fredag den 4. marts 2011
Son of Hawktooth smashed his armored fist into the goblin's face, sending it sprawling back to the mud. Its fellows gibbered and screeched in their strange, high-pitched tongue, jumping on the spot and brandishing their shoddy array of crude maces, rusty knives and small, pointy sticks.
One of the small, grey creatures raised a sturdy-looking stick and, as it uttered a word of power, a flash of lightning arched from its schorched tip to the ground scarcely a yard away from Son of Hawktooth's feet. That gave him some pause.
'Go-leave now-now,' the spellcaster screeched. 'Dog-man flee-run quick-fast or we kill-stab!'