Hobgrot Assassins

Life is brutal in the Khrobghazid, the hobgoblin camps that sit clustered around the ziggurats of the Kol-Dawi. Even after thousands of years, hobgrot society still clings to the fallacy that theirs is a nomadic warrior culture. They do not build structures, but throw up ragged tents of bone, fur, and cloth, and their duardin masters permit them to keep herds of scrawny beasts. The descendents of the khagans of old still bear that title, boasting of their lineage from waggon tents resting on broken axles, wheels rotted to dust and rusted iron. Even those duardin tasked with overseeing and liaising with the hobgrots make no effort to remember the names of the khagan, for their thrones are hollow and their commands of no consequence.

The true power in the camps are the gang leaders who rise through deceit and cunning. Very often they are veterans of service in the legions, scarred and grizzled with retinues of hardened killers under them. While the Khagans bleat, the gang leaders plot, steal supplies, and assassinate rival warlords. Shadowy wars over influence rage daily in the camps, turning up dozens of corpses who fell victim to byzantine politicking. While the Kol-Dawi would be right to crack down on this warring, they often turn a blind eye, or even assist the machinations of one gang lord or another, for they turn out excellent operatives who are practised in the arts of concealment and death.

Many are the tales among the foes of the Kol-Dawi of mighty heroes struck down at the very worst moment. Mages blasting scores of lowly grots to steam suddenly find a knife buried in their ribs with no apparent assailant. From a rabble of unwashed grots, one unassuming figure will detach itself, lurking at the periphery of sight for the right moment to send a spinning dart into the neck of a champion, before melting back into the crowd. When a line is wavering, a single hobgrot can make all the difference between a herald turning the tide of battle and an army fleeing as their hero is struck down seemingly by shadow itself. Truly, it is testament to the terror instilled in the hobrots that the Sorcerer-Prophets do not find themselves prey to a similar fate, their life bleeding out as a hobgrot slave pockets a knife and dashes away unnoticed among the rest of their kind.