Meanwhile—before the missile hit.
The halfling soldiers were marching along, laughing loudly and telling crude jokes. Their banners flapped lazily in the morning sun. Thousands of them, all in armor, moved across the open plains in a chaotic but roaring force—confident, drunk with arrogance, and completely unaware of the danger ahead.
"Yeah!! We're heading straight for the dwarven capital! Let's crush those stubborn bastards!!"
"Their stronghold can't stop us! We have the numbers!!"
One soldier grinned wickedly, waving his spiked club in the air. "And after that—heh—we get to enjoy those slim little dwarf girls, right?!"
"Damn right!" another shouted, licking his lips.
"I heard their women look like teenagers—but with curves! Bwahahaha!! We'll line 'em up and take our turns!"
Loud, disgusting laughter echoed among the columns of troops.
"Don't kill the beauty, boys!" someone yelled. "Save them for the celebration!"
"Dwarven wine! Dwarven women! Dwarven riches! All ours!!"
