In the dark, dank depths of the caverns sprawling like a spider’s web under Gielinor sits a King. King Snagwort sits hunched over in deep thought as the flickering light of a roaring bonfire picks out the scar stretching from his chin to just below his eye with a red hue. He wears this scar with pride.

　　Behind the throne a shadowy creature squats, rubbing its hands together in nervous excitement it occasionally leans forward to whisper in the King’s ear and point upwards. Although this creature started off as a goblin, the devious malice that is evident in its eyes gives the impression it is more akin to a demon than goblinkind. Around the neck of this creature is a piece of string on which hangs a delicate gold medallion picturing the Sun. This medallion identifies the wearer as the High Priest of the Goblin Sun Cult who are dedicated to bringing the goblin hordes back into the light.

　　The years of tunnel dwelling have weighed heavily on Snagwort, the supply of fresh cow meat from the surface has been waning and he hasn’t tasted mutton in so long, he can’t remember if his memories of eating it were real. The constant whispering of the High Priest during these long years have generated dreams in Snagwort’s mind of a banquet befitting Bandos waiting on the surface. Closing his eyes he sees it now, goblins feasting on the carcasses of their fallen foes while plunder is piled high. Snagwort stands.“Bring my generals” he bellows, “we are preparing for WAR!”

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