So I've been wanting to write fluff for the Fyreslayers since it was confirmed that they were coming next, and now that I have seen what the actual fluff is I'm even more inspired. I know that Age of Sigmar is not the most popular thing for a lot of people here, but I hope you still enjoy the story.

So here is my take on the Drakkhart Lodge of Fireslayers in Aqshy, thank you for reading.

[SIZE=16px]A deep rumble roused a slumbering Aevarr. His bleary eyes wandered around his room, looking for anything that could have caused the noise. When he saw nothing, he was fully prepared to drift back to his dreams, but another rumble, closer and deeper, fully roused him. He wiped sleep from his eye as he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. He went over to the balcony and threw open the door, peering outside.
[SIZE=16px]His suspicions were confirmed after a brief glance towards the sky. The ever present ash clouds had grown thick. Lightning slickered within them, and peels of thunder rained down upon the world below. He leaned upon the railing of his balcony as he considered the implications. It was a good or a bad omen, depending on where you stood. Clouds like that could only mean one thing.
[SIZE=16px]Someone was preparing for war.
[SIZE=16px]Aevarr craned his neck to look down over the railing. There was no army below, menacing the gates. The entrance to Dragonhart Hold was at the end of a long valley, with a narrow and winding road that lead to their gates. They were difficult to find, but not impossible, especially if you knew what to look for.
[SIZE=16px]Aevarr’s balcony overlooked the entrance to his hold. It was high in the mountain, several hundred feet at least. It was safe from any attack from below due to sheer height, and safe from above due to an overhanging shelf of rock. It was a room fit for a king. And Aevarr had the scars to prove that he had earned it.
[SIZE=16px]After satisfying his curiosity, Aevarr turned back into his room. He had a warm bed waiting for him, and several hours left until any duty required him to attend. He had a hunch that he needed to rest while he could. If war was coming nearby, it would almost certainly involve the Fyreslayers.

[SIZE=16px]“Milord, I didn’t expect you to be up this early,” Glarri said.
[SIZE=16px]“The storm disturbed my rest,” Aevarr replied.
[SIZE=16px]“Is everything alright milord?”
[SIZE=16px]“Yes, I just thought I would take a tour of the forges and the armory.”
[SIZE=16px]Without another word, Aevarr set off, and Glarri fell in slightly behind him. He was Aevarr’s bodyguard and personal attendant, and Aevarr was not sure if he ever truly slept. Glarri was there when the doors to his bedroom closed at night, and there when the doors opened in the morning, regardless of the time. He was incredibly loyal, and that was a trait that Aevarr treasured.
[SIZE=16px]The hold’s streets were relatively empty at the early hour, and the pair made good time to the forges. The doors to the vast cavern that held the forges of Dragonhart Hold were perpetually open. This was the one part of the hold that could truly be said to never sleep. Smiths plied their craft day and night, working at all hours of the morning to churn out weapons, armor, and other items that a hold could not live without. In addition, they churned out equipment that could be sold to other holds or the free cities that dotted the realm of Aqshy.
[SIZE=16px]A wall of heat hit Aevarr as he strode through the door. The air was dry and incredibly hot. His skin began to sheen with sweat after a few steps, but he was used to the temperature. At times the very air of Aqshy grew so hot that it could burn. But true sons of this realm barely noticed the heat. He paused a moment to observe the source of the heat.
[SIZE=16px]A pair of lava falls flanked either side of the great hall. The viscous material drained down the side and into rivers that flowed slowly to the other side of the room, where they disappeared into channels that had been carved centuries ago by Aevarr’s earliest ancestors. From there the twin rivers would converge outside to form the hold’s moat, and when the lava began to cool and harden it was harvested by the duardin for use elsewhere. It was truly a marvel of engineering that such forces could be harnessed for industry, and he always stood in awe of his ancestors ingenuity whenever he entered the room.
[SIZE=16px]He tore his gaze away from the lava flows and scanned the room, eying the great forges that sat on either side of the hall. The industry was a well oiled machine, with new ore constantly arriving and being deposited even as the smelted materials were whisked away to be formed. From there they were shaped by smiths of varying degrees, generally under the watchful eyes of their masters. Several different clans held forges in this hall, and each was a fierce competitor for the respect and coin of the hold. Aevarr found that keeping them in stiff competition with each other also ensured that they produced the finest quality material they could.
[SIZE=16px]He wandered slowly by to observe the smiths as they worked. Here he saw a young apprentice, hammering an ingot into the shape of the short blades that the local human populations seemed to favor. The beardling would craft lesser blades for export until he had a solid few decades under his belt and the basics of the craft well in hand before they graduated him to duardin weapons. It kept the quality of their own weapons as high as possible and even the worst duardin smith could craft a blade of finer quality than any human, so the weapons fetched a high price on the open market.
[SIZE=16px]In another place, a master put the finishing touches on the engraving of an axe. The haft of the axe was crafted of the finest black stone, and the fyresteel gleamed in the light of the forges. The head also glowed slightly from the center, the heart of the blade pulsing in time with the magma flows that birthed it. Fyresteel would never lose its edge, or its heat, and any unworthy mortal who tried to pick one up would come away with severe burns for their trouble.
[SIZE=16px]As he made his way to the center of the forge, he came upon the heart of his hold. Aevarr paused a moment as he observed it. The door to the chamber was shaped in the likeness of Grimnir, gilded and yelling in rage at some imagined opponent. The entrance was large enough to drive a cart through, but the way was guarded by stoic duardin in the full regalia of war. Their magmapikes smoldered as they stood a solemn watch over the Forge-Vault of Drakkhart Hold.
[SIZE=16px]The Karl of the Hearthguard bowed his head to Aevarr as he approached. Aevarr inclined his own in response, his massive crest dipping in a gesture of respect. The guard parted way for him, allowing the pair through and into the best guarded chamber in the entire keep. Though the path was unlit, the softly glowing runes embedded in Aevarr and Glarri’s skin lit their way.
[SIZE=16px]They emerged upon a second forge, this one worked by no more than a dozen smiths. Beyond them lie a door with a massive lock, the vault, in which the ur-gold hoard of the keep lie. It was their most precious possession, both a symbol of their wealth and power, and a direct link to Grimnir. Only Aevarr possessed the key that could unlock the vault, and he only did so to commission new runes and to add to the ever growing stockpile. When he entered, every eye turned to him.
[SIZE=16px]“Runefather,” The nearest of the smiths said. Aevarr turned to behold a rather dour looking duardin with an oddly bare upper lip. Age lines marked his heat baked face. A hammer hung loosely in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. The tongs were gripping what looked to be destined as a rune of fire, the first and most important rune of the Fyreslayers. Runemaster Haral looked curiously at his lord as the other smiths returned to their work. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
[SIZE=16px]“Master Haral,” Aevarr replied. “I can feel a stirring in my blood. Have you any news from outside?”
[SIZE=16px]“None. The last rumors that I have heard are that the nearby human city is preparing to strike at the Onyx fortress.”
[SIZE=16px]“Is that so? I thought I saw signs of war on the horizon. Perhaps they will come to us for aid.”
[SIZE=16px]“I do not believe that they have any gold to purchase our services with.”
[SIZE=16px]“That is a shame.”
[SIZE=16px]Before the Runemaster could reply, one of the Hearthguard stepped through the entrance.
[SIZE=16px]“Forgive me Runefather, but there is news from the watch. A pack of bloodreavers have entered the valley. Would you like us to take care of them?”
[SIZE=16px]“Are they headed towards us?”
[SIZE=16px]“No, they seem to be hiding from a larger warband.”
[SIZE=16px]“Ha,” Haral barked. “The clever dogs know that the warbands will not risk our ire. They hope to avoid our notice as well.”
[SIZE=16px]“Do any Fyrds have a group of beardlings ready for their trials?” Aevarr asked Glarri.
[SIZE=16px]“Yes, Grinthar’s Fyrd has around two dozen beardlings itching to heft their axes in anger for the first time.”
[SIZE=16px]“Do you think you can work that into your schedule Runemaster?”
[SIZE=16px]“Aye, of course.”
[SIZE=16px]“Gather them.”

[SIZE=16px]Aevarr glanced over the assembled duardin. Each was a beadrling, no more than sixty years, and each was kneeling before him. Their crests were barely worth the name yet, and their beards barely reached their belts. Aevarr wondered if he had ever been so young, but he knew that he had. Haral and Glarri stood at his shoulder, along with several other runemasters, preparing the materials that would be needed for the trials. Once they gave him a signal, Aevarr began.
[SIZE=16px]“You are all sons of Grimnir,” Aevarr intoned. “Scions of a warrior race. Each of you knows how to wield an axe. Each of you knows the weight of duty and honor. Yet, you are not Fyreslayers. You, step forth.”
[SIZE=16px]The lad that Aevarr had called upon quickly and eagerly rose to his feet. He moved to stand directly before his lord, and Aevarr grabbed one forearm while Glarri braced the other. Haral took up his tools and moved around to the lad’s back. Aevarr looked the lad directly in his eyes.
[SIZE=16px]“This will be the worst pain that you have ever experienced,” Aevarr warned. “Do not fear it nor flinch away. Embrace it, and use it to strengthen yourself. When you emerge from this furnace, you will know the might of Grimnir flows in your veins, and you will be a Fyreslayer.”
[SIZE=16px]With those words, Haral set to work. He quickly cut open a section of the muscled lad’s back, providing the setting for the rune that was about to be implanted there. There was a grunt of pain, but the beardling did not flinch. Aevarr held him steady in his iron grip, and Glarri did the same. What was to come would test even the sturdiest of warriors.
[SIZE=16px]Haral retrieved the glowing hot ur-gold rune of fire from one of the other runemasters present. He held it reverently in tongs before him as he made his way over to the trio. Once in place, he began intoning the ancient rites, and with the final oath to Grimnir, he plunged the rune into the bleeding slot he had carved.
[SIZE=16px]There was a sickening sizzling sound as the blazing hot rune cauterized the wound around it. The sickly sweet stench of burning flesh filled the air as the beardling’s eyes bulged and a gasp escaped his lips. He began to convulse, held steady only by the strength of the two duardin holding him. His eyes closed for a moment and he sagged into their grips. Just when Aevarr thought that the lad might not have been ready yet, his eyes snapped back open.
[SIZE=16px]The burning glow of a furnace shined through his eyes, and his back arched as he roared his rage at the heavens. Heat began to simmer off of his skin, waves of it rolling over Aevarr and Glarri as they released the beardling. He was growling and breathing heavily, still overcome with the rage of their god Grimnir. But slowly he began to come back to his senses and the heat began to dissipate. The glow receded and the lad sank to one knee, exhausted.
[SIZE=16px]“Now,” Aevarr said. “You are a Fyreslayer.”