Slaughter at Cinderweald

The sound of cruel laughter echoed around the campfires, a stark contrast to the merciless slaughter that had taken place just hours before. Amidst the revelry of overjoyed orruks, Korslug could still hear the cries and screams of the surviving humies—and even the tree-things, which burned so nicely.

Through the noise, he watched as his boss finished interrogating one of the weakling survivors. Or rather, the humie had just died, his body unable to withstand the boiling water he’d been dumped into. Before the end, he had screamed of cities in Ghur, expeditions, and other matters that Korslug found utterly uninteresting. His attention was instead drawn to the large Killaboss standing behind Břřok  and Brolgor.

Filigrug Bustermaka, Killaboss of a ragged warband—though he fancied it a proper clan—the Growlsomething. Korslug had no patience for such delusions. They were Marrowcraveaz now. And Filigrug needed to learn that.

He stepped closer.

“That humie lasted longer than I thought,” Brolgor mused, almost as if admiring the now-still corpse. “Tougher than he looked.”

“He was weak, and we crushed ‘em all,” Filigrug grumbled, clearly displeased with the situation.

“Wrong again, ya git,” Břřok spat, his voice full of contempt. “They weren’t weak. They were strong—strong enough to carve through yer sorry lot. If not for us, ya’d all be in da green. They got so used to yer weakness, they weren’t ready for us. Still, even then, they fought well.” True, thought Korslug after short consideration, good thing their tricks worked and that he and his Boyz managed to bring down the artillery. He measured Filigrug again, now seeing himself in him, before he met the boss. It was a chilling thought as Korslug was really not one for introspection. Cant underestimate em again.

“And they’ll come again, boss,” Korslug added. “There’s more of ‘em than us, now that the skaven brought us low.”

Břřok just laughed. “Yah, yah,” he grinned, his gaze shifting to the caged survivors. “Let ‘em go. All of ‘em.”

Filigrug rose in anger fearing his spoils diminished, but before he could react, Brolgor struck him down with a single brutal swing of his cleava. Břřok wasted no time, tearing his head clean off and hurling it before the now-silent crowd. Then, Brolgor kicked open the cages, sending the terrified humies fleeing into the night.

“Do ya smell that, ya gits?” Břřok asked, his voice turning cold and menacing. “Tell me—what is it?”

“Fear,” some muttered.

“Yeeees… Fear,” Břřok sneered. “It’s a disease, and they’ll spread it to the rest. Cinderweald is ours now. They won’t dare return. We are Kruleboyz. We are Mork’s children. We fink. We’re cunnin’. And those who ain’t—” he glanced at Filigrug’s severed head, “—they’re useless."

“Now, I want spoils. And I wanna see that ya gits are stronger and smarter than yer old boss. My Monstakillaz tell me there’s beasts in these lands, beasts filled with weird shiny red magic stuff. I want ‘em. I want their bones. Seven of ‘em. Bring ‘em to me, and I’ll let ya join me clan. And the champion whose band brings ‘em first?” He grinned. “He’ll be the new boss.”

____

As the would-be challengers scattered, Zoghag approached Břřok, still weary from summoning the very foot of Gork during the battle.

“What that humie said, young Břřok… we can’t take it lightly. Death is close. The minions of the sickling god.”

“Ah, yes—the bone-man who can't think straight as ya told me.” Břřok’s grin widened. “Normally, they ain’t much fun to fight. But these ones? These ones be different. I’ve heard of ‘em. Ossiarchs. They be made of powerful bones, me thinks.”

He licked his lips. “I wonder what their boss tastes like. I gotta try. I’ll have me some Ossiarch for breakfast…”

Marshal’s Log, Entry 5:

Today is a grim day for we have been reminded about the perils of the Mortal Realms. We have fallen into an ambush during which many a good man has perished.

We were marching through Cinderweald where we came upon a clearing when suddenly our allies halted us. They looked around with great unease, and told us to arm ourselves. Not even a moment of thought later, a barrage of arrows cam from the treeline, aimed at the Yndrinien Watch. Before they even had time to raise their shields they were dropping like flies.

The rest of our army immediately made a dash towards more defensible positions. The tree-revenants seemed to disappear entirely into the woods, while we reached for our weapons as another group of Kruleboyz appeared to cut us off. Me and my closest men hacked them to bits, but our foe fought fiercely.

When I looked back, I saw that Volgi, Mikul, and the cannon had made defensive positions and where firing roaring shots into the treeline. Mikul could still be heard over the cannon fire, bellowing the most vile curses at our hidden foes as his massive shield blocked arrow after arrow. His goading words seemed to have an effect as a horde of orruks appeared from the forest line with blades and crossbows.

I saw that as the moment to sound the charge. While both me and my entourage were winded, our cavalry was still fresh, and with the Sylvaneth nearby, we might encircle and outwit our attackers. But we had to be fast, for the first throatslitters were nearing our artillery.

With a shout that should be heard from miles, I ordered the charge. Together, me and the cavalry ran with full speed at our foes. When we were near, I saw that the tree-revenants had appeared from the treeline. Victory seemed so close.

And yet I failed to grasp it. As we charged, we saw a few orruks reach for some rope and pull it. Before we could react, a palisade of sharp stakes appeared out of the tall grass, pinning our horses like insects. Our charge was broken.

And then our doom came into the clearing. A masked Orruk sat on top of a huge troggoth. The creature seemed only filled by an instinctual desire to hurt, like the worst of our kin when their inhibition is left unchecked by alcohol and fury. This menacing look only worsened when the rider gave a merciless pull on the creatures mutilated ears, goading the troggoth in a murderous frenzy. With a dull roar, it smashed its clubs through ranks, leaving our soldiers as nothing but a pile of gore.

It is at that point that we had to make our escape. It was a full on route, with everyone for themselves. I got wounded in the struggle, as over five orruks all tried to impale me with their filth-crusted weapons. Even the greatest swords man will eventually parry to slow, and my leg got grazed. I ran away from the battle, seeing steelhelms and horsemen frantically sprinting in all directions.

I only stopped running when the sound of battle seemed far away. My situation was dire as I did not know where I was. I had only my aching wound and my shame for company. But that’s when I heard it. A melody, lovely as summer and as tragic as grief, filled my ears. I could not help but follow it. When the spell lifted, I was back in front of Cinderweald, with many survivors of the battle. We have been dealt a great wound, but we will not be deterred. Indrinienburg will stand.