Chapta One: Off Ta WAAAAGH!!


On the outskirts of the town of Tam’urt (pronounced Tam’urt by the Ork inhabitants, even though it is actually called ‘Tamhurt’) the barren desert lands were made of use by the squig farmers who needed very little grass. Squigs were meat and fungus eaters, and both were abundant despite the parched landscape.

At the second largest ranch in the Tam’urt district, its owner was informing a Slaver of today’s meat deliveries to be made by the Gretchin. The Gretchin were kept in line by the Slavers (often also referred to as a Runtherdz), usually with threats of punishments such as being fed to the squigs or being zapped by the dreaded grot-prod (something along the lines of a cattle-prod).

The farm was more than large enough to feed Gotshik’s Evil Suns tribe twice over and so extra funds were raised by selling meat to the locals. Regular deliveries were done on a weekly basis; Brudz would drive the truck, Jamz would ensure all teef were paid, and Cezzy-Po made sure nobody tried to steal the cargo. Not a single squig went unaccounted for (unless they mysteriously vanished down Jamz’ gullet), and not a single teef was left owing. The locals learnt early that trying to cheat Mumzy ended most horrifically.

Slavers corralled the Gretchin and the truck began being loaded. Brudz waited behind the wheel revving the engine impatiently.

“Oi! Do yer mind?” Cezzy-Po walked up to the cabin window covered from head to toe in black soot. “Dere’s only one colour I like on me white coat, an’ dat’s red! Stop pressin’ da zoggin’ go pedal!” She reached up and flicked her sister in the temple.

Cezzy-Po wore her greasy black hair (a squig-hair transplant) in two unkempt buns on the top of her head. Her lab coat (before being covered in exhaust soot) was never without a fresh stain of blood, and had many pockets bristling with surgical tools. Underneath she wore black pants and red leather boots. Wrapped around her forehead was a black bandana with a red scowling sun printed on it.

“Ow! Stupid git,” Brudz whinged. She took her foot away from the ‘go pedal’ grumpily. “Can’t dem runts load da truck fasta?”

Brudz had a greasy (almost slithering) black plait hanging from her head made from squig hair - transplanted there by her sister. The Mek wore a scrappy red singlet, filthy black leather pants (they used to be brown) and black buckle-up steel capped boots. She was a bit of a smart-mouth but usually got along well with her spore sister. This didn’t prevent her being stabbed with a scalpel now and then though.

While the truck was being loaded a Gretchin messenger ran through the farm to Mumzy’s office. He knocked on the door.

“Oo iz it?” A deep voice asked agitatedly. “Betta be a good reason fer disturbin’ me!”

“I ‘ave a message from da Boss Gotshik,” The Gretchin replied casually.

Mumzy opened the crooked door and let the Gretchin in. She sat back down behind her desk; the chair sounded awfully over burdened by the way it creaked and groaned. There were no other chairs in the room, and the Gretchin could not see over the desk so he pulled over the radio and stood on it. He looked quizzically at the strange crooked glasses perched on the Nob’s snout.

“Cezzy-Po prescribed me some seein’ lenses,” She snarled patiently trying to restrain from flattening the rude Gretchin until she got the message. “Now stop gawkin’ an’ tell me what Gotshik said.”

Sensing his impending doom, the Gretchin pulled the radio back from the desk out of arm’s reach of the Nob. “Boss Gotshik says dere’s a waagh brewin’ ‘tween dem an’ da Goffs, an’ dat da Deffskulls is stirrin’ shit fer fun.”

Mumzy’s upper lip drew up in a snarl. She was never fond of the Goffs, and the Deathskulls were nothing but a bunch of thieving braggarts in her eyes. The Deathskulls had raided squig deliveries going to the Evil Sun tribe on the odd occasion, earning them a spot at the top of Mumzy’s hit list.

Awaiting a reply which never came, the Gretchin spoke in more detail about the message from the tribe’s boss. “Gotshik suggested yew ‘ire someone ter escort da squig deliveries to an’ from da tribe. Da Boss also suggested dat yew up da security of da farm. Dere’s been reports of Goffs lurkin’ in da desert souf of ‘ere.”

Mumzy nodded slowly. She was already deciding what actions she would take to protect the squig farm and secure the supply of meat to the tribe. “I know just da Orks fer da job. Tell Gotshik I’ve got da situation ‘andled an’ not ter worry. Now, dere’s somefin’ else I want yer ta tell ‘im, so listen up.”


~


Jamz was about to hop on the truck when the messenger Gretchin hailed him from a distance. “Jamz, Mumzy wants ter see yer in da office. ‘Urry up, she’s in a foul mood.” He ran off to start his long journey back to the tribe.

“Hold up fer five,” Jamz ordered Brudz. “Mumzy wants ter see me.”

The mega nob walked away; his bulky armour made it hard for him to move fast, but given enough time and a straight walkway he could pick up speed. Unfortunately, the farm was cluttered with piles of junk that Jamz had to dodge so he managed only to reach the pace of a snail. Brudz always cringed at the sight of such slow movement. Cezzy-Po on the other hand saw it as a great advantage in the event her surgery on the mega nob ever went wrong.

As the Ork sisters waited they could hear the roars of Mumzy in the office; the Gretchin’s weather report had been spot on. Mumzy’s tantrum sent shivers down the girls spines; for whatever reason, Mumzy was upset about something. Severely.


~


Jamz pushed the door to the office open slowly; he peeked through the gap. “Mumzy… do yer want some beer?” Jamz had witnessed many of Mumzy’s out burst and knew how to deal with them.

The Nob turned to face her spore son, calming down slightly. She raised a bottle of spirits. “Da Gretchin gave me a bottle ov some stronger stuff; a present from Gotshik. Come in Jamz, I gots ter talk wiv yer.”

The mega nob squeezed through the doorway; Mumzy returned to her seat, and Jamz sat on the floor. Mumzy took a swig from of her spirits and spoke in a low voice. “Yew remember our little talk about yew lot movin’ to da tribe a little while back, yeh?”

Jamz nodded. How could he forget? Two giant Nobs on a rampage left the farm in a bit of a mess; it was one of favourite memories. At the time, Jamz didn’t like the idea of leaving forever and Mumzy was upset thinking about it. Eventually though Mumzy convinced them both it was for the best. Jamz now looked forward to living in the clan permanently; he could be with the other Nobs and fight whenever he felt the urge. It seemed, however, the subject still stung his spore mother.

“I jus’ got news from Gotshik dat dere’s gonna be anuver waagh – an’ from da sounds ov it, it’ll be a long one.” She locked eyes with Jamz for a moment; an understanding of the opportunity this presented passed between them. “It’ll be a good chance ter break Brudz inta tribe life… da longer she ‘as ter stay dere, den da less likely she’ll be ter get upset when she realises she aint comin’ back ‘ere. Now den, I’ve got a plan ter ‘elp…”


~


Half an hour passed before Jamz returned; he seemed slightly sombre, but Cezzy-Po and Brudz assumed that was from having to deal with an agro Mumzy. He jumped in the open-topped cabin. “Let’s go,” He ordered.

The truck roared to life and drove down the dirt road with a cloud of black smoke trailing behind.

The deliveries were completed with no dramas, but Brudz and Cezzy-Po could sense something strange was going on; Jamz was unusually quiet the entire trip. Neither Ork dared ask him what was on his mind – such adventurous questions led to nothing more than yet another injury.

After the delivery was finished the Orks went their separate ways; Brudz and Cezzy-Po went to go sleep somewhere cosy and Jamz sat in Mumzy’s trophy room admiring her collection. It wasn’t until later that night that Jamz walked out to go find his sisters.

First her looked in the squig pens – sure enough, Cezzy-Po was performing an operation on another unfortunate creature. “Oi, I needs yer to ‘elp Brudz get me armour ready. It’s gettin’ a bit rusty ‘n’ stuff.”

Cezzy-Po didn’t argue; she quickly stitched the squig up and put him on the ground, and packed up her tools. When she was ready, they both headed to the garage.
The door creaked open and light flooded out; Brudz had the garage lit up like a Christmas tree while she worked on her bike.

“Oi, me armour needs some fixin’,” Jamz announced letting himself into the garage. Cezzy-Po followed, dumping her tools on a bench.

“Gimme a few minutes,” Brudz replied from somewhere under her bike. “I’m just fixin’ da brakes.”

Jamz cleared a space on the floor to sit with a sweep of a clawed hand. With a loud thump he lowered himself and sat on the ground. The three Orks remained in the garage all night, servicing Jamz’ mega armour.


~


The rusty door of the garage fell of it’s hinges when Mumzy pulled it open. The dawn sun outlined the large Ork standing in the door way. “You’s’re goin’ ta waagh!” The Nob shouted. “Gotshik requested all fwree ov yer go to da tribe. ‘Ee needs all da Orks ‘ee c’n get.”

Jamz was sitting on the dusty floor, surrounded by tools and scraps of metal. He squinted and shook his head as the light shone into his beady, red eyes. Typical large yellow Orkish teeth the size of butchers’ knives lined his jaws; he mostly used them for biting the heads off his enemies, but they also served as good hand-holds for Brudz and Cezzy-Po when they had to work up around his head and shoulders.

“Did Mumzy say we iz goin’ ter waagh?” Cezzy asked, throwing a razor clogged with hair over her shoulder. She sat crouched on Jamz’ right shoulder.

“WAAAAAGH!!” Jamz shouted excitedly. “WAAAAAAGH!”

“Stop movin’, ya big Nob!” Brudz snapped angrily at Jamz; she sat crouched on his left shoulder. “How’s we supposed ta fix yer armour when ya keep squirmin’?” Frustrated, she whacked the back of his armour with a spanner.

Not highly patient, Jamz screamed back at his smaller sisters, “Shut ya gab, I wanna get ta dis WAAAGH!”

“Get ready, da lot’ve yer.” Mumzy ordered. “I’ll draw yer a map. Yew can’t go via da trade route, it’s dangerous at da moment.”

Cezzy-Po plucked a large syringe from a leather bag which was sitting on the floor, and injected its contents none too gently (who’s ever heard of a gentle Ork?) into Jamz’ exposed, half-shaved, hairy back (yet another squig-hair transplant experiment - compliments of Cezzy-Po. It kept Jamz warm in winter). After some more yelling the big Ork fell asleep, twitching slightly.

“We’ll make sure ‘ee’s ready,” Cezzy assured Mumzy. She turned to Brudz. “Let’s jus’ slap ‘is stupid armour back on, an’ tell ‘im when ee wakes up it’s all fixed like. Ee won’t know da difference.”

Always willing to do things as quickly as possible, Brudz agreed. The pair hefted Jamz’ back plate on, screwed it into place, packed up their tools, and left their brother sitting hunched over on the scungy floor.

Mumzy nodded and turned around to walk away. “Don’t take all day.” She yelled.

Brudz threw her tool box into the side-cart of a shoddy looking motor bike. She had much pride in her bike, which once belonged to her and Cezzy’s spore father. “Weez needs ta git our gear ready for dis waagh. Wonder ‘oo we’re gonna be fightin’”?

Cezzy dumped her leather backpack with Brudz’ tool box. “Maybe dem oomies (A.N: oomies is how the Orks pronounce "humies") ‘ave invaded.” She replied, as thoughtfully as an Ork could. “Mumzy’ll tell us about it later I suppose.”

The two walked out of the garage, stepping over bits of machines and junk which littered the floor. The land outside was dry and cracked - shrivelled clumps of grass and rocks were scattered everywhere, like warts on a toads back. The only beings that seemed to like the dryness besides the Orks were the legions of flies.

Brudz picked the door up, and leant it against the side of the garage. “Remind me ta fix dat later, yeah?” She prompted her sister.

“What’s it need a door fer? It’s fine da way it is, jus’ throw it on da trash ‘eap.” Cezzy said, pointing to the pile of junk next to the garage. “Dat’s where it came from in da first place, anywayz.”

Ignoring her sister with a snort, Brudz walked over to the hut where Mumzy, Jamz, Cezzy-Po and herself all lived. For all of her life, Brudz had been told all about the Evil Suns (their clan) and how Hargut died. Unfortunately, the story Brudz knew and believed was slightly different to what actually happened forty years or so ago.

According to Jamz, Brudz’ and Cezzy-Po’s spore father Hargut had been a member of the Evil Sunz clan and had died some time ago, in a war (waagh!!). The Evil Sunz had plenty of Meks, and thus, plenty of machines. Their dad had been a warbiker - and like many a warbiker - was very zealous about fast bikes. Red bikes, according to the Evil Sunz, were the fastest kind of bikes. The warbiker met his end when he drove his bike over a minefield. Needless to say, there wasn’t much left of him afterwards except the remnants of his bike and, for reasons unknown, his leather jacket.

The Jacket was too big on Brudz, so she merely kept it tucked away in her ramshackle room. She held her spore father’s memory in high regard; she wanted to be as fast on a bike as he was – if not even faster. He was her role model, and even though he was no longer around, she wanted to do whatever she could that she thought would impress the deceased warbiker. The thought of meeting his old friends made her very excited; she hoped to find out what kind of high scores he had and how many races he won.

Brudz’ reminiscing faded away as she and her sister approached their hut. The ‘Hut’ wasn’t much more than a rough looking shanty held up by junk. It leant to the left, and creaked in the wind. The walls were an assortment of planks, scraped vehicle armour, old cement slabs, and it was wrapped in barbed wire. All in all, it was lucky to be standing.

Entering through an irregular shaped hole in the front of the house - which was the entry - Cezzy and Brudz walked in. They made their way to their rooms to collect their things. Cezzy was out within a minute, wearing a belt full of even more medical instruments (including pliers, knives, barbeque tongs and drill bits) and a slugga in her pocket (a pistol). Slung over her shoulder was a bag of stikkbombs (grenades of Orkish make), which she had constructed with the help of her sister.

“Muuuumzyyyy!” Brudz’ voice called out, “’Ave yer seen me blasta?” Brudz had a habit of loosing things. Her ‘kustom blasta’ being the most recent casualty.

“Check out da back!” Mumzy shouted from the office. “Yew’s always loosin’ fings, learn ta keep an eye on dem, will ya?”

“Yeah, yeah… I’s goin’ ta have ah look.” Brudz trudged out of her room and walked out the back of the house. The porch was covered in stuff nobody could be bothered putting anywhere else; Brudz began to dig through the mess in search of her blasta.

A clamber of hooves ran up the rickety stairs and onto the porch over to Brudz.

“Gah!” Brudz yelled out as something bit onto her leg. “Blasted squigs!”

Standing up, Brudz beat the small squig off her leg, and booted it off the porch. It squealed, hit the ground, and ran away to small heard of squigs in the back yard. Feral squigs escaping the pens and randomly attacking an Ork or Gretchin was not uncommon at the hut.

Meanwhile, Cezzy had wandered into the kitchen and was shuffling through the drawers. “Yeah… dis looks useful… Oo, I could use dis fer all sorts of operashuns… I might take dis fing, too!”

Mumzy’s voice boomed from the office. “Are you goin’ froo me kitch’n again, ya fievin’ runt?”

Quickly stuffing a cork-screw, a potato peeler and a cheese grater into her pockets, Cezzy pelted out of the kitchen. “No, Mumzy! I, is uh, jus’ gettin’ Jamz’ stuff togeva for da waagh!”

Mumzy called out in a more casual tone, “if yer lookin’ for ‘is choppa, it’s in da pantry somewherez.”

Jamz’ choppa was a large cleaver, which their mother often borrowed for butchering the squigs. Cezzy opened the pantry, and saw it hanging on the wall. She grabbed it from its hook; it was as long as Cezzy’s arm, quite heavy, and stained.

Lugging the cleaver back out to the garage, Cezzy threw it on the floor, and pulled out yet another syringe from her leather bag and injected Jamz with it. A few seconds later, he began to groggily wake up.

“’Ere’s yer cleaver,” Cezzy spoke, stepping back before her brother could yell about something, or lash out with his clawed arm or cleaver. “We’ll be leavin’ soon as Brudz finds ‘er blasta.”

Jamz stood up and shook himself like a dog. “We is gonna ‘ead ta Oric’s, ‘fore we goes ta waagh, righto’?”

“Yeah, course we will,” Cezzy replied.

Oric was a friend (well, as much of a ‘friend’ an Ork is capable of being) to the three Ork siblings; he and Jamz had fought together many times (against each other, and against the enemy). Oric was a Skarboy, an Ork that was generally rougher, meaner, and  more violent than other Orks. He drove a looted Leman Russ tank, stolen from the Imperial Guards during the last run-in with the Imperials (which was about one hundred years ago). He was a few years older than Jamz but it made little difference with how they got along.


Moments later, Brudz ran into the garage with a large gun attached to a battery pack strapped to her back. She was wearing a leather cap – ear flaps included - and goggles, “I founds me blasta!” She announced.

“Good fer you. Now, shud up n’ let’s git goin’!” Jamz snapped, swiping up his cleaver and attaching it to the back of his armour.

Cezzy jumped into the already-cramped side-cart of the motor bike  between the tool box and her leather medical bags. Brudz hopped on the drivers seat, and started the engine which spluttered to life after a few tries.

The bike sagged under the weight of the three Orks as Jamz clambered on at the back. It crawled out of the garage, clearly unable to cope with the one-ton mega Nob.
Mumzy stood impatiently by the driveway, with her arms crossed. Brudz pulled up beside her. The Nob greeted her eager brood. “You ‘ave ta ‘ead to da settlement, which is on dis map I drewed ya. Don’t go anywhere near da Goffs, dey’s on bad terms wiv us Evil Suns – not dat dey ever ‘asn’t. Yew’ll prob’ly be at waagh wiv dem Goffs by da time yer get to da tribe. Avoid da Deffskulls too if yer can, Gotshik reckons they’s causin’ trouble. It might escalate beyond dat in da coming weeks.”

Cezzy took the crumpled piece of paper. “Well, guess dis is good bye again, Mumzy. See ya whenz we beat da dirt outta da uv’er lot!”

“Make sure ya sistah gits some choppin’, shootin’ and stompin’ practice in, Jamz!” Mumzy ordered. “An’ be sure ya make dem boyz all betta, right, Cezzy? I don’t wanna hear ‘bouts us losin’ dis waagh!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jamz grumbled, waving a large mechanical claw dismissively. “I’ll kill ‘em if dey’s screw up, don’t worry Mumzy.”

Cezzy smirked. “Don’t worry, I’s got da best tools for surgery! And some real good fightin’ juice, too!”

Pulling her goggles over her eyes, Brudz revved the bike. “We’s be goin’ now, Mumzy, ta git to dis waagh. We’ll see yer when we gets back, yeah.”

The Orks screamed their goodbyes as the motor bike sped away (at twenty kilometres an hour…). Mumzy stood waving until the exhaust fumes and dust clouds blocked them from view.

One of the Slavers walked over to comfort Mumzy. “’Ere, ‘ave anuver beer,’ He said handing her a keg of fungus beer.

“Fanks Jof…” She took the keg and sculled the contents. She let off a loud burp when she was finished. “I ‘opes dat dey come ‘n’ visit one day…”


Ten minutes later, the bike picked up the speed as it plodded along the dirt road. Every time the bike hit a bump, sparks shot out from the rear wheel beneath Jamz.

“I thought you said dis bike cud go fast?” Jamz growled.

“It would go fasta if it weren’t so full o’ stuff.” Brudz replied, avoiding mentioning that it wasn’t designed for big, heavy, mega-armoured Nobs to sit on.

They turned onto the main road, which was roughly tarred, and headed past the squig farms towards the town of Tam’urt ten kilometres down the road.


~


Oric was sleeping soundly with his boom box screaming out an abysmal noise. He was using a chunk of metal as a pillow, and the tracks from a tank as blankets.

An alarm clock went off; Oric did not wake until the clock rattled its way off the shelf and landed on his head with a clunk.

“Shtupid clock…” he grumbled, and hauled himself off the floor. “Time ta make choppy stuff… right afta I eats somefin’.”

As usual he had slept in his clothes, and did not require dressing. Immediately, he stomped out of his dingy room into a thin mouldy hallway. The hallway lead straight to a kitchen; Oric walked in, reefed open the fridge, grabbed a six pack of beer, and shoved the whole thing into his maw of a mouth. After digesting his morning beer, he grabbed a leg of smoked squig out to gnaw on hungrily.

Oric walked back out of the kitchen, chewing on his squig leg. The only other door besides the one to his bedroom was in the middle of the hallway, on the left wall. Oric swung the door open, and on the other side was a huge forge - which Oric operated when he wasn’t at war (waagh!). It produced choppas of all shapes and sizes.

Several Gretchin (a smaller, runty Ork breed), ran about the place stoking fires and pouring molten metal into moulds. Oric picked up a hammer and tongs, and walked over to his workshop; which housed an anvil and a blade sharpener, as well as other forging tools. He swatted away a Gretchin with his squig leg; it screamed piteously as it burned to death in a nearby pot of molten metal. Despite his complete lack of care for any of the Gretchin, many of them began to swarm around - waiting for Oric to throw his squig bone away.

The Ork sat down on a stool at a work bench and looked down at the Gretchin. Biting off the last hunk of meat, he said “’Ere, you lot want dis? Catch!” He threw the stripped squig bone far across the forgery.

Eager to chew on the squig bone, all the Gretchin scrambled after it in a riot. A few were pushed into the molten metal tubs, and other were trampled. The first band of Gretchin to reach the bone drew out knives and began to slash at each other.

“Heh heh heh, dey’s always good to watch.” Oric grunted in amusement.
Oric got to work, bashing pieces of hot metal into rough clubs and stabby things. Although most Orks would try to do as little as possible, Oric liked making things which hurt people; it was a fetish of some kind.

After finishing his rough clubs and stabby things, Oric moved to the sharpening wheel. Stuffing a fat cigar into his gob with one hand, he grabbed one of the weapons with the other, and put it on the wheel. He switched the wheel on and it began to spin. Sparks poured from where the weapon came into contact with the wheel; leaning forward, Oric lit his cigar in the fountain of red, white and yellow.

The minutes seemed to pass as quickly as the wheel turned, while Oric puffed cigar after cigar and added a nice edge to his weapons. Feeling thirsty again, Oric called out to a close by Gretchin. “Oi’, You! Git me some beer!”

Oric continued to sharpen weapons as he waited for his beer.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

Oric nearly stabbed himself as he jumped in surprise.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAGH!” Jamz rumbled again.

“I heard ya da first time!” Oric shouted, sitting back down on his stool. “Whadoya want? Can’t ya se I’m doin’ stuff ya loud Nob!”

“An’ ‘ello ta you, too.” Brudz greeted sarcastically, stepping out from behind her brother and sniffing the air “Why’s it smell like a barbi-cue in ‘ere?”

Cezzy-Po joined her sister in sniffing the air. “I liked barbi-cues! Yum! Can wes ‘ave some?”

“Move it!” A Gretchin carrying a six pack of beer snarled, shoving it’s way past Cezzy, and avoiding Jamz.

Oric shuffled through a small box sitting on the bench beside the wheel, looking for another cigar. He absent mindedly reached out to grab another weapon with his free hand. Accidentally grabbing the Gretchin by the head, he put the small creature’s skull on the wheel. Oric looked up when the screaming Gretchin dropped the beer, smashing it on the floor.

“Blasted Gretchin!” Oric growled. “Now me cigar’s all wet! An’ me beer’s all smashed!”

Cezzy stepped back as blood and beer crept towards her feet. “I don’t think dat’s good! Not sure if I c’n fix dat…”

Turning off the wheel with an agitated sigh, Oric got up from the stool and held what was left of the Gretchin to Cezzy-Po. “’Ere, you c’n barbi-cue dis if ya want, I guess.”

Jamz licked his lips where the blood splattered. “Mmm, Gretchin taste good.” He reached out and plucked the Gretchin corpse from Oric, and shoved it into his huge maw, chewing with his mouth open.

Cezzy-Po snarled at Jamz. “I wanted ta barbi-cue it!”

“Raw is betta!” Jamz spat between bites.

Brudz eyed some nearby Gretchin hungrily. Sensing their doom, the little runt-like Ork creatures ran away. Dismayed, Brudz said to her sister, “Let’s jus’ go git somethin’ dat's already dead from da fridge, yeah?”

“Sounds good, dere must be somethin’ yummy in da fridge.” Cezzy replied and the pair bounded off towards the back of the forge, where the door to the kitchen was.
“Don’t go eatin’ all me squig meat! And if I finds yer touched me beer, I’ll feed ya to me Gretchin!” Oric yelled out. He then turned to Jamz. “Anywayz, wat’s dis you said ‘bout waagh?”

“Mumzy said to us dis mornin’ dat we gots to go waagh.” Jamz explained, picking at his teeth with a claw. “All I know is dat Cezzy-Po was given a map wit da locayshen of wheres we gots ta go. Mumzy didn’ say much.”

“I can’t wait to git to dis waagh!” Oric said rubbing his giant hands together. “I’ll git to see all me choppy bits bein’ used! An’, I’ll git ta kill somethin’, yeah. Wonder whys I never ‘eard nothin’ bout dis waagh ‘fore nows?”

Jamz belched, and shrugged. “Doubt anyone’d be game ‘nough ta come inta dis dump ta tell ya, ‘sides me. Dunno how ya couldn’t hear da noise from da street though. Dey’s all screamin’ bout da waagh. WAAAAAARGH!”

Pointing to the brick and metal walls, Oric explained. “’Case ye haven’t noticed, dis ‘ere forge ‘as thick walls. Not much I c’n hear from out dere, ‘specially ova all da noise of ‘ammers and bangy clangy stuffs.”

A loud, crude laugh echoed through the forgery. “What da hell’s them two runtlets laughin’ at?” Jamz scowled, recognising his sister’s voices.

Jamz and Oric walked to the source of the noise, up the far end of the forgery. Brudz and Cezzy-Po were crawling over a large scrap heap. On closer inspection, Jamz realised it was actually the remains of a tank.

“Look at dis!” Brudz smirked, and pulled off a mangled turret. “What da ‘ell happened? Looks like ya drove it ova a cliff! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“Stop laughin’ at Tankabell, and stop touchin’ ‘er! I gots plans ta restore ‘er!” Oric ran over to the pile of mangled metal, and tried to swat Brudz, but she climbed higher.

Tankabell was the name of Oric’s what-once-was looted Leman Russ tank, which now sat in a pile in the dark corner of the forgery. He treated it like royalty, even in the tank’s darkest hours. The tank, until recently, had been in almost perfect Orkish condition.

Cezzy-Po jumped down, and brushed her clothes off. “I aint no Mek, but I’d say dat tank is screwed beyond fixin’, Oric.”

“Yeah, exactly, you aint no mek so shut ya yap!” Oric growled back. “Tankabell’ll be fixed, you’ll see!”

Brudz climbed down, with the turret still in her hands, and stood beside her sister, confirming her diagnosis. “Well, I am a Mek, and I offishally sayz dat tank is croaked it.”
“She aint croaked it!” Oric roared, spraying spittle everywhere. “I’s gonna fix ‘er!”

“Ha!” Jamz snorted. “You couldn’t fix a feast in a squig pit”, let alone a tank. How’d ya git it in dat mess anywayz? It didn’t look like that two weeks ago, heh heh heh.”

Oric seemed to calm down, after stroking the gun turret from his tank for a moment. “Well,” he said, “It happen’d somethin’ like dis…”