The Events of the Battle of the Oasis
“Let it be known that I, Grubfoot’Mak, have set down this account not for flattery,
but so that the blood-price paid in the fields may be remembered.
If there be any errors, may the reader pardon them and pray for the soul of the scribe.”
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In the day of the Battle of the Oasis, when the marshes still whispered of giants and the sun set red above the flooded lands, there came forth the Urukim — grim of jaw, daemonsteel-clad, and bound by honor. It was then that the Battle of the Oasis was joined.
It was seen that when they marched, the pond curdled, and the wind grew and took on the stink of boiled bone. At their front strode Torosh’Mak as war drums beat and the ground was shook. Then the winds began to howl, and amid that wind came ringing. A great, metallic chorus, like hammers on hollow bone, drowning out the war-drums, the breathing of beasts, even the voice of command. All was silence — save for the sound of metal and the rattling of links.
From the mirage, they came: the undead. Figures without step, gliding lifelessly above the earth, clad in crimson so deep it swallowed all light. Each moved as if hung by invisible cords, heads lolling, but all wearing the same awful grin, and from every mouth a childlike laughter of a thousand mouths.
The Urukim battle cry split the sound of ringing and laughter The asunder: "To death, to stargush’stroh!"
Opposing them stood the Mournful-Puppets. At first, the Urukim did what they knew best — they charged. With iron howls and axes like crescent moons, they tore into the red-clad apparitions with the fury of a storm unchained. Steel bit spectre, and some did fall — their forms unraveling like smoke in a gale, laughter dying on their lips.
But not all.
There were those who did not fall at all — who seemed not to know death, nor to recognize pain. Then behind the Urukim came a roaring noise, as a much larger figure would begin to trudge through the sands. The Lich — a towering mass, devoid of fear, and untouched by pain. The Urukim battled it bravely, breaking its bones and nearly severing its limbs, yet it gave no sign of suffering. It knew no agony, no hesitation. And through its ruinous frame, it unleashed spellcraft foul and ancient. The assault continued and an arm fell first. It stood still for a moment before it de-manifested with a violent burst.
The Red Puppets had multiplied beyond count, their numbers now stretching like a living tide across the sands, outnumbering the Urukim by thousands. Yet the war-born did not falter. With a bellow that shook the dust from the dunes, they regrouped and hurled themselves once more into the crimson sea. Blades rose and fell like scythes in harvest, and the puppets fell in droves — lifeless forms cut down like brittle reeds. But for every one that was slain, three more stepped forth, summoned as if by the very act of death. And as if called by blood itself, three new Lich’s emerged, their presence chilling even the most hardened of warriors, but not the Urukim, their stoic determination carrying them forth. The more they slew, the more the horde grew. And so the Urukim carved a path through an endless wound, knowing not if it bled victory — or despair.
Then came the order
Torosh’Mak, cast his gaze upon the chain. Though the field was littered with the husks of a thousand foes, the chain itself bore no mark, no fracture, no wound. It remained whole — untouched by steel, unmoved by fire. Torosh’Mak let out a roar of frustration
“Start falling back! We can nub destroy it! Follow me!”
The Urukim obeyed, for his voice was iron. The Targoth turned not his back but fought as he withdrew, cleaving through the red tide with axe and fury, every step a defiance, every blow a vow. Around him, the warriors of Krug began a fighting retreat — not in rout, but in grim order, backs never turned to the enemy, eyes fixed on the nightmare that would not die.
And so the Battle of the Oasis came to its end — not with triumph, nor with ruin, but with retreat beneath a sun that no longer felt warm. The sands were soaked with mist, and the chain still hung — untouched, unbroken, unyielding.
The Red Mass did not pursue. They simply watched, their laughter echoing long after the last Urukim had vanished beyond the dunes.
Around cracked maps and scorched banners, the war-born and the wise now gathered.
How was such a foe to be slain? How long until the chain called again, dragging new armies into the same bloodshed?
None could answer. But all knew one truth: the war had only just begun.
