u/Weird-Bug3278

Decades ago, there was a loner grot who left the ice-fishers’ village in pursuit of somethin’ so utterly un-grot-like that the old ones who remember him still spit in the mud at the mention of his name.

They call him Norn Da Lovestruck Git.

After consumin’ a particularly potent madcap brew, Norn wandered into the lair of an old Arachnarok and promptly passed out amongst an uncountable heap of spider eggs. When the old spider woke from its century-long sleep, the stink of the lair had soaked deep into the grot’s flesh. The old beast took one look at him and, somehow, recognized him as kin. When Norn awoke, still dizzy from the brew, he found himself surrounded by a multitude of terrible eyes. And somethin’ inside him snapped. When worldly hunger finally broke through his cracked mind, he made his way back to the village. But upon comin’ back, a longing for his goddess overcame him. What he wouldn’t give to peer into them eyes again.

He never found his way back to the lair.

To this day he wanders through the swamp, more and more embracin’ his inner spider. He really is a poor sight to peer upon. In his old age he still searches for that spider goddess of his, though whether that lair ever really existed, he himself is more and more unsure of. Yet he wanders the swamp lookin’ for her.

In light of recent movie releases, a spidergrot had to join the ranks!

"Sire! There's devilry afoot at the shooting range! The recruits sent word - some eight-legged horror's makin' a feast of 'em!"

"Eight legs, you say?" The old king shoved himself upright with a grunt. "Fetch me my armor, my sword... and the strongest ale left in the cellar. If it's what I reckon, that skitterin' she-devil can only be Granny Eight-Legs."

He spat into the dirt.

"Blast those swamp-born grots. How in the nine muddy hells did those half-witted bog-crawlers manage to coax her outta her lair? Ain't enough they smell like wet corpses-they've gone and unleashed a nightmare on my recruits!"

He strapped on his dented breastplate, tipped the drinking horn back until ale ran down his beard, let out a thunderous belch, and finally sighed.

"Well... reckon somebody's gotta go tell that overgrown spider she's trespassin'. Might as well be me."

In his prime, he was the spiteful brain behind the infamous victory by bow strategy on the battlefield of Agingrot, his greatest triumph in life, a clutch victory where his cruel and spiteful tactics left the mire clogged red with the dead, pierced by grot arrows. Nowadays, he’s just an old grump: mean, bitter, and foul-tempered even by grot standards. He wanders the swamps as a bog merchant, hauling Walleyes fungus brews to the mad lads beyond the vast mire. Not that he’d ever call them “mad lads” to their faces (Did that once, and that long-legged, loony guildmaster still sends his minions into the mire looking for Ol’ Erpsnik). When he’s back in the village, he can often be found staring across the endless boglands for hours on end, squinting through the fog as if measuring distances only he can see. Folks reckon he’s still plotting the perfect archer ambush, calculating kill zones, firing lines, and where the enemy will drown once the panic sets in. Squint-Eye Erpsnik joins the forces one last time as a Loonboss, leading a bunch of grot archers into battle.

There ain’t much land-bound wildlife in the marshes. What little there is usually flies off, and that ain’t much good for short grot legs. So the Eggshell Raiders took to a different trade, finding nests of them prehistoric, cursed-lookin’ beasts what darken the already miserable swamp skies, then robbin’ ’em blind for their eggs whenever the mama ain’t around.

The whole pack of plunderin’ misfits is led by Perchit, alongside his trusty troggoth, Cod Forward. Fillin’ out the five-finger fist of green doom are Loph, Eelgrin, and the Flounder Brothers. Such a fun hobby project, to all you Bad Moon appreciators out there, I’d definitely recommend picking them up!

His slick eyes spot prey from far off. His bow skills are what got Perchit interested in the eerie-lookin’ grot. Overgrown with mushrooms, never speaks, only grins. He talks through Crabscab, his loyal familiar, a spiderfang grot that’s always skulkin’ nearby. Out on the hunt with the Eggshell Raiders, Crabscab helps him dip his arrows in poisonous muck, what’s always followed up by some serious shootin’.

The most impressive catches require serious bait. Loph understands this well, and is often seen wandering deserted battlefields, collecting what remains of the freshly fallen. Though he carries a truly unbearable stench, Perchit trusts Loph’s skill, few can lure even the more cunning beasts into a trap as effectively as he can. When traveling with the Eggshell Raiders, the rest of the squad keeps their distance. Even the dullest grot nose struggles to endure the foul reek that seeps constantly from Loph’s bait sack.

Whenever a mission calls for some infiltratin’, Perchit brings along the Flounder Brothers. Once, they hid the entire Eggshell Raiders squad inside the corpse of a demon toad, sending a whole bunch of Fellwaters wobbling for the hills. The two are some nasty-looking grots, hard to be around, but they do bring some unique skills to the team...