The exiled god watches helplessly as his armies advance. Goblins wade through a quagmire, the tribal colours on their armour indistinguishable beneath layers of mud. Three quarters of the goblins who converged on this plain now lie dead, and still no tribe has emerged as victor.

The goblins withdraw to their camps after a day of fighting. Bandos roams the camps with flicks of his pool, desperately searching for some way he can affect events.

He freezes. A goblin runt, who would not be fit to live in Bandos's empire, is looking directly at him. Could it be that this wretch is spiritually sensitive enough to see through Guthix's barrier?

'Goblin!' Bandos shouts at the pool. 'I am your god! Acknowledge me!' The goblin falls to his knees. Bandos claps his hand together eagerly. 'Listen to me, goblin! I will make you my prophet! You are to tell your leaders to stop fighting, and give them this message...'