Blood drenched, his crows circling the red heavens above him, he stood against the war mad goblins. Their squealing grunts, like hellish laughter, intensified as they prepared another charge. War weary, he shifted his spear, ready to fight these unmastered monsters. Long ago, the stories claim, these things had been bred for war and made to march in troupes with ranks and uniforms. They had conquered the world, but not themselves. They would fight; there was nothing else they could do, and if they fought to build an empire, they saw no reason against fighting to tear it down. The fighting was the thing, and they were not made for peace. Now the decayed remnants lingered. No language remained beyond simple commands, and no clothes nor weapons beyond what they could scavenge off of their victims. Some were still seen carrying pistols and rifles, but these rusted appendixes were never used beyond a seeming remnant of authority, kept and hoarded as prizes by the biggest brutes, stuffed into belts but never drawn in a fight.
Above, the crows cawed, and the warrior whipped his spear into the face of one and then another and then another, of the charge. The blood made them roar, and soon enough, the unwounded ones in the rear attacked the wounded in the lead, cannibalizing their own with smacking lips and gore splattering belches.
Thus another wave ended as all the waves before.
Tale Told 