The Capn's Fluff-Shop

[SwampOgre]

Nice job sir

[Silver Fang]

Ok, I need some help writing some fluff for my dwarf army who are outcasts from thier hold and have traveled north and set up camps that are constantly under attack by cahos, This was my first thoughts for my army but I dont know how accurate the idea is, thier primary armour colour is purple but I have no idea about any fluff for them so any help would be appreciated

[Silver Fang]

[Accidental Post]

[CaptainSarathai]

Nothing that I sent to you. I tried to view the thread that you quoted it from, and it gave me an error message. I clicked the link, and it's a blog that doesn't even seem to be in proper English. So it begs me to ask: what is it doing in my thread?
Well, your story is done. It's got a bit of a tie-in to the work that I did for Visitor-Q, just because I've grown to really love the character of Garril. He's only telling this story, and plays no part at all in it. I feel that rather than take the easy route of having a whole clan be exiled (the dwarves are not prolific, I doubt they would displace an entire hold), I should try for something truly original, so I came up with the legendary Lost Hold. It's sort of a dwarven legend, but also a custom of theirs. I thought of having Garril secretly bear the mark of a criminal, for the more I think about him, the older he seems and it makes me wonder why he wouldn't have returned to his Hold after it was reclaimed. But he's in Q's hands now. So without further ado, here's your piece, enjoy:

Garril watched the bodies swing from the gallows for a short time more. The three Bretton men had been hanged, without trial, for stealing from their comrades. Potable water had run out almost a week ago, the rest of the water in this blasted New World was sitting all around them in the impenetrable swamps, or was trapped in the hazy air. In this oppressive heat, even the proudest of dwarves had eschewed their armor, most standing naked to the waist and covered in slime. The commander of this expedition stood out like a sore thumb. A very sore thumb, Garril thought.

The stout dwarf walked closer to the Bretton, hoping that perhaps he’d overhear. Things weren’t running about as smooth as the wart on a goblin’s nose around here, and it was time somebody spoke up. He motioned to a group of slack jawed warriors, they looked young- he recognized one as the former owner of a particularly scrawny beard.
“Oi, manlings!” he called out gruffly. They startled so easily, it was only through the tenacity of the dwarves that any of the humans had even made it this far. “You look like you’ve never seen a man hanged. Bet you’ve never seen a Dwarf hanged”. The boys at him curiously, lowborn peasants the lot of them. “You know why you’ve never so much as seen a criminal among the stout folk?” One of the boys pondered for a moment, then looked down to the dwarf and slurred out “Because the stone folk aven’t got no criminals mongst ‘em?”

Garril laughed heartily before lowering his voice. “Oh no, we have ‘em, just the same as you clay folk. But we have a special job for them”. The curious human youths all squatted in the mire to listen, one even tried to sit on his own armor before Garril reprimanded him sternly. Then the dwarf lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper as he began his tale...

Aye, we dwarves have criminals just the same as any of the other races. People think that they just all become Slayers, off to prove themselves or regain their honor. That’s not why a dwarf becomes a Slayer. Dwarf becomes a Slayer because he watches his kinfolk die, or because he’s the last survivor of a skaven raid. Slayers aren’t criminals, they’re just mad. Crazy, wild, mad. A dwarf let’s his clansmen die, and he’s not a criminal- he’s dishonored. Dwarf loses his chisel, wields another dwarf’s axe, or causes another dwarf dishonor- then he’s a criminal. And since our race was first hewn from the rocks of the mountains, we’ve given our criminals a task. We carve the rune of their crime into their flesh, and exile them. We cast them out and enter their names in the Book of Grudges of their hold. But unlike you humans, whose exiles wander where they will like a free man, ours all follow the ancient tunnels until they meet with the Dark Passage. The fabled beasts and trials of the Dark Passage are unknown to all save the wretches who’ve walked there. It’s the ancient trail to the northernmost mountains, abandoned long ago when Chaos first made war against the world.

A dwarf who survives the Dark Passage will find himself in the hold of the Oath Bearers. The nature of this lost city of dwarves is not even known to the Elders of my clan. Some say that it’s a whole city, that some exiles took their families along, or that hot headed or crazy dwarf wives followed their husbands there to make sure that they at least live out the rest of their lives honorably. Of course, a woman dwarf can commit crimes just like a man, letting the hearth fire run low or forgetting to cork an old ale cask. Other stories say that it’s only warrior men in that city, fresh warriors constantly sent from all of the Dwarf holds throughout the dwarf realms.

No matter how they came to arrive there, every warrior in the city bears the mark of a criminal, and so he is oath bound to the defense of the Lost Hold and all of dwarven kind. A dwarf may be a criminal, but even a dishonest wretch like that won’t turn his back on an oath. The Lost Hold guards the main pass between our mountains and the Northern Wastes. Its warriors patrol the pass and the lowland beyond it, always on the lookout for the armies of Chaos. Because of this, the dwarves of Lost Hold are said to be the toughest of dwarven stock. Even a sturdy dwarf won’t last long in the frozen north, where the winds of raw magic stir the snow drifts and drive the ice into arcane and evil shapes. The very rocks of the mountains around Lost Hold have been warped, turned a dark brooding purple by the Winds of Magic. They even say that the dwarves themselves have been subtly changed. All sorts of wild claims are made- that their beards all turn as black as pitch, or icy blue, or that they grow iron hard skin. Some claim that the dwarves of Lost Hold grow taller, taller even than a man, that they become so strong that they crush boulders with their bear arms or that their eyes are alight with emerald witchfires.

None of that stuff is true though- all legends that the Dwarf mothers tell to their children. A dwarf would rather die than let himself by corrupted by weakling magic. And die they do. By the droves. It must be the best of fighting up there, the kind of stuff that a Slayer would live for. Ah, if we had good, straight forward fighting like that around here. They’re under constant attack, their patrols meet with the roving bands of Warriors, and Chaos champions come to the gates to challenge the dwarf warriors to single combat. There's a hero's death aplenty waiting in the Lost Hold.

Every year, a lone dwarf makes the journey back through the Dark Passage, bearing with him the Book of Grudges Recovered, which bears the names and manner of death of every criminal who has died in battle that year. He is always a silent and mournful dwarf, who only reads the contents of the Book, so that each of the Holds’ Runelords may mark down that the grudges against criminal and kin have been settled.

I guess that this Doom Speaker is where the legends come from, for he must indeed be prodigiously strong to make the trek back and forth across the Dark Passage, and to bear the Book all the way, alone. Often it’s true that he is dark of eye and beard, but never has there been seen one of the large dwarves of which the wildest legends speak. His armor is always in good shape, they take care to have forges even there. They edge their gear with purple, forgoing the color of their Clans in favor of the color of their common defense.

It’s a lonely and pitiful life these wretches must lead when they’re not at war or on patrol, but we’ve no pity for them. They’re criminals you must remember- men who’ve lost chisels, born an axe not their own, or did another dwarf dishonor. Just as you hang your undesirables, we sentence ours to die. But we put them to use first. We dwarves are a practical people after all...

With that, Garril turned from the boys, their mouths all agape with awe at the stern nature of dwarves. As Garril stooped to pick up his wide brimmed helm, he saw that he had attracted a large crowd of humans with his tale.
“What are you all looking at? Get your gear, the sun’s coming up- it’s time to move on.”

Oh, and the crimes that I listed for the dwarves- I have no idea of how the dwarven legal system works. I'm guessing it's somewhat like the Norse, so it's likely pretty strict. Garril might also be trying to scare the boys into being doubly careful about their actions, since the tale of Lost Hold has the same purpose within the dwarven community- scaring little dwarves to behave and heed their elders, elsewise be sent to Lost Hold forever.

[Silver Fang]

Hmm, sorry about that, i quoted it from someone who replied after me but the post is deleted...

Anyway, thanks for looking the stuff up

Edit: Wow! I love that, thanks a lot for writing that up!

[Visitor Q]

I like the idea of Garril's family having a bit of a shady past but I was thinking of maybe pushing it back a generation.

Garril himself was born in Middenhiem in the Empire. His father, Thothrex Hammerfist however was a true Khazalid dwarf. Which Hold he came from or why he left he never told his son.

[Archmage Lecai]

Great Fluff writing skills . I'll have a go at this then.
I have a Warriors of Chaos army that I currently building up. It's an all Nurgle Army that consists of mainly Heavily Armored Troops. I'm trying to stay away from marauders, whether they be riding or not. I may from time to time have a chaos spawn here and there. And there are some warhounds as well.

This army is led by a Chaos Lord, and I was wondering if you could write something along the lines of him being a man from the Empire originally (maybe a general/warriorpriest), and something along the lines of his town/village falling to some terrible disease while he's gone. When he comes back he goes mad/crazy and turns to Nurgle, hating the empire for doing nothing (even though they probally didn't even know/couldn't do anything)

Maybe for some extra fluff stuff, as you see fit, my main opponents are Empire, Wood Elves, Brettonia, and Orcs and Goblins.

Thanks

[CaptainSarathai]

Here's the fluff for Archmage Lecai. I figure that if your army is fighting WoodEs, Empire, and Bretons, then they're probably located in the Old World, rather than the North. I know that the name of the order which finds him is a little close to that of the 'Briar Knights', but I couldn't think of anything else so feel free to change that (i encourage it in fact, sorry). His name however, Marten and Mortien, is a play on german, just like most Imperial names. Morden is death/murder in german. It's one of the longer peices. With stories like this, or Temo'plai, the nature of the fall is just as important as the aftershock. So here you are, the saga of Mortien Everblight.

Mortien the Everblight looked out over the field of corpses. Terrified peasants dragged the bodies across the ground, dumping them into a tributary to the river Reik. Both Warriors and Imperial soldiers alike were hauled over the blood-soaked clay of the banks, and thrown into the water. Already the mass of bodies was piling in the weak current. The flow would stop. Downstream, famine and drought would ensue as the source of water trickled to a halt. Then, as the bodies rotted in their armor, blossoming with decay and coming apart in the greasy black slime of a drowned corpse, the water would return. And with it would come disease and sickness, a plague of flies and parasites and insects. Mortien gripped his reigns tighter, bloody black ichor leaking out from around the joints of his baroque gauntlets. Within his helm, a wormlike tongue tasted the thick gruel that had begun to trickle from his nose. Closing his swollen eyelids, he could feel his Father doing his work. The disease he had been gifted was slithering and sliding across his brain, burrowing into it and seeking out the last vestiges of Marten of Caulfeld.

He felt a sudden throb inside his skull, as though his brain had tried to fight back. Information, numbers, and logical thought suddenly flowed through Mortien’s addled mind. The memories hit him with a kick, sending him reeling. Marten gagged, choking on the heavy bile which filled his body, squeezing his bruised and yellowed eyes closed tighter and collapsing over his saddle. These memories, he didn’t want to give them up, they were why Marten fought, why Marten made war on the humans, why Marten spread the plagues of the Father to let others experience his pain. These memories brought Marten solace, gave marten what little comfort he could afford when the Father’s gaze turned away and he felt the diseased gifts which wracked his body. Marten begged and pleaded not to be shown such memories, his helmet filling with the black sludge of his insides as he opened his mouth to scream.

And all was still.

Marten of Caulfeld hefted his halberd up over his broad shoulder. He enjoyed the fresh air of the pastureland as he made his way back home. In the tall grasses, insects moved along slowly, and he could hear the birds in the trees at the edges of the clearing. He so enjoyed the air. It was the first fresh air he had smelled in months. All summer he had campaigned with the army, a member of the Averland Halberdiers, the Black Company. All summer he had smelled rankness of the unwashed men in the camps, or the sulfurous smoke of battle, or the stench of rotting corpses abandoned on the battlefield- a feast for ravens. Now it was just the crisp autumn leaves and the grass and the smells of harvest.
And smoke.

He scanned the brilliant blue skies, seeing the fluffy white clouds that had followed him all along his journey home. But there, just creeping over the trees, were the first traces of a large blaze. It was in the direction of home, and Marten was alarmed. He placed his equipment in the road. His pack, his food, he tent and bedroll. A stray cow hurried past him, bellowing loudly. Quickly he pulled his jerkin on over his head and grabbed his halberd, hurrying towards Caulfeld.

When he entered the tree line, it was like the battlefield again. The woodland was filled with smoke, and the shadows of trees and other, moving things. Ahead, he could hear the muted, far off voices of men shouting. As the trees thinned, Marten lowered his halberd to the front and dropped into a ready crouch. He had survived a full campaign season by virtue of his fighting prowess. He crept through the woods and was confronted with a scene that shocked him to his deepest soul.

Averland militia were burning his town. The huntsmen were standing in ordered lines, upwind of the smoke, firing pitch-coated flaming arrows into the roofs. Pickets of free company stood before them, defensively and seemingly to contain an enemy within the town. Marten’s family was in that town. His wife and baby daughter where in that town. His father’s butcher shop was there, and his brother-in-law’s stable. Marten knew everyone in Caulfeld, indeed he had been returning with some sadness to say that the other nine and twenty men who had left with him for the campaign season had not survived past their second battle. He raced to find the officer in charge of the militia, to learn what had attacked his town.

He found the man sitting atop a great warhorse. Breathless, he asked who had assaulted the town, and where he could find the survivors. The captain looked down from the warhorse grimly,
“The town has fallen gravely ill. Pestillence and plague has beset them. I have been ordered by the Duke to burn this village to the ground, that the sickness may not spread further. There will be no survivors.”

The words hit Marten like a hundgun shot. No survivors? But what of his family? Then he saw past officer, the barricaded doors of the houses in the town and knew the fate of his family. The militia were burning them alive in their homes...
Marten became unhinged. He swung his long halberd wildly, narrowly missing the captain. Then he turned and raced to the archers. He was screaming, he didn’t know if he was actually telling them to stop, or just screaming.
“Shoot that man!” the captain shouted as Marten turned to run towards the burning village. The archers were unnerved, and hesitated to shoot him. The captain shouted again, his voice cracking with wildness, demanding that Marten be detained, or be shot. When nobody would stop him, the Captain drew his pistol.

Marten hurried towards his family, he barely heard the shot. It crashed into his thigh and drove him to the ground. He sprang to his feet, his leg bloody from the bullet wound. He was not slowed however, tearing into the rear ranks of the picket. Those who didn’t manage to scatter before the screaming madman were hacked down by frenzied swings of the halberd. Marten broke through the picket line like a thunderbolt.
His throat burned from the screaming and the smoke, and his leg hurt him badly. His head was swimming from blood loss. The halberd slipped from his hands and he nearly collapsed, loping along on his hands and feet like a wounded beast, racing towards his home. He tried to leap in through the window of his house, the door was barricaded. He fell short and crashed through the weakened wall. Panicked he scanned left and right for his wife and child. He screamed their names until his throat bled and the fire burned away his oxygen. He collapsed in the center of the building, flames raging all around him.

Mortien choked and gagged, spasming briefly.

They found him there, his flesh mostly burned off. He was still alive. They carried him back to their Keep. The knights of the monastic order laid him on a stone slab, his wounds would’ve healed into the cloth had they laid him upon any linens. He was barely alive, they hardly expected him to live. The Order of the Twisted Thorn slowly nursed Marten back to health. In the moments when he spoke, it was with a garbled, guttural voice that could only be described as flowing like a thick mire.

His wounds were resistant. They became infected and sickly. They refused to heal properly. Marten himself was feverish. He occasionally babbled on about his father, pleading with him to purge his memories. Other times he called out to his wife and family. Other times he only screamed, his body writhing impossibly atop the stone. Sometimes he only made sounds, eerie, unsettling sounds.

Over time, the brothers tending to Marten’s wounds began to fall ill. Within days the entire monastic keep was in the throes of a virulent disease. Boils formed and sallow flesh ran like spoiled milk. Fever, delirium, and agony overtook each of the brothers in turn. Many of them died. The survivors locked themselves in their chambers, in a vain attempt to stop the spread of the disease, and awaited death.

It was during this sickness that Marten awoke. His flesh was still unhealed, his body covered in a grisly burn. As he lifted himself from the stone bier, he left sick, puss ridden strips of flesh behind him. His burnt skin cracked and oozed as he made his way through the corridors, speaking in his low, wet voice, making the sounds he had made in his delirium. At a motion, the locks of each of the chamber doors sprang open, and corpulent bodies- so gripped with pestilence as to seem almost unliving- staggered out to walk behind him, adding their voices to the otherworldly dirge.

It was in this way that the order of the Twisted Thorn had fallen under the sway of Nurgle. Marten soon proved to be a brilliant commander, and an absolutely ferocious warrior. He locked himself into his armor, vowing never to remove it until he had avenged his family. He led the knights of the order into battle across the breadth of the Old World. He slew hundreds of Imperial soldiers on the battlefield, and sent plagues and storms of sickness against their cities and towns. He was madly capable of spreading his twisted biology across the realm. Insanity gripped him as his mind deteriorated. He began to forget things, he forgot the face of the captain, so he simply slew every imperial officer he crossed. He forgot the location of Caulfeld, and how old he was. He forgot the names of his family. Steadily, more and more, he would confuse his own name, introducing himself to his victims and foes as Mortien.

Wherever he walked, disease and plague were all around him. Desperate warriors as far off as Brettonia and Middenland pledged their service to him, in hopes that he would spare their honor, or their towns, or their families. Nothing brought Marten more glee than remitting on his promises and destroying their livelihoods entirely, especially their families. Particularly, he loved watching the suffering of their women.

Over time, Marten, the Order of the Twisted Thorn, and the men who pledged themselves to him, became little more than a disease riddled band of madmen. They sheltered themselves in the decaying Thorn Castle, seat of the Order’s power. They made war against the men of the old world for an hundred years. All in the name of revenge and Father Nurgle. Some became spawn, some became knights of chaos, others became Forsaken or Chosen. Marten became a favored son of Nurgle. In return for the slaughter, and the spread of sickness, Nurgle had rotted more and more of Marten’s brain, turning him further and further from his cause, but erasing the painful memories of his family just as Marten had asked.

And all was black.

Straightening in the saddle, Mortien looked at the peasants who had gathered on the bank, staring at him. They had finished stacking the bodies as he had spasmed. Now they were watching him. Why had he come here? It did not matter. He was Mortien the Everblight. His entire existence had always been to serve Papa Nurgle. From before he could remember he had worn this armor, led these warriors, killed men and sowed disease across the world. Time no longer mattered. Yesterday no long mattered.
The visored helm turned incredibly slowly to stare at the peasants. He motioned to his warriors, standing behind him waiting for the peasants to move the bodies.
“Kill them. Gut them all, and dump the swine into the river. For the glory of Father Nurgle!!”

[Ooglatjama]

Are you doing 40k stuff too in another thread later on?

[CaptainSarathai]

Actually Ooglatjama, there is already a thread like this for WH40k. This thread is based largely upon that one, which is run by Rafis117.
I'm not sure if it has fallen out of use or not, and I haven't spoken to Rafis. I would like to do so, but I'm afraid that it would be somewhat pretentious of me to ask if I could take over the project, since I was originally helping him write for the thread.
I am willing to write for you of course, because I enjoy writing anything. There are two ways that we can go about this,

1) you can post your request in Rafis' thread, located HERE, and just put in your request that you would prefer that I write it for you, and I will reply there.

or

2) you can pm me your request just the same as you would post it here. I'll then write it up for you, and post it it's own thread within the 40k Fluff section, and give you the link (standard practice for me no matter where it's posted)