Shadowy Grot Kommittee Memba
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I recently started an Ork army, and the obsessive gamer I am, I had to invent some kind of interesting back story for my little tribe. I don't know if this is the correct forum for this, if it isn't, move it and forgive me, I'm new. I worked up a fairly decent backstory for them, and I'm interested in suggestions to what else I should include in the force that would fit with the story.
Da game 'Untas tribe started their careers as a group of marauding Evil Sunz, speeding from world to world. They had a different name with every new warboss, and given the prodigious rate of succession, this was frequently. One day they'd be the Defftirez, the next the Rotgullies, and even before they reached their target world they'd shift to something different.
That changed the day the tribe landed on the world of Sqornshillous beta. They disembarked from their Roks, speeding on their warbikes or riding in their trukks, hungry for the fight, and fell upon the imperial defenders with a vengeance. Just as the battle reached its bloody peak, however, ork and guardsman fighting it out in vicious close quarters combat, contrails in the sky spelled doom for the orks. Ragnar Blackmane of the Space Wolves had arrived with a full company of battle hardened Grey Hunters and ancient Dreadnoughts. Landing amongst the fighters, scattering ork and man alike, Ragnar's claws rent the field, and the heady Squornshillous sun shined sullenly on grey-blue power armor as the marines emerged from their pods, chainswords already revved and ready to chew flesh.
The combat was brutal for the orks. Already embroiled in combat, many orks sat exposed on their bikes, and they were easily picked off by disciplined bolter fire. Even those that managed to get moving were mowed down by the dreadnoughts' massive assault cannons. The current warboss, a huge nob who went by Rotbreath, charged the bulk of the marines' strength with a massive group of boyz, and chainsword met choppa under the afternoon sun. He fought intensely, but was without support as many of his remaining orks abandoned their ruined warbikes and executed a "backwards charge". Rotbreath was eventually destroyed by a space marine wielding a massive powerfist, his head ripped from his shoulders, his battlecry cut off.
That evening, the tribe mourned the loss of their warbikes. They entreated the tribe's meks, who had sustained much fewer casualties than the normal orks, to build them new ones. even as they did this, they geared up for another fight.
For the warboss was dead, and this meant succession. The opportunity for power. The thrill of being "da boss" even for a short time, was what every ork yearned for. a handful of the few remaining nobs began to brawl it out in a wrestling pit, as the orks cheered.
The meks, however, became nervous. This fighting was pointless. They knew that they should be preparing to fight the marines once more, not thinning their own ranks in the search for a new warboss. Quickly, a plan was formulated. an unprecedented coup d'etat was to occur.
in the wrestling pit, the nobs still fought, brute strength matching brute strength. When but a few contenders remained, the meks, led by their big mek Clever Grubbins, sprang their ambush. The roar and whine of kustom mega blastas of all shapes and sizes filled the air with electric energy, and soon nothing but scorched bodies lay at the center of the ring. Grubbins stepped atop the pile, and turned to the watching orks.
"I's the biggest ork around, now. Dat makes me Da Boss. Anybody have a problem wiff Dat?" The huge mek hefted his wrench-axe as steely eyed meks turned their mega-blastas outwards.
Nobody had a problem with that.
"Good. Now listen up you buncha grots, cause we's got work to do..."
The next day, marine scouts reported dust on the horizon once again. The return of the orks was, of course, a forgone conclusion, and Ragnar Blackmane grinned fiercely at the prospect of another battle. What luck!
A dreadnought marched to the front of the battle lines, and began to fire in a steady, pulsing rhythm across the field, scything away at where the warbikes appeared to be judging from the plumes of dust. After a few minutes of listening to the drumbeat of war, Ragnar raised his hand for the Dreadnought to cease. A strange noise was filtering over the dunes, not warbike engines but a chopping, stuttering sound. For a moment, the marines stood in mute amazement at the patently impossible sight of airborne warbikes. The bizarre machines had crude propellors on top, chopping unevenly as the machines scythed through the air. Just as the marines raised their bolters high to bring them down, they were met with a chorus of booms, whistles and bangs. Each copter had loosed a strange menagerie of fireworks and rockets which corkscrewed and whizzed through the air, landing haphazardly but effectively among the marines ranks. the massive dreadnought pounded away with its cannon, cutting a copter almost in two with the mighty volley. the wrecked machine burst into flames as it flew, striking the ancient warrior in the center of its mass and driving it to the ground, momentarily pinned. Amongst the confusion of the copters' attack, Ragnar spied a line of orks on a nearby ridge, apparently carrying some kind of heavy machinery with them. They reached their position and hefted what were clearly some kind of strange, enormous guns, and a chorus of booms echoed from their position, puffs of smoke rising up.
Even more of his marines being cut down, Ragnar ran down through the lines to press the attack, hearing the distinctive roar of trukk engines even through the clamor of battle. He drew close to the dreadnought, intending to cut the wreckage off of it, freeing it to turn the tide of the fight, but as he ran the dreadnought reached up with its massive claw and threw the smouldering remains of the copter aside, rising once more to fight.
Just then, a trukk outfitted with some kind of metal spike on the front drove in at suicidal speeds, bolter fire ricocheting off of the extra armor on its front, slammed into the dreadnought. To Ragnar's dismay the spike ran it clean through, piercing the warrior entombed within. Ragnar screamed with rage, and aimed his bolter pistol, keen eye finding the rumbling motor of the trukk hidden behind the junk and armor plates.
A single shot was all he needed. The trukk exploded into flaming shrapnel, and he was buffeted by a tire, sent sprawling into the dirt. As he tried to rise, another piece of metal hit him in the small of the back and drove him back down, pinning his legs inexorably. a sharp pain lanced up his spine, and Ragnar lay helpless.
In the blur of events that followed, ragnar remembered little. He remembered the screams and cries of nearby close combat, and at some point the massive weight lifted off of him. He remembered being borne within a huge, bloodsoaked powerfist, and when he came to he was within his own battle barge, orbiting the planet, preparing to return to Fenris. He heard the lamentable news from one of his marines that the battle had been a close defeat, with much loss of life. Most of the precious gene-seed had been preserved, but some marines had reportedly fallen to the enemy, and the dreadnought could not be recovered.
Ragnar snarled. He may be leaving now to lick his wounds, but Ragnar would not let this black mark stay on his reputation for long. The orks would live to regret their victory, and die because of it.
For the orks, the loss of life was also tremendous. Grubbins, however, could care less. He was now undisputed leader of the tribe, and every ork had had the time of his life fighting an enemy that seemed to actually know how to fight properly. His creations had been massively successful, but there were always improvements to make, oh, the lovely improvements he would make....
From that day on, the tribe roamed the galaxy as before, but now more deliberately, more planned. Any news of a space marine force in an area of space, one could bet money that Grubbins' tribe would be there soon afterwards, looking for a fight. Their reputation grew amongst their fellow Evil Sunz, and the other ork clans, as the ultimate "big game 'untas" and hopeful recruits poured in looking for a piece of the action.
The structure of the tribe differs somewhat from other Evil Sunz groups. Though they are highly mobile as always, Grubbins and his team of meks are always modifying, always improving the vehicles they ride to war in. No two trukks are the same, and the tribe's deffcoptas are assembled from scratch and any warbikes the recruits happen to show up with.
There are four major tiers of the Game 'Untas tribe. On top, of course, is Grubbins and his Mek and Dok allies, outfitting the orks with equipment and weapons, and maintaining order and control. Below them are Specialists, Pilots and the 'eavy 'untas, orks who have made at least one confirmed kill of a space marine. To denote this they often triumphantly bear trophies of their victims, and do their best to incorporate marine weapons and equipment. Though they are extremely satisfied with their prowess, for the most part they are incredibly unsuccessful at effectively using the stolen equipment, so they do not count as having any special weaponry. The shoulder pads and armor bits they've collected are more than enough to merit them as 'ard boyz however, and they bear it proudly. Below the full fledged 'untas are the initiates, new recruits looking to join the famous tribe. They fight en masse, each pushing and shoving to be the first in the fray, but for all their enthusiasm there is a massively high casualty rate among initiates, probably because Grubbins and his strategists use them as a disposable wrecking ball, sacrificing them to save their other tribesmen. Finally, any ork that grows large enough to consider himself a nob, and more importantly consider knocking Grubbins and his troop out of power, finds himself in the "special nob unit." Constantly drugged into either stupor or fighting frenzy by their attendant mad dok, they are given the best equipment to rip and tear at their foes, and are kept in special trukks, armored just as much on the inside as out. Carefully kept out of sight of most of the tribe, Grubbins' Mad Nobs have nevertheless gained a reputation for ferocity, though in all probability they will never be a significant threat to his rule.
So what do you think? probably way too much to read, but any suggestions as to what my army list should look like? So far I have deffkoptas, a big mek as hq, one trukk and two groups of boyz, one outfitted with 'eavy armor and a hodgepodge of marine equipment, the other not. I've bought and assembled a group of lootas, though I haven't painted them yet. What's the general consensus on my idea?
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