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

[spawning of Bob]

Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl.

A Spawning of Bob Graphic Novel.



Prologue

This one planet in a billion billion had attracted the attention of Gods. Despite their access to all of the multiverse and planes of existence beyond comprehension, the Old Ones had chosen this place. Now variously known to its inhabitants as "the World", "Dirt (or Earth)", "Home" and a myriad other names, it was originally known as "Munda" to the Slann Mage Priests, the first servants of the Old Ones.

There was some unique feature of this barren world which had originally attracted the gaze of the Old Ones. Perhaps a concentration of rare and exotic minerals, perhaps something else. This feature's nature is likely to remain a mystery, as enquiries directed to the Old Ones these days provoke only silence. For whatever reason, this one was the world chosen to be formed into the mightiest instrument of the Great Plan.

This device is known as the Geomantic Web. Others have described its wonder in more detail than recorded here, but in short, the web is a continent spanning machine used to collect and redirect energy. Invisible tendrils blanket the continent of Lustria in a criss-cross pattern which resembles a great net. The spans arch down to touch the earth at the sites of the mighty Temple Cities originally established by the Old Ones, now under the stewardship of the Lizardmen. Why the cosmic visitors would create such a marvel and why they needed access to such vast reserves of power is a mystery. Only the Old Ones knew its role in the Great Plan.

With the onslaught of Chaos and the departure of the Old Ones, all hope of penetrating this enigma was lost. Yet the Geomantic Web endures, and it is employed by the Slann in their crusade to restore order to this world. The greatest example of its use for this purpose is the containment and dispersal of a great portion of the winds of magic which howl from the collapsed polar gates. This power is funneled in to provide the magical inertia which spins the vortex of Caledor's Great Ritual. From the magical maelstrom, which swirls above the islands of Ulthuan, the raging energies are harmlessly dissipated into space.

1. The False Moon War

The purpose behind the Great Plan may have been lost, but some details of its proposed execution were recorded by the Old Ones on plaques of stone and precious metal. From the time of the Great Cataclysm to this day, the Slann have cleaved to these tablets, and much of their understanding of their masters' will has been distilled from centuries of contemplation of the surviving plaques.

The meaning of many of these plaques are open to interpretation, and great convocations of telepathically linked Slann wrestle about finer points of meaning for decades at a time. However, 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 Tlaxtlozoctlan (moon~corruption) plaque recovered from the ruins of Huanabic was one which 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 back to earth as its orbit decayed. This event would be preceded by a critical weakening of the Great Ritual which had long secured the polar gates against a massive incursion of the foul things of Chaos.

The astromancers of Tlaxtlan had long since confirmed that the prophesied events were inevitable, but they could not specify when this might occur due to the unpredictable nature of the great orb of warpstone. Nor could the combined Slann preempt or prevent the moon's fall because it remained too distant for even their continent shaking power to reach. They would need to content themselves with waiting and scheming, two activities at which the custodians of the Great Plan excel.

It came to pass that, in the year 2418 (in the reckoning of the Empire), Morrslieb waxed closer and closer to the earth, bringing with it tides of chaos and madness which would crescendo 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 he had an ague. His Temple Guardians, who had not themselves stirred for decades, shuffled uneasily and clutched their massive weapons tighter. Although they were not themselves sensitive to the ebb and flow of the winds of magic, the shimmer which surrounded their master and made him difficult to clearly discern (as if he were not truly present in the material realm) made it clear that inconceivable forces were being called into play.

Soon the Lord's shivers subsided. In the universe of pure logic and energy Tecciztec had tightened the skeins of the geomantic web about himself like a shawl against a chill draught. One by one he closed off all of his senses and he, with every other Slann in every temple plunged deep into their trances, linking their minds in the greatest congress since the enaction of the Great Ritual. Nothing of the physical world would be permitted distract them from the battle to come.
This battle would not be fought on the earth, and would not be fought against enemies of flesh and blood. Instead the Slann would contest on the celestial plane with cosmic energies and essences which could only find physical form if they manifested themselves in the material world. This would be resisted with vigour. Even if the calamity of the moon's fall could be averted, what would be gained if the world had already fallen to Chaos?

The great defense of this world had three elements. Every scrap of available geomantic power would be directed to supporting the Great Ritual which would otherwise falter under the tidal influence of Morrslieb. Meanwhile, the Slann would defend the weakened psychic bulwarks at the polar gates for as long as they could, and one of their number would 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 closer and closer to the earth's surface, and as they did so, the crackling energies which were barely contained within its threads streamed faster and faster, as if obeying some mundane physical law of centrifugal motion. The Slann reeled the web's strands tighter still until its arches and spans had been stretched into arrow-straight beams of non-light which followed true line of sight from the tip of one great Temple to the next penetrating intervening terrain as it went. 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. Power from the raging winds of magic blustering from the polar gates, but even natural earth power, the celestial power of the sun 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 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 pagan rituals and human wizards in their towers marvelled 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 defences were intact. And very potent indeed.

But what of her Physical Defenses?



(Edit 26/8/13 - minor corrections to match later fluff, general thrust unchanged)

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

Weren't expecting that, were you?

I apologise to all readers who were hoping for a quick laugh - I had much exposition to get out of the way first. I don't anticipate too many gags until chapter 4 or so, but it will deteriorate quickly from there.

And I imagine the graphic part of the novel will be some time coming. Wife of Bob wants me to mow the lawn.

Further Chapters to follow, thread subject line to be updated with chapter headings as we go.

Enjoy.

 

[rychek]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

Mow the lawn? Isn't that what Son of Bob is for? I must admit, I was not expecting something with such a serious tone coming from you, but I enjoyed it all the same. Get that lawn mowed so we can enjoy some more!

 

[Scalenex]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

Mow the lawn? Isn't that what Son of Bob is for? I must admit, I was not expecting something with such a serious tone coming from you, but I enjoyed it all the same. Get that lawn mowed so we can enjoy some more!

All the great artists of the world use multiple mediums to express their creativity. Shakespeare wrote comedies and tragedies. Michaelangelo painted and sculpted. I bet Bob's lawn is the envy of all!

 

[IronJaw]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

That was pretty epic.

Thanks Bob.

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

2. The Under Empire

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 worshipped in equal measure.

This was the fervent but irrational belief of Pickit Raw, newly elevated to the position of Snout Lord of Clan Catarrh. At this time in history Catarrh was 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 in their place.

By contrast, the greater houses of the Children of the Horned Rat had eked out vast domains within the sprawling maze of the subterranean Under Empire. Clan Moulder controlled the Northern fastness of Hell Pit and created ever more bizarre warp-mutated monstrosities in great cauldrons of flesh and bile. The masters of silent hand and poison blade, Clan Eshin, received few guests (and farewelled fewer) at their Dojos beneath the mystic orient. Pox ridden Clan Pestilens retained holdings on both sides of the Great Ocean after expansion from their roots in the ruins of Chaqua.

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 Barrenness, symbol of rule of Clan Catarrgh, 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 like to fall upon their brothers as the enemy if it seemed like a meal was in the offing. The fevered labors of the Catarrhi Plague Monks appeared to be in vain because the most virulent contagion they had yet concocted caused no more than a boisterous night of diarrhea and flatulence for its victims.

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

He set his plans in motion when he staged 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 effort to relieve the depleted allied clan 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. Next 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 glittered in the eye sockets of reptilian idols which glowered into the gloom 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 trinkets 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 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 with his cracked warpstone spyglass.



(Edit - 26/8/13 - minor fluff changes)
Next Chapter: The Ogre Encampment

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

3. The Ogre Encampment
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 blow from his chief's gauntletted 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 gnoblar retinue it virtually guaranteed that any misdeed would not be repeated, but 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 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, "Werll, evry time we ett 'is nosh, we was 'ungry again an 'our later." He cowered again as Welhung drew his hand back, but the tyrant let it fall back to his side.

"You is always 'ungry again and 'our later you pea brain! Get outta my sight, you is on latrine duty from now on, see?"

"Awww Boss, 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, but 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 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 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 eyed his great vessel speculatively. The sails could be boiled to make a broth. Perhaps the tar used to caulk the seams would make the timbers seem a little less bland. No! He stopped himself before his thoughts turned into actions. He reasoned that he would need his boat later.

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 quite cumbersome to use because it did not contain words for many things which were found in other languages. The word that was missing in this case was "neck".

The strongroom contained what little stock of condiments that remained after the long journey and enforced interruption of the mission. Cured meats and wines of the empire, tubs of potatoes of Bretonnia, ripe cheeses and hogsheads of the foul warm cask ales from Avelon.

"You! Argsplat!" he gestured to one of his Irongut shock troopers, "Double the guard on the pantry. Crack 'eads if you need to!" His warband was close to mutiny and he knew it. Best to minimize temptation.

Welhung's eyes swivelled under lumpy brows to gaze again at the jungle which seemed to glower at the Ogre stockade. He sniffed the air, grimaced 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 brought to it his ship, his warband and his pathological hatred of bees and flowers. The feeling seemed to be mutual.

His party had encountered no signs of habitation around the cove where they had landed, but parties of the little grey Gnoblar slaves dispatched to scout the interior for threats or resources did not return. This was not a great cause for concern. There was no need for reconnaissance in force, because noone was 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, the "Maw's Jaws", was dragged onto the strand. It simply did not work to leave a vessel off shore with a skeleton crew. As the hold was gradually filled with booty, 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 warleader 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 gnoblars and ogres both who followed the wide trails the beasts had trampled did not return. The only meats that were plentiful were swarms of venomous snakes and lizards. These didn't need to be hunted or trapped because they streamed out of the jungle at all times of the day and night.

For the first weeks, the ogres sickened, some close to death, from eating this poisonous fare. Gradually the sickness passed, and for a time all enjoyed crunching down on the tastily prepared reptiles, although most still struggled with the little sticks. This contentment could not last, and now it seemed that every last warrior had succumbed to another deadly malaise. Boredom.

Edit 26/8/13 - changed tyrant name, minor corrections x2

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

4. Misplaced Confidence
"See, hee hee hee! The dullard ogre-things labour for the Catarrghee hee hee!" The Snout 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 shall burst up and exterminate them! Hee hee!"

Nockneed Cripull, Pickit's not remotely trusted chamberlain peeked courageously over a low bush and withdrew his 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, yes, yes, your magnificence, with you to lead lead the swarm, the ogre-things will be brought low, Ho! Ho!"

Pickit involuntarily sprang into the air and dropped into a ready crouch. Other races referred to a "fight or flight" reaction. The skittish ratmen only had a "flight" reaction. Before he had even identified the threat, the proud Snout 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 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 a trifle excessive. 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 3 feet long thrust under the band. A satin cloak cascaded from his shoulders to drag in the filth behind him. In short, he looked like a Mouseketeer.

"I shall lead lead the swarm to victory, hee hee!"

Nockneed gaped at him stupidly, barely believing his luck. If the fool wanted to put himself in harm's way then the chamberlain would be plucking the warp sword from his masters cold dead fingers sooner rather than later.

Real warpstone weaponry was hard to come by, and effective examples more so. The Sword of Barrenness 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 an unfavourable combat.

All warp-aspected apparatus has unfortunate side effects on the user, but the sword of barrenness was unusually benign. It merely caused sterility and shrinkage of the genitals. 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!" Nockneed ushered his temporary lord back into the tunnel.

(image required)

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 stalks.

The gnoblar kitchen hands had continued in the style of their late master, but without much inspiration or indeed, skill. In truth, he had not lamented the passing of the Cathayese cook, but discipline was discipline, and his hand had been forced into imposing latrine duty on Rodekhil Offaleater for the duration of their sojourn at this camp.

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

"Maws Jaws, what are you doing 'ere? You're meant to be diggin' holes, you maggot!" Welhung blustered to his feet and balled his rock like fists.

Rodekil held his hands up, palms outwards, "S'awright, s'awright, Boss. I dug a magic 'ole"

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

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



In the tunnels beneath the ogre camp, Pickit Raw carefully removed his hat, spilling a noisome agglomeration of 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 warpgrinder had broken through the bottom of the Latrine trench. The whole gallery would need to be abandoned and sealed off for fear that the maladorous flood would eventually engulf the entire under empire. He and his clanrats had been quick enough to salvage their precious digging tool, but nothing could salvage the Snout Lord's dignity. 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.

Edit 26/8/13 - rat changes hat.

Next chapter - Cautious Prudence

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

Chapter 5. Cautious Prudence

"I shall lead lead from back here!" Pickit 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 which he had observed through his spyglass earlier. 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 interupted by the clatter of falling masonry followed by silence.

"We ee ee are through!" chirped the slavemaster supervising the tunneling team from his position behind his leader.

The wily chamberlain, Nockneed Cripull, was still further back. "Do we ee ee procee ee eed?" he enquired.

The Snout 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 the filthy cloth. The creature he had addressed was gnawing on the emaciated leg of some hapless wretch.

"Slave!" Pickit 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 eat flesh." That was all the motivation the wretched chattel required and he sauntered to the head of the tunnel as Pickit 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 tired of waiting and yanked on the chain. This produced a choking cough but failed to retrieve the spy. In the end, Pickit and Nockneed together had to drag him bodily from the strongroom above.

"Were there sentrie ee ees?" demanded the Chamberlain. The slave shook his head mutely, eyes bulging.

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

"Hee hee, follow meeeee!" warbled the swarm leader, as he cast the cadaverous urchin to one side and swarmed up the tunnel, followed by a stampede of his avaricious retainers.

The slave watched after them. When they had departed he made a guttural choking sound at the back of his throat and spat onto his hand a large chunk of cheese that he had squirreled away in his cheek. "My precious...." he crooned at his prize.

(Image required)

According to Argsplat, things were getting very ugly. 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 the Maw's Jaws' 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 sharpened sticks.

Argsplat glanced down at the two hander meat axe that he held in his hands 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' worry, lads!" he reassured them, "If you can' beat 'em, join 'em!" And with that he whirled and began a frenzied attack on the bar on the pantry door with his meat axe. With a roar every last ogre rushed forward to smash the log building into matchwood.

(Image)

Pickit Raw raised his 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 particular worth.

Nockneed approached the 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 tipped grey fur. "Sti i i icks!" he hissed, "Ogre-things with Sti i i icks!"

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

(Image)

The following daybreak, Welhung Thunderloin surveyed the wreckage at the centre of his camp and noted that the few ogres that had bothered to rise seemed to be plump and content. "Wha' 'appened?" he demanded of his Lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater.

"Dunno, Boss. I wuz asleep." Rodekhil picked a scrap of silver tipped grey 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, and 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."

Next Chapter - The Spawning of Bob

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

6. The Spawning of Bob


The warmth of gentle sunshine upon a childs face, the vigour of life and the tendency of objects to fall down, rather than up, are manifestations of some of the many “mundane” energies which bind this universe. Each of the many universes have their own unique set of energies, laws and properties which set them apart from all others. The paradoxical and bizarre natural laws of the Chaos Realm appear quite normal to an observer from that universe.


Only the Old Ones had the ability and desire to cross from one universe to the next. To do this they created the polar dimensional gates. By their manipulations they brought into being another form of energy previously unknown in the multiverse. Magic.


With the polar gates, planes which were meant to be parallel were forced into local contact. The friction between the incompatible realities created a potential, much as amber rubbed with wool will produce tiny sparks of lightning. This potential was manifest as the winds of magic.


In the time of the Old Ones this potential was measured and controllable. They taught their first servants, the Slann Mage Priests, to channel and control the winds to perform great works which would have otherwise been impossible within the constraints of the universe’ laws. When the polar gates collapsed, a massive extrusion of Chaos matter spewed into our dimension, and consequently the enlarged inter-dimensional conflict whipped the winds into a shrieking gale. In the eddies and vortices of the tempest other energies, such as Dark Magic, gradually accumulated like dust in the corner of a room.


Those with the ability to manipulate one or all the eight winds and other magics are the great mages of this world and they are rightly feared and respected. However, magics and wizardry only represent a bending of the natural rules of the universe. These 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 to its order. Sometimes this will take aeons, but sometimes, particularly when the boundaries have been pushed too far, the correction will occur with a calamitous detonation.


There are a third set of forces. 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 after the last universe is snuffed out in cold infinity. They have names like Virtue and Evil, Good and Bad, Luck and Destiny. Many others exist but all follow this rule – they are paired, like opposed sides of a coin, or a like bickering husband and wife bound together through eternity. They are opposite, but cannot exist apart.


These pairings can merge and interact. For example, it is possible to know Good Luck or an Evil Destiny. Analysis of all possible combinations with the new science of mathematics reveals an interesting pattern. The number six (or its derivatives (2 and 3) and multiples (2x6, 3x6 and so on)) governs all that is and can be, in any part of the multiverse. This Law of Six is the reason why mystic cubes made of bone, ivory or stone (particularly those of cunning and elegant design) are revered by all races. They are used to scry knowledge of the future and other things which cannot otherwise be known.




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


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. It is an immutable law. Each pair of metalaws bow to his command. His mistress, Randomness, is also generally subservient to his edict, but 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.


(image)

The Majestic Temple Cities of Lustria share some common features. They are dominated by massive pyramids upon which perch the greatest of the Slann Mage Priests. These coincide with the nodes of the geomantic web, granting the mystic amphibians access to power, telepathic communication and travel on the astral plane. Less lofty structures, 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 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 knowledge of the process of spawning, but 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 ebulliance. The region of Australustria supplies the most talented and good looking generals from its arid heart.

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

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 sports were not mutants, nor chaos tainted. They were just... odd.

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, many are spawned sickly, neurotic or otherwise incompetent. As an example, no skink spawned to operate a stegadon mounted bow has ever had the innate ability to hit any target. Ever.

The presence of an entire city with a concentration of such misfits might be seen as a potential annoyance to the other regions, but in fact it is a boon. Every other Temple City in Lustria will happily send its eccentrics 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 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 face while meditating.

Thus it came to pass that the avenues of Los'tmabotl were filled with bickering saurus, incompetent skinks and frolicking carnosaurs. Paunch'njudi, the Prophet of Sockpupp't preached his gospel of mindless violence to wide eyed spawnlings clustered about his booth. 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.

Oldblood Mossy

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

7. Bees and Flowers

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/prey became more sluggish 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 knew that this raid would yield significant profit.

However, Welhung did not adventure riches or for glory. He did it for love. His wife, Hellun of Troyarg 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 may have been no exaggeration. Her statuesque frame was reminiscent of the rugged beauty of the Ogre homeland, the Mountains of Mourn. That is to say that she was massive and lumpy. She was no mere beauty, though. She was an Ogre princess born into the line of Over Tyrant 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. Some time ago, 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. Gestation is measured in years rather than months, and for the full duration each blushing beauty is transformed into a rapacious tyrant.

The first trimester is dominated by morning sickness, and an Ogre with an upset tummy is an upset Ogre, period. There is no relief to be gained by the Ogress ejecting the contents of her rebellious stomach, because ogres do not vomit. Like the Great Maw they consume and consume and give nothing back. There is no word for vomit in the ogre dialect.

In the second trimester, the cravings begin. The gravid human female might unreasonably request strawberries out of season, but 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 Thunderhorn, 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, and to this day he could not understand what could be so appealing about a steaming bowl of Ghoulash.

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 sacrifice is made to the Great Maw. If a suitable offering is not made, both mother and child will eventually perish.

And so it was that love had brought Welhung to this Mawforsaken 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 it 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 camp-followers and lumbered to his side. "Send the rest of those 'orrible little Gnoblar 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?"

"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 scouts.

The Gnoblars crept cautiously through the first clumps off 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 grey fingers of a Gnoblar who was precariously clinging to the rigging which held a scrap-launching catapult onto the back of a hulking Rhinox. Startled by the cartwheeling arms of the driver, the ponderous beast of burden brayed and tossed her horned head, dislodging a pair of black powder casks from an adjacent wain.

Welhung sucked in a huge breath of air and held it for a long moment. Nothing untoward happened and the tyrant exhaled slowly, imagining a dozen suitable punishments for his blundering lieutenant. Before he could give voice to his displeasure there was a commotion at the edge of the clearing. A few of the scouts 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!"

(image)

The tyrant's eyes glinted menacingly under his meaty brow. "My old enemy," he thought himself, but 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 patches of colour in the desolation around them were more of the 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 aint bloomed yet, Boss" 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 and audible snap.

"Wha' I been tellin' ya? Flowers! They've got it in for us!" The tyrant turned back toward the ogre war band bellowing. "Firebelly! Firebelly!" He was surprised when Argsplat stumped up to join them.

"Where's my Firebelly? I want these infernal flowers torched!" The ogre fire wizard would make short work of this grove.

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

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

"Wha'sup? Lemme see!" Rodekhil pulled his masters hand away and saw an ugly weal which doubled in size as he watched. "Wha'sat?" he scraped at the lump with a dirty fingernail and came away with a tiny barbed spine with a feathery tuft at one end. It glistened wetly in the gloom.

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

"Wha'?"

"Bees. Bees is after us. Thats a sting i'nit. You know, bees! When they gets ya, they leaves behind the sting!"

Rhodekhil scratched his head. "I dunno Boss, I didn' see nuffin' "

"Ya dumpling! didn't ya hear the buzz? They'se 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 buzzing insects.

"Move out move out! Get moving!" he howled as he staggered deeper into the gloom. Rodekhil shrugged and ambled after him as the ogre column creaked back into motion.

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


Next Chapter: Special Rules

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 1-2

8. Special Rules

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

Beneath the skin more fundamental differences existed. An orc was an orc, all the way to his obstreperous core. Some races might be known for exceptional bravery, others for animosity, dexterity of hand or greed. These attributes, which govern the motivation and make up 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.

(image)

"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 eyes. They were unexceptional to look at, and near identical because they had come from the same spawning. They stood the regulation eight 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. 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 eggshell, no doubt a relic of his spawning. The two had lithe, muscular arms and legs each digit terminating in a sharp claw. 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. They seemed to be unable to agree on anything, although they rarely came to blows. The problem was that their contrariness was contagious, thus they had been banished from the city bounds when the entire population had taken sides in the "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.

(image)

Whoppaconk the gnoblar's military career had 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 goblin-like servitor was perched on Welhung Thunderloin's shoulder clutching 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. Wherever his master went, Whoppaconk was trailed by a gaggle of his so called friends who would snigger at his discomfiture. If he survived this episode he resolved that he would be putting a few large grey noses out of joint.

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 have appeared in a chink of armour or some other tender place. The worst had been when the tyrant had stopped to relieve himself behind a tree.

Every time a bee penetrated Whoppaconk's defences the tyrant would curse and bray like a rhinox in heat and lash out at the forest around him. The Gnoblar would grimly hang on thanking his good luck star that the ogre could not reach behind himself while wearing full armour.

Some fool Irongut with one eye had suggested that if the chieftain smeared himself in rhinox dung, the bees might be deterred by the smell. That experiment had failed dismally. The end result was a fuming, resentful gnoblar perched on an itchy, enraged ogre tyrant, both of them covered in poo.

(Image)

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

The bickering saurus had company. An imposing kroxigor and his skink spawn-kin were delivering a crate of provisions.
"Are you two still arguing about the best weapons for saurus warriors?" Rychek enquired. "I heard that sacred spawnings could take halberds."

Bob and Joe paused and gaped at him.

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

"Waa aa aaaah! 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 rumbled. He 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 so he could not lose them easily, but 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 the 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. Recently Mahtis had chided the little skink telling him "Its time I started to take my own lumps." Rychek had been so proud of his little brother, and worried at the same time.

"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 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 do that?" Rychek was mortified.

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

(image)

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 warband 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 di'nt work 'ey? My dam used ta say if ya burnt socks the smoke 'd keep the bities away..."

"Then go and burn ya socks, ya 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 claws. However, the greatest weapon they had in their arsenal was an instinctive team work. Individuals would feint towards the flanks of cornered beasts, keeping their prey turning this way and that until an opening occurred for one of the pack to clamp its vice like jaws around the victims throat.

"Righ' you rabble. We are gettin' close to the city. I wan' your pack 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 Boss," the lead hunter replied. "They is well fed and contented this mornin' "

"Wha'? 'Ow come you fed 'em?"

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



Next Chapter - The Temple City

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob- The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch 2 on Pag

9. The Temple City

At about this time, Morrslieb was approaching full moon and was closer to the earth than ever before. The gravitational and magical tides which accompanied this event were causing all manner of natural (and very unnatural) disasters. These forces were threatening to tear apart the vortex of the Great Ritual. Already the laminar rotation of the magical winds was breaking into swirls and eddies. Before long the system would become chaotic. In that event, this world would become Chaotic very soon after.

This could not be allowed to occur. The Slann were not yet prepared to enact Tecciztec's plan to assail the Chaos moon, thus they further tightened their grip on the geomantic web until the whole system was thrumming like the string of a musical instrument. Unprecedented amounts of magical, celestial and earth power was tapped. The entire continent of Lustria was plunged into a new ice age.

The Slann streamed the greater yield of geomantic power into the Great Ritual increasing its rate of spin and stabilizing the vortex. This full moon crisis was averted, but what of the next, and the one after that? As the Chaos moon spiraled lower and lower, the Slann would eventually find the limits of the power they had at their disposal.

(image)

Oldblood Mossy rang a little bell. He was ancient even by Lizardmen standards and had survived so many battles that he was now more scar than veteran. He had not seen his attendant skinks for some time and he needed assistance to answer the call of nature. The venerable saurus rang again. No response. Sighing wearily he lowered his gouty feet from their position on a jaguar skin ottoman in front of the fire. The fire was dying. It would need tending as well. With a grunt he struggled to his feet and peered myopically at the shadows outside his chamber. There was something wrong. He hadn't had bath time yet and it was dark outside. He tottered through the silent halls of his residence.

When he reached the avenues of the city he found a wonderland of shimmering ice crystals embellishing every surface. The inhabitants had either fled or were frozen in place. There was no sign of life except for a fitful glow from the highest chamber of the great pyramid. Oldblood Mossy limped towards the warm radiance, each step slower than the last until he eventually faltered. He raised a hand in either supplication, or salute, towards the star chamber of his master, Slann Lord Taisteslaikch'ken and was then frozen in place like a statue of a wizened, incontinent, shortsighted, crippled, stooped, toothless reptilian god.

(image)

The Skaven of the Under Empire were reputed to be without number. That reputation had taken a blow in recent weeks. Clan Catarrgh, under the charismatic leadership of its Snout Lord, Pickit Raw, had gone from being an insignificant vassal house to being a somewhat smaller insignificant vassal house.

Infiltration, surprise attacks from without, and harassment had all proven to be of limited effectiveness against the ogre throng. The tactic of disguising a troop of assassins as jungle fruits to wait in ambush had been particularly ill advised. It was testament to Pickit Raw's strength of resolve, or possibly lack of imagination, that his swarm had shadowed the ogres this far into the interior.

"Li i i izard-Things? Not Ogre-Things?"

Pickit's gutter runner spy grinned, "And only-ee-ee two of them, Snot Lord!"

"That's "Snout Lord"," Pickit sniffed disdainfully before his face split into an evil grin, "Something we-ee-ee can defea-ee-eet? Gather the pack. Pre-ee-eepare for a frontal assault!"

(image)

Ogres don't creep well. Nor do they sneak or skulk. Despite this Welhung Thunderloin and his lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater managed to reconnoiter the Lizardmen bastion unmolested. They had observed two sentries on the rampart keeping a silent vigil over the jungle. There was no other sign of life.

"Why 'ave we only seen two sentries? An outpost this size should 'ave a garrison." Welhung scratched his lumpy nose. This new arctic chill was of no concern to the mountain dwelling ogres, and it seemed to have driven off the swarms of invisible bees which had been tormenting him.

"Maybe the sentries is really annoying," shrugged Rodekhil, "Anyways, we oughtta just level the thing with roundshot. Garrisons don' matter if they been blasted."

Welhung appraised the field. "Naa, we can't bring the iron blasters to bear with these trees so close. It'll 'ave to be a frontal assault."

Rodekhil unlimbered his pair of iron falchions. "Should we bring the rest of the lads?"

(image)

The Ogres formed their phalanx in plain sight, just out of bow shot of the redoubt.

"Those lizards must 'ave balls. They ain't even blinked!" Rhodekil observed.

Argsplat snorted with mirth, "Balls? Lizards ain’t got none!" he guffawed.

Welhung scrutinized his iron gut captain. "Wasn't you taller?"

"Well, yaa, Boss." Argsplat glanced down at the heavily bandaged stumps where his feet and lower legs should have been.

"Wha' 'appened? Did one of them acid flowers get ya?"

"Naa, Boss. You said I should set fire to my socks to keep them bities away, like my dam said."

"Ya shoulda taken the socks off first, ya stupid loaf!"

"Aaah. I didn't fink of dat."

The Ogre assault line had been formed. It was an intimidating wall of iron, blubber and halitosis. Still the pair of sentries did not quail.

"Bellower. Do the ‘honours." (Silent “H”s do not translate easily into the ogre dialect).

With a crisp salute to his general the ogre sergeant major turned to release the full power of his formidable vocal cords. "Righ' you 'orrible slugs! Step lively on the left! No! The other left! And…. march! Keep time, keep time! Left ,two, three, other left, two, three!"

The bellower called the rhythm of the charge, gradually increasing the tempo until the line was rolling forward like a flabby avalanche.

A furlong separated the ogres from the outpost when suddenly the front lines faltered. The ground before them had burst open and a seething swarm of rats had leapt upon the sward with their filth caked weapons at the ready. Facing away from the ogres.

The momentum of the ogre charge could not be checked and rank after rank of the massive warriors piled up and eventually spilled over the Skaven battalian. The impact alone was enough to paste the numerically superior rodents into the ground.

From the battlements, two frozen saurus warriors, one armed with a hand weapon, the other with a spear, bore mute witness to the impromptu victory feast that followed.

(image)

The ogres entered the city unopposed, but they did not abandon caution, or discipline, while there remained any risk of ambuscade.

" ' eres another one of them statues, like in the outpost," Rodekhil observed, "this one ain’t very impressive." The statue in question had a stooped posture and gummy mouth. The efficient looking stone axe it bore was being used as an improvised crutch. Its outstretched hand was reaching towards a glowing chamber at the head of a steep and narrow stair which clung to the precipitous side of the largest pyramid.

Welhung raised his mace as if to mimic the oldblood's gesture. "Our prize is up there."

(image)

In the star chamber at the pinnacle of the Great Pyramid, a huge golden brazier cast a merry glow over an inert Slann Mage Priest, a squad of six Temple Guard and four worried skink priests.

“Stone the crows! That's the last of the wooden effigies. When that burns down we'll need to chuck on some scrolls from the casket,” declared Dinki’dai, the ruggedly handsome Australustrian priest. There had been no recent spawnings of priests in Los’tmabo’tl, thus Taistelaikch’ken’s skink priest attendants were drawn from all corners of Lustria.

“Iwanashu’u, Daidoun. Keep watch.” Tanqgoditzafrid’ai gestured to two of his squad mates. The taciturn saurus champion was the Revered Guardian and leader of this unit of Temple Guard. As the pair moved to comply, there was a worried chirp from the edge of the platform.

“Mon Dieu, there is activite down below!” Animaux, the little Gallustrian priest was peeking over the edge.

“Well, that’s just great,” drawled Caneghem. The Texustrian stood a hand taller than his companions. Everything is bigger in the Lone-Star Province.

One of the two guardsmen keeping watch called another spawn brother, “Ooteh’hoel, the city is breached. Inform the Revered Guardian.”

“Ah noo! We’re heaps breached!” wailed Tuatara. This priest was an émigré from the Baabed Sheepidon infested shaky isles of NewZealustria. These insignificant islands, far to the South East were known for volcanic boiling mud. NewZealustria was so isolated from the Lustrian mainstream that the inhabitants had formed what might be considered a “special” relationship with their Sheepidon flocks.

A party of ogres was visible crossing the plaza at the foot of the pyramid. The largest of their number raised an iron bound mace and gestured toward the apex.

“We’re breached as, Bro!”



The ogres mounted the vertiginous eternity stair.

“You’ve got ’em sorted, hey mate?” The most attractive of the skink priests asked Aidont’loqmundi, the fifth Temple Guardian.

“The cold slows our movements, but with the Old One’s blessing, and your magical support, we will prevail.”

“Bugger. We’re flat out like a lizard drinking channeling the winds, mate. The flaming web is sucking them up like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Then we shall fail.”

“Nah mate,” the Australustrian was innately more intelligent than his skink brethren as well. “This’ll bloody sort ‘em out!”

Dinki’dai hurled himself at a colossal obsidian sculpture in the shape of a great serpent. “What about your arms mate? Are they just painted on?” Aidont’loqmundi and Telmiwai, the last of the Temple Guardsmen, joined the effort and, together, they toppled the statue. It shattered on the eternity stair and showered the ogres below with dagger like shards. Many stricken ogres were swept from the stair, but enough continued their relentless ascent.

“Ha! Take that, ya drongos!” laughed Dinki’dai.

“And thus!” chortled Tuatara, as he upended the brazier down the stair.

“No! Ya boofhead…..” but it was too late. The embers showered the ogres and dislodged a few more, but the loss of their only source of warmth would soon cripple the cold blooded defenders.

Tanqgod’itzafrid’ai felt frost begin creeping into his bones. He shook his bone helmeted head. “We don’t have long before the cold will defeat us,” he murmured. His voice rose in a rousing crescendo, “Telmiwai, Aidont’loqmundi, Iwanashu’u, Ooteh’hoel, Daidoun! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Kobdb37Cwc We will do our duty!”

Uniting their voices in a wordless roar, his guardians joined their captain in a headlong charge down the eternity stair. The Temple Guard held their own, for a time, with the advantage of higher ground, but the mass of ogres pressed ever upwards.

“ ‘ow can we ‘elp zem?” Animaux was wringing his bony hands.

The heroic and charming Australustrian priest, Dinki’dai, had helped himself to a metal tube from the Casket of the Cold Ones which was kept for emergencies in the temple inner sanctum. The tinny cylinder contained fermented, malted barley. The frothy amber liquid was close to freezing point. “You beauty,” he purred, “perfect temperature. That Slannputin is a wanker!”

Beside him, Tuatara rummaged in the Casket of the Old Ones which was the repository of the mystic treasures of the temple. “Bro!” he exclaimed, “Thus’ll guve thum a touch up!” He brandished the Forbidden Rod. This arcane item did not draw its magical power from the winds of magic but rather from the life force of its wielder.

The NewZealustrian ran to the edge of the platform and spoke the word of command. The hand that clutched the rod visibly shriveled as the cursed artifact absorbed half a century of life from the reckless Kiwi. “Fight your way through thus!” he shrieked as he began the gestures to release the most reliable cantrip he knew.

“No! Not that one!” hollered Caneghem, but it was too late.

Tuatara released a blizzard of shards of ice from his fingertips and hurled them into the combat below. The ogres cursed and shielded their eyes. Their blows could not find their mark while they were thus blinded, but the effect on the Saurus of the Temple Guard was far more devastating. Every last guardian was immobilized by the wave of arctic chill, petrified into ice crusted avatars of snarling hate.

“Oh, merde!” breathed Animaux.

The Ogres paused and rubbed the ice crystals from their eyes before continuing their merciless ascent.

“You bloody moron!” Dinki’dai advanced on Tuatara with his claws balled with rage.

“Ut’s OK Bro, I’ll turrify thum wuth my turrifying war dunce!” The NewZealustrian priest began a ridiculous display of stomping and chest slapping. “Ka matae! Ka matae! Ka ora! Ka ora...”


Dinki’dai stormed over and grabbed Tuatara by the throat. “Do you have any flamin’ idea how stupid you look?!”


Meanwhile Caneghem had also rifled the Casket of the Old Ones. With a whoop of triumph he produced a barrel of the precious Texustrian votive oil. This he cast down the stair to broach upon the head of the uppermost ogre. He followed up with a golden lamp fashioned in the form of a fire salamander. The ogre ignited spectacularly and plummeted from the side of the pyramid like a fiery comet.


“Sacre Bleu! What are you doing? That oil is précieux!” Animaux was aghast at the waste.

The Texustrian snorted. “Where I come from we’ve got so much of this stuff, it comes out of the ground.”

“Bien.” The Gallustrian hurried to the open casket and returned with a priceless flask of the Potion of Ebullience. He loosened the cork stopper with his scaly thumbs and spoke the incantation of activation: “Moet et Chandon, soixante-neuf!”

With a loud report, like a pistol shot, the cork was propelled by a foaming jet of potion. Another Ogre fell, clutching his stricken eye.

The other priests gaped at him. “We have so many cellars packed with these bottles in Gallustria” he explained to justify his extravagance.

Without a word, the laconic Dinki’dai tightened his grip about Tuatara’s scrawny neck and hurled the NewZealustrian from the balcony.

“No o o o o Bro o o o o!……..?” Tuatara’s voice trailed away into nothing as he dislodged another ogre and continued the arc of his descent.

“Please don’t tell me you jokers weren’t expecting that.” The other two priests shrugged in acquiescence and joined Dinki’dai in forming a cordon about the dormant Slann. They prepared to make their last stand.

The ogre vanguard had now scaled the stair and were menacing the eternity chamber. With a clamour and an oath, Animaux and Dinki’dai launched themselves at the ogres, only to be swept callously aside by an iron clad mace. This left the dismayed Caneghem as Taistelaikch’ken’s last line of defense.

“Get the chaff outta my way!” growled the ogre commander.

“OK Boss!” The last thing the skink priest saw was a fat leering face and a meaty hand grasping toward him with greedy fingers agape, like the Great Maw itself.

Edit 20/9/13 - Telmiwai joke made even more obvious. You're all ignorant savages, sometimes I don't know why I even bother.

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch3 on pag

Rats and ogres and bears Oh My! A third chapter already???

If I keep this up something might actually happen!

 

[Scalenex]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch3 on pag

The world is upside down. Now if I see the Fluff forum has a new Spawning of Bob entry I think "Oh boy I hope it's the next installment of this" only to find it's a hilarious series of comics. You spoil us.

In any event, you inspired me to write another story, it's slow going though. Just for fun I'm trying my next saga from a Skinks perspective and that requires challenges to be scaled down.

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch4 on pag

New chapter 4 and edits of Ch 1-3. First illustration on page 1.

Only 2 chapters away from Spawning of Bob!

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch4 on pag

Chapter 5 complete (until revisions become needed)

Does anyone want to hear about Lizards?

 

[rychek]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch5 page 1

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

Bwahahahaha! I've got to share this with my local Ogre player (who happens to play Skaven as well). he'll get a kick out of it!

Keep up the good work Bob!

 

[Silverbolt]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl Ch5 page 1

Very fun so far, Bob! Really appreciate the distinct voices between the races. Can't wait for the next chapter and some Saurus/Skink goodness!

 

[spawning of Bob]

Re: Spawning of Bob - The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl new Ch6 -

Woohoo! Lizards.

Soon they might do something!

perhaps in the second half of chapter 7.

SoB