Fiction Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Complete Novel)

A Semi Illustrated Novel by The Spawning of Bob - FOLLOW THIS LINK


Introduction:
On Pages 26 and 27 of the Warhammer Lizardmen Army Book (8th Edition) lie the "Chronicles of the Lizardmen" This timeline contains this entry:

2418 The False Moon War
A major blow is struck in the Slann's ongoing war against the Chaos Moon. The Slann Mage-Priest, Tecciztec of Tlaxtlan enacts a ritual aimed at pushing the false moon out of orbit. Although failing to muster enough power to complete the task, the Chaos Moon is sufficiently shaken that chunks of it split off and fall across the world with devastating effect to those beneath.

Where The Citadel fears to give detail, the Spawning of Bob steps imprudently into the breach.....

Contents:
Introduction
Acknowledgements
Prologue
1. The Great Plan
2. The Intruders
3. Bees and Flowers
4. The Temple City
5. The Pursuit
6. The Maw's Jaws
7. The Dark Fleet
8. The Citadel
9. The Law of Six
10. The Badlands
11. Da Bloo Shaman
12. Waaagh!
13. Beneath the World's Edge
14. The Escape
15. The Dark Lands
16. The Lost City
17. In the Name of the Old Ones
18. The Mountains of Mourn
19. Malaise of the Moon
20. The Great Maw
21. The Calm before the Storm
22. The Battle for the Ramp
23. Welcome to Lustria
24. The Ancient Conflict
25. Divided We Fall
26. The Last Stand
27. The False Moon
28. Beginnings and Endings
Epilogue



Acknowledgements:

The community of www.lustria-online.com for story ideas, inspiration and encouragement. Notably Scalenex, Ironjaw, Rychek, Slanputin, Wallice, Quetzakroakl, T`hinker`er, n810, Baergren, and lbisson. Thanks also Mahtis, Old Mossy and Skilful Dan for donating their names.

Son and Daughter of Bob for a captive test audience.

Sister of Bob for editorial help.

Wife of Bob for much grace and tolerance during a hard year.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 6) 7/5/14

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Prologue

Each of the infinite number of universes has its own unique set of laws, properties and energies which sets it apart from all others. The warmth of gentle sunshine upon a child's face, the vigour of life and the tendency of objects to fall down, rather than up, are manifestations of some of the many mundane laws which bind this universe, making it "normal" to a native observer.

Other universes are governed by laws which seem paradoxical and bizarre to the non-native observer. However, the inhabitants of such dimensions find these as commonplace as gravity and time.

In the space between the parallel planes is the Realm of Chaos. Because this non-dimension is populated by entities made of energy, rather than matter, it obeys a set of different laws.

Only the god-like Old Ones had the ability and desire to travel from one universe to the next. In pursuit of their enigmatic Great Plan, they created dimensional gates, where parallel planes were bridged by conduits through the Chaos Realm.

By means of these portals. the Old Ones brought into being another form of energy previously unknown in this universe: Magic.

The friction between the incompatible realities creates a potential, much as amber rubbed with wool will produce tiny sparks of lightning. At the dimensional gates, this potential is manifested as the Eight Winds of Magic.

In the time of the Old Ones, this potential was measured and controllable. They taught their first servants, the amphibian Slann Mage Priests, to channel and control the winds to perform great works, which would have otherwise been impossible within the constraints of this universe’s laws. In the eddies and vortices of the winds, other energies, such as Dark Magic, gradually accumulated like dust in the corner of a room.

Those with the ability to manipulate one or more of the Eight Winds and other magics are the great mages. They are rightly to be feared and respected. However, magic and wizardry only represent a bending of the natural rules of this universe.

The universe's native laws cannot truly be broken. An enchanted floating castle will eventually crash to earth. In time, “eternal” beauty and youth bought with the blood of innocents will fade to reveal a face made hideous by decay.

A magic user is wise to remember that the universe will inevitably correct any aberrations in its order. Sometimes this will take aeons, but sometimes, particularly when the boundaries have been pushed too far, the correction will occur suddenly with a calamitous detonation.

Beyond natural laws and magical influence, a third set of laws exist. These are truly universal. That is to say, they hold sway in any time, any dimension, any universe. These Metalaws cannot be measured or directly observed, but they are real, potent and they will endure until the last universe is snuffed out in cold infinity.

The Metalaws have names, like Virtue and Evil, Good and Bad, Luck and Destiny. Many others exist, but all follow this rule – they are paired, like the opposing sides of a coin, or a bickering husband and wife bound together through eternity. They are opposite, but cannot exist apart.

These pairings can merge and interact. It is possible to know Good Luck or Evil Destiny. Analysis of all possible combinations with the new science of mathematics reveals an interesting pattern. The number six (and its derivative, three, and its multiples (2x6, 3x6 and so on)) governs all that is, and all that can be, in any part of the multiverse.

The Law of Six is the reason why mystic cubes made of bone, ivory or stone are revered by all races. They are used to scry knowledge of the future and truths which cannot otherwise be known.

The King and Queen of the Metalaws are Balance and Bias.

King Balance dictates that Good Luck will find balance with Bad Destiny elsewhere in the multiverse. For every lucky rabbit foot there will be a vengeful rabbit. This is an immutable law.

The Metalaws bow to King Balance's ruling.

His queen, Bias, is generally subservient to his edict. However, on occasion, she will skew the distribution of the Metalaws across the multiverse and thus allow unusual and implausible happenstance.

In the case of the Spawning of Bob, the great Queen had pushed her snoring husband firmly out of bed. At her behest, the coin of Luck and Destiny was spinning on its axis, and refused to fall either way.

This kind of thing is endlessly frustrating to soothsayers and statisticians alike.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 1-4)

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Chapter 1. The Great Plan

Deep in the past, something about this cold and unformed world caught the eye of the Old Ones. Some unique feature of this planet ideally suited it to playing a role in their Great Plan. Perhaps a concentration of rare and exotic minerals, perhaps its location in the multiverse, perhaps something else.

To further their enigmatic purpose, the Old Ones terraformed and engineered the nascent earth and the life forms upon her. They created the races which now dominate the earth. First among them were the Slann Mage Priests, followed by the other breeds of sentient lizardmen. After these they formed the elves, dwarves and men. The last of their creations were the ogres and halflings. Other creatures, such as dragons and greenskins were present from the beginning, or found their own way to the earth.

Having populated the globe more or less to their satisfaction, the Old Ones constructed their most powerful work.

The Geomantic Web is a world spanning machine used to collect and redirect energy of all kinds. Invisible tendrils blanketed the planet in a criss-cross pattern which resembling a great net. The spans arched down to touch the earth at the sites of the mighty temple cities and other precise locations around the globe.



Why the cosmic visitors would create such a marvel, and why they needed access to such vast reserves of power remain mysteries to this day.

At the time of the Great Catastrophe, also known as the Coming of Chaos, the dimensional gates used by the Old Ones to travel the multiverse collapsed onto the earth's surface. This caused a massive extrusion of the stuff of Chaos which condensed into a form of matter called warp material or warpstone. Part of the mass span into the sky to form the Chaos Moon, Morrslieb.

As the inter-dimensional conflict at the gates enlarged, the Winds of Magic were whipped into a shrieking gale. The spiritual entities of the Realm of Chaos became able to manifest in material form in our universe, nourished by the flood of magic.

With the onslaught of Chaos the Old Ones vanished from this dimension, taking the secrets of the Great Plan with them.



For more than a millennium, the forces of Lustria battled hopelessly against the billions of fiends who poured from the polar rifts. One by one, nodes of the Geomantic Web were lost, until the lizardmen defended only those on the continent of Lustria.

With the Old Ones gone, and much knowledge and power perishing with the first generation of Slann Mage Priests, hope seemed lost.

However, even without the guidance of the Old Ones, the remaining Slann were able to employ the formidable power of the tattered web to battle the taint of Chaos.

Others also strived to stem the flow of daemons. During the protracted battle for the Isle of the Dead of the High Eleven archipelago of Ulthuan, the greatest of the elvish wizards, Caledor Dragontamer sacrificed himself to enact the Great Ritual. The vortex of the ritual whirled like an ethereal tornado and sucked up a great proportion of the winds of magic which howled from the collapsed polar gates. The magical maelstrom funnelled the raging energies and dissipated them harmlessly into space.

Without sufficient quantities of raw magic to sustain their number, the billions of daemonic entities surrendered their nightmarish material forms and melted back into the Realm of Chaos.

The Great Cataclysm was over, or, at least postponed.

The lizardmen counted their losses and shored up their shaky defences.

The Mage Priests of Lustria scrutinized the wobbling vortex of the Great Ritual and saw that it was vulnerable to destabilization. Without the elves knowledge, the Slann directed the Geomantic Web to exclusively capture magical energy and spiral it into the vortex. The lion's share of the eight winds were collected in this way, and invisible strands of the Geomantic Web wrap around the whirling maelstrom to keep it from spinning itself apart.

*****

The Old Ones had never seen fit to divulge the specifics of the Great Plan to the Slann. The Mage Priests understood that the plan extended beyond this universe, they knew that this world had a crucial role to play, but the ultimate purpose of their life, the universe and everything remained obscure.

The Old Ones did leave a great many plaques of stone and precious metal, some of which ambiguously set out what must be accomplished to fulfil their cosmic purpose. The meaning of many of the plaques is open to interpretation, and great convocations of telepathically linked Slann wrestle about finer points of nuance for decades at a time. Many plaques may prove to be of limited significance, but which?



Thus the Slann have cleaved to the plaques of the Old Ones, prizing the knowledge locked within the glyphs above all else. Much of their understanding of their masters' purpose has been distilled from centuries of contemplation of the surviving tablets.

Some plaques of prophecy are unequivocal in their warnings of dire future events, even if they fail to reveal the precise time that these events will unfold.

The prophetic Tlaxtlozoctlan plaque (moon~corruption plaque) recovered from the ruins of Huanabic brooked no debate about its meaning.

The Chaos Moon, Morrslieb, which had been thrown into the sky by the convulsions of the Great Catastrophe, would fall to earth as its orbit decayed. This event would be preceded by a critical weakening of the Great Ritual which had long spared the world from another massive incursion of the foul things of Chaos.

The astromancers of the temple city of Tlaxtlan had long since confirmed that the prophesied events were inevitable. They could not, however, specify when this might occur due to the unpredictable nature of the great orb of warpstone.

Neither could the combined might of the Slann Mage Priests pre-empt or prevent the moon's fall. It remained too distant for even their continent shaking power to reach. They would need to content themselves with waiting and scheming. Fortunately, the custodians of the Great Plan excel at both.

*****

In the year 2418 (in the reckoning of the Lustria), Morrslieb waxed closer and closer to the earth, bringing with it tides of chaos and madness which peaked with each full moon.

No Slann was surprised. All were prepared.

As the cosmic portent loomed in the sky, Lord Tecciztec of Tlaxtlan, shivered on his floating throne. Among the greatest of the living Slann, he had been meditating, as if carved from obsidian, for a generation of men. Now he shook as if chilled to the bone. His Temple Guardians, who had not themselves stirred for decades, shuffled uneasily and clutched their massive weapons tighter.

The guardians were not sensitive to the ebb and flow of the winds of magic, but even with their earthly sight they could perceive a shimmer surrounding their master which made him difficult to clearly discern. It was as if he were not truly present in the material realm.

Inconceivable forces were being called into play.

*****

The Lord's shivers slowly subsided. In the realm of pure logic and energy, Tecciztec drew the winds of magic about himself like a shawl against a chill draught. One by one he closed off his senses until he, and every other Slann plunged into a deathlike trance. Nothing of the physical world would be permitted distract them from the battle to come.

Their minds were linked together in the greatest congress since the Great Catastrophe eight thousand years earlier.

Their defence of this world would have three elements. Extra Geomantic power would be directed to supported the Great Ritual, which would otherwise falter under the tidal influence of Morrslieb.

Meanwhile, the united Slann would defend the psychic bulwarks at the polar gates for as long as they could.

The third element required one of their number to use the time their rearguard action provided to directly assail the Chaos Moon itself.

At a prearranged signal, the convocation of Slann pulled the strands of the Geomantic Web to themselves. As they did so, the crackling energies which were barely contained within its threads streamed faster and faster. The Slann reeled the web's strands tighter still until its arches and spans barely cleared the mountain tops. Each Mage Priest himself became a node in the greatest device created by the Old Ones.

The Geomantic Web did what it was made to do: draw power. As usual, the raging winds of magic blustering from the polar gates were gathered, but even natural earth power, the celestial power of the sun and stars and other sources of energy were being tapped in this most desperate of emergencies. The sun in the sky dimmed and the air over Lustria became unnaturally chill as the very light of the sun and heat of the earth were drafted to join the cause of resisting chaos.

Around the globe, Vampire Lords shuddered in their crypts, Greenskin Shamen paused in their rituals and elvish wizards in their towers marveled as the winds of magic lulled and the lights in the sky faded. All who could perceive the ebb and flow of magic knew in that instant that Lustria's sorcerous defenses were intact. And very potent indeed.

But what of her Physical Defenses?

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 2)

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Chapter 2. The Intruders

Clan Catarrh was ascendant. Soon it would reach its zenith and eclipse even the great Clan Skryre in terms of power and warp-token wealth. Its warlord would have a permanent place on the secretive Council of Thirteen, not as first among equals, but as supreme Lord of all Rat-kind. He would be envied, feared and worshiped in equal measure.

This was the fervent, but irrational, belief of Under Lord Pickit Raw, newly elevated to the position of Under Lord of Clan Catarrh. At this time in history, the Catarrhi were a minor house, a vagrant clan which wandered like a tinker's cart about the Under Empire performing small acts of service or malice, aligning itself with those houses which seemed to be on the rise, and scuttling back into the shadows if their erstwhile allies were slapped back into their place.

By contrast, the greater houses of the Children of the Horned Rat, or Skaven as they more often known, had eked out vast domains within a network of tunnels and gnawings in the earth which spread like a cancer beneath all continents of the earth. In their sprawling Under Empire, the bickering rat-men surely outnumbered the surface-things three to one.

The current dominant house, Clan Skryre, were masters of arcane and unreliable warpstone powered weaponry.

Powerful Clan Moulder controlled the northern fastness of Hell Pit and created ever more bizarre warp-mutated monstrosities in great cauldrons of flesh, bile and warpstone.

The masters of silent hand and poison blade, Clan Eshin, received few guests (and farewelled fewer) at their Dojo beneath the mystic orient.

Plague ridden Clan Pestilens retained holdings on both sides of the Great Ocean after expansion from their roots in the Lustrian ruins of Chaqua.

In contrast, Clan Catarrh was but a wretched band of servitors and warp fodder in the thrall of greater clans.

Due to the dynamics of Skaven society it was in some ways preferable to lead a vagrant rabble than a rising house, particularly if one was a gifted leader. Such a chieftain attracted the jealousy of the schemers below, and the scrutiny of the rulers above. The great lords retained their seats at council not by great charisma or even competence, but rather due to the dearth of suitable (that is to say, living) candidates in the echelons below.

When a vacancy had tragically and abruptly appeared at the head of Clan Catarrh, Pickit Raw found himself in the happy circumstance of his rivals disqualifying themselves from candidacy by dint of a remarkable run of poor health, nasty accidents and unexpected decapitations. Within moments of his acceptance of the fabled Sword of Abstinence, symbol of rule of Clan Catarrh, he began to set his house in order with a purge of his most talented lieutenants, followed by an appraisal of his new dominion.

Without access to the benefits of wealth and influence, Clan Catarrh was left with the dregs of rodent kind. Catarrhi warriors were poorly equipped and ill suited to combat even by Skaven standards, and her war machines were of questionable utility and undeniable risk to their users.

The slaves which made up such a large part of forces available for deployment were particularly pathetic and malnourished, as likely to fall upon their brothers as the enemy if it seemed like a meal was in the offing.

The fevered labour of the Catarrhi Plague Monks appeared to be in vain. The most virulent contagion they had yet concocted caused no more than a boisterous night of diarrhoea and flatulence for its victims.

The Under Lord's dreams of greater things for himself and his clan could have remained unrealised, but for the fact that he was a rat of great ambition. He knew that nothing of worth was ever to be achieved in Skaven society without confident action. Or an envenomed blade.

Pickit Raw's plans were set in motion with a bold tactical withdrawal at what turned out to be an awkward moment for Clan Kanonfodr in its assault of the dwarf bastion of Karak Hirn. He followed up with a generous relief effort for the remnant of his allies. He relieved them of the significant burden of guarding their treasury with their sorely depleted ranks.

Subsequently, he led his troops and chattels to establish a holding West of the Great Ocean in tunnels abandoned by the monks of Clan Pestilens. Soon he would amass prestige and the wealth required to buy influence. And better thralls.

*****

Lustria seemed like a land of great opportunity. It was fabled to contain great wealth. Gold leaf flaked from overgrown ruins, and gems glowered in the eye sockets of reptilian idols which stood vigil under the cathedral like canopy of trees. The cold blooded inhabitants were known to have little regard for these riches, instead being obsessed with ancient plaques of little material worth.

There was also ample space for many clans in the echoing caverns beneath that land. This compared favourably with the overcrowded and reeking tunnels of the Old World. Strangely, Plague priests of Clans Pestilens tended to fall silent and make warding gestures if asked for the reason behind the surplus of accommodation.

Pickit Raw knew that he would need to build his empire gradually, and that a direct assault on the Lustrian interior would be unwise, or fatal, or both. However, the wise principle of "choosing one's battles" had long been adopted by the Skaven, to the extent that it was almost an unofficial motto.

Given options, a warlord's first preference might be a vigorous tussle with his conscience while cowering in a hole, but the next best thing was surely a swift strike from behind (or beneath) an unsuspecting enemy which had recently acquired great wealth. An enemy such as the one that Pickit Raw now observed through his cracked warpstone spyglass.



Rodekhil Offaleater reeled at the stinging blow and crumpled to one knee. He blinked away the blood streaming into his eyes and slowly raised his head, fully expecting another lesson from his chief's gauntleted fist.

Welhung Thunderloin was done with the beating for now. It was not an effective form of punishment against ogres anyway. By contrast, when he applied this kind of discipline to his goblin-like gnoblar retinue it virtually guaranteed that any misdeed would not be repeated. However, a contrite and dead gnoblar was of much less use than a living one, even if rebellious. They tasted awful.

The Ogre Tyrant heaved a rumbling sigh. He had held no great affection for the expedition cook, who had been a captive from Grand Cathay. The food was tasty enough but none among the warband had mastered the use of the little sticks required to eat it. There had been some nasty injuries as a result.

"Why the 'ell did you eat the flamin' cook?"

Rodekhil glanced up in surprise at the interruption to his beating.

"Well, every time we ett 'is nosh, we was 'ungry again an 'our later." He cowered again, but the tyrant let his hand fall back to his side.

"You're always 'ungry again and 'our later, you pea brain! Get out my sight! You've got latrine duty until you 'ear different from me!"

"Awww, Chief! Awww, but...awww...." Rodekhil clambered to his none too graceful feet and shambled away, muttering.

Latrine duty was the worst of punishment details in ogre society. For a start, the latrines were always situated far from the kitchen tent. The worst thing was the perpetual nature of the task. As soon as the detail had dug one "big 'ole" they would need to dig another before the first filled up. If the next wasn't completed quickly enough there was a risk that the diggers would still be at the bottom of the first hole when it became required for use.

The Ogre Tyrant glowered after his lieutenant. The punishment was harsh but the fool had created a serious problem. Since landing on this dreary coastline the diet available to his troops had become more and more tedious, but the cook had somehow managed inject some variety into his meals. This was despite the ingredients being pretty much limited to lizard and snake.

Now there was no cook, and if ogres don't get foods from the sixteen basic food groups on a regular basis they become restive and may start eating the equipment. Or the ship.

He turned his regard to the substantial log building in the centre of his camp. The heavy door was barred, and the enormous brass padlock would only unlock to the key that he now fingered on its chain around the part between his shoulders and head.

The ogre dialect was curiously bereft of some words which were found in other languages. The word that was missing in this case was "neck".

The strong room contained what little stock of condiments remaining after the long sea journey and enforced sojourn on this beach. There were cured meats and wines of the Empire, tubs of potatoes from Bretonnia, ripe cheeses and hogsheads of foul warm cask-ales from Albion.

"You! Argsplat!" he gestured to one of his Irongut shock troopers, "Double the guard on the pantry. Crack 'eads if you need to!"

His war band was close to mutiny and he knew it. Best to minimize temptation.

*****

Welhung's party had encountered no signs of habitation around the cove where they had landed. The little grey gnoblar scouts did not return with reports of any threats. They did not return at all.

This was not a great cause for concern. There was no need for reconnaissance in force, because no one is foolish enough to assault an ogre fastness.

Using driftwood and trees felled from the edge of the jungle he had supervised the construction of a stockade in the traditional style: A great ring of sharpened tree boles resembling the teeth and ravenous gullet of the ogre deity, the Great Maw.

After the camp was established, his ship was dragged onto the strand. It simply was not wise to leave a vessel off shore with a skeleton crew. As the hold was gradually filled with booty, ogre sailors with a better grasp of mathematics would eventually realize that a moderate amount of plunder divided among very few yielded a larger share than a greater prize divided among many. More than one war leader had found himself with his back to the sea while being approached by a large delegation of the local "recently poor" who wished to discuss wealth redistribution. Far better to beach the ship. The task of refloating her required all hands to be present.

Camp life fell into a mostly normal routine. Gambling, boasting, and brawling proceeded in an orderly fashion. The only aberration was with the eating.

Gnoblar trappers would normally scour the local area to bring back game to supplement the stores of imperishables. In this hellhole, trappers that ventured too far into the green vastness were simply swallowed up. Even when beasts could be heard bellowing quite close to the encampment, ogre hunters who found and followed the wide trampled trails vanished.

The only meats that were in plentiful supply were swarms of venomous snakes and lizards. These didn't need to be hunted or trapped at all because they streamed out of the jungle and into the encampment at all times of the day and night.

For the first weeks, the ogres sickened, some close to death, from eating this poisonous fare. As they developed immunity to poisons the sickness passed.

For a time all enjoyed crunching down on the tastily prepared reptiles, although most still struggled with the little sticks.

This contentment did not last, and now it seemed that every last warrior had succumbed to another deadly malaise. Boredom.

Welhung's eyes swivelled under lumpy brows to gaze again at the steaming jungle which seemed to loom over the Ogre stockade. He sniffed the air, grimacing at the smell of rotting vegetation, then spat on the detestable Lustrian soil.

"Not time yet," he grunted then lurched into his tent.

He had loathed this land from the moment he had come to it with his ship, his war band and his pathological hatred of bees and flowers.

The feeling seemed to be mutual.

*****

"See, hee hee! The dullard ogre-things labour for the Catarrhee hee hee!" Under Lord Pickit Raw, could not contain his mirth. From his vantage on a bluff overlooking the ogre camp he gestured with his warpstone enhanced blade.

"They dig-dig a great big hole within their nest. We-ee-ee shall burst up and exterminate them! Hee hee!"

Scrumfrey Appalbee, Pickit Raw's not remotely trustworthy Permanent Under Secretary peeked courageously over a low bush and withdrew his silver furred head so quickly that he struck his chin on one of his misshapen knees. From this low vantage he was well situated to fawn and grovel with effect.

"Yes, Under Lord! With you to lead-lead the swarm, the ogre-things will cease to be, hee hee!"

Pickit involuntarily sprang into the air and dropped into a ready crouch.

Other races referred to a "fight or flight" reaction. The skittish rat men only have a "flight" reaction. Before he had even identified the threat, the proud Under Lord had calculated how quickly he could dive back down the burrow he had emerged from, who he could push behind him as a sacrifice to buy time, and three other routes of escape should the hole become blocked with his craven thralls.

"Lead-lead the swarm?"

The very thought caused a loosening of his bowels, but as the tempo of his racing heart settled to a relatively calm prestissimo, he considered the merits of the idea. If he could lead-lead this raid, the renown he gained might pay off a dividend of respect and obedience from his worthless subordinates.

Pickit Raw drew himself to his full height. That is to say his legs extended to a semi crouched position, and his hunched spine unfurled to the extent that his ears were a little above the height of his rounded shoulders. For a rat, it was remarkably good posture.

This rat also knew how to dress to impress. He wore black suede boots to the knee and bicoloured tights salvaged from an empire halberdier who seemed to have no further use for them. These were supplemented by a polished steel codpiece which, as it happened, was an unnecessary adornment. His brass buttoned, purple velvet doublet had dramatic puffed and slashed sleeves with contrasting crimson fabric in the recesses. On his head he wore an ostentatious felt bonnet with a phoenix feather fully three feet long thrust under the band. A satin cloak cascaded from his shoulders to drag in the filth behind him. It was all very impractical.

"I shall lead-lead the swarm to victoree-ee-ee!"

Scrumfrey smiled at him slyly, barely believing his luck. If the fool wanted to put himself in harm's way, then the under secretary would be plucking the warp sword from his master's cold dead hands sooner rather than later.

Real warpstone weaponry was hard to come by, and effective examples more so. The Sword of Abstinence had a reservoir above the hilts which fed an inflammable gas to the warpstone crystal embedded in the guard. The crystal could emit bursts of warpfire to scorch and dazzle an opponent in melee, or at need, the reservoir could be expended to create a wall of green flames which would persist long enough for the wielder to escape from unfavourable combat.

All warp-aspected apparatus has unfortunate side effects on the user, but the Sword of Abstinence was unusually benign. It merely caused sterility and genital shrinkage. This was preferable to unsightly mutations or spontaneous combustion, and a small price to pay for possessing a weapon of real power.

"Hurry-hurry, Your Resplendence, the warp grinder awaits!" the silver furred schemer ushered his temporary lord back into the tunnel.

*****

Welhung Thunderloin scowled at the baleful eye of Morrslieb. Whenever the chaos moon had waxed full in recent months it made his ample stomach churn, and his thoughts turn darker and more violent. He poked desultorily at the blackened snake on the board in front of him with a pair of bamboo sticks.
The gnoblar kitchen hands had continued in the style of their late master, but without much inspiration, or indeed ability.

In truth, Welhung had not lamented the passing of the Cathayese cook, but discipline was discipline, and his hand had been forced into imposing latrine duty on his second in command.

Another ogre stumped up to the table and lowered himself onto a creaking stool. "You'll never guess what 'appened." It was Rodekhil Offaleater himself, covered with a light dusting of earth.

"Maw Grant Breakfast! What are you doing 'ere? You're meant to be digging holes, you muffin!" Welhung blustered to his feet and balled his rock like fists.

Rodekhil held his hands up, palms outwards, "S'alwright, s'alwright, Chief. I dug a magic 'ole"

"What?" Welhung could feel that this conversation was spiralling out of his control.

"A magic 'ole, Chief. It don't fill up! For two days now it don't fill up. I stood about with my shovel just in case, but it don't fill up. It just squeaks sometimes!"



In the tunnels beneath the stockade, Pickit Raw carefully removed his bonnet, spilling a gobbet of ogre dung down his collar. He had been lucky to escape with his life. Luckier still that he hadn't had his mouth open when the warp-grinder had broken through the bottom of the latrine trench. That whole gallery of the skaven workings would need to be abandoned and sealed for fear that the malodorous flood would eventually engulf the entire Under Empire.

He and his clanrats had been quick enough to retrieve their precious tunnelling machine, but nothing could salvage the Under Lord's dignity. Or his hat. As he slithered back to the chamber he had claimed as his private quarters, he resolved to never again launch an assault without sending a minion to scout first.

*****

"I shall lead-lead from back here!" Under Lord Pickit Raw declared. He had replaced his feathered bonnet with a broad brimmed hat. His surveyors assured him that his warp-grinder team were beneath the floor of the strongroom.

He had noted that the ogres guarding the structure had been reinforced and that each sentry exuded the watchfulness that comes with an expectation of trouble. Thus, he surmised, the strongroom must contain treasure of some considerable worth.

The whirr of the warp grinder was interrupted by the clatter of falling rubble, then silence.

"We-ee-ee are through!" chirped the slave master supervising the tunnelling team from his position behind his leader.

The wily under secretary, Scrumfrey Appalbee, was still further back. "Do we-ee-ee procee-ee-eed?" he enquired.

The Under Lord started involuntarily. He had been unaware of the tension which had built in his body as the tunnel neared completion.

"Slave!" he squeaked imperiously at a bundle of rags huddled against the tunnel wall.

In the dancing shadows it was just possible to discern a pair of glittering eyes under a fold of filthy cloth. The creature he had addressed was gnawing on the emaciated leg of some hapless wretch.

"Slave!" Pickit Raw tugged on a length of chain which led to an iron collar about the neck of the skaven slave, for that is what the creature was. The slave carefully lowered the tasty limb to the ground and stood upon it and its scrawny twin.

"Slave! Cree-ee-eep up the hole and see-ee-ee if there are riches!"

The slave sullenly stood his ground.

"You will ee-ee-eat food aplenty." That was all the motivation the wretched chattel required. He sauntered to the head of the tunnel as his lord paid out the chain.

Like a rat up a pipe, for that is what he was, the slave disappeared from view. An initial squeak of surprise was followed by the occasional metallic clatter and scrabble of paws.

Eventually, Pickit Raw tired of waiting for a report. He yanked on the chain. This produced a choking cough but failed to retrieve the spy. In the end, Under Lord and Under-Secretary, together, had to drag him bodily from the strong room above.

"Were there sentrie-ee-ees?" demanded the Scrumfrey.

*****

The slave shook his head mutely, eyes bulging.

Pickit Raw shouldered his courtier out of the way and grabbed the slave by his bony shoulders, "Were there ri-i-i-iches? Treasures?" The slave nodded vigorously with his jaws firmly clamped shut.

"Hee-hee! Follow me-ee-ee!" warbled the Under Lord, as he cast the cadaverous urchin to one side and swarmed up the tunnel. He was followed by a stampede of his avaricious retainers.

The slave watched after them. When they had departed he made a guttural sound at the back of his throat and spat a large chunk of golden cheese onto his hand. It had been squirreled away in his cheek.

"My precioussss...." he crooned at his prize as he stroked it with a skeletal finger.

*****

According to Argsplat, things were getting very ugly. And as leader of Welhung Thunderloin's Irongut "Xtra 'Eavy Infantry" he was an authority on ugly.

The tyrant had been observed to leave the camp to inspect his ship's mooring.

Without the direct threat of an iron bound boot up the clacker, discipline among the ogre bulls had collapsed entirely and a ravenous mob had gathered around the pantry brandishing their Cathayese eating sticks.

Argsplat glanced down at the hand-and-a-half meat axe that he held in his sweaty mitts and calculated his chances of successfully defending his charge. His doughty sluggers shifted uneasily by his side. He knew that they looked to him for inspiration when the odds were against.

"Don't worry, lads!" he reassured them, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em!"

With that he whirled and began a frenzied meat axe attack on the bar on the pantry door. With a roar, every last ogre rushed forward to smash the log building into matchwood.

*****

Pickit Raw raised his glowing warp sword aloft to illuminate the interior of the ogres' treasury. There was evidence of the slave's frantic supper, but no sign of jewellery, gems or coin. There were some excellent cheeses and a brace of smoked hams, but nothing of lasting worth.

Scrumfrey approached the log wall and peeked through a gap between the massive timbers. What he saw illuminated by the fitful torchlight outside caused him to blanch all the way to the roots of his silver fur.

"Sti-i-i-icks!" he hissed, "Ogre-things with Sti-i-i-icks!"

As the Under Lord wrinkled his brow in puzzlement, the walls suddenly shuddered as if they were being smitten on all sides by iron hammers.

*****

The following daybreak, Welhung Thunderloin surveyed the wreckage at the centre of his camp. He noted that the few ogres that had bothered to rise that morning seemed to be plump and content.

"What 'appened?" he demanded of his Lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater.

" 'Aven't got a clue, Chief. I was asleep." Rodekhil picked a scrap of silver fur from his teeth with a little stick. The tyrant regarded him in silence for an uncomfortable interval, then sniffed deeply.

The dawn air had a distinct chill to it. The constant tang of vegetable decomposition had lessened, as if the steaming jungle surrounding the stockade had paused in its mission of corruption and decay.

"It's time." He declared. "Break camp."

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (3)

Links to Chapters

Chapter 3. Bees and Flowers

The majestic Temple Cities of Lustria share some common features.

The cities are dominated by massive pyramids commissioned by the Old Ones during their dominion of the earth. These coincide with nodes of the geomantic web, granting the Slann Mage Priests access to power, telepathic communication and travel on the astral plane. The greatest of the mystic amphibians perch atop these temples in their star-chambers.

Less lofty structures, which are no less magnificent, are dedicated to the worship of the Old Ones. Newer temples raised to the upstart Sotek, the Serpent God are now to be found infiltrating the pantheon.

Some abandoned cities have been eroded by neglect but retain their stately grandeur nonetheless.

The living Temple Cities bustle with activity as the diverse sub races of Lizardmen toil like ants to continue the Great Plan. Quick footed skinks scurry industriously, intent on the discharge of their duties. Their oversized brethren, the kroxigor, provide the brawn to perform heavier tasks. Saurus warriors hone their bodies, and weapons alike, for combat in service of the Old Ones. In addition, monstrous creatures are press ganged into the Lustrian forces to serve as beasts of burden or living weapons.

At the heart of the cities lie the spawning pools. From these underground basins spring the denizens of Lustria. Sometimes ranks of saurus march fully formed from the waters. At another time it might be a cohort of skinks. Rarely, a single lizardman is spawned, touched in some way by the Old Ones and destined for leadership or sorcerous might. Not even the wisest of Slann have the knowledge and ability to summon a particular spawning, let alone create a spawning pool. They are content to accept that their gods generate each spawning for a purpose which aligns with the Great Plan.

Despite the uniform purpose of the inhabitants of Lustria, each Temple City and region has its own unique flavour. Tlaxtlan - City of the Moon and seat of Mage Priest Tecciztec, specializes in astromancy and lunar counterinsurgency. Beneath the Lone Star Province of Texustria, supplies of sacred oil, used for votive offerings, are drawn from the earth. Gallustria distils the nectar of vine berries to produce cork stoppered flasks of the potion of ebullience. The region of Australustria supplies the most talented and handsome generals from its arid heart.

Under the benign Leadership of the Great Slann Mage Priest named Taisteslaikch'ken, the inhabitants of the Temple City of Los'tmabo'tl were distinguished by oddness.

To the outside observer, the legions of Lustria appear to be regular in composition and regimented to the extreme. Lustrian forces act with a formidable singleness of purpose and mechanical efficiency as they prosecute adherence to the Great Plan. In reality, any spawning pool in Lustria will occasionally produce what could be unkindly referred to as freaks.

These individuals rise from the waters with strange attributes such as enlarged eyes, or a proclivity toward flower arranging. In Los'tmabo'tl these aberrations became more and more frequent, eventually becoming the norm rather than the exception. These individuals were not mutants, nor chaos tainted. They were just... odd.

The existence of an entire city with a concentration of such eccentrics might be seen as a potential annoyance to the other regions, but in fact it was a boon. Every other Temple City in Lustria happily sends its misfits to Los'tmabo'tl on urgent, but one-way, errands. More conventional residents of the city gradually trickle away into the jungle to join other communities.

The convocation of Slann raised no objection to this situation. They took the long view that the Old Ones would sort it all out. When the Gods returned, everyone would have a good laugh, Los'tmabo'tl would be expunged with fire, and they all could get on with the Great Plan.

Taisteslaikch'ken, certainly had no concern, if anything could be read from the beatific smile which adorned his meditating face.

Thus it came to pass that the avenues of Los'tmabotl were filled with bickering saurus, incompetent skinks and frolicking carnosaurs. The military leader of the Legions of Los'tmabo'tl was Oldblood Mossy, a saurus so ancient that he kept his teeth in a crystal decanter as he slept.

Some elements of society were too disruptive to stay within the city bounds. There was really only one fit use for them. Picket duty.

*****

"Hand weapon!"
"Spear!"
"Hand weapon!"
"Spear!"
"Hand weapon!"
"Spear!"
"Hand weapon!"
"Spear!"

In their tiny outpost in the jungle, two saurus warriors of no special rank stood snout to snout and glared at each other with unblinking golden eyes. They were unexceptional to look at, and near identical because they had come from the same spawning pool at the same moment. They stood the regulation seven and a half feet tall and possessed the common blue scale colouration. Their lashing tails were adorned with horny spines which ran in a jagged row up to the nape of their necks. Each had lips drawn back to reveal double rows of serrated teeth. The two had lithe, muscular arms and legs each digit terminating in a sharp claw. Each sported a thick skull roofed with a bony crest.

It was here that the twins differed. One's head was adorned with a large half-eggshell, no doubt a relic of his spawning.

In their fists each held a brutally efficient weapon constructed from obsinite.

"Hand weapon!"
"Spear!"
"Hand weapon!"
"Spear!"
"Hand weapon!"
"Spear!"
"Hand weapon!"
"Spear!"

This particular debate had been running intermittently since their first day of basic training. The pair seemed to be unable to agree on anything, although they rarely came to blows. The real problem was that their contrariness was contagious.

They had been banished from the city bounds when the entire population had taken sides in the magic "Lore of Life" versus "Lore of Light" debate. Ultimately the convocation of Slann had to authorize widespread use of High Magic to hose down the impending civil war.

Although they may have grumbled about being left in each other's company, the pair were better off than most of their kin. Outside the city, it was a little warmer. The unnatural chill which had gripped the area was centred about the great temple itself.

Lizardmen are usually (but not always) inured to pain and discomfort, hence the cold did not cause distress, but, as with all things cold blooded, the Legions of Los'tmabo'tl became more and more sluggish. The reptilian beasts of the jungle either moved away from the cold epicentre or found a comfortable hollow and slept it off.

*****

Welhung Thunderloin was a legend among Ogres. He was, without doubt, the most adventurous and successful raider of his generation. His choice to delay the foray into the Lustrian interior was evidence of his canny leadership.

In his experience, cold blooded foes became slower as the weather cooled, and so he had bided his time until the turn of the Lustrian Winter. This freak cold snap was just a bonus. With his breath fogging the early morning air, he was confident that he would capture his prize.

Welhung did not adventure for glory or riches. He did it for love.
His wife, Hellun of Troyargh was a magnificent specimen. She was said to have 'the face that sank a thousand ships'.

Considering her husband's prowess as a pirate, this was probably no exaggeration.

Hellun's statuesque frame was reminiscent of the rugged beauty of the Ogre homeland, the Mountains of Mourn. That is to say, she was massive and lumpy.

She was no mere beauty, though. She was an Ogre princess born into the line of Ogre King Marbutt Hurrtz.

Welhung was devoted to her and showered her with gifts and affection whenever they were together.

If she had one fault, it was that she seemed to be perpetually pregnant. Welhung had already sired a full horde of ogrelings from her. He loved each of his progeny, in his way, but the expense of supplying their need of nutrition and replacement nannies necessitated his constant raiding. There were just too many.

Through careful observation, Welhung had determined where babies came from, but he could not deduce how they might have got there in the first place, or what might prevent more from appearing.

Time and again, he had consulted the wisest Ogre elders of his community to gain insight into this puzzle. They had just mumbled some vague words about "bees and flowers" or shyly evaded the subject. At the time he had just shrugged and added this to his long list of unfathomable mysteries of life. Later, as his brood grew to unsustainable proportions he resolved to take action to preserve what remained of his wealth and sanity.

He would eradicate every bee and flower, down to the last hive and bloom on earth. Perhaps then his misery would cease.

The burden of child rearing was not his only concern with his wife's fecundity. Ogre pregnancy is no joking matter. Ogre Gestation is measured in years rather than months, and for the full duration each blushing beauty is transformed into a rapacious monster.

The first trimester is dominated by morning sickness, and an Ogre with an upset tummy is an upset Ogre, period.

In the second trimester, the cravings begin. The gravid human female might unreasonably request strawberries out of season. This is as nothing compared to the exotic demands of an ogress, let alone an ogre princess. This kind of behest from his wife, delivered with a voice powerful enough to strip the hide from a bull Thundertusk, was the motivation behind many of Welhung's more hair raising adventures. The episode with the self-regenerating hydra pudding was one would he would rather forget.

The third trimester sees the expectant maiden become corpulent to the verge of immobility and her appetite intensifies. This phase is of indeterminate duration because of a quirk of ogre reproductive physiology. Labour does not commence until a worthy sacrifice is made to the Great Maw. If a suitable offering is not made, both mother and unborn child will eventually perish.

So it was that love had brought Welhung to this Maw-forsaken shore with his wife's dulcet voice still ringing in his ears, "FEED ME A SLANN! NOW!!!"

He had almost fallen over himself in his rush to satisfy her craving. The memory of her request brought a tear to his eye. He winced and shook himself out of his reverie.

"Argsplat!" he bellowed.

His trusted irongut detached himself from the assembled column of ogres and gnoblar camp-followers and lumbered to his side. "Send the rest of those 'orrible little scouts ahead of the mob." He paused, "Wait, are you even uglier than before?"

Argsplat reached up and fingered a livid gash that ran from forehead to cheek, punctuated by an empty eye socket. "Yaaa. This one's new."

"You let one of them rats mark you?" asked Welhung incredulously.

"Naaa. It was at the feast after. I still can't handle them little sticks too well. They oughta be called chop sticks." Argsplat spun on his heel and bawled his leader's orders to the anxious gnoblar scouts.

*****

The scouts crept cautiously through the first clumps of dense foliage and were soon lost to view. After a few uneventful minutes, Rodekhil Offaleater ambled to the head of the column with his finger stuck in his meaty ear. As he breasted his commander, he withdrew the digit and examined his prize. With a grunt of satisfaction he flicked the hard lump of wax over his shoulder. There was a yelp of pain as the projectile ricocheted off the oversized nose of a nearby gnoblar beast attendant. One of the ponderous rhinoxen brayed and tossed her horned head. These were the only sounds.

Before long, there was a commotion at the edge of the clearing. A fraction of the scouting party burst from the undergrowth and scampered past, back to the ogre lines. The tyrant plucked one into the air by the scruff of his neck.

"What 'appened?" he demanded.

"Flowers, flowers!" the little scout whimpered, "flowers got us!"

"Flowers, eh?" Welhung casually tossed the unfortunate gnoblar aside. "I know 'ow to 'andle those!"

*****

The tyrant's eyes glinted menacingly under his meaty brow. My old enemy, he thought to himself, yet he did not rush to engage. He held aloft one mail clad hand and made a fist, signalling the column to grumble to a halt.

His band had none of their usual exuberance. The ogres muttered to each other in hushed tones and the gnoblars huddled close to the pack beasts as if they were islands of refuge.

There was no obvious threat, but all were oppressed by a sense of hostile vigilance from the surrounding forest.

Enormous jungle trees rose like columns, their soaring boughs intertwining to form the vaults of a dim green cloister. This deep into the forest, the thorny vines at the margins had given way to a springy carpet of moss which deadened the sound of each footfall.

Here and there in the gloom were splashes of colour. Welhung beckoned Rodekhil to join him and the pair crept forward to investigate what appeared to be an enormous bud about to burst into full bloom.

The other patches of colour in the gloom around them were also titanic flowers, some in bud, others wide open and exuding an inviting scent. The petals of each flower were a fleshy crimson colour and covered a span of roughly eight feet. At the centre of each bloom bright yellow stamen, laden with pollen, waved gently despite the absence of breeze. The obscene purple pistils pulsated visibly.

"This one ain't bloomed yet, Chief" Rodekhil indicated the bud before them.

"Oh, I think it 'as." Welhung had noticed a tiny boot protruding from the seam between two leathery petals. Rodekhil stooped to retrieve it. It came away from the bud easily, trailing a gobbet of red goo. The pair examined their find.

The boot contained a grey foot. Attached to the foot were a polished tibia and fibula. The ogres exchanged a glance. Welhung nodded wordlessly towards the nearest open flower and Rodekhil lobbed the leg onto the petals. In the blink of an eye, the petals closed about this prize with an audible snap.

"What've I been telling you, Rodekhil? Flowers. They've got it in for us!" The tyrant turned back toward the ogre war band and bellowed. "Firebelly! Firebelly!"

The tyrant knew that his fire wizard would make short work of this grove. He was surprised when Argsplat ambled up to join them.

"Where's my Firebelly? I want these infernal flowers torched!"

" 'E's in the back of a wain and 'e won't come out. Says 'e can't channel no winds since the cold set in."

Welhung growled. "Then we'll do this the other way. Bulls to the front!" he roared, "Tear up every blooming one!"

Suddenly there was a high pitched buzz.

"Aaargh! For the Love of Elevenses!" Welhung clutched the area between his shoulders and head in agony as a frightful stinging pain seared that particular part of his anatomy.

"What's up? Let me see!" Rodekhil pulled his masters hand away and saw an ugly weal which doubled in size as he watched. "What's that?" he scraped at the lump with a dirty fingernail.

He came away with a tiny barbed spine with a feathery tuft at one end. It glistened wetly in the gloom.

Welhung blanched at the sight of the dart. "Oh no no no no! They're after us, too!"

"What?"

"Bees! Bees are after us! That's a sting isn't it? You know! Bees! When they get you, they leave the sting behind!"

Rhodekhil scratched his head. "I dunno Boss, I didn't see nothing..."

"You dumpling! Didn't you hear the buzz? They're quick these ones... Owww! Midnight Snack!"

Welhung doubled over and clutched his leg. In the tiny gap between armour plates another feathery barb protruded. "Did you hear it? Did you hear it that time?" He wind-milled his arms to fend away the stinging insects.

"Move out, move out! Get moving!" he howled as he staggered deeper into the gloom. Rodekhil and Argsplat shrugged to each other and trundled after him as the ogre column creaked back into motion.

"Picnic on a Rug!!!!" Welhung yawped as he stopped and clutched his ample behind.

*****

Welhung Thunderloin soon took to stomping at the head of his war band with a gnoblar perched on his shoulder.

The little grey servant's military career had, without doubt, hit an all time low. Not for the first time, he cursed his ancestors for creeping into the Mountains of Mourn and swearing fealty to the ogres. His present situation was uncomfortable, embarrassing and likely to end fatally.

The gnoblar clutched a large swatter fashioned from a rhinox tail. His duty was to deter the invisible bees that had plagued the ogre tyrant since the first day in the jungle.

His guardianship was futile. Each sting would be preceded by a high pitched buzz emanating from a nearby tree or bush. By the time the gnoblar could move to intercept, another feathered barb would appear in a chink of armour or some other tender place.

The worst had been when the tyrant had stopped to relieve himself behind a thicket.

Every time a bee penetrated the gnoblar's questionable defence, the ogre would curse and bray like a rhinox in rut and lash out at the forest around him. The gnoblar would grimly hang on and try to stay out of his master's reach.

The greatest indignity was that some fool irongut with one eye had suggested that if the ogre tyrant smeared himself in rhinox dung, the bees might be deterred by the smell. That experiment had failed dismally.

The end result was a terrified, resentful gnoblar perched on an itchy, enraged ogre tyrant.

With both of them covered in poo.

*****

The diverse races of earth each have a distinct physical profile. A stocky, bearded dwarf would not be mistaken for a green-skinned orc. Nor would a man be confused with an elf, although the lizardmen of Lustria could not distinguish easily between elves of the high, dark or wood varieties.

Beneath the skin more fundamental differences existed. An orc is an orc, all the way to his obstreperous core.

Some races might be known for exceptional bravery, others for animosity, dexterity or greed. These attributes, which govern the motivation and characteristics of the races, are known as "species" or "special" rules.

Rare individuals who have been touched by gods have additional special rules of their own.

*****

"Hand weapon!"

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!"

"Spear!"

"Hand weapon!"

The bickering saurus had company. An imposing kroxigor and his skink spawn-kin were delivering a crate of provisions.

"Bob and Joe, are you two still arguing about the best weapons for saurus warriors?" Rychek enquired. "I heard that halberds are becoming popular with saurus scar veterans."

The pair paused and gaped at him. The diversionary tactic had worked.

"Put it down there," Rychek gestured his kroxigor companion. The huge saurian moved to comply and wound up stepping on Joe's tail.

"Waaa-aa-aaah! Get that heavy lump of me!" shrieked the stricken saurus as he turned to lay hands on the brute.

Before he could push at the wall of blue scales, Rychek had interposed himself protectively between saurus and kroxigor.

"He ain't heavy, he's my brother!"

"Sorry, Joe," Mahtis removed the offending foot and lowered the crate. "I'm clumsy today."

This was certainly true. That morning his tiny brother had dressed him up warm with a woolly scarf and beanie to ward against the unnatural cold. The mittens the kroxigor was wearing were joined together by a short cord to prevent loss. The cord also prevented him from moving his hands more than a few inches apart, limiting his dexterity.

"Are you okay, Mahtis?" Rychek gazed up at him. From the moment these brothers stepped from the spawning pool, Rychek had been protective of his spawn-kin, coddling him and shielding him from harm. Even in battle when the pair fought in a mixed unit of skinks and kroxigor, Rychek would attempt to selflessly use his body as a shield to protect Mahtis.

"Why do you do that?" asked Joe massaging his tail, "Why do you protect him from everything?"

Rychek shrugged. "It's a spawn-kin thing," he replied, as if that made any sense.

Bob pulled his egg shell helmeted head out of the new supply crate. "Take the empty back with you."

As Mahtis stooped to comply, a tiny rodent fled from its hiding place beneath the box and skittered out of the redoubt.

"We must pursue!" whooped Bob. Joe and Mahtis leapt to join him in running down and obliterating the hapless vole.

"Mahtis stop that! It's embarrassing! Why do you always have to pursue anything that flees?" Rychek was mortified.

Mahtis shrugged. "It's a predatory fighter thing," he rumbled in reply.

*****

There was a high pitched buzz.

"Aaaargh! Snack on the Run!"

The ogre bivouac stirred to life in much the same way it had done every morning since beginning its trek across the Lustrian interior. Every day the air had grown more chill and the dappled sun a little less bright, but aside from the invisible bees, which only seemed to target the tyrant, there was no menace in the gelid forest that the war band had any need to fear.

"Argsplat! Assemble the hunters!" Welhung Thunderloin was a picture of misery, covered in angry welts from head to toe. His eyes were almost swollen shut.

His one eyed iron gut shambled forwards and regarded his chief with concern. "The poo didn't work 'ey? My dam used to say if you burnt socks, the smoke would keep the bities away..."

"Then go and burn your socks, you pudding!" Welhung dismissed Argsplat angrily.

The ogre hunters trotted up to receive orders. These were the handlers for the mostly-wild sabretusk pack which accompanied the ogre train.

These lion-like beasts sported dagger like tusks for taking down large prey. Their thick, shaggy pelts gave them some measure of protection from retaliatory teeth and horns.

However, the greatest weapon they had in their arsenal was an instinctive team work. Individual sabretusks would feint towards the flanks of their victims, keeping them turning this way and that until an opening appeared for one of the pack to clamp its vice like jaws around the victim’s throat.

"Alright, hunters. We are getting close to the city. I want your pack of 'tusks to form a screen ahead of the boys so we don't get no surprises. I hope your cats are 'ungry and ready for battle!"

"Aah. Sorry, Chief," the lead hunter apologized. "They is well fed and contented this morning."

"What? 'Ow come you fed them?"

"WE didn't feed 'em, Boss. Didn't you 'ear that godawful squeaking during the night....."

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War

This is a Spawning of Bob Bookmark. Print as many as you like.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 9) 26/5/14

chapter 9 up

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 14) 26/5/14

Already chapter 14?

Halfway through already!

(And after that the next three books which are partially written, and the book after that which is fully planned out, and the following 5 books which are at concept stage. I'm not kidding. You are going to be here for a long time.)

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 17) 19/7/14

Sorry for the hiatus. Real Life Holidays with the Family of Bob are to be savoured.

3 more chapters for your degustation. Completion of story only 4 weeks away!

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 17) 19/7/14

Another 2 chapters up.

During lunch today I came up with the synopsis for book 10 (I kid you not).

Given that the first draft of the first Spawning of Bob trilogy "From the Ashes of the Empire" (working title) is optimistically 3 months away from completion, and I don't have specific ideas for books 6 (halflings), 7 (dwarfs again), 8 (wood elves) and 9 (Bretonnians), I figure Bob and the lads should be safely back in Lustria by the end of 2016

Unless someone wants to crowd source my twin hobbies of writing and eating crisps

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 17) 19/7/14

Depends on how much time it'll save you if i eat the crisps, i am more than willing to sacrifice my tummy for such a noble purpose as to have you writing all the time!

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 17) 19/7/14

Ah Vampteddy. You would do that for the greater good?

I found a way to give you a cameo the other day, and I've decided to have some Dansk pirates later on.

Satisfy yourself with that. I am keeping the crisps.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 17) 19/7/14

Ah well, better than nothing...

(not better than crisps though, but close)

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 17) 19/7/14

Give a convincing Danish sounding name for yourself, and I will make you a hero! (a villainous pirate-y hero, but they are the most fun)

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 17) 19/7/14

But i don't have a convincing Danish sounding name IRL

Monberg sounds more german than Danish anywhoes

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 20) 5/8/14

Chapter 20 already?

It seems like only October last year that I started writing!

A battle and a conclusion pending (soon)

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 22) 10/8/14

More story? After only five days?

We must be nearing the climactic conclusion of....

I've forgotten. Have to start again.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 23) 23/8/14

The False Moon War inexorably continues to not reach a conclusion with the tricksy Tzeentch themed Chapter 23!

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 23) 23/8/14

No innocent Daemons were hurt in the making of Chapter 25.


Promise.

 

Re: Spawning of Bob - The False Moon War (Ch 26) 12/9/14

not long now, my precious.....