A fierce wind tore across the barren landscape of the Wastelands. Nothing had stirred in these parts for ages, not since the Great Arrival. It was then that they came, the outsiders, the beings who brought with them grand crafts of steal and machines to supply themselves with energy for their weapons and factories, all which created massive quantities of waste. This waste was carelessly discarded, blighting the land, scarring it forever, robbing the soil of life. Green fields were quickly reduced to dust. Herds of beasts migrated to more fertile soil, assuming they were healthy enough. All life had abandoned the land, and, when it had been drained of its resources, so did the outsiders.
Nothing stirred, save for the wind. It was as though the earth itself had died. But why, then, did the earth begin to move? Subtle, at first, but the tremors grew in ferocity. The ground parted way to the most wicked structures, spires of black, a dull surfaced point. They rose in large number, speckling the vast, empty expanse, reaching high, casting out a long shadow in the fading light. Little things cast shade since the sun had been torn in twine by the forces of Shadow and Aura, for, when the White Star was shining, it beamed a piercing light, one that left no shadow, illuminating the other side of the planet itself. Only beings of Chaos, foul and wicked things, stood in its path, keeping their shadow in the face of overwhelming brilliance.
The dull structures began to gleam in the fading rays as the Grim Star took control, slowly melting away. When twilight had come and passed, the thorns from the earth began to crack. Great fissures ripped through the towering constructs, fracturing into shards. Like an egg cracking, thick, fluid spilled forth from the breaks, black and viscous. Seemingly drawn back into the earth as mysteriously as they came to arrive, the pieces vanished, but, as each departed, each left something behind. A small creature, curled in a fetal position. Its body rotund and green, its arms and horns stubby, its tail and feet stout, a purple strip transversed its back. Opening its large, innocent eyes to the dark filled world, it studied its surrounds, finding the same spikes that had bore it abound, some just arriving, others crumbling, each one carrying one of its sisters.
They are the Thorn Goblins, beings of pure malice, contrary to their appearance. All of the toxins dumped into the planet, all of the darkness that was brought, all of the hatred that was created, all of it gathered deep in the planet. As a body ridding itself of infection, the planet expelled the refuse. However, the dark energies infused within had twisted the slag, warping it into these retched fiends. Little is known about them. They are elusive and rather shy, not carrying the malice of their brethren. Their bodies are covered with a scale of sorts. It more resembles short quills, but their shape and size can be adjusted at the creature’s will. If threatened, they can launch the spines from their form, spraying a wide area in pins, but only if fleeing had already been proven unsuccessful.
Although the devastation of the planet took place many years ago, the species is rather new. Some tribes still do not believe they are real, as no new life could just be spawned. Several have come, several have been transformed, but none have been created. Several war parties of avengers, those seeking to wipe the forces of Chaos from the planet, felt the peril outweighed chancing their being a lie. They had stormed the Wastelands since then in their path to purge, slaughtering by the thousands, as is their way. Although they boast success, they have never been able to show proof of their victories, as their bodies can never been found. Many warriors had sworn that the earth would drink the fallen ones, preventing secured evidence. They are quickly branded liars, as such is preposterous.