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Zharkanul's Overview of the Lesser Races of Mortals
Zharkanul's Overview of the Lesser Races of Mortals
"I shall now endeavour to enumerate some of the lesser races of the world of which I have become aware through many years of travel, trade, hearsay and armed expeditions. And I shall likewise endeavour to describe in some detail the various characteristics and customs of these mortal races, so that the reader may earn some insight into the denizen races of our world. I count them to be twenty two in number.
First, the Orc, he sleeps under bare sky or tent of hide, knows nothing but a hut of straw and dung, which also serves as his latrine. His meal is raw and cold, but for the warm blood he gurgles down. His language, a grunt; his gestures, a punch; his worship, a heathen dance around an effigy of filth. He knows not proper burial rites, for his kin's carcasses he eats when he finds them in the wild. He does not wash, does not think, does not sacrifice. He is ignorant of all things but for those of brutish savage animals, and will fight each and everyone he sees. He never stays put except for out of lazy content, and knows no fast home for he will move about with the seasons and follow the herds of prey like a beast.
The Orc is nothing but a beast of burden, too wild to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Second, the Goblin, he sleeps in hut or cave, eats his kin and small prey raw. He knows no strength, yet works under lash. His numbers, beyond counting; his malice, a petty sin; his bravery, gone with the wind. He knows neither rites nor lore. He eats weird fungi and rides wild beasts, yet his mount will oftentimes devour him.
The Goblin is nothing but a mass slave, too inferior to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Third, the Gnoblar, he is small and dumb, his nose is larger than his wits. His possessions are all scavenged trash, he sleeps in filth, and he eat rodents. His uses, few; his strengths, nowehere to be found, his hut a mass of rotting wood and mud. He is easily scared, and bickers in a pack, his cruelty is petty and his lack of will renders him easily oppressed. His lot in life is to be the prey of better creatures.
The Gnoblar is nothing but a lowly slave, too weak to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Fourth, the Hobgoblin, he stabs at sight, he knows not right. He is mischievous to the core, he backstabs his friends, and he is nought but a sneaky traitor. His honour, a hidden knife; his word, all lies; his hide, a mass of scars. He is cruel, he will make you bleed, he will make you his feed. He rides lousy wolves and dresses in shaggy rags, and his tribes does not build cities.
The Hobgoblin is nothing but a craven lackey, too untrustworthy to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Fifth, the Snotling, he is a green mite, his head is dumb and his body infests pipes and crags. He is but food for others, yet mad in mushrooms. His size, a hare; his might, a snare; his home, a lair. He is but good for delicatessen food, and his blood and innards may grease cogs when he is crushed inside the gear of machinery.
The Snotling is nothing but a minute runt, too insignificant to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Sixth, the Troll, it stinks and sinks, it vomits in the wilds, its repugnancy keeps it alive. Its dwelling, a puddle; its achievement, a chipped rock; its breath, an open sewer. It is too dumb to die fast, its flesh does not understand wounds, its mind does not comprehend language. It grunts and roars.
The Troll is nothing but an imbecille brute, too stupid to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Seventh, the Giant, he knows no roof, his head aloof, he quakes the earth when breeding. His wits, all dumb; his senses, numb; his clumsiness, his doom. He is an inbred bastard spawn of ancient titans, yet good for nothing but heavy lifting of weights.
The Giant is nothing but an overgrown village idiot, too clumsy to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Eighth, the Ogre, he sleeps in snow, his head on a rock, he is of hardy stock. His head, thick; his craft, a thug; his pride, all bruises swollen wide. He is always hungry, a big, lumbering brute. He worships his maw and chews bones with his jaw. He is said to make good slave, but he is a toppler of great works. He bashes and brawls and bellows.
The Ogre is nothing but a wild ox, too dangerous to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Ninth, the Minotaur, he sleeps on the ground, his hut is none, he eats raw flesh and blood. His faith, hunger; his wisdom, rage; his weapons, horns. He is nought but a raw beast, he is not a worthy cousin of the sacred Bull Centaurs. His skin is furred, his speech is blurred. He knows neither Hashut nor rites.
The Minotaur is nothing but a lumbering animal, too impure to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Tenth, the Beastman, it sleeps on moss, its deeds are gross, its mind is always at a loss. Its outhouse, a wood; its weapon, a stick; its language, a bray. It smells unwholesome, it breeds untrue, it worship a stone in a glade of trees. It is but a four-legged beast on two legs in the fold of the Dark Gods.
The Beastman is nothing but a goat, too lusty to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Eleventh, the Half-Man of Indic Forests, he swings in the trees, he may walk on all four, he is not a man. His face, an ape; his grace, a jape; his begetting, a rape. He is hunted through the jungles by beasts, Humans and tigers, yet he grips a spear to fight outsiders. He is a filthy monkey.
The Half-Man of Indic Forests is nothing but a mockery of a race, too despicable to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Twelfth, the Human, he settles in the green, he is gangly, he lives but shortly. His kin, widespead; his stature, gangly; his craft, shoddy. He is inferior in every way to the other bearded races. His city is a slum, he worships false gods and lacks zeal. He may endure for a while, but he may not withstand hardship for long. His oaths are lies, and his thoughts wanders false. He fears the fire.
The Human is nothing but a wretch, too undisciplined to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Thirteenth, the Halfling, he is a small, petty thief, he is lazy and weak, yet he eats like a wolf. His house, a hovel; his settlement, a hill; his joy, food. His flesh tastes well and is savoured by Ogres. He laughs and jeers, he drinks and cheers. All pudding and cheese is eaten.
The Halfling is nothing but a parasite, too useless to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Fourteenth, the False Cousin, he grows his beard straight, he lets his woman rule, he never forgets our blood grudge. He worships false ancestors, he is too blind, he will not see. He knows but Hashut as a curse, he is a blasphemer and infidel. His honour, doom; his glory, lost; his realm, crumbling. He mines without slaves, he is weak, and he hides from the Greenskin's rage where we master them and makes the savages cower in fear. He is forsaken.
The False Cousin is nothing but an insult incarnate, too wrong in his ways to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Fifteenth, the Elf, she sleeps in a flowery tree, she sips whine, and she casts magic like dice. Her strength, frail; her demeanour, fickle; her wargear, feminine. Her works last a century before wind or invader topples them over. She worships strange gods, her horned king bathe in fire, her queen runs naked in the woods. Her words are false, her deeds mysterious, her defeat assured. She fights with herself, and sister slays sister. Her realm is built on sand.
The Elf is nothing but a vain deceiver, too arrogant to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Sixteenth, the Fimir, he kidnaps maids, he lives in a bog, his weak worship made his gods forsake him. His house, a ruin; his weapon, bronze; his eye, blind. He lays ambush in a fen, and slays Goblins and peasants. His might of yore is no more. He walks in a circle and a spiral of doom.
The Fimir is nothing but a stale primitive, too slimy and moist to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Seventeeth, the Dragon Ogre, he sleeps on a rock, he savours lightning, his voice is thunder. His life, immortal; his achievements, none; his worship, worthless. He hails his greater elders as living ancestors, yet no ancestor of his ever built a temple or performed the correct rites. He is a slumbering behemoth of the north, and his long sleep robs him of any lasting great feats.
The Dragon Ogre is nothing but a wild worshipper, too uncouth to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Eighteenth, the Lizardman, it slithers through a bush, it stamps through the lush, it hides in the forest, it charges through the jungle. Its birthplace, a pool; its lord, a toad; its greatness, razed. It lives among ruins covered in creepers and moss, and snakes curl in its home. It rides wild beasts, its scales are weak, its empire decrepit. It worships strange deities departed from this world. It performs an incorrect sacrifice, for it tears the beating heart out of its victim's chest instead of flaying and mutilating, or casting into fire or molten metal. It fears the Zoat and it dozes off in the heat.
The Lizardman is nothing but a savage city-dweller, too lowly to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Nineteenth, the Zoat, it stomps in the woods, it steals all the goods. Its nest, a grove; its square, a glade; its temper, a fever. It hunts with a club, its noblest weapon a spear. Its tools are of stone, its clothes nowhere to be seen. It rumbles in the forest, far from city or fortress. It scares the Lizardman, yet none knows why.
The Zoat is nothing but a large oaf, too backward to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Twentieth, the Medusa, she is a wailing wench, she is a slippery snake, she sleeps in the sea. Her siren call, death; her home, watery depths; her weapon, a trident. She is embroiled in impure salt water, she knows no fire. She drowns sailors to lure males to her nest, she breeds like a fish. She is a harlot of the waves.
The Medusa is nothing but a poisonous serpent, too cunning to be allowed to wander untamed under the heavens.
Twenty first, the Skaven, he chitters, he creeps, he stammers, he scurries. His home, a hole; his treasure, a bowl; his fear, a growl. He is the vermin of the earth, and his tunnels stretches far and wide beneath the surface world. He is a mole, a rat, a mouse, a rodent. He fears the Ogre's cat. He runs away to die another day. He chews warpstone and he casts fell lightning. He is a treacherous disease carrier, and deserves nought but death. He worships a craven Daemon-God with cloven hooves. His might is weak, his neck breaks easily. His tail speaks of betrayal while his yellow-toothed mouth chitters on about friendship. He is an assassin and scavenger, and the multitude is his only strength.
The Skaven is nothing but an infectious plaguebearer, too sickly to be allowed into the slave pens. Slay him.
Twenty second, the Undead, it is not even alive, yet rattles its bones. It rises from its grave, it rots and it smells. Its will, gone; its mind, none; its voice, groan. It moves about by false animation, it is carried by foul wizardry or moves under the influence of warpstone. Magical accident may also create Undead. A blasphemy on the move, its second fate to die anew.
The Undead is nothing but an abomination, too unnatural to be allowed to stay dead. Grind it down.
Words written by Zharkanul Blackbrow, in the third year of the reign of High Priest Zhurrekar Onehorn. Blessed be Hashut's name."
- Zharkanul's Overview of the Lesser Races of Mortals
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