A Gutter-Squeaker's Account of The Routing of the Flayful Disciples

Squeak! I saw-saw it all, yes-yes!

The bone-things came, clatter-clack, all fancy armour and no fur. Arch-Warlock Struk, bless-praise his sparky greatness, shouted from atop a smouldering rock:

“No-no! Bonethings want our shiny-glow rocks! Kill-burn them all!”

We Ash-Gnaws ran left-left (like brave heroes, not cowards, no-no). The Volt-Pack hid behind us, all fizz-crackle, making our fur stand up and smell of singe. On the right, Master Moulder Etoch’s beasts drooled-drooled, eyes green-glow crazy. The Grinder Pack spun their saws, chittering and laughing in the dark.

Then—flash-boom!—lightning everywhere! Bones exploded! Smelled like soup! Etoch’s monsters smashed, the Doom-Flayers shredded, and we… we mostly hid under corpses (brave-tactical move, yes-yes).

The bone-things broke, screeching clatter-crash, and ran away like cowards (not like us!).

Struk raised his staff, sparks flying, and shrieked:

“Victory-victory! See-see! Genius wins again! Emberstone mine-mine!”

Etoch just muttered about grafting bone to rat, all creepy-like.

We squeaked, we cheered, we gnawed what was left. The Emberstone hummed warm-bright, and the valley burned long into the night.

Glory to the Most Secret-Sneaky, Most Fire-Burning Ember-Warp Conclave! Yes-yes!