General Griff Gru'Hal looked over the street he had recently conquered; the single avenue in a city that was supposedly filling with many of his kin, who's aim was solely to take what land they could and declare themselves the new masters. Ettermire had proved a difficult place, with darkened alleyways and factories that billowed too much smoke. It was something that the underground-dwelling kobold race had not been expecting, nor been used to, when their king - Hodekin the Desirous - had bestowed unto them the glory of his great, ambitious plan. Gru'Hal could remember the words of the king being spoken as if it were only yesterday, and not a month ago of a dark, other world ...

"We are going above," the gnarled voice of the kobold king finally spoke; deep and unchanging, a tone that was marvellous to every ear hole in that vicinity. Eyes suddenly lifted from the floor - six and twenty pairs to be precise - that affixed on their ultimate lord. No words, or gasps rang out, only gazes dedicated to obey every word that he said.

"We are going above," he repeated, "To conquer what was long denied to us. To take what is ours. We are going ... to conquer the surface."

Gru'Hal had been given a group of thirty fine, multi-hued warriors, their scaled, reptilian bodies ranging from a murky khaki to a bold sapphire. He himself was of emerald design, and hoisted a cutlass to his possession. Others in his troupe had crossbows (ten of them), some had wicked spears (a further ten) and some crooked swords (the remaining ten). They gave him their full attention and fealty, acting on his words when they had first come out of the sewers, and found an empty street with a loud, raucous pub.

That street he had decided not to begin his attack upon. Instead, after a well-deserved drink for himself and his thirty comrades (after all, gaining to the surface from the world of below, and adjusting to the brightness of the sky of the above was tremendously arduous), he had set them on discovering somewhere more sufficient to declare an invasion upon. Now they understood more of the town - information having been gleaned from the pub's occupants at the time - and they had found a place with one of these factories. Quickly, and with raised voices, the kobolds had taken it, establishing Gru'Hal as the leader of their sublime new tiny empire.

Swiftly had the rumours flown, on wings of nervous disposition. They had reached the ears of the city guard, who had come, but whom Gru'Hal had shaken his head, telling them of what Hodekin desired. Various foul words had been tossed either side, and barricades had been built. Now the general stood on the flat roof of his factory, overlooking what had become of his kingdom, and wondering if they should have striven to take more. He stared out, longing to hear if any other generals had been successful in their quest, and meanwhile held out.

He tapped his clawed foot lightly on the stonework beneath him and huffed a few times as he folded his arms. He could see the newest contingent of city guard approaching his hastily made wall, where five of his greatest warriors stood. No death had come yet between him and the guards, but Gru'Hal honestly knew it was only time. Oh yes, he had let the dark elves go who had been working in this factory - well the ones who wanted to. Others had told him something about, "needing money," whatever money was, and he had let them stay. Though they seemed like hostages, he was firm to let it be known that they were not. All he wanted, after all, was for the people of this city to know that soon Hodekin would arise from the sewers himself and come to claim the land.

The land that had once been their own.

"Gru'Hal, Mister General sir!"

Grunting, Gru'Hal tilted down his crocodilian head to angle an ear hole behind and down, but he never removed his eyes from the approaching guard. What was curious, was that some of them were not dressed in the livery of the city. That was odd. What was more was that -

"Sir, a contingent of mixed race are ... coming sir. To parlay with you."

"To parlay?" Gru'Hal questioned, his hairless brow furrowing.

The small spear-kobold, called Harr'Gar, and who had now established himself as the messenger for Gru'Hal's small occupancy huffed. But nodded. "Yes sir ... a group of um ... them," a small blue hand poked into Gru'Hal's vision and flourished at the city guard (plus others) approaching. "They shouted something about ... you being reasonable?"

"Bah," Gru'Hal straightened again. "I am not reasonable. I am a kobold."

"Yes sir," Harr'Gar agreed, "But apparently we are the only invasion contingent who got drunk on their first night and um ... haven't killed anyone yet."