The
Bile Forge
The air was filled with the cacophony of the forge: hammer upon steel, the hiss of white hot metal plunging into what might charitably be called water, the wheezes of the smiths doing their ungodly work, and laughter of dark souls.
They were a chorus that never ended in the depths of the mountain, an eternity of work driven by the will of the pustulent lord Sepsos Ironmaw, the master of the Bile Forge and it’s corroded foundries.
Delved so deep that it had never known the consecrated light of Hush, the forge is lit only by the sickly green light of the forges and the faces laughing in the flames. It was one of the few things that the souls enslaved to it’s cursed work could be grateful for. What little they could see in the weak, cackling light was enough of an assurance that they had no need to see any better in what existence remained to them. Their masters loomed over them, masses of corrupt flesh or metal clad husks depending on the plagues they harboured in the name of their god. No two were the same, each worshipping in his or her own way the Plague Father. Some it was whispered, and only whispered, had once been amongst the Chained until they had sought the comfort of an altogether kinder God than those of Sigmar’s pantheon. But most were ancient vectors bound to their Master since he had come to Interstice.
These were the most feared, the most jovial and the least human. Hulking monstrosities that were as much machine as…. Man? Their faces hidden behind masks, and pipes, and tubes that fed them toxic vapours and burning fumes. These were the ones that meandered through the iron fortress leaning upon mechanised scythes and spears.
The Mias-mad, diseased creatures that seemed unconquerable to the masses that toiled in the forges of their Master. Where they went, the left clouds of oily smoke and carpets of feculent mist that caused sores and rashes to spread across the skin of those without the favour of Nurgle.
The Bile Forge at War
The hordes of Ironmaw’s hold are no less terrible than the unwholesome pits of his keep. A repulsive combination of the Grandfather’s vile blessings and the mechanical industry of Chamon, Ironmaw commands Daemon engines, mortals and daemons beneath a smog of industry and plague that lingers in the air for days on end, and poisons the earth for years to come.
Their shrines seep pollutants in their wake, the lords of the hosts ride upon mechanical beasts as Nurglings nest amongst the mechanisms, and their posed followers groan on.
The Ironmaw seems to have little rhyme or reason for his attacks beyond spreading the blessings of his Grandfather, and more often than not the bloated commander will make souvenirs of his defeated enemy’s industry and shrines. Why, beyond a perverse glee in putting such relics on display in his delve is beyond the rational minds of the Mortal Realms…
