#Grim dawn eye of reckoning Patch#

To the left, the path dropped off into a steep-sided gully beyond rose the grim, imposing bulk of the mountain that the humans called Wyvern’s Reach. Here the goat-path ran beneath a jutting overhang of granite as heavy and imposing as an orcish brow, creating a shadowy shelf that was littered with piles of dusty stones. Now, with the sun starting to slip toward the peaks to the west, the mob had finally reached Bagrash’s favorite hunting spot. They had been working their way up the stony crag all morning, pausing only to push fallen boulders out of the way or squabble over the marching order, which took place every few minutes or so. It was either that or have their heads driven between their shoulders like tent-pegs.

Bagrash was “gonna get dat poisonwing wot stuck -‘im”, no matter how long it took, and his boyz followed his lead. And so, day in and day out, he’d lumber out of his lair in the caves at the foot of the mountains and drag his boyz up the goat-paths to the highest peak they could reach, hunting for wyverns.

#Grim dawn eye of reckoning Patch#

The mob didn’t have a fresh skull, a shiny piece of tin or a decent patch of dried gore between them, but the Black Orc boss didn’t seem to notice, or care.Īll that mattered to Bagrash these days was revenge. It had been a long, long time – weeks, maybe even a whole month – since Bagrash had gone looking for a proper fight. Not that there was much to loot off Runtchucka’s boyz these days. There were more goblins than orcs in Runtchucka’s mob these days, and they swarmed around the boyz heels like rats whispering and hissing, plotting and scheming, looking for a shiny to steel or an eye to stick a knife in. “Smell ‘em, I do! Down in the cracks and the hollows! Leather an’ iron and black powder! Stunties are comin’!” His breath misted in the frosty air, wheezing past his jagged fangs like a broken whistle. Beady-eyed, yellow-tusked heads turned at the sound of the goblin’s approach, and clawed hands the size of platters swung idly at Gutslitta as he dashed by, but the runt ducked and dodged his way past each crushing blow. But run the goblin did, his flat feet flapping on the stone goat-path and his long ears bent back against his knobby green head as he raced up the steep slope past Runtchucka’s lumbering boyz. The snaggle-toothed goblin they called Gutslitta didn’t look like he could stand upright in the howling wind coming down off the mountains around Black Crag, much less run. In Bagrash Runtchucka’s mob you didn’t have to be fast – just faster than the other git.