Snarblac, the warchief, growled as his honour guard fussed around him in the big room with the crystal chair. They busied themselves, attaching the various pieces of his warplate. A severed goblin head lay on the table, watching the war chief. “You believe our weird brother will fail to bind the snorri then?” The head asked him with yellow eyes, meeting the warchef's. Snarblack huffed, "Watch, does that make you say that?” The warchief asked the head, “He has always had a way with demons, and I have found over the years that he can be very adept if he has had time to prepare.” He mused as his honour guards finally finished attaching his last pauldron, and he finally was able to move free once again. "Well, if you think he is going to bind it, why are you getting ready for battle?” The head asked him indignantly. The warchief picked up the head from the table, holding it up to his face. “Because if it is not in fact a demon, then Zarblac may very well fail. This snorri has taken many of the lives of my warriors. If it makes it to this chamber, Iplan to be in with a fighting chance.” Snarblac said spittle was flying from his mouth and landing on the head’s check.
The head let out a groan. “Wipe it off!” It shouted, “You know I cant” Snarblac let out an evil smile as he placed the head back down on the table. “You do have arms, brother; it's not my fault you lost them." The head on the table let out a triade of insults at Snarblac, but the warchef ignored him, bowing his head slightly as another of his honour guards approached him with his red-plumed helmet sliding into place. The warchief rolled his head on his next, checking his range of movement in the heavy helmet before leaving the room with the crystal chair.
As he entered the smooth stone tunnel beyond the great circular doors, he made his way through the ranks of his defensively positioned honour guard and peered down the staircase. A single pair of goblins footsteps echoed towards him. Soon, a panicked-looking goblin—maybe one of Grut’s units—weezed its way into the veil as it climbed the gigantic spiral stairs. As it finally reached the top, it was with some regret that the goblin recognised the warchief. It took the creature a moment to recover from its panting. “Shaymans… dead… cheif…” The goblin weezed between breaths. “How?” the warchef asked in a curious tone. The goblin looked pained. “Either he died when his cricle thing didn't work, or the zombies got him; either way, he's dead. Grut saw it through his spy glass. "Well, tell Grut that you and him and your boys know your orders. Do not let the thing up the stairs.” The warchief said this to the runner. The goblin's eyes widened as he realised that now that he had finally gotten his breath back, he would have to turn around and run back down the stairs. “But if Grut knows what the point is," The runner whined in protest.
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Snarblack couldn't be bothered to explain anymore to the runner, instead choosing to plant a firm kick in the goblin's chest. Yelps of pain echoed up the staircase as the creature flew backwards out of sight, impacting each stair with a dull thud as it tumbled. Warchief Snarblack Growled angrily at his unit. issuing commands to remain defensive from mation at the top of the stairs as he made his way back to the crystal throne room. As he entered the room, he picked up his brother’s decapitation from the table and began to walk towards a small door tucked away to the side of the crystal chair platform. "What's going on?” asked the head as it was carried by the warchief. "Brother,” the warcheif began in an annoyed tone, “our shaymanic brother is now dead.” The head blinked in shock.
“Do you know why Zarblac is dead?” The warchief asked as they reached the small wooden door. Snarblack kicked the door open to reveal a small stone chamber, a washroom for the high council in the days before the goblins arrival. The head in his was attempting to shake its head from side to side. The warchief maintained his tight grip. “Zarblac is dead because he was given bad information by somebody who claimed to be the smartest goblin," he said in a menacing tone. “It was a demon brother! it was! I bound it and everything. How do you think the power came back on? bruv, I swear” The head argued, but it was invein. Snarblac kicked open the wooden lid to the privy that countless gnomes had once sat upon. Once again, his head widened as he realised what his brothjer was planning to do. “Please bruv not that," he moans as the war chief lowers him into the bowels of the privy.
"Brother, if it were up to me, I would kill you,” the warchef exclaimed. “Our brother Zarblac, however, did make that outcome somewhat impossible given that you are not technically alive anymore. This, however, I think will make a suitable punishment.” On finishing his explanation, Snarblac reached for the chain and pulled. The Ventor’s head let out a scream that turned into a gargle, and then he was flushed away, eyes wide open.
Snarblack watched the head of his brother disappear. After a moment of satified self-pity, he turned from the privy and returned to the chamber with the crsytal chair. Five of his closest honour guards waited for him vigilantly. “With me," he ordered the goblins, and they all obdiently fell in behind him. Once again, Snarblack made his way through the ranks of his honour guard to the top of the gigantic staircase. An eery silence was all that could be heard from where the stair case opened out to the vast chamber below, where Grut was waiting vigilantly with his own group of goblin warriors.
A warcry echoed up the staircase towards the warboss on the level below them. His goblins were charged.