry of bitter fury, a moan of vengeance denied. Nearly ripped in have with his intestine spilling everywhere Ur-Dammaz fell to the elder-bridges adamantium surface. Brandishing his gore-stained claws Grunhag roared out: "HOOSE NEXT!"

A resounding call of WAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGHHHHH! Shook the ground as the Orks celebrated the victory of their Warboss. Stunned horror filled the hearts of the Squats all across Khazrik Hold. Their defender had fallen, they would fall to the Greenskins. Unavenged, unknown, lost to time and the horrors of war. With the resignation of the doomed the warriors of the Last Hold prepared to fight. If this was to be the end, it would be a glorious one.

Then a flash of light crossed the sky. A flare of energy in the heavens so bright it was visible during the day. Another flash erupted, another, and another. Soon the sky was alight with wild-flames. Only the great ash-clouds of Khazrik Hold obscured the light. It was at this moment a storm of communications poured in from across the Karag system. Orkish Vox exploded in calls of enemy attack and panicked chatter. Something was attacking the Greenskin armada across the system. Grunhag activated his own Vox and was bombarded by Orkish screams and overlapping voices. Contacting the replacement Flagship of the WAAAGH! A massive Deadnots called the Busta-Rok. Kaptin Kruncher, nob of the ship, desperately responded. Between the sounds of explosion and screaming Orkoids the Kaptain yelled his message. "'ELP BOSS! 'ELP US! WE'Z GOTTA GET OUTTA 'ERE! DA MAPS ARE RIGHT BOSS! 'ERE BE DRAGONS!"

Detonations drowned out the Kaptin and the sound of tearing metal was heard. Then the vox went dead. Panic started to spread like miasma across the assembled Orkish horde. Shouting and waving his Klaws. Grunhag marched towards his army intending to bash them till they weren't scared. Before he made a dozen steps forward, a mighty roar erupted. Drowning out even the Orkish horde. A great wind stirred across the surface of Grungron. Its ashen atmosphere disturbed.

A second roar filled the skies and the great clouds of ash that filled the atmosphere around the Last-Hold moved. Blown away by some titanic presence. The clouds split open, forming a massive swirling gap like the eye of some volcanic hurricane. Down through the eye, a thing of legends flew. Something that should not exist and yet did. A Dragon had come to Grungron. Massive beyond words, a serpentine colossus with jaws large enough to bite a Battlecruiser in half. Eight taloned limbs clustered across its belly. Ten wings of blackened-leather and organic flames stuck from its back. Great gouts of plasma erupted from its maw with every breath. Emerald scales coated in layers of cooled magma and volcanic ash glistend. Like a falling star the Dragon dived through the atmosphere. Great silver ornaments dotted its body, what seemed to be strange jewelry crackeled with energy. Anti-Gravity generators based on the great Orbital plates of Terra activated. This impossible creature of fire flew through the heavens. Its massive wings and organic jets of ignited hydrogen let it navigate the skies.

The Dragons mouth opened and it let forth a roar to shake the stars. Gracefully flying towards Khazrik Hold. Circling around the super-volcano with almost lazy ease. The panicked fire of Squat turret operators going unnoticed as they glanced off the Dragons scales. Enraptured by the terrifying sight of such a creature. Neither Squat nor Ork noticed the singular metallic ornament upon the Wyrms forehead. Unlike the anti-gravity generators this object was a bridge of sorts. A cabin created with incredible technology and hosting the true power upon the battlefield. The Dragon was a mighty beast, an ancient predator long thought extinct. Yet within the cabin was the being that tamed it. The true Dragon of the Imperium. Vulkan, Primarch of the XVIII Legion.

---

Location: The Nocturne System
Date: 864.M30

Seated upon a throne of Jade and Obsidian the Primarch commanded the beast. His mind connected to the Dragons by powerful telepathic bonds. This was no simple beast or flesh puppet. The Dragon was claimed by Vulkan from cooling ashes. Decades ago the Emperor had tasked Vulkan with claiming a distant system known as Nocturne. Telling the XVIII Primarch the volcanic world held secrets precious to many. Which Vulkan would claim for mankind.

The Primarch arrived too late and found the Nocturne system in its twilight. The XVIII Legion searched the system for any survivors or clues to whatever catastrophe befell the humans upon Nocturne. All they found across the ruins of seven cities were signs of suffering and the touch of darkness. In the form of sadistic displays and signs of Eldar weapons. The greatest clue to the identity of whatever Xeno faction destroyed Nocturne came within the remains of the city of Hesiod. A mountain of skulls piled high as a Knight-Walker stands. Left in the city-center with a signature in the Aeldari lexicon inscribed on each skull. Reading "He Who Hunts Heads"

The bodies recovered across the planet were cremated in a great ritual of burial by the XVIII Legion. Creating a great conflagration that attracted the only survivor of the Eldar's handiwork. The last Firedrake from deep within the Nocturne. Drawn up by the heat, seeking any warmth upon this once burning world. The great reptilian beast did not seem to notice the Astartes and Imperials tending the pyre. It dived into the flames and stayed there for several hours. Vulkan was alerted and watched the colossal beast hide in the funeral blaze. After many hours it crawled forth. Scales glowing with heat. Vulkan and his honor-guard tracked the titan-sized wyrm across the ruined wilds of Nocturne to a great Volcano. Now snuffed out by Aeldari technology and glowing with only the faintest embers.

The Fire Drake worked its way through the great lava-tubes and caverns of the volcano. Burrowing into the deepest most hidden depths of the mountain. Signs of battle and of death filled the subterranean chambers. The scorched remains of Eldar warriors and broken craft littered the tunnels. The transhuman senses of the Primarch and his guard tracking the Fire Drake with relative ease. The XVIII was not created for these duties, but like all of the Emperor's Angels they could adapt. At long last they found the Fire-Drake within the still glowing heart of the mountain. A great caldera littered with bones and broken stone. Here the beast squeezed its scaly bulk into a hidden antechamber. Curling itself up into a nest of lava.

Vulkan watched as the Fire Drake let the intense heat from its scales radiate into the hollow in the rock. Heating the cooling rock and revealing the chamber's purpose. The Drake had coiled itself around a clutch of obsidian eggs. Each the size of an Astartes. It suddenly made sense to the Primarch. The heart of the mountain had been where these great Drakes had nested and raised young. Needing the great heat to incubate the eggs. The Eldar had raided this mountain and taken or destroyed all other eggs. Leaving one remaining mother and her brood. Hidden away in the darkest depths she sought any heat to save her eggs. Drawn to the pyre of Nocturne, hoping to steal its fire to warm her nest.

Slowly Vulkan approached the resting Queen. The Primarch could feel the ancient intellect of the beast. The Fire Drake was no simple animal. She appraised Vulkan with fiery reptilian eyes, a deep warning growl issued from the Drakes jaws. Vulkan paid the warning little heed. His father had taught him long ago that sometimes things must be protected whether they like it or not. The XVIII Primarch did not know why the Emperor sent him to Nocturne but he would not pass up the opportunity in front of him. In his left hand, he held a powerful flamer of his own design. The other lay open, in a sign of peace towards the Drake. Slowly Vulkan leveled his flamer at the clutch of eggs. If the Fire Drake needed a flame for its offspring, he would provide it.

In the dim cavern, the Fire Drake saw the glint of raising metal and lunged. She had long learned at the hands of Drukhari raiders to fear such implements. Vulkan did not move, holding his free arm up even as the beast's jaws clamped around it. The Fire Drake could have swallowed Vulkan whole, out of trepidation or something else she instead latched onto his arm. Teeth designed to pierce armored scales ground into Vulkans forearm. Punching through the Primarchs armor and sinking into the meat of his arm, warp infused blood poured into the Fire Drake's gullet as she worked to rip the Primarch's arm from his body. Greatsword sized teeth ripped through metal, skin, and muscle, only stopping when they pressed into the Vulkan's bones. The fangs of a Death World apex predator could rip apart armored vehicles with ease, but could not scratch the biological perfection of a Primarch's skeleton.

Ignoring the pain, Vulkan walked towards the drake's eggs, dragging the massive beast latched onto his arm with him. Despite the monster's efforts, it was hauled along by the inexorable strength of Vulkan. Muttering soothing words to the scared queen, the Primarch ignited his flamer and let gouts of fire wash over the eggs. The stone around the eggs quickly started to glow with heat. A nest of melted rock for the queen's brood. Flames started to lap at the Fire Drake as well, warming her scales and invigorating the beast. Letting forth a growl like a Titans engine the Fire Drake gnashed her teeth. Biting down even harder, seeking to rip the Primarchs limb from him.

Vulkan felt his arm bulge out of its socket. Readjusting his grip Vulkan tried to pull his arm free. Giving the Fire Drake the opportunity it had been looking for. Moving faster than its great reptilian bulk should allow. The Fire Drake spun its body and yanked its mighty jaws upward, ripping Vulkans arm clean off. The Primarch's limb torn from its socket and its sinew shredded. Swallowing the morsel whole, the drake spun around. Its massive tail smashed into Vulkan, slamming the Primarch against the chamber wall.

Rising from the cracked stone, Vulkan looked down at his bleeding stump with a look of mild annoyance. Larraman Cells quickly clotted over the wound and a spike of growing bone jutted from the scab. Vulkans perpetual nature granted him regenerative powers beyond most of his brothers. As bone tapered out of his shoulder and muscle started to wrap around the regenerating limb, Vulkan approached the beast.

"I have no desire to hurt you great beast, but you are leaving me few options," Vulkan said in his soft, rumbling baritone. "So I apologize in advance for this"

Vulkan charged forward, his hulking form barreling towards the Fire Drake. The drake roared a challenge and shot forward, its mouth opened wide to swallow Vulkan whole. While the Lord of the XVIII lacked much of the grace and speed of his brothers, he could still dodge the beast's lunging bite. Landing next to the drake's head as its jaws shut on empty air, Vulkan's uninjured arm shot out. His vice-like grip locking onto one of the Drakes mighty horns. Yanking on the horn with all his power and slamming the drake's massive head into the cavern floor. Without pause, Vulkan then smashed his forehead against the Drakes scaled skull, knocking it out cold.

By the time the brief exchange of blows was over, Vulkan's arm had completely regrown. Testing the dexterity of his new fingers, Vulkan grumbled slightly to himself as he inspected the limb. It would be a chore to reacquire the calluses on his hands that he had worked so hard to obtain. His tools would feel strange in that hand for a while. Rubbing the spot on his head where it had collided with the drake, Vulkan poured over new information. What he had done was more than a simple headbutt. It was a crude form of telepathy. He had literally smashed information into the Drakes head and at the same time ripped pertinent data from the beast. Now he knew he needed to know about caring for the drake's eggs. Hopefully, when the Queen awoke, the message of peace and care he had implanted would not be affected by a mild concussion.

Voxing his flagship. Vulkan ordered one of the unused Titan bays of his vessel to be repurposed. These forge-vaults had been designed to stop a rampaging avatar of the Omnissiah. They would act as a new nest for the Drakes. Soon an Imperial Lander touched down near the mountain. A combination of mining equipment and Titan maintenance craft pulled the unconscious Fire Drake onto the surface. With her eggs stored in a field-cremator repurposed as an incubator. It took several hours to get the beast and her brood up onto the XVIII Legion flagship.

Extensive scans of the Nocturne were conducted. Searching for more Fire Drakes or similar treasures. Gene Samples from a view mummified Drakes hid deeper within the mountain were the only product of this endeavor. Soon it came time for the XVIII Crusader Fleet to depart. As the cooling ember of a world faded from view. Vulkan swore he would avenge Nocturne and that he would protect its last gift.

In the ensuing weeks of the Warp-travel, the Primarch worked to tame the Fire Drake. Awaking nearly one solar day after being knocked unconscious the beast was a maelstrom of fury. Nearly killing two Astartes unfortunate enough to be caught in her ire. Upon detecting her eggs. Safe and simmering in an incubator hot enough to carbonize flesh. The Fire Drake calmed down and became surprisingly receptive. With great effort, Vulkan managed to form a bond with the Drake. The strength and compassion of the Primarch winning over even a primordial god-like beast. Naming her Ayida after a fire serpent of ancient myth, Vulkan was bound to a beast of war without comparison. A telepathic link was forged between Drake and Demigod. The Primarch of the XVIII soon took to riding her into battle, becoming a fearsome sight to behold for any enemy of mankind. Eventually, the clutch of eggs rescued from Nocturne hatched. Each wyrmling was bound to one of Vulkans most trusted lieutenants. Starting a new legend, of the Drakelords of the XVIII Legion.

As the years wore on and the Great Crusade raged through the stars, Vulkan started to notice a change in Ayida. A hunger had been ignited within her, one that seemed to be unquenchable by normal foodstuff. Upon the battlefield she would devour entire light tanks whole, digesting both machine and meat. She began to go as far as to raid fuel deposits and heaps of scrap for inorganic food. The already massive drake grew with each of these meals. Her exotic stomach acids and strange innards worked to turn steel and ceramite into scales and claws.

Examinations by Magos of numerous fields and even experts of both the Aeldari and Chaos were consulted. The results were always vague but lockstep: something had triggered the start of a metamorphosis. Ayida was entering the next stage of her life cycle, becoming something unknown to the Imperium and missing in the fossils of Nocturne. Imperial Adepts had determined the Fire Drakes of Nocturne were unaffected by the damages of time. They grew larger and more intelligent with every passing year. With the end of this cycle there was no decay or injury, but slumber. The Fire Drakes would grow too large to move or even wake. They would fall into a living death below the great mountains of Nocturne. The Aeldari had killed or captured these volcanic leviathans, leaving the titanic husks of now eternally sleeping titans for the Imperium to research.

What was happening with Ayida was not like the fire drakes of old. She grew neither sluggish nor stagnant. With each ton of draconic muscle added to her frame, she only grew stronger and more alive. Magnetic scans started to show the development of new organs and even limbs within Ayida. Immature wings started to grow from her back and her crocodilian form lengthened into a more serpentine shape.

The answer to the mystery of the Fire Drakes evolution came when a particularly brave genewright managed to get samples of Ayida's stomach tissue. Fragments of incomprehensible DNA were interwoven with the Drakes innards. Fragments that were acutely familiar to the XVIII Legions apothecaries. Somehow, defying all logic and reason, Vulkan lived within his drake. The arm torn from the Primarch in his first encounter with Ayida had survived. The flesh and bone of the Emperor's son had fused with the drake, protected from digestion by constant regeneration. A constant flow of psychic energy and transhuman tissue fused with Ayida, awakening a long-buried secret within the great beast.

Vulkan had long suspected this connection, but could never be certain. In the years since Nocturne, the Primarch had often experienced what could be called 'Phantom Perptualhood'. He had often awoke from his sleep with the sensation of returning life and reknitting flesh. He could feel himself regenerate from wounds that did not exist. It had bothered Vulkan and he was glad to have an answer, even if it raised more questions. The discarded tissue of a Perpetual rotted like a mortal's, sometimes even faster than what would be expected, as if the Universe sought to erase evidence of the impossible. Somehow the limb stolen by Ayida's jaws resisted this natural decay. The font of energy that powered Vulkan's soul steadily leaked into the fire drake, provoking a long forgotten metamorphosis.

This was truly the next stage of a fire drake's existence. The slumbering titans that once populated Nocturne were stunted failures, malnourished children who had long forgotten the truth of their existence. A drake was simply a young dragon, robbed of the key ingredient of their life-cycle, an ingredient Vulkan had accidentally provided.

In prehistoric ages, when reptiles had ruled ancient Terra and the Aeldari were young. Stellar Dragons swam the Void. They were one of the eldest creations of the Old Ones. A species woven from the mysteries of flesh and souls. Their enigmatic creators had designed them to be the ultimate guardians and stewards of treasures and wonders. The Stellar Dragons were reptilian godlike beasts of unmatched power. bound to their creators and masters through biological necessity. Clutches of dragon eggs could survive on any world, hatching as adapted drakes for that world. For these drakes to become dragons, they required the power of a Called God. Something Vulkan had given through his flesh and soul.

Ayida became so massive that her size began to rival the Hammerfall, the Gloriana-Class Flagship of the XVIII Legion. Feeding off the wrecks of Orkish and other enemy ships, the Drake Queen became something unseen to the galaxy for millennia. With eight mighty wings that bled flame, ten taloned claws, and a serpentine body long enough to coil around the XVIII Legions flagship. She had become a Stellar Dragon.

When the Old Ones faded into myth, the dragons had faded as well. Unable to hatch new members of their kind, their failed descendants populated the galaxy. Each bastard breed inherited a shadow of the Stellar Dragons' glory. Crotalids plunge into the Warp with idiotic uncertainty, where their ancestors swam the Sea of Souls. Exodite Megadons being little more than exotic pets born of spliced genes. The Children of Draugnir were limited mimicries. With only Ayida and her children inheriting the legacy of the Stellar Dragons. For the first time in an age, dragons thundered through the heavens, bound to the Imperium and the XVIII Legion. Inspired by their bond with these ancient titans of legend, Vulkan and his legion took the name the Dragonforged as their own.

---

Location: The Elder Bridge of Khazrik Hold

Date: 889.M30 (Imperial Standard Time)

At her master's bidding Ayida the Stellar Drake snaked her way through the ashen skies of Karag Grungron. Great reptilian eyes scanned the assembled Orkish WAAAGH, looking for the best place to strike. Accelerating through a mix of gravitational manipulation and organic rocketry she charged. Entering a shallow dive to strafe the center of the tide of green monsters, the atmospheric displacement sent squalls of burnt wind across the Orks' ranks. Jaws large enough to swallow a Titan widened and a rumbling roar poured from between Ayida's fangs. The air from her gullet pushed out a tide of fire. The great biological reactor within the Dragon did more than produce flames for flight. It could unleash dragonfire.

A geyser of molten death erupted from the Stellar Dragon. With an almost lazy ease, the dragon burnt a line into the WAAAGH. Waves of flame rolled off from points of impact, swallowing Trukks, Wagonz and swarms of greenskins like some apocalyptic flood of ancient Terran myth. Energy equal to multiple thermonuclear detonations smashed into the Orks, and soon the screaming started and it nearly matched the roar of the flames. Orks fear little, but the cleansing wrath of fire brought forth the instinctual terror of their fungal roots.

Storms of dakka poured from the Orks, filling the air with lead and plasma as the greenskins panicked. Primarch-forged shields and Old One born scales proved more than a match for the Orks' wild shooting. Grunhag left the disemboweled form of Ur-Dammaz, mounting his squiggoth beast and screaming orders and charged into the Greentide. Any effect the Warboss might have had was lost when the next wave of the Imperial offensive came. The Stellar Dragon had managed to slip through the Orkish fleet, inciting panic wherever her flames or claws met greenskin ships. She was far from alone in this fight. The XVIII Crusader Fleet and the Dragonforged Legion now clashed in the Karag system.

The Orkish Fleet was massive beyond words. Thousands upon thousands of ships dotted the firmament. Easily outnumbering the Crusader Fleet 50:1. Yet the Orks were scattered across the system. With the vast majority of the WAAAGH upon Karag Grungron. If the Orks could have regrouped and attacked the Crusader Fleet as one they could have easily overwhelmed the Imperials. This would not be the case. The Greenskin ships scattered across the system were composed of late-comers to the WAAAGH and those Grunhag deemed unworthy to besiege Khazrik Hold.

Ayida easily weaved her way through the disparate Greenskin fleet, allowing the Dragonforged to smash each of the scatterings of Orkish vessels with ease. Weapons plucked from the dreams of the Emperor's Smith, as Vulkan was sometimes called, and his own gene-sons opened fire, reducing the Greenskins to cosmic debris. Naval battle groups hunted the Orkish fleets as Legion barges thundered towards the Last Hold. The Crusader Fleet smashed into the Orkish orbital presence, blasting scavenged asteroids and hulking scrap ships, widening the hole left by the Primarch's dragon.

This hole allowed the Angels of Death to enter the battle upon the planet's surface. Steel Rain poured from bombardment cannons and Stormbirds plunged into the atmosphere. As the Orks busied themselves running from dragonfire, the Legio Astartes made planetfall. Oogenera Pattern drop pods of the Primarch's own design smashed into the Greentide, filled with shock-absorbing fluid and equipped with additional armor. These pods slammed into the ground at full reentry speed, hitting like oversize artillery shells and cracking open to unleash Dragonforged Astartes.

The fluid inside the Dropods ignited as they opened. The shock-absorbing substance becoming a jellied fuel-source. Pouring from the pods as they opened, a deluge of flame. Followed by the Dragonforged. Covered in liquid fire and striding the battlefield like primordial giants. Maritan Drop-Keeps, Stormbirds accompanied by interceptors filled the sky. Countless dropods, landers, and teleportation strikes unleashed the XVIII Legion. All while Dragonfire rained down on the Orks.

Then a signal powerful enough to reach every Squat array across the Last Hold started. Across a million screens and receptors, the image of a demigod flared into being, sitting upon a throne of green and gold and clad in ornate power armor designed to mimic the scales and horns of draconic myth. The giant on the throne was easily the size of a Squat war-walker. At first, the Khazkhun watching thought him a statue or silicon creation until the giant's eyes opened. Helmless, his skin was polished ebony with scaled patterns running across his scalp. Eyes of fire, volcanic embers set in deep sockets. The face of some ancient forge god or mountain spirit cast in flesh. Despite the giant's unsettling appearance, a sense of calm certainty radiated from the demigod. The look of a dignified man, please to aid an old friend.

Speaking with a voice that resonated through the bones of all those who heard it, the giant addressed the Last Hold.

"I am Primarch Ogadin Vulkan, son of the Emperor of Mankind, servant of the Throne and Lord-Perpetual." he boomed. "The Imperium of Man has heard your calls for aid. The XVIII Astartes Legion stands ready to defend the Khazrik Hold!"

The Squats did not respond. How could they? After the betrayal of Craftworld Zandros, the possibility of any aid or allies seemed impossible. Within the ancient council chambers, a fierce argument broke out. The elders of the Last Hold clashing over what action to take. Was this some trick? An attempt to profit from the damage done to Ork and Squat by each other? The creature that called itself 'Vulkan' was clearly not a Squat nor even human. Was it some abomination born of Old Night seeking conquest and death? The Living Ancestors were split as well. The power of Vulkan radiated in the Sea of Souls and unnerved them. Some saw a great beast of fire and metal. Others saw the incarnate of ancestral dreams.

With no clear decision, the Council declared it would not fire upon this new force as long as they did not cross the Elder Bridge. Khazrik Hold would defend itself from any invader. Be they greenskinned brutes or bastard scions of mankind. Countless weapons of the Last Hold opened fire upon the Orks. The throng mustered to fight alongside Ur-Dammaz retreating into the cavernous gatehouse.

Vulkan had expected this. Caution bordering on paranoia had kept many worlds alive throughout the Age of Strife. It was wise of the Squats to prepare for the worst. Earning the Last Hold's trust would be difficult. Vulkan did have an idea on how he could prove his noble intentions to the Khazkhun. He would break Grunhag the Flayer before the Squats and offer the Warboss' skull as a token of friendship.

The Dragonforged focused their efforts to take the Elder Bridge's ork controlled side, engaging their enemy to establish a point of contact with the Squats and cornering the Primarch's prey. Entire chapters of Astartes smashed and burned their way towards the bridge, hacking through the greentide to face Grunhag's nobz. Squat artillery rained down on the Orks and Imperial armor alike as they landed across the planet. Cohorts of Auxilia and entire Titan Legions smashed into the surface, preparing to smash the numerous Ork fortresses across Grungron, all while closing in upon the main body of the WAAAGH!

The Astartes worked to draw the Ork's attention and work to eliminate Nobz and Weirdboyz. Using the most advanced weapons and armor available to the Imperium like the Wyrmbreath-Pattern fusion coordinated effort between the Mechanicsus and the XVIII Legion was capable of spitting veritable eruptions of plasma and molten metal to destroy armored targets or unleashing gouts of crimson flame to incinerate anything in its path. Hardy beyond the already superhuman standards of Astartes and equipped with devastating weapons, the Dragonforged burned through the Orks like an unbound flame through kindling.

If Grunhag had the opportunity to rally his forces and wield the WAAAAAAGH! as he had before, the Imperium could not hope to triumph. They needed to kill the Orks' momentum and stop any chance of them getting it back. They needed a single decisive blow against the Orkish horde, one that would leave the greenskins leaderless and easily dispatched.

As the battle raged, Grunhag had made his way towards the temporary forward camp the Orks had made before the duel, barking orders and smacking any Ork who looked unsure or worried. A cry of distress swept over the camp as a great dragon flew overhead. Smoke leaked from its maw and great gusts of wind followed her. Ayida the Stellar Dragon flew low and fast, reaching the Elder Bridge and almost skimming the adamantium structure before diving under it. Catching a great volcanic thermal and flying up and back towards the battle. Joined by an escort of Imperial fighters.

The Dragon rejoined the battle in the sky. Her appointed task ended. She had deposited her master where he was needed. Standing alone, without his honor guard or any other allies, Vulkan walked towards the orkish hordes with his mighty warhammer clutched in both hands. Nearing the greenskins, the XVIII Primarch stopped and swung his mighty hammer down upon the adamantium bridge. The weapon let out a tremendous thunderclap, a deep booming note that cut through the din of battle, calling the attention of all to the Dragon Lord.

Grunhag let out a roar and headed towards the bridge. Another foe had taken up the challenge he had issued to the Squats. A growl of annoyance escaped the cybork's healing throat. He could not afford to be tied down in a duel while his WAAAGH floundered. Bellowing orders, Grunhag pushed a group of 'Ardboyz and Nobz towards the Primarch, hoping to stop or slow down "Da Dragun Git". Two dozen of the meanest Ork warriors in WAAAAAGH! Grunhag charged the Primarch. Each and every one of the battle-hardened warriors hoped to be the one that would take Vulkans head. Pleased with this, Grunhag got back to work, bellowing orders and organizing the greentide. Trukkz and Buggiez by the thousands broke away from the WAAAGH. A storm of screaming wild Orks hurtled into the ashlands to help defend the Orkish strongholds dotting Grungron. Mobz of Boyz and Stompy 'Fings rallied together to push against the Astartes' advance. Slowly but surely under Grunhag's baleful gaze, the WAAAAAAGH! organized itself into the murderous force it was meant to be.

Vulkan watched the Ork warriors approach him as a wall of the wretched xenos also formed at the edge of the bridge to watch the fight and prevent combatants from fleeing. The Primarch's armor alerted him to the Astartes working to push towards his position as they hoped to overrun the basecamp the Orks had created at the bridge and repurpose it for Imperial use. Vulkan would rally his sons and lead them to victory, but after he had dealt with Grunhag and his lackeys.

The Orks Twenty Four of the meanest, greenest Orks in WAAAAAGH! Grunhag charged Vulkan, letting out war cries that did nothing but strengthen the Primarch's resolve. A rabid cybork with twin chainblades and a digitized roar was the first to close the distance, jury rigged pistons pushing the feral greenskin towards Vulkan. It lunged forward with whirring blades and a mad cackle. Casually, Vulkan sidestepped it and drew his side arm and fired a gout of superheated metal into the cybork's head and torso with devastating results. As the monster's smoking corpse toppled over, Vulkan stared down the remaining orks. All of them stopped for a moment as a flicker of fear crept through their savage minds. The dragon of legend flying above them was terrifying, but it was a servant to the Dragonlord before them. Even their tiny, savage minds could tell that this was no mere 'humie'. This was perpetual flame bound in armor and flesh. This was a guardian and master of ancient secrets, capable of lifting up the weak and crushing the powerful. This was Ogadin Vulkan, The Imperial Dragon.

Recovering from this momentary weakness, the orks charged the Primarch. Vulkan took each of them as they came. Every single one of them either matched or towered over his bulk, but not one of them stood a chance. Slowly and steadily, Vulkan weaved between the orks' blows. Every movement of his lethal dance was a deliberate calculated choice. Any strike that touched him bounced harmlessly off ceramite plates. At every opportunity, Vulkan struck. Mighty hammer blows or volkite flames obliterated monster after monster. The whole engagement took less than two minutes and by its end all twenty four of the orks lay dead at Vulkan's feat.

This news quickly reached Grunhag. A panicked Grot had its head crushed beneath the Warboss' foot for delivering the message. Barking a few final commands, Grunhag the Flayer mounted his Squiggoth and went to face the new challenger. The Warboss heard his enemy before he saw him. Every few seconds a great resounding boom shook the air, growing louder as Grunhag approached the head of the Elder Bridge. The source of the noise soon became apparent. Orks and orkish war machines formed an impromptu bulwark between the main Greenskin camp and the bridge. It was a bulwark formed of thousands of greenskins packed together attempting to flee what was coming. Each booming noise was a thunderous hammer blow as Vulkan walked towards the fleeing enemy forces. Swinging his weapon back and forth, each of the mighty Primarch's strikes flipped wagonz over or sent scores of orks flying. Every bullet and blast the greenskins levelled at Vulkan failed to even scratch his armor. Any greenskin stupid, brave, or unlucky enough to get close to the Primarch was reduced to a sizzling pulp. Grunhag was conflicted as he watched the spectacle unfold. He needed to return to his tent and whip his WAAAAAAGH! into motion. But something deep inside him hungered for the challenge before him. Something in his very genetic code yearned to face a true and "propa fight for da ages".

Beasital instincts won out against bullying tyranny. Grunhag leapt from his steed and started to push through the fleeing orks. His power klaws hacked through the cowardly Greenskins as he trudged through them. At long last, Grunhag entered the makeshift arena that had been formed from broken orkish vehicles and any greenskin in Vulkan's way. The Warboss and Primarch stood twenty meters from each other, sizing each other up like ancient gladiators. Grunhag started to approach Vulkan and the sheer size of the Greenskin became apparent to the Dragon Lord. Grunhag stood more than seven meters tall, twice that of Vulkans frame. The Warboss loomed over the largest Primarch. A true Beast of Great Slaughter.

"My my, you are a big one." Vulkan remarked more to himself than anyone else, staring up at the cruel beady-eyed stare of Grunhag.

A cruel smile split the tusked maw of the Warboss. Grunhag reached up into the trophy rack latched onto his back and grabbed something bloody that he threw between Vulkan and himself. It was the broken body of Ur-Dammaz. The Squat champion was nearly ripped in half, covered in a mix of his own blood and gore. Even with the Dragonforged attacking, Grunhag had made sure to take a trophy from his duel. Speaking in the foul guttural growl of his breed Grunhag cackled at his victory and dared this new challenger to face him.

Not waiting for a response, Grunhag charged, his klaws raised high to tear into Vulkan's flesh, leaping over Ur-Dammaz's broken form and firing salvo after salvo of lead and lighting. Vulkan simply holstered his sidearm and gripped his hammer with both hands. Grunhag swung his klaws at the Primarch. Reaching out to rip apart metal and flesh. With surprising speed, Vulkan batted away each strike. His hammer knocked away the Orks blows with surprising ease for such a large and cumbersome weapon. If the Warboss was not in the throes of a terrible rage, it may have bothered the monster. Grunhag roared and brought his fists down together as a vicious cudgel. Vulkan met the downswing with an upwards blow of his own. The impact forced Grunhag's arms up and threatened his balance. Seizing the opportunity Vulkan smashed his warhammer right into the Warboss' chest. An explosive impact knocked Grunhag back, nearly flipping the ork as he skidded along the ground.

Looking down at his chest, Grunhag was shocked by the damage. His armor was cracked and ruined. The oversized gorget common to Orkish mega-armor was splintered and sparks flew from burst electronics. Spitting out a dislodged tooth, Grunhag glared at Vulkan. The Primarch twirled his hammer between his hands. Its head glowing red-hot with a cluster of rocks and scrap floating around it. Vulkan did not wield a Thunder Hammer or something of a similar classification. His weapon of choice was his own creation, a unique weapon of devastating power and purpose. The Typhon Hammer.

The hammer's head was an adamantium frame around a miniaturized gravity generator. That Vulkan reverse engineered usingMechanicum graviton weapons. Where those tools of Martian destruction relied on disrupting the gravity of its target, the Typhon Hammer manipulated its own gravitons, allowing the weapon to change weight. With a simple command from the Primarch, the hammer could become light as a feather or heavy as a building. Linked to Vulkan, the hammer could move like a wooden baton and hit like an artillery strike. Though powerful and deadly, the weapon required constant calculations and incredible control to keep the weapon from ripping its wielder apart. Such is the weapon's power that its exhaust of heat and gravitons creates orbits of molten rock and metal, collected with each blow and circling the hammer's head like a volcanic circlet.

Strongest of all his brothers, capable of feats of might beyond any other Primarch, Vulkan swung his weapon with practiced ease. The atmosphere and space/time distorted ever so slightly with every swing. Grunhag had struggled to his feet and continued his assault. Being a seven-meter mass of greenskin muscle and machinery that weighed at least several tons, Grunhag struggled to dodge Vulkans blows. Bestial instinct and millennia of combat experience kept Grunhag moving, dodging or parrying hammerblow after hammerblow. It was not enough. Each glancing blow carried the impact of a falling meteor. Vulkan never let up, and never gave an opportunity. A serpent trail of molten debris followed his hammer head, painting his weapons arc with droplets of lava. A storm of fire and steel surrounding the Dragon Primarch but nothing his hammer generated could rival the heat and intensity of his eyes. Vulkan felt the malice and cruelty of Grunhag. He had seen its effects as the XVIII Primarch traveled across hundreds of Strongholds he had searched for survivors. The Warboss was a barbaric beast, obsessed with despoiling and stealing. The antithesis of the Smith that faced it. Vulkan was born to build and maintain wonders, to be the craftsman at the forge, making treasures and gifts. He would protect and give as he saw fit. He was the wise Dragon King of ancient myth. He was a perpetual source and guardian of knowledge and power.

Each blow shook apart Grunhag. Every thunderous swing broke machines and damaged tissue. The Warboss fought a losing battle. Every strike he deflected or barely dodged still hurt. Shockwaves followed every swing of Vulkan's hammer. It was like trying to dodge a Titan's main cannon at point blank range. Still Grunhag the Flayer attacked. The feral fury that all orks felt kept driving him to keep up a pointless offense. This came to a head when the Warboss unleashed a frantic haymaker. Vulkan countered the blow with a strike of his own. A full-powered blow of the Typhon Hammer smashed into Grunhag's forearm, instantly pulping the powerklaw and ripping the ork's arm off. Grunhag spun from the blow and watched helplessly as the mess of metal and bone that had been his arm was launched off the bridge. Vulkan pressed his advantage, bringing his hammer down on Grunhag's right knee. A grotesque squelch filled the air as the monster's lower leg was reduced to a puddle of red and splinters of metal.

Grunhag screamed in pain and dragged himself backward, scrapping along the ground with his remaining arm and leg. In that moment Grunhag felt something unfamiliar to him. Something he had not felt for millenia. Fear for his life. In the distance, Ayida roared in triumph. She had torn an orkish orbital platform from the sky and hurled its flaming ruin into the swarming tide that was the ork forces. Yet she was not the Dragon that brought such fear to Grunhag the Flayer. Her master before him filled the ork with true dread. Something broke in Grunhag as he stared into the blazing eyes of the Primarch and saw the Typhoon Hammer burn his blood from its head. The mighty Warboss, who had broken countless worlds and peoples screamed and fled for his life.

Crawling along the ground with his broken limbs, Grunhag the Flayer desperately hoped to hide behind his army. It did not matter that he had humiliated himself by running. It did not matter any chance of surpassing the Beasts of Ullanor was gone. All that mattered was escaping Vulkan. The ork's mechanical secondary arms got to work. One assisting his surviving arm and leg, the other one held the severed head of a particularly powerful Weirdboy charged itself up. Unleashing a wave of green flame in a "brain-bursta" blast of WAAAGH energy. The severed head atomotized itself in the act. Sending a wretched Orkish curse onto Vulkan. The green fire was a miasma of orkoplasm. Burning and sticking to anything it touched. The flames covered the Primarch. Clinging to his armor and producing brutish cackles as it grew. Mustering his own psychic power Vulkan worked to douse the cursed fire. Cursing to himself, he pursued Grunhag while batting at the sticky orkoplasm.

Grunhag could see the Orkish lines, he was close. He could see the shocked looks on his subordinates face as he scrambled towards them. Then something grabbed the Warboss. The shriek of tearing metal filled the air and Grunhag came to a stop. A dagger had been driven through his remaining leg, pinning it to the ground. Covered in a thick coat of both fresh and dry blood. Clinging to the dagger with all his remaining might was Ur-Dammaz. The Squat champion had dragged his body's upper half towards Grunhag as he had fought Vulkan, finding himself right in the Warboss' path of retreat. Millenia of bitter fury pushed Ur-Dammaz onward.

Slowly the Squat Champion pulled himself up along his enemies leg. His entire lower body was gone. The burnt remains of his innards trailed him. Embers of the mighty psychic blaze that once coated Ur-Dammaz followed him, searing Grunhags exposed flesh. Screaming in equal parts pain and panic, Grunhag swore and tried to push Ur-Dammaz off him, not even noticing the great shadow that fell over him. Vulkan had banished the cursed flames and arrived to finish the duel.

The Primarch looked down at Ur-Damamz and felt an unparalleled force of will and fiery rage. Bloody cracked lips opened and the Squat Champion spoke in a raspy whisper. "What are you waiting for, Drakk? Finish the green bastard and be done with it?"
Bowing his head in respect of the Bastard of Grimnir. Vulkan stepped towards Grunhag.

Ignoring the Warbosses frantic cries and cowardly pleading. Raising the Typhon Hammer high, Vulkan brought the weapon down upon Grunhags torso. Before the sound of breaking bone and metal could fade he unleashed another blow. Then another. And another, hammering the ork's body like steel upon the anvil, striking till nothing remained of the torso save for a puddle of gore and scrap metal. Reaching down, Vulkan grabbed the head of Grunhag and ripped it free from the few strands of muscle attaching it to what had been the Warboss' body. Triumphantly, the Primarch held the head high, proclaiming in a voice like thunder.

"Grunhag the Flayer is dead!" Vulkan shouted. "He fled from my hammer and died to it all the same. The Imperium of Man has arrived, and no evil can stand in the face of our power!"

Scooping up the near-dead body of Ur-Dammaz, Vulkan marched towards the Ancestor Gatehouse with a fallen hero held by one arm and the head of a defeated monster in the other. At the entrance of the mighty cavern an army of Squats stood at the ready. Drill guns aimed at the Primarch while in awe of his might, fearful of what he might do. Vulkan towered the Squats and even some of their war machines. For a moment, neither demigod nor armored throng said anything. Vulkan casually tossed the head of Grunhag at the Squats' feet, the massive skull alone was the size of a Squat. Staring into the lifeless eyes of the monster, the Khazkhun slowly realized the magnitude of what had occurred. Vulkan lowered himself onto one knee knee and held out the broken form of Ur-Dammaz.

"There are battles yet to be fought." the dying champion coughed out as he stared at the army in front of him. "Our people's saga does not end here. What has been lost can be rebuilt. It is time for the Khazkhun to embrace the future and avenge the past."

With those final words, the greatest warrior of the Squats passed on. The final flames of his life went out as he let go of the material. His body had been held together by sheer force of will. Without the mighty spirit of Ur-Dammaz, it crumbled to ash. Blown away by the winds of battle. The lines of the Squats parted and Buri Flameshield, Hold-Lord of Khazrik hold stood before the Primarch.

"You have honored us greatly, Primarch Vulkan." The Squat leader said somberly. "The age of hiding below the mountain is over. We march with you today. Today Khazkhun and honored Terranborn fight side by side."

Across the planet, the orks were in crisis. News of the Warboss' death spread like wildfire. Organization collapsed and any hope of resisting the Imperial offense was lost. Finally, the WAAAAAAGH! broke when Primarch Vulkan led a charge across the Elder Bridge with armies of Squats at his back. The Dragonforged and Mountainborn Squats fought side by side. The main body of the WAAAGH crushed under the might of mankind as it fractured from Grunhag's death. Millions of Orks fled the battle only to be cut down by Squat battle-trikes, and Astartes Landspeeders or ripped from the sky by Ayida and the Imperial fleet. The Squats were pulled from the maw of extinction and one of the greatest WAAAAAAGH! in the galaxy broke upon the anvil of war.

---

Location: The Throneroom of the Hammerfall - Flagship of the Dragonforged
Date: 891.M30 (Imperial Standard Time)

In the months after Grunhag and Ur-Dammaz's deaths, the Imperium and Khazrik Hold fought night and day to purge the orkish taint from Grungron. Bonds of friendship and mutual respect were forged. Once closely guarded secrets of smithing were traded between Dragonforged and Khazkhun. Imperial soldiers and diplomats feasted within the great halls of Khazrik Hold and the Axe of Doom was recovered and became the centerpiece to a monument dedicated to Ur-Dammaz. The Axe would be held by a masterfully crafted statue of the hero, with the actual skull of Grunhag forming the statue's base.

The machine of compliance worked quickly across Khazrik hold. Plans to remodel the Squat ancestor cult into something more compatible with the Imperial Truth were made. The experimental post-religious system of 'Guardian Paragons' being designed by Uriah Olathaire and his Neologian minions might be tested soon. Primarch Vulkan swore oaths of friendship and duty to the Council of Khazrik Hold. Vulkan inspired a level of belief and loyalty in the Squats not seen in their culture for ages. The Living Ancestors named him Drakkarak, the Eternal Dragon. For a culture so ancient and set as the Khazkhun they changed at lighting were eager to join the Imperium of Man as a member state in humanity's new galactic empire. However they would only truly join on two conditions.
First, the Imperium must aid the Squats in reclaiming the holdfasts lost to the orks, allowing the Khazkhun to rebuild and regain all that had been lost. Rogue Traders operating in the galactic core would be required to report any findings to the Squats. Squat technology and discoveries would be shared with the Mechanicum but relics and artifacts would be kept by the Khazkhun. The Imperium would aid the Squats in these matters and would have the loyalty and might of the Khazkhun League to assist them in their endeavors.

The second condition was the election of the first High King in an age to protect and serve the Khazkhun the best they could. This High King would also be sworn to the Emperor and be his subject, a figurehead the various clans and guilds could rally behind. A figure who would ensure the Squat's interests were protected within the wider Imperium.

After little debate both conditions were agreed too. Vulkan asked the Squat high council who they wished to elect as High King. As the Emperor's son, he would witness the coronation and act as his representative. Buri Flameshield and the other council members responded plainly.

"You, Lord Vulkan. We want you to be our High King"

A moment of silence filled the council chambers where the discussions were taking place. Speaking slowly Vulkan asked with trepidation: "I am honored by this, nobles of the Khazkhun. Is this what you truly wish? Would it not be better for a Squat to act as High King? Even if I were crowned, my duties across the galaxy would keep me from the Coreworlds."

"Well of course Lord Vulkan." Buri responded. "You are a dragon in human form. Son of the oldest living Ancestor and savior of our people. The Holds and Leagues will run as they always have. We just ask you to be our champion and advocate. The Khazkhun people kneel to your fire and steel. The Imperium of Man shall count us as its citizens and you as our King."

Quietly, the Primarch knelt before the council and exchanged oaths with each lord and master. Vulkan would be crowned High King of the Squats, the Dragon of the Mountain Holds. Lord of Flame and Forge. A crown of adamantium inlaid with rubies was crafted and set upon Vulkan's brow by a trio of Living Ancestors. He was now Ogadin Vulkan, the Dragon Primarch and King Under the Surface.

Two entire Cohorts of Squats were assembled to join the XVIII Crusader Fleet alongside a menagerie of Khazkhun war machines. Six expedition fleets broke from the Crusader Fleet and were assigned to the Core Worlds to help the Squats reclaim them. Soon, the Dragonforged Legion would depart the ancient homeworlds of the Squats. Once the last scraps of WAAAAAAGH! Grunhag had been burnt to ash, it would be time for the XVIII Legion and Crusader Fleet to move on. Other wonders and horror awaited them across the galaxy. Worlds to be saved, monsters to be slain. All driving the expansion of the Imperium. All while the Beasts arise upon dread Ullanor.

(Credit goes to Clamavi De Profundis for the most Dwarf sounding song in history.)

(A.N. I know I messed up the effects of general relativity in the first segment of the chapter. Its about a 100,000 year difference between the galactic core and rim. I got the relationship of time reversed. Please excuse this error and just chock it up to 40k being really a fantasy setting pretending to be Sci-Fi.