As some of you know ive been logging the progress of my zork army in the P&M blogs section where i have also posted the fluff, however as i would like some C+C ill post the same fluff again here.
Just some background first, the zorks are a army of zombie orks created by a grot known now as Da Big Nek (nekromansa) to the other nekromansa grots but who started out as a simple grot slave named gazgrub.
Night of the living Zorks (just couldnt resist
)
Gazgrub hated orks.
The foolish oafs stank of fungus beer, charred squigflesh and their own excrement yet seemed happy to gloat over the fires of wrecked tanks and the carcasses of foes. They mindlessly hack at corpses despite the lack of any signs of life in a barbaric attempt to gain trophies while others hammer away at scrap metal in the hopes of miraculously creating a functional piece of technology, a feat illogical yet often attained. They torture, bully and kill their grot servants and occasionally each other over trivial matters or simply for fun. And that is why Gazgrub had spent the previous years of his short grot life preparing. Preparing, plotting and planning for the day he would take revenge on his orkish masters for the cruelties they inflicted upon him, and more importantly for ignoring his genius.
At the end of a hole that was previously the burrow of what seems to be a hopper-squig lay Gazgrub’s lair and within it stood a small wooden table, on this table was what appeared to be a simple orb of copper that shone with a radiant green glow and next to it several bottles of carefully distilled squig poison. The bottles were constructed of a particularly thick and strong glass, for the chemicals within the squigicide ironically killed the fungus that gave the very green skins who created it their robust natures and when distilled to the level Gazgrub had provides a potent method of killing his masters, for this was exactly Gazgrub’s plan; to kill his brutish masters and force them to serve him in undeath via his true masterpiece.
The phylactryx.
As Gazgrub slinked through camp with more malicious agility than even the foulest denizens of the empyrean could muster he took a final glance at the dystopian society surrounding him; the pigs had prepared a brobdignagian feast of slaughtered and barely cooked members of the imperial guard which they were to down with copious amounts of fungus ale, a fact key to Gazgrub’s plan, which was stored in huge kegs constructed of tanned squiggoth hides behind the main mess hall where the boss had his quarters and this was precisely where Gazgrub was heading for with poison in tow.
“Oi! Listen up you grots!” bellowed Sunda Deffskul, warboss of the appropriately named Deffskulls Butcha’s, “I want to make somefing zogging clear alright?” to which the hall of ravenous orks responded with naught but silence “these pansy ‘umies we slaughta’d today were noffing, tomorrow we got none ovva than somma dem space marines for us to butcha! But before dat we need to get rid of all dis brew!” – a raucous cheer shook the clumsily constructed foundations of the hall as hundreds of boys raised their mugs and began to chug away, a cold and intensely disconcerting laugh cut through the sounds of slurping as the orks finish their ale, not the deep and throaty chuckle of an ork but the maniacal laughter of grot. Sunda felt his throat tighten and began to claw at his throat, almost as if following the example of their boss the other orks promptly did the same while violently coughing blood then fell to the floor; Gazgrub looked at the wheezing brutes with distain as the warboss let out his last words “a zoggin grot?”.
