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  1. #1
    Rolling an 18 DrakonTheNightLord's Avatar
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    Da One Who Would be Boss. (A Ghazghkull Thraka story)

    This is my attempt to write a semi-serious 40k story of infamous Ork Warboss Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka, The original one can be seen here. However I've decided to continue writing it on 40kforums instead. Here it is. It goes without saying that I do hope you enjoy reading this, but I do acknowledge that I have some shortcomings in terms of writing. Like everyone, I'm learning and seeking to improve.

    One

    Mag awoke and with a painful grunt, turned over the patch of hard stone that he decided to call a bed for the night. Not that he could get any sleep, what with the tribe working well into the night to make ready for their annual sweep through Snakebite turf. The din of vehicles being hit really hard with hammers, choppas being forged, and the screams of the token Gretchin getting caught in some humorous 'accident' and being fired out of a cannon were noise enough, without the damn dreams.

    The damn dreams. Da damn gorkin' dreams.

    Verily, verily, I say unto you, Hereafter ye shall see heaven open, and the angels of Gork and Mork ascending and descending upon da Sons of da puny man.

    Why was he speaking posh, den? Wot are dose angels he was speaking about, who were da Sons of da puny man, eh?
    Why was he wearin' a sodding toga?
    Wat in da name of Gork and Mork is a toga?
    Bloody gork, a young green ain't supposed to tink so early in da mornin'.

    And with that Mag pushed himself up, wincing automatically as fully mended ribs held up his spry frame. He got hit by some git's choppa last night, nasty gash just down here, but you know wad dey say, you win some, you lose some.

    Lost in his thoughts, Mag nearly missed the blue squig which passed by his feet. With a gleeful stomp, the tiny squig-thing burst in electric-blue gore, painting the scrawny Ork with its vitals. Blue is a lucky color for da Orks. It was going to be a good day.

    Mag is born with the uncanny knack of being in place where significant events are about to unfold. Sure enough, a horn sounds across his tribe's - Da Goffs - camp. Picking up his choppa, he lopes off towards the rest of da boyz.

    Above him, the skies burned.

    ********


    Manlius cursed as his world stopped shaking. He stared at the great Urkian sky as yet more drop pods made their way to the surface.

    The fact that he could look at the sky from where he sat in his drop pod was not a good thing. The next troubling thing he realized was that he was still strapped to his seat, and he was lying on his back with his knees bent in a sitting position towards the gaping hole that stared at Manlius even as he stared back through it.

    Muttering yet more swear-words that would make even the Angel of Blood blink, Manlius' cursing reaches a crescendo as he realized that his landing craft was blasted out of the sky and had killed the rest of his squad with it. He had been lucky to survive. He...

    "FUCK"

    Was rightly quite angry.

    Tearing his seat belts off with his bare hands and yelling his wrath for all of Urk to hear, Battle-brother Manlius, 3rd Company, War Phantoms Space Marine Chapter, successors of the Blood Angels Legion, 3rd Founding, beloved of the Emperor of Man, God-Emperor of the Imperium, made his presence known to the Ork vermin of Urk, first by throwing his seat out of the drop pod (which inadvertently hits a charging gretchin) and then springing out of the pod himself, bolter in hand, already loosing an entire magazine in the general direction of the Ork tide.

    Little did Manlius knew that his frenzied rage-firing would later damn the souls of a Hive World called Armageddon, Segmentum Solar. This was made a certainty as an Ork nob threw his axe through Manlius' helmet and head, amid joyous screams of "I GOT IM'!! I GOT DA UMIE!!"

    *********


    "NEXT!"

    Grotsnik enthusiastically waved in the next experi- patient as his gretchin minions towed away his last exp- patient, an Ork with a power klaw for a face who had failed to take to his new battle augmentations. It wasn't his fault anyway, Klawface was dying before Grotsnik got to him anyway, he just made it messier is all.

    A big ork with a severed arm edged his way into the Dok's tent, and Grotsnik licked his lips in anticipation. He had always wanted to try putting feet where an arm would be... he better take a look at his bitz box...

    "Out of da way, youse!" a foot seemed to announce as it kicked the big Ork in ribs. The owner of said foot followed it into the tent. This sounds more funny than it is, as the foot is still attached to the Ork. This new Ork was scrawnier, smaller than the bigger Ork, but here he was kicking it several times in the unmentionables to make sure it didn't get up.

    This wasn't very interesting when you take account his hands.

    His hands were bloody, Grotsnik observed - with his own gore. Pieces of skull, and hair were dripping everywhere. Holy Mork, Grotsnik gleefully thought to himself as he caught a better view of Mag's head. This little runt was holding his brains in his ghastly looking skull with his bare hands..

    "OY!" the Mad Dok shouted, putting the one-sided kick fest to an end.

    "YOU!" He pointed at the armless Ork flat on the floor. "Get outta ere'! We has work to do! Beat it, squig face!

    And you," He said, pointing at Mag - softer this time, just to prove that he doesn't speak loudly all the time - "Ghazghkull," yes, Ghazghkull sounds like a good name for dis ere Ork - you get on da table real quick.

    We got sum serjery to do!"

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  2. #2
    Solus's Avatar
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    I have high hopes for this, do not disappoint me.

    I like it so far, the only parts I have trouble with personally is the mad dok's hut scene seems a bit confused. Had to read it twice to sort it out.


    Originally Posted by DrakonTheNightLord View Post
    This sounds more funny that it is
    than*

    Other than that, huzzah for orks!

    - Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. -

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    C-C-C-Combo Breaker! Andon's Avatar
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    MOAR!

    Highly enjoyable.I do agree the docscene seems a bit confusing.

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    Two

    Mag.

    He stirred at the sound of his name being called, and opened his eyes. The medical tent was empty and barely hit with lamps, casting darting, deformed shadows across the leather frame. Mag rose from his bed with the usual hesitance of one recently wounded, even though all his wounds usually healed by the time he woke up.

    Ghazghkull.

    Mag wasn't long in this world, he knew that. Like every Ork he was born from fungal-wombs created from fungal spores every Ork excretes throughout their life time. The Orks were made for fightin' and their the best at it.

    Nothing in his short life had prepared him to deal with disembodied green voices. Green voices in particular is a new experience. It's not usual for someone to speak in hues. He wonders if-

    Stop muckin' about and listen to us, willya? Orks dese days. Where's da soddin' respect? It wasn't like dis in da old days, we'll tell ya dat ya little runt, ya pa-

    Mag, terrified beyond belief at the rambling voice that came from gorkin' nowhere. Got off the bed and ran out of the tent - only to hit what seems to be an invisible wall as he made for the tent flap. His head made a huge ding sound as he hit the unseen barrier and landed flat on his back.

    Then his eyes was on the tent roof.

    Except that there was no roof. But the stars. When he hastily got to his feet, he found that he was nowhere near the medical tent.

    He wasn't anywhere he knew of. The ground was hard, grey stone. He was surrounded by massive spires and buildings. The sky was drowned out by monstrous skyscrapers, reminiscent of the effigies of Gork and Mork some of da boyz carry into battle. A single.. flying thing rounded a corner of a building. It was a massive raptor of a flyer, in a riot of red and purple.

    The gunship's rockets flew at Mag's general direction with terrifying roars. Mag did as he was taught to do by one of da nobs - duck and cuvva!

    The barrage whistled pass Mag - who had his head tucked firmly under his arms, which was a bit of a task as his head seems to have had a bad case of swelling. Possibly due to his earlier injury - and crashed into a wall. Mag opened one eye as the dust began to settle, and seeing that the murderous raptor did a flyby and screamed off into the distance, got back on his feet.

    And immediately gets tossed on his back as several red-purple blurs jet pass him.

    Cursing and spitting out smoke, Mag got on his belly and turned to where all the violence was happening.

    The purple-red things... the purple-red humies have landed on the ground, their big jump-packs still shuddering from the brief flight. They have their choppas out, and were storming the defensive line. The little... well, what he'd assume to be humies - he didn't meet one until yesterday when they came down from the skies all a sudden - didn't have a chance, shootin' with their little flashlights. Before long all the little ones were dead, clubbed apart by choppas - and the defensive line was on fire.

    "War Phantoms!" the biggest humie from the vision said - and he knew this was a vision because one of the little humies accidentally shot him with his flashlight and it didn't leave a burn or anyfing.

    "FOR THE EMPEROR!"
    "FOR BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!!"


    And just like that, they flew off again, leaving Mag alone with his thoughts, which were generally focused on figuring out where he was.

    You are on da planet Tarentum. Dose were the humies called da War Phantomes. You see, in humie kultur, da bigga umies beat up da smaller unz'. They had a whole giant war abou' it. Da Whorez Eresy' I fink it waz...

    Anyhow, Orks are da same. Da humies are fighty, but Orks are biggest, and meanest dere is! Dere are many humies, but many more Orks, and Orks are meant to conquer and make slaves of everyfing they don't kill. You da hand of Gork and Mork now, Thraka. Da Orks forget what they were for, fightin' against each uvva, Goth against Snakebite, Bad Moons against Red Axes. Dis ain't right. Dis never right. We sendin' you to rouse da boyz. Go and kill and crush like youse were meants ta do. Go, Thraka.


    And then Mag's vision faded. Right before everything went to black, he heard Da Green talking to himself..

    Why you gone and called him Thraka then?

    Datz not his name?

    His name is Mag, damn it!

    I tort his name wuz Ghazghkull!

    Well now he's just going to have a bunch of names that don't mean anything now.. Good job, Mork.

    Shadap!

    No, you!

    Why you little-




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    War Phantoms Space Marine Chapter, successors of the Blood Angels Legion, 3rd Founding, beloved of the Emperor of Man, God-Emperor of the Imperium.


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    C-C-C-Combo Breaker! Andon's Avatar
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    oh god war phantoms hurt my eyes.

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    Rolling an 18 DrakonTheNightLord's Avatar
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    I always thought the concept of Space Marines on acid color theme to be highly attractive

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  10. #7
    Rolling an 18 DrakonTheNightLord's Avatar
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    "What I don't understand is, why do you need choppaz if you can have more dakka?" Skarrunt said to Grubsong. His fellow Gretchin merely shrugged, and kept watchin' da patient. Da masta sed it was ver' important that they look at da squiggly lines on da screen fing. If it was spiky and squiggly dat means fings were good. If dey flat, well - if da line was flat then dey'd be stomped flat. Grubsong didn't like da sound o' dat.

    Trying and failing to brush most of the day's gore off his already filthy apron with his hands, Skarrunt went on.

    "Because see, if you has dakka you wouldn't need to use a choppa, right? All da uvva gits will get shot before they even get close, yeah? So why make more choppaz then? Why not just make lots and lots of dakka? Dey say you can't have enough dakka, so why not keep making em?"
    "S'just not Orky, Skar." Snagrot muttered distractedly, not taking his eyes off da screen fing, which was still doing da lil spiky lines.

    Skarrunt wouldn't let the subject go. Picking his nose and wiping the obscenely large booger and flicking it off into the far corner of the dok's tent with his fingers, he went on. "Wot does dat mean den? I tort they couldn't have enough dakka. Why not just make more dakka and don't waste time making choppaz den?"
    "Skar?"
    "Yes Grub?"
    "Shut up."
    "Up yours, ya uptight arsehole."

    Grubsong ignored him and went on watching da squiggly lines. What do dey mean??

    ********

    "He's dead."
    "Nah, da squiggly lines sez he's ok."
    "How do you figure?"
    "Da dok said so."
    "So I should..."
    "I don't fink so, Skar."

    Mag woke up to the sound of two grots' incessant muttering and skittering. Blinking and rubbing his eyes for clearer vision, he sees the two little fings by his bedside regarding him with wide eyes.

    So far so good, Mag thought. Wincing as phantom pains wracked his still sore skull. Nothing he couldn't manage.

    Then he had to look down.

    There was blood all down his front, and a bullet hole on his chest.

    "Er." Said Skarrunt.

    Mag grunted, and took a better look at his surroundings.

    He was in da dok's tent all right. Directly opposite of his bed was a mannequin of a vague Orky shape. Except dat it was just a shapeless blob of straw strung together with a bloody apron.

    "Er," Skarrunt said again. Mag turned to regard the little grunt with a bit more than a mere glance this time, and Skar gulped audibly before saying "er", again.

    Mag raised his hand in a backhand, but paused as he saw a thin cloud of smoke behind the little green. Upon closer inspection it was a poorly hidden grot peashoota.

    "I told him he shouldn't do it." Grubsong said to no one in particular, eyes back on da screen fing with da squiggly lines. Mag followed his gaze and noticed a sight dent at the side of the machine.

    "Daft fing to do, really." Grubsong muttered in general.
    "What?" Mag growled, a finger in his chest wound trying to wiggle the offending bullet out. "What exactly did he do?"

    Grubby turned his big baleful eyes at Mag and said matter-of-factly, "tried to shoot da straw fing with a shoota. Only he missed and it hit da fing with da squiggly lines and den it hit your metal ead' and den it hit da tent and went boing and den it... it hit your chest.... see," Grubsong pointed at exhibits A, B, C and D for better indication of recent events.

    Mag wasn't a very bright Ork, but he did know dat bullets came out business-end first, and had no business coming out of da back and hitting fings dat were behind it. His head was starting to hurt with more urgency now, and all of a sudden he felt his head suddenly become really heavy.

    Clutching his head, he felt something cool and metallic meet his touch.

    He knocked a bit on his skull.

    It made metally clanking sounds.

    "Er."
    Mag turned his attention back at Skarrunt, who was trying his best to keep the peashoota hidden underneath his not considerable width.
    "Da dok gave you a metal skull.... ahahaha..."

    Finally managing to dig out the grot's wayward bullet, Mag lost his temper, and promptly stomped out of the tent.

    "So wot did we learn today, Skar?"
    "Mphmpgmsh!" Said Skarrunt, on account of having a peashoota bullet jammed up one nostril.
    "Exactly."

    "Orks can't fuggin aim."

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    Rolling an 18 DrakonTheNightLord's Avatar
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    "I dunno but I've been told!"
    "Da Snakebite's ways are mighty old!"
    "Here we come and here we roll!"
    "Da Goffs are here to kill by da droves!"

    "Sound off!"
    "One-two!"
    "Sound off!"
    "Tree-four!"
    "Sound off!"
    "Wot comes after four again?"


    Mag ran with da Boyz, a shiny slugga in one hand ("dat should keep da primitives back! Ver' important, your slugga," a Nob reminded him.) and a choppa in the other ("gotta have a choppa too, mind". He wore no steel helmet, as his recent serjery has swelled his head to almost twice its size.

    Not that he needed a helmet anyway, what with half of his cranium replaced with adamantium.

    "It's called serjery," Grosnik told the young green shortly after he found the latter covered in blood. Apparently he accidentally ran headlong into a Nob and his head got stuck somewhere into da Nob's torso. It was only his high rank in da clan that saved Ghazghkull's life. On the bright side Dakkawaist will be happy with the new additions to his orkyness.

    "Youse just puts da better fings in and take the squishy bits out, see," the Mad Dok said matter-of-factly. "Ain't nuffin' to worry abouts."

    Mag didn't really understood the other things the Dok said. Big words like 'contusion' and 'brain activity' sailed past him. Mag mistrusted big words. Rather than headbutting the Dok out of annoyance, Mag chose to bugger off to his rock-bed to sleep.

    The recent attack by the strange creatures known as 'humans' did nothing to deter the Goff Klan from their annual drive through Snakebite turf, who only got more excited and decided to move forward their plans to strike. The Snakebite Klan had one of the biggest turfs in Urk, but their adherence to the old ways merely meant that their turf was just a bigger hunting ground for rival Ork Klans, who on the whole see the Snakebite Run as a good way to blood Da Boyz.

    Most of the Goffs ran on foot, with bikes and other vehicles reserved for da Nobs and Warboss and other important Orks. Their march was swift and steady. Each Ork wore the black of the Goffs Klan and the lucky blue squig blood on his face. The vehicles were painted top to bottom in red. It was Mag's understanding that this made them go fasta.

    On the whole, approximately ten thousand Orks prepared to crash into Snakebite lands, which were vastly different than other Ork turf. While Urk was a dustbowl of howling winds and tornadoes, Snakebite turf was lush with greenery and forests. The Snakebites have been pretty smug about how their old ways gave them bounty, right up until Goff steel met Snakebite face.

    Mag smiled. This was his first time running through Snakebite turf.

    *********

    "I don't get it, where's the Snakeys then?" Mag whispered to Jorls, the Nob-in-command, as the Goff march slowed down as they attempt to navigate through the jungle. As if entering a battle-trance, the Orks have managed to keep the sounds of their advance to a minimum, marching forward at a snail's pace with guns facing outward.

    "Shaddap and watch da trees," Jorls shot back at Mag irritably. "Dese Snakebites are real sneaky. A moment's weakness and-"

    SHTEP.

    The world seems to have stopped to watch Jorls Da Hamma fall from his command bike. A... an... something wooden and sharp protruding from his neck.

    A booming rhythm begins to sound across the jungle. Boom boom boom. Boom-boom. Boom.

    War drums.

    "AMBUSH!" Someone yelled, perhaps a little fear has crept into his voice, and he was rewarded with a bullet in the face from none other that Warboss of Da Goffs, Fillmaw Da Mighty.

    All eyes were drawn to the charismatic Ork atop his huge platform ringed with Goff flags and the skulls of his enemies. He stood almost 8 feet tall, the muzzle of his massive sidearm hissed a small trail of smoke following its brief use.

    It only took a pointed finger and a single word.

    "WAAAAAGGGHHH!!!!"

    Mag, along with everyone in da Boyz knew what that meant, and each hefted their shoota, or slugga, or anything that had dakka, and fired in the general direction they thought the arrow came from.

    No thunder was ever this loud, no death more messy, no devastation more complete. The muzzle flare of an entire legion of Orks was enough to render any squishier race blind. So blind it made them deaf. So blind it made them unable to feel anything but the rage of the Goff dakka.

    Needless to say - the jungle, in Grot vernacular - was fucking destroyed.

    Somewhere in this wreckage, they found a single Snakebite Ork. Miraculously intact except for a single gunshot wound in the chest. Mag's unit moved forward to have a better look at their leader's killer when to their surprise Fillmaw himself left his platform and prodded each of them aside to get a look of his own.

    "All dis for one Snakey?" Mag said in bewilderment, catching himself too late, realizing he said it out loud in the presence of Da Warboss.

    Fillmaw turned around to regard Mag with a maw full of iron teeth, and gave the smaller Ork a lion's bared-teeth smile.

    "Fun, innit?"

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    The drums never stopped their steady rhythm, and as the Goffs stood there laughing at the carnage they wreaked upon Snakebite turf, the primitives were on them.

    A tide of Orks on warboars charged out from the depths of the jungle and into the savage clearing the Goffs created with their guns, subtle and delicate compared to the huge boulders doused with oils and set alight, sent rolling down towards the Goff lines, causing havoc and flattening everything the fire doesn't burn to death.

    A Snakebite arrow snapped against Mag's adamantium skull, jerking him to action as he suddenly finds his Klan suddenly surrounded by the cunning Snakebite Orks. The sound of arrows striking Ork flesh and the explosions of guns fill the air as the young green finds himself face to tusk with a charging warboar.

    Bloody shitting Mork.

    In a panic, Mag raised his right hand - his choppa hand - up to protect his face from the collision. Only he was holding the choppa business-end-out so it worked very well for him as the warboar gone and accidentally impaled its ugly mug on Mag's choppa. The rider flew some distance and fell right into a path of a speeding wartrukk.

    With a roar, his slugga barked one, two, three times into the spasming warboar, blasting enough fragments of its face for Mag to shake the choppa out of the thing fast enough to whirl around to bury it into a sneaky Snakebite git who came at him from behind with a spear.

    When Mag turned around again, a boulder filled his peripheral vision, with the simple intent of crushing him flat and continuing its merry way. Mag managed to turn his scream into an a proximate roar and fired the rest of his slugga shots into the boulder before it exploded before his eyes.

    It wasn't any kind of explosion either. It was a magic explosion. It had the crinkly blue fire bits fizzin and fings.

    In any case, after having his vision dominated by a rolling boulder bent on his death, it was a definite improvement to see other Goffs do some arsekicking dominating his vision instead.

    Fillmaw was a monster. Towering over the Snakebite Orks, he plucked them at leisure and ate them whole, while smashing the rest with the butt of his pistol at the luckier ones. All about him were dead primitives. Arrows peppered his body to no apparent effect. He fought alone, with most of Jols' Boyz all hacked down at the initial charge, wading forward like Gork and Mork incarnate. The Snakebites crashed into Da Warboss and were killed and destroyed.

    With Fillmaw holding the Snakebites all on his own on the left flank, it allowed da Goffs to regroup and turn their guns on the primitives with their superior dakka, forcing them back on both sides of da Goffs column. Mag soon found himself a mere member of a surprisingly coherent green tide sweeping the Snakebites in an untidy barrage of dakka, slowly driving the Snakebites back and linking with Fillmaw, whom the Snakebites have merely opted to crash around at this point.

    As the distance between the Goff Orks and their Warboss lessened, they screamed a great "WAAAAGGGHHH!!!" and got tore into the Snakebites with their choppas. Mag was enjoying his first Snakebite Run, lost in a battle frenzy, his slugga long dry, he was a ball of destruction, chopping into row upon row of Snakebite Orks with both hands. Nothing mattered now. Only the battle, the choppin, the deaths, the booms of the drums, the sounds of the gigantic squiggoth lying in reserve being prodded forward into a charge.

    Wait, what?

    Mag stopped his bloody advance, and other Goff Orks charged around him and shoving him aside as they strove to get in on the action. With sudden clarity, he saw pairs of red eyes looking on from the gloom of the jungle.

    Eyes to high up and too big to be an Ork's.

    They were getting closer and closer and faster and faster. The sound of the Snakebite wardrums pound louder and louder in his ears.

    It was a futile thing, to alert Orks in the midst of their battle-lust, but Mag did it anyway.

    "SQUIGGOTH!!"

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    Glad you like it

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    Seven

    Against all reason, the Goffs who weren't in the immediate vicinity of the Squiggoth dropped their shootas, unsheathed their choppas - their knives, their swords and their axes - and as one, roared their challenge to the stampeding mammoth tearing through their ranks, and charged it.

    The Squiggoth itself was massive. At least thirty times bigger than the biggest war-tank and its maw huge enough to swallow one whole. Already its fangs were stained red and black of Goff blood and armor. Its roar only spurs the charging Goffs towards the orkoid war-giant. Arrows rained from above as the Squiggoth's riders shot from their lurching perch.

    The first Goff to reach the Squiggoth was rewarded with a flick of its left foreleg. A dismissive gesture which shattered every bone in the Ork's body, sending him flying back into the mass of green and black. A few others were stomped to death and eaten, but the next hundred crashed upon the Squiggoth with their choppas.

    Soon enough the Orks swarmed up the creature, clambering up the giant's huge frame by punching handholds through with their axes and swords, only to be shot in the face with darts and arrows. Thousands of wounds opened up and like ants massing around bigger prey, the Squiggoth crashed down into the ground, flattening anyone unlucky enough to get in the way. With the great beast brought low, the green tide swarmed over it and devoured it with their steel.

    Mag saw none of this.

    ********

    Mag tore the spear from the boar rider's hands, coincidentally tearing off the hands from the boar rider and the boar rider himself from his boar mount (The boar went on to run headlong into a wartrukk, and the wartrukk exploded), and threw it bodily into another rider's boar, which sent him flying as his boar crashed into the soil. Mag met him with a headbutt which brained the poor sod.

    Another Snakey came at him from the left, slashing down with a two-handed sword which Mag barely sidestepped, lashing out with the flat of his axe and crushing the zoddin' arsehole's nose he spun and beheaded the fool with a two handed swing.

    A slight prickling in his brain made him raise his axe and parry a blow he didn't see to his right. Gritting his teeth Mag kicked out at his unseen assailant and finally turning around, cut him down with a vertical slash, leaving him in two heaps of steaming green flesh.

    He spared a moment to cast his glance on Fillmaw, who was sitting down, propped on a heap of Snakey corpses. A massive hole where the Squiggoth's tusk caught him was plainly visible, and faces of dead Snakeys stared up at Mag through it.

    Despite all this, da Warboss still lived. But even someone as young as Mag knew that he was on borrowed time. His eyes were glassy, and his words delirious and nonsensical.

    "Hail Thraka, full of teef," he had said at one point. Mag had grunted in reply and threw his axe straight into a Snakey shaman's loincloth.

    Now however, Fillmaw was fully coherent.

    "Boy, help me up."

    Mag gaped as he saw his Warboss' eyes gain a new focus. His left hand was a mangled ruin and his pistol was lost. His right was a massive power klaw which had shorted out shortly after his hundredth or so kill. Trying to find words to express Mork knew what, he merely gaped and stammered like an idiot.

    "Bloody hell, ya little runt, I sure as hell won't repeat myself twice!" the power klaw flared back to life, immediately eating into the leafy soil and hissing and spitting like a live thing.

    Still struck dumb, Mag grabbed what was left of Fillmaw's left side and hauled him up on his feet again. This was when he saw a huge Ork daubed in warpaint and the biggest club he has ever seen over his shoulder. Pushing Mag aside, Fillmaw bared his teeth in lieu of a smile.

    "I always liked da Boss fights," he said with relish.

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  16. #13
    Rolling an 18 DrakonTheNightLord's Avatar
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    Eight


    Filmaw staggered a few paces as the Snakey Chief landed yet another blow with his club - it wasn't a very choppy weapon, but where it lacked in choppy it did gain much by way of smashing, which in some ways is better sometimes.

    Shaking his head to clear his alarmingly foggy vision, Fillmaw had the honor of seeing the club in perfect clarity before it smashed right into his face, sending him back, and almost flooring him. Da Warboss spat blood and teef fragments before slashing forward with his power klaw.

    The strikes were clumsy and desperate, and the Snakebite Chief weaved and ducked under Fillmaw's swings. That was when Chief Alaric of da Snakebite Klan met the knee of Fillmaw the Mighty of da Goffs, cracking bone and breaking teef as he sent his counterpart sprawling on the forest floor.

    *********

    Mag was in awe of the two biggest Orks tearing at each other. On one side was his own Boss, bigger and stronger, but wounded with a gaping hole in his chest. The other was the Snakey Boss, who was a bit smaller but had this club you could beat grots up with. Its very fun to beat grots sometimes, but you should only do it when dey annoy you, Mag always thought.

    Neither was he alone in watching the Bosses rip and tear into each other. Gradually the fighting subsided and each and every Ork made their way to the duel, silently forming a circle, the battle forgotten, taking almost a festive atmosphere. All Orks present were banging their choppas and clubs and dakka and other weapons on the ground, creating a dull thudding sound to accompany their low chants of "Ork, Ork, Ork, Ork". Mag soon found himself caught up in the moment and began chanting and banging the head of his axe on the blood-streaked ground.

    At one point, Klan banners were brought up and waved about as the Warbosses fought back and forth. None of them unbroken from the punishment, none of them willing to submit to the other. Both fought with the spirit of their Klans and more importantly, because they can and it was fun.

    But it was wrong. It felt wrong. Mag found himself stopping his banging and chanting, remembering something out of distant memory.

    Da Orks forget what they were for, fightin' against each uvva, Goth against Snakebite, Bad Moons against Red Axes. Dis ain't right. Dis never right.


    That night, as Fillmaw drank a tankard of squig beer, regaling all da boyz about how he put down "dat lil pimply runt" with a hole in his chest (now stapled together courtesy of Mad Dok Grosnik, he tried to insert a trukk engine in it but Fillmaw wouldn't let him.), Mag lay down, away from the tents, away from the burning Snakebite corpses - and looked towards the stars with a troubled mind.

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  17. #14
    Rolling an 18 DrakonTheNightLord's Avatar
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    Nine

    The Goffs' Snakebite Run continued for three more weeks, the Klan driving through Snakebite turf and burning all in their path. At one point the other Klans got into the action, and more than once the Goffs column had to face several Klans at once, each looking for a good scrap more than anything.

    The Snakeys, bereft of their chieftain, continued to carry out ambushes with decreasing regularity. Mag was told that this was normal for a Snakebite Run. After the initial battles with da Snakeys, da run evolves into a fight between da uvva Klans, who were by and large more better armed dan da Snakeys in da first place.

    Mag floated from Nob to Nob, constantly finding himself the sole survival of da Boyz after every engagement, saved more than once by his newly crafted skull of adamantium. Da fightin' probably made Mag stronger, he mused, as he found himself feeling stronger, more muscular. Bigga, even.

    During the Snakebite run he has developed a habit of using his adamantine head in combat, whether as a shield or a hammer to headbutt other greens. More than once, Mad Dok Grosnik had to patch up his face and the original adamantium plating. The 'sergikal name' Grosnik gave him spread and stuck throughout the Goff ranks.

    Ghazghkull.

    *********

    The harsh Urkian sun rises once more and Ghazghkull Mag awakes on the same patch of hard stone in Goff turf on the hill overlooking the Goff camp. New captured Klan banners and skulls decorate the buildings and walls of the camp, while even tents had new ornaments - a bleached skull here, and boar's head there.

    Ma- Ghazghkull - has been dreaming recently. Of other worlds. Of a ship that sails the stars. Worlds of uvva Orks, and of the mysterious humies. Worlds not even he can count even if he used his two hands and feet. He looked up at the sun, and saw only the mocking face of the daystar.

    "Well fug you too, Mister Sun."

    *********


    "What kind of a question is dat?" Grosnik said as he revved up his chainsaw. His patient was unconscious. All the better. Ooh, what improvements he had in plan..

    "Well, are there uvva Orks or not?" Ghazghkull yelled over the buzzing, grimacing as blood sprinkled his face lightly as Grosnik did his work.

    "Course dere are! You fought them a few days ago for a good few weeks, didn't ya?"
    "Well, not here like... far away. Other worlds."
    "Oh-" at which point the green on the sergikal table started to stir, prompting Dok Grosnik to reach for the mallet propped on the cluster of beeping buzzing fings.

    Ghazghkull kept his face wooden as the hammering sounds subsided and Grosnik turned his red bloodstained face to the younger Ork, who was by this time almost as drenched in vital fluids.

    "Righ', uvva Orks." Grosnik said, absently while wiping his nose spreading the gore more equally across his wrinkly face.

    "Well, deres a good few out dere. Snakeys, Goffs, Bad Moonz, dey just da same as us, really. Only we don't have those fancy posh spaceships to fly around."
    "Why not?"
    The question seemed to confused Grosnik. After a few seconds of staring at what Goffs would call an "uppity green snot", he answered carefully, as if looking for the answers in his own words.

    "Uhhh... well... the sun here is a bit nice?"
    "The sun can kiss my arse."

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  18. #15
    Rolling an 18 DrakonTheNightLord's Avatar
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    Ten

    The wrath of the dragons was great indeed. The green dragons were of noble stock, originating long before the great war. The red dragons were a bastard breed derived from many shadows of old pasts. The former bared its fangs to protect the Imperium, the latter to destroy it.

    Both were champions of their causes. Both with immeasurable tallies of victory and slaughter, courageous deeds and fell-handed fury. When they meet it is with the strength of Gods and the hopes of a greater future. A collision of titanic wills.

    Of course, it is one thing to read about dragons and another to meet them in battle.


    ********

    Tu'Shan smashed his forehead against the hammer haft, snapping it in two and cracking the Dragon Warrior's helm, forcing the traitor to make space for the Chapter Master of the Salamanders to finish the job with his own hammer. Absently wiping the blood dripping down his face, Tu'shan casually flung his hammer hard into another Warrior turning the corner.

    Picking up his hammer and looking around to see that his Salamanders were still for the most part whole and strong, Tu'shan gestured for the blast doors to the bridge of the Ursula to be torn open, something Squad Rionus gladly obliged to by tearing at it with their lightning claws.

    "Into them, Salamanders! Charge!"

    The replying roar of the Dragon Warriors' bolter fire was hardly sufficient, none of them even finding their mark as they attempted to soften the Salamanders' fury before they made a charge of their own. Ceramite of red clashed with green as they came at each other with swords and axes.

    Tu'Shan was upon them, laying waste to the Warriors with crushing two-handed smashes of his hammer, crumpling the cracking the traitor Marines inside their power armor - which bore no difference to the Salamanders save its color and insignia.

    Kicking the latest casualty aside in disgust, he roared a battle cry and met another Dragon Warrior, whose feral swings tore a chunk of Tu'Shan's chin before his leg was torn messily from its socket with a vicious hammer strike. Falling to the ship floor in an untidy three-limbed heap, the Warrior was then left armless as Tu'shan stamped - hard - on his arm. The added weight of the Chapter Master's terminator armor making such an exertion effortless.

    The Lord of the Salamanders drew his bolt pistol.

    And it was then that he received calls to return to his ship. A certain Lord Commander Dante has just translated in-system and has demanded an audience.

    Cursing, Tu'Shan turned around and called for the teleporter beacons to be activated.

    As his body tingled in the midst of a teleportation process, he pondered on the many details the ship captain has managed to convey during the brief transmission.

    Orks. Relief force.

    Armageddon.

    It was then that Tu'Shan woke in his crib, no longer Chapter Master Tu'Shan but merely Captain Tu'Shan. Unbeknownst to him, several systems away, Mag too woke from a strange dream. Of dragons and hammers.

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  19. #16
    C-C-C-Combo Breaker! Andon's Avatar
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    Hammered dragons!

    Suddenly, Andon!
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  20. #17
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    I was thinking while in the shower today... Chapter Ten should have been Chapter Nine and vice versa.. has a better flow to it.

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