When she comes, first you hear a deep and rhythmic rumbling of thunder. Then, you hear a tinny wail that sends a tingle down your spine. A little closer and you see flashes of light glinting off black metal through a foggy film of crackling ozone and noxious fumes. Closer still, and you see a goblin channeling lightning from a magic rod. The current transmits directly into the impossibly loud metal instrument of the Death Metal Bard, strumming away furiously. The so called music is frightening in the basest sense, as much arousing as disturbing. Accompanying this show, you see a small army of goblins and hobs on black horses in black and crimson leather and spiky metal armor carrying clubs and swords and spears.
Then, she races ahead, the Death Metal Crow. The largest hob you've ever seen, covered from head to toe in black metal armor; a long, crimson, beak-like visor obscuring her face. She rides a beast thrice the size of a horse, with a scaly gray hide like a metal lizard covered in jewels, and a girthy horn longer than any man. She carries a metal compound bow as long as she is tall, and the metal string screeches and rends on each draw. Her metal bolts pierce the air, shrieking in absolute dissonance with the pounding music. Two massive blades protrude from both sides of her beast, the metal stained crimson from the fields of meat and blood left in their wake. It is said that at the end of battle, she draws these blades and effortlessly eviscerates every bit of dead meat into a single lump of pinkish pudding.
When total annihilation is not her aim, instead she sends her elites, the Crows. They are goblins and hobs, the most highly trained redcaps, greencaps, and blackcaps. They wear black leather outfits and spiked bracelets and plague masks, and wield metal claws on their hands and feet. They silently leap along trees and rooftops and glide from kites. Some have had their bones hollowed and granted true flight from gryphon wings grafted to their backs. Quietly and efficiently, they eliminate or remove anyone not on the guest list. When all is in place, the remainder of her elites, the Mosh, crash down from the sky, launched from blackcap rockets strapped to their backs. Heavy metal wings serve to adjust an unstable trajectory, shield from explosive detritus, and buffer their landing. They toss glass bottles of explosive and noxious black liquids, of gold-colored dust producing blinding flashes of rainbow or white light, and pulsing black boxes filled with metal discs encoded with the music of the Death Metal Bard. In this violent pit of sounds and sights, and smells and tastes, they slam and slash and shoot until no foe is left standing. With the remaining witnesses, those not on the guest list, stunned or otherwise overloaded and deprived of their senses, the Crows methodically and with extraordinary speed gather their belongings, cleanse all evidence, and exit stage left. If you were fortunate enough to be left off the guest list, you will come to with ringing ears, a pounding headache, a few bruises, and scattered memories.