Saturday, March 9, 2019

Goblins defeated by Forces of Death





Doom and Gloom vs. CFD @2000 - 6-4 to CFD



It all happened so fast.

The forest was dark and damp – ideal conditions for the party of gitz delving into its heart. Lunar visions had guided Grottskrag to this place of power, though all he had seen of the promised Seraphon ruins were a few scattered blocks of granite and pale marble littering the otherwise verdant foliage.
The monstrous mangler squig snarled as a flock of birds shot up to the sky. They were expecting trouble, guards perhaps or maybe some of those infamous Seraphon traps which apparently populated their ancient temples. As such, the military arm of their little expedition was substantial.


As they soon realised, not substantial enough. 

Out from the bushes, with neither sound nor warning burst forth a gathering of spectres, more and more entering the field of vision as they glided closer. Behind them, another throng of dead, veiled women then, to the left, a mess of robes – visibly wet – thrashing about with longswords in their grasp.
Da Squig Whisperar bounded up as a swarm of Spirit Hosts lunged at him, their claws repelled by his cloak. A blessing from Ulgu, the shifting garment met and matched every strike of the ghosts, parrying blows where it could and changing the silhouette of the goblin in such a way that none of the blows connected with his body. Despite his tenacity, wails resounded around the battlefield – at first those of the veiled women but soon goblin voices joined the shrieking cacophony as they were butchered where they stood, souls rent from their diminutive bodies.

The loonboss was doing all he could, slashing at ghosts left and right. A sudden help, a mighty Arachnarok spider burst into reality and joined the fray. The Gobbapalooza tore at some of the drenched ghasts, with Grottskrag delivering the finishing blows – ethereal burst of energy marking the departure of another spectre. More and more of the dead fell, they almost had it, they had almost won!

The thunder of hooves and screech of iron wheels snuffed out the glimmer of hope forming in the gitz eyes. 

A dark, heavy coach shot past the lines of ghosts. It was galloping straight for the loonboss. Spikes lined its wheels and sides and as it crashed into the mangler squig the beast roared in pain. The gleaming scythe of the grim driver started twirling and limbs and blood splattered the forest floor. Da Squig Whisperar screeched one last, pitiful cry then he too was no more. Picking up speed again, the infernal casket rode down a gathering of gitz, a shaman and then…then it was over. 

Image result for black coach art
The gitz fled, their morale broken, scampering away from the frightful apparitions.

A wounded Grottskrag swore bitter vengeance before he passed out, his last sight of the abyss in the eyes of the coach driver watching him, calling out.

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