Steamwrought Chuglords

     The sky burned dark red like an open sore. Scalding winds tore at his hide and each step threw cinders into the air he stumbled along. Each ragged breath drew Azoth closer to the brink.

     This was the end.

     All around Azoth the remnants of his mawtribe succumbed to the hellish conditions. Starving ogors fed on their struggling kin even as the wind stripped their skin from bone. Chunks of earth gave way, dropping pack beasts into a fiery abyss. Burning cyclones drew in upon them from all directions. The realm’s edge was no place for flesh and blood, yet there was no where else to run.

     Sigmar’s golden dogs had harried the tribe for leagues until the heat had become too much for even them. It has been a cunning trap. The tribe had been whipped into a frenzy and Frostlord Szlag hungered for his victory. The valley, fertile from aqshian volcanic ash, held cities and farms ripe for the slaughter. The largest horde Azoth had ever witnessed bore down through the rich fields to plunder and could not be stopped. Or so they thought.

     The fastest mournfang riders fell first, a volley of arrows and artillery in hidden positions crippling the charge. The horde immediately fell into chaos. Struck from both flanks they split to begin the bloodshed they were promised. Szlag ordered them on to slaughter, bellowing promises of victory as the lightning struck and silenced him. Where the Frostlord once stood marched the gleaming Stormcasts, ready for vengeance and comfortably between the tribe’s bewildered halves. It did not take long for the retreat to begin.

     Left to their fate in the realm’s edge, Azoth was sure Sigmar was laughing on his great golden throne. He spat, and it turned to steam well before hitting the ground. Blackened skin split as Azoth trudged on in spite. All the gods had abandoned them here and only oblivion awaited. He felt the rock beneath his melting boots give way to the flames. The massive weight of his body dropped into the empty space.

     Yet rather than the fiery abyss, Azoth collided with a mass of warm, red crystal buried beneath. Entirely surprised that he was still alive, he pressed his meaty hand against the rock as the firestorm raged above. Illuminated within, the crystal thrummed with power and potential. Even as its heat charred the remnants of his skin, Azoth was transfixed… and so terribly hungry. His monstrous grip cracked off a shard and instinct carried it into his maw with a crunch.

     It burned. Hotter than a mawpot fire. Hotter than the storm consuming his tribe. Burning away all other sensation as he shoveled more and more down his gullet. Azoth felt his being sear away to ash and finally gave in. There was no more hunger. He let the fire consume him and faded away

     Quaking grew in the distance, approaching fast. Roaring flame and blackened iron. Sky shattering horns a blaring introduction. Smoke and cinders parted like a jet black curtain. A dark juggernaut of steel and fury emerged, its prow carving the realms asunder. Everything in its way was reduced to cinders. This was the end of all things. It was glorious. Just as it came, the god-engine was gone in smoky darkness

     Azoth lurched up, dazed but awake. He still lay in the pit. The crystal, the firestorm, it was all the same, but somehow different. He stood and inhaled, then it struck him. The heat. It was no longer destroying him inside and out, but a welcome warmth. His skin, charred black, felt almost cool in comparison to the air. All that remained of Azoth’s death was the blazing warmth of the red crystal deep within his gut.

     He glanced up to see the ragged, dying members of the tribe, all looking down in concern and desperation. His transformation had made him something more, something… other but they recognized Azoth nonetheless. Their skin flaked away like burnt paper and the dried blood of their kin caked their mouths. Azoth understood 

     “Eat. Survive.” Azoth coughed out the words and pointed to the crystalline realmstone. Tiny cinders issued from his mouth, swirling around him. 

     With little hesitation, the ogors descended to partake of the realmstone themselves. Azoth took another chunk for himself, feeling the warmth spread through his body with satisfaction. Each ogor belched up gouts of flame as their transformation began. Aqshian fire hardened their remaining skin and ignited their bellies. Some, too far gone, simply rendered down into pillars of ash and crumbled away. After each had crossed the threshold into this new form they awakened and looked to Azoth.

     He knew, deep within, what must be done. The great hunger was now a raging inferno growing within him. Orange flame roiled underneath his darkened flesh. He had seen the great engine in the vision. They would find it, become it, and tear the realms asunder. Azoth climbed atop the jagged rock, looked at them, and bellowed to the sky. Joined by the tribe, a torrent of cinders blew up and out into the raging sky. A great cloud of ash began to encroach on the civilized lands they had fled.

     The realm itself shuddered as a monstrosity of iron and flame roared from beyond its reaches. Da Great Chug was born.

Now Da Great Chug roars across the lands, a behemoth of iron and fire. The Stonehorns of the tribe replaced by engines that run on elemental fire and fueled by the destruction they wreak upon the realms. Each Chuglord builds their engines bigger and bigger in an attempt to create the true incarnation of Da Great Chug. 

The fires glow hot in their bellies, forever consuming each ogor. To slow the process they fuse their bodies with plates of metal, eventually coming to resemble their great engines more than the ogors they once were. Yet the curse of Da Chug grants them a power over fire and metal not yet seen in the realms. A fire that threatens to consume everything to feed the great engines.

As Da Great Chug plows ever forth, more and more are drawn to the call, only adding to the absolute destruction in its wake.