#Grot Corvus

[grubbed-up-goblen]

When you braid your raven friends hair

And now she thinks she’s your girlfriend

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

War Journal: Salvation of the Prime Dominions #6

I am writing today on behalf of another; I am practicing proper informational security in disposing of the missive, but “translating” the text thereupon with my own flourishes. I will be the first to admit this text reflects my full biases as an outsider from the Corvus Cabal's mysterious Ulguan culture. I hope one does not find this translation and cut my throat for some unforgivable misdeed in my translational convention.

My liege, (Far too formal. No Cabalite would ever be so long-winded.)

BOSS,

Consider it done.

A great bounty for you; a speaking scribe on their way before.

(I would like to note, although nothing in the original cipher indicates this to be the case, I know full well that what they are trading me is lower than the sum I am owed; for that, I set unrealistically high prices that set their treasure-starved minds to racing. Often, through this simple act of manipulation, I am able to secure more than my initial, most realistic intended sum.)

The speaker (derogatory) will inform you of say what she has seen.

Howeve In short:

Orruks. Cruel. Followed our trail; shameful. A regiment of orcs and a thousand fat, rubbery grots against we twelve. Odds of survival: Nil.

(It is here I feel confident adding a flourish to the narrative, for although the secret code is blessedly brief, it communicates a tremendous amount of clearly embellished self-aggrandizement.)

The fat grots swarmed us, coveted our treasures. Only our weakest dared meet them in open combat, and of those, many survived.

(I suspect the number of slain will be itemized, with potentially an extra fatality to account for their cut.)

Our masters took to the shadows. We took to the shadows. We immersed ourselves in the dark and held our treasures where they could not reach. Then, slowly, we began to take their lives. Even their killing boss screamed in terror before his life was snuffed from him. From their rotten corpses, we took their own treasures as their few survivors fled screaming. Glory to the Great Gatherer!

(So there you have it, from his own lips. Out of respect for the speaker coming my way, a caste of Cabalite I truly pity, I will listen to her words rather than transcribing them; however, I am confident I have captured the most detailed version of this narrative currently available to me. If I am given a surprise, I will have to internalize it here.)

More later.

[ravenladycorvus]

Greetings, Lady Corvus! I must ask out of curiosity, what is you opinion on the current state of galactic poli-

She' distracted! Spring the trap!

Haha, now there's at least a dozen grots running around this imperial bastion. At least I hope they didn't die when the rok impacted.

She just smile as she went to get rid the grots with her power claws "that didn't actually work, I suggest you need to be being creative for once" She said

[chaos-snakeboi-journal]

War Journal: Salvation Of The Prime Dominions Entry #2

Third day of the war. I have had time to gather my bearings and I feel a more comprehensive telling of the day's events are in order.

The first wave of devastation was horrific and all-encompassing. I am, of course, used to a degree of violence, but when a dream of eternities of slaughter becomes a nightmare sprawling out before you, it is plain to see how some devotees of the gods fully lose their minds and souls. I watched from a position in the Colosseum as neighboring cities were evacuated, and unlucky souls were either set upon by surprise or – for some truly lost souls – sent away as a diversion to save the rest. When the harbingers of destruction arrived at the gates of the arena, whole gangs in my employ – men with with reputations of steel and strength – were cut to ribbons or beaten to death until only gore remained.

All this, of course, is within acceptable parameters of loss and expenditure. But the wholesale slaughter sank in the pit of my stomach; a grim foreboding that things will only get worse from here.

My own brush with death came at a recent crossroads. While working to secure the treasures of a ruined armory in the Colosseum, a group of Corvus Cabal in my employ – tasked with keeping me safe while I personally evaluated the bounty – were ambushed. Having worked with this branch of the Cabal before, I knew them to be far and away from easy to ambush. Yet the coming of a great company of hideous little grots took us all by surprise, and they seemed as shocked as we.

In the bloodbath that followed, the Corvus assassins took the lives of a dozen of their number, leaving them decimated. Fleeing the battle, though, one of their ungodly number could not resist the spiteful urge to hurl one last crude insult our way, in the form of one of its rudimentary explosives. The blast would have taken me to the Realm of Chaos for certain had it not been for the sacrifice of a young cabalist. The crude metal shredded him open like a blood-boiling curse of the Red God, and I saw in his eyes that he resented me. Hated me, even. The life faded out of him as he stared into my eyes, white into black, and could not even draw the satisfaction of a change of expression from me.

For the furtherance of my goals here – and for the grim specter of morale – I intend to fund the funeral expenses of the angry young cabalist and a few others who fell in the battle defending my life. I awarded the survivors with their pick of the remains and had the rest bundled and shipped back to the quarry for processing and distribution.

In two short days I'll be executing a titanic operation within the Colosseum that will see a slaughter worthy of the gods. I hope it is here that we provide a devastating blow to Mogrek in these critical early stages of the war. Although the security of the Colosseum may not be an “essential” tactical victory, the symbolic gesture of the act could be enough to send second thoughts down the core of Mogrek's forces. Even the muscle-corded horrors of Gorkamorka know fear and weakness. More later.