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419 Posts
Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Hello Lo, this will be my story thread, which I will update as the mood takes me. May your WAAAAGH! never falter.

Ork Chess.

"Pawn ter F8!" The ork Warboss bellowed through his megaphone. Below him there was a huge checkered floor where twenty- ish slaves stood trembling, each standing in there own square. The figures nearest Rumpin' Backthumpa were coated head to toe in a black, tar like substance. They were all facing away from him, staring at their white clad opponents.

Runtherds swarmed over to the right hand side of the board and zapped a bloody old man forward two squares. Crying out, the man advanced fearfully. He clutched dementedly to his rusty buckler and knife. Across from Rumpin', and on a similar podium to him, Old One- eye the resident Big Mek surveyed the battlefield. A sly grin emerged from between his blistered lips, revealing a jagged set of uneven teeth. Flicking his megaphones switch to 'on', he ordered:
"Horsey, kill F8."

A dejected rough rider and his even more dejected horse charged forward, fearful of electrocution. The old man raised his grimy shield half- heartedly before being skewered through; the shimmering hunting lance piercing both man and metal. A chorus of cheers ensued from the Mek supporters. One eye gestured smugly at the corpse which was now being dragged of the board by a bunch of grots. Rumpin' responded by making a gesture of his own.

The angry warboss then shifted his attention back to his living pieces. Relative to the Mek's, there wasn't many.

"OI! Bisherp! Kill dat zogging 'orsey!"

A rugged Catachan slave who was the veteran of three chess matches so far moved to carry out the warboss' orders. He almost enjoyed these matches. It sure as hell beat cleaning out the drops anyway. Running forward, he tossed two blackened knives at the apprehensive duo. His aim was unerring; both rider and steed fell heavily, dead before they hit the ground.
"Save me a leg off dat der 'orsey," demanded Rumpin' as the panting grots struggled off the board with the heavy beast.

One eye grunted with satisfaction. The ever predictable warboss had left himself wide open. The mek moved in for the kill.

"Queen ter A2. Orkmate!"

The warboss stood still for several seconds, his left eye twitching. This was his 37th consecutive loss. Calmly he slipped on his power Klaw, and proceeded to leap down onto the board yelling WAAAAGH! at the top of his lungs.Anarchy reigned as all hell broke loose.

"For da love of Gork," muttered the Big Mek.

"How much of a zoggin' sore loser can you be?"


419 Posts
Discussion Starter · #2 · (Edited)
Another week, another tale. WIP.

Tribal dominance.

Da fight pit was surrounded by bloodthirsty boyz, all eagerly waiting the upcoming showdown. Their Warboss, Rumpin' Backthumpa, had been challenged by one of the Nobz. Skarfinga da Bull was a savage and proud warrior who disagreed with Rumpin' regarding the tribes style of warfare. Da Bull wished to return to clan Snakebite ways, and this was reflected in his appearance. Swirling and complex tattoos covered his naked form. The 'ink' was blood from his several victims. His hair had been stiffened into spikes using squig dung. He stood bulging with green muscles baring his fangs. He was the definition of feral magnificence.

Warboss Backthumpa differed in several ways. What he lacked in sheer mass, he more than made up for in size; at nine feet tall he towered over his opponent. Rumpin' was a firm believer in the ways of clan Evil Sunz, a huge fan of the colour red as well as anything mekanikal. He had paid a bad Doc to rip out one of his eyes and replace it with a robotic lens that helped him prioritize threats. He had covered himself in random pieces of scrap from Da Junkyard, and on his seven remaining fingers there was a myriad of cogs and bands. The ever kunnin' Warboss had also drenched himself in axle grease, rendering it impossible to grab a hold of his sinewy form.

419 Posts
Discussion Starter · #4 ·
Still have to finish that Dominance one.. In the meantime new tale!

Gruk, The Trukk Driver.

Volunteering to drive his Warboss into battle, Gruk reflected as he soared through the air, hadn't been his wisest move. He fell in a graceful arc, his blood spiraling around him while the battle raged on below. He felt weightless and calm - a first for both feelings. Below he caught a glimpse of the flaming wreck that had once been his beloved trukk. A couple of meters in front of it was Rumpin' Backthumpa, Warboss of the Crimson WAAAGH! He was making a happy mess of any guardsmen in reach with a Klaw bigger than Gruk himself while the remainder of his squad picked themselves up after the crash. Backthumpa caught sight of his driver tumbling through the air and took a moment to bellow in his direction.
"Oi, Gruk! Stop messing around and git down here, there's humies to krump!"

"Load up, Let's get da show on da road!" Gruk whooped as Backthumpa and his squad started piling into the growling vehicle. It was an honor to chauffeur his leader into the fray and he couldn't wait to show Backthumpa just how fast this baby could go ever since he had coated it in Tallarn blood.
He snapped on his driving goggles and peered into the sandstorm. Occasional flashes of light and the constant snap of lasguns and rumble of artillery gave him a direction to point in. He gunned the engine, listening with satisfaction to the feral roar his prized trukk gave out. Faster than any other, he had told Backthumpa, and he hadn't been lying this time. Letting out a "WAAAGH!", he slammed his boot on the Go-Pedal and the vehicle shot forward, pressing his body against his chair and giving him a serious case of Speed Freak Grin.

He landed heavily, feeling several bones break in a sickening thump. He roared in pain as he struggled to his feet, every piece of his body screaming out in protest. Wiping the blood from his goggles he span in a slow circle. He seemed to have fallen into a blast crater, his only company burning human bodies. He tore his choppas out of their sheaths and walked in the loudest direction, easily scaling the crater edge. Up here there was nothing but noise and bodies; a symphony of utter bedlam.
A junior sergeant wearing a turban and carrying a bronze power sword rushed at him as he was still climbing out of the hole. The man's hastily aimed las shot whizzed by him harmlessly. Tensing the muscles in his legs, Gruk jumped out to meet his charge and headbutted the man while trying to keep the sword away from him. He felt the pathetic human's skull splinter on impact and for a moment was staring directly into his eyes, less than centimeters away from him. They were blue and terrified. A second later the struggle was over and Gruk cast away the lifeless body.

"FASTER, THEY'S BEATING US!" Backthumpa roared at him, pointing over to Slag's trukk which was inching ahead of his own. They were within firing range of the Tallarn's tanks at this stage, and it was all Gruk could do to avoid the eruptions and explosions appearing in front of and around him. Backthumpa wouldn't shut up however, and with a yell half excited, half terrified, he slammed his fist down on a button that displayed a flaming skull. The mek who had added it had given him express warning, stating the button was only to be used in "speshul cases.. or when you is bored." A low whine started somewhere underneath him and he braced himself as best he could. It was then they started to go really fast..

Gruk flung himself to the ground as mortar shells dropped from the sky, turning the ground into an ocean with waves of mud and bodies. The shelling continued for several minutes before he reckoned it was safe to stand again. Another ork stumbled over to him and yelled something, but Gruk could only hear a dull throb. Black blood leaked from his ears like oil from a battered vehicle.
Nodding in the hope that would satisfy the warrior in front of him, he stumbled forward towards the panicking humans who had also suffered during the shelling. The sandstorm was worsening and he was able to approach the men undetected. They swiftly fell as he hacked a bloody revenge for his destroyed trukk. He was so caught up in the slaughter that he didn't see the advancing tank until it was far too late.

He had lost control of the trukk some time ago and desperately clung onto the wheel simply to avoid being thrown out into the air. Backthumpa was laughing madly behind him and the Imperial line seemed to be hurtling towards them. Gruk watched fascinated as they outstripped a rokkit flying towards a bunker.
"THIS IS MORE LIKE IT!" The warboss yelled in delight. They would hit the Tallarn line in seconds.
Boom. Gruk had no idea what hit them, only that it did with some force. He blacked out for a couple of seconds before waking up in mid flight, the war zone laid out below him like his Warlords "taktikal table". It was at this stage he began to have doubts.

The tank was a Leman Russ of the 113th Armored Company. It's sides were adorned with kill flags and markings, and its faded browns were covered in blood stains and oil. Gruk recognized the gun on top as a plasma cannon, making the vehicle and executioner. His jaw dropped slowly, mesmerized by the most magnificent piece of engineering he had ever set eyes on. The gun swiveled in his direction and the last thing he saw was a pulse of blueish light before he was disintegrated.


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