Prologue: Part One

I Do Not Own Warhammer nor My Little Pony, Friendship is Magic.

A single tear fell from his cheek.

A single inconsequential tear in the great hall filled with Dwarven men and woman. The best warriors in the world by their own account, and a terrifying foe from all others. Within their massive underground realms they would built works that could be copied by no other, things of such grand scale and work that no one could hope to replicate them.

The greatest of them all was Karak-a-Karaz, pseudo capital of the Dwarven Realms, then again being the only realm where dwarves still drew breath can cause that. Not even that will be for much longer. Crammed within the great hall of Karak-a-Karaz were barely 1,200 Dwarven men and woman, some with armor and some without, all of them holding whatever weapons you could find, from Rune weapons to metal rods from the mines. The last of the Dwarven people in the world. This ragtag group is all that remains of the Dwarven people, with dirt covering their faces as they stand in a circle, facing outwards against the enemies that avail them with faces full of anger. They know they will all die, hatred has consumed their hearts. Hatred for the greatest enemy the Dwarves had ever faced.

124 years ago the Dwarven Realms held fast against hordes of Skaven, Orks, and Goblins. Giving no quarter and showing no mercy to the armies that assailed them. However in that year it all changed, the foul machinations of the Chaos Sorcerer Malgor forged a shaky alliance between these three races. That was only the beginning of the Dwarves fall.

For many years the Dwarves fought, but one by one their Realms fell, from Karak Eight Peaks to Zhufbar the hordes descended upon them leaving no survivors. It came to a point where Realms would simply fall out of contact. No one spoke it, but they knew what had happened. Eventually only Karak-a-Karaz was left, the High King had every available warrior on alert, fortifying the borders of his Realm, and along with his people he refused to abandon the city.

It had started as a dwarf disspearing here, another there, until one night the hordes descended upon them. Screams filled the halls of dwarves being slaughtered in their own homes. Battle cries from patrolling dwarves as they attempted to hold back the hordes of creatures assailing them. In the end it was all for naught, most of the dwarven warriors had died that night. While the resistance went on for nearly 2 weeks, eventually the dwarves were driven back to the Great Hall where they knew they would die. But they would not show fear in the face of their extinction, only cold anger as the Dammaz Kron, or the Book of Grudges, passed to each Dwarf, recording their own name in the list of the dead, resigning them to their death for all of eternity.

Here they will die.

Here they will join their ancestors.

Sorry for the short beggining, this kind of just came to mind after reading one of my Warhammer books, i will update soon and the chapter will definently be longer.