Gram decided on behalf of the other goblins that they would fight.
But the outcome was apparent from the start.
Even with that odd pressure around Gram's spear that somehow allowed him to slice through the elves' armor like butter, and even with them outnumbering the elves two to one, they never stood a chance.
In less than half an hour, Morne lay on the ground, broken and bleeding, his halberd lost in the battle and his armor covered in a mismatched pattern of spear holes that oozed blood.
He panted heavily, bleary, pain-dulled eyes gazing up at the sky listlessly. He was one of the lucky few to survive the wholesale slaughter wrought by the elves, along with Gram, Essenla, and three other goblins.
His undead had been destroyed, his Chimh had been exhausted, and his limbs bled so much red that his white armor had been dyed completely crimson, and yet the elves had won.
From beginning to end, the elves had toyed with them.
