With the lion's share of the killing done beyond the Bastion, one exalted bloodthirst marches his army deeper into Cathay. As corn expands towards the mountains, traipsing across desert and past warpstone curiosities, they discover something ravenous. The most powerful and brutal of corn's warriors, exalted bloodthirsters live only to end lives and harvest skulls. Bloted things rustle the trees, barely contained grunts echo through the hills, and more than one whispered argument finds up bloodthirster sharp ears. He pulls his army to a halt, ready and eager for a battle to please the god of murder, though perhaps too eager. The minions of corn have wandered into the mountains of Maun, the rightful, hard-earned homeland of the ogre kingdoms. The coming conflict between demon and ogre may have been avoided if not for the dim-witted instincts of a trigger-happy nobler. Witnessing the premature firing of the scrap launch arouses the thuggish instincts of the poorly concealed ogres, who lose all semblance of order and descend upon the demons, largely mistaking them for edible man things. Scrags the slaughterer is the insane leader of this rabble, who styled themselves the disciples of the moor. He drags behind him a massive meatpot and is seldom far from a rabble of gorgeous. His followers revere him as the legendary prophet of the great moor. It is the exalted bloodthirsters grave misfortune to have ventured so close to these creatures deity, and Scrags are ending delight to have fresh meat for his part. Noblers are perfect cannon fodder and even better distractions. Some wear saucepans on their heads because safety's important. Alas, there's no saucepan large enough to save something so fragile from a marauding chaos warrior. Noblers litter the ground and corny lates, but not for long. Ogre bulls charge into the fray, pinning the chaos warriors on both sides in a rare display of tactical brilliance. Scrags doesn't remember telling his forces to flank the enemy, and honestly, he's already forgotten it happened. He casts the moor because he enjoys the sight of impaled flesh squirming on pointy rocks. On the outskirts of the battle, mourn fan cavalry have been fighting their time, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. With the exalted bloodthirster distracted by the giant, the cavalry set their sights on a flagging blood reaper and valiantly charge into battle, only for their prey to be snatched away by a fire bellies flame storm. More corn eight forces weighed into the conflict. These twisted creatures are harbourages of death, beings of pure hatred designed to do but one thing. Wage total war. The battle is souring for the moor prophet. Corn eight swords sing with Ogre death as the more disciplined of the two armies recovers from the shock of the initial attack. Driven back and on the defensive, Scrag has one last trick up his sleeve. He casts troll guts on himself, which does wonders for his own survivability but little to benefit his twinkling army. Scrags true ace in the hole. A rampaging stonehorn and a fresh wave of trusty gorgeous are more than enough to even the odds. For what Scrag thus lauter around his Ogre kin lack in tactical prowess, they more than make up for in group strength and more power. Their home as hardy and intimidating as they themselves may prove to be quite the undertaking for the demons of chaos. There is, after all, a reason Cather and Kieslev both venomously avoid venturing too deeply into the mountains of moor.