Warlord Quoff of Clan Slavish surveyed the valley before him; some kind of human shrine building off to his left, a wooded area to the right, and a path in the centre up to the hilly area ahead of him. It seemed horribly familiar. That was it! He'd faced the Orcs here all too recently when travelling in opposite direction. He was lost.
Without warning, Wayl, his weasley lieutenant, cried aloud and pointed across the valley. Before he knew it the Ogres had closed to within charging distance of his slave packs and the jezzails on the right were obliterated by cannon fire. On the left flank, the jezzail team made a beeline for the chapel, in the centre the slaves side-stepped to reveal more of the warpstone weapons (which unloaded into the tusked mammoth) and the main bulk of the party moved cautiously down the hill towards the Ogres.
The enraged mammoth, not happy about being shot at, charged and broke the slaves on the left flank, causing the nearby jezzail teams to panic and flee the field. Thankfully, the cannon and winds of magic favoured the skaven at this moment and, save slaughtering a couple of slaves, did nothing.
The Ogres backed up. The slaves edged forwards. The Ogres backed up. This couldn't continue for long as the Ogres were being pressed back up the hill.
Meanwhile on the left flank, jezzail fire came from the building. At the same time, the mammoth squealed in pain and the jezzail team ran from the building, clothes ablaze. It was not going well.
The Ogres, realising they were cornered, now chose to charge with all they had. It was over in short order, a counter charge by the slaves on the right flank doing too little too late to turn the tide of fortune in favour of the Skaven.
After hiding amongst the numerous bodies of fallen slaves, Quoff, with Wayl following closely behind, skulked off into the woods and licked his wounds. Today had proved most costly. He had never much liked being above ground.
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