In the oldest, sickest hearts of the great forests, where the trees grow in spirals and nothing sings, the herds find jabberslythes. No two accounts of the creature agree, because no witness stays sane: something of a toad, something of a wasp, something of a drake, wings droning, too many eyes weeping, its whole shape a sentence the mind refuses to finish. To look upon a jabberslythe squarely is to laugh, and keep laughing, and never come back.
The beastmen do not command jabberslythes — they aim them. Bray-shamans goad the creatures out of their sump-hollows with fire and screamed omens, then loose them at the enemy like a plague let out of a jar. Arrows are worse than useless, for the thing's blood sprays like boiling vitriol, eating through mail and the arm beneath it. When the battle ends, the herd simply leaves; the jabberslythe stays wherever it has settled, and the forest around it begins to go wrong.
Order of battle
