The Secondary Saga

[Thaal Sinestro]

The strange human’s weapon cracked into the sea of Grobdum’s comrades, green flesh splitting with every shot. The massive creature which he rode upon swayed to one side, its many legs franticly skittering as it weaved between attacks. A horrible hiss erupted from between its fangs and it lunged forward at Christa.

The rest of the formation split as the monster charged, but the blonde-haired warrior turned and began firing. Chunks of the arachnid’s exoskeleton flew off, white and green goo spraying into the air. Grobdum’s expression only grew more manic as he rode towards the line, leaning forward in his saddle and gripping his reigns with feverish anticipation.

The red-stripped beast hammered into the woman, smashing her into the ground. Sneering, she instantly leaned up and continued to fire, holes blossoming in the monster’s neck and head. With one final, furious howl the animal dug its mandibles into the woman’s left thigh and fell to the side. The creature’s legs slowly curled up under its belly and it tipped gently onto its back, the twisted pose confirming its death.

Christa allowed herself no celebration as she turned back to the teeming horde of savages, which still lifted their primitive stone and bone tools against her and the random assortment of secondaries present. The strange runes they had painted on their flesh hummed with a potent magical power, and Christa could not help but notice that her bullets were not cutting as deeply as they normally would. If she had to guess, the nearly-naked orcs were being protected by the runes that they wore; not that she could think of anything immediate to do with that information.

One of the massive, genderless creatures charged at her, its bone-hewn club held high in the air, a guttural, “Oogaahhh!” bellow in his throat. One shot fell into the monster’s chest, then two shots, three, four, five. Even as blood splurted out of its chest, it rushed onward, undaunted.

As Christa crouched low, ready to dodge the inevitable attack, the goblin pried itself from beneath its upturned mount and stumbled forward – directly into the orc’s path. “Gwuh?” the brute managed to grunt before the two greenskins toppled into each other, the larger one’s head whipping straight down into its club, knocking it unconscious.

The smaller goblinoid’s tall, feathered hat was pushed down tight on its eyes, and he staggered about, helplessly tugging at it. “Wot’s dis rubbish!?” it shrieked, tripping over arrows and bodies. Screaming in frustration, the tiny shaman’s body surged with magic, hot-green bolts of power flying in every direction.

The fizzling missile hit the root of the orcs, sending several scream through the air in a plume of smoke and viridian. Another split a tree, obliterating a goblin that had been clinging to the branches. A third narrowly streamed over Captain Crow’s head, singeing a lock of his hair. Another bolt of violent energy had begun to form when a firm boot flung him to the tree line.

Krugmen flipped his hair and shook his head. “Little bastard,” he scoffed, flamboyantly blasting the unconscious orc with his rifle, then his pistol.

Grobdum finally peeled the hat from his eyes and gazed out over the battlefield. The orcs were miraculously dying in droves, the goblins had been all but blasted form existence, and he had been injured. It was at this point that he did what any masterful goblin shaman would do: hide.

Cowering in a ball at the edge of the of the battlefield, Grobdum shivered behind a tree and witness the gruesome battle as it unfolded. As orcs fell, the strange mass of random people seemed to dispatch them with absolute ease. Unheard of! Inconceivable! Orcs certainly preferred to overwhelm their enemies with numbers, but the brawny, sinew-muscled, gigantic masters of melee combat were inexplicably falling like tiny snotlings at the hands of these… randoms. They were nobodies, nothings, destroying a wave of the most savage warriors the world had, or ever would, ever know. Even if they were heroes, they should be facing more difficulty than this!

If they were orcs, he would have a new boot kicking him around and telling him what to do by now! That was the natural order: might makes right. These randos were mighty, and he expected a new set of boots in his ass soon if he didn’t end up dying in the mix. He would be killed with the rest of his allies. Unless…

The shivering, piss-scented goblin glanced out from behind his cover, and saw a tiny wooden man struggling to claim an axe from a dead Big ‘Un. His fang-toothed maw spread into a wide grin underneath his hilariously large, hooked nose. Rushing out from the underbrush, he greeted his new ally with a cheery, “Oi, you li’l, uh, woody grot!” He pointed to the massive axe, “Yoo need dat dere choppah?”

As the tiny puppet recoiled from the tiny shaman, he tore the bloodied stone weapon from the orcs hand and offered it to the marionette, “Wot, ya gots somefin’ ta be ‘fraid a’? We gobbos are right clevah, an’ yoo could use a ‘and!”