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Far above, gears ground like tectonic plates, cog-toothed continents interlocking as they strove to fulfill whatever ancient design the world-machine of Govermorne was once intended for. Burrowed into the brass and copper constructs, most of the inhabitants of the criminal shantytown of Scarnbarrow paid little heed to such philosophical notions, the darwinian nature of their society ensuring that those with their heads in the clouds often ended up with their skulls in the gutter.
Fortunately for Caern, the Duergar kept themselves grounded. The darkling dwarf stood hunched over an anvil, raising a simple workman’s hammer as cold eyes filled with a distant fury guided it towards a spar of glowing steel.
The resonant ring of metal on metal filled the ancient Clan-halls.
A gang of scaled drake-kin advanced forward, singing war-songs that shaped their breath into flaming tempests, exultant cheer at the thrill of battle turning to the stillness of death when a necromantic incantation left them empty, silent husks. Chained void-spirits soared overhead, shrieking hungrily as they sought the warmth of the living, ethereal claws slicing through warm flesh as they swept down and ravaged the opposing lines. Onyx-clad champions, faceless aegis-plate gilt with gold marched forward, heavy tread silenced beneath the chattering roar of their machine guns, ensorcelled bullets breaking the foe.
At the forefront of it all, the Usurping princeling marched, blasphemous runes etched into his armour ablaze with baleful green light as he hefted a warplock revolver, screaming exhortations of extermination. He levelled the grim barrel of his pistol at the lines of the foe, an armoured finger pulling the trigger as the hammer fell.
Duergar did not sweat- genetics twisted and altered within unhallowed halls to ensure maximum efficiency within the voidborne environment in which they made their home. His furrowed brow betrayed no hint of discomfort as the fires of his makeshift forge cast his harsh features into light, cruel eyes fixated on his work as the rattling chains that passed for his door were shifted aside.
Scarnbarrow had no shortage of thugs. Deranged and disgraced scientists were all too eager to supply the criminal underbelly that danced on the pursestrings of nobles in need of dishonourable deeds done dirt cheap. Brass fingers idly examined a bullet left idle on a copper-carved workbench, hydraulic pressures carefully measured to avoid crushing it between inhuman digits.
“Don’t touch that,” the Duergar growled out as he plunged the glowing iron held between his tongs into a barrel of polluted water, toxic steam billowing forth and scalding his tar-black skin, glaring at his intruder as the poisonous products of industry slowly dissipated.
As usual, the subject in question towered over him, a burly human male donning an electric mix of leathers and brass plate over a variety of augmentations set within too-mortal flesh. A crimson glass eye whirred as the tallfolk focused in on him, the smug smirk borne from the knowledge that no simple cutpurse could descend into Scarnbarrow’s depths present upon his roguishly scarred face. “Come now, Black smith- we both know that depleted necrotite isn’t reactive,” spoke the thug, an accent more indicative of the highborn spires of Dapplethain rather than the gutters he now walked.
An eternal scowl occupied Caern’s visage as he lashed out with a scarred fist, snatching the rune-carved bullet from the hired gun. “You’re not working with a back-alley scrap-monger, Kellian,” the Duergar stated as he carefully handled the slug, trained fingers gingerly grasping at it. “I’m not shaving scraps of copper and siphoning volatile run-off to make my wares,” he said, tacitly choosing to ignore the debasement of his first months struggling within Scarnbarrow after his exile. Gargling a word of power akin to the tumbling of stones, he waved the bullet before the mercenary’s face as an unholy green glow blossomed from its dark construction.
“I make quality goods,” Caern snarled, voice heavy with reproach as his opposite raised his hands in mock surrender, smirk never leaving his face.
“Noted,” replied Kellian, swaggering off to the side as he surveyed the cramped quarters Caern laboured and lived within. “You get my little trinket finished?”
Grumbling, the blackened smith turned and grabbed a rune-inscribed sheath from the wall, wards etched into the hilt protruding from the knife lodging within. Gruffly, he pressed the scabbard against the chest of his latest client. “As requested, enough entropy magic to turn an Elven spawnling into a withered greybeard,” he said, other hand extended and held palm-up, awaiting his payment.
With a grin, the assassin dropped a leather coin purse, heavy with gold into the Duergar’s palm- Caern weighed it with a few practised motions of the hand, well-worn fingers gauging its valuable heft. “You should lighten up a little, shortstack- Gods of Cogs know that this gold is one of the few things between you and melting tin cans down and minting gutter-silver coins,” smiled the blade.
“And it’s the only thing between you and having to settle for second best,” the smith snarled back, turning from the man and taking his squat strides back to his workbench. “Now get out of my forge, before I waste a good bullet getting you out of my face.”
Raising his hands and his prize high, Kellian gave a mock bow, slowly sliding backwards. “Far be it from me to impose myself upon the maestro any longer,” he said, swaggering away. The tallfolk’s face was seemingly incapable of possessing any expression save that of a bemused smirk, and the rest of his body strived to bring that smarm to every motion undertaken. With a gentle rattle, he disappeared back beyond the chained veil that defined the realm of order that was his smithy, and the ravening chaos that existed outside.
It was a long few minutes before Caern allowed his shoulders to sag, clutching his bag of precious gold to his broad chest like a drowning man’s driftwood saviour. Genetically, the Duergar could not sweat- culturally, they could not cry. He ground his teeth together, a strangled cry of anguished freedom worming its way through his throat as he wrenched his eyes open, barely aware that they had ever closed.
He was closer now than he had ever been before- untold cycles of scrimping, saving, whoring out his talents in the search of power. And now, as he reached beneath his worktable and pulled free coin bags overstuffed with a wide variety of quasi-legal tender, he was free to finally begin reclaiming some shattered fragment of his dignity.
Turning from the smouldering embers, gold and iron in equal measures girding him, he stepped out onto the under-streets of Scarnbarrow.
Fortunately for Caern, the Duergar kept themselves grounded. The darkling dwarf stood hunched over an anvil, raising a simple workman’s hammer as cold eyes filled with a distant fury guided it towards a spar of glowing steel.
The resonant ring of metal on metal filled the ancient Clan-halls.
A gang of scaled drake-kin advanced forward, singing war-songs that shaped their breath into flaming tempests, exultant cheer at the thrill of battle turning to the stillness of death when a necromantic incantation left them empty, silent husks. Chained void-spirits soared overhead, shrieking hungrily as they sought the warmth of the living, ethereal claws slicing through warm flesh as they swept down and ravaged the opposing lines. Onyx-clad champions, faceless aegis-plate gilt with gold marched forward, heavy tread silenced beneath the chattering roar of their machine guns, ensorcelled bullets breaking the foe.
At the forefront of it all, the Usurping princeling marched, blasphemous runes etched into his armour ablaze with baleful green light as he hefted a warplock revolver, screaming exhortations of extermination. He levelled the grim barrel of his pistol at the lines of the foe, an armoured finger pulling the trigger as the hammer fell.
Duergar did not sweat- genetics twisted and altered within unhallowed halls to ensure maximum efficiency within the voidborne environment in which they made their home. His furrowed brow betrayed no hint of discomfort as the fires of his makeshift forge cast his harsh features into light, cruel eyes fixated on his work as the rattling chains that passed for his door were shifted aside.
Scarnbarrow had no shortage of thugs. Deranged and disgraced scientists were all too eager to supply the criminal underbelly that danced on the pursestrings of nobles in need of dishonourable deeds done dirt cheap. Brass fingers idly examined a bullet left idle on a copper-carved workbench, hydraulic pressures carefully measured to avoid crushing it between inhuman digits.
“Don’t touch that,” the Duergar growled out as he plunged the glowing iron held between his tongs into a barrel of polluted water, toxic steam billowing forth and scalding his tar-black skin, glaring at his intruder as the poisonous products of industry slowly dissipated.
As usual, the subject in question towered over him, a burly human male donning an electric mix of leathers and brass plate over a variety of augmentations set within too-mortal flesh. A crimson glass eye whirred as the tallfolk focused in on him, the smug smirk borne from the knowledge that no simple cutpurse could descend into Scarnbarrow’s depths present upon his roguishly scarred face. “Come now, Black smith- we both know that depleted necrotite isn’t reactive,” spoke the thug, an accent more indicative of the highborn spires of Dapplethain rather than the gutters he now walked.
An eternal scowl occupied Caern’s visage as he lashed out with a scarred fist, snatching the rune-carved bullet from the hired gun. “You’re not working with a back-alley scrap-monger, Kellian,” the Duergar stated as he carefully handled the slug, trained fingers gingerly grasping at it. “I’m not shaving scraps of copper and siphoning volatile run-off to make my wares,” he said, tacitly choosing to ignore the debasement of his first months struggling within Scarnbarrow after his exile. Gargling a word of power akin to the tumbling of stones, he waved the bullet before the mercenary’s face as an unholy green glow blossomed from its dark construction.
“I make quality goods,” Caern snarled, voice heavy with reproach as his opposite raised his hands in mock surrender, smirk never leaving his face.
“Noted,” replied Kellian, swaggering off to the side as he surveyed the cramped quarters Caern laboured and lived within. “You get my little trinket finished?”
Grumbling, the blackened smith turned and grabbed a rune-inscribed sheath from the wall, wards etched into the hilt protruding from the knife lodging within. Gruffly, he pressed the scabbard against the chest of his latest client. “As requested, enough entropy magic to turn an Elven spawnling into a withered greybeard,” he said, other hand extended and held palm-up, awaiting his payment.
With a grin, the assassin dropped a leather coin purse, heavy with gold into the Duergar’s palm- Caern weighed it with a few practised motions of the hand, well-worn fingers gauging its valuable heft. “You should lighten up a little, shortstack- Gods of Cogs know that this gold is one of the few things between you and melting tin cans down and minting gutter-silver coins,” smiled the blade.
“And it’s the only thing between you and having to settle for second best,” the smith snarled back, turning from the man and taking his squat strides back to his workbench. “Now get out of my forge, before I waste a good bullet getting you out of my face.”
Raising his hands and his prize high, Kellian gave a mock bow, slowly sliding backwards. “Far be it from me to impose myself upon the maestro any longer,” he said, swaggering away. The tallfolk’s face was seemingly incapable of possessing any expression save that of a bemused smirk, and the rest of his body strived to bring that smarm to every motion undertaken. With a gentle rattle, he disappeared back beyond the chained veil that defined the realm of order that was his smithy, and the ravening chaos that existed outside.
It was a long few minutes before Caern allowed his shoulders to sag, clutching his bag of precious gold to his broad chest like a drowning man’s driftwood saviour. Genetically, the Duergar could not sweat- culturally, they could not cry. He ground his teeth together, a strangled cry of anguished freedom worming its way through his throat as he wrenched his eyes open, barely aware that they had ever closed.
He was closer now than he had ever been before- untold cycles of scrimping, saving, whoring out his talents in the search of power. And now, as he reached beneath his worktable and pulled free coin bags overstuffed with a wide variety of quasi-legal tender, he was free to finally begin reclaiming some shattered fragment of his dignity.
Turning from the smouldering embers, gold and iron in equal measures girding him, he stepped out onto the under-streets of Scarnbarrow.