Territory

The entirety of the eastern mountain range of the Maud’madir from Prospero Port to Kazmagrad, and all lands stretching eastward across the Wildlands and to the shores of The Eastern Deep.

Appearance

The shape and size of the Red Dragon is, simply put, the stuff of legends. When people tell stories of dragons that dwell in the mountains, breathing fire and battling against questing knights, the image they see in their mind’s eye is that of Rathenoch himself. No other Firstborn is so easily recognized. Even when he soars in the sky far above most mortals, his vast sinewy wings that span over a hundred and twenty meters betray his identity, as they beat against the air and move at tremendous speeds. His dense and hardened scales shimmer with a fire-red glow when caught against the sunlight, but much like a pool of blood in the night, they appear to be almost black after the sun has set.

On land, his every feature appears exaggerated due to the sheer size and density of his body. Striding across the surface of Arthos on four redwood-thick legs, he measures a full forty meters from snout to tail, and not a single place on his massive frame is without bulging muscle and tendon. His vast shoulders are the size of laden wagons, his core the size of a two-storied house. Each of his feet bear curved and hooked talons, longer than any mortal and as thick as a barrel.

Rathenoch lacks any of the typical ornamentation found on other Firstborn, such as spiked tails or razor sharp frills. By choice or will, his body is a flawless engine of carnage and war set to a single purpose. Every movement he makes is an expression of unimaginable strength. With the exception of his incredible bulk and massive slate-like scales, the only concession to any form of decoration that he has made would be the horns that rise from the back of his head and curve skyward. Called “The Crown of Rathenoch,” they are four in number, smooth and inlaid with burnished gold. While they could easily be used to skewer opponents, they are left clear and unblemished. For when Rathenoch looks down upon you from above, casting a silhouette that could cover entire forests, all one can see are his gleaming yellow eyes and his horns, appearing as if they were a crown atop the head of what must surely be a king amongst Dragons.

Unsurprisingly, the mortal form of the Red Dragon is quite similar to his natural form. When he walks upon the surface of Arthos, he appears as a very muscular, barrel chested Red Draconian. His thick, curving crown of horns push out from his temples and arch back across his head. Where his eyebrows would normally be, instead there are heavy layers of scales, with a multitude of long, razor sharp bones protruding out and to the sides.

He often carries no weapon in this form, save for the vicious hooked talons found at the end of his fingers.  They appear as if they were almost purpose built to dig into armour and lock into place, before ripping the protective shell of his unfortunate foe away. This is considered by mortals to be mostly for show, as it is far more common to see him ripping the limbs from a body as easily as one plucks petals from a flower, all without breaking stride.

His apparel is, more often than not, remarkably modest. He is as much at home in a threadbare tunic as he is in aged and battleworn warriors’ leathers. But if an overly muscled Red Draconian with a veritable crown of horns and long, wicked talons wasn’t quite enough to attract attention, his additional accouterments make up for any lack of panache. Every part of his body will be decorated in gold, in one way or another. Massive necklaces will hang from his neck and his fingers will be covered with rings, each larger and gaudier than the last. Never will you see the vulgar shine of a gemstone, or the dull luster of silver. Every buckle, earring, stud and grommet will be pure, solid gold. And should one ever cross paths with the great Red Dragon, always keep a gold coin hidden away, for even laying eyes upon him has a price.

Passions

In the deepest depths of the Altheahean mountains, lies the private domain of the Red Dragon. When he walks above ground, even the combined splendor and gaudiness of the jewelry that dangles from his body seem like little more than trinkets compared to the unimaginable wealth found within his nest. Known simply as The Hoard, it is an immense, geometrically perfect sphere shaped with his own claws and flame that measures a full kilometer in diameter, with fully half of the chamber filled with a gently lapping sea of molten gold.

Every surface of his refuge is covered in flawlessly smooth and flame polished gold. Across the false gleaming ocean lie many floating islands of glimmering riches, much like the great ice-islands of the far north, save that each one is composed of more coin than any mortal could count in a hundred lifetimes.

It is here that Rathenoch takes rest and reflects on his own monumental glory, for every single coin, every miniscule drop of molten gold is a testament to his passion and strength. Within this chamber lie the true manifestations of his indomitable will, and his fierce love of conquest. Every piece of gold ever given as tribute, be it from fear, respect, or reverence, appears at the ceiling of the great vault, and cascades down in a shimmering waterfall of glittering metal.

For all the wonders that may be found on Arthos, there is nothing that brings greater pleasure to Rathenoch than gold. Be they silver, gem, or artifacts of incredible arcane power, all other treasures seen as charmless baubles in the eyes of the Red Dragon.  Instead, these items are kept in separate treasuries to one day be gifted to those who have earned his pleasure, or to be arbitrarily destroyed in a fit of boredom.

A wise aspirant would do well to recognize this distinction. In the eyes of the Red Dragon, a single golden coin is worth far more than any other offering of silver or gemstones. Those who would place such offerings upon a pillar to Rathenoch would find their ‘gift’ ignored, and themselves scorned. To truly appease Rathenoch, your tribute to him can only be gold, and it must have been taken by force, or by fear. The wealth of those who have died at your hands, or the gold given as payment to still your wrath, smells the sweetest to him.

Temperament

Rathenoch is an undeniably egotistical, insatiably greedy, and immensely entitled creature to all, save for his Firstborn kin. He believes himself to be the most brilliant military mind that has ever lived, and were it not for his infamous lack of patience, he might very well be right. Well crafted battles have often collapsed into genocial chaos when a minor detail goes wrong, and then all pretense of strategy collapses. But even when his temper is reined in, his methods focus less on the finesse of wartime strategy, and more on the direct application of brutal force and cunning tactics. Ever boastful, while within his presence one will usually find themselves in a state of awe, or in abject annoyance at his endless self-aggrandizing behaviour and braggadocio. If this was the behaviour of a mere mortal, they would at best quickly find themselves ejected from polite society and ignored.

But Rathenoch is no mere mortal, and no matter how deplorable his less-than-pleasant social traits are, there is a humbling reality that all must keep in mind:

He can back up every single threat and boast he makes.

In the ancient language of Dragons, Rathenoch was once called Teonleg, or The Great Destroying Flame. It is said that no other living dragon has killed as many of the Divine as he. The number of mortals slain, both by himself and those slaughtered in his name, are beyond counting. He is the living embodiment of conquest and greed, and when set to war, the only thing capable of truly stopping him and his armies is a loss of interest in the conflict.

Mortals wishing to emulate the Red Dragon or gain his favour quickly learn the phrase “Might makes Right.” One only succeeds in life by growing in power, crushing all those who dare challenge you, and taking all that was theirs and making it yours. By your self-evident strength your enemies will learn to fear you. Through fear, your enemies will learn to respect you. Through respect, your enemies will bow at your feet and sue for peace. Make corpses of those that dare resist you, and build with them a foundation upon which your glory may stand.

But always remember, “A hollow threat makes for weak walls.” Arthos is filled with liars and the false-faced. Never make a claim that you cannot enforce. Should you declare your wrath upon a foe, then you must follow through, no matter the cost. If they are not dead at your feet or screaming for mercy, then your strength becomes a mockery. There is no crime in trying to become better than you are, but the price of failure is to become just another corpse on someone else’s path to greatness.

Few have the fortitude and resolve for the true form of power that Rathenoch embodies. Not everyone is destined for greatness.

Affinities

Of all the creatures on Arthos, Rathenoch is the unparalleled master of conquest and brute strength. While other higher powers may engage in “civilized warfare,” the Red Dragon has no interest in it. His wars are not fought in military tents surrounded by advisors, but instead on the battlefield, amidst the chaos and screams of the dying. While in his Mortal Form he strides forward without pause, bellowing commands to his rampaging horde of bloodthirsty warriors, all while cutting down ranks of foes with his clawed hands or whatever weapon suits him best. When he joins battle in his true draconic form, he is quite simply an unstoppable force, crashing through the mightiest fortress walls with the same ease as any mortal might stride through a field of grass.

The Red Dragon is known to be the only Firstborn to actually breed Drakes. Each of these fearsome red-scaled beasts can grow to an incredible size, and are eventually gifted to his elite caste of warriors.  Known as the Bloodied Khans, these drake riders serve as a near invincible vanguard, moving with unmatched speed through the air before they dive into the ranks of their enemies below, often destroying entire units in flurries of blade and fire before returning to the skies.

Breath Weapon

There are some Firstborn who prefer never to use the power of their Breath, for fear of the devastation that it could cause. This has never been the case with Rathenoch, for his Breath is devastation itself, and it has been used with such frequency and effect that there are few that haven’t heard of “The Fires of Annihilation”.

Using it either from the ground or high above in the sky, Rathenoch swiftly opens his heavy jaw, locking it into position and looking much like an impossibly large snake unhinging its jaw to consume its prey. The air surrounding the dragon rushes into his mouth with the force of a hurricane, transforming his body into a terrible furnace, causing his scales to glow a deep, hateful red. Grass, trees, rock and steel; all begin to smoulder and ignite from the near incandescent heat radiating from the body of the dragon. With a boom like thunder, his breath is released and the world is set aflame.

Exploding outward like a pyroclastic explosion, the fiery breath spreads before him and almost seems to move like a liquid as it crashes against all in its path, sending up huge waves of pure elemental fire. The blaze becomes so hot that it vapourizes entire bodies of water in mere moments, and causes rock outcrops to crack and shatter under the strain. Mortal bodies caught in the conflagration drip like wax, with flesh and fat rendered into a boiling, viscous slurry, before collapsing into a wet pile of melted bone and viscera.

When Rathenoch closes his jaws once again, all that is before him is naught but blackened ashes, save for those directly caught within the inferno, who dot the battlefield as small heaps of bodily remnants burning like little campfires, kept alight by what little of fat and oils that were not entirely consumed by his flames.

On rare occasions, vast and all consuming immolation isn’t quite enough for Rathenoch. When he is truly incensed, sometimes the object of his rage needs to be destroyed so utterly that all traces of it are burned away from existence.

Like before, Rathenoch draws in the air around him deep into his body, and like before his entire form begins to shimmer with heat. But this time, his jaws snap shut and make a terrible sound not unlike the crack of a lightning strike. It is at this point that any foe standing before the Red Dragon with their wits about them immediately retreats, be it a single mortal, an army, or a Celestial. The Dragon’s aura seems almost visible and pounds like the beating of a giant’s heart, growing slower with every pulse.

Beneath his massive clawed limbs, the ground itself glazes over and within moments it melts into a pool of scalding lava. Veins buried beneath his scales begin to glow a vibrant red, and soon can be seen shining through his thick, armoured hide. The internal light builds and builds, until a pulsating radiance appears from the heart of Rathenoch, making his entire body appear as if it were a near blinding cage for immeasurable power within.

Without a sound or another notice given, the vast network of glowing veins instantly dim and the Red Dragon opens his mouth nearly a full 180 degrees, and true annihilation erupts.

A single column of fire blasts forth from the mouth of Rathenoch, and it does so with such speed that it seems to appear as if it came from nothing. Its brightness rivals the noon day sun on the clearest of days. Its form is flawlessly contained and concentrated, and does not flicker like flame or billow in the air like a bonfire. If one had the eyes to see such things, they would simply see something akin to curving spirals of intertwining light given physical form. All shade and shadows are banished, and the land is lit up with a blinding radiance far brighter than anything the meager sun could ever create.

Anything within 20 feet of the beam is instantly and completely incinerated, leaving behind crumbling statues of ash, these being little more than mockeries of their previous forms. A glowing, molten trench is blasted into the ground, following the perfectly straight course of the blinding inferno to the target of Rathenoch’s ire, which has entirely vanished upon contact. There is no trace of who or what it may have been there but a fraction of a second earlier. Legendary steel, God-forged weapons, impervious artifacts from ages long past; all have been consumed and utterly eradicated. More often than not, the battle has now ended. Whatever foes that might remain, are now at best rendered blind and deaf, and inevitably end up stumbling away from the battle in a desperate retreat.

Style of Governance

Although Rathenoch lays claim to a very large area of the eastern Maud’Madir, there is very little land that he cares to directly rule. While every city and town within his territory is influenced by the Red Dragon, most are free to govern themselves as they see fit.

The reason for this laxity is tribute.

From the highest peaks held by the Avians, to the deepest cities of the Dwarves, in the lengthy history of Arthos there is no culture or people within Rathenoch’s domain that haven’t been raided by his infamous caste of warriors – The Bloodied Khans.

The Bloodied Khans are fanatical adherents to the teachings of the Red Dragon. When they aren’t fighting other enemies in his name, they are inevitably fighting amongst themselves; village set against village, in an endless cycle of raiding and recovery. But when they are united under the Red Dragon’s banner, there is very little in this world that can truly stop them. Entire kingdoms are said to have been utterly annihilated within a few short weeks, leaving nothing behind but the smoldering remains of a society that refused to bow to the Jhera-Khan.

Over time, the peoples of his lands learned it was far better to pay their own ransom in gold than to try and resist his rampaging hordes. To this day, all within the Dragon’s demesne offer tribute to “The Glory of Rathenoch” once a year. There is no set date on which this insatiable horde might arrive outside their gates, all but foaming at the mouth and baying in barely-contained bloodlust. Yet the leaders of every nation, people, and town all know that when red smoke is seen on the horizon and the shrieking cry of a far off Drake Rider can be heard in the distance, it is time to open the gates and unseal their treasuries.

Amongst the older kingdoms and territories, it is a pantomime that has existed for centuries – an assurance of safety and protection, or the promise of annihilation. But the rite is the same, performed for royalty and peasants alike, year after year, generation after generation. For when the people ask “How much?”  The horde’s Tallymaster will always reply, “whatever you think is fair.”

With wagons potentially laden with lavish gifts and heaps of gold given as tribute, the Tallymaster makes their way back to Altheah – the vast regions where day to day life for mortals is far different, and Rathenoch rules with absolute authority.

Altheah, to the cartographers of the world, is the name of the Eastern Mountain range that divides the eastern lands of the continent from the rest of the Maud’madir. With the notable exception of the nations ruled by the Avians and the Dwarves, most of these mountains are inhospitable and cruel. While those races have relied on their traditions and cultural strengths to thrive atop or within these desolate tors, there is another group that has eked out a thin form of survival amidst the endless crags and hidden basins of the Altheahean mountains. Not united by anything so mundane as race, the true people of Altheah are bound together by their reverence for Rathenoch. Were the great Dragon to have a kingdom, it would be represented by these nomadic and warlike mountain folk.

From these mountain peaks, and down into the eastern foothills and to the grassy steppes below, Rathenoch rules as a surprisingly beloved autocrat. Despite keeping his people in a near-constant state of war, his subjects have survived and thrived under his rule for countless centuries, largely in thanks to a set of simple laws which have lasted for thousands of years.

These rules have never been completely recorded in any single place, mostly because no one could be bothered. The tribes of Altheah pass it down verbally from surviving generation to surviving generation, and Rathenoch’s watchful presence guarantees that the laws he forged are not soon forgotten.

This code of law divides all peoples into one of three castes, regardless of tribe, which are assigned by lineage: The Daidurin, The Ketoran, and the Tithling.

The  Daidurin are the Warrior caste of the nomads. Berserkers and barbarians to the last, all aspire to join the great Bloodied Khans one day. They are at the beck and call of the Red Dragon, they fight in his name, and die for his glory. This caste is the only one permitted to have “honour,” and the victorious always have first pick of the spoils of battle. However, they are utterly forbidden to openly attack or take from the other two castes within their own tribe. In this way they are not only warriors, but also protectors.  Although they cannot attack anyone of their own caste, they are required to accept any challenge from a member of the other castes, which takes the form of ritual combat. The sole purpose of this is so the weak may prove themselves strong, and thus may leave their old caste behind and be elevated to the rank of Daidurin.

The Ketoran are the “learned” people of Rathenoch’s society, and are often the most looked down upon. Typically composed of the crippled and infirm, this caste fulfills the needs of the tribe that raiding cannot. They are often doctors, authors, merchants or practicing mages. Honour and status are not permitted amongst this caste, and their deaths are not celebrated or acknowledged. However, the Ketoran are permitted to challenge any Daidurin for the right to join the warrior class. These challenges may be issued at any time, in any situation, but are most commonly issued when the tribe gathers at their Festival of Fire.

The Tithling caste are the workers of the tribes. They farm the rocky ground, work as smiths, or perform some other practical and essential task. While not permitted to attain honour, the Tarithlings are held in high esteem for their skills and hard work, with the other castes seeing such labours as sacrificing their chance at glory to ensure the people of Rathenoch survive. These workers are also permitted the same right as the Ketoran, that is to challenge any member of the warrior class to join their ranks, should they win the fight.  However, this is still a very uncommon practice, due to the many privileges their caste is granted and their relative lack of combat experience. They are the only caste that isn’t entirely nomadic, and are permitted to build for themselves whatever luxuries they desire in the trades that they are skilled in, and may even openly trade and barter with others of their caste without suffering the social ignominy of being a merchant coin-trader. Perhaps the most significant benefit is the potential for a long life, for even in the middle of the endless inter-tribe warfare that is the norm in Altheah, it is considered a crime punishable by death to attack or injure a Tithling while they are working their trade.  Even the most blood-crazed Daidurin knows who forges their swords and grows their food.

When viewed from outside, the society of the Altheahean tribes can seem very unusual. It is seen as highly restrictive and tyrannical in many ways, but Rathenoch’s system of governance has proven itself both successful and effective throughout the passing centuries.

Temple Structure

Rathenoch cannot abide the concept of a Temple. The idea of mortals gathering to discuss how to best venerate him is appalling, and the sight of such a thing is sure to incite his wrath. Passivity, and lounging sessions of draconic philosophizing is the domain of the weak and cowardly.  While there may be no “official” Temples to Rathenoch, it is not uncommon for a Khan of great power and renown to see to the construction of a Red Fortress. But make no mistake – these redoubts are a testament to their ceaseless lust for bloodshed and war.

The goal of a follower of the Red Dragon, be they a fledgling aspirant or one of the bloodied Khans, should always be to grow in strength, dominate all those beneath you, and reap the rewards of your conquests. In the eyes of the Dragon there is no need for a litany of poetic titles or honourifics when simple descriptions will do.

Those on the path to his favour are the Unproven.

Those that have gained it are his Khans.

Sometimes, very rarely, there will be a singular Khan whose passion for violence, glory, and gold is so extreme that any rational society would have had them hunted down and killed. It is these prodigies of conquest that are the closest to Rathenoch’s heart. They are presented with a hand-reared Red Drake by the Red Dragon himself to serve as their steed, and elevated to the elite caste of the Bloodied Khans.

Should one survive an initial greeting with a Bloodied Khan, they might come away with the belief that the warrior is a raving barbarian, barely able to contain their desire to choke the life from some innocent bystander and burn their dwelling to the ground. And while that assumption may be true, to a greater or lesser extent, Rathenoch’s elite are also keen strategists.  Each Bloodied Khan is as capable and comfortable in executing a precision strike against enemy leadership, as they are rampaging through a village atop their mount, slashing through ranks of terrified militia as their Drake tears through the strongest armour to dine on the fresh meat within.

Despite the apparent simplicity of these “ranks,” they are never to be underestimated. The Unproven are all but ignored by Rathenoch himself, and they still have both everything to prove and everything to lose. They are barely contained vessels of raw aggression and ambition, entirely devoted to the belief that Might makes Right. Those who have gained Rathenoch’s favour and earned the rank of Khan are already warriors worthy of legend. They have ended more lives than could ever be remembered, and plundered more wealth than a merchant prince would ever see in their lifetime.

But one does not simply walk the path of the Red Dragon. They must be invited in.

One of the more unexpected tasks of the Bloodied Khans is to host the infamous Festival of Fire, where those who follow the ways of the Red Dragon gather and pay homage in the ways that they know best, the giving of tribute and incredible displays of violence. It is also the only “festival” in all of Arthos where the locals are encouraged to pay a handsome tribute to Rathenoch, lest the fever-pitched frolics inadvertently burn down every nearby town and lay waste to the countryside.

Two individual Festivals of Fire will never be the same. It could last an hour, or it could last a week. Each festival will usually have a theme, based on the personality or fickle whims of the Bloodied Khan responsible for hosting it. Some may be very militant, where others could be ambrosia-fueled orgies. That being said, each festival will always have six specific events included: the paying of tribute to the Red Dragon, wargames, one-on-one battles for status, incredible displays of pillaged wealth, battle royales, and finally a literal trial by fire involving the consumption of flame. The Trial by Fire is always the highlight of any Festival. Each participant secretly chooses how they will consume actual fire, and then must devour it at the same time as all the others. It is rare for this to have any tangible prize, but the actual reward is the respect gained from your fellow warlords, which on the battlefield is an asset beyond measure. Any Trial by Fire with any less than three deaths is considered to be a very poor showing.

Perhaps the most significant aspect of the Festival of Fire is recruitment. Arthos is filled with those that would bow at the feet of Rathenoch, and more bodies are always needed to replace warriors that have met their final death. There is no shame or ostracism in gaining favour by building a mighty pillar, making your vows, and showing your mettle to the great Red Dragon. It is a universal badge of respect amongst all of his followers. But for an unrecognized peasant to enter the Festival of Fire and survive is a unique mark of honour amongst their new peers. But to fight against the tested warriors of Rathenoch and come out victorious? That is where true legends are born.

Historical Highlights

To Monk Byatt, Head of the Eastern Steppes Temple,

Enclosed is a unique piece, copied from the original text within the Imperial Library of Berphaunt’s restricted archives. Judging by the weathering of the paper and fading of the ink, it recovered recently, possibly within the last two months. Though not available to the public, I was fortunate enough to find it within a pile of far less interesting military reports. 

I hope you will find it an interesting read. While it is not typical of my usual submissions, I believe it to be of academic significance for those engaged in the study of Rathenoc or the Empire of Berphaunt, and what appears to be a very sinister clandestine agreement between the two.

May knowledge ever guide your way.

Petitioner Quyn Dale

Second day of June, 2263

As commanded by Gustavus Kullander, acting Captain of his Imperial Majesty’s 11th Imperial Dragoons Heavy Cavalry Maniple “Swift Fury,”  I, Scrivener Denilan Gittins, have been tasked with keeping a record of this extended training expedition.

It has been 22 days since our initial departure from the outpost-town of Miner’s Prayer. Our journey, which would normally take no longer than two weeks, was slowed significantly due to inclement weather. Our fully-kitted warhorses found themselves struggling to keep purchase on the muddy paths. Surprisingly, the maniple’s peculiar wheeled armoury fared quite well in the rough terrain, though it certainly set a slow pace for the expedition as a whole. It is the size of a small house and armoured like a vault. The other wagons have been ladened with enough provisions to last for three months. This seems excessive for a training engagement, but the bounty has kept the soldiers in good spirits.

After a long, arduous journey that I would not care to repeat ever again in my lifetime, we arrived at our destination of Point Armistice.  Although I have little experience in the ways and methods of the Imperial Military, I would still judge this area to be a fair playground for the maniple to train in. It is a vast, boulder-strewn plain with an assortment of lines and trenches already set in place. Dominating the landscape is the remains of a once-formidable fortress. At a distance it appeared little more than a ruin, like so many others found on the frontiers of the Empire, although upon closer inspection it has shown signs of recent repair and fortification. The walls bear very large iron spikes, curved slightly upward into still-sharpened points. Clearly it would be inconvenient for any ladder team trying to scale the walls, to say the least.

After we finished striking camp, Captain Kullander met with a 10-strong wing of mounted scouts, who appear to have been stationed here awaiting our arrival. They appear to be a motley and haggard group from my vantage point, and depart with haste soon after giving their report.

I must note that despite our rough journey, the disposition and morale of the soldiers is good. I have been invited to join the Captain for dinner to discuss this record that I am setting to paper, and the sheer volume of strong drink that will be present is quite tempting.

Third day of June, 2263 

The weather is fair, the skies are clear, and a slight breeze is gently blowing in from the east. Regrettably, my observations today will be limited in scope due to an inexplicable headache.   I have been Informed that the mounted units will be practicing “heavy charge formations,” which are in no way quiet or subtle. The majority of my day was spent inside the fort. It was there I met Quartermaster Murron, a swarthy dwarf of significant years, who all but lives within the Armoury. Although they rarely speak, the Quartermaster was still very generous in sharing a drink from a round clay jug. It is, without exaggeration, the most foul brew that I have ever tasted in my entire life, but it did help with the headaches.

The scouts have been dispatched once again as per standard maniple operations. The mess tent seems as well supplied as any tavern, and morale remains high.

Sixth day of June, 2263

The weather has turned, and a dense early morning fog followed by heavy wind and rain has arrived.

Captain Kullander has become irritable, and will be joining the outriders on their patrols for the next few days. Lieutenant Broin, an unsociable and ill-tempered lout if there ever was one, has taken operational control of Point Armistice until the captain’s return.

While I was observing trench combat training – which seems a strange practice for those used to riding heavy warhorses – I overheard a small group of soldiers mention that the current freshwater supply is nearly exhausted and the nearest river is a two day march away. With over 100 people in the maniple and nearly half as many armoured horse, I suspect camp will need to be moved further west quite soon.

Morale is stable, for the time being.

Eighth day of June, 2263

The weather remains poor, ongoing rain.

The fresh water supplies have run out. All training exercises have been halted, and the maniple has been assigned to collecting potable rainwater. A number of trenches have started to flood, but none of the soldiers seem to be in a rush to drink the murky swill gathering within.

Our firewood will run out by tomorrow, and the Quartermaster has now locked themselves away in his vault. Soldiers have already started to dismantle the supply wagons for dry fuel, and I’ve only just noticed that there isn’t a single tree on the horizon.

Morale dropping. Scout riders overdue.

Eighth day of June, 2263 – Nightfall

I was awoken by a sounded alarm well before midnight. The rain has stopped. Those soldiers set on watch have given numerous reports of bonfires seen in the distance.The archers have been commanded to the fort’s parapets after the sighting of distant flying creatures silhouetted against the moonlight, many miles off. There has been no word or sign of the scouts or Captain Kullander. Rumours are circulating amongst the maniple that that the Captain was killed in an ambush. With each passing hour that seems ever more likely.

The battle-horn was just sounded, and all soldiers were given the order to mount and prepare for an attack. I am no fighter, so I have taken refuge inside the fort. From the lookout I can count hundreds, if not thousands, of blazing torches. We are surrounded.

Roughly an hour ago Lieutenant Broin led a cavalry charge against the enemy.  Survivors report that it accomplished little, and was blunted by a counter-assault of huge flying creatures with howling barbarians clinging to their backs.

Day unknown, 2263

Some days ago I took refuge within the Armoury along with Quartermaster Murron, and my entry into their steel home has provided me with more questions than answers. Despite numerous attempts to force an answer, Murron refuses to explain why the Armoury is filled with gold. Coins, bars, ingots – the cargo is nothing but solid gold. Even as I write this, the dwarf is wearing an impassive expression on his face and seems almost relaxed, as if the horror outside had been expected all along.

Through the small ventilation slits I can see the heart of pandemonium. Armoured and bloodied soldiers run by at a near constant rate, day and night, dashing in and out of the improvised gates of the fortress. The foe they brace against is unlike any that I have ever seen or studied. What few glimpses I’ve caught of them baffle me. There are warriors out there in suits of armour that would be the envy of any knight. But there are also those who wear ragged and primitive leathers, fighting with little more than rusted spars, fists, and even their very teeth. Even the smallest hit against our Berphauntian soldiers elicits animalistic roars and cruel laughter from amongst their hordes. This is not civilized warfare, this is sport, and a savage and cruel one at that. And as I sit here, I have begun to realize that I’m sitting in the prize. But how could they have known it was here? We are still well within the territories of Berphaunt and…

Day unknown, 2263

I awoke in a darkness broken only by the light from a small stub of a candle, whose feeble light I now use to write by. My shirt had been bloodied, yet I seemed to be uninjured. Murron must have tended to whatever wound I received, though he denies I had ever been struck.

“Happens to you weak folk when He gets too close. Some just fall over dead.” This was the closest thing to an answer, of any kind, I could get from the Quartermaster.

He joined me at the tiny ventilation slits for the remainder of the night. Even from my small viewpoint, it was clear that the battle was going poorly for the maniple. The dead and dying were placed against the dark stone walls nearby, and I saw few of these strange barbarians amongst the corpses. I recognized some of the bodies from my brief time in the mess, but even though I recognized that these brave imperial soldiers deserved their last rites, I couldn’t find any words worth speaking.

Murron tells me it’s almost over.

Day unknown, 2263

Today has been strange, and by all accounts I should be dead. But it would appear my job isn’t quite finished.

I awoke this morning to sunlight shining through the open door of the Armoury, and the sound of revelries being held somewhere beyond the stone walls of the fortress. As I stepped out of my shelter, I was greeted by the bodies of the dead, soldiers and horses all, being dragged out into the fields and cast into an ignoble pile. I believe that I had been babbling incoherently at the time, but as the victorious brutes passed me, I must have seemed as insignificant as one of millions of carrion flies that now coated the inside of the fortress walls.

I remember little of what happened after that, up until I most unexpectedly ran into Captain Kullander.  His Imperial surcoat had been discarded, exchanged with a dirty white tabard emblazoned with what looked to be a rough draconic shape painted in what could only have been days-old blood. He greeted me kindly enough, and seemed glad I had survived, though he seemed far more excited that these pages remained intact. I was then provided with food and drink of surprisingly high quality, and re-equipped to continue this chronicle. I was set up with a perfect spot high atop the ramparts to see and “appreciate” the frolics below. Hundreds of filthy and gore-spattered fighters were milling amongst the dead, all but ripping apart the slain Imperials for anything of worth. I am certain that I saw an Avian amongst them, cutting off entire hands with rings still on dead fingers, then strung across a makeshift bandolier.

Quartermaster Murron arrived not long after, and left a small note bearing instructions. His placid face hosted a wide, self satisfied smile, and as expected, he had nothing to say. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.  It seems so clear to me now.

This shall be my final entry. I have been instructed to await the arrival of someone of great importance and record their words. What happens after this, I do not know.

“A Brief History of the Firstborn and Mortals” Vol. III, Chapter VI. By Stententious Praeconinus

“Das erste rote Haus”

But we cannot, dear reader, in good conscience overlook those harrowing events that would drive the Dwarves far from their original homes in Torgunferen, and onward to found their once-resplendent Capital of Claradar. Once again we must dive into the dark history of Arthos, bearing only the blinding light of research and truth to guide our way!

During the 5th Torgunferen dynasty, High Thane Veldstein had been a relatively popular figure amongst the citizens of the Kingdom of Gerdain. There was no hunger, work was plentiful, and rivalries between the noble thanes and their great halls were judiciously kept to a minimum. Were it not for an infamous character flaw, Veldstien’s twenty-year reign may have ranked amongst the greatest periods in the Golden Age of Gerdain, before the eventual fall of the Torgunferen Dynasties many years later.

That flaw, which those well versed in the history of Dwarves will immediately recognize, was that the High Thane was cheap. It could be easily said that the tightness of the Kingdom’s purse strings were greater than a clam’s grip on its pearl. That’s not to say that the great wealth of the Kingdom was kept away from its citizenry; quite the opposite is true in this case! Veldstein was incredibly generous when it came to funding civil initiatives and public works that would bring greater prosperity to his nation and his people, so long as it had the net result of returning his investment tenfold.

But such governing practices would ultimately bring about the near-mortal ruin and economic collapse of the entire Gerdainian Kingdom.

It was during Veldstein’s 20th and final year as High Thane that he decided, against the wishes of his many advisors, close friends, and his entire race, to stop paying annual tribute to the Firstborn Rathenoch. It is said that when the Khans of the Red Dragon arrived at the deep caverns where tribute to the Red Dragon had been paid since time immemorial, all that awaited them was a handful of dried grass. While I am unable to confirm the truth of this tale, dwarven folktales say that when the Jhera-Khan heard of what awaited his Tallymaster, his anger was so great that the entire mountain range shook with violent earthquakes for nearly a week.

For more information on the consequences of these earthquakes, please read “When the Nest Fell from the Tree: Avian Culture in the Lands of Rathenoch,” written by yours truly, Stententious Praeconinus!

Though it may defy belief, it is said amongst many learned scholars that Rathenoch assembled every single last one of his Khans, bloodied and otherwise, to annihilate the Dwarves of Gerdain. Meanwhile, the High Thane remained steadfast in his refusal to bend the knee and give tribute.  Resolute, he rallied his Thanes and set his armies marching into the depths of the world. Expert sappers made quick work of hiding, and then collapsing, every cave, tunnel, and subterranean road that led into the heart of his kingdom. Trappers and smiths of incredible skill worked with the speed of a person possessed to reduce the size of all the major causeways leading from the home of Rathenoch, and then filled them with every lethal trap that could be devised.

It should be pointed out that Veldstein fancied himself a keen strategist. And while some of his plans had merit, such as the closing off all surface routes to Torgunferen to prevent being assaulted from multiple fronts, it also had the lamentable side effect of cutting them off from any support or supplies from without. Narrowing the great underground roadways meant that the Red Dragon’s fearsome Red Drakes would be robbed of their aerial advantage, but that would also mean the oncoming war would be reduced to vicious melees. This would pit the Dwarves, bearing superior arms and armour, against the raw hordes of Rathenoch’s armies, who mostly bore whatever gear they had pried from the stiffened hands of the last person who had offended them. Some contemporary military strategists believe that the Dwarves, armed with their unparalleled tools of war and untold miles of dark passages filled with traps and pitfalls, could have conceivably held out, if not routed the invading army.

Yet somehow the High Thane, likely ignoring his military advisors once again, managed to forget that it wasn’t just a vast horde coming for them. It was a vast horde, and a Dragon severely irritated Dragon whose rage burned with the fury of a volcano.

How the individual battles played out is largely up to speculation, those records did not survive for obvious reasons. However, it is widely agreed upon and supported by the meticulously-kept Dwarven historical record that the very first battle was against Rathenoch himself, in his mortal form. It is said that in this first “skirmish,” the Jhera-Khan calmly strode into the cavern, facing down a wall of dwarven soldiers and their massive manned ballistae mounted to the stone walls as if they meant nothing to him.  Up until this point each and every dwarven soldier had stood firmly in formation, ready to give up their lives in the defense of their kingdom. The Draconian-formed Rathenoch began to laugh and spoke a phrase that was regrettably never recorded. What was recorded was that the immediate response was a panicked retreat, so desperate were the defenders to escape that 74 dwarves died in the press of bodies, trampled to death. That number would have likely been far higher, had it not been for some unnamed soldier who set off a trap that collapsed the entire cavern atop the Dragon. While Veldstein hailed it as a great victory, his people were beginning to question his sanity.

For the next 18 weeks Torgunferen and the dwarves of the Kingdom of Gerdain held their ground, but the loss of life was terrible. It is estimated ten bloodied warriors fell for every dwarf, but even that was a grim calculus that the dwarves could ill-afford to sustain. In short order, another flaw in the strategies of Veldstein became apparent: there was nowhere to put the bodies. Both sides seemed to agree that they couldn’t be burned, as the remarkably intricate underground ventilation tunnels would never be able to provide enough air if they were choked with corpse-smoke. The dwarven soldiers were content to rim the vast caverns and let them rot, relying on their legendary fortitude to resist the disease that inevitably grows from rampant, unchecked death. If illness was of any concern to the hordes, they never made a show of it. Given the astonishing casualty rate they seemed to suffer, it’s likely that few lived long enough for it to be an issue.

For a sense of the scale of Rathenoch’s forces, I strongly recommend visiting the Royal Gallery in the Kingdom of Berphaunt, where the renowned painting “Eyes of the Red Drake” by Guillaume Allemand can be found hanging amongst many other fine works of art.

By the nineteenth week, the armies of Gerdain had had enough. While Torgunferen had enough supplies secreted away to last the Capital another year, the sheer loss of life and influence of subversive elements within the city had ground the war to a halt. Orders were passed from all upper echelons of command to cease advancement, and collapse all tunnels connecting to Rathenoch’s mountains, save one: die Straße des Feuers, or as it is known in the common tongue, The Road of Fire.

This passage was known by both sides, but it never saw battle. The date of its creation is lost to time, but it is known that the ancient work ceased when the tunnel walls gave way to a large, inhospitable cavern with a wide river of flowing magma bisecting it. Flying the flag for parley, it was there that the Dwarves would sue for peace. To the credit of the Dwarves, their offer may have seemed enticing. Carried upon a throne of solid gold to the fiery river, the High Thane Veldstein was bound and gagged, and offered up as tribute to quell the Dragon’s rage.

Yet Rathenoch did not come, nor did his hordes. Instead came a single Dwarf, bedecked in a large cape sewn with the flesh of the fallen, bound with golden thread and gleaming gold coins hammered thin in an imitation of scales. History remembers his name as Herczeg the Bloodied Khan.  Many Gerdainian Dwarves, even those that venerate Rathenoch, still call him by a more foreboding name. To them, he is simply known as the Arch-Traitor.

No historians or scholars, even amongst the Dwarves, can agree on exactly what the Bloodied Khan said during the peace offering. Those more inclined to the dramatic arts may find the lines in Aldershof Strauss’ opera “Das erste rote Haus” to be a passingly adequate representation of the context, but a brilliant interpretation of the results.

After the parley, Herczeg had given the dwarves one week to return to their halls and gather from their vaults enough gold so that every soldier, counting both the living and the dead, could fill both hands until they were overflowing with coins. By the week’s end, they would then return, heads bowed in obeisance, and beg for the forgiveness of the Jhera-Khan.

The vaults were scraped clean and the great halls of the Thanes were emptied. Gilding was hastily recast into ungainly lumps of raw gold and even the smallest scraps of gold were pried from the teeth of the dwarven dead. Although the Dwarves were still incredibly wealthy, that wealth was in gems, metals, and armaments. Not a single coin remained. The Dwarven love of gold is renowned, but the loss of their pride seemed a reasonable cost in exchange for their entire Kingdom. So it was that a week later, untold hundreds of Dwarves returned to the Road of Fire, hands brimming with the ransom for their lives. But when they arrived, something unusual was awaiting them.

The Straße des Feuers had been entirely transformed. In a single week the yawning cavern had been quarried, cut, and hewn into a far greater size, and the ceiling stretched upwards a full 100 feet in height. Such was the skill of the workers that the walls bore no tool marks or blemishes; it had been polished as smooth as glass and held no features that could be described as natural. The great river of magma was now dammed at the far side of the chamber, and split into two separate channels which ran the remaining length. But as you have certainly guessed by now, my intrepid historians, the true spectacle was situated in the center, nestled in-between the two new volcanic rivers.

A wide, circular stronghold had been built, stretching some 30 feet into the air, and everything about its construction exuded a sense of menace. It was so immense in size that the new magma rivers lapped up against both sides of its outermost walls, thus creating an imposing moat which cast dim, fiery light around the base. Along the continuous parapets, hundreds of warriors, all bearing the mark of Rathenoch, stared down from above. Gone were their wild warcries and cackling laughter of blood lust. Each was completely silent as they watched the procession arrive.

With a bowel-loosening crash, a mighty drawbridge was dropped down across the span of liquid fire onto the obsidian shore. At the entrance to the stronghold stood the Bloodied Khan Herczeg, smiling broadly. Saying nothing, he bade the long line of dwarves to follow him inside.

Within the walls, it became apparent that this stronghold was never meant for defense, nor was it meant as a place of shelter. It was a trophy case; a giant gallery dedicated to slaughter and conquest. There were rooms given over to the reproduction of particularly vicious battles, which appeared to use the bodies of the actual combatants that were posed to resemble their final moments. Other rooms were armouries filled with the gear looted form the fallen, then arranged by what seemed to be race and creed. Perhaps most surprisingly, there were entire halls filled with skilled artisans painting highly detailed frescos and murals that depicted the history of their war.  These works formed a near-contemporary tale of both the events leading up to their conflict, and its crushing conclusion. Despite the wide variety of items on display, they all had a common purpose: to glorify the deeds of Herczeg. But strangely, there were no icons or pillars to the Red Dragon. That, my patient readers, will be explained in time.

The line of Gerdainian dwarves were eventually led to an open courtyard located near the center of the stronghold, laid with heavy cut, geometric flagstones. Finally given the space to fly, Red Drakes hovered far above, barely noticeable amongst the fire-red glow of the chamber. Tiny gouts of flames from their mouths mimicked the appearance of distant stars in the darkness. And while this certainly would have added an element of terror to any that would step foot into the courtyard, of more immediate concern was the arrival of a team of dwarves, almost unrecognizable in their rough armour and clothing, all bearing the mark of Rathenoch. Behind them came a wagon, laden with many near-dead fallen soldiers of Gerdain. One by one they were lifted and hung on steel hooks placed in the walls of the courtyard’s perimeter, and a ghastly sight was beheld as the warriors began to paint the stonework with the fresh blood of their distant kin.

Herczeg, content that the import of these spectacles had been fully absorbed, made a gesture towards the ramparts. The ground began to shake and the rattling of giant chains snapping tight could be heard beneath the feet of the dwarven procession as a stone-paved oculus in the center of the courtyard pried itself open, revealing a deep, sloped pit below. A figure laid chained to the ground, still writhing and struggling uselessly against his bonds. It was the once-High Thane Veldstein. His screams and pleas for mercy or death were appalling, and even the most bitter of the Gerdainian dwarves looked away in shame.

Tribute was owed, but it seemed Rathenoch had a sense of humour on this day. Veldstein would be buried alive by his own greed for gold, and for thinking himself above the will of the Red Dragon. So it was that one by one, the people of Gerdain emptied their handfuls of gold into the hole, and by day’s end Veldstein was gone and the pit was full, but even beneath the crushing weight of the coin, he could still be heard screaming.

With their debt to the Dragon paid, the Dwarves were free to go. Most began a long, sullen march back to their homes. Were they finally safe? What would become of their homes, their Kingdom? Not willing to speculate or give in to sorrow, a single Dwarf by the name of Junge Griogair chose to remain behind.

Learned and keen-eyed historians may correctly note that this is the very same Junge Griogair that would soon become High Thane Griogair “The Stern,” and usher in the glorious years of the 6th Torgunferen dynasty. Further details can be found in my book, “Torgunferen, The First City of the Dwarves.”

Although she was only a scribe at the time, Griogair was dedicated to her work in the Hall of Records. Very fortunately for us, and like any good Dwarf, she was never without the tools of her trade. As the remaining Dwarves departed, she took the chance to speak with the Bloodied Khan Herczeg, and recorded his response. Despite being converted from Old Dwarvish to High Dwarvish a number of times, the text presented here to you is considered to be accurate. Enjoy, my beloved readers, and relive the words that would forever change the course of Dwarven history.

“Because we can. Because you are weak, and we are strong. One day you will become strong, but we will be stronger still. Because we are led by the Jhera-Khan, we will always be stronger. It is at his word that we fight, kill and take. And when one of your own forgot that, we returned with strong lessons for you to learn, and for the children of your children’s children. Today I have conquered you and your many cities, and I have erected the Red Fortress to roar my victory. You will bring your gold here, and here I shall be, and all shall pay tribute to Rathenoch.”

When the soon-to-be-High Thane returned to Torgunferen, she personally carved the words of Herczog into the floor of the Great Hall, and though the once great city has long been abandoned, it is believed that the words still remain there, untouched by time.

I expect many of you will have questions, such as “What happened to Rathenoch after he was buried in the cavern?” Or perhaps you might wonder “what is this ‘special’ tribute that the Kingdom of Gerdain would be made to pay?” Maybe even “what ever happened to Herczeg and the Red Fortress?”

Regrettably I cannot speak to the former two questions, but I can shine the brilliant light of my research upon the latter. The Red Fortress of Torgunferen still stands on the Road of Fire, and, believe it or not, the Bloodied Khan Herczog still resides within, thousands of years later. It is even said by certain intrepid explorers that the screaming of the deposed High Thane Veldstein can still be heard in those lost tunnels, deep underground in the roots of the mountains of Arthos.

To answer the rest of your questions and many more, you will need to await the arrival of my newest book “Gerdain: The Rise and Fall of the Dwarven Dynasties,” expected to reach prominent libraries and culture houses in late 2252.