Snow White Hills Blood Bowl Chronicles

Their war cries came to us first; shrieking calls and piercing whistles mixed with the baying of wolves echoed over the ridge. We smelled them next, their stench carried on the foul winds that blew from their steppe homelands far to the east. A gaunt lone figure came over the rise, mounted on a massive wolf. He paused at the crest of the hill to stare down at us for a time. Finally, he raised a horn to his lips, sounded one echoing blast, and then charged our lines without hesitation. When his mount had loped perhaps a dozen paces in our direction, his troops flowed over the horizon like a wave. Their battle line stretched as far as I could see in both directions. Hundreds of Hobgoblins riding hundreds of wolves. They fired arrows as they came and such was their skill that far too many found their mark even though they raced forward over uneven ground as they shot. I have stood against many foes, but few as fell as the Hobgoblin troops of Zhorag Khan.: — Otmar Essel, Kislevite Warrior