Sigil: City of Doors

Daglaedh Arnakh'kon of the Weeping Wound tribe, Warshaman, dreamed. And as is often the case of dreamers who have, shall we say, more then mortal support in their endeavors, that dream resulted in a sundering of self. The physical form of the Warshaman simply lay atop a dais, cloak of displacer beast hide wrapped about his form and separating his skin from the sacrificial blood staining the stone, while harsh insence filled the chamber of communion, nearly enough to mask the scents of death and fear, not to mention the incipient corruption of the three corpses dangling from the wall. What they had been, how they had found themselves in this particularly deep and cast-off portion of Undersigil, were unknown. Now, their purpose complete, they were but meat, and tinder for the fire of the Warshaman's dreams. Lesser shamans chanted, the cadence of words in the harsh goblin tongue seeming to give their holy speech a martial air, their reddish skins seeming to shine in the firelight. But their master... he lay quietly, face hidden behind his mask of bone, what once had been the skull of a minotaur lending him an almost demonic visage.

But it is not the physical shell of the greatest priest of the Hobgoblin race within the Cage that concerns this tale. It is rather the essence of his spirit, which by a combination of power and will, and the portal which stands in this same chamber, and is the reason for the Weeping Wound to call these desolate depths home. A portal to the Acherian realm of Clangor, within which the Warshaman's spirit kneels. But not by the portal or within one of the many city-sized barracks, rather within a cavern with walls of damp steel, the sound of a mighty waterfall almost overwhelming in its deafening descent. Before a throne of iron, upon which is seated a massively muscled being, the shape of its ears and brow marking it as goblinkin while its skin of of unrelieved black, chiseled form, and dagger-sharp claws mark it as something much more. Crimson flames kindle where eyes would be as it speaks, the words conveyed less as sound than as the roar of the waterfall given life.

"So the one-eyed fool has designs on Sigil now, does he?" The thunderous roar gives voice, the harsh words of goblinkind seeming as cultured and nuanced as any elven speech coming as they do from this sublime creature.

"The bugbears who guard our perimeter have made contact with this horde, mighty Lord of Depths and Darkness. Without a doubt, troops from Rotting Eye and Three Fang are mixed within the Sigilian and Prime pig-beasts." The Warshaman's voice would seem powerful, a tone used to command, in any other setting. Here... just another minion, one of many. "They have managed to subjugate or frighten the kobold and gnolls, while the human scum seem drawn to their childish dogma. Even the factions seem to stand in abeyance before them."

"Then the chance exists for the Weeping Wound to know greatness, and you to speak with my voice. The Worg Chain and Withered Arm tribes, I give to you. Your intellect is your greatest weapon against the swine; find out what One-Eye's plans for Sigil are... and turn his dreams to nightmare."

As Daglaedh awakes, the words still ringing in his ears, the portal opens with a snap, disgorging the first Hobgobln phalanx in armor of Black, badges of a spiked chain upon their tabards, accompanied by their dark-cloaked Goblin scouts and Skirmishers. A calculating smile crossed the thin lips poking from beneath the minotaur-skull mask.

And in a dripping steel cavern deep within a massive hurtling cube, as captured elves are hurtled screaming from atop the thousand-foot waterfall in sacrifice before the coming endeavor, Maglubiyet laughs.

In a secluded room, three figures stand around a large table. On that table is a accurate representation of the sewers, including UnderSigil Village, as well as newly crafted and existing old tunnels beneath that. Large figurines are stationed at different points in the maps, not to mention their large numbers. The Harmonium would kill for such a detailed mapping of the underground complex that lies beneath the feet of Sigil.

Finally one speaks in a low deep voice as he pushes a figure closer to Undersigil and takes another off the table, "It's just as you predicted. The orcs of the Red Hand have many resources to call on when they feel threatened. Our spies have confirmed what we though, it seems a faction is interested in their success as well. We will have to give our spies more time to find out which one, but yes, the evidence is there."

Another one chimes in "Then, we must deal with this faction. They must not be allowed to hinder our Lord's wishes. Find this faction and delay them, do what you must! This village belong to us, not some stinkin orcs!" He picks up a very large figurine, larger than the rest and this one is covered in the green paint with a red dot. "Yes, this Chieftain is just as strong as i thought. And a mage among them as well! Even though, this female orc that looks like an elf is interesting as well." He puts the large figurine down and surveys the map.

The third figure remains quiet and uses his hand to move several of the figurines closer to underSigil and parks one at the entrance. "We start soon. Let the orcs tremble before the might of hobgoblins. We have seen what we needed to see, as it was fortold." He looks to one of the other figures and nods his head. "You may begin your campaign"

The other figure looks around to the other two before grunting. He pivots in place and marches out the room shouting, his call echoing throughout the underground city. The hobgoblins, disciplined as ever rally. In only a few minutes, they pour out of their homes and lined up in predetermined squads, squads to battalions.

The Warleader grins as he barks his orders as he leads his troops through the tunnels. A vicious and unforgiving conflict is on the horizon, but can the orcs of the Red Hand fend it off? The odds are indeed against them.