chaos-snakeboi-journal

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

War Journal: Salvation of the Prime Dominion #8

I'm sorry I've not written in you more, dear journal. Worse, I fear that I've come too far to ever write in you again. I'm out of options. Mogrek's forces have found my secret base in Merlara and deployed their idol to destroy it. It seems I've become a nuisance, and I hear the Kruleboyz have trained some of their allies to whisper my name. It's like they know it maddens me.

I'm donning a suit of armor and heading for the front. I had it packed in preparation for this event, but I prayed I would not need it. Now, may this gift from the Gilded Eye of Carngrad ferry me to victory. If not, I will see you all when the world ends again.

More later. Or perhaps not.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Concerning The Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades #5

Chapter Four: On the Short Reign of The Brute

I recall my first impression of this history being one of disbelief on having first read it. Indeed, it and the third very nearly convinced me that there was naught in The Recent Histories of the Dawnbringer Crusades that might affect me anywhere near to the future. However, my persistence was rewarded by the future volumes, and I consider this one now with fresh eyes.

We open on a brief epigram on the nature of sacrifice by Prime Commander of Hammerhal, Katrik le Guillon. My experiences in the War for the Salvation of the Prime Dominion proved the truth of her words, that war cannot be fought without sacrifice. When forces come together for the good of all, it strengthens your chances to win the war, but it weakens your heart. It opens it to break. Your allies will stand beside you, and they will die, and if you're lucky you will too.

The introduction to The Recent Histories of the Dawnbringer Crusades: Book Two: The Reign of the Brute concerns the struggle of the Twin-Tailed Crusade against the mighty Troll-King Trugg, a battle which seems eminently laughable to me. We shall see in future chapters why my faith in the Troll-King's weakness is misplaced, but it still seems to me that the Dawnbringers were far less equipped for the battle they faced than would an equivalently sized horde of Darkoath. “March boldly into the murderous wilds!” exhorts some distant Azyrite scriptorium monk, a sentiment I find laughable in the face of what is to come for them.

The opening narrative essentially restates the ending of The Harbingers, but expands its scope. So many Crusaders are being recruited that even in Aqshy, some of the city's defenders doubt anyone will be left in the city for defense. This Hanniver and Toll are a dour couple, and if this undertaking causes even them to express doubt, the stakes must have seemed dire indeed. I, of course, regard their caution as cowardice, but one can hardly blame one's lessers for expressing doubt at a time like this.

The initial phases of the war seemed, from Aqshy's point of view, to be a phenomenal success. Under the command of Fist Marshal Tahlia Vedra, their progress seemed invincible. Her progress seemed opposed only by her marching partner, Pontifex Zenestra, head of a cult so foolish and stupid I dare not even commit their name to further paper. Soon their steel was put to the test against a horde of orruks, over whom they triumphed.

Yet as ever, their plan to abandon their cities proved foolish – their walls abandoned, they were immediately besieged by a force of the Blood God's finest, and their precious commander had to flee back to their citadels and pray there was anything left. How humorous.

Next, we rejoin the grot swarms deep below the earth. Here, they have found the presence of a mighty monster – the great Troll-King Trugg (Here called Troggoth King, seemingly by Braggit's own recommendation – likely an old grot word) resting in his cavern. He was partially awakened by a surge of energy from Alarielle's lifeswell, but was taken to full lucidity (and unspeakable, savage anger) by the belligerent howling of the Rabble-Rowza.

Trugg's rampage is speculated to follow along the great leylines and geomantic nexuses, first steering him and a horde of other trolls clean through twin Fyreslayer lodges, ever-doomed are they. This process left a single survivor, which as I understand it makes him a new Grimhold Exile? This survivor, Thul, crosses the Adamantine Chain to warn of the great troll march.

The next page concerns the near-complete takeover of the abandoned Aqshy crusade by the dreaded Pontifex Zenestra. Seemingly more concerned about the welfare of her army's wheels than she is the purging of heretics and greenskins, I have my suspicions she is not who she appears – like an agent of the Great Changer, in the way she commands fanatical devotion while convincing her servants to do the most foolish acts. It is very bold and conniving.

It is here in the narrative that I recall growing concerned about the might of this Troggoth King Trugg, for it is said he faced against mighty empire of the Clotting River Tribes and soundly thrashed them. Even one of their loosed Khorgoraths was no match for the Troll-King, its body shattering on its horns like a corpse presented as a trophy. Yet my heart swelled, for though the mighty king may have been what felled the Tribes of Burning Blood, his unstoppable might was still aimed now towards the Dawnbringer Crusade.

Suffice it to say, the attack on Trugg in the open field was utterly doomed from the start. Though offering an impressive first showing, this Marshal Malchon who challenges the sinister wisdom of Zenestra failed his men and his family in a stunning failed assault. These victims were outsmarted by a horde of grots and overpowered by a barely-awake mountain. Now Trugg's horde marched towards Trucebreak, where the rest of the crusade waits by Zenestra's side.

This Zenestra is a curious character. With only a token few words, she drove this Malchorn from the edge of despair at a humiliating loss and into a frenzy of suicidal devotion. As his men fell to blades guided by their own terror, Malchorn gave his life in a suicidal attack at the center of their defenses. However, the cold reality of battle is that heroic gestures are not the be-all, end-all of conflict, and scores of trolls and armies of goblins still pursued the rest of the crusade as they fled eastward.

At the very last, this mysterious Pontifex created a great sorcerous weave – a “wheel” of eight “spokes” that burned all grots and troggoths caught within to flames, but healed and empowered the fleeing Dawnbringers. Surely this is no scene of Chaos sorcery, and their mighty spiritual purity remains so. Especially in light of her command that her soldiers surge forward and be willingly buried under a mountain crushed by her mighty “blessing”. Ever thus to the Great Wheel, indeed.

The final passages regarding the Aqshy Crusade call it the Crusade of Fire, a fairly archetypal name but one I'll use nonetheless. The final passage speaks of the horrific dangers of the Great Parch (which sounds frankly rosy compared to some places in the Bloodwind Spoil), and of the legendar endurance of the marching soldiers of Hammerhal Aqsha. The book strikes me as propaganda, which it may still be, but I can safely it is an illuminating and even-handed propaganda piece, remaining incredibly honest about the terrible costs of their previous battles and the perils the Crusaders faced along the way. Although it may seem soft to those of use who march below the banner of Chaos, this was the most brutal struggle of many of these men's lives.

Finally, the book speaks at some length to the known history of Trugg the Troggoth King. Written of only fleetingly, under strange names such as 'Old Stoneshatter' to the Khazalid and 'Grampa Charlie' to the Ironguts. Mostly seen in Ghyran, its appearance in Aqshy was an unclear anomaly to me – it passed through a realmgate, but where was this realmgate, and how was it led there?

On its back is a great realmgate of its own, built by druids in a long-ancient past while Trugg slept beneath Androceia (a land my research has availed precious little about), seeking to protect themselves from Nurgle's plagues. However, the gate they built was limited in utility – it could not serve as a portal to anywhere except the fringes of the realms, where their energy is focused through the strange gate. Trugg's current form is most affected by the damage wrought to the leystone in the Age of Chaos – given to great Ghyranite elements of regal beastliness, he grew horns and his own natural vines and plants.

Overall, Trugg is a terrifying entity, not just for its strength and size, but for the terrifying focus of life and fire that flares in a rage on its back. Whether healing its already impossibly-dense form, or casting flame on Trugg's enemies, he is a force to be reckoned with, nearly resembling a sorcerer in his own way. That he is loosed on the Mortal Realms now after centuries asleep bodes ill for us all.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Concerning The Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades #4

Chapter Three: Perspectives on the Eve of a Twin-Tailed War

I am not as familiar with this portion of the history as I was the initial Book of Harbingers where this saga begins. I read it shortly before I departed this war, and am grateful to have found another copy during the Salvation of the Prime Dominion, to keep me staid during such a harrowing time. When I began to study these new materials, I felt ecstatic – like a true academic, feeling papers from a time that will be echoed in song, even though they were so recent on a cosmic scale. The histories of the Twin-Tailed War, told in the voices of those who fought it.

Our first missive – near as I can tell within the chronology – begins with the report of a familiar face visiting an unfamiliar (and certainly doomed) Sigmarite settlement. Lord Jerrion comes to the people of Greenwater promising to deliver them from the Shudderblight Pox that rests on their bodies and souls. How very noble. Of historical note, this document sheds some light on a mystery of the Maggotkin I'd heard whispers of in the shadows of Carngrad. It seems on the eve of his arrival in court to rise before the Varanspire as one of its guard, Maggot Lord Wolgax of the Blighted Hort faced off against Sir Jerrion “in single combat” and lost dramatically. More likely he was seized violently into the dirt by a horde of howling cannibals and ripped apart starting with his armor, but I do not doubt that this Jerrion's prowess at murder overcame Lord Wolgax's famous stoutness. After all, there was much of Wolgax to consume.

Of course Jerrion's visit to Greenwater (apparently resting on the former site of lost Cristoria, interestingly enough) is pretense, and as he unleashes his magics upon the city, those who do not fall to his cohort's claws instead fall into the sway of his madness. The man who wrote this missive is one “Captain Hazelwood”, which intrigues me – I have heard of this Captain Hazelwood, and it is said he is both ruthless and hideous, even to the enemies of Order. It is said he aided in the grand operation that built the city of Stanleigh's Mulchuarium in Mosscairn. A true foe to Chaos.

Next comes a document concerning the brave Ser Phulgoth, Harbinger of Decay. The author, Thom, describes his experience at the start of a great turning point in his life. Observing the drawing of a child and hearing her strange story, her warnings of a great horned presence at the time registered to him only as an aelf scout or perhaps a large but ordinary beast. His strange employer, Mistress Beryn, seemed far more curious.

The Shudderblight then fell upon his village in short order. In nauseating detail, he describes his home festering into nothingness in a matter of weeks, then days, then mere hours, perhaps more, perhaps less – he spent much of it catatonic. A chance – and horrifying – encounter with noble Phulgoth sees him split open and left to die...only to rise again as a hollow servant of Nurgle hours later. His ruined body served as a trap for Jerrion's forces, and though he nearly fell in combat to the mighty herald, a mighty battalion of Phulgoth's fly dragoons drove the lord and his wicked knights away. He fell in as a new member of their mad contingent, which I suppose is good enough for him.

Next is a tale of the admirable but misguided Fyreslayers and their mighty warlord Fjori. This is a letter from the warrior Volgard to a cousin in a more distant part of Aqshy, he describes assaulting a prideful fellow warrior over a mix of boasts and insults that he took personally. Their battle was immediately ended and their fury tempered by the Grimhold Exile known as Fjori, who carries the sorrow of a thousand slaughtered duardin on his shoulders.

The brutal tragedy of Fjori's tale, his tribe tortured and slaughtered in hideously cruel fashion by the Skaven, put me in a state of mind not unlike humility. When reading his words, relayed by another warrior, a warrior of a people known for their moving words, I simply cannot help be moved. This, then, is why I do not value torture. I try to limit the amount of cruelty my enterprises put out, often for no other reason than to maintain the psychological advantage. There is a myriad of reasons for this, but this chapter puts me in mind of one I know for a fact: A killer is always better than a warrior. A warrior is capable of anything; like torture, or mercy. A warrior leaves victims, and victims seek revenge. A killer simply executes a foe, then the foe beside them, and on down until no one grieves. No loose ends.

Next is...difficult to decipher as fact or fiction. It is the account of an Aqshyian anthropologist who claims to have spent months following Rabble-Rowser (who he writes as “Rabble-Rowza”, which I suppose I will have to incorporate into this document) Braggit Big-Talka, studying its habits. He documents an event in which Braggit's great swarm deep beneath Aqshy discovered a settlement near-wholly made of glass, and razed it to the ground. There they discovered that much of the glass was imported from Hammerhal Aqsha, prompting him to make a quick exit.

I am familiar with the author of this miss, a Mr. Ator Feohtan-Aquila. Formerly a doctor, he was stripped of his title and rank shortly before his execution for the paper this document is drawn from. It seems the Order of Azyr of Hammerhal-Aqsha did not at all approve of the fact that he pursued a goblin warlord for over a year, adopted valuable intelligence regarding the abomination's movements, and reported none of it to the authorities for fear of compromising his research. I regard him as a coward and a fool.

The final missive dated during the Era of the Harbingers is a highly prized one in my paperwork collection. Although minor players in the overall Era of the Harbingers, everyone knows the name Callis and Toll, and this document sheds some light on their acts in purging the corruption from Hammerhal Aqshy. This endeavor of theirs would prove critical in the ultimate outcome of their Aqshian Crusade. This letter speaks of a secret meeting in the words of an attendant to the spymaster of Hammerhal Aqshy (the attendant himself a spy for the Chaos Legionnaires).

This letter confirms the Order of Azyr's hand in the dismantling of the Shudderblight Cult, not exceptional news in and of itself...except that it implicates them in the murder of Lorenz Dominus, heir to the Dominus' seat on the Grand Conclave. I have stashed this letter in a secure place where it can later benefit the will of the Everchosen, and even now I can recall how my hands shook in anticipation to open the next great history.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Concerning The Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades #3

Chapter Two: On Matters of Strategy During the Time of Harbingers

Enticingly, the tome ends in a wealth of tactics for a thousand forces throughout the realm. The effects of the Shudderblight Plague have a wicked life cycle listed within (first fear, then clouding of the mind, then a cloud of woe that effects other foes, then finally an overcoming despair in which they simply lie down and expire of grief).

Agents at this time were expected to travel in search of allies and spread the word of mustering forces. This early, the war had yet to wholly explode, but its coming was vastly apparent. Communication outposts were important at this time, with the assistance available to armies varying by their own methods. Among order, the marching Dawnbringers would consecrate ground to protect it from the transformational energies of others while their mighty Stormcast received blessings directly from their God in exchange for favors and duty. Sort of familiar. Meanwhile, their Seraphon angels wove great unbinding protocols into the fabric of the land's leylines, able to be sprung as a trap that deletes any spells raging across their lands.

The Khainites deployed secretive agents (I myself have reversed attempts on my life by Khainite spies in the past, and can vouch for their efficacy) while their forced allies in the Idoneth could conjure strange, blinding mists in exchange for their works. The Lumineth upstarts shored up their magical acuity with the use of their precious Aetherquartz, making them a certain irritation on the battlefield. Finally, the terrifying treekin (here called Sylvaneth, a name I had not heard before) could infuse nature touched by themselves into an amplifying site through which they could effortlessly cross.

At long last, the sky-duardin of the Kharadron (ruthless negotiators if ever I've met) spent this era providing transportation services to their warriors and others, while the mighty Fyreslayers forged new runes to honor the coming undertakings below the earth.

In more familiar territory, the servants of Chaos were no slouches. The filthy Skaven and uncivilized Beasts of Chaos brought their own charms to the war, with the Beasts establishing dominance over the many beasts of the realm (no mean feat given their era), while the Skaven wove complex schemes that are not related here. I anticipate they operated in the shadows through this phase of the war.

The mighty Everchosen's legions set about their work in the traditional way: By turning battlefields where they sang of their victories into blighted wastes unable to ever be cured or forgotten.

Of the great dichotomies, Nurgle's warriors spread hideous, flesh-melting blights upon the land while Tzeentch's sorcerers worked their magics into the veins of fate itself (though how they worked this magic is untold, and I will have to conduct my own research into the phenomenon). Ironically, in their own way, both Khorne and Slaanesh were celebrating at this time – the Purple Prince in the traditional way, via revels and depravity, while the Blood God gathered sorcerers from across the land and savagely put them to the sword.

Amid the forces of death, whose sorceries make me ill but whose ability to pay their dues is truly impressive, there was much ado. The Flesh-Eaters spread their delusion, the most obvious tactic, while the deathly Soulblight worked into the very bloodstream of their enemies, with sleeper agents of particularly delicious vintage stationed among the enemy without themselves ever knowing. In preparation of some great invasion, the Ossiarchs ran drills and mustered great defenses and the Nighthaunt conjured the souls of the dead and occupied the ruins of ancient fortresses and temples.

At long last we come to the chief beneficiaries of the Era of the Beast. Those who march below the terrible Kragnos' hoof found their stratagems most efficient. The goblins grew whole towns and cities into fields of hallucinogenic mushrooms. The Ogors feasted on anything near where they set their encampments, and a surge of energy found them with strength and duration equal to their ravenous hunger. Even the savage orruks and their steel tyrant brothers found themselves following the orders of their most clever, lanky brethren, while the giants found great sums of rocks to throw in the ruins left behind by their kin.

Next the tome goes into a series of traits known to be possessed by the Harbingers of each great alliance, particularly those mentioned in our writings. The Grimhold Exiles, who featured heavily in this telling of the history, are known for the blessings of their god making them near-impossible to fell in a struggle. As they grow in might, their powerful voices can swell the bravery of their allies and make possible deeds that had only moments before been beyond their strength. Experienced and celebrated Exiles can leap with the rage of a blazing meteor, and strike with the flames of the deep places in the earth. Finally, their skin becomes like the stone itself, as if fate and their god alive both favor them.

When Nurgle's noble Harbingers begin their gruesome work, their sodden flesh resists blows as their great steed drives them tirelessly on. Those who survive can bring on a great wave of exhaustion and feebleness on their enemies, who surrender to the knowledge in their hearts that death and decay take all. Great Harbingers who curry the favor of their gods and masters can invigorate their foes with the power to ignore pain and fear, while striking low their enemies with a curse that sags their muscles from their bones. At long last, when it seems that while no blow from man or daemon can fell the Harbinger, the enemies who have not laid down to die will simply flee in horror from the will of a god made manifest.

The wretched Marrowscroll Heralds bring to themselves to a fight with their strength and stomachs fortified on a fresh selection of choice and energizing cuts of meat. As word of their deeds grow, so too does their presence – perhaps seeing the indomitable knight they envisage themselves as, enemies quaver and flee or else hesitate to approach and are stricken for their cowardice. These emboldened Heralds fight with the ferociousness of nine of their fellows, inspiring their cohort to great deeds of slaughter and butchery. Finally, a truly exceptional Herald can sway the minds of enemies at nearly enemy distance, and those who serve it are infected with its fervor for bone and blood. Truly nightmarish.

Last and certainly least, we come upon the wicked grot Rabble-Rowser. These nightmare headaches given the form of a tiny green man are known for their speed and viciousness, scrambling past enemies as they howl in rage, hobbling knees and cutting heels with wild abandon. The rare Rabble-Rowsing grot who can survive their trials grow to be a stubborn thorn in their enemy's side, enraging the enemy with their constant goading taunts. As they grow in influence at their unlikely survival, they grow cleverer by the day, and their contemporary mobs feel an instinctive need to surrender and obey. It is even said that there is an alpha Rabble-Rowser of such great influence and irritation that he can resist the deadliest blows with an endless horde of commanded monsters from deep within the caves of the realms. Worryingly diabolical little creatures.

While worthy of study, and the subject of many countless hours of my time, I will be brief. The book concludes with six common combat situations in this era (protection of secret plans whilst surrounded by the enemy, wars fought to prevent the enemy from clearing the narrow passes common to the realm's hidden passes, conflicts over sources of magickal power to either claim or corrupt, delivery of secret missives to behind and around enemy lines, protecting your champions and important figures from enemy ambush, and deceiving the enemy during the transfer of important wartime assets), as well as profiles of the particular warriors highlighted in the relevant historical events.

I am given to expect that the subjects of these profiles – Bjori the Exile, Phulgoth the Harbinger, Herald Lord Jerrion, and wicked Rabble-Rowsing Braggit, and their armies – will be important in the supplementary information. It is good to be made aware of these events and their subjects, and I pray that half or less of them still live to the modern day.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Concerning The Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades #2

Chapter One: The Dawn of the War

Note: The time of these writings is speculated to be early into the Vermindoom, as references exist to several entities that changed or were destroyed during the Era of the Vermindoom itself. Even as early as the tract's first publication, some information had already become outdated.

In writing these commentaries, I have opted to go saga by saga. This first entry concerns the first history in my possession, titled The Recent Histories of the Dawnbringer Crusades: Book One: Harbingers. Part of me suspects that perhaps the tomes I've received are incomplete, and a scan of the archive of documents provided alongside it confirm this suspicion. This first tome concerns in terms sometimes broad, sometimes general, the twin-headed Dawnbringer Crusades out of Hammerhals Aqshy and Ghyran, which have recently become tremendous sites of conflict in the Vermindoom that even now bedevils our days.

In fair Hammerhal Aqshy where we lay our scene, the great throngs of Sigmar's servants are preparing for a great march. However, the city buckles under the strain of a great Shudderplague that drives men to lethargy and sorrow. Needless to say, my preference was for the plague to take them all, but some intrepid agents of Sigmar's throne had other ideas.

Hammerhal Ghyran, too, suffered under the effects of this plague, where mystic rains conjured by their madness-touched nature goddess poured over the land in slightly too-great a force. Financial and political corruption swiftly rose from those hoarding their goddess' blessed rains, while under the soil, fat flies of Nurgle rose. Once more, my heroes are highly apparent.

The chapter concerning the Nurglite Harbinger Phulgoth struck my imagination in many ways. I did not realize that the magicks of the Order pantheon could be so subverted. A great rain of life from one of the aelves' own gods was woven inside out to become a torrent of filth and woe. Bog dead “rightfully owned” by the archmaester of death himself were turned into hideous plague zombies. Although I am far from a proponent of the Plague Lord and his...ways, Phulgoth's talent at gaining his god's blessings are surely aspirational.

With a brief sidenote regarding corruption within the Hammerhal Aqsha (it took them long enough), Phulgoth is opposed by a blasphemous caller to the ghoul-curse of the Flesh-Eater Courts. Regrettably, in the ensuing clash, it seems Phulgoth is forced to retreat. To the victor goes a brief dialogue, exposing the hypocrisy of the Flesh-Eater Counts, to reject all sanity for the sake of vainglory. The devotion their Marrowscroll Heralds command is admirable, but they are simple deceivers from the Golden Path.

The Harbingers of Decay such as Phulgoth are more intriguing, and paint an almost-appealing image of the might of the Nurgling legions. However, grief and sorrow is not my forte, nor are the suppurating wounds of the wretched Nurgle legions. I prefer myself whole and as I am, save a few improvements along the Path to Glory – especially ones that do not involve the blessings of the Lord of Decay.

The tome goes on to relate turmoil in other realms claimed by the march of ghouls, grots, and duardin marching against one another. The Fyreslayers, in particular, are the first to answer some great unchecked fires in Hammerhal Aqsha's streets, and what they found was shocking: Grot invaders, led by a howling champion of their ilk, were setting the flames intentionally, all to steal mere bottles. The death and destruction that followed robbed the city of an important financial asset, cementing their need to march forth.

The chapters concerning the rest of this conflict sort of meanders in the same direction. The grots desire bottles, the idiots of Azyr refuse to aid the duardin, the duardin are able to stop the grots but at great cost. We've seen this saga a thousand times over the endless histories of the Fyreslayers, and I hope that the supplementary materials can illuminate some more interesting facets of the Fyreslayer/grot conflict. Although I call neither side friend, the tenacity, strength, and mighty liquors of the duardin hosts and hope they ultimately triumphed.

At long last, the crusades...sort of launch. This is a slow-developing history, to be certain, and the ranting about Sigmar's will and benevolence tells me the author of the piece most likely holds a pro-Azyr bias. However, often the only delusions harbored by Azyrite authors are those of their own superiority – rarely are narratives written by them taken up in visions, dreams, hallucinations, and lies. The dedication to the truth makes their documents (at least those which are not flagrant propaganda) accurate.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Journal entry dated mid-late Prime Dominion War (Concerning The Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades #1)

Note: This entry was later republished as the introduction to Khvath Slaveborn's Commentaries Concerning the Recent Histories of Aqshy, Ghyran, and Their Hated Dawnbringer Crusades, published during the Vermindoom Era by Eightfold Path Publishing in Carngrad.

Salvation has come!

Certainly not to the Prime Dominion, which I fear has taken some rather catastrophic damage in this war to end all wars. I anticipate they'll need one of their blighted Dawnbringer Crusades to un-scour this ruined wasteland so they can all freely subsistence farm to their heart's content.

No, salvation has come for me – a stash of books was secreted away by some of my men, with promises for more as long as I continue to pay. This is as close to a gift as one can receive from the hordes of Chaos, so the I treasure my new acquisitions. It should seem they have happened upon a curious six-volume history concerning the most recent events in Aqshy and Ghyran, as well as a vast sum of notes concerning those histories.

In addition, I've secured an illustrated compendium of creatures from across the realms. I am uncertain if the book itself is factual or speculative, but it is a curious read, ranking creatures on a variety of scales. All the creatures within seem theoretically possible – for it is difficult to come up with implausibilities in a world as touched with magick as the Mortal Realms. However, gathering this many creatures, across so many nations, across seemingly every single realm, would be an impossible task at best. The commentaries are further befuddling, from an uncertain perspective – a lost civilization from the Age of Myth, perhaps?

Furthermore, I realize as I pore through the first of the six tomes that I have already read this first one, concerning brewing discontent in Hammerhal Aqsha, pushed into full war by a horrific attack on the city by goblinoid forces. It is also relates a history of sister city Hammerhal Ghyran, and how the need to defend themselves from a rain that could either herald a grand blessing or a sickening plague drove them to found new lands away from two warring hordes of Maggotkin and Flesh-Eaters and the wicked tree-kin that seem to terrorize many expeditions into the wilds.

What I am most curious about is the supplementary material. According to a contact of mine in...lands beyond these, these tomes are likely authentic to the history of the Mortal Realms, and the supplementary materials I am provided are not only authentic but – if the information therein matches the information in his own archives – they also cast some illumination on subjects the Dawnbringer Histories neglected to mention, and should be greatly enlightening to the current history of the Mortal Realms.

More later.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Grinder of They Soul (Cocktail recipe found among Khvath's most drunken scribble pile)

I commit to paper one of my private favorites, for it is far too potent to be consumed before the eyes of any but the gods. I wish you godspeed and good health should you choose to follow my loathsome example in intoxicating potion, for I know this: Like our tributes to the gods, to drink this is to offer a piece of thyself to the Gods and pray they do not smite thee for thy wickedness.

In a great stein or drinking horn, fill with an eighth or a sixth of brown liquor; the kind that sweetens and burns in equal measure (I am told to the Azyrites this is called “bourbon whiskey”; what a strange name). Atop this portion of fire, pour an ale over halfway above; it is best if the ale is dry and hoppy, borne of the palest color. Atop this mixture, add your final ingredient: A beer (or ale) of ginger, found commonly in the more arid climates of any realm. I find the most potent kind is found near the corpseworm marches, fattened and growing from the ground, rich in iron. However, here in the Prime Dominion there is a most subtle and curious ginger, tainted by the light of the Lumineth upstarts, but delicious and subtle, with a hint of spice. A potion brewed from this root can be either fermented to deepen intoxication, or simply boiled in water for a fine taste.

Thus, you have the Grinder of Thy Soul; a brew only the sturdiest warriors can imbibe and remain upon their feet.

—

Having had several of these and irritated at my past self’s poetic license, I feel it is best to rectify this recipe in exact numbers for those who, like I do in the sane and calculated parts of my expanding mind, prefer exact measurements. Thus:

2oz. rich brown liquor (“bourbon whiskey”)

12oz. thy palest ale

5oz. beer or ale of ginger (Bloodwind Spoil ginger is best)

Mix in order in thy favorite vessel and drink, for just one moment, in the court of the Purple Prince.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

War Journal: Salvation of the Prime Dominion #7

It's been a while, journal. A long while. A restless while.

I am slowly coming to terms with myself. What is my destiny? What awaits me in the future? Who am I?

I'll tell you who I'm not. I'm not the mighty warrior Lord Khuldrak, whose hand laid low the orruks at the Ghurmaw. I am not the great sorcerer Ninefold Yuhdak, who conquered the mind of the beast called Great King. I am scarcely even the doomed idiot merchant called Sargo, who rose to greatness and fell at the hand of the Steel Soul.

I am better than all of those men. I am mightier than half the legends of Chaos since the hidden time before. I am superior to them all for one reason: I am still alive.

Furthermore, I am more clever than them. How, you ask? Because I engaged in open warfare, survived, and decided to never do it again, as long as I can avoid it. Those fools and charlatans rushed into battle against forces that crushed them like ants. I face an enemy that outweighs them a thousand to one, and I survived. Not only did I survive – I thrived. I received accolades. I failed in combat, even my grand strategy of daemonic annihilation came to nothing! Yet still I am showered in the adoration of my fellows.

Why? It seems a mystery, but the answer is quite simple: I served well in my role. It is clear to all of them I am not a warrior. It has been clear to every enemy I've ever had that I am not a warrior. Yet they are dead, and I am in a climate controlled conclave among sworn enemies whose respect I have earned, with a constant trickle of Hyshian wine – finer (though less potent) than any I've had native to Eightpoints – and the ability to write here without having the pen snatched from my hand.

War is a nightmare. This place is a paradise. This role is a paradise. And to cement my place here in paradise, I will be contributing to the ongoing prevention of the coming Vermindoom.

I have realized something about glory. Glory is worthless when you seek results. If I want to achieve results, I can manage the destruction from the comfort of the Conclave and my spot in the Quarry, under the shade of the bar called Veridia. I can weigh lives at the stroke of a penwithout need to subject myself to a horde of howling monstrosities and their rival tide of endless rats. No blood on my shoes. No watching as the life leaves a comrade's eyes. No stench of blood and death and rot and horror. Simply spreadsheets, glorious spreadsheets.

I feel clear-eyed for the first time in this whole war. Death or glory is a meaningless decision; to remain alive is the greatest glory of all. To stay alive is victory over your enemies, every single time. It's a false dichotomy; a choice between something that will inevitably be yours anyway, or the end of your chance to ever gain it again.

I will be deploying agents against the Skaventide in a few days. Until then, I will be managing the affairs of the Choosing, achieving glory through dutiful monotony. Nothing could be better. More later.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

War Journal: Salvation of the Prime Dominions #6

I am writing today on behalf of another; I am practicing proper informational security in disposing of the missive, but “translating” the text thereupon with my own flourishes. I will be the first to admit this text reflects my full biases as an outsider from the Corvus Cabal's mysterious Ulguan culture. I hope one does not find this translation and cut my throat for some unforgivable misdeed in my translational convention.

My liege, (Far too formal. No Cabalite would ever be so long-winded.)

BOSS,

Consider it done.

A great bounty for you; a speaking scribe on their way before.

(I would like to note, although nothing in the original cipher indicates this to be the case, I know full well that what they are trading me is lower than the sum I am owed; for that, I set unrealistically high prices that set their treasure-starved minds to racing. Often, through this simple act of manipulation, I am able to secure more than my initial, most realistic intended sum.)

The speaker (derogatory) will inform you of say what she has seen.

Howeve In short:

Orruks. Cruel. Followed our trail; shameful. A regiment of orcs and a thousand fat, rubbery grots against we twelve. Odds of survival: Nil.

(It is here I feel confident adding a flourish to the narrative, for although the secret code is blessedly brief, it communicates a tremendous amount of clearly embellished self-aggrandizement.)

The fat grots swarmed us, coveted our treasures. Only our weakest dared meet them in open combat, and of those, many survived.

(I suspect the number of slain will be itemized, with potentially an extra fatality to account for their cut.)

Our masters took to the shadows. We took to the shadows. We immersed ourselves in the dark and held our treasures where they could not reach. Then, slowly, we began to take their lives. Even their killing boss screamed in terror before his life was snuffed from him. From their rotten corpses, we took their own treasures as their few survivors fled screaming. Glory to the Great Gatherer!

(So there you have it, from his own lips. Out of respect for the speaker coming my way, a caste of Cabalite I truly pity, I will listen to her words rather than transcribing them; however, I am confident I have captured the most detailed version of this narrative currently available to me. If I am given a surprise, I will have to internalize it here.)

More later.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Personal note dated mid-late Soul Wars

I like to consider myself a master of my craft (internally, where none can scoff, deride, or behead me over such a supposition) and a font of knowledge for the city of Carngrad, but it pains me to admit: Even I am not sure of the city's exact shape.

From ancient scrolls I've seen, the city was a wholly original construction - risen from the hewn blood of countless champions in the shape of the Great Star of Darkness. As much as I can tell, the city still conforms generally to that shape.

However, as with any city that lasts for so long, the physical reality of it has changed since the Age of Ascendancy. Furthermore, attempts to map it are complicated by the frequent destruction, reconstruction, and refortification of its many walls. The final piece of its great puzzle is the firmest reality of any place so blessed by Chaos: Reality itself bleeds and warps it further out of shape. The only certainty is uncertainty, and bureaucratic headaches.

This, too, is still certain: Carngrad has eight districts, but only Seven Talons. The last district is intended as no man's land, except those who can prove themselves within. The Eightfold Path, Carngrad's blood-streaked sacrifices and arena district, has an empty throne whose intended participant has never sat in it. All claimants who have ever tried have suffered mysterious and indescribable deaths.

Mine is the Gilded Eye, the financial district. By far the most splendid district in Carngrad, with a standard of living said to be the equal of any false, gilded throne-city of Azyr. I've only read of such places in rumor, and am uncertain the sky-realm of the Hammer God even exists. But where I live is quite nice. For my status, I am quite well-fed, I have a room that requires no strenuous exercise to sleep in, and I have been able to afford some courses in small enchantments, mostly to dispel minor magicks that could bedevil me with unwanted attention.

Er, sorry, I'm talking about myself. Quite dull. Yes.

The Gilded Eye, so fabulous because of its stolen wealth...and its dual-blessings from the Lord of Illusions and the Queen of Excess. The two's endless turf wars over the nature of finance result in some quite striking visuals, as long as they are safely harnessed to perfection by mortal craftsmen and magicians. A single drop of peace in a city built to honor war.

We are able to afford such opulence because wise Talons hire wise advisors. And wise advisors purchase slaves like me, who can appear as an anonymous bookworm while keeping a complete record on every debt in the city. I have, to this day, served directly under four six Talons, served under countless advisors to the Talons, and am considering opening my own enterprise as a full-time advisor. However, this sort of work concerns me. How close to the throne is too close to the Sword of Darmoklis?

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Personal memo, mid-Era of the Beast.

I met with an organization of highly curious devotees to the Purple Prince today. Negotiations were long and hard-fought, but overall they seemed shrewd, intelligent, and interested in a mutually beneficial agreement between the two of us. However, underneath, I could tell that this agreement - no daggers in backs or knives at throats - was only business as usual for other servants of the Dark Gods. Even then, I wonder what price my lucrative deal may have - if not to me, then I pity the victim for whom I am acting a pawn in their scheme. I will invest wisely once I have recovered from this nightmare hangover, and I thank the infinite mercy and compassion of the Blessed and Chained Empress that I need only deal with simpletons and pretenders after the events of last night, which I dare not record anywhere but on the tantalizingly numb scars left in my heart and soul. I have felt the Prince of Pleasure's kiss, for but a moment, and been granted favor with one of her subtlest hosts - the dreaded Friendly Organization of Reasonable Merchants -- (The Gilded Eye saw a notable uptick in its fiscal quarter at this time, which was soon disseminated into the Leisure and Distillery Districts, and beyond Carngrad's walls.)

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

War Journal: Salvation of the Prime Dominions #5

Wonderful news, dear journal! That which I have always suspected of myself has proven true at last: I am a failure!

Despite a great and savage battle at which I crushed the enemy and rose to heights of glory, the news from the battlefront revealed I had simply fallen for an orruk ruse. Me! Deceived by the filthy slaves of Twin-Headed Hungerer!

Three sites fell; although thankfully not a single one at which the Dark Choosing was stationed. The men under my command seem to eye me with resentment as word of our failure spreads around the camp. At least if they had fallen in battle, it would have been blood spilled. Instead, we put on little better than a show for starving orruks and a party for nothing but my own gratification. Rarely has my soul felt so terrible a depth of uselessness.

My compatriots seem less fazed by my dazzling incompetence and, understandably, more concerned about the ground lost to the terrible Mogrek. I feel wholly cast adrift, which I imagine is a feeling my native allies are dealing with eightfold. How would I feel if a great horde of green-men crushed humble Carngrad into the dirt of the Spoil? The Path to Glory asks you to stifle empathy and bury your feelings for others, yet as I see the mightiest of us bent and harrowed by what they've seen, my soul bleeds for them. Will I bend and break as they have when tested on the true crucible?

We will see. The Waaagh! has a tempting target in Iden's Vault, where aid has been requested. Given what I owe to Lethe, Dynawr, and Darathuus (as well as my abysmal performance at defense), I have elected to join them in that place, where many great treasures are held. The warriors of the Gilded Eye will like the opportunity to loot and pillage, and they will be free to do so in an area without civilian concerns. I think this will be better for morale than an exhilarating skirmish for naught.

Speaking on civilian concerns, I've been turning over the events at the Four Sisters in my mind. Many soldiers of my coalition chose to defend the area by swelling their numbers and corrupting the land. While I wholly understand the practicalities of their work, and cannot for a moment deny their efficacy, I cannot deny in myself the knowledge that what they've done is a diplomatic disaster. The Azyrites and the Ceraphate both find their actions distasteful, and I cannot even begin to hope they might be talked into seeing the wisdom of it.

I, myself, find a position of understanding their perspective while still thinking they're incompetent, short-sighted animals. It is just like the doomed tribe of my Silaasti brood; they take too much for themselves and refuse to any concession to thought or wisdom.

Perhaps there is an inevitability to consider. Perhaps I should neither punish nor even worry about my Coalition's behavior. Perhaps caring is a weakness that only clouds my vision. At the end of this war, we will all have made choices to alienate one another, and we will sit on pins and needles, hating and killing each other again until the next war meanders along. All I can hope is to bring glory to my mistress and death to Sarn Qarang's enemies. I'll consider the wisdom of abandoning my senses over the next phase of the war. Until then, I will find my bearings in a storming sea of doubt. We will not lose, even if this land burns to ash.

More later.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

It is written by some modern scholars of Orderly thought that anger is a secondary emotion, and that by understanding the causes of anger, we can prevent it from consuming our existence. While a comforting thought, I believe it true that all creatures feel anger. However, the possibilities of it as being not its own emotion but the dark twin of other, more immediate emotions gives me much to consider. If it is true, then this is also true: The Blood God of A Thousand Wraths is the most powerful god of Chaos. If anger comes in the wake of other emotions, then he must not simply be the master of anger, but of all the emotions that bring it. He is a father of confusion, of despair, of offense and insult. All creature's that feel rage must be subject to these other emotions, and thus must Kaharrn hold mastery over their souls too. A curious development in modern thought.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Journal entry from, mid-Era of the Beast:

I am writing to maintain my psychological edge; if my client today believes I am remaining silent, he will be less likely to anticipate weakness in my bearing - much less that I am dreadfully hung over from last night's libations. I drank with mighty soldiers from Shyish, who offered me a once-in-a-lifetime brew to seal our alliance.

The drink was served in a goblet worthy of an Ossiarch warlord, and contained: --1/4 glass chilled silvery spirits (very sharp) --1/2 glass tart citrus juice (painful; sourced from recent victories in Ghur) --cooling gravestones --top with powdery dust sourced from the wafer-thin scrimshawed pages of the Testament of Naaghul, a spellbook of singular renown

In addition to the bitter, fugue-state trance I endured from the mighty powder of Naaghul, it was most amusing to watch my hosts choose a random patron to sap of his lifeforce on preparation of the final ingredient, bestowed with a curse of years he may never escape.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Notes regarding obscure or curious entities

Yuln the Tyrant Lizard, daemon-patron of an Untamed Beast tribe near distant Lentock in Thondia. The beast as described is not unlike the fantastical Sauruses of the Seraphon, but its head is a great many times larger - hungering, in pain, and the size of a mountain. A divine manifestation of Nurgle touched by the twin-headed god of the Orruks?

Stargazer Ixtar, the secret name given to me in divine prophecy with a being I only barely avoided touching upon in the astral plane. Said by the strange Cypher Luminate so be an Endless Spell who grew as wise as a god and went mad. A shrieking, black-hot ball of incinerating magick whose prophets tear their eyes from their skulls.

Dazath-Krul, the Iron Suitor, who comes to those in the wildest ecstasies of pain offerable in the Mortal Realms' dungeons. Offers servants succor from their torment in exchange for service. Hated enemy and feared spirit-foe of the Unmade.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Pamphlet associated with the Grand High ArchCultist Movement (found among Khvath Slaveborn's personal possessions)

Hail to the Chaos Gods, their truths eightfold.

Kindness and cruelty. Majesty and horror. Splendor and squalor. Giveth and taketh away.

To the Lord of Skulls there is Eight: War Gore Power Rage Courage Loyalty Integrity Honesty

To the Queen of Pleasure there is Eight: Excess Obsession Decadence Lust Freedom Purpose Inspiration Love

To the Master of Plots there is Eight: Schemes Corruption Madness Betrayal Ambition Determination Change Hope

To the Decaying King there is Eight: Death Decay Rot Disease Mercy Succor Humility Community

The Pendulum of the Gods swings, and the loyal ride along their arc. Only the unworthy are cut by its passing.

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

Personal note from a late winter; circa early Era of the Beast:

From the desk of Khvath Slaveborn, Steward of the Carngrad Financial District:

While pondering the strange goings on in the city today, I had a rather queer conversation. While negotiating a fair salary to a group of noted Untamed Beast mercenaries ("The Leonine Claw"), the conversation drifted to the subject of primal urges. Their Heart-Eater admitted he felt the need to eat stranger and stranger hearts, to taste the blood of mighty beasts he'd never dreamed of consuming before. What's more, he said to me that sometimes when a beast's rage grows to be too much, he tries to grow in fury to match it.

These are not unusual thoughts to the Untamed Beasts, but that this man considered them unusual spoke, to me, of a confusion about his feelings. So I openly confessed something myself: My mind has been drifting into strange places lately as well. I feel the need to hunt for nests and consume the young. I feel the need to roll around in the cold and wet. I feel the need for treachery and mischief.

These things, of course, are wholly unlike me (not that he needed to know that). I would never consume anyone's child (too lean), cold and mud are poor bath substitutes (I prefer to smell nice), and while I do indulge in the occasional bout of position-furthering treachery, I cannot imagine for a second engaging in a 'prank' or 'jape' of any kind. He seemed underwhelmed by this comparison after initial enthusiasm at its child-devouring introduction, but we agreed that the animal instincts that rule our baser instincts were waging a war against our conscious mind.

To help resolve this, and as thanks for speaking to me, I sponsored a few showings for them in the arena; exhibitions in front of potential Chaos patrons. In exchange, the warriors took me to a tavern in a fringe part of the Distillation District - nearly beyond Carngrad's borders - where I drank a most potent brew that put me in touch with my animal soul. I do not recall in full the visions that wracked my soul, but when I awoke, I was nude amid a pile of snakeskin-wearing acolytes in a cold mud pit. I felt strangely rejuvenated.

I retrieved my clothes and slowly made my way back to the office, a spring in my step.