Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

The dwarves tugged at their beards, their rough knuckles twisting and turning in their hair and beards, producing a suppressed, low grating sound as they groaned in the coarsest, most primitive language. They first glared at the Phoenix King, their eyes like burning coals, then turned to their fallen brethren.

The heavy body lay crookedly on the ground, life slowly flowing from below the ruptured chest cavity, spreading into a dark puddle on the smooth ground.

“Thagi!” Freyke roared, his fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms, but the cold spearhead against his neck immobilized him, forcing him to swallow his anger and despair.

Thagi—Khazali—means a vicious traitor.

Tessanier turned sharply towards Freyk, his movement swift and decisive, as if the air in the hall had been sliced ​​open in that instant.

“Brother, wait…” Imradik tried to dissuade him, his voice filled with urgency and unease, but Tessanir raised his hand and pushed him away, the force not strong, but with an undeniable determination.

"You burned my city!" Tessanir said to the dwarf, his voice deep and cold, each syllable as if carved into stone. "And you come here demanding an apology and compensation? I will not apologize, you swine. I only accept pleas, and you and your kind are unworthy of either!"

“Let us go!” Flake warned, his voice trembling with suppressed anger. “Let us take the remains of Gillias Thunderhead back to his clan, you damned pointy-eared thing.”

Tessanil sneered, sizing up Frek as if he were weighing a worthless animal. He reached out and grabbed Frek's beard, pulling hard until the coarse hair was taut and Frek winced in pain, letting out a low groan.

“You’re a savage creature, a pig,” he told Flake with a cruel smile.

“I cannot get involved in this!” Imradik said, shaking his head, his face pale. He was about to turn and leave when his brother’s cold command kept him rooted to the spot.

“You stay here and witness it for yourself!” Tessanir said, his tone almost deliberately cruel. “I want you to see what your indulgence has bred in these pigs.”

Imradik glared at him, his chest heaving as if he were about to explode, but in the end, he forced himself to stand still and silently obeyed.

"Let us go!" Flake's voice was a mixture of fear and anger, his breathing rapid. "What do you want?"

“You know, I am not entirely ignorant of your customs!” Tessanil released the beard from his hand, letting it fall back onto Freyk’s chest. As he spoke, he slowly backed away, his steps calm and composed.

Hulvear drew a long dagger from his belt; the soft clang of metal being drawn was particularly jarring in the silent hall. Several guards who hadn't participated in suppressing the dwarf also drew their daggers at the same time, their cold gleams flashing in their hands.

"I know you guys take your beards very seriously, right?"

"Brother, no!" Imradik warned sharply.

"Stop right there!" Tessanir shouted sharply, turning around abruptly to glare at Imradrick with a piercing gaze before turning his attention back to the dwarves.

"Please don't do this, I beg you." Flake glared at him, but tears welled up in his eyes, and his pleading voice was almost inaudible, like a crushed vow.

“Now, he’s pleading. Now, he’s begging!” Tessanil’s tone carried an almost satisfied chill. “Too late, you swine. My brother is right, you are both proud and defiant.” He raised a finger, as if finally grasping the answer to a question that had long troubled him. “But I know how to humble you!”

"please……"

“Tessanir!” Imradik warned again, his voice almost cracking.

"Shut up, brother. I am your king, now do as I say."

“I beg you,” Freyk’s voice trembled and broke. “This is our heritage, our bloodline. This will bring immense shame to my clan, to all our clans.”

Tessanier's gaze was as cold and unfeeling as the stones in his hall; he simply looked at Freyk as if examining a piece of material awaiting processing.

“Shave them, every inch of their hair that is infested with lice.”

Hurvial and the other elves, who had drawn their daggers, stepped forward. The dwarves struggled fiercely, their heavy bodies twisting and slamming against the ground, but the elves held them firmly. Freik howled, and he and his followers unleashed a string of curses in Kazari, their voices echoing beneath the dome, but no one answered.

Tessanir returned to his throne to watch, sitting upright and calm, as if what was happening before him was just a routine ceremony.

The elves were merciless in their execution; sharp blades traced lines along skin, cutting and slashing as fists and feet rained down, the dull thuds of blows echoing throughout. Blood splattered onto the pristine white floor of the Phoenix Palace, creating a stark contrast.

The dwarves resisted, biting, kicking, scratching, and growling like wild beasts, but to no avail. The elves held them down until every inch of their faces, chins, and necks, covered in bruises and cuts, was shaved clean, leaving them naked and humiliated.

Throughout the entire humiliation, Tessanier remained indifferent, his gaze unwavering.

"See, brother? I told you they would become humble."

After saying that, Tessanir turned to look at Imradrick.

However, Imradik had already turned and left.

The Battle of the Longbeard, the Battle of Revenge, has officially begun.
-
Flake returned to the dwarven kingdom, without glory or forgiveness, carrying only old wounds and indelible shame. Some time later, he led his troops in the attack on Ayso Taralion. (Chapter 235)
As Aesol Taralion was engulfed in flames, roars, and collapses by the sea of ​​claws, Flake did not stop. He led his forces forward, pursuing the elven refugees who had fled into the forest. Horns echoed through the woods, axes cleaved through bushes and fear, and an elven settlement called Cole Imamor was burned and leveled, stone pillars collapsed, and ancient trees charred.

However, in the end...

Dalorhan has entered the stage.

It wasn't a battle in the true sense of the word; the forest of Lauren Loren itself seemed to come alive.

Flake's troops, along with all the other dwarven soldiers who had penetrated deep into Lauren Loren, were completely wiped out. Only he himself staggered out amidst the chaos, bloodshed, and fear. (Chapter 273)
However, in reality, the situation was far more complex than recorded.

In official history, it was "Lord of the Tunnels," Brock Stonefist, who destroyed Cole Imamor. Flake and his troops were subordinate to Brock. However, the decision to enter Lauren Loren was made by Flake himself, a decision influenced by Drogor.

Drogor...

He is the Tzeentch Demon Prince lurking in the dwarven society; his real name is Hertaken.

They can be described as a pair of sleeping dragons and phoenix chicks.

The elves have the Duruchi trio, while the dwarves have a Tzeentch demon lurking in their midst.

1+1 is greater than 2.

As Drogor, Hertaken claimed his clan was wiped out by arrows during a long journey. The shape, fletching, and scars of those arrows all resembled those used by elves. Thus, the demons quietly sowed discord and suspicion against the elves within dwarven society, and Prince Snowry Halfhand became one of his friends.

Snowry took Drogor's advice very seriously, while Hertaken gradually stirred up hatred and arrogance in the dwarf prince's heart. Ultimately, at Hertaken's instigation, Snowry launched an attack on Kol Vanas (now Aldolf).

Asanok was also present at the time.

So... some things are really hard to judge?

If Snowry hadn't launched the raid on Cole Vanas, perhaps with Imradik's mediation, Freik wouldn't have suffered the humiliation of being shaved.

Is there any possibility that the two sides can sit down and talk?

Or perhaps, all of this is just an illusion, an assumption that was never valid from the beginning, and once certain points are crossed, the ending becomes inevitable.

And the initial node...

During the reign of High King Snowry Whitebeard, Hertaken fought alongside Nurgle's demon prince Alkhhor, leading a Tzeentch army against the combined forces of Malekith and Snowry at the foot of Mount Karragflake. (Search "Sins of the Ancestors" on Bilibili if interested.)

During the Battle of Longbeard, Drogor served as Snowry's standard-bearer. Under the banner, he constantly encouraged Snowry to take more brutal actions in war, using the illusion of victory to cover up the costs, and devised a plan to bring about a showdown between Snowry and King Caledo II.

However, before that fateful duel, Hertaken subtly shook Snowry's heart, causing the dwarf prince to begin to doubt his destiny, his qualifications, and the favor of the gods.

Determination was weakened, and sharpness was eroded by hesitation.

In the end, Snowry died in the duel.

Hertaken, in the end, had its identity exposed. But it was all in vain; the war was nearing its end, its mission was complete, and the hatred no longer needed to be fueled.

For ten years, Frederick, who had fled Lauren Loren, wandered among the mountains, without his people, without his banner, only accompanied by the wind, snow, and memories. Until one day, he appeared in Karak Cadlin.

He walked to the temple of Grimnir and, under the astonished gaze of the priests, slowly removed his armor. He knelt before the icon of the ancestral god, shaved his head, and made a terrible and irreversible vow—to become a butcher.

Then, just as suddenly as he appeared, he left.

Stories began to circulate about a mad, beardless dwarf who battled trolls at a mountain pass. He would challenge any beast or greenskin he encountered, regardless of the odds. Axe fell, blood splattered on the snow, and vows were fulfilled time and again in the echoes.

Frek Grimbock soon acquired a new name: Frek Troll Butcher.
-
The court steward, Hulvear, was equally intriguing… Caladrell was startled awake. He didn't open his eyes immediately, but instinctively pricked up his ears, letting the darkness and silence permeate the bedchamber, waiting for that faint but untimely sound to reappear. The minutes stretched long in the silence, and his alertness paid off.

From the direction of the door came barely audible footsteps. What had startled him earlier was the very soft sound of the door slowly opening.

At that moment, he held his breath, listening to the intruder's movements as he crept into the room. The faint groans of the wooden floorboards bearing weight were deliberately suppressed, but they still did not escape the ears of someone accustomed to the undercurrents of court life.

Caladrell had long since developed the habit of sleeping with a dagger strapped to his arm. Now, he silently drew the blade, concealing it behind his back, using the curtain and his body to hide its sharpness. He wasn't a skilled thrower, and even harbored doubts about the use of any weapon, but he knew in his heart that the closer the enemy was, the greater his chances of victory. He forced himself to slow his heartbeat, hold his breath, and wait for the stealthy footsteps to approach.

When he judged that the visitor had reached the foot of the bed, he made a move that he was sure would catch the visitor off guard. Although he was not a martial arts master, he had lived in the Saffir court for a long time and had learned a few tricks for self-defense through observation and exposure.

He closed his eyes, focused his mind, and whispered a flashing incantation.

In an instant, dazzling white light burst forth from the room, illuminating the originally dim bedroom as if it were daytime.

The bed then trembled violently, and some heavy and fierce force suddenly pierced through the bedding.

Caladrell opened his eyes and saw a dagger deeply embedded in the bedsheets, while a dizzy, unsteady elf stood beside the bed, frantically and desperately searching for the weapon that had slipped from his grasp. Enraged by the blatant atrocity of infiltrating his bedchamber to assassinate him, he swung his blade, the sharp edge tracing a cold arc in the bright light, slicing fiercely across the assassin's hand.

The assassin staggered back in pain and terror, clutching his wounded hand as he did so. Caladrell was shocked; that face was all too familiar.

"Hulviar!"

That shout, however, led to a terrible mistake. The steward, roaring in shock and rage, turned and pounced on the source of the sound like a cornered beast. Hulvear gripped Caladrell's neck tightly with both hands, his thumbs pressing precisely and cruelly into his trachea, the force almost crushing his throat.

Caladrell's vision blurred, his chest burned, yet he still mustered all his strength to plunge the dagger into Hulvear's chest, stabbing him repeatedly. Warm blood soaked through his robes, dripping down his wrists. Just when he thought he would surely die before the steward, he suddenly felt the grip on his neck loosen.

With a low, broken groan, the other person lost their support and collapsed onto him.

With his last ounce of strength, Caladrell pushed the body aside, letting it fall heavily to the ground with a dull thud. He gasped for breath, the air cutting into his lungs like a knife.

The doors of the sleeping quarters were then flung open with a loud crash.

Caladrell looked up and saw two White Lion Guards standing prominently at the door. He could almost picture himself: covered in blood, his robe disheveled, clutching a bloodstained dagger, while the King's steward's blood-soaked corpse lay almost at his feet.

Just as he was about to explain the horrific and absurd scene, the White Lion Guards strode forward.

"Is Your Excellency injured?" a guard asked, tugging at his robe to quickly examine his wounds. He then added in a low voice, "The sentry outside the door has been killed."

“You’ve come at just the right time, you’re very lucky,” Caladrell said breathlessly.

“It wasn’t luck, sir.” The guard shook his head, gently nudged Hulvear’s body with the tip of his boot, and said gravely, “We were originally here to guide the messenger to see you. Lord Hulvear said he would wake you first, but the messenger insisted that his intelligence was urgent. It was because of his insistence that we came at this time.”

Caladrell's gaze passed over the guards and landed on the doorway, where the messenger was Leandera's father.

“Please forgive my intrusion, but the news I carry is of utmost urgency.” Prince Caledo bowed as he approached the bed, his expression solemn and restrained. He looked down at Hulvear’s body, his gaze lingering. “Perhaps… more urgent than any of us know, a Duruch fleet has been spotted sailing from Nagarus.”

These words sent a chill down Caladrell's spine, not from the impending war, but from the corpse that had just died at his feet. He stared at Hulvear's face, having just assumed the steward was carrying out an assassination on Tessanir's dying wish, but now he realized—this man had another lord he served!
Not all who believe Malekith possesses the authority of the Phoenix King are like Duruci. Among the Ten Kingdoms, some still consider the Witch-King the legitimate ruler. Malekith's meticulous planning in placing the rebellious Asur beside Tessanir is truly remarkable.

Hulvear remained by Tessanir's side, offering slanderous advice and fueling Tessanir's violence and suspicion.

Caladrell is the fifth Phoenix King.
-
As for Aurora...

Around 3000 BC, during the reign of the second Phoenix King, Bel-Shana, the existence of the Sacred Empire was first recorded and whispered about. This was the earliest noteworthy human civilization known to the Elves.

And then, that was it.

Trade between Ulthuan and Saturn truly began during the reign of the eighth Phoenix King, Edith. Spices, silk, and jade flowed by sea into the ports of the Elves, changing the fates of certain families. Twilight Keep's initial mission was to protect these trade interests, while also guarding the westward shipping lanes to the sea colonies south of Nebon and Saturn.

However, the two sides have never formally established diplomatic relations, and the reasons for this are complex.

The Aurora faction believes that Asur's attitude toward dragons is offensive in itself—they actually regard dragons as equal beings.

This world is one planet.

Duruci's fleet traversed the underground sea of ​​Nagalos, entered the Boiling Sea, and then sailed out of the Boiling Sea to the Far Sea, and after that...

There is no doubt that trade brings wealth.

While wealth cannot buy status, it can expand influence, and influence can ultimately influence the social class of the nobility. Families engaged in maritime trade were often nobles themselves; however, in kingdoms like Caledon, Avalon, and Elion, which emphasized tradition and bloodline, commercial activities still carried an indelible stigma.

Formal diplomatic relations between Ulthuan and Celestial would not be established until Finnubar ascended to the throne of the Phoenix King.

In Darkus's view, Master Ma should have arrived in Ulthuan aboard the Green Ark, not on an elven ship. This arrangement seemed somewhat undignified, but reality left no room for argument; the Green Ark had another mission: to safely transport the key back to Lustria, far more important than a diplomatic visit.

Although Darkus himself was an elf, or at least played the role of an elf, in his perception, elves had many troublesome flaws. For example, arrogance.

To put it more bluntly, they fear power but not morality, and they'll fawn over anyone who gives them a little encouragement.

Since we can't ride the Green Ark, we can only make up for it elsewhere... Seeing is believing, and hearing is always more reliable.

What followed was even more ruthless: they then focused on propaganda and public opinion, emphasizing the key role the lizardmen played in the process of impersonating elephants.

In such an unprecedented and historic moment, interwoven with sacred majesty and the clash of civilizations, the music chosen by the elves had to transcend all conventional welcoming music or courtly ceremonial music.

It needs to satisfy multiple aspects simultaneously: embody the highest artistic achievements of the elves, carry ritualistic solemnity, express awe for the ancient and unfathomable divinity of Slan, and be able to coexist with the environment and spiritual pressure emanating from Slan, rather than conflict with each other.

Therefore, the most suitable choice is not a single piece of music, but a multi-movement, progressive spiritual symphonic poem that includes improvisational passages and magical elements, rising and falling like breaths, and resonating with the space itself.

Long ago, Darkus knew this day would come, and thus he made preparations well in advance. The music was composed by Lyrael, the demigod and offspring of Loyk, and performed by the orchestra led by Torandil. It was the same group that had seen him off and walked at the front, but their numbers were strictly limited to fifty.

The entire planning and coordination was led by Renn, whose deputy was Asanok, who had served as an envoy to Lazar-a-Carak more than once in his youth.

After all, diplomacy should be handled by those who know best how to conduct themselves.

Mazdamudi, seated on the palanquin, opened his eyes. His gaze, deep and calm like ancient stars, slowly revealed itself, but instead of looking in the direction of Darkus, he looked across the crowd, silently focusing on Kazorin and the Phoenix Guards behind him. His gaze wasn't sharp, but it carried an indescribable weight, as if weighing, confirming some arrangement already written into destiny…

On the Elven side, besides military and political officials, civilians, and the band, there were also neatly standing soldier formations. The first formation was led by the Phoenix Guard Captain Kadjoin, whose golden and red feathers shimmered silently in the light and shadow, their faces cold and focused, as if standing at the crossroads of history and the end.

Beside him stood the White Lion Guards, led by Captain Ke Haiyin. Their white lion skin cloaks hung down their shoulders, heavy and imposing, and a sense of suppressed wildness and the sharp edge of royal power could be faintly seen in the ranks.

Following them were the squares led by Vilanis, Barklon, Elsalion, Alaros, and the brothers Agatagu and Acregun, each with their own distinct style, yet maintaining perfect order within the ranks, like voices of different ranges, awaiting command.

Like the orchestra, each square formation consists of fifty people. The number is not large, but it reveals a deliberate symmetry and symbolism in silence.

"Ugh."

Mazdamudi murmured softly, a sound so low it was almost swallowed by the air, more like a resonance from the depths of his mind. Then, he closed his eyes again, his massive body returning to a near-still state on the palanquin.

The moment Shi Lan closed his eyes again, the second part: the continuation—'The Awakening of the Roots' began to play.

The rhythm is slow yet firm, as if an irreversible process has been quietly initiated. Richer harmonies layer upon layer, and a deep timbre gradually fills the space. The dominant instruments are the cello and resonator, with deep and resonant strings; interspersed with very few, yet extremely widespread, female humming vocals, drifting in the air like a thin mist.

The melody borrows from fragments of the oldest elven epics, but is deliberately slowed down, with the tempo reduced to an almost ritualistic pace. Deep instruments simulate the tremors and echoes deep within the earth, while the humming of the female voice symbolizes the whispers of the collective consciousness of the elven race—a sense of awe and curiosity that originates from the depths of their blood, both distant and inescapable.

The music and the lizardman's steps created an indirect and subtle rhythmic resonance. The rise and fall of the foot pads and the heavy beats of the musical phrases were almost inseparable, yet they never clashed. Instead, they adapted to each other invisibly, demonstrating the elven art's ability to embrace and harmonize the rhythms of other races.

Following Zerag were five Ankylosaurus. Their thick carapaces resembled shifting rock formations, and on their backs were unactivated Shaper Engines. Even without being activated, energy subtly flowed between their structures, emanating an unsettling yet orderly aura.

"A professional team!"

Bellorda, who knew what the Shaper Engine was used for and even how to operate it, tilted her head, lowered her voice, and whispered to Serene beside her, her tone carrying a hint of half-serious admiration.

"We're going to be very busy."

Serene simply smiled in response. (End of Chapter)