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About this goblog

Behold my continuous efforts to bring my tribe to life with constant slow painting, poor time keeping and the occasional sketch and bit of fluff behind The Followers of Graw and actually Graw himself.

So enjoy and KEEP KRUMPIN'!

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Da Followers of Graw: Kolkorok and Gormodan the Thunderkings

Volkorok stirred. His scaled bulk shivered as the rock around him trembled and shook.

How long had it been? He could feel the distant calling, his one true instinct slowly burning into his mind like a hot iron on bare flesh. War had come, and with it a monstrous storm.

The shaggoth rolled from one side to the other, scattering bones, dust and small scurrying things that had took up residency in these dank caves. Eyes finally open he snarled as he felt the weight of rock on his tail. Centuries of rock water and dripping had caused a stalagmite to grow right around it, pinning him to the cavern floor. With an almighty tug the tooth of stone shattered and was sent skittering about into the dark, answered by snarls and groans deeper in the cave.

The thunderskorn had always used these caves to slumber the quiet warless years away. But now through the very rock a deep rumbling murmured, as if a thunderhead roared on the other side far away. 

Volkorok rose to all fours, his talons digging deep into the sandy bedrock of the cave. It had been so long since there had been a good storm to wake him, an age since a true battle roared across the planes. He remembered the coming of chaos when he was but a young thing, so much blood and carnage he thought he would never sleep again. But then the battles subsided and the Gargant’s Maw Mountains had grown quiet and still. So the thunderskorn had slumbered as they always did, waiting for the next chance to wreak havoc open the lands. Once or twice he had felt a storms call in his rest, but they had felt  wrong. Tainted by light and purity those storms had irked him deeply, like foul music on sleeping ears and so he had receded deeper into his sleep. But what he felt now was glorious to behold, a roar  to be bathed in!

With a guttural roar he kicked his sleeping brother Gormodan. He was always last to rise for slaughter, always slower to shake off his slumber, but Volkorok wouldn't stand for it, he wouldn't miss the days to come now that he had heard the call of battle through the earth itself.

“Hunger…” Gormodan murmured as the larger shaggoth unfurled his horned tail and scarred muscles.

“Soon, but first we wake the others!” Volkorok responded before he beat his chest with his monstrous fists and bellowed a harrowing roar into the deeps that undulated and rattled the very earth. Stalactites cracked and fell thundering into the dark, stone quaked and deeper in the caves there was the sound of dozens of dragon ogres rising from their sleep, a cacophony of bestial roars and scrapping claws that would cause the stoutest of mortals to buckle all the while a foul electricity filled the air. But even as Volkorok was reacquainted with the sound he had heard countless times of the thunderscorn awakening he heard a different noise behind him, one of many more smaller clawed feet scurrying and high pitched voices in the dark.

“Yes quick, quick it came from this way ekk!”

Many furred rat-things burst into the chamber coming to a shuddering halt before the two colossal shaggoth. A rank odour filled the air as several of the ratmen soiled themselves.

“Hunger!” Gormodan roared. And so Kolkorok watched as his slow to rise brother proved once again how quick he was to strike.

The skaven had been ripped apart, barely sating the hunger of the two shaggoth, but the survivors led the now fully awoken thunderscorn to their warren, whose odorous filth filled tunnels none the less were home to hundreds of tasty squirming fleshy things that were devoured without mercy.

Well fed but still lusting for slaughter and war they pushed on through the gore stained skaven nest before they tore from the mountain whose womb they had birthed from, their scaled forms filing out onto a dry plateau of sand, rock and thorny scrub in a plume of crumbling stone and dust. 

Kolkorok and Gormodan bulled their way to the front of the horde, lightening already crackling and arcing from their giant great axes, setting ablaze to the dry grasses around them. And that is when they beheld it…

So vast in size they first thought it was the horizon itself, a wall of jagged toothed peaks with snowcapped summits over a writhing carpet of rainforest that heaved skyward to pierce the very clouds. It was not the land, it was not the horizon, it was the back of something truly monstrous.  It was a rotund beast, a continent almost in size from the same pantheon lineage as Behemat or Dracothion, it was a God-Beast. 

With a world shaking bellow, the roar could be seen tearing across the landscape that moments later broke upon the shaggoth pitching them both to the ground like babes while flattening trees, the beast swung its tusked head low. With a  red eye gleaming like a foul scarlet moon scarred by a quivering red slit, it rent the earth with a gouge a mile long with its tusks as its broad skull connected with the Fanged Peak mountain. Even while still scrambling to stand the warhost of dragon ogres felt the connection as they were tossed as the ground heaved, the mountains around them cracked and crumbled while their ears were filled with a great explosion.

Kolkorok watched as the Bastion of Pain, the dreadhold of gorechosen that was the anchor point for the followers of Khorn in these desolate lands since the coming of Chaos, was obliterated. Twice the thunderscorn had awoken and twice had they seen the dreadhold still standing, an age unbroken. Now it disappeared as the Fanged Peak whose upper slopes it sat upon was smashed into oblivion, untold tons of rock and stone flew up and out in a colossal cloud of dust and carnage that swallowed the small insignificant fragments of blood and brass. The beasts head continued in its destructive arc as if it had met nothing, flinging bedrock and mountain miles into the air.

Again it roared, the very sound pummelling the mountains into rubble, and for the briefest moment its red eyes seemed to be filled with a primal  glee as it watched the rocky remains of its mayhem plummet back to earth, but then they returned to their furious glare. No longer amused with the remnants of the Fanged Peak it turned its head duskward and the beast began to move, one colossal foot after another towards the horizon.

Behind the beast a tide followed, the length and breadth of the land they were legion. Orruks, grots, ogors, beasts and more hollered and roared. War drums throbbed while gargants bellowed, wyverns, maw-crushas and untold other winged fierce things swooped overhead. Beastmen stomped their hooves and clashed their horns all the while the earth split as lush green growth burst from the dry plains as the Prowling Growth took root in the great beasts wake. It was like staring into the storm front, a wall of fury unlike anything else, flowing and roiling. It bite and clawed at itself as hordes turned on one another, as gitmobs ambushed orruks or herds of gore-gruntas snuffled up unwary morsels, but like a tide it heaved as one.

Kolkorok and Gormodan watched, their great axes limp in their grip as they watched Graw the God-Beast stride across the horizon and beyond. They could feel that call fading with it, the storm receding, its very eye centred upon Graw. Wherever that beast went the greatest battles would follow, untold slaughter would be found, they would never slumber again.

And so the thunderscorn descended the plateau and followed the God-Beasts crater-like footfalls over the horizon and to untold wars to come…





*Thought I'd continue with the fluff for each of my commanders backstories and how they came to power. This is how a herd of beastmen came to follow the green gods...

Any feedback, fluff, lore, is greatly appreciated ^^

Thaulgorg the Beastking

Thaulgorg skidded to a halt, his cloven hooves leaving deep gouges in the dry earth. He roared a guttural bellow from his bovine maw as the rest of his bullgors came to a thundering halt.  His sunken eyes darted amongst the herd taking a brief note of their loses.

The bullgors still stood strong, panting and heaving as they quickly set about tearing up the leafless saplings in these barren foothills for a fire as nightfall quickly descended upon them. The centigors had lost a few of their number but already were pawing at the ground preparing to scout ahead for fresh meat. And then there was the rest of the herd, barely catching up. The bestigors were scarcer than most, having took the most casualties, save perhaps the ungors. Most of those had been ripped limb from limb and eaten to sustain the herds constant march, what was left of the weedy beasts had flaked away before they too were feasted upon and their bones used as decorations for their camp.

Thaulgorg was a simple beast, as are most doombulls, but even he was aware of the herds dire straits. The herd had once roamed the Emberlands of Aqshy, reaping a toll of duardin, barbarians and bloodbound alike as they raided the ash choked woodland of those fiery foothills, well that was until the storm came. Lightning shook the flaming peaks and armies of cerulean and gold swept through the region, calling their faith to their thunder god as the herds were hunted and slaughtered. But that had been many seasons ago, as the mountains quaked and belched their molten blood from one cycle to the next, the children of Sigmar were waiting for the herd at every turn. Eventually the herd found itself cornered by the golden warriors, harried by them as they rode on feathered beasts of wind and lightning. There was no battle, no armour to split or flesh for Thaulgorg to cut, just endless strikes and skirmishes that ended as quickly as they started all the while the beasts’ numbers thinned. As a last resort the herd had fled through a portal of colossal construction they found in the side of the mountain, a swirling vortex framed by pillars of stone. Now they were in this new land weak and starving, and even then they were sure whether the stormcast had ceased their pursuit.

“Pathetic.” He growled to himself, causing a nearby gor to shuffle out of arms reach. The movement caught the doombulls eye and before the beastman could think Thaulgorg’s meaty paw wrapped around its horned skull. It bleated and scratched at his arm like a new-born whelp, its axe having fallen to the ground. With a sickening squelch he ripped its head from its shoulders before tearing into its flesh, gorging himself on the stringy meat.

Where were their gods now, they had been silent as the herd buckled. How many herdstones, how many sacrifices, how much had they done for the Dark Ones and still the herd saw nothing in return. The worshippers of Khorn had harried the beastmen long before the stormcast came from the heavens. The herds had been abandoned, even though they were strong, even though they were the rightful rulers of the wilds, now they were fleeing from the golden wretches like vermin.

Bone and marrow crunched as Thaulgorg tasted the savoury tang of blood and spinal fluid. He watched as the bestigors parted, snorting and rumbling amongst themselves as they made way for the Beastlord Kulthorn the Chosen. He strutted about the quickly rising camp, snarling at anything that came too close, even the bullgors watched him wearily. Kulthorn wore a waist of bright orange duardin beards and a few of the short folks sparkling gold adorned his armour like lucky charms as he waved his crooked blade towards the distant horizon.

“These new land will be ours!” Kulthorn bellowed, turning his back to the camps pyre. “The humans will pay, we will feed and slaughter, the Dark Ones bless us!”

Thaulgorg was already ignoring the Beastlord’s droning. Kulthorn spoke too much, something that tested the doombull’s already incredibly short patience. Even after all this time the gor still praised the Dark Ones and what did they have to show for it. No lands, no meat, no battle for Thaulgorg to loose himself to the bloodlust. Already the bull’s meal was spent, splintered bones and torn bits of armour lay scattered at his hooves, but still his gullet rumbled as he thirsted for more blood.

But even as the Beastlord continued his noisome preaching Thaulgorg watched the night sky. Thick black clouds roiled and rolled from the open plains, much different from the lightning filled storm fronts that brought the children of Sigmar. They were thick and heavy, laden with rain that was visibly pounding the far off plains, and the torrential downpour would soon be upon them. But that wasn’t what caught Thaulgorg’s hate filled eyes. Perhaps it was a trick of the night, too long without slaughter dulling his senses. But he saw the clouds part and form gnashing maws of colossal teeth of nimbus that opened wide as rolling thunder rattled the land like a roar. As the first specks of rain pattered against his blood matted hide and then became a torrential deluge a green fork of lightning pierced the sky like a great fracture in the heavens, earthing somewhere over the distant horizon. And in that brief flash of green he saw them, or it, it was too much too briefly for him to comprehend. But even as he shielded his eyes from the burst of light the image was burned into his mind. A two headed god of immeasurably size and strength, thumping the very heavens with its bare fists, its monstrous feet shattering mountains and armies alike as its roars rippled across the world itself. And though he had never heard it before, the gods name echoed in his mind.

Thaulgorg found himself back in the pouring rain, the heavy downpour hissing as it struck the camp pyre, the flames burning low as they fought the oncoming storm. Thaulgorg could feel his corded muscles bulging, his heart and blood pounding as he gripped the iron-shod haft of his great axe. He could feel a drumming in his skull, a constant rhythm that screamed for battle and beckoned him to the heart of the storm, forever promising war and rage and untold flesh to strip and eat, all the while the beastlord continued.

“You all have failed me, weaklings. How else can the hairless ones best us, why else would the Dark Ones punish us?”

Still Kulthorn continued his rambling, and that once irritating itch from his bleating voice in Thaulgorg’s mind became a raging inferno.

“You have failed.” The doombull’s voice was low, like grating rocks, a rumble that cut across the camp and stilled all who heard the voice that broke the Beastlord’s preaching.

“You dare speak out to me like that bull!” Kulthorn roared, stabbing his sword in the doombull’s direction, a good thirty paces separating them.

“Dark Ones gone. They are weak.” Thaulgorg growled as he rose from his stooped position, the hulking mass of muscle and scarred hide towering above the beastlord. “Quiet they are, but this land speaks and it is strong.”

Murmurs rippled through the herd. Even Kulthorn’s own guard of bestigors were grunting and bleating amongst themselves. The doombull’s words though blunt none the less sparked something amongst them. Rare was it for a bullgor to utter many words, rarer still for their minds to be voiced and such an event caught many of the beasts off-guard. Though Thaulgorg did not know it, others began whispering of how the distant thunder tugged at them, how the land seemed to growl like something monstrous and wild, a force that called and felt like something far more… godlike.

“You speak ill of the Dark Ones!” Kulthorn snarled as he took several steps towards the bull in his own rage. “You forget your place bull, remember it before I have the herd remind you before your hide is peeled from your corpse!” Still the beastlord stormed forwards as his raging breath left his nostrils in steaming plumes.

Thaulgorg gripped his great axe, shifting his massive horned head from side to side as he glared at every living thing around him. Not one of them met his gaze save the bullgors, but neither did they move from where they stood, they knew which of the two was to be feared.

“The Dark Ones failed us!” Thaulgorg thundered, his voice rebounding off the nearby hills. “Humans they give to, the bloodbound ones are blessed, weak and hairless! No longer I follow! There is a new god here and it is strong!”

Now the murmurings were loud enough to carry across the camp, doubt had sown itself into the herd. There was talk of roars and green, of battle and carnage followed then by a broken name, as if half remembered from a fevered dream…

“You will die wretch for spea-ACK!”

Thaulgorg’s axe swung forth with blinding speed, cutting the beastlord words short. Kulthorn barely had time to raise his own blade before the weight of steel shattered it along with his arm and sent him sprawling to the muddy ground.

Thaulgorg snorting in disgust. Kulthorn was a ruthless leader when he first ascended to head of the herd but Thaulgorg had always seen him as weak, but now he had proven himself stupid as well. In his rage the wretch had strayed too far for his guard to defend him and now they stood there like frightened sheep before the wolf.

Kulthorn was large, even for the most prime of bestigors but still the doombull lifted him with one hand by his gasping throat, till he held him aloft like some broken trophy for all to see.

“Puny!” the bull roared. “You lead to nothing and call us weak!” With a snarl Thaulgorg sank his teeth into Kulthorn’s good arm at the shoulder, before ripping it from the socket as the beastman let loose a gargling howl. The doombull spat the tattered limb into the mud where it continued to twitch.

“The Dark Ones are dead and we follow the beast!”

Even as Kulthorn’s blood left him, rivulets so thick even the heavy rain couldn’t wash it away, he could hear them. The herd was chanting now, a slow beat that ebbed and flowed with the wind and the pouring rain.

“Gorka… gorka… morka… morka…”

Even the bullgors had begun to stomp their hooves and clash their weapons on their shields, adding to the rising din.

“You will die… urk… you betrayer... the Dark Ones will find you…” Even as he spoke Kulthorn’s words were growing fainter as his struggling weakened.

“I will break them!” Thaulgorg roared as he grasped the beastlord’s chest in one hand, crushing ribs and organs alike while gripping his leg in the other. The doombull heaved as the leader of the herd was ripped in twain, his entrails spilling forth in ropes and gore.

“We are beasts and we follow the Beast-God!” he roared as the halves of corpse were thrown to the ground. The herd roared in response, cheering on the carnage as they stomped hooves, beat shields and bellowed into the storm.

“Who do we follow?!” Thaulgorg roared to his kin as another crack of green light illuminated the roiling sky and far above two tusked filled maws grinned.




* A bit of fluff for a piece I'm working...

Bullgrog da Iron Warlord

It was with a crunching pop that the snotling vanished beneath Bullgrog’s iron-shod boot, the bat eared thing, ironically, didn't seem to hear him approach as it tried to pry an orruks skull from the still receding vine. The knotted growth proceeded to tighten around the bleached white skull, as if it's prize of bone and marrow was still at risk.

Bullgrog spat a globule of phlegm at it. These forests, or as the orruks called them, The Deff Growf, was not a safe place to lead any band be they a dozen or a thousand. No matter their number the forest always seemed to take its toll. Funny how the plants never seemed to munch on the snotlings though, lucky blighters were favoured that way he guessed.

With a hefty swing of his choppa the towering Ironjaw cleared a swath of undergrowth before him as he pressed onwards into the stinking mass of vines and ferns. The trees were broad and the growth thick. Fanged reptiles scuttled through the leaves while saw beaked birds whirled overhead, some had already landed to pick at the snotlings smeared remains. In the Deff Growf nothing went to waste. As he cut his way through, he could hear the lads making progress behind him. Two hundred strong and still the going was slow, no matter how fast they chopped with their choppas or hacked with their hakkas. Eventually one of the boys would stumble upon a nest of fanged hornets or even a greater jungle squig and pandemonium would break loose before they could get things back under control, often after Bullgrog had loosened some of their teef.

This is the part he hated the most. It had been three seasons since Graw  the God-Beast had led them on a good rump over the Screaming Peaks. Bullgrog had never seen so many wyverns in his entire life, thousands of the scaly buggers let loose from their lairs all along the peaks as good ol’ Graw took the straight path through the mountains. Bullgrog hated wyverns, he hated flying even, nothing beat having two feet on the ground without the worry of plummeting to his death and missing all the fighting. The God-Beast tore through the very bones of the land sending untold amounts of bedrock and mountain ahead of it in a great tidal wave of destruction. Graw thundered through the mountains only to tear out the other side and what was waiting for them? Spiky chaos boys, war-bands of them! That was a scrap Bullgrog sure did miss. Them lads always put up a good fight, though in the end Graw ate their portal thingy and  eventually the chaos runts were overrun.

Now Graw slept and the Deff Growf was in full swing, growing and expanding to anywhere it could set its roots all the while the tribes of orruks and ogors throughout what was once the Skull Foothills of the Screaming Peaks were carving out their little fiefdoms before Graw awoke once more. It was the main reason Bullgrog was hacking his way through the stinking woods. Some jumped up ogors had taken over a right nice bunch of caves he had had his eye on for quite some time and it was now time that he rightfully claimed ownership. The downside was getting to those damn caves.

The Bonesplitters knew the Growf inside and out, their wurrgogs and even their wardokks could navigate the forests through the safest paths thanks to their stinking bones. Cheating that's what that is! And the gitmobs were no better, if it wasn't their tunnels or their skuttly spiders the buggers would just run full pelt through the jungle, they had the numbers, who cares if one ore two boys fell into git munching plants or a stray gore-grunta gullet. If he could find a way to get through-


Fleshrippers took flight from the canopy above screeching their distress while the plants quivered, no doubt their own sentience playing part, as an undulating roar ripped through the forest and shook Bullgrog to his bones.

“Probably just a maw-crasha right boss?” one of the lads called out. A side wards glare was all Bullgrog needed to give for one of the others to give him a crack over the back of the head for being stupid.

“Naw…” Bullgrog muttered, he knew his crushas better then most.

Bullgrog was a youngin’ when he raided around the Bellowing Cliffs by the Sea of Big Fings and those storm battered cliffs were the lair of many a crusha. And though maw-crashas were known for their bellowing volume they never made ‘that’ much noise.

“Much bigger…”

The sun had begun to set, the flaming sphere seeming to be swallowed by the horizon as it cast the Deff Growf in even deeper and darker shadows, the forest taking a brief titian hue that would no doubt be swallowed by the coming night in a matter of hours.

It was on the bank of a sluggish river that Bullgrog discovered the source of all the commotion, as for much of that evening the roars had continue to shake the forest all around. Mired in the algae covered muck of the riverbank was a monstrosity that almost dwarfed the trees. A rotund scaled beast with colossal tusks thrashed about the muck with little success, it's beady vicious eyes glaring at anything that moved.

It was a squiggoth, a bloody huge one at that. It could step on a stonehorn and not notice, it's trunk like legs had sunk into the mud and with each tremendous heave it gave to dislodge itself the trees shook and the rivers waters sloshed and churned.

“You thinking strange things Bullgrog…” A deep croaking voice muttered, so close that it took all of Bullgrog's control not swing his choppa before he turned his head.

It was Ztraga the shaman, cloaked in a filthy tattered grunta hide. Usually the shaman grinned from ear to ear however at that moment his face was serious, his brows furrowed over his sunken eyes, his tongue licking his one good tusk.

“A touch a’ Graw be in dis one” he muttered, tracing his staff in the air, drawing the symbol of Graw where none could see, that is until he stomped his foot and a wispy green image of the God-Beast floated over his head from under his cloak,  disappearing just as quickly back beneath his robes. The other ironjaws muttered amongst themselves in awe and though none would admit it, a little trepidation.

“Da spawn of Graw are chosen by Gorkamorka himself,” Ztraga continued, “dead killy, and when they get mad? They get real mean!” Ztraga broke off into a howling cackling as he skipped down to the edge of the mire, starting his ritualistic shaking and jigging just out of reach of the squiggoth. The behemoth looked like it wanted to squash the shaman flat, but for the life of it couldn't move its foot towards him, and so it snorted and glared at the strange irritating gyrating thing.

“BOYS!” Bullgrog roared, answered by the sound clanking armour and grunts of affirmation.

“Fetch da chains and all da iron we got! This is da only chance we got at this!”

Several days and much chaos later...

Bullgrog roared in triumph as the world shook around him. The squiggoth kept a lumbering pace as it flattened the forest before it, it's bulk splintering trees and crushed anything that wasn't quick enough to get out of its way. With a titanic roar it bulled its way through a particularly dense stand of trees, it's tusks uprooted them without breaking pace. Occasionally it would stop and something would squeal before being cut off by an abrupt squelch and the squiggoth would carry on.


Behind him the line of orruks roared in agreement, hooting and hollering at all the mayhem and destruction they followed.

Astride the beast on a makeshift howdah of chains, logs and iron bands rode Bullgrog and his finest boys. It took him four days and lost nearly fifty ironjaws trying to wrangle the haphazard platform onto the beast but it was worth it. All the beast needed now was a nudge the right direction and it would take off charging. Now his lads followed him on his finest of steads, the world being crushed before him. Ztraga stood at the head of the howdah above the beasts broad skull, his own howling joining the clamour as he danced frantically, almost somersaulting off the squiggoth once or twice.

“Gorkamorka be watching and Graw be with us!” He hollered as a crack of green energy arced out randomly from his smoking staff and set a tree ablaze. “We cannot fail HAHAHA!”

Those ogors will definitely regret taking what was Bullgrog's, and so would the rest of the weakling denizens of the Deff Growf for this was his domain now. They will know the might of Bullgrog da Iron Warlord or be devoured by his offspring of Graw!




Even more beasts...

It has been so long... you take one hit of Mudstikks Madcap brew and BAM! 

So I got to thinking, as long as you get stuck in and bash stuff (whether it's moving or not it doesn't matter) orruks, ogors, grots, even fimir and all we get along right. Since chaos went all mad and broke everything, and then went even madder and turned on itself, their is one faction that's been left out (bar the really new tzeentch weirdos ;)) and that's the beastmen. They like fighting and killin' like us, they're good eaters too, love their meat and setting things on fire, not to mention Gorkamorka is da God of Beasts! So my tribe has opened its bloody arms to the beasties, the thunderskorn and their minotaur monsters, after all is it that hard to imagine our plane smashin' god inspiring some new worshippers? Opinions welcome!

Pics coming soon of some Gorkamorka worshipping beastmen!


Da First Boys

Here are some of the lads, which are mainly just me testing some basing ideas a while ago along with what paint scheme I wanted to try out.


I think some Beastclaw Raider are to be next, the Everwinter is hungry and I can't wait to try out some fur schemes ^^


Graw, The God-Beast

So Graw, the beast behind the horde. So here is a little fluff before I start posting my models. 

The Legend of Graw, The God-Beast

Perhaps it was during the Age of Myth when the beast tore from across the horizon, spawned from some savage domain where only beasts of pantheon proportions survived. Or perhaps it is a freak of its kind having swelled to elephantine size after devouring some overconfident demigod. All I can be sure of is during the Age of Myth came the God-Beast, The Breaker, Peak-Eater, Graw the Unstoppable, and since that time it has devoured mountains, drained seas and shattered the empires of all those unfortunate enough to find themselves swallowed by its looming shadow.

It was said that many true beasts tramped across Ghur through the Age of Myth before Sigmar set forth Gorkamorka and his orruk kin to tame it, and for a while they did As they slew the titans and littered the realms with their bones, however it was not to last. As much their nature as Ghur itself eventually the leash was thrown free and Gorkamorka set forth on the worlds with wild abandon. Perhaps we called Graw upon ourselves, our failed attempts to tame that which can never be tamed; merely infuriating the very land we now campaign across against the forces of Chaos, the hunting and culling simply calling forth a creature that defied us in its mere existence, and pulverised our arrogance of dominion like reeds before the hurricane.

Graw is quite simply a beast to rival all beasts, a predator of colossal proportions. Graw itself rivals mountains in sheer size and enormity, and when seen from a distance the craggy peaks of its rolling back look no different to a far off mountain range, until to the surprise of most it moves and the earth for leagues around  quakes with each monumental footstep. Atop the God-Beast are jagged peaks of stone like mountains that rise from the beasts back, harsh mounts that at times are wreathed in frost and snow. At some time in the ancient past it is said that Graw traveled to the southern jungles of Ghur, the Everwilds, where the thorn covered  jungles are just as willing to sink their  teeth into flesh as the beasts that stalk them. Perhaps the essence of Ghyran had found its way to those vicious valleys but the fanged plants and flesh eating blooms of the Everwilds possess an unnatural vigour, able to take root from windblown seeds  in the most inhospitable of places from the searing ash fields of Aqshy to the shadowed clefts of Shyish’ Nocturn Depths. What is known is that between Graw’s own mountainous peaks that rise from its spine  a blanket of carnivorous rainforest has taken root and now flourishes and where the beast treads pockets of steaming jungle are quick to take root.

When Graw bellows, the very sound perhaps the origin of its orruk name, it rends the heavens above, forests are flattened before it and the steel is  beaten from the will of mortals. Graw is the the wilds incarnate, unstoppable and utterly destructive. The fyreslayers of the Molten Lake once let loose upon it with their magma craft thinking their citadel safe with leagues of lava between them and the beast. Their arrogance was quickly quashed when Graw swam across the molten sea like some vast predatory island  and devoured their keep. The skaven thought themselves safe  untold leagues beneath the Bonepeak Mountains but Graw still smelt their stench and dug them from their subterranean lairs like the vermin they are and feasted on the shrieking rat things and their creations. And even before them when chaos came to Ghur and the champion demons of Khorn thought to pit themselves against the God-Beast, like they had a chance. How many demon princes and bloodthirsters last sights were Graw’s feet descending to crush them into oblivion. Perhaps one of the great Plaguespawn of Ghyran might one day match Graw, or even the Necrogargants of Shyish, but I myself doubt it for the annals of history surrounding Graw are simply an obituary to the kingdoms, races and monsters that have met their fate the day they crossed paths with the God-Beast. 

Since its arrival the God-Beast Graw has raged across Ghur, from the Sea of Claws to the Roarings Sands and even to the Lost Isles. On occasion Graw has even been known to rampage straight through to other realms when it's rage is great enough, but eventually the winds of beast magic will pull Graw back to its home plane, however by then the damage has already been done. There are many titanic creatures that have roamed the realms and especially Ghur since the Age of Myth, many of which the gods even feared when they first awoke however what sets Graw apart from most monstrous wild beings is  its connection with the children of Gorkamorka. The beast draws all offspring of Gorkamorka like moths to a flame, they flock to the behemoth of carnage and ravenous hunger and some believe Graw truly does carry the green gods favour.
It is said some of the first Bonesplitter orruks set themselves against Graw when it was young, its bones a prize worthy of the greatest shaman,  but they were none the less devoured one tribe after the other until the first Prophet of Graw asked his bones how to slay the beast. The response from his seers bones, the knuckle bones of an Ur-Drake, was an explosion of green flame and splintered bone that really should have killed him there and then, but he stepped out of the smoke and flame, a vision burning in his beady red eyes. Graw was the gods chosen beast, and where ever it roamed, hunts, fighting and as much meat as they could fit in their tusk filled gobs would follow. And so began the first of many tribes of Graw, followers of the God-Beast. Now, many generations later, the Prophet of Graw, stands atop an idol of colossal beast bones atop Graw’s broad skull, divining where the God-Beast and his followers will hunt next. Orruks, ogors and grots alike follow the beast from one horizon to the next, knowing all too well that Graw will lead them to the next big fight be it the beasts of chaos, the ghouls of the flesh eating courts or our own stormcast warriors. Even upon his own back tribes of orruks, grots and ogors fight as much as with each other as the predatory plants and carnivorous jungles that call Graw their home, it is even said when Graw sets itself upon a kingdom that its followers will descend to the world below, grateful that the God-Beast has carried them to new and exotic fighting grounds. 

Now where ever Graw the Unstoppable,the  Earthbreaker, the Beastmaw roams, the hordes of Gorkamorka are soon to follow. 

I aided in the retaking of Aqshy. I fell during to Age of Chaos as the twisted sons of Khorn tore my family apart in the Dustlands of Ghur and was brought back by Sigmar himself to bring vengeance down upon the spawn of the dark gods. But now I doubt. Graw cares not for conquest, or kingdoms or even the whims of gods. The worlds quake before his hunger and break beneath his rage.

The God-Beast cometh...


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