Fiction SoB-The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl-FINISHED AT LAST (1st draft)

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch11 vs

Rychek. If you like I can PM you before each installment so you can take your medication and move away from any sharp objects.

Now, I need fluff help. Between the dwarfy bit and the mountains of mourn on the map are the dark lands. What happens / who lives there?

SoB

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch11 vs

No worries Bob. The risk is half the fun!

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch11 vs

Talk to my Lawyer.

Actually maybe not. He will be a bit busy after the next chapter.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch11 vs

12. The Citadel

The solar engine on the bastiladon's back was a tiny island light in an ocean of blackness. As the days in the endless tunnel stretched on to weeks, the solar engine gradually dimmed and the unusual vitality which energized the party also faded. They became listless and docile. Even Bessie's single minded plod slowed. The rough rocky floor of the tunnel had crumbled to sand which made the going more effortful. When the last glow died, Rychek feared that she would stop entirely and that this would be their tomb, but they were not plunged into total darkness. As their eyes adjusted to the dark they could see that the walls and roof of the tunnel had receded to form a vast chamber. The ceiling was dotted with tiny points of light which glittered as hard and as cold as diamonds. Bessie trudged on towards a distant glow which was intensifying in the distance. The glow overpowered the light of the diamonds and grew in power until, suddenly a fiery orb slid above the horizon. All about them the ruddy glow revealed an endless sea of billowing sand dunes.

"This is a funny swamp," murmured Mahtis.

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The rays of the early morning sun were captured by the parabolic mirrors atop Chotec's engine to be directed into the cube at the heart of the apparatus. The front facet glowed anew. In Lustria, the prism had glowed with a subtle greenish cast which echoed the light of the sun filtered through a dense canopy of jungle. Here, in the deserts of Araby, the solar facet adopted a harsh, yellow-white hue.

The energizing rays also thawed the numb hearts of the lizardmen. Soon they were prosecuting their quest with their usual vigour.

"Our best infantry hammer unit is Saurus Warriors with hand weapons and shields."
"No. It's Temple Guard."

Rychek sat perched on Bessie's shoulder in resigned annoyance.

"Saurus Warriors!"
"Temple Guard!"
"Saurus Warriors!"
"Temple Guard!"

Clonk! Rychek spun around in alarm to investigate the unusual sound. He saw Mahtis holding two dazed saurus by the backs of their necks. "Skink Cohorts with Kroxigor." The scaly giant shook the pair so their heads lolled in a parody of agreement, then pushed them off the sides of the platform. The sauri landed in the sand like two large sacks of tubers.

When the pair returned to their dubious senses they found that Bessie had continued her march without them. There was no fear of getting lost because her footprints in the soft sand clearly marked her path over the next dune, and the one after that.

The harsh sun beat down on the despondent pair as they trudged in pursuit.

"It's too hot," Joe observed.

"You are a big whiner. My feet hurt," Bob replied without looking up.

"And you are a big sissy."

"Big whiner," Bob was having trouble mustering his usual enthusiasm.
"Big sissy," Joe was no better off.
"Big whiner."
"Big Chicken!"

Bob halted in his tracks, "Who are you calling a big chicken!?" he demanded with claws on his hips. As Joe ran away as fast as he could go, Bob felt a blissful respite from the sun’s glare beneath a deep shadow which was suddenly cast over him.

http://img823.imageshack.us/img823/6145/bigchicken.jpg

"Oh, Mahrlecht," Bob swore as he looked up into the undead eyes of a carrion vulture of stupendous size. The fowl creature scooped him up in a rotting claw and launched itself into the air with two beats of its decomposing wings. Joe was snatched from the brow of the next rise and then the vulture rose on an invisible column of air until the enormous dunes below seemed no larger than ripples on a pond. Joe fancied he could see a trail of marks in the sand leading to a black speck which was toiling through the desert. The bird did not pause as it soared over the minute bastiladon and sped further eastward.

After some time the carrion vulture tucked in its wings and stooped towards a toy castle. The fort looked like it had been designed by an emotionally challenged child. Its massive walls were constructed of dreary basalt slabs. The disturbingly phallic towers scattered along the outer curtain wall were surmounted by crowns of spiky crenellated battlements. The inner keep maintained a hostile vigil through mullioned windows reminiscent glowering eye sockets. Every possible surface was decorated with skull motifs. As their captor swooped lower, the sauri could see that the fortress was not a toy, but indeed a work of such scale and arrogance that only a madman could have commissioned it. An emotionally challenged madman.

Their fowl conveyance deposited them without harm on the flagstones before the yawning portcullis of the inner keep. As Bob and Joe gawped in disbelief at the tasteless display of architectural brutality they were approached by an ancient dwarf. The dwarf was lavishly dressed from his ornate helm down to his pointy velvet slippers. Jeweled rings decorated every finger. His magnificent snowy white beard and hair were gathered by bands of burnished gold and tumbled to trail along the floor. His eyebrows and beard obscured most of his features but his most striking attribute were his hopeless, despairing eyes.

The dwarf regarded the guests in silence for a moment. "May the Lord of the Citadel have mercy on you. Please follow." The dwarf turned to pass through the arch and revealed that his extravagant garb was but a facade. His bare back and posterior were exposed to the elements. Bob and Joe, who possessed not one stitch of clothing between them shrugged and followed their guide.

The trio crossed an inner court and ascended a seemingly endless stair. Although they saw no other inhabitants, there was a pervading sense of alliances betrayed and hopes dashed. By the time Bob mounted the last step he could believe that no good and decency remained in the universe.

An icy voice spoke. "You may go." These words were directed to the dwarf who performed a curious bow. He turned to leave before bowing, revealing a view barely more palatable than that of Morrslieb, the Chaos Moon itself.

Bob and Joe examined their surroundings. They were in a large chamber atop the keep. Light was admitted through four open bay windows which opened to each cardinal direction and led out to a broad terrace surrounded by dizzying voids. The inner walls of the room were lined with shelves festooned with hundreds of boxes displaying brightly coloured and alluring images.

The dominating feature of the room was a table which was modeled to resemble a variety of terrain features from the real world, except that they were wrong. Tiny trees writhed in anger, in places the surface of the ground gave way to reveal rockeries of skulls, and steep model hills reared above the plain, yet they resembled open terrain and offered no protection from line of sight.

Along one edge of the table were a collection of vials of brightly coloured potions. Beside them were carelessly scattered cruelly bristled brushes, no doubt used for torture, but on a miniature scale. The dismembered and decoloured representations of tiny beings were most unsettling. Each had a semblance of realism, but the proportions were wrong. Some tiny warriors were burdened by weapons too large for their frames. Others had armour which would clearly prevent effective movement. Each one of the incomplete warriors had an expression of disbelief on its tiny face. "How the **** did I end up in this situation?" seemed to be the consensus.

"Welcome, Bob" their host stepped out of the shadows. "I am the Great Pharaoh, Phatmothoses. I rule the Citadel. Each terrible concept is mine.” The speaker gestured towards the tiny figures. “I see that you have met my little friends." He was a skeleton. Although he was well ornamented with Nehekharan headress, jewellery and cloak, it was clear that he had very little substance at all.

Bob and Joe cast about looking for the "friends' which the pharaoh had referred too. Eventually Bob's eyes rested on the miniature warriors at the end of the table. "Oh, I see!" a gleam of understanding flickered on his face, "Your little "friends." Where I come from, there is this guy that thinks his little "friends" are real too! You see, Qupakoco comes from a remote area of Lustria, and it gets very cold and dark and lonely and...."

"Silence!" The skeleton stamped his foot. "They are real! I have devoted a lonely eternity to ruling them! Why can no one see that they are real? Why doesn't my wife understand me? She has banished me to the attic because she won't let me play with them in the house, but they are real! Real, I tell you!"

Bob briefly contemplated a diplomatic way of telling the mighty Lord of the Citadel to get a life, when Joe beckoned him over. He had opened one of the boxes from a shelf marked “Lizardmen”. Inside, three extremely ugly flying reptiles were harrying a large toad for no apparent reason. Some powerful magic spell had reduced them to miniature size. "They are real," Joe mouthed.

Phatmothoses had regained his composure. "I have collected each of them from the corners of this world, and from fevered imagination. I am, in fact, the Citadel's Head Manager of the Terrible Concepts Department!"

"Well, that explains a lot," Joe mouthed silently.

"Silence! Well, I mean…. Raaarrgh!" the skeleton thrust with his snake tipped sceptre and Joe was transformed into the form of a large frog roughly the size of a human head.

"Noooooo! What have you done? Can he still talk?" Bob protested.

"I can still talk! Ribbit! That's lucky!"

"Noooooo!" Bob clenched his fists in frustration, "Why can he still talk?"

"I am the Lord of Citadel. I can do what I like! Look at this. For no particular reason I have made a magic flying carpet, which doubles as a cloak of invisibility. And it also grants immunity from any attack other than Frenzied Killing Blows!" The skeleton was rummaging in a box marked "Arcane Items" and pulled out a tiny rolled up rug.

"But that doesn't make any sense! Ribbit!"

"It doesn't matter that it makes no sense. All that matters is that fools like you will pay. I offer many powerful items and units to bolster your army, but every general will pay dearly. I have collected and placed in these boxes every creature capable of conquest in battle from this world. I have also collected Beastmen, Wood Elves, and Troglodons. I decide what rules they fight by. I decide how much they cost. I make them randomly unusable to frustrate the generals I have enslaved."

"Surely the generals could create their own units and rules."

"No! I hold the intellectual property rights for all these creatures and any like them. Any who intrude on my domain will receive cursed letters of summoning. They will be dragged against their will to a chamber of anguishing scrutiny. Those who are not imprisoned in the realm of Chaos, or forfeit their material wealth, will have their spirits broken and their hopes dashed!"

"Truly, Lord of Citadel, you have no soul! Ribbit."

"Why have you brought us here? If it was just to turn Joe into an amphibian, then obviously I am grateful, but..."

"I brought you here because you, Bob, are too awesome. If you were small and irrelevant, I might have ignored you, but you have special attributes. You have Special Rules which are a threat to my reality."

"What do you mean? Swish! Crunch, crunch, crunch." Joe had caught a desert beetle with his sticky tongue.

"He," Phatmothoses stabbed at Bob's chest, "has two incompatible Special Rules. He has the Rule of "Luck" and the Rule of "Destiny". They are opposite, and they have no right to exist together without my blessing. It is the prerogative of the Manager of Citadel’s Terrible Concepts Department to make inexplicable, illogical or contradictory Special Rules. It is what is expected of me. I will play test his generalship and mastery of the Law of Six. If this Bob is over powered, I will emasculate him and make him suck for all eternity."

"Ha! Croak! You can't change people. In particular, you can't change Bob. I have devoted my life to that cause. He is just wrong. Accept it."

"Can I not change people? Have you not met my White Dwarf? He once had pride and dignity. He was capable of discriminating thought. Now he parrots whatever words I, the Lord of Citadel, place in his mouth. In every marketplace he extols the lie that the Citadel is the fount of all wisdom and is reasonably priced."

Phatmothoses leered and pointed his sceptre at Joe's froggy form. The amphibian shrank until he was no more than a half inch tall. The lord stooped to pick him up and placed him carefully on the central table twelve inches from one edge. "Here is your champion, General. Have you brought your mystic cubes?"

(Image)

“Do you wish to use some Citadel Mystic Cubes? They come in four dreary colours and have soulless dots on each of their impractically small sides. They can be yours, for thirteen slaves.”

“What do you mean, Slaves?” Bob enquired.

“Slaves. It is how the citadel takes payment. Each “slave” (abbreviated SS) represents your soul being bonded to the Citadel for one year of tormented servitude. A unit which has a value of one hundred SS will cost you a century of bondage to the Citadel.”

“The elite of Lustria have their own mystic cubes!” Bob reached under the shell on his head and withdrew an apple core, a yo-yo, and a pair of shimmering cubes. Before he could place these on the table, Phatmothoses snatched them away and examined them.

The Lustrian mystic cubes were clearly priceless works of art. Somehow the two prisms caught the light and reflected no less than eighty-three distinct and beautiful colour options. Each of the facets was detailed with vivid representations of mighty beasts which were inlaid with pure gold. In the hand, the cubes had a reassuring weight about them which would give their caster confidence in their ability to manipulate The Law of Six.

Phatmothoses cast them on the war table several times to convince himself that they were not loaded in any way.

“Do you like them? They could only enhance your playing experience. Perhaps you could give some as gifts for a special someone. If you follow this link to the geomantic web you may still have time to place your order. http://www.lustria-online.com/threads/dice-order-2013-closed.12750/ The more you order, the cheaper they become for everyone!”

Phatmothoses glared hatefully at Bob and returned the cubes. “I will defeat you in battle and then I will own you. I will destroy your special rules and you will know the meaning of nerf! Your awesomeness, your jauntily worn eggshell and your cunningly wrought dice will be the property of the Citadel forever!”

With exaggerated care, the undead general opened a foam lined black casket and removed a figure. It was a fist sized leonine beast carved from obsidian and bedecked with gold and enamel. From its shoulder blades sprouted wings and another pair of arms which terminated in enormous glittering blades. The creature’s stinging tail arched up and forwards to poise above its head. As Phatmothoses placed the arcane construct on the table, its tail fell off. The lord snarled and reattached it with a blob of adhesive putty which he kept in the casket for just this eventuality.

Twenty four inches away, Joe blinked in consternation. He considered sweating, but wasn’t sure that amphibians could do so.

“This is the Vengeance of Gaimsworkcheops,” Phatmothoses indicated the animated construct. “Special Rules: Flight, Terror, Always Strikes First, Killing Blow, Breath Weapon (Str 4).”

“Don’t worry Joe, he doesn’t sound too bad.”

“He is also a Level 4 wizard with Lore Mastery (Death). Let us begin.”

“Oh crud. Wait, doesn’t Joe have Special Rules too?”

“What do you suppose his rules to be?”

Bob looked at his shrunken, transformed spawnkin and considered what made Joe unique among the forces of Lustria. “Special Rule: Chicken-stride. When fleeing, three mystic cubes are cast, with the lowest being discarded. This represents the blessing of Los’tmabo’tl.”

Joe boggled at him. “Something a bit more heroic perhaps, Ribbit?” he piped in a tiny voice.

“No.” Phatmothoses interjected, “ Only I can make inexplicable, illogical or contradictory Special Rules. If you give another rule, it must be in keeping with the true nature of your champion.”

Bob paused for a moment. “Okay. Special Rule: Susceptible to Pain. In any round of combat, the first unsaved wound Joe suffers causes him to emit a stricken, keening wail. This acts as a 6+ ward save because the attacker is startled by the irritating noise and fluffs his attack.”

The Lord of Citadel nodded his aquiescence. “We roll for the first turn.”

Phatmothoses’ drab dice clattered to the table, revealing six boring hollow pits. “Ha!”

Bob unleashed one of his own. The Mystic cube flashed like fire and finished its tumble showing the image of a six pointed, leering reptilian mask. “I deployed first. First turn, Lizardmen.” He leant over the table and commanded his avatar, “Joe. Run!”

Joe did not hesitate. He turned and moved his maximum allowance of four inches.

“My turn.” The Citadel lord gestured and the Vengeance of Gaimsworkcheops launched for a twenty inch flying march. Only eight inches separated the two miniatures. “Breath Weapon, strength 4”

The animated construct released a cloud of corrosive vapour which obscured the tiny frog. Bob quickly rolled one cube chanting, “Strength 4, toughness 2! Ones to save!” At the instant the cube stopped to reveal a single glaring reptilian eye, the cloud dissipated to reveal Joe gulping miniature frog sized lungfulls of air. “That was lucky, Ribbit!” he piped.

“No! There is no luck. There is only cold blooded probability. You had one chance in six to take first turn, and one chance in six to keep your one wound. So far, one chance in thirty six. The Law of Six will balance. It always does.”

“Lizardmen, Turn Two. Joe. Run some more.” Bob felt the strategy had been effective so far. Joe hopped four more inches toward the table edge.

“There is no safety there.” The lord gestured with his scepter and the edges of the table burst into towering miniature flames. I declare a charge.”

Bob weighed his chances. To flee would almost certainly plunge Joe into the flames. “Joe! Hold!”

“He must master his terror first. On Leadership….5”

Bob paused, “I usually use 3 cubes for this…”

“No you have two Special Rules only. Your champion cannot be cold blooded. Only I can change the rules during a game.”

Bob sighed and cast the exquisite pair of cubes. They revealed a spiked lizard surmounted by three heavenly bodies, and a flying reptile with a pair of unfeasibly large testicles.

“Croak, how lucky was that?”

Phatmothoses cursed. “Thus far there was but one chance in one hundred and twenty-six. But the illusions you call “luck” and “life” will end now.”

Only twelve inches separated the figures. The Citadel flying charge could not fail. Vengeance of Gaimsworkcheops swooped to crash to the table top in contact with the hapless lizardfrog. Its tail fell off again.

“Six Killing Blow Attacks, Strength six!” The skeleton scattered a handful of crude dice on the table. They revealed the judgement of the Law of Six. Among the ones and twos there glowered a cube which showed ugly pits in two rows of three. The obsidian murderer raised one bladed arm and swept it down to cleave the tiny frog. “Killing Blow! No armour saves! I have defeated your champion!”

There was a sound. A stricken, keening wail which rose in intensity to an ear shattering crescendo. The sound had words. The sound had meaning.

"Waaa aaaa aaaaah! Where is my tail? My tail! Waaaaah!"

The startled Vengeance of Gaimsworkcheops recoiled in surprise. This twitched his mighty blade off course. Unseen by Phatmothoses, Bob had rolled a cube which revealed a grinning death mask. “Frogs don’t have tails. Shut up, Joe.” Bob savoured the words. “Shut up, Joe.”

Joe peered behind himself. “That was so lucky!”

“There is no luck! You lose combat by one, Lizardman! Break Test on modified leadership of four!”

Bob accidently picked up two citadel dice, which treacherously rolled a total of seven. “I will never use these uninteresting and cursed dice again!” he vowed. “All Lizardmen should follow my example!”

Joe was poised four inches from the flames. Bob retrieved the superior dice of the old ones. “Chicken Stride requires the highest of three cubes,” said Bob. He noticed the box marked “Arcane Items” from which the Citadel lord had produced the flying carpet / invisibility cloak. Bob spied a mystic cube and fished it out. The small, black cube contained millions of tiny pin-pricks of blinking light, each circling a sphere of pure darkness.

“Not that one! Please… You can reroll one of your so-much-better-than-Citadel dice if you wish.”

Bob shrugged and gently placed the tiny cube on the table. He tossed his brace of so-much-better-than-citadel mystic cubes, rolling the terradon icon and a reptilian eye. He retrieved the eye and rolled again. Another eye. Joe, leapt three inches and stopped. One inch remained between he and the flames.

“Pursue, my Vengeance!” The skeleton hurled three swift striding cubes at the table. Three single dimples peeked back at him.

“Ribbit. That was really lucky” Joes eyes could not possible bulge any further without springing from their sockets.

“There! Is! No! Luck! You have just had your one chance in….” Phatmothoses paused to calculate, “…in….eighty-four million. However, you still flee. Rally if you can! Those flames look hot…..”

The opulent mystic cubes tumbled again. An unblinking pair of snake eyes glowered at the Lord of Citadel. He spluttered, “You have rallied, but you can perform no other actions. Citadel Turn Three. No Movement. Magic Phase!” He cast a pair of tawdry dice which rolled up a six and a one. Without pause he snatched six more inferior cubes and hurled them at the table shouting, “Purple Sun of Xereus!” Amongst the dross was a pair of malevolent, but uninspiring, sixes. “Irresistable Force!” he crowed. He cast another cube which was embossed with a terribly dull arrow which pointed off the table edge, and then another regular, tedious cube.

This last showed a single depression. Depression was the emotion that Bob felt when he looked at the vile cube. “How could anyone use such a banal (yes, banal thank you IronJaw) piece of stegadon excrement? Surely “lustria-online.com custom lizardmen dice” are superior in every way. And they are surprisingly affordable, considering the seven months of collaborative work that went into their design. To think, in only one week, the opportunity to become the proud owner of these priceless artifacts will disappear.”

A colossal orb of purple edged darkness materialized on the battlefield. Joe’s froggy form was consumed.

“Test on initiative one!” Phatmothoses nudged a mystic cube towards the saurus general.

Bob picked up the lovely cube and stroked it against his scaly cheek. “Hmmmm. These things even feel good. I should get some more. A whole lot more! I hope everyone else will do the same. Anyone who misses out will suffer an eternity of regret! No really. Eternity is a very, very, very long time. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience. If I knew someone who played Lizardmen, I would instantly contact them with the otherwise annoying Book of Face to make sure they didn’t miss out. This thing feels really good on my scaly cheek. Oooh. If I were capable of arousal, I’m pretty sure this would do it. Damn you Cold Blood! Damn you no genitals!” Bob flung the cube onto the table and slumped back in orgasmic relief. “God, I need a cigarette….” he sighed.

A snake eye. Phatmothoses’ smouldering eyes almost popped out of their sockets. His next utterance was unspellable, and darn near unpronounceable. “Fine!” he grated. “Your turn four!”

“Croak. Resolve the miscast.” A tiny voice reminded.

“What?”

“Two sixes. Miscast. Roll on the table. Ribbit.”

With another unpronounceable curse, Phatmothoses flung out two more common dice, such as those found in a child’s game. (Not a serious, credible, grown up game like Warhammer Fantasy Battle. No sir). They totaled three. The resulting five inch wide dimensional cascade stripped a wound from the Vengeance of Gaimsworkcheops. Joe continued to gulp and blink. He escaped unscathed.

One more die tumbled from the Lord of Citadel’s bony fingers. Two. With a yelp of fear, Phatmofoses’ animated construct prepared himself to be plunged into the Realm of Chaos.

“Lizardmen. Crushing Defeat. Turn Three. That was lucky! Ribbit”

Phatmofoses raised his head. His every insubstantial fibre radiated hatred. “One chance in three trillion, nine hundred and nineteen billion, one hundred and four million. Give or take. However, you forget. I make the rules. He plucked a tiny rod out of the box marked Arcane Items. “Earthing Rod. Reroll any results on the miscast table. Ha!”

He threw two more of the treacherous Citadel dice. Three dimples. He howled as he flung one more against the furthest wall of the chamber. The pathetic cube ricocheted to rest at his feet. One dimple.

The Vengeance of Gaimsworkcheops vanished from existence with a whimper. Somewhere else entirely, the great Queen named Randomness, sipped from a fine china teacup and smiled sweetly at her husband. King Balance glowered red-faced back at her. He was bound and gagged and stuffed in the corner of the chamber that they would share for all eternity.

Phatmothoses screeched in incoherent rage. With a strength that did not seem possible, he grabbed the edge of the gaming table and flipped it over. Joe's tiny froggy form was flung to the floor. Dice, incomplete models, and other bric-a-brac scattered throughout the chamber. Bob himself was knocked sprawling by the Lord of Citadel’s tantrum.

Joe hopped as quickly as his tiny legs would carry him to cower under the shelves which lined the walls as Bob gathered himself, ready to stand. Bob felt a cold, sharp edge under his scaly hand. He investigated. It was a cube. A small, black cube which contained millions of tiny pin-pricks of blinking light, each circling a sphere of pure darkness. A Cube of Darkness.

Phatmothoses saw what he held. “Noooooooooo!”

Without hesitation, Bob cast the Cube of Darkness into the centre of the room. It burst open like a black flower. Every shred of magic power within the citadel was consumed by the tiny black sphere which hovered, for an instant, before returning to the null dimension which was its home. The chamber erupted in chaos. Not Chaos. This was the regular kind of chaos. This was the kind of chaos which ensues when every kind of warrior, beast and monster, of every allegiance, is simultaneously released from a spell of miniaturisation, within the confines of a relatively small building.

Troops of halberdiers, and packs of wolves vied for dominance. Spiders, trolls and dragons chattered, bellowed and roared their annoyance. Even great reptilian beasts of the jungle burst out of the boxes which had imprisoned them, and thundered from the room, smashing their own doorways because the original ones were too small to admit them.

Bob cowered under the remains of the severely overpriced Realm of Battle table. “I could make my own gaming table at one quarter the price!” he mused. An ironlike claw grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him to his feet.

“I salute you, General. I am T`hinker`er.” The claw belonged to a doughty looking Saurus Scar Veteran. Bob had never been treated with this much (any) respect by such an exalted hero. “Take Joe with you, and escape. I have a score to settle with this so-called Lord of Citadel.” T`hinker`er held up a vicious implement.

“Is that a putty knife?” Bob gasped.

T`hinker`er grinned evilly and advanced towards Phatmothoses, who was struggling to rise from beneath a rabble of Halflings.

Bob spied a large amphibian which was cowering beneath some shelves. He grabbed it and fled to the balcony. Behind him he could overhear T`hinker`er, in a low and menacing voice, say "...and now Lord of Citadel, for the last time, I'm going to demonstrate the difference between a conversion and an original sculpture, even if it kills you!"

On the edge of the balcony, Bob tucked Joe under one arm and vaulted onto the back of a terradon which had just taken flight. The reptile faltered for a moment, let out a high pitched squawk, and furiously beat its leathery wings to leave the Citadel far behind him.

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Bob clasped the bumpy amphibian to his chest. “Joe!” he wailed, “Why didn’t you turn back into yourself? Why aren’t you talking to me?”

The sound of rushing wind as the terradon sped north east filled Bob’s ears, but he fancied there was another sound. A stricken, keening wail. The sound was coming from the terradon.

Bob peeked beneath the wing of the distressed terradon to investigate what was causing this upset. He saw Joe hanging by his claws to the scrotum of the flying reptile.

“What the….?” Bob looked carefully at the warty amphibian that he had been cradling in his arms. The blot toad, which he had rescued by accident, scowled back at him with open hostility.

The terradon had suffered enough for one lifetime and plunged toward a leafy oasis where he attempted to brush his unwelcome payload off on the crown of a date palm. Bob, and his new companion soon followed as the flying reptile shrugged them off its back.

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“That was lucky!” an impressive Kroxigor observed. Bob and the blot toad had fallen from a great height to splash into the centre of the desert oasis where Mahtis, Rychek and Bessie had paused in their journey. When Bob surfaced from the cooling waters he had a bumpy amphibian perched on his eggshell.

“Where is Joe?” asked Bob.

There was another sound. A stricken, keening wail. The sound had words. The sound had meaning. “Waaa aaaa aaaaah! Get off me! Get off me!” it seemed to say.

Rychek, Mahtis and Bob peered upwards. In the fronds of a tall, spiky palm tree, they could spy a distressed saurus warrior. On his head was a collection of sticks which formed a nest. On the nest was a large bird with long curved beak. The saurus warrior and the ibis competed for the title of “most surprised”. Joe flapped his arms ineffectually and toppled from the tree and landed heavily on a nonchalant bastilodon. Bessie continued to munch on the delectable thorn bushes that grew around the waterhole.

“That was lucky,” observed Rychek. “Unless you count Joe. What happened to you guys?”

Joe and the ibis recovered their composure. “There was this evil ruler, who wanted to nerf Bob!”

Rychek shuddered. If Bob were nerfed, what joy would remain in the universe? There would be no point to existence.

Then the light around them seemed to dim, just for a second.

“You have something that belongs to me.” Silhouetted against the setting sun was a badly beaten skeleton. He looked as if he had just gone two days against a saurus scar veteran and lost. As he spoke, the sunlight flickered and dimmed again.

“Get behind us, Bob. It’s you he’s after” Rychek and Mahtis stood shoulder to shoulder in front of their friend.

“Do not play childish games. I will take what is mine!” The menacing skeleton was riding on a flying carpet of Arabyan design. Around him was a faint glow which screamed, “Magical protection from mundane attacks!” Another shadow streaked across the sinking sun.

Joe stepped forward. “Great Phatmothoses, Lord of Citadel. You win. Bob, come forward.”

“You can’t surrender Bob to him!” Rychek protested.

“Trust me,” Joe mouthed silently.

Mahtis and Rychek grudgingly parted. Bob stepped forward, with the toad still perched on his shell.

“Here. Take him. He was a terrible concept, anyway.” Joe snatched the startled blot toad from atop Bob’s head and flung him to the Lord of Citadel.

Phatmothoses looked at the slimy amphibian cradled in his arms. “No, I didn’t mean……”

He was interrupted by a chorus of enraged screeches. A ripperdactyl swooped out of the glare of the setting sun and raked its claws across the Citadel Lord’s thin shoulders, bowling him from his flying carpet. As more rippers slashed him, Phatmothoses curled into a ball, with the blot toad still clutched to his breast. These frenzied killers were the very same that had been magically imprisoned within the Citadel.

The four lizardmen climbed onto Bessie’s howdah and steered her gently away from the whirlwind of dust, leathery wings and frenzied under bites.

As they slipped into the gathering night, Mahtis turned to watch the downfall of the Lord of Citadel.

“That was unlucky,” he remarked.



Next Chapter: Da Bloo Shaman

Edit: 12/9/13. Minor content change in the first part of the chapter. Gratuitous reference to T`hinker`er in the second half. Buy more dice! Buy more dice! Buy more dice! Buy more dice! Buy more dice! http://www.lustria-online.com/threads/dice-order-2013-closed.12750/
Edit: Spelling correction of "The Bloo Shaman". Rookie error.
Edit: 12/9/13. Proofread and minor improvements. Included the word "scrotum" and more T`hinker`er.
Edit: 13/9/13 Minor corrections, Smurfs removed for later use.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12.1 v

Yes! Another installment of pure entertainment!

Thanks Bob!

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch11 vs

Still waiting on that retainer check, BTW...

P.S., I LOVE where this is going

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12.1 v

Don't attempt to comment. Please direct all correspondence to my lawyer, T`hinker`er.

(The Cheque is in the mail)

Meanwhile. Buy more dice! Buy more dice! Buy more dice! Buy more dice! Buy more dice! Buy more dice!

Only one week to go. Reread chapter 12 if you haven't got the subliminal message.

SoB

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12.1 v

... I think I just read an Infomercial...?

... mUST BUY SHINY DICE ....

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12.1 v

If that was an informercial, it was the best I've ever experienced (though I don't watch TV much, let alone infomercials, but still).

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch11 vs

And as Bob fled to the balcony, he could overhear T`hinker`er, in a low and menacing voice say "...and now Phatmothoses, for the last time, I'm going to demonstrate the difference between a conversion and an original sculpture, if it kills you!"

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12 vs

Too good to waste! Thank's for the dialogue.

(I also changed it to "putty knife")

I still need fluff help. If anyone is going to make it to the Mountains of Mourn, they will need to cross the dark lands. Who / what is / was there?

You don't want me to start making things up now. Everything I've done so far is canonical.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12 vs

The Darklands are dominated by Orcs & Goblins, although according to the wiki the Chaos Dwarf empire controls the north portion. Necromancers are also common, and the dragon isles are just off the southern coast.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12 vs

I am honored to have contributed in some small way
Keep up the great work!

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12 vs

Love love love.
Amazing as always Bob! Loving GW in this one; i'm currently confounded by their massive ££££ bundles - who buys them to justify a £7,065 kit?

Back to the subject, I lold.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch12 vs

13. Da Bloo Shaman

Rychek had surmised that Taisteslaikch'ken would be taken to the ogre lands which he knew to be far to the north east, over the World's Edge Mountains and the desolate Dark Lands beyond. Although the journey would be long and arduous, Bob and Joe kept everyone's spirits up.

"We are not here to collect souvenirs. Get rid of it"

"I like him. And his name is Len. Don't hurt his feelings."

Bob inspected the ibis perched on Joe's head. "He looks more like an Ien to me."

The bird puffed its feathers out in annoyance.

"Anyway, eggshells make better helmets. They provide protection."

"Ibis are better. They can get aggressive when aroused. Who wouldn't want an extra attack?"

"Eggshell is better!"
"Ibis!"
"Eggshell!"
"Ibis!"
"Eggshell!"
"Gawk!" [Tock!]

Bob had leaned too close. Len unleashed a savage peck which was blocked by the eggshell.

The argument was declared a draw.

(image)

The strangling deserts of the Land of the Dead grudgingly released their grip as the party trudged onwards. To begin with, the low thorny bushes of the arid zone became more common on the sun blasted ridges. These gave way to patchy scrub which in turn, melded into viney thickets and stands of scrawny trees. They had entered the Badlands.

This region, which covered almost the same area as the Empire, was a bubbling cauldron of destructive hate. Greenskin tribes, Skaven clans and Beastmen war-herds alternated between vying with each other for local supremacy and leading invasions into the neighbouring lands of the wood elves, men and dwarves.

The southern reaches of the Badlands were sparsely populated. To the south there was nothing invade or conquer except for dunes and saltpans. Therefore the heroes were able to travel for some days unmolested. On the fifth day they crossed a boundary marked by a glowering greenskin totem pole. This was crudely carved to represent a snarling wyvern bearing an orcish warlord. The orc wore upon his head an eagle totem with wings outstretched. The carved sentinel exuded palpable animosity from its six hollow eye sockets.

Little did they know it, but the party had strayed into the territory of the Horkhatz tribe. Generations ago, every last bird in the region had been hunted to extinction to satisfy the tribe's demand for totemic head dresses. The extermination had started with the commonest and most easily accessed birds. As these dwindled in number, the greenskins had to pursue more exotic game until not a single avian remained. No Horkhatz greenskin alive had ever seen a living bird.

The last recorded hunt had involved the Savage Orc Warboss, Arfwitt Fethabrane, and his pursuit of a Great Roc which had alighted on a mountain peak. His last words were reputed to be, "Dis looked mutch smalla from down dere!" as he was carried away to meet the mighty bird's nestlings.

Since that time, the tribe had been ruled by a succession of warlords, supported by greenskin shamen who helped maintain their grip on rule through a combination of superstitious fear-mongering and brutal application of the borrowed power of the twin greenskin gods, Mork and Gork.

The twins are an embodiment of the savage hostility of their endless hordes of worshippers. The pair are, unfortunately, so alike in manifestation and demeanor that not even their high priests can reliably tell them apart. This is a dangerous situation, because Gork knows that he is not Mork, and he lashes out in umbrage at any who address him inappropriately.

Mork is not sure which one he is, but he is content to lash out randomly, "Just in Kase!"

The magical powers bestowed by Mork and Gork are not drawn directly from the winds of magic, although their intensity does vary in parallel with the magical flux. In comparison with High or Battle magics, the greenskin magic is more often contained in "Fings", rather than in abstractions such as a chanted spell or a gesture of power. Such fings range from the totem described earlier, to magical weapons and artifacts, to the lukky bloo™ war paint which provides real protection from harm to the savage orcs who daub it on their bodies.

Few of the larger fighting orcs remained in the home range of the Horkhatz tribe because the terrifying black orc warboss, Worhuh Wotsitgudfaw had called a new Waaagh! and was recruiting orc fighters from all nearby tribes to join his army. This army was marshalling at the foot of the World's Edge Mountains. He was planning to lead his Waaagh! into the soft undabelli of the Empire.

Others in the badlands saw an opportunity to exploit such a power vacuum. An upstart Beastmen War-Herd was flexing its muscle in the Horkhatz home range. The forest goblins of the tribe who remained in the area, simply melted away into the trees. Their cowardly nature meant that they would not engage the herd with the inspiring or bullying leadership of the larger orcs who had been drafted into Worhuh's Waaagh!

The lizardmen smelt the stench and heard the deranged braying of the war-herd long before it came into sight. The sheer volume of sound coming from the beasts indicated that discretion would be a better course than confrontation. They had time to find an empty cave on a hillside and Bessie was ushered around a few bends to the very back so that the glow of the solar engine would not be seen. The heroes prepared to lay low until the herd passed by.

The herd did not pass by. The hill formed part of a natural amphitheatre of ridges with a large clearing in the centre. The beastmen made a rude camp here so that they could perform some religious observance to mark the rising of the full Chaos moon in three days time.

Lizards can endure long fasts without discomfort or harm, but by the dawn of the third day Mahtis's stomach was rumbling loud enough to present a significant risk of discovery by the herd below. The cave amplified every sound inside, and the Kroxigor's borborygmus had some of the beastmen below scanning the sky for storm clouds. Whenever it occurred, Mahtis would apologise shyly and retreat to the rear of the cave.

Bob kept a nervous vigil just inside the mouth of the cave. Joe and Rychek were a little further back.

"Is this good to eat?" Mahtis had returned from his self imposed exile and was holding a large green glowing mushroom. "I found it at the back."

"Let me see, Mahtis," Rychek examined and sniffed the mushroom.

Mahtis's stomach growled even louder.

"For the Old One's sake, let him eat it!" Bob hissed. Below them, some of the beastmen were pointing at the cave mouth and yammering to each other excitedly.

"Let me try it first, Mahtis. It might be bad for you." Rychek nibbled the cap of the fungus. After a long pause he declared, "It seems Okay. Okay."

"Okay," echoed Joe.

Mahtis reached to take the mushroom from Rychek's hands then paused in alarm.

"Okay Okay Okay Okay Okay!" the corners of Rychek's mouth had twisted upwards in a mockery of a grin. His eyes drifted out of focus and his limbs began to twitch. His body bucked and he launched into a ghastly parody of dance.

Mahtis caught his spawn kin and wrapped him in his arms. "What is happening?"

"He's having a fit! Joe declared. "Force something in his mouth so he doesn't bite his tongue. Not my tail! Not my tail! Waaa aaaa aaaaah!"

"Oh mahrlecht! Here they come!" called Bob from the mouth of the cave.

(image)

"Waaa aaaa aaaaah!" The blood curdling cry was amplified and deepened by the cave and reverberated around the amphitheatre of hills. Before the echoes had faded away, the Doom Bull, beast lord of the war herd, raised his shaggy head and bellowed his enraged reply to Joe's howl.

The bloodthirsty bray herd pawed the ground and snorted, working themselves into a frenzy as they prepared to charge at the unseen threat in the cave. The mighty minotaur bawled a wordless command and the braying mass surged up the slope, gradually gathering speed.

Suddenly, the surrounding forest came alive. Innumerable goblins of the forest poured out from among the trees. They unleashed a black rain of stone tipped arrows and the beastman charge quickly became a rout.

However, the Doom Bull's momentum carried him to the mouth of the cave. His way was blocked by a white helmeted lizardman brandishing a green glowing sword. The Beast Lord swiped with his huge wooden club and the lizard attempted to parry the blow. The strange sword embedded in the wood of the club and was wrenched from the saurus's claws.

With a bawl of triumph, the slavering minotaur pulled the glowing sword free to untangle his club, ready for the killing blow. He brandished both weapons.

The deep rumbling bellow that came from the beast's mighty throat abruptly jumped in pitch by at least three octaves. His visage changed from one of rage to one of consternation.

The Warpstone enhanced Sword of Barrenness cursed any who wielded it with sterility and genital shrinkage. It had no effect on the asexual lizard"men", but the effect on the Doom Bull's impressive equipment was instantaneous and profound.

The Beast Lord stooped to peer between his legs as a dark shadow fell across the mouth of the cave. "Holy-ee-ee Shee-ee....." he squeaked before being cut off, literally, by a gigantic pair of black mandibles.

Bob gawped, open mouthed, at the enormous Arachnarok spider which had neatly decapitated his assailant. From its back, a dozen war painted forest goblins peered down. "We herd da call. Who'z da Boss?"

(image)

Neehai Ankulbita was confused. The hardy greenskin warrior below him must have emasculated the Doom Bull with his teeth, for he bore no weapon. That was a feat worthy of great respect. What was confusing was that this greenskin was bloo, and he had a tail.

"I beg your pardon?" The bloo warrior enquired politely.

Neehai narrowed his eyes. The bloo warrior was eight feet tall, had just swallowed the melon sized nuts of the Doom Bull, and he just said, "I beg your pardon?" to a puny goblin.

There was definitely something amiss. The orc and goblin tribes were a heightrarchical society. The largest and strongest bullied those less impressive than themselves, and these vented their angst on their smaller peers, and so on, until every frightful kicking was passed on, with interest, to the smallest night goblin. Coincidentally, that goblin was the fastest runner to ever wear a green hide.

Bob was uncomfortable with the silence. He had a personal policy of showing politeness to anyone who had nominal control of an arachnid which was the size of a barn. He generally felt that such folk should be engaged in friendly conversation. "Excuse me?"

Neehai felt safe enough up on his mount to dare speaking to the murderous champion. "We herd da Waaagh! We came ta answer da call ta war. We is only Gobbos, but we kan still fight!"

Another bloo warrior lurched out of the cave. He was at least four times the mass of the first. "What's happening?" asked Mahtis.

"Righto, dat must be da Boss."

"Back inside and care for Rychek," Bob snapped, "Leave this to me."

Neehai's jaw dropped in astonishment. "Yoo'z can't orda him about! He'z bigga dan yoo are!"

Mahtis nodded vigorously, "He's right!"

"Size isn't everything! Now get back in there!"

"Size izn't evryting?" In unison, the other eleven goblins on the spider repeated the words in amazement.

Neehai mouthed the words to himself. He struggled with this new thought, much as he struggled with every other thought, new or old.

The interior of the cave started to glow. Bessie was not being supervised and had moved closer to the entrance. The light intensified until Neehai had to shield his eyes. Out of the blinding radiance stepped a terrifying figure. He was a bloo warrior, like the first, but this one had a totemic head dress in the form of a savage eyed bird of prey. As he stopped beside the vanquisher of the minotaur, the totem on his brow came alive and unfurled its mighty wings. "Gawk?"

"Oh Mahrlecht! Oompa Loompahs!" Joe exclaimed.

"Yoo mus' be da Boss!" Neehai felt happier. This impressively adorned specimen was surely the leader.

"What? Well, Rychek seems to think he's in charge," Joe mused.

"Ahh. Kan I talk ta him den?"

"Oh, I need to speak for him at the moment. He's a bit....."

Just then a small bloo figure capered out of the cave and danced around the legs of the arachnarok. "Sorry Bob, he got out," apologized Mahtis as he gave up his pursuit.

"Gawk," observed Len.

"Gawk gawk gawk gawk gawk!" echoed Rychek while he slapped the carapace of the giant spider in unison with his words.

"E'z not a Boss! E'z a shaman!" observed the goblin chief in amazement.

"Umm. Why do you say so?" Joe didn't want to contradict anyone who had nominal control of an arachnid which was the size of a barn. For once he and Bob shared something in common.

"Cos e'z crazier dan yoo are!"

By this time Rychek had finished the spider slapping dance and had started throwing handfuls of leaves in the air. "Yooah yooah yooah!"

Mahtis nodded vigorously, "He's right!"

(image)

SpelChekka Izfawlty looked at the "guests" through slitted eyes. With the larger orcs away with Warhuh's Waaagh! he was interim leader of the remnant Horkhatz tribe. The presence of a new shaman and three greenskin warriors, one of whom had a regal totemic headdress and all of whom were bloo was not welcome.

"...an' da wun wif da Hork Hat sez he speaks for da Bloo Shaman wot is da Boss..."

Spelchekka held up his hand to slience his subordinate. Neehai Ankulbita had taken Rychek and his escort back to the Horkhatz' shanty town to present them to Spelchekkah who was the goblin Great Shaman.

The choicest dwellings in the town were at ground level. These crude huts and barracks were usually occupied by orcs of varying rank. The goblins themselves lived in hovels which sprouted from the branches of large trees like untidy fruit. These elevated shacks were in uncomfortable and dangerous proximity to the webs and spider pens which housed the chittering beasts of the goblin cavalry.

The centre of Horkhatz town housed the Shrine to Mork and Gork, surrounded by a wide apron of earth which had been beaten down to form a reddish crust. Glowering idols of the twins flanked the low timber building which was decorated with skulls and other trophies of war which were nailed to, or heaped against the walls. The inelegant structure contained all of the magical "Fings" of the tribe, with the exception of those which were "Owt on Lone."

The idols prevented entry by the uninitiated. To gain access, a supplicant needed to greet each idol by name. As noted earlier, differentiating the pair was challenging, even for priests. Most others had even odds of getting it right first time. Paradoxically, the most cunning would-be temple thieves were the least successful because they would try "Hail Mork and yoo too Mork," reasoning that "wun outta two aint so bad."

In any case, a mispoken name would lead the speaker to find themselves embedded in the beaten earth by one or both of the idols. Even though "remembring" is not a valued skill among greenskins, it is possible that some might have been able to recollect that "dat wun is Gork," after watching another supplicant. However, the idols would routinely exchange position when no-one was watching.

Mahtis was protectively clasping Rychek to restrain his twitching dance, with Bob and Joe standing to one side. Bessie was further back, defoliating a leaf-thatched hut.

"Therr'll be a challenj," Spelchekka intoned menacingly.

Mahtis clenched his mighty jaw and handed his spawn brother to the sauri to hold. He stepped forward, flexing his trunk like arms.

"Not yoo! Him!" The goblin wizard indicated Rychek. "A shaman challenj!"

Spelchekka turned to address the enraptured crowd of goblins pressing around them. "Ya all knowz me! Wot's my name?"

"Skulchukka! Spudchoppah! Spelchekka! Spilsloppah!" The goblins huddled together to argue it out. Presently they pushed the smallest of their number forward to present their consensus. "Yoo is.... Spelchekkah?" The goblin cringed.

"Dat's rite! And am I a shaman?" Spelchekkah continued to warm up the crowd.

"Yah! S'right! Dunno! Finkso! Woss a shaman? Ouch!"

"Ow do ya know e'z a shaman?" the evil goblin stabbed a gnarled finger at Rychek's chest.

There was a pause. "E...lookz like a shaman...?" a timid voice called out.

Goblin Shaman SpelChekka Izfawlty had a deep green complexion. His hooked nose had a finger bone thrust through the nostrils and its snotty tip almost touched his outthrust chin. His bat wing like ears were pierced with bits of bone and animal horn. His tattered cloak was made of the hide of a dwarf, with the beard part turned outside in to make a scratchy but warm lining. From his waist hung several shrunken heads. His bandy legs were bound with strips of rag which continued down swathe his grubby feet like bandages. About his outstretched wrists and upper arms were fetishes made of the scraggly feathers of long dead vultures.

Even in his absent state, Rychek, looked normal. Clawed feet supported sinewy legs. His lean, ice blue torso was balanced by a short muscular tail. Across his shoulders and back were tougher, darker coloured scales than were found on the rest of his body. He was completely innocent of clothing. His wide grinning mouth was studded with a regular row of needle sharp teeth. He had a bright crest of skin stretched between a long spine of bone on his head and the nape of his neck.

It was clear that someone would eventually notice that Rychek did not look terribly shaman-y at all. Bob felt the need to intervene.

"Well... He turned me into a newt!"

Every eye turned to study Bob in disbelief. There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

"I got better," Bob muttered sheepishly.

Spelchekkah chose to ignore him. "Dere arr ways of telling if e iz a shaman!"

"Is dere?" the crowd were hooked now.

"Wot do shamans do?" the goblin leader asked.

"Burn! Dey burn! Shhh! Nah, dey do... magick! Yarright Magick! Magick!"

"Wot else duz magick?"

"More shamans! A duck! Shaddup! Shamans! Yah!"

"And wot else?" he continued to probe.

"....Mork! Yah Mork! Mork! Mork! And pozzibly Gork! Yerr him too!"

"So, why doo shamans doo magick?" Spelchekka was sure he had them now.

"....Becoz....becoz dey knowz Mork, or pozzibly Gork?....."

"So, ow do we know dat he knowz Mork, or pozzibly Gork?"

"...we could...we could...ask im?" the crowd murmured uncertainly.

" Procisely! A Mork, or pozzibly Gork test!"

Spelchekka scurried to the two idols in front of the shrine as the crowd gasped and shrank back several paces. The shaman studied the statues carefully. "Praize Mork!" he said to the statue on the right. The other statue turned its glowering eyes toward him and balled an enormous stone fist as he blurted, "an' Praize Gork!" to his left as quickly as he could get the words out. The idol returned to its state of dormant menace. Spelchekka ducked inside and returned moments later with one of the tribes most precious fings.

This was a sceptre which was surmounted by a representation of one of the twins. The dark wooden shaft was decorated with the obligatory shrunken heads and other fetishes. The likeness was crowned with feathers to denote that it was the property of the Horkhatz tribe.

Spelchekka thrust the sceptre into Rychek's hand and scuttled quickly back. The crowd retreated another few steps.

"Wot wun of da twinz is da image on the stik?" All of the goblins knew that if the Rychek invoked the wrong twin, there would be one less bloo shaman, and one more bloody crater in the town square.

Rychek looked uncertainly at the rod in his hand. Bob and Joe instinctively tightened their grip on his arms as an eerie hush fell across the assemblage. The tense silence stretched until every nerve in Mahtis's body jangled with apprehension.

"Gawk?" suggested Len, helpfully.

"Gork! Gork! Gork! Gork!" Rychek burbled happily. After a few seconds the crowd released a collectively held breath. He knew Gork from Mork, and possibly Mork from Gork. He was a shaman!

Spelchekka snatched the sceptre of Gork from Rychek's hand in annoyance. "Ya are a shaman iz ya? Wez'll hav a shaman challenj ta see who'z boss owt of uz!"

"The Bloo Shaman accepts your challenge!" The Bloo warrior with the Hork Hat spoke for his tiny master.

The crowd tittered and stepped even further back.

"It shall be....a staring competition!" Joe declared.

"Wha?" gasped Spelchekka. This was a new one. Usually a shamanic challenge would involve an exchange of curses and magical missiles which would often leave both challengers with nasty injuries, if indeed the bodies could be found afterwards. The goblin shaman considered his opponent and an evil smile crept onto his crooked face. This Bloo shaman lacked focus and discipline. Spelchekka was sure he could best his opponent in a test of concentration.

"I axcept da challenj!"

It was agreed that the first challenger to blink or turn away would concede to the victor. A wide circle was scraped onto the rusty earth. Bob and Joe continued to restrain Rychek as he was maneuvered in one side of the ring. Spelchekka positioned himself opposite.

Under the malignant gaze of his gods, the greenskin shaman prepared himself. As the sun reached its zenith, he raised the sceptre and screeched, "Ba-gin!"

After the first hour the contestants remained with eyes locked. The crowd was finding it difficult to maintain their own focus. Most challenges would be over by now, and the population would be able to get on with the task of rebuilding their town and recovering their scattered livestock. This challenge while very interesting and absorbing was actually, incredibly dull. Boredom was a new experience for many present, because they had rarely gone more than a few idle minutes before getting a solid boot up the backside by the nearest orc.

Another hour passed. The only movement was the incessant lashing of the bloo shaman's tail and the odd bead of sweat on the goblin's brow.

By the middle watch of the afternoon, Spelchekka's shoulders had hunched and his forehead was creased with effort. He had to shift weight from side to side to alleviate the ache in his legs. Rivulets of sweated trickled down his beak like nose to splash into a growing puddle at his feet. Rychek continued to lash his tail and grin enthusiastically.

Soon before the fourth watch, the goblin developed an uncontrolleable facial tic. He screwed up his face to try and alleviate it which dislodged sweat which had pooled in one bushy eyebrow. The salty liquid trickled into one eye and started to sting unbearably. To his credit, Spelchekkah endured for four more minutes before staggering out of the circle, blinking furiously.

When he had regained some semblance of composure he turned back to his vanquisher with slumped shoulders, ready to pledge obedience to the victor. The bloo shaman was still maintaining his uncanny stare.

Spelchekkah looked closer and gasped. He pointed the sceptre in his hand at Rychek's face and shrieked, "E don't even hav eyelidz, for Mork's sake!"

With a roar of supernatural rage, the icon of Gork-on-a-Stick sprouted a pair of colossal green arms. The enormous hands clapped together on the greenskin shaman as if he were a mosquito to be swatted. The arms shrank and disappeared just as quickly as they had appeared and the sceptre clattered down onto the blood sprayed earth.

Bob and Joe had recoiled in alarm and released Rychek's arms at the manifestation of the aggravated god. The disturbed skink swooped to clutch the sceptre in his bony hand.

"Gork! Gork! Gork! Gork!" he chirped as he waved his prize and capered around his friends and into the crowd of admiring goblins.

Mahtis boggled, "He is the Bloo Shaman of Gork!"

Neehai Ankulbitah and the assembled goblin tribe chorused, "E'z Rite!"

(image)

Waaagh! Warhuh appeared to be ready. The green hordes were poised like a green tsunami which would scour the unsuspecting empire. The gibbering Shamen agreed that the time was auspicious, and that Gork and Mork would bless the expedition. The savage Warboss would be able to unleash his dogs as soon as a few kompliance issues were resolved.

The regulation of the greenskins had begun insidiously. A number of different Waargh!s and their war bosses met up by chance at a place called Da Haargue, in the west of Da Nethalands. One of the bosses had joked that the previously antagonistic greenskin nations should form a loose confederation of tribes and adopt an agreed set of principles of governance which would facilitate cooperation among the leaders and their nations. They could form a military and ekanomic blok based around their common interests. Any future policy decisions would be agreed by all member states.

Agreeing was a difficult concept for the other leaders. One was heard to say, "Eur-agrean? U-nancy!" as the whole group punched in the stupid face of the innovator. Unfortunately, the exchange was overheard by Sirumfrey Appellby, first lord of Da Bureaukratz.

Da Bureaukratz, previously an obscure subclass of greenskin, ran with the concept of "Eur-agrean? U-nancy!" which was abbreviated to "EU". Gradually the "Eur-agrean? Zone" (or Eura?Zone) grew to include other greenskin tribes and nations, even those with tenuous historical or geographical ties to the original founders. As the EU grew, so did the choking blood-weed of regulation spread until it began to strangle all orcs and goblins in a tangle of red tape-like fronds.

Worhuh snarled, "Where'z me Bean Kowntah?" Although he didn't fear the puny akkountant, he knew that his waaagh! could founder if there were too many night goblin fanatics, too few herders for the squigs, or a lack of choppahs. Plus, no warboss in his right mind (or out of it) wants to be subjected to an awdit.

The Bean Kowntah scurried forward. He was an unimpressive specimen. His pasty green skin indicated that he did not spend much time in the light of the sun, and his thin, hairless arms were not well adapted to lifting anything heavier than a quill. On his breast he wore a badge that stated, "Akkowntant by Day / Ninja by Nite!" but this did not make him any more interesting, or attractive to girls. Quite the opposite, in fact.

The Bureaukrat clutched a board which had clipped to it dozens of sheets of elfskin parchment. There did seem to be a worryingly large amount of red ink in the uninterpretable script which crowded the pages. Two functionaries set up a large wooden frame in front of him. The uprights of the frame were linked by horizontal metal rods which were festooned with the skulls of unfortunate Tacks Avoidahs.

After a quick reference to his Klipboard, the Bean Kowntah started frenetically clacking the skulls back and forth on his abacurse, all the while muttering mysterious incantations such as "CEN Artikle 153, Sayfty and Healf Regs," and "Statuet 1985.c72, Metrifikation of Chaaarge Distanse." Eventually he fell silent and turned to face the warboss.

"Not enuff gobbos," he declared.

"Dere's plenty!" protested Warhuh.

"Yoor'e not kompliant wif da new regs. Getit Fixed!"

"Aaargh!" The warboss spun on his heel and addressed Epididimoh Orkitis, a trusted black orc deputy.

Wot is da contribution from da Horkhatz Gobbos?" asked Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw.

"Absolootley nuffin."

"Say it again......" Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw demanded.

Everyone paused for effect..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=01-2pNCZiNk
Hilarious! But did anyone notice the temple guard joke back in chapter 9. It took ages for the Old Ones to set that up, but not a single comment. Go back and read it again and Telmiwai you didn't like it.

And now, back to chapter 13!

"Take sum Boyz back to da snots and parform a merit selektion process wot complize wif sektion forty-free of da act!" The warboss turned his back on his unstoppable waaagh! He couldn't bear to let them see the tears that filled his eyes.

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Epididimoh Orkitis led his rekrootment panel of a dozen heavily armed orc boyz into the shanty town. As they approached the central clearing, they became aware that the Horkhatz goblins were silently gathering in the shadows under the trees and around the huts.

The Orc Big'un cleared his throat and recited the standard contrakt terms. "Righ' ya little snots! War Boss Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw is gatherin' the tribes for a Waaagh! on da Empyre Humies! He needs you filthy gobbos to do sum dyin' for da Caaause!" He paused until the last echoes of his thunderous voice had faded away. "You lot are rekruited! Welkum to da Corpse!"

As he spoke, the goblins inched forward until they formed an unbroken ring around the panel. Four unusual specimens stepped closer still. Each had been painted from head to toe in Lukky Bloo™ war paint.

One was clearly a shaman. His tattered cloak was made of the hide of a dwarf, with the beard part turned inside out to make a scratchy but warm lining. From his waist hung several shrunken heads. His sinewy legs were bound with strips of rag which continued down swathe his clawed feet like bandages. About his wrists and upper arms were fetishes made of the scraggly feathers of long dead vultures. He had wide grinning mouth and bright crest of skin atop his head. Clutched in his fist was a Gork-or-possibly-Mork-on-a-stick. His most alarming features were his unblinking, maniacal eyes.

The shamans body was twitching as if to the beat of unheard drums. A large brute stood behind the shaman, firmly holding his shoulders. The other two were tall, for goblins. They were also unusually scaly, had a row of spines which ran down from their backs to the tip of their tails. Tails was a bit unusual, too.

The one with the impressive totemic bonnet spoke, "I speak for the Bloo Shaman and his brothers. The Horkhatz will not join your little war."

Epididimoh Orkitis guffawed. "Sorry, did I fawget to menshun da dental plan included wif da contrakt? If you join up now, I doezn't smash ya teef in." He loomed forward, menacingly. "Youse gobbos do wot we say. We is bigga dan yoo are!"

"Size isn't everything," the goblin spokesperson sniffed.

The throng of goblins around the tableau echoed his words, "Size izn't evryting."

The orc bully grunted and motioned to two of his band to disarm the two Lukky Bloo™ painted warriors. The first henchman snatched a black bladed spear from the speaker and broke it over his knee. The other bloo warrior, the one with the white helmet, snorted in amusement before being disarmed by the second thug.

As soon as the unfortunate orc took the green glowing weapon he felt an unusual sensation about his nethers. His armoured codpiece felt unusually empty. He took a peek down his breeches to investigate. "Size i-i-izn't evryting, Righ'?" he squeaked.

"Yer, it iz!" Epididimoh Orkitis was losing patience. "Yoo lot iz coming wif us, becoz we iz bigger dan yoo are!"

"But we are more numerous than you are." Joe observed.

The recently bereft orc rekrooter stared intently at the orc band, then at the goblin hedge. "E-e-e'z Rite!" he squeaked and then sidled around so that he was standing more with the goblin negotiating team than against them.

"Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting, Size izn't evryting." The Horkhatz goblins chanted menacingly as they tightened their cordon like a noose.

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Tidings of the revolt and the four bloo brothers spread throughout the Badlands, including Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw's Waaagh! encampment. The news spread quickly, in no small part due to the speedy legs of the smallest night goblin, who happened to be the fastest runner to ever wear a green hide.

"Size izn't evryting." Wherever goblins gathered, the words were on every set of lips. Soon, in twos and threes, and later whole platoons, the goblins ghosted away from Warhuh's camp to join the rebels.

In truth, losing the goblins would have little effect on the effectiveness of the Waaagh! The loss of numbers did not equate a corresponding loss of mass, or belligerence. In fact, with fewer gobbo backsides to kick, the orcs started to accumulate animosity. If the invasion of the Empire did not commence soon, the entire orcish army would explode in a conflagration of self destructive violence.

Warhuh hovered expectantly as the Bean Kowntah finished clacking the skulls of his infernal abacurse.

"I've chekked da figurs." The akkountant held up his balance sheet. There was rather a lot of red ink. In his other hand he held a bound copy of da regz. "Snot good. Orkforce skill mix claws firty-nine A: "A Waaagh! shall comprize no less dan twenty-five poynt wun percent goblins"......"

Warhuh's shoulders slumped. "Doze bruvvers 'ave rooined me."

The Bean Kowntah looked shiftily around, ".... but listen ta firty-nine B: "where such goblins are available". Havin' not enuff in is da same az havin' too many owt. Ya jus' need ta balance da books."

"Ow?"

"Da eeziest way is..." The akkountant flicked the balance sheet. The red ink slid off the page and dripped to the earth. He ground the pool of blood into the soil with his heel. "ya jus' need ta spill some red."

Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw's demeanor brightened considerably. "Send owt a memo, 'Use ov unnecassary violunce in da apprahenshun ov da Bloo Bruvvers haz been approoved'."

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Bessie had been well cared for back in the beast pens of Los'tmabo'tl. Teams of beast class skinks kept her scales oiled and her toenails trimmed. That was practically neglectful compared to the treatment she had received at the hands of the goblins of da Bloo Shaman Waaagh!

Her drab grey / green horny plates were daubed with red ochre in the profane symbols of the greenskins. Unblinking eyes peered intimidatingly from all angles, and representations of the snarling sun and the malevolent moons covered the spaces in between. Almost illegible
goblin script made dire statements such as "Garglerinse woz 'ere" and "Gobboes Rulez". So many skulls were strung across her flanks that she looked like a moving ossuary.

Mahtis and Bob were perched on her howdah, ostensibly to check her harness, but really to avoid proximity with the smelly, cackling rabble of emancipated goblins. There was a definite carnival atmosphere to the whole tableau. The little greenskins could maintain ranks for no more than five minutes before someone would snigger, "Size izn't evryting...." and everyone within earshot would collapse in fits of giggles.

The only troops taking the whole Waaagh! seriously, in their own fashion, were the Night Goblin Fanatics. Their previous pinnacles of suicidal lunacy were but mild eccentricity when compared with the antics of the erratic Rychek. To honour the inspiring Bloo Shaman, each fanatic had found every last skerrick of Lukky Bloo™ warpaint, and plastered themselves from head to toe with the greasy gunk.

The fanatics were making a special effort to rehearse with their wrecking balls to make ready for battle. Unfortunately, Lukky Bloo™, while serving a decorative function, does nothing to enhance one's grip on a length of stout chain. What had been conceived as a boldly choreographed reinterpretation of the "Nut-Krakka Suite" inevitably resulted in a number of the dance troupe losing their balls. Through the middle of this maelstrom of Kultcha, twirled the Bloo Shaman, as if he were dancing to music that he alone could hear.

Joe and Len cast two pairs of disconsolate eyes at the Horkhatz Horde, then compared them with Warhuh's Waaagh! which had marshalled opposite them across a broad valley. Orc Boyz and Black Orcs were formed up in spiky regiments. Their black iron armour did not glint in the pale sunlight. Their tarnished weapons did not glitter, but they looked effective nonetheless. These troops were not here for show. They had but one purpose: to rush into combat before the slavering hordes of Savage Orcs behind them got in front and obliterated the foe.

The savage orcs, in their turn, were eager to krump a few heads with their flint bladed choppers before the menagerie of trolls and giants on the flanks devoured or squished any stragglers who might have endured the initial charges.

In front of the orken lines was a squad of heavily armed and armoured black orcs. Each of the tank-like troopers brandished cruel, rusty weapons. Any victim who didn't immediately die from wounds from these cleavers must surely succumb to tetanus soon afterwards. At their head was Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw himself.

The mighty Warboss had crude iron plates strapped to every part of his body. His enormous double headed axe, which he swung in lazy arcs, was an exquisite piece of battle engineering. It was said that if this axe was carefully placed upon the head of a dwarf, it would neatly part the dwarf's wiry, matted hair. If the axe was placed even more carefully, it would part hair AND beard to approximately navel level.

For Warhuh, such matters were hypothetical. Even if a throng of dwarves presented themselves, he would have some trouble performing such a public service because he was mounted high up on his vicious wyvern, Owleggoleggo.

Wyverns are distant cousins of the dragons. Through a mishap of the family tree which involved too few branches intertwining a few too many times, the wyverns lost the forelimbs and fabled intelligence of the dragons. As if to compensate, the scaly horrors had developed a vicious streak a mile wide. This particular beast's naming ceremony was officiated by none other than "Stumpy" O'Toole, the most famous of monster handlers.

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Joe felt a tap on his wrist. He recognized Neehai Ankulbita, the goblin chief.

"Me an' da ladz alwayz fight betta after a good speech. Seeing as how yoo is wot speaks for Da Bloo Shaman, I waz wundring if yar could do da onnahs."

Joe turned around and cleared his throat loudly. Finally the goblin shambles shut up. The saurus leader opened his mouth, but no inspiring words came out. He closed his mouth again. Mahtis nodded encourageingly and Joe had another try.

"Well, umm..... you've put in a good preparation all season, and.... you just need to believe in yourself, and, and, your team mates. I know that you will try your very hardest because you are so proud to wear the green... and Bloo colours of the umm... Hawk err, thingy...."

The goblins stood with their long arms drooping by their sides, blinking in silent confusion. Joe breathed a silent prayer and opened his mouth again.

"I just want you all to know that however you perform today, I'll......Waaa aaaa aaaaah!!!!!!"
Rychek had waltzed past and stamped on Joe's tail. The goblins were enraptured.

"That is...I mean....Waaagh.....in the name of, in the name of...."

Len pecked Joe vigorously on the snout, "Gawk!"

" Waaa aaaa aaaaah! In the Name of Gork!!!"

With these words the goblin horde erupted in a clamour of war cries and shrieks.

"In Da Name of Gork, an possibly Mork!"
"Size izn't evryting!"
"'As anywun seen my spidah? He waz just hear a secund ago!"
"For Da Bloo Shaman!"
"Waaagh!"

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Owleggoleggo strutted toward the screeching Horkhatz with the black orc honour guard keeping time and pace with his thunderous strides by loudly clashing their weapons against their shields. The snarling platoon advanced to within forty yards of the goblin lines before Warhuh halted them with a gesture of his mighty axe. The warboss goaded the wyvern further forward to halve the distance between the adversaries.

"Me, and me Good Ole Boyz..." thundered Warhuh, gesturing at his black orc escort. "....'ave a skore to settle wif da Bloo Bruvvers!"

The goblin force courageously took a step backwards leaving Bessie, Bob, Mahtis, Joe, Len and the capering Rychek to face the scrutiny of the warboss. Joe unlimbered the flint tipped spear he had acquired and strode forward. Len spread his pinions menacingly.

Owleggoleggo stretched out his own leathery wings and roared his displeasure at the ibis's challenge. The Wyvern' wings could easily span a cathedral.

"Gawk!" grated Len menacingly. The wyvern recoiled slightly, no longer quite so sure of his supremacy.

"Is this a challenge then?" Joe punctuated the word challenge with a thrust of his spear.

"Yar. But not wif yoo. Wif him!" Warhuh indicated da Bloo Shaman with a grubby finger. The warboss had chosen the smallest foe in order to make a demonstration that size actually did matter, a lot.

Before any of the other lizardmen could restrain him, Rychek skittered out to jiggle in front of the wyvern waving Gork-on-a-Stick enthusiastically. "Challenge, challenge, challenge!"

Warhuh boggled at the lunacy of the insignificant shaman and drew his axe back in preparation for a sweeping blow. Joe averted his eyes as the axe swished through the air. There was an agonizing silence.

"Swish! Swishshwishshwishshwish!" When Joe looked back he saw Rychek pirouetting with his sceptre in a parody of the blow which he had inexplicably avoided. "Wot tha....!" snarled Warhuh as he swung again with his axe. The steps of the skink's jig carried him out of reach of harm again.

So began the dance of Rychek's life. He bobbed and twisted, span and bowed away from certain death as blades, claws, fangs and orcish curses rained down around him. The warboss and his mount became more and more frustrated until both were fairly foaming with rage.

It did not help that the goblins had started to jeer and heckle with every air swing. "Laydeez, take a look at my ginormous weapun!" they would hoot, or "Work on yar Teckneek!" and "don' wurry - keep yar pekkah up!"

Finally after another clumsy and impotent thrust with his enormous chopper, Warhuh lost balance and slipped from his saddle atop the frenzied wyvern to land heavily on the ground.

When he lifted his head, his gaze locked on the maniacal eyes of the shaman, who was bobbing on the spot. Owleggoleggo was creeping up behind Rychek just as stealthily as only a house sized, slavering, homicidal monster can. Warhuh managed a grim smile as he clambered to his feet. He realized that as long as he held the shaman's eyes, the bloo idiot jiggled less erratically. Without turning away, Warhuh groped for the haft of his battle axe. If the shaman stayed still enough, and Warhuh held the shaft held firmly in both hands, he was confident that this particular struggle would soon reach its climax.

Rychek was almost still, but for the occasional twitch, and he was about to be pincered by a frenzied monster and a belligerent warrior.

"Gawk!" Len unfroze the tableau with a warning cry.

"Gork?" Rychek snapped his gaze away from the warboss and threw his arms in the air. Owleggoleggo was looming over the skink shaman, ready to chomp. Instead of a satisfying crunch and a spurt of blood, the wyvern was rewarded with Gork-on-a-Stick up his left nostril. The sceptre did no harm, but the feathers did tickle somewhat. The monster lurched back, curling his lips and drawing a sharp breath.

Grunting with effort, Warhuh swiped with his axe, putting all of his frustration, malice and sexual frustration into one last mighty blow. Rychek fell like a puppet which had had its strings cut, a split second before the blade whistled past. At the same instant, Owleggoleggo released his breath in a colossal flaming sneeze. The draconic release of pressure enveloped Warhuh Wotsitgudfaw in a gout of flames and melted the green flesh from his crackling bones.

The wyvern recovered its composure and lunged forward to crunch the crumpled blue form of the shaman when suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, swooped a murderous curved blade. Len had launched from his perch on Joe's head like some kind of avenging angel, buffeting Owleggoleggo's face with beating wings and slashing at his beady eyes with his savage hooked beak. "Gawk! Gawk! GAWK!"

The wyvern could not endure this terrifying onslaught, and bounded into the air, wheeling towards the nearby World's Edge Mountains with Len in vengeful pursuit.

The trio of lizard men rushed to the fallen body of their comrade as the whole mass of goblins surged forward to lash out with blade and tooth and ball at the black orcs before them.

The orcs, who had witnessed the immolation of their leader and a Hork Hat coming alive to spook a deadly wyvern, drew two hasty conclusions. Firstly, the Horkhatz Gobbos had the favour of the gods, and secondly that size, while providing some advantages in certain social situations, was clearly NOT everything. To an orc they turned tail and fled towards the main orc battle line.

"They flee!" bellowed Mahtis.

"We must pursue! Again!" chorused Bob and Joe.

"Wait....wait! Restrain pursuit!" a weak voice piped from near their feet. The three predatory fighters paused in puzzlement as Rychek struggled to his feet.

"What? Why?"

"Have you noticed that they," he gestured towards the wall of iron and muscle which constituted the late warboss's Waaagh! "is bigger than they are." He nodded towards the rabble of diminutive goblins streaming across the valley. The goblins, although numerous, were clearly about to meet a sticky end.

"E's right!" Bob observed.

Rychek ushered them back to climb onto Bessie's howdah, and stopped with his mouth agape. The decorated Bastiladon shivered her broad hips which set all of her skulls clacking together with a sound like an avalanche of coconut shells.

"What happened to Bessie? Where is Len? Why have I got a doll on a stick? Why is my neck itchy? Urgh!" Rychek stripped off his dwarf skin and other trappings and prodded them suspiciously with the sceptre as if they might suddenly crawl away.

"Let's explain later," Bob cringed at the terrified screeching of the doomed goblins and turned Bessie's painted head away towards the foothills of the mountains.

Eventually they crossed a ridge and left the greenskins to finish settling their philosophical differences unobserved.

Joe kept looking anxiously into the sky.

"What?" Bob demanded.

"I'm worried about what happened to Len. The wyvern flew off this way."

"I'm pretty sure his name is Ien."

"It's Len!"
"Ien!"
"Len!"
"Ien!"

"What's that?" Mahtis was pointing at a fleet shadow in the sky. An triumphant ibis swooped above the party, like some kind of avenging angel. With an earsplitting "Gawk!" it released a single dropping which plopped into Bob's eye. Without so much as a backward glance the bird continued unwaveringly south, back to friends and family.

"It was Len," admitted Bob as he wiped the gift from his eye.


Stay tooned for - the next bit!

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch13.1 v

If you look carefully, you will find that you are not the only creative source referenced.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch13.1 v

Gork Gork Gork Gork Gork!

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl - Ch13.1 v

I can see we won't be getting anything sensible out of yoo until the effect of the mushroom wears off.