Wizza is visited by Gork & Mork and by Snotlings

The moonlight gazed despondently upon the Orc camp of Grog Tooftayka, its shafts of light picking out the slumbering bodies of orc and goblin.  Yet there was another group of goblinoids that had been overlooked.  Tiny in size to an Orc, they scampered around the camp, eating the scraps to small to feed the camps carnivorous riding mounts.  They were the Snotlings, and they were becoming... what?

Wizza tossed and turned inside his tent, his dreams broken by the shouts of Mork and Gork as they attempted to intrude upon his dreamscape.  After what seemed a life time Wizza finally gave up, stop moving and mentally screamed at his gods to “shut ya gobs and start again”.

“Wizza, king of the goblins....” spoke Mork.

“Whys he not grovelling Mork?  That’s wot all dem uvvers do when we’z talk ta dem.  Why’z dis un diff’rent?” interjected Gork in puzzlement and dismay.

“I’z memba when a god spoke dem bugga’s listened and grovelled.  It waz kool!”

Mork looked at Gork and said “Kool? Wot ya git words like dem from?  Oh itz dem new skooled greenies ain’t it?  I told ya, listen to dem Snotlings and ya brain, what little der is, will rot.”

Wizza sighed and switched of his contact with his gods.  It was no use now, the pair of them will be having a metaphysical conversation over the dynamics of interplanar conjunctions before they realised that had been talking to him.  But where did those big words come from he pondered?

Yet for all the interruption the gods did mention the Snotlings.  What did this portent?  Not knowing what to make of it he picked up his sleeping club, and applied a vigorous clout to the side of his head and promptly fell asleep.

Morning saw Wizza cradling his head and swearing that the cure was worse than the symptom a lack of sleep.  The noise coming from outside his tent was growing as was the irate shouting that was clearly coming from Grog.  Getting unsteadily to his feet, and grabbing his staff he hobbled outside into the dazzling light.

Tiny voices were raised in a tune, which had no tune and with lyrics that made little rhythmic sense.

“Wez is Snotlings, cowardly true
Wez come to battle coz you blew dat cow horn
Wez can fight, don’t ya worry
Wez be dead and ya won’t be sorry!”

There arraying in what the Snotling thought were ranks but in all honesty were just clumps of them clustered around one of their number that seemed to know what he knew.

Oh gods thought Wizza, they organised themselves into a union!

What will this mean for the battle prospects of Grog Tooftayka, who knows but stay tuned!