The air in the fort of the Warboss was heavy with the stench of orkoid life. The sound was well past the pain threshold. The lights dim and almost subterranean. For an ork it was heaven and life was never so good. For the lesser race of that great species life was as it always was; a constant struggle for simple survival as unkind masters and pitiless tasks took their mortal toll upon the Gratchin, the Grot and the Snotling. These were the bottom of the ladder creatures, any ladder, the ten for a penny life that was spent with out care or thought for continued endurance and glory of the Ork WAAAAAAAAGH!!
The WAAAAGH!! Against the damn Goff Tribe had not gone well. That was for certain. A most crushing setback had occurred that jeopardized the rise of Warboss Spinerippa and his conquest of the stars. So crushing had been the defeat that he, the Great Spinerippa, was having to go and get more of the Boyz to help. It was not right. Some of the runtier orks might start getting ideas above their station if he was perceived as weak. He was not in a good mood.
Stamping into the Feasting Hall, striding down to the far end of the Hall, he forcefully slumped back into the recesses of his massive throne. 'Oi!' roared the great ork over the din of the Boyz 'Grot! Fetch me a mug o' Grog!' he yelled. Not at anyone Grot in particular, but at all of them. The idea was that a mug would be forth coming or one of them would be eaten. He cared not who he got the mug off as he cared not who he ate. So that was all right and well.
Fogshot the Grot heard the huge Warboss bellow and instantly his superbly
honed survival instincts took over. He sprinted down the length of one of the table to the biggest mug he could find, staggered to the nearest tapped barrel of grog and used the last dregs of his adrenalin fuelled strength to just about make it back to the Warboss at the other end of the of the cavernous Hall.
''Bawt bludy Time!' Screamed the Warboss as Fogshot was backhanded into the nearest wall with tremendous force. But Gretchen are considerably more resilient than they look, at least the ones that survive their first week of life are.
It was said by the Snotlings of latter years that Fogshot The Great had died at that moment. That the Warboss had dealt a terminal blow to the skull of the Gratchin and that the spirits of Gork and Mork had breathed new life into his mortal form, that he became their avatar. Some said that the fire had always burned with in all Snotlings and he was just the first to find it. Some said he got brain damage, but not within earshot. All that was known for sure was that the Gretchin that bounced back upon his feet was not the same Gretchin he had been. There was the gleam of murder in his beady red eyes as he looked back up at the towering height of the Warboss. Unheard over the clamour of the bigger orkoids the voice of Fogshot The Great rose up in the challenging roar of the WAAAAAGH!! He snatched the two battered and looted Imperial las-pistols out of their holsters took a flying leap onto the armrest of the throne bounced skywards and twisted so as to be upside down as he passed over the bald head of the Warboss. His nimble fingers pulled the triggers and he put half a dozen holes in Spineripps brain. A puzzled expression passed across the monstrous orks brutal face for a moment before he slumped forwards onto the flags of the Feasting Hall. Wasting no time in the confusion the Grot snaced up the Kustom Blasta of his former lord, bent almost double under the immense weight, and emptied all the Dakka into the startled orks in the hall.
'Today' he screamed, his hoarse voice sounding deafening in the sudden silence 'begins da Green Revalooshun!' and suddenly all the voices of the down trodden gretchin were raised in unison as they looted the bodies of the dead for what weapons could be found 'WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!'