something light hearted i wrote quickly during a long afternoon. its shorter thatn the other 1! waddaya think? any critique would be greatly appreciated
DA TALE of FROSTBITE GORGE
Warboss Drazguz Skullcrusher looked down at the snivelling Goblin in front of him with utter contempt written across his massive, scarred features. Drazguz had an unusual tolerance for Goblins by ork standards; some had even died at the blades of his enemies, rather than his own. But still, even he found the stuttering, the fidgeting, and the small eyes, flickering constantly towards his choppa, angering. Dragging himself back to the exchange, he cut the Goblin off in mid-flow.
“So what ya sayin, is dat… is dat….,” Draguz suddenly remembered that he not listened to a single whine that had passed the Gobo’s lips. Axebasher, one of his most trusted Black orks, broke in helpfully.
“Skelis, Boss; lots of ‘em.”
“I knew dat!” roared Drazguz, Axebasher flinched. “Yoo fink I don’t kniow wot dat necro… nic, err..fecroadancer ,ermm…magic bastards bin doin? I’m da Warboss, n’ I know evryfin, got it?” he growled.
“Yes Boss!” shouted the various Black orks and Shamans standing around the hut, their guttural voices crying out in unison. Had Drazguz owned a modicum of intelligence, he would have noticed the rushed tone in the words.
“Go on…err… Wot’s ya name?” he said, looking back towards the cowering Goblin.
The small creature looked up in astonishment, unused to attention from such a high authority.
”Siglig, Boss,” it whined.
“Roight den Miglig, where are dey?” Drazguz asked- his voice almost kindly. Siglig looked around nervously.
“Um… its, its Siglig Boss-” he was cut off by a bestial yell from Drazguz;
“I said gerron wiv it!” the veins on the Warboss’ gargantuan brow bulged with fury at being corrected. Some of the orks at the hut’s edges winced as they heard the crack of the skulls that adorned Drazguz’s throne being splintered under his brutal, iron ringed fingers.
The Goblin, quailed, shrinking in size, or so it seemed, (and to orks it would have looked literal anyway). Its head snapped from side to side, as if desperately searching for an escape route out of the ramshackle hide covered walls of the dwelling, finding none; it pulled itself up from the earthen floor onto which it had fallen in terror.
“Dey’s…dey’s at dem big rocks norf of da camp Boss,” Siglig stammered. Finding this satisfactory, Drazguz subsided.
“Anyfink else, Miglig?” he snarled. Siglig decided he would let that one go. He just hoped his next piece of news would regain him favour.
“Yeah Boss, dere’s a Spiky Boy dere too, dey’s fightin-“ he was cut off, again.
“Whaaat?” roared Drazguz, surging to his feet, with a level of anger scrawled on his face that Khorne would have been proud of. ”Dey’s ‘avin a scrap, and dere aint no orcs dere? Roight, dat’s it, I’m gonna go down dere roight now, get dat Spiky Boy, ask ‘im ‘oo dey ‘ell ‘e finks ‘e is, and den im ‘avin ’is head.” He looked at the assembled orks around him, all clad in full armour and wearing the fanged-maw emblem of the Bonesnappa clan. “well, wot ya waitin’ for? Get ya Boyz, and tell dere’s Bonies ta smash.”
A great cry of “yes Boss!” went up, but this time it was full of gusto, and the thrill only an orc could feel, the prospect of coming battle. Relaying orders, shouting and chanting, they stormed out of the hut, leaving a dazed and relieved Siglig in their wake.
Drazguz had to say, he felt a grudging respect for this mysterious warrior. There was some thing so brutal, so powerful about his movements, he was almost orcish. Still, by the end of the day his helmet would hang over the door to the Boss hut, a grim testimony to another violent triumph.
The march to the place specified by Siglig took les than ten minutes, the Orks moving at a tremendous speed. On arrival, Drazguz had recognised it as a place the ‘oomies called Frostbite Gorge or something cowardly like that. Now, he and his Boyz hid behind the lip of the ridge that descended into the jagged cut in the landscape, making final preparations for their assault. Oh, this would be a day that would go down in clan history, Drazguz was sure of that. In truth, he was right, but it would be for all the wrong reasons.
Axebasher, now back in the Warboss’ favour after some hilarious antics on the journey involving a cliff, several Goblins and a hot brand, jogged up to the granite boulder Drazguz was hidden behind;
“Boss?” Skullcrusher looked up.
“Yeah?” A malicious glint entered his eye. “We ready?”
“You knows it” Axebasher smiled, revealing his many chipped fangs.
“Fought we were. Roight, give da signal.”
The signal was typically uncomplicated. Axebasher simply tipped back his head and roared.
“WAAAAAAAGH!” the cry shook the heavens themselves. With a mighty screech, one akin to the anger of gods, the cry was taken up the rest of the horde. It was the most beautiful sound Drazguz had ever heard.
The sight of over four hundred orks streaming into a tight space was usually one that heralded a messy death, and it was truly some thing to behold. Many enemies would have simply turned and fled, but not the undead. They turned to face the new threat, empty eye sockets staring blankly. The first rank was decimated by Drazguz and his Black orks, at the head of the charge. But the battle was only just beginning.
The massive choppa in Drazguz’s hand whirled with deadly force, smashing the ribcage of a skeleton in front of him. He quickly turned on his heel to decapitate another one with a punch. Everywhere around him, his Boyz were doing the same, crippling their suddenly fragile opponents. He saw Axebasher surrounded, and leapt into help his subordinate.
The Bone Boyz were weak, not a match for even a Gobo, and so the shame Axebasher felt at his helplessness was unbearable. He smashed and crushed with his massive weapon, but it still wasn’t enough. Even he knew, sooner or later, he would fall. With a yell of rage, he renewed his attack, cleaving through a skeli’s shield and on into the bone beyond it. Ripping his axe free he felled another with a brutal back hand. He drew a short choppa he always carried and sent it spinning into an enemy’s skull, flooring it instantly. Using his axe’s pommel, he stove in another skeleton’s legs. As he struck, a great cry went up behind him;
“WAAAAAGH! Let’s get em ladz!” Drazguz charged past, fighting with his shear body weight. Soon, there was nothing left but piles of ravaged bones.
The two orks stopped, breathing hard.
“Dat was fun, eh?” said the Warboss through his smile. Axebasher didn’t reply. He stared ahead blankly; red foam started to spill out of his mouth. Slowly, he toppled. Only then did Drazguz see the spiked blade in his back.
Standing over the corpse was a huge (even by orc standards) figure. He was sheathed in deep red armour, covered in snarling faces. The colour was only just discernable through the layers of caked and fresh blood. His helm was spiked and fierce, with dark eye slits ending in arrows. The little flesh visible was pitted and scarred, damaged over countless battles. But it was what he held in his left hand that drew Drazguz’s attention. It seemed to be alive, writhing and burning with a fierce fire. It was an instrument of death, but so much more than that. It drew all the emotion from the world, leaving only hatred. Sweet Gork thought Skullcrusher; now dat’s an ‘ammer.
Drazguz raised his choppa, but he already knew he was doomed. By the time he had finished his prayer to Mork for luck and strength, the warrior was gone, looking for his next victim. And to this day, orks still tell the legend of Harald Hammerstorm and his slaughter of the Bonesnappas.
DA TALE of FROSTBITE GORGE
Warboss Drazguz Skullcrusher looked down at the snivelling Goblin in front of him with utter contempt written across his massive, scarred features. Drazguz had an unusual tolerance for Goblins by ork standards; some had even died at the blades of his enemies, rather than his own. But still, even he found the stuttering, the fidgeting, and the small eyes, flickering constantly towards his choppa, angering. Dragging himself back to the exchange, he cut the Goblin off in mid-flow.
“So what ya sayin, is dat… is dat….,” Draguz suddenly remembered that he not listened to a single whine that had passed the Gobo’s lips. Axebasher, one of his most trusted Black orks, broke in helpfully.
“Skelis, Boss; lots of ‘em.”
“I knew dat!” roared Drazguz, Axebasher flinched. “Yoo fink I don’t kniow wot dat necro… nic, err..fecroadancer ,ermm…magic bastards bin doin? I’m da Warboss, n’ I know evryfin, got it?” he growled.
“Yes Boss!” shouted the various Black orks and Shamans standing around the hut, their guttural voices crying out in unison. Had Drazguz owned a modicum of intelligence, he would have noticed the rushed tone in the words.
“Go on…err… Wot’s ya name?” he said, looking back towards the cowering Goblin.
The small creature looked up in astonishment, unused to attention from such a high authority.
”Siglig, Boss,” it whined.
“Roight den Miglig, where are dey?” Drazguz asked- his voice almost kindly. Siglig looked around nervously.
“Um… its, its Siglig Boss-” he was cut off by a bestial yell from Drazguz;
“I said gerron wiv it!” the veins on the Warboss’ gargantuan brow bulged with fury at being corrected. Some of the orks at the hut’s edges winced as they heard the crack of the skulls that adorned Drazguz’s throne being splintered under his brutal, iron ringed fingers.
The Goblin, quailed, shrinking in size, or so it seemed, (and to orks it would have looked literal anyway). Its head snapped from side to side, as if desperately searching for an escape route out of the ramshackle hide covered walls of the dwelling, finding none; it pulled itself up from the earthen floor onto which it had fallen in terror.
“Dey’s…dey’s at dem big rocks norf of da camp Boss,” Siglig stammered. Finding this satisfactory, Drazguz subsided.
“Anyfink else, Miglig?” he snarled. Siglig decided he would let that one go. He just hoped his next piece of news would regain him favour.
“Yeah Boss, dere’s a Spiky Boy dere too, dey’s fightin-“ he was cut off, again.
“Whaaat?” roared Drazguz, surging to his feet, with a level of anger scrawled on his face that Khorne would have been proud of. ”Dey’s ‘avin a scrap, and dere aint no orcs dere? Roight, dat’s it, I’m gonna go down dere roight now, get dat Spiky Boy, ask ‘im ‘oo dey ‘ell ‘e finks ‘e is, and den im ‘avin ’is head.” He looked at the assembled orks around him, all clad in full armour and wearing the fanged-maw emblem of the Bonesnappa clan. “well, wot ya waitin’ for? Get ya Boyz, and tell dere’s Bonies ta smash.”
A great cry of “yes Boss!” went up, but this time it was full of gusto, and the thrill only an orc could feel, the prospect of coming battle. Relaying orders, shouting and chanting, they stormed out of the hut, leaving a dazed and relieved Siglig in their wake.
Drazguz had to say, he felt a grudging respect for this mysterious warrior. There was some thing so brutal, so powerful about his movements, he was almost orcish. Still, by the end of the day his helmet would hang over the door to the Boss hut, a grim testimony to another violent triumph.
The march to the place specified by Siglig took les than ten minutes, the Orks moving at a tremendous speed. On arrival, Drazguz had recognised it as a place the ‘oomies called Frostbite Gorge or something cowardly like that. Now, he and his Boyz hid behind the lip of the ridge that descended into the jagged cut in the landscape, making final preparations for their assault. Oh, this would be a day that would go down in clan history, Drazguz was sure of that. In truth, he was right, but it would be for all the wrong reasons.
Axebasher, now back in the Warboss’ favour after some hilarious antics on the journey involving a cliff, several Goblins and a hot brand, jogged up to the granite boulder Drazguz was hidden behind;
“Boss?” Skullcrusher looked up.
“Yeah?” A malicious glint entered his eye. “We ready?”
“You knows it” Axebasher smiled, revealing his many chipped fangs.
“Fought we were. Roight, give da signal.”
The signal was typically uncomplicated. Axebasher simply tipped back his head and roared.
“WAAAAAAAGH!” the cry shook the heavens themselves. With a mighty screech, one akin to the anger of gods, the cry was taken up the rest of the horde. It was the most beautiful sound Drazguz had ever heard.
The sight of over four hundred orks streaming into a tight space was usually one that heralded a messy death, and it was truly some thing to behold. Many enemies would have simply turned and fled, but not the undead. They turned to face the new threat, empty eye sockets staring blankly. The first rank was decimated by Drazguz and his Black orks, at the head of the charge. But the battle was only just beginning.
The massive choppa in Drazguz’s hand whirled with deadly force, smashing the ribcage of a skeleton in front of him. He quickly turned on his heel to decapitate another one with a punch. Everywhere around him, his Boyz were doing the same, crippling their suddenly fragile opponents. He saw Axebasher surrounded, and leapt into help his subordinate.
The Bone Boyz were weak, not a match for even a Gobo, and so the shame Axebasher felt at his helplessness was unbearable. He smashed and crushed with his massive weapon, but it still wasn’t enough. Even he knew, sooner or later, he would fall. With a yell of rage, he renewed his attack, cleaving through a skeli’s shield and on into the bone beyond it. Ripping his axe free he felled another with a brutal back hand. He drew a short choppa he always carried and sent it spinning into an enemy’s skull, flooring it instantly. Using his axe’s pommel, he stove in another skeleton’s legs. As he struck, a great cry went up behind him;
“WAAAAAGH! Let’s get em ladz!” Drazguz charged past, fighting with his shear body weight. Soon, there was nothing left but piles of ravaged bones.
The two orks stopped, breathing hard.
“Dat was fun, eh?” said the Warboss through his smile. Axebasher didn’t reply. He stared ahead blankly; red foam started to spill out of his mouth. Slowly, he toppled. Only then did Drazguz see the spiked blade in his back.
Standing over the corpse was a huge (even by orc standards) figure. He was sheathed in deep red armour, covered in snarling faces. The colour was only just discernable through the layers of caked and fresh blood. His helm was spiked and fierce, with dark eye slits ending in arrows. The little flesh visible was pitted and scarred, damaged over countless battles. But it was what he held in his left hand that drew Drazguz’s attention. It seemed to be alive, writhing and burning with a fierce fire. It was an instrument of death, but so much more than that. It drew all the emotion from the world, leaving only hatred. Sweet Gork thought Skullcrusher; now dat’s an ‘ammer.
Drazguz raised his choppa, but he already knew he was doomed. By the time he had finished his prayer to Mork for luck and strength, the warrior was gone, looking for his next victim. And to this day, orks still tell the legend of Harald Hammerstorm and his slaughter of the Bonesnappas.
