As Dumat prepared to make her final stand the earth split open and it's most fearsome demon crawled forth to walk the earth bringing and end to the empires of mortals. That was the nearest explanation she could fathom when a terrifying howl tore through the woods. A blur pushed passed her, she had just enough time to see the terror in the lead goblin's eyes before his head flew through the air. The wraith struck out with his incandescent blade and a spray of gore filled the air. Their armor provided them no protection. Their shields delayed the inevitable but their mail may as well have been paper. Dumat looked on shocked as body parts were let loose from their bindings and sent sailing into trees.
Soon the wraith was joined by more of his ilk she recognized among them Feb One Eye and Ashmon. The goblin forces were reinvigorated by reinforcements but where the armies of Arrowstockades walked hell followed. Axes, swords, maces, and even a few picks all lashed out hungry for goblin flesh.
Dumat froze like a frightened hare. To flee in any direction, even towards the fortress may mean stumbling upon more goblins. To stay may see her caught up in the battle. She tried to position herself as near the defenders as possible without warranting the attention of the goblin menace or falling victim to an errant swing of a friendly blade. She held Obok tightly and watched on in horror.
The zest for combat left the invaders quickly. They sought the treasures of Arrowstockades but they'd earned it's ire. Now that they saw the true face of terror and they fled. But when they realized their foolish mistake they fled into the woods to no avail. Their pursuers were fleet of foot and fierce of temper. Overrun by the counteroffensive they were cut down to the last man. When the last enemy had been destroyed all that remained were the warriors of Arrowstockades with a few cuts and scrapes but wholly victorious.
Their leader, the demon, was an enormous dwarf lapped in brilliant aquamarine armor decorated with spikes, bands, and rings of various metals, gems of all cuts and colors, and a generous spatter of goblin blood. In his left hand he held a shield as tall and wide as a fully grown dwarf and in his right hand he held an incandescent blade nearly six feet long. The bane of mortal men, the legendary Prowler of Rasps. An iridium zweihander menacing with spikes of fine black stone and hematite and on it's hilt three wildflowers carved from bone. The blade and it's keeper had taken fifty two lives and neither seemed interested in resting on their laurels. The being standing before her like the wrath of an angry god was no other than Cerol Sabershaft, The Oily Eviscerations.
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Topic: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Read 74973 times)