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Hi all, I'm back after a looong absence from these forums.
A lont time ago I pposted my ork fluff here, which can still be found in the ink in my sig. (go to the "first draught" page).
Anyway, i'd thought I'd share with you all what I have done further to it, which is basically to completely re-write it all from scratch, but in more depth and detail.
This is the story so far (note that it is unfinished, and I need to add bits and peices to certain places):
They heard it before they saw it, and they felt it long before that.
The very earth beneath their feet trembled. The wind, which had been a gale for the past weeks, died down to still the air, only now bringing the distant stench of Ork.
A low rumble of the very edge of hearing, steadily raising to a threat, like a wave of malicious intent that grew the more they feared its presence.
What used to be pleasant, almost perpetual grassland only broken by the wooded hills was now steaming in the glaring heat of a summer that had now lasted three years, with no indication of the weather bringing anything more. Bereft of rain, the grass had long since been reduced to bare soil; the woods were just graying and burnt skeletons of their former beauty. Delloran Prime was an empty shell of what it used to be, ravaged by the endless sun. The scorched dust now rose in the still air, disturbed by something over the horizon.
The air brought more sound, a deep resonance. From the red clouds shapes burst forth, winged contraptions which the laws of physics would never allow the gift of flight.
Appearing as mere moths around a lamp, the contraptions flew out from the clouds in front of the rising sun. The Guardsmen of the 101st Delloran Rifles squinted and shaded their eyes. Steadily, unavoidably, the shapes grew into recognisable objects, the hum of their engines now deafening as they drew closer to the Sons of Delloran. A ripple went through the lines, as each man drew a long, deep breath in preparation for the attack. Wary glances were exchanged, feet were shifted nervously.
For an instant, the men were blinded as the quick jets approached, the sun gaining just the right angle on the wings to reflect its gaze to their retinas. A moment later, they saw the jets clearly for the first time.
The first thing they noticed was its teeth, or the plating designed to look like teeth around the front of the plane over the blunted nose. The ****pit was haphazardly welded to the bodywork with numerous bolts; those with scopes were able to dimly make out the torso of a green muscled humanoid being, behind the cracked and chipped glass.
The wings spread out six metres to either side, looking to thick to possibly stay airborne, each holding a small barrel in the midsection. Their tails were forked at the top, giving the thing the impression of a stunted bird.
Below each of these devices hung what was unmistakably a pair of bombs.
They came on in around seven groups of five, in â€śVâ€? formations. In the centre of each of these Vs was another craft like to that of the others, only its wings were considerably longer, and carried vastly more of the bomb-shapes, though these were smaller, and possibly due to a trick of the sun, were moving slightly.
The roar of the engines was now the only thing audible to the Guardsmen.
It is a strange thing, that a man alone will stand firm in spite of his foes, despite having no chance of success. It is also strange that when such individuals are together in a group, they are likely to let their senses (the Imperium would call it cowardice) take the better of them, and they will break.
Captain Neeral, despite his relative youth, has had much experience on the front lines with the standard infantry. He knows the mind of his men; he knows that the threat of death at the hands of a Commissar is not enough, when the threat of the enemy is greater. To win, they need hope.
Captain Neeral was famous for spurring his men to greater feats of valour, when they feel threatened, he gives them hope. To this end, another, louder, closer noise assaulted the ears of the Sons of Delloran.
Far from bowing their heads against a new foe, the Guardsmen craned their necks for a view, and raised their arms in praise, cheering on the new arrivals.
The Valkyries of Delloran Prime swept low over the lines of Guardsmen, pulling up further, engaging the Ork Fighters head on, in their standard formation of threes.
Similar to the Ork fighters in size, the Vultures had bi-forked tails, and arched wings; beneath each of these hung a lascannon and a multiple missile launcher. Under the ****pit the pilot had control of a pivoting heavy bolter. The arsenal of the Vulture was built for aerial combat, whilst the armament of the Orks seemed to be geared towards raids on the ground forces. The Imperial flock was outnumbered three to one; you had to pity those unfortunate Orks.
The clean buzz of the Vulture engines shook the Guardsmen, as they crouched back to the ground, shielding their face from the newly disturbed dust. Emboldened by the arrival of their air forces, the infantry once again took cover, raised their scopes to the horizon, and awaited the Ork ground forces to strike.
To the sky, each force was now but a mile away from the other. Snippets of the orders were heard across the Vox systems of the communications personnel with the Captain and the other commanding officers.
The voice of Craire, the Captain of the Squadron barked out.
â€śMove to attack speed. Right flanks draw off ten oâ€™clock. Hess, on my wing! Talson, swing over the centre.â€?
â€śRoger that coming on your wing.â€?
â€śComing up Starboard.â€?
Little of this made any sense to the infantry, but they watched as the Vultures pulled into formations and swung around each other.
Captain Neeral sent his own voice through the Vox.
â€śCraire, those central planes, what do they carry?â€?
â€śBringing up displayâ€¦ Bombs, same as those on the smaller fighters, limited aerial capability. Waitâ€¦ Dam scannersâ€¦â€?
The Vox was interrupted sporadically by the static that plagued them whenever Orks were near.
â€śScanners show-â€¦ troopsâ€¦ Does anyone haveâ€¦ vision...?â€?
â€śYes sir I can make outâ€¦ Damn it no, its gone-â€¦â€?
â€śThis canâ€™t be rightâ€¦ arenâ€™t bombs! Those areâ€¦ -fantry!â€?
â€śRepeat that Craire?â€? Neeral was straining to ignore the static.
â€śBring it aroundâ€¦ flank! On m-â€¦ -wing Hess! Neeral thoseâ€¦ jump infantry! I rep- â€¦ -ump Infantry! Strapped under â€¦ -ings of the fighter!â€?
â€śConcentrate on the landing craft!â€? Neeral roared down the Vox, glaring at the Orks high above him.
â€śCaptain, thoseâ€¦ -nâ€™t landers, they areâ€¦ drop- â€¦â€?
The gap was closing. Craire gave up his attempts to speak over the Vox to the ground forces; more important now was keeping his Vultures in the air. Thankfully the communication between the aircraft was unimpaired.
â€śCheck positions, easy now!â€?
â€śReds in positionâ€?
â€śBlues on Targetâ€?
â€śAmbers on your wing, ready sirâ€?
â€śFire one salvo, Spear Gun configuration, NOW!â€?
Each of the middle groups of three launched a pair of missiles from beneath their wings, soaring and slanting through the air toward the foremost of the Ork Vs.
Before contact had been made, the Reds, Blues and Ambers had pulled up above, and Craire was issuing more commands.
â€śRight flank move in, fire Delta Pattern, NOW!â€?
â€śIndigos are away!â€?
â€śGreys here, firing nowâ€?
The Indigo triplet closed in on another Ork V, launching missiles into the fighters on one side, destroying each one. The Greys then had the perfect shot into the heart of the V, right at the Ork Bomber plane. Lascannon lit the clouds above in pink, the bomber exploded into several fragments, which were sent skimming in all directions, clipping another Ork fighter, sending it off course.
The load being carried by the bomber was ejected, but overtaken by the flames. A short burst of speed and effortless change in direction allowed the Indigos to turn into the remaining two fighters, and destroying them with lascannon fire.
Far below, watching the sky battle with awe (and at a safe distance away so the destroyed craft would not inadvertently fall upon their heads), the Imperial Guard readied themselves for the next event.
Over the horizon, the dust was growing; only now the shapes of the Ork army could be seen, coming through in large transports and many smaller vehicles. Those with scopes could dimly make out the head vehicle. It was massive in size, easily comparable to a super heavy tank that the Guards of Delloran had only ever heard stories of: the BaneBlade. What they would give for one of those now.
The lead vehicle looked very strange to the men, as though it wasnâ€™t using tracks to move, no wheels, but something else entirely; something that gave it a sort of loping stride. In a few minutes they would see it clearly, and no just what horror the Orks had bred.
â€śWhereâ€™s the damn tanks?â€? Neeral was back on the Vox. The Infantry had no support, the tank regiment should have been there by now, but Neeral had heard nothing from their commander, Halfrin.
â€śHalfrin, damn you, come in!â€?
Commissar Rosre was with him. They were a little way from the men, telling them of the delay to their support would not be wise for morale.
â€śHalfrin is a good soldier, it is most unlike him to be lateâ€? He whispered. His bloodshot eyes glanced back toward the lines, his gaze immediately convincing the nearest trooper to give up any attempts to eavesdrop. Rosre turned his scarred visage back to Neeral.
â€śWhat is your decision Cap- Captain! Your arm!â€?
Neeralâ€™s bionic left arm, joined just below the shoulder to his corporeal flesh, had sparked, and slammed itself onto the ground beside him.
â€ś****! Bastard thing!â€? Neeral scowled at his arm, twitching sporadically, and removed it with a sharp click from its socket.
â€śThis damn dirt gets in it, Iâ€™ve had it seen too twice now. The bloody tech had better do something useful this time.â€?
Rosre smirked. He had his own dislike of the mechs, and had to execute some of them for refusing to perform hastily needed battle repairs.
His arm lying uselessly in the dirt, Neeral went back to the Vox in hopeless attempts to get through to Halfrin.
In the skies, the Orks had peeled off around a third of their fighters to combat Craire and his Vultures. They had abandoned their attempts at any consistent formation now, instead breaking off individually in many directions, making them unpredictable.
Craire brought his centre planes through the mass of Ork Fighters to target the larger bombers that were heading for the ground forces. To his left, his wingman was blown from the sky as several Ork fighters picked him off, big shoota fire tearing through his engine.
Despite the obviously inferior Ork guns, they were taking their toll on the Vultures.
"Greens on my wing. Follow through, Hose pattern! Watch your left Roylins"
"Above you, turn about. Strike though central, hard left, left! ARGHH-"
An Ork had flown straight into Green Leader from below, spilling hot metal around onto the planes around.
The reds were in trouble.
"Watch your tail Drinne! You picked one up"
"I can shake him"
"Go hard right i'll take him off you"
"Roger that hard right now"
"watch that crossfire"
"no wait, I ca-"
Bullets sprayed through Drinne, the air rushed out of the shattered ****pit, and his vulture went into corkscrew, falling out from the fight, plummeting to the ground below.
(In this part I will write more about what is happening on the ground)
"GREYS TURN IN! WINDFIRE PATTERN NOW!"
Garne, the squad leader of the Greys team had seen the centre in trouble, and after dealing with the right flank with the Indigo's, was rushing into the orks again.
Missiles opened out, shattering several Ork craft. Further Lascannon fire took out another one. The Greys were out the other side before the remaining Orks flew straight through them.
"Glad you could make it Garne! Turn hard now. Indigo's, follow my tail, watch that left!"
Craire was taking control now, the Vultures were slicing into the scattered and unorganised ork fighters.
Soon the Ork remnants pulled away, making for the larger host in its still unswerving course towards the Imperials on the field.
Craire sounded triumphant over the Vox.
"They've left their tails to us to snap at Pilots! Lets show them what we can really do! Teams, sound off"
"Greys here, intact"
"Greens, 1 down, Arley leading"
"Blues, 1 down"
"Ambers, 2 down, Liffre Leading. My guns are down sir."
"Pull back to base Liffre, get reshipped and out here again, bring along the Valkyries, something tells me we'll need them. Reds where are you?"
"Reds are all down sir"
"Bring up Pilots, attack speed again, Emperor's grace"
"Sir, where are their larger craft, there were more than that there"
"Damn it he's right, anyone have visual?"
"THERE ABOVE US AND BEHIND!"
"Radar shows negative are you sure?"
From the clouds above, five of the larger Ork Bombers poured, spitting rounds down at the Vultures, but then pulling up. Their cargo of the missile-somethings had been released.
The Pilots turned into standard evasive procedure, there was little need, bombs dropped onto aircraft like this were never accurate, only the last resort of a fool. The bombers themselves had pulled off back to the main group, safe from the distracted Vultures.
The bombs however had other ideas. Jets engaged from each one, instantly changing their direction and speed, almost appearing to attack the vultures.
"What in the Emperor's..."
"EVADE, MISSILE ATTACK FROM STARBOARD!"
The Vultures flew into effortless manouvers, but somehow the missile-bombs followed, even predicted the next move of the craft they were aiming for.
Suddenly one connected with Craire's ****pit.
All comments and suggestions are welcome. I do realise that it doesn't seem very Orky yet, but thats because this is the build up before I get into the proper Ork stuff.
The only problem I can see is that a vulture is a gunship (or is it the troop transport? I always confuse it with the Valkyrie).. It's not built for dogfighting.
The two Imperial fighter planes are called the Thunderbolt (a heavy fighter bomber) and the lightning (a lighter interceptor.)
I was never sure about those planes...
I'll change them all to Lightning Fighters then.
Here is a bit more, following on straight from the above passage:
For an instant Craire gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, bracing for death. It didn’t come. Astonishingly, he opened his eyes, heart gripped by the truth of what he saw. These were no rockets tracing the pilots, they were Orks.
One hand gripped impossibly to the edge of the ****pit, the other wielding a huge blade back and forth into it, the Ork stared into Craire’s eyes, inaudibly roaring over the noise of the engines and the fire fight around them. Its skin was dark green, eyes glowing a lurid yellow, bright red helmet strapped firmly around its square scarred jaw. Teeth bared in a wicked grin, shoulders bracing against the air flow. Strapped along its back was the explanation of their confusion, a large rocket jet pack, finned, and baring grotesque effigies of teeth and smiling Orks.
Being a man of the air, Craire had never been this close to an Ork, he was stunned by it, barely registering as its fist finally tore the frames open, and clamped around his neck. All he knew was the worst smell he had ever had the misfortune of smelling, before he felt his body straining against his harness. The straps gave way; he was wrenched through the ****pit. Shards of twisted metal scrapped past him as the Ork threw him carelessly into the air.
Arley was behind Craire, as the rocket shapes buzzed around them all, hints of red and green seeming to hang from each one, but going to quickly to tell for certain. Looking forwards, he saw briefly a human form and a canopy spin from the plane in front, straight into his own engines. In a heart beat, he was ripped apart as his Vulture exploded.
Liffre, the last of the Amber team, was flying low on fuel now, but the air field was now just in sight. A glance below told him of the fate of the tank company that Neeral so desperately was waiting for.
Halfrin and his tanks were stationary in a narrow pass, smoldering hulls were all that was left of the front and rear tanks, trapping the others between them. Orks were everywhere, pouring over each tank, wrenching the hatches off, flinging large stick-like grenades inside. Others clamped huge manhole cover sized devices onto the hulls of the tanks. Exploding, they tore the Imperial beasts apart, gaping holes blown through the hulls, where the tangled and bloodied crew tried vainly to crawl out, only to be struck down by the axes of the Orks. Though the pilot couldn’t see it, Halfrin himself was lying in the dirt next to the shattered husk of his command Leman Russ tank, blood covered his chest. His lifeless eyes staring into the sky from a head that no longer sat on his formerly proud shoulders.
Liffre couldn’t do anything about it, feeling sick, he radioed the air field, which in turn relayed the message to the ground forces.
Neeral stepped away from the Vox, his face had blanched. Uncaring for the slight shocks his bionic arm was giving him whilst a medic team bonded it back onto his shoulder, he told the news to Rosre.
Predictably, the Commissar’s face remained dead straight, a hint of doubt in his eyes as he took in the expression on Neeral’s own visage. Times like this were when officer’s loyalty was truly tested. Neeral had never wavered before, but Halfrin had been a good friend.
“So then, Captain, your course of action?”
Gazing across to the approaching Ork army, still in the distance, Neeral composed himself, his eyes now aflame with his hatred for the Xenos.
He glanced upwards, thinking of the last report from Garne, now in command of the air fighters overhead. The battle in the skies had turned ill. The Ork jump troops were circling the Vultures, the Ork fighters gaining a chance to regroup and once again bring their full armaments into play. The ominous and unwieldy shapes of the larger Ork bomber craft rushing towards the position of his ground forces set Neeral’s mind into action.
Ignoring Rosre’s question, he went back to the Vox to Air Control.
“All our fighters are out already sir, Valkyrie transports are currently on route to your destination with the Stormtroopers of the 102nd, we have contacted the Air command of Dantir City, they have mobilised a detail of Lightnings and Thunderbolts. E.T.A 2 hours.”
“2 hours sir.”
“Thank you Air Control” The Captain handed the Vox over to an officer, instructing him to contact the city of Justakh with details of their situation, and to make any necessary preparations should the battle in Delloran Prime go awry.
“Your course of action, Captain?” Rosre repeated, a little more firmly.
“This is not a fight we can win Commissar, the Ork ground forces are 20 minutes from our position, our Air forces are 2 hours from our position, and our armoured division are all dead. We have several Ork craft coming towards us, with jump infantry; they will not allow us to make any sort of stand against the main Ork army. We also have around 200 Orks to our rear, in all eventualities bringing our own tanks in against us. To stay here is suicide, to attack, equally fruitless. Our only option, as far as my, limited experience guides me, is to fall back, and engage the Orks to our rear first. We retake, or destroy our tanks, and we make back for the city. From there we gain the advantage of cover, and the Ork vehicles will not be able to enter. If they try, we will make a barricade of them in all the chokepoints. We can hold out in the city for just about 2 hours, provided we get there in time.”
Neeral made for the Vox again, Rosre stood in his way.
“Do not let your thirst for vengeance for Halfrin cloud your judgment Captain, you hold the honour of the Emperor of Mankind, and you will do your rightful duty in this situation!”
“Stand down, Commissar”
“You will not shirk your duty!”
“Stand down, Commissar!” Neeral stood rigidly straight, eyes glaring at Rosre.
“This is the only option available to us; I will not toss away the lives of my men for a mere gesture of honourable sacrifice! Your input is appreciated Rosre, but sometimes you forget your place! In case you have forgotten, I have fought the Orks before-.”
Rosre took a glance at Neeral’s bionic arm.
“-and they will not cower against our brave stand here, they will laugh and spit in its face!”
“As you say, Captain” Rosre gave a small bow, and turned aside. His face didn’t show it, but in that moment he fully appreciated High Command’s reasons for appointing someone so young. Neeral’s loyalty was unwavering, but he was a realist nonetheless. Rosre was proud to be serving with him.
Neeral jumped into barking orders down the Vox. All across the lines, troops began to move out, into the ridges and paths that led back to the city.
Last edited by KingBurriss; January 21st, 2006 at 16:10.
here is a new part, not following on from the old one, but later on in the story, the first time we get to see the story from the Ork PoV:
The unwieldy form of a particularly large Ork heaved the remainder of its torso out of the soil, below the moist roots of a rotting oak. Spluttering and coughing up the damp earth, it hoisted one knee out of the ground, followed by the other. It then caught its last foot in a tree root, and fell flat on its face.
Exhausted after its long haul out from the ground, the newly spawned creature decided it was quite comfortable exactly where it was, and from its lowly vantage point amongst the roots and the dirt, it surveyed its surroundings. Immediately noticeable was the small clearing in the woods it was in, was mostly covered in weeds, and mould. Fungal growths sprouted everywhere, from under every rock and root. The closest trees were mostly rotting away, the healthier ones throwing dappled green light onto the mossy floor. A shaft of pure sunlight cast its gaze over a large collection of fungi, now bent and broken around the hole from whence the Ork had emerged. It would have been poetic, had the Ork have had any concept of what a poem was. All that was on its mind now, was a small creature, bumbling its way through a grassy knoll on the other side of the clearing from where the Ork lay.
All of a sudden, the Ork decided that the root sticking into its ribs wasnâ€™t as comfortable as he first thought. A loud rumble from his stomach, and I am a he, he thought, confirmed this. New thoughts flooded his brain like a swarm. Hungry, get food, Ork, fight, Squig, eat, run, chewâ€¦ It all made perfect sense. I am an Ork, I am hungry, Squig is food, eat the Squigâ€¦
Licking his green lips, he pulled himself up again, attempting to use a branch to stabalise himself. The rotten beam was crushed in his vice Ork grip, and having forgotten that his foot was still entwined in the roots, he once again found he face buried in the soil.
He roared and spat out the earth again, and twisted around to get a view of the grasping root. His call startled several birds from the trees, his goal however, the small round furry creature, was busy licking the moss on a rock, uncaring about the huge green monstrosity vying to consume it.
Eat Squig, get to Squig, hungry, trapped, release, fight, stamp, crush, killâ€¦ New instincts were passing through the Orkâ€™s brain at light speed. He wanted the Squig, because he was hungry, and the Squig was edible. He canâ€™t reach the Squig, because he is trapped in the root. To get to the Squig, he must get out of the root, the root is his enemy, and he must crush his enemy.
Something wasnâ€™t quite right though, the Ork felt incomplete somehow. Groping around the floor for leverage, his fist closed around a stronger part of the branch he had just broken off. His eyes widened, glaring red, a wide grin formed across his lips.
Perfect, weapon, crush, hit it, smack it, crush it, chop it, kill itâ€¦
â€śYouze take da Choppa ya git! I wants me Squig anâ€™ no bleedinâ€™ wood snake is gonna stop me!â€?
Rapidly he set about pounding at the root with his improvised weapon, missing several times, splintering the wood on the rocks around him. He very quickly got the hang of it, and finally his branch connected with the root. Unfortunately his foot was also in the same position.
â€śBLOODY OW! YOU BLARDY MAGGOTY NO-GUD RUNTY BUGGER! Iâ€™LL KRUMP YA!â€?
nobody got any comments at all?
Anybody bother reading it?
I've done some more now, following from the last bit I posted:
In a surprisingly agile maneuver, the Ork thrust his upper torso toward his entrapped foot, and took to clawing and biting his way free. Finally the root tore from the soil, his foot coming free, and the sudden event caused his knee to rise up swiftly, and forcefully, into his jaw.
This time, the Squig did take note of the screams of frustration emitted from the Orks throat. With a small “meep”, the creature blundered away into the forest.
The movement caught in the edge of the Ork’s vision, anger fueling his desire, he launched from the ground, pursuing his prey on all fours for a few yards, before his back legs took the strain, now using his arms as leverage to plow through the trees. Slightly clumsy at first, his powerful legs found the pattern of running soon enough. The Squig however, was about as built for running as the average house brick. Panicking with the sound of its pursuer’s roars behind it, the Squig made a leap into a clump of grass.
The Ork bellowed his triumph, and leapt after it in a similar fashion. What neither of them realised, was that the grass hid the edge of quite a steep drop. After his leap, the Ork found himself falling face first down said decline. The Squig was at the bottom, surprisingly on both feet, shaking itself off from the trauma of the fall. The Ork continued rolling, accompanied by stones and a fair chunk of the grass that he slammed past in his jump. If he had known better, he would have at least attempted to organise himself to place his flailing limbs in some sort of landable position. However he had not quite learnt that falling hurts yet, despite his aptitude in the falling process. He had so far spent more than half his spawned life in a horizontal position after all.
With a definite finality to the fall, the Ork slammed into the ground, again, a mossy, rotten soil, with rocks and fungus everywhere, and the last of the trees from the forest. Dazed, he squinted at what he thought was the ground, as that was where he thought his legs must be. His feet were apparently dangling in front of him, and the ground was a light hazy blue.
Gravity suggested otherwise.
His feet tumbled back down towards him, his body twisting around awkwardly as he hit the floor again. Nursing his neck, he took another look to try to align himself with the surroundings, and to find that bloody Squig…
The Squig however had other problems, as another, even bigger Ork closed its jaws around the struggling creature, spurting it’s innards around its mouth, oily Squig juice dribbling down its chin, its lips in a wide pleasurable grin.
The first Ork was not amused, not in the slightest. Not even a little bit, was that first Ork amused. In actual fact, the Ork was so far not amused, that it could be said that he was royally hacked off at the situation.
I don’t care ‘ow big ‘e is, dat was MY EFFING SQUIG!
“Worra yoo lookin’ at boy?” said the larger Ork, eyes narrowed accusingly, as he rammed the last of the Squig down his throat.
The first Ork righted himself (and not for the last time), and glared back.
“MINE!” His anger only allowing for one word at a time, he instead pointed violently to get his message across. “SQUIG! MINE!”
“Yours is it mate? ‘Fraid not, finderz is da keeperz, loosers can go scramble around wiff da Gretchen. You is da looser mate. I is Warboss, an’ I have spoken, now feck off.”
“Warboss are ya? An’ what klan are yoo in charge of den, boy?”
The question confused the larger Ork, but this small upstart had insulted him, the question was moot.
“Now youze is to be showing me da propa respect, or youze gonna find yooseself hurtin’ mate!”
“Is it a fight yoo is wantin’ den, I spit at runtz like yoo, ya bleedin’ grot! Yoo takes me Squig, I’ll take yer innards!”
“Righ’ Das it mate! Yer dun!”
“Ey ladz, we’ze got a Boss over ‘ere!” A smaller Ork had been drawn to the shouting, and he came from around the edge of the forest, followed by a group of Orks, all a lot less covered in mud and dirt than the two combatants. They also had fashioned crude clothing for themselves.
“We bin waitin’ ferra propa Boss fer ages, we’ze all spawned out yesterday, where ya got to-“
“’Ey, deres two of ‘em…” another Ork chimed in. “Dat in’t right.”
“Das why deys gonna slug it out ya stupid git” A third Ork gave the second a sharp fist in the face.
“Dat ‘uns bigger, wos da small one up too den? Biggest is da Warboss, every Ork knows dat” another Ork pointed out. In normal circumstances, he would never have referred to our Ork as small; he was anything but when compared to the majority of the crowd. In fact he dwarfed most of them; it’s just that the Ork he had picked a fight with was even bigger still.
“Maybe gud ferra Nob, but ‘e ain’t gonna win dis, an’ den he won’t be gud fer nowt.”
“Shurrup, I’s tryin’a watch dis!”
The two combatants squared off. The smaller’s growls being accompanied by those of his still empty stomach. The larger grinning, it seemed that he had a sure win, but he had not yet realised just how much he had to learn about walking around yet. The hole he had spawned from lay only two feet from him, he had only just stood up when a Squig rolled down the hill to him.
The ork stuff is great.. Very orky, in fact.
However, are orks born notably different sizes? I'm not sure.
Anyway, nice stuff. You're writing style has improved a lot, I've noticed. So well done.
There is very little fluff on Orks. From what I understand they are either spawned small, and grow to be Warboss-esque through fighting, or spawned pretty big already, and just become a boss from the start, and get bigger anyway :p
Basically, due to the lack of other info, I've had a pretty free reign on it.
Cheers for the reply, all one of you.