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This is a story I'm currently working on, as a attempt to address the lack of 40k fluff that features Orks prominently within it as something other than a generic enemy to be defeated. This is likely to be novel sized. My plan stretches to about 20 chapters and not all the planning is done yet. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!

Wurrgitz: The Thuzu Saga

Chapter 1: Gods and Monsters

The blackened ashes of ages past wafted into the air in a gust of smoke and dust, an affect such seldom felt that its effects appeared as if a dramatic maelstrom had presented itself upon the wilted earth. That it had, for such an event had been reservedly anticipated. Holy Terra had been waiting countless millennia for this moment to come to pass. The slowly descending vessel was of Imperial origin, although it had long since decayed by the corruption of time into a ship of empty expression. For its fate had placed it in the service of those who have served their own interests, and those of heretical gods.

The ground shuddered as the ancient vessel let out its last struggle and settled upon the earth. For a moment it lay eerily silent, as if it had spent its last particles of energy actively ending its journey. Once more, and with a slight tumultuous groan it whirred into life. An ancient and smouldered landing ramp slowly descended to the ground, creaking with an elderly groan of a millennium of strain. With an eventful shudder, the ramp clamped to the ground with an arduous groan. Upon completing its ultimate task, the ancient vessel’s whirring mechanisms slowly grew silent, until only the lowest hum remained. The hum originated from the one remaining light that protruded from the opening above the landing ramp. The light illuminated, albeit very slightly, the opening upon which the silhouette of three figures appeared.

Each figure slowly descended the landing ramp one after the other. They were each hooded, and slumped over as if to indicate the unfathomable amount of time their journey had taken. The figure that led the way stood slightly higher than the other two, and upon the figure’s back there was a sword in a sheath. The other two behind him carried staves, either as an aid to walking or as a definition of their status. Even in the lower light, they appeared to have a copper glow about them. As the ground levelled before the figures, they turned into the lowly humming wind, carrying centuries of dust; the extinguished lights of billions of lost souls, drifting for eternity.

The party slowly made their way along the decaying earth, each footfall impacted like a meteorite clattering against the earth; it wilted slightly as each step pressed into the ground. This planet was dying; it had been dying for ages beyond counting. Every sense of the three figures knew this instinctively. Beyond them lay a wasteland beyond all imagination. The planet was like a tomb; a tomb of the dead that haunted the living, ghosts of a past as deep as time with a pain that transcended death. However, the figures were not here to silence or even aid these ghosts. They had arrived here to serve their own ends.

After hours of walking in silence, darkness slowly fell. The figures made camp, creating a fire of curious colour and origin that illuminated the ground around them. They sat in silence and contemplation. For such was their way; they had travelled for so long, there was little to convey, yet the same thoughts resonated within their minds; sacrifice, loss and destiny. They were merely pawns in a large game, the rolling of dice by Gods and Monsters. Gods and Monsters: as if there was a difference.

They had sacrificed much to get here. Their party had numbered greater than 3 originally. But such was the ravages of time and fate that many were lost in their quest. That time seems so long ago now, yet each of the three remembers each and every face and name that was lost in their long endeavour, through the persecution from the enemy and the ravages of endless war. It is beyond every fathomable mind that even the 3 remaining of the company survived.

So much was on their minds. For they knew not why they have come to Terra at all, save for the fact that it was the only option open to them. Yet the very action they desired to undertake was impossible, beyond comprehension. Yet to these three, it was entirely the same as it had always been, for the impossible had always been their exclusive province.

They did not question what they were about to attempt. To them it was a matter of simply walking into the Imperial Palace, and crossing the vast expanse to the Eternity Gate. Beyond the gate lay what was left of the Emperor of Mankind, the light of the Imperium, the last bastion of hope. What hope there remains in decay, at least, was in question. The entire Universe was in decay, for it sensed the end times, and for such times all parties were implicated.

The party did not wait for light to resume to renew their journey. They knew exactly where they were going, and they knew exactly how they would get there. Terra was falling apart from within; its constant vigil was becoming little more than an unconscious dream. Time had ravaged this planet, time and doubt.

They left the campfire without a word; the 3 figures set off into the distance, having left behind 10 empty spaces. Eventually, the wilted earth yielded the distant, yet giant complex of the Imperial Palace. It seemed miles away, but they had no intention of walking any further. It had not been a precise shot, but the busted old Thunderhawk Carrier had worked. It had dropped its cargo, a rare example of the Astartes Rhino. It had cost a considerable price to get it. The damned nuisance who had bartered for it had long since fell victim to the ravages of time and war, although the little fool wasn’t much of a driver.

The Rhino was an incredibly rare design. It was of a gaudy, elaborate design; coloured gold and black, under which were the fainted traces of red. It had no tracks, just odd, cylindrical protuberances, scorched all around from fire and heat. The elaborate Imperial Eagles were a faded gold, yet still retained an air of refinement. The three clambered into the side port. What remained of the Thunderhawk was of little consequence now. By the time it was found they would already be in the Palace’s inner sanctum; they already knew there was little likelihood of leaving the Palace once they were in.

The Rhino slowly roared to life. The figures’ convalescence was briefly interrupted by the firing of the strange rockets that stuck out of the sides, rear and base of the Rhino. It became immediately obvious why the price had been so high. The Rhino roared off into the distance, heading directly for the Imperial Palace, for a late audience with the Emperor of mankind.

Within what seemed like mere moments, the giant metal gates of the Imperial Palace lay before them. Some of the gleam of the time-wilted adamantium remained, and it glistened as the two gates slowly opened. For their age, there was only the faintest of creaking, until at last the gates were wide enough to receive the disguised intruders. The Grav-Rhino’s speed slowly lessened, as it flowed towards the gate of the inner sanctum.

To their mild surprise, the gates were already open, and as the Rhino finally stopped and hit the ground with steadying groan, the figures emerged. The figures perceived no visible sign of life, and very few sounds could be heard, of no discernable function. They had finally arrived, the Emperor’s Palace remained open, and the three figures slowly made their way into the Palace’s central structure, and onwards to the Eternity Gate.

Chapter 2: Anima Necris

The three figures passed quickly and without incident into the hall of the Eternity Gate. To those who understood the impossibility of it would say the journey had been far too easy, but it was only easy because they were expected. For before the gate aught to lie thousands of the Adeptus Custodes and two of the oldest Titans in the Imperium. However the three had cause to doubt their interference, for today was different. Today was the last breath before the end. It was a decisive moment, for which the mightiest legions or the greatest war machines were of little consequence. Today was a conflict of fates and the wills of Gods.

Today, the victor between them would emerge.

It was upon viewing the expansive and grand visage of the Golden Eternity gate that the party found themselves in mental anguish. A strange wave of energy swelled around them, and at once they disappeared from all conception of time.

“THE FINAL PLAYING PIECES HAVE ARRIVED WE SEE” a strange echo of psychic thought swelled through the minds of the three: “YOU ARE LATE, ARE YOU NOT?”

What little they understood of the universe had barely prepared them, but they each arrived at the same realisation. They were being addressed by the Emperor of Mankind, or what that being had now become.

“…YET FEW YOU NUMBER. 11 THERE WERE, THREE REMAIN. YOUR MOVES ARE UNLIKELY TO BE RESOLVED DECISIVELY.”

The thoughts hit home horribly. As if the realisation had only presented itself upon the party at this moment, like a breath of death.

“WE ARE CURIOUS”

“WE WONDER WHOSE WILL YOU SERVE.”

“EVEN OUR MINDS CANNOT FATHOM, YET WE SUSPECT…”

“YET, PERHAPS WE KNOW…”

“CREARE VETUS, DID YOU ONCE, BUT DO YOU STILL?”

“YES, PERHAPS WE FEAR YOU THE MOST”

None of the three uttered a word, but their thoughts betrayed them. In their minds, they had already presented an argument that they were there to help humanity; but at the same time, the reality of their own situation, and that of their faction, played heavily upon their minds.

“DO YOU THINK WE CAN BE FOOLED BY ANY OF THE INTERESTED PARTIES?” The psychic consciousness seemed to roar through their minds like a thousand streams of thought, yet they somehow ended up drawn to one specific response:

“WE CARE NOT FOR WHAT MIGHT BE, BUT WHAT WILL BE.”

“IN THIS REGARD, IT IS YOUR FIGHT, NOT OURS.”

“HOWEVER…” the voice continued

“WE DO SEE A GLIMPSE OF THE PART YOU WILL PLAY.”

“WE ALLOW YOU THE AUDIENCE YOU DESIRE, BUT KNOW THIS, IT IS ONLY BECAUSE WE FIND YOUR INTERRUPTION INTRIGUING.”

Upon the realisation of these words, the three figures found themselves disturbingly ripped from the mortal frame, until they emerged upon a new chamber. They stared at the infinitely rising pyramid, atop of which presumably sat the Golden Throne of the Emperor of Mankind. However the three perceived something even more interesting.

The two figures near them had halted their bickering. One appeared to be an Imperial Inquisitor of some high order, the other, a priest of some refinery, with a disturbingly macabre garb. The two looked around with a disturbed sense of horror. It was not particularly surprising for the group. For all intents and purposes, they were not even anticipated.

“What is this intrusion?” roared the Inquisitor. The agitation that was written upon his face was clear. Presumably he had been pursuing his own ends of some importance; the intrusion clearly wasn’t warmly received. “I feel I may know, Lord Inquisitor”, muttered the other figure. The voice was calming, but it had a subtle layer of malice and contempt. He turned and looked upon the party of three: “I am Janus Sideris, an Arch-Confessor. I have tortured heretical creatures of all walks of life, even those of tainted astartes. One of them once whispered your name to me. I know of you, Fallen Angel.”

Eyes fell inevitably upon the hooded figure with the sword. “You see my Lord Inquisitor, every moment of your fears, of the day when the one being outside of the rifts of fate exhorts is own will upon the future of the Imperium is at hand. You and your order have sworn for centuries to prevent this moment from coming to pass. You have quite obviously failed. This fallen astarte could well kill the Emper…”

“Enough.” The hooded figure with the sword muttered at such a low, painful tone that it silenced everything. “Just like the rest of your kind, you know nothing, you pathetic, scheming wretch.” The silence that followed was almost physical. The Inquisitor eventually broke the silence. “You are quite obviously a servant of the ruinous powers, and I must excommunicate you to oblivion, Chaos filth.” He lifted out his force sword, and walked towards the hooded figure. “I cannot allow you to kill the Emperor!”

“Don’t be a fool.” retorted the hooded figure: “Kill this rotting corpse? Killing your Emperor will lead to a greater danger to my species than this one is. His rotting hulk is the only thing that stands between a future of warp-spawned horrors, and you think I lack the wit to notice? He’s not my enemy; YOU are.” The hooded figure barely allowed the stunned Inquisitor to murmur before turning to look him in the eye: “You took the idea fostered by a superior being and built it upon the foundation of your own failings. The Imperium of Man is a decadent, ignorant and paranoid extension of fear and xenophobia; ruling the masses based on the ideas and beliefs contrary to what it has become. You take a symbol of fearlessness and hope and you try to defend it with fearful pessimism.”

“I am not here to kill your Emperor. I am here to kill you…”

The hooded figure turned and looked directly at Janus Sideris:

“Deceiver.”

Chapter 3: Astro Deus

Sideris stopped snivelling. Instead he began cackling menacingly.

“Well done, Cypher.”

The trio of hooded figures were noticeably unfazed by this revelation. The hooded figure on the right stopped leaning against its staff and looked towards the disguised deceiver:

“Wat?” it muttered. “Who sed ee wuz Cypher?”

The three pulled back their hoods to reveal three Ork heads. The one with the sword was distinctly different to the other two. It had a very pale green skin that was almost white, with more delicate features. It was most definitely some kind of Ork, yet it looked too slender to be an Ork, but was far too tall and confident for a Gretchin. Its facial features looked almost humanoid, a proud visage, with piercing black and yellow eyes. It was also apparent that it spoke Imperial Gothic perfectly.

“I am Thuzu Warpnar. We have met before, Skabgog.”

The Deceiver’s mood turned blacker than the Eye of Terror. “I thought I had eliminated all of you.” He half-stammered.

“You thought you had. Yet your meddling is starting to be undone. You never did completely succeed. They are still watching you, hungry for your defeat. Your return has only hurried their efforts.”

“Enough of this…” muttered the Deceiver, “It is about time you died, last of the Krork.”

The Inquisitor had for a long time remained silent since the conversation began, and had been backing slowly into the darkness. Darkness enveloped his shimmering armour, and his face distorted in the darkness. Suddenly, the visage melted into a more demure shape, dripped in a black skin-tight battlesuit, a crimson loincloth and flowing silver hair. The masked face’s red eyes stared piercingly at Sideris, and without a sound, lunged directly at the hunched figure.

It flipped over his body in a lithe spring, and sunk its dagger right into his back. “That tickled. You fools never learn.” Deceiver muttered, and as his body’s shape briefly changed, and absorbed the hapless assassin. “Your kind always tastes so…” his satisfied noises caused the witnesses to cringe uncontrollably “…intriguing.”

Swiftly, the metal creature resumed the shape and manner of the Imperial servant. “Now… where were we?”

Thuzu reached for his sword.

“I would advise you not to do that…”

From behind the Deceiver, emerged another figure. He was clearly an Officio Assassinorum operative; the black combat suit and piercing eyes emanating from the figure’s facemask suggested as much. But to the majority of all existence, little could quite comprehend what it was that would face them.

Indeed, for seldom had any living creature seen a member of the Vanus Temple, and for good reason, because they invariably left no trace of their existence. For the Officio Assassinorium were already a secretive organisation, and the Vanus Temple of assassins was one of their better-kept secrets.

The assassin wore a long overcoat, under which was the usual form-tugging combat suit. From his right arm, extruded a hand cannon of some complicated design, and the other arm gripped the shaft of a sword that was hidden under the cloak.

“Such delightful manipulation of polymorphine, is it not?” Sideris sniggered. “He can take the form of objects, even darkness. Such is the way of the Emperor’s most gifted assassins. You will never have seen one before. After today, you wont see anything else.”

“I always fowt doze gitz didn’t uze weaponz, as such…” muttered the old Ork on the right. “I’m Tuflug by da way, an’ I’ve seen a Vanus git before. I’ve seen em all before. I fink wun uv dem kill’d me wunze, but deffz a big boar, reallee.”

“Derez no rulez for yoo, ya no, spangly, git.”

“Now, now, Uzgrod. Don’t mind ‘im, ya Tin’ead git, he’s odder than yoo lot.”


Sideris was getting visibly irritated. “Kenos, dispose of these nuisances!”

The assassin aimed his hand cannon.

The load gunshot emanated throughout the massive chamber. The echo roared, and spiralled into silence. Kenos toppled, clutching his arm. His hand cannon seem mostly intact, but blood was gushing from his arm.

“You never stop using others, do you, C’Tan.” The mysterious voice echoed throughout the throne room. “For someone with such power, you rarely bloody your own hands. One day, that predilection will undo you. How many servants do you have left, anyway? Even if you could snag yourself the Grand Master of the Assassins?”

Footsteps emanated from behind the three Orks. A figure, also hooded, emerged, holding a finely crafted bolt pistol in his left hand.

“Now datz, Cypher!” sniggered Tuflug, behind him, Uzgrod muttered something about two things (a five-letter word beginning with C), and something to do with the Imperial Guard which no one could quite understand.

“Orks?” muttered Cypher; whatever he was expecting in the Emperor’s throne room, no stretch of the imagination would have ever included such an eventuality. He strode in-between them, taking care to quickly observe both parties’ movements. He quickly walked to the side of the staircase leading up to the Emperor’s throne, and turned to face both parties.

Thuzu pulled slightly on his sword shaft. Cypher gripped his other pistol holster with his right hand. Sideris scowled in the direction of Cypher, and then Thuzu.

“Why waist your time, Krork?” he declared, smugly. “Once I deal with this lapsed wretch, I will have plenty of time to deal with you!”

Thuzu did not bat an eyelid; he merely tightened his grip on his sword pelt.

“Besides, your kind never mastered the use of such weapons. The Warp is an unstable entity; it fluxes and changes. You would need a being of such unparalleled affinity with its power that the blade did not tear its user into an infinity of segments. What good is a sword you cannot wield, Krork?”

“You know nothing of it.” Muttered Thuzu, but he could not hide the doubt in his own expressions.

Cypher quickly pulled a globular item from a satchel and threw it at Sideris. It exploded in a blue, dazzling light, and when it dimmed, the figure did not move.

“Sorry,” Cypher muttered, “But I must deal with you three first.”

Cypher pulled his plasma pistol out of his holster and immediately began firing.

Chapter 4: Warpnar

Gunfire once again echoed through the Emperor’s throne room.

“Ha, dubul wun!” shrieked Uzgrod. However, a grim realisation hit upon him, as he collapsed over onto the ground, bleeding profusely: “stoopid re-rollz…”

Tuflug gestured in Cypher’s direction, and a roar of green psychic energy rushed out from his fingertips, sending the cloaked astarte crashing violently into the staircase that led to the golden throne.

Cypher gasped for air. Everything he had understood about the Orks was in question. He had not expected a psychic attack of such intensity emanating from a mere trio of Orks. He had always understood that Orks needed more of themselves to generate psychic energy. Where in all of Terra was it coming from?

He took a moment to get his senses in order. He surmised from the gesture of the old Ork, that he hadn’t intended to kill him. Something told him, that if the Ork had wanted him dead, he would have been. This was the one place in the whole Universe where that was possible. The Chaos powers simply couldn’t (or wouldn’t) follow him into this chamber.

The big one had yet to draw his sword. It was unlike any Orkoid Cypher had seen, unlike anything he had ever seen in the Universe. He had hardly seen, whatever it was, when he had started firing. It had dodged every shot he had fired in its direction. Effortlessly, as though the shots were meant to miss. Cypher didn’t miss.

“Yoo can try agen,” muttered Tuflug, “But I wuden’t advize it.”

Cypher kept his pistols aimed at the pair who remained standing; Uzgrod lay in a pool of blood, muttering to himself something about something called “statistics”. What is a “maths”, and why is he using it as a metaphor for a magno-nail?

“What do you want?”

“Wat you want, Beakie.” uttered Tuflug. “We want Skabgog’s ‘ead on a pole, an’ sum answa’s. We wanna stop Chaoz, and da C’Tan.”

“Although, yoo wanna be forgivun, I suppose…”

“You know nothing of it.”

“Well yoo got it, wheva ya wanted it or not. An’ yoo’ll need da fruitz of it now. Ee’z bin loose for a bit now. So ya can help uz, or ya’z in owa way.”

Cypher nodded.
A spine of light-defying metal shot out from the darkness, and knocked Cypher’s plasma pistol out of his hand. It clanked into the darkness behind him. Cypher perceived a dozen other spines heading towards him at speed. He flinched.

“Deyz not dere, Beakie.”
“It’s an illusion.” Muttered Thuzu.

Several bolts of lightning shot into the darkness, illuminating a twisted metal face. So, thought Thuzu, he’s changed form. Three Deceivers emerged from the darkness at the same time.

MY TURN

“In stereo…” spluttered Uzgrod.

Tuflug brought his arms around like he was chucking a bloated bag squig at an unscrupulous Grot Merchant. From his fingers erupted green lightning that shimmered and crackled against the surface of the three C’Tan’s metal bodies, illuminating their disgusting grins. One face disappeared in an explosion of metal, as its head exploded from a well-placed bolt round from Cypher’s bolt pistol.

Thuzu struggled with the pelt of his sword, and allowed, for a mere fraction of a second, part of his sword to be revealed. A beam of incandescent light shot from the pelt, slicing a Deceiver in two.

“You had a fifty-fifty chance…” the remaining C’Tan grinned: “…and you chose unwisely.”

The Deceiver lunged forward towards Thuzu. But before it reached him, Cypher stepped in front of him, and shortly afterwards, the Deceiver halted, and a yellow, molten line appeared vertically in the middle of its body. It fell apart in two, and settled upon the floor.

Standing facing the puddle, Cypher perceived a visage he never thought he would ever have witnessed again.

“The Lion Sword…” whispered Cypher “Its…”
“Mended.” Smiled Tuflug: “But den, what did yoo expect… Lionel?”
“How did?”
“Pah, fink doze watchaz in da dark arr da weirdest fings in da univerz? Not by a long shot sunny.”
“Try Uzgrod” sniggered Thuzu. “He’ll live. He’s survived worse.”

Cypher thought he sensed an element of doubt in Thuzu’s expressions. But then, there wasn’t much beyond doubt at this point. This was, after all, his final gambit; he was well aware that it wouldn’t be the only gambit thrown into the pot. The fact that his sword gleamed as it had once done so, showed that the Emperor had also shown his hand in the proceedings.

Their revelry was interrupted by the slithering of molten metal.

“He’s just oozing back together!” muttered Cypher.
“Yehr, eez annoyin’ lyk dat.”

“The master was not expecting so much resistance…” uttered a weakened and distorted voice. “I am Kenos Tenebrae. Now you will disappear, permanently.”

The figure emerged from the darkness, standing upon a generator sitting next to the pyramid that held the golden throne. From his arm-cannon, projected an orb of crackling darkness and incandescent energy that expanded, landing next to the party, erupting in a swirling vortex of almost unstoppable attraction.

“Bloomin’ Vortex Cannonz…” muttered Uzgrod.

Cypher let out a bolt pistol shot as he fled to one side, hitting Kenos directly in the head. The mangled mass fell backwards, back into the darkness. Wherever the Deceiver was, he was no longer visible, but Cypher doubted enough that he’d been lost in the vortex.

But what of his companions?

Tuglug was to the right of him, dragging Uzgrod away from the Vortex. He wasn’t concerned. He knew enough from his minor encounter to know those two had faced off greater perils with very little effort.

But immediately he perceived, as he dared to look upon the vortex, what was left of Thuzu. “Thuzu!” he shouted. The strange Orkoid looked back at him, and smiled a wry smile in a way that only an Orkoid could. Shortly afterwards, he disappeared from view, and the vortex collapsed.

The Fallen Angel had enough wit about him to assume the Emperor’s hand in its closing.

The figures gathered themselves.

“What was it all for, this?” muttered Cypher.
“Oh, I dunno…” muttered Tuflug, “But wateva it wuz, Thuzu wanted ta see it froo…”
“So it was all for nothing then.”
“We’ll see.”


EXEUNT THUZU. WE HOPE YOUR GAMBIT WAS WORTH THE RISK…

************************

Well I have to say that I am not a fan of the old Necron background that introduced the krork but I have really enjoyed this story and am intrigued as to where you will go with it. I see the Ian Watson influence with your version of the Emperor and the general style reminds me of those early novels where authors could use the 40K background in a way that we don't see with modern Black Library books so it's good to see someone writing their own story like this. Good stuff so far!

Thank you for the kind words. I'd not really thought about it before, but the dialogue with the Emperor is very Inquisition War! It may not be a good thing, but I seldom read much Black Library, and most of what I have read is stuff like Draco's exploits, Warhammer Monthly and whatnot. I refuse to support modern Black Library because of the "There is no canon" comment. So I don't read them. My primary Ork reference is Waaargh The Orks, which is still the best Ork Fluff resource and largely still works. I think the main thing Orks suffer from particularly is a overt focus on Orks in war, often as villain of the week. Some more stories from their perspective could help remove some of the prejudices around Orks. On the Krork thing, well, I liked the indirect purpose it gave to Orks more than the long since used up brain-inducing maguffin they used to have. As for the Necrons, well 40k fluff was doing reasonably well until Mat Ward came along. But enough of that, anyway.

I posted this on another forum, so there is still a bit of catching up to do. So I will be putting in some rapid-ish updates so new readers have enough to go on. Things are going to get considerably Orkier in a few chapter's time, so I hope this doesn't turn away readers. I'll be putting up another two chapters up shortly. Once we catch up (I'm currently putting finishing touches to Chapter 8 as I type this), updates will be shorter (one at a time instead of two), but I'm hoping to keep the pace up for a while yet.

Anyway, I'll get back to the story, or I'll have you here all day.

Just before I resume however, I'd like to say a big thank you to everyone who takes the time to read my work. It is greatly appreciated whether you comment or not.

Intermishun

“We’re travelling to another dimension…” the ominous voice muttered, “A dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind…”

Thuzu gazed warily into the spiralling infinity of twisted colours, and, as he presumed, realities.

“Yor nekt stop…” muttered a voice that sounded like Tuflug: “Da Wurrgitz Slag.”

All of reality melted into a single glass of water. It was half empty.


“Not enough power…” muttered Professor Septimus Smith. His laboratory had been engulfed in steam and the crackles of electricity for three hours, but for his endeavours, he remained powerless. The indicators upon his steam gauges, he surmised, had been quite what were to be expected, and they struggled against the clanking nature of his confounded construction. His endeavour was a vital one, something that this spluttering hulk had consistently failed to materialise.

Behind him, his snivelling wretch of an assistant, Walter Jackson shivered in the cold. He was obviously anticipating yet another outburst from his master. But Smith knew better. Not this time. He had endured quite enough failure for the past 5 years, and he was going reach his goal, tonight, if he had to blow the damn thing apart to do it.

“Walter,” Smith shouted over the din of mechanical dervish: “stop skulking down there and throw the damn switches!”

“…all of them!”

Walter stammered, turning to look at Smith with a half pleading, half panicked expression. He would have said something, but he thought better of it, and made haste to the switches before the crazy devil noticed his concerns.

One by one, he threw them. The second one shocked him, the fourth caught his shirt sleeve, and the fifth sent a wholly different chill down his spine. The 6th and final switch confirmed it, as the steam and electricity multiplied with such ferocity that the generator to the right of him exploded.

Huddling in a corner, nursing some minor bruises, he watched Smith struggle and shout angrily at the built-up energy around him. Most of the gauges had blown; Smith couldn’t tell whether the parameters were right or not, but he didn’t care. The final switch was in his control; for he knew he had the nerve to throw it, unlike his hired help down there.

Walter stared dazedly at the crazed professor. He had evidently thrown the final switch. He could tell simply because the machine was roaring with unparalleled energy. It had been thrown once before, or so he had heard. He had been hired shortly after the professor’s last assistant, Fritz, had lost his job.

The professor roared with excitement, and then terror. The capacitor to the side of him exploded with such fury that it erupted with an outburst of steam so ferocious that the assistant could see nothing of his master, and then shortly afterwards, he lost consciousness.

When he came to, his blurred vision perceived a light of unimaginable vividness. Surely, Walter thought, he was finally dead. But no, the burning pain on his right arm confirmed the unfortunate news that the mad fool had done it, whatever it was he had done.

“Look at it Walter!” roared the professor: “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Walter stumbled to his feet, and he perceived something beyond the measure of beauty. He thought that in a mere instance he had perceived every colour on the spectrum, and he felt he had imagined every colour in-between. He tried to determine its colour, and the closest he got to such a realisation was of a blue twinge with a depth so infinite that he immediately remembered every tone and hue of every single colour he had ever seen.

“See how it warps and changes with every passing moment?” the professor whispered gleefully. “If we can but harness it, it could render the need for fuel obsolete, it could power continents; make mighty machines to allow us to ascend to the heavens!”

“It could make powerful weapons…” interjected Walter.

“What?” roared Smith, as he immediately tried to reclaim the hush of his voice: “You perceive a beauty and magnificence of such infinite capacity and you attach it to such a base occupation? Pure dribble, you snivelling fool. What good would it do as a weapon?”

Walter reached out to touch the glowing material trapped in the giant collecting tube. The light seemed vivid around his fingers, yet he sensed something ominous about it, some unknown affinity with its existence. He heard the faintest of whispers; it spoke to him, in words and languages he knew nothing of, yet felt a pang of understanding beyond his comprehension.

“What do you feel, Walter?” enquired the professor
“Umm, oh. N-n-nothing, professor.” He muttered “It’s just so… beautiful!”
“Isn’t it? We must capture some of it!” the professor scoped his eyes around wantonly: “Quick! Bring me the orb on that coil. I have it on loan from that quack Tesla. It will suffice most adequately.”

Over a few minutes, the two worked on the orb, fashioning it into the top of a staff. The old professor, Walter often noted, had a disgusting passion for the dramatic and aesthetic. The orb was dipped into the top of the tube. Quite miraculously, the orb absorbed most of the material, and then glowed with quite an unfathomable magnificence.

“What is it for?” queried Walter, wryly.
“It is to demonstrate, forever, our findings. Whilst I find a use for this material…”

At length, the professor resealed the tube, and noticed how the material inside reacted, and expanded to fill the void.

“How utterly remarkable…” the professor marvelled. “I wonder how it does that… I wonder… How I can harness it to do more…”

“Oh, I think you’ll find that such a feat is beyond your abilities.”

“What? What insolence, Walter, what do you…”

“Walter? Walter is gone my friend.” The figure of Walter stood aloft, holding the staff and orb confidently. “This material is part of a warp-psychic ether. It reacts only to those with the gift to use it. You possess none of it, but this fool here had enough to realise it. Your last assistant was too crude a host, yet he too possessed the gift.”

The professor was speechless.

“You cannot use this material. There is nothing in this world that can fully understand it, or utilise it completely. One needs an infinity that one can only achieve through being exactly what it is, and that is virtually impossible.”

“Then… how,” spluttered the professor “Have you taken over my assistant?”

“An astute question! One I can answer for you. One can sometimes bend its properties to one’s will, although it contains many creatures looking for a way out. They are patient, very patient. For what you can perceive as time is quite beyond this essence’s properties.”

“What will you do?”

“Oh, I will bide my time, I think. I seem to have emerged somewhat early for this theatre most spectacular. This essence is not quite ready to show its true colours just yet. But in time, it will be used as you suggest, but not by you.”

“Wait… Walter… Wait… please!”

“You may call me Mobius.”

Shortly thereafter, a hooded figure emerged from the old fort that had become Professor Smith’s Laboratory, carrying an odd looking staff. The fort exploded in an incandescent light, of such intensity that no mortal could dream over ever witnessing it again. Indeed, such a visage invariably would not be seen for countless millennia.

************************

Chapter 5: Ab Aeternum
The troubled figure stirred from his restlessness. His perceptions vaguely settled upon the scene that faced him. The figure slowly roused to consciousness; becoming vaguely aware of hunched figures, gathered around a campfire of vaguely moderate warmth. As they slowly entered focus, he perceived that most of the figures had noticed his awakened state, yet he did not know exactly what had attracted their attention.

“Dat dreem agen, Thuzu?” muttered Tuflug.

The Orkoid nodded sullenly.

It was not a consciously accurate answer. Every time it had been more or less different. A continuance, rather than the same dream over and over. It felt so real, somehow. He looked over at Uzgrod, who was happily chomping on a Squig contentedly to himself. He felt the gaze of Tuflug upon him, but the rest of the company seemed completely disinterested in his presence. This didn’t particularly surprise him.

The Orkoid sat up slowly. As usual, the piercing stare of the old Ork dug deeply, as if rooting about inside of him for answers to questions only he perceived necessary to answer. As usual however, the twisting of Tuflug’s lower lip onto the base of the upper one suggested the usual capitulation. Thuzu stood up. He was of a fairly slender frame; not quite as lofty as most of the Orks who shared his company. His features were less pronounced, yet striking; most Orks hunched over, but Thuzu invariably stood with an all-more commanding gait. His body wasn’t exactly muscular, but had finely woven sinews and a pallid, almost white complexion.

He wore long flowing robes of a fairly gaudy design; it was mostly white, with a faint trace of blue within it. It had a few elaborate markings of some curious origin, lined with hues of purple and grey. He covered his head with an ornate cowl, which he sometimes used to cover his appearance. Orks were in the habit of questioning his facial features, despite their instincts having the tendency to at least trust his presence. It had made him quickly labelled as an Oddboy, although not quite a Bad’un, at least not lately.

Of late, he had ended up in the company of Madboyz, and other assorted oddboyz. It wasn’t exactly the death sentence that Warlord Gorgrim had been expecting. He had found the situation most curious (for an Ork), to have a strange Orkoid “request” to be part of his Waaagh. Being of a particularly Goffik temperament, he had craftily agreed rather eagerly; on the condition that Thuzu command some of his “Best Gitz”. He’d sniggered for quite some time afterwards, of course. The Weirdboy that was stood behind him hadn’t bothered as much.

Thuzu wasn’t particularly concerned. It wasn’t the first time he had been lumbered with Oddboyz and Outcasts. Over the years, he had found that one of the many advantages of being around Madboyz was the tendency to be left alone to one’s own devices…

He walked over to the fire and took a seat upon the carcass of some long-dispatched Beakie, an astrate, a power-armoured warrior of the Imperium.

“Well I’ll giv dem Beakies wun fing,” snorted Tuflug “Dey mak gud seatz. Hur hur hur.”

The rest of the party chortled merrily. As was usual, it was hard to tell exactly how many of them had got the joke, but it was all the funnier when they joined in.

Tuflug Zogslag was an old ork, and with any old ork came a particularly black and dry sense of humour. Thuzu perceived something powerful about this old git, in spite of his crumpled exterior. He had certainly not known a more perceptive Ork. It was a trait he was used to seeing in Gretchin, but not Orks. Thuzu leant on a gnarled old stick for support as he stood, but he was seldom picked on by other Orks for perceived weakness. One look in those sharp eyes and his calculating stare, and the smarter Orks thought better of it.

Tuflug’s past was a mystery. The only thing any Ork knew about Tuflug was that he was pretty old. Gulgrod, the mob’s weirdboy seemed to have known him for a while, but getting the git to talk was more difficult than getting the truth out of a Deffskull.

Sat next to him, as always, was Skabsnik Grimbad. Skabsnik was a completely deranged psychopath, at least, when he was in a good mood. Generally, Frantiks were just excitable, but Skabsnik had a unique talent for enjoying killing too much. Not surprising when he merely used to be called Grimbad, and then got the name Skabsnik a little later, when he found he wasn’t particularly fussy quite how he engaged in his recreation.

Skabsnik used to be a Freeboota pirate, but after scavenging an odd piece of loot, he went a bit mental for a while. After less than an hour of granting a “commizerashunz” cut to the villager families, most of whom he had just killed, his first Mate, Bogsnatch, suggested it might be a better idea if he took over command for a bit. So Skabsnik bit his left foot off.

“Destinee?” spluttered Skabsnik, “Pah. Yar liv, yar peg it, an’ in betweenz, yar do wat yer wantz.”
“Well, I wunz ‘new diz lucky git called Grimskra…”
“Shaddap, Kevin.” He muttered “Wat sort uv naym iz dat fer an Ork aneeway.”
“I lyk’d it.” Kevin’s face coiled upwards in obstinacy: “Fownd it on a tag I did.”
“Itz a ‘umie naym, ya no gud git.”
“Shaddap, da pair uv ya.” Grumbled Tuflug: “Yoo’v told uz befoar about dat git. Wuzzn’t Uzgrod wif ya?”
“I dowt he notiz’d.” muttered Kevin.

All the Orks knew him as Kevin the Toofsayer, although the others didn’t really care why. Madboyz seldom let you finish their tale, something Thuzu always found delightful about their character. Kevin had been about a bit. Certainly his adventures had not made him particularly mad: more the contrary, in fact. Aside of his name, and some mild eccentricities, Kevin could pass for an ordinary Ork. Unfortunately, most of his mild eccentricities were not particularly Orky, and this was the problem.

Sat next to him, and utterly indifferently at that, was Uzgrod Zabfraggle. Thuzu found Uzgrod fascinating. Tuflug had once described him as “a bigga mysteree dan a Dok’s sergery bag”. He hadn’t been exaggerating. Uzgrod was a bone fide Skitzo, completely oblivious to almost everything. Occasionally he would briefly exit his stupor with incredibly random outbursts that almost always only made sense to him. However, the others regarded him as something of a lucky mascot. On occasion he was also able to spot a threat before anyone else did, although that didn’t exactly change what most of the Madboyz would do anyway.

“So, diz beakie chucked a fragga at me. I grab’d ma bolta, battid it bak, an it blew iz face off!” chortled Zod.
“Gruntbagz.” muttered Duffdreg. “Yoo got no bolta.”
“I did den, Duff.” Snapped Zod: “Wuz a long tym ago…”
“Wat, bak wen Squiggoths had wings?” roared Gargob.
“Shut up, ya Panzee. I’ll knock yer teef out.”
“Yoo an’ wat Waaagh?”
“Da wun yoo’z hidin’ from, ya Panzee.”

He was once a feared Deffskull skarboy, was Duffdreg Gognar. Until he’d took that hit from a Beakie’s hammer. Of course, Duffdreg had ripped the skumbo’s throat out for it, but he was never the same again. Duffdreg is now something between a moronik and a phobiak, consistently dumb, and regularly scared of small things. Still, any Ork seeing the skarboy chucking around that hammer (the one that had “gun missin” after he was hit on the head with it), and shrugging off injuries that would make a Mad Dok blush, would be forgiven for thinking Duff was better off not being too bright.

Of course, Duffdreg didn’t go anywhere without his krumpin’ partner, Da Unstoppabul Zod. Zod was best described as a lucky git. As a Deliriak, it was hard to note whether or not he was actually that lucky, or just so busy having fun that he didn’t notice the danger he was usually in. The particularly perceptive Ork might have noticed that the two ideas were intrinsically linked. Amongst the numerous tall tales he endlessly told, a kernel of truth always remained; anyone who had seen Zod in action spent more time wondering if he was actually lying at all.

The newest edition to the mob was Gargob Badgrim. Gargob was not particularly mad; something the other Madboyz could easily tell. It didn’t matter to Gargob. He was far more concerned that he was fooling the other Orks. Something had happened, something that Warboss Gorgrim had noticed, and Gargob had quickly realised that he aught to make himself scarce. Oddly, Gorgrim hadn’t batted an eyelid when he had “gone mad”. He supposed that Gorgrim was just happy to get rid of him, but he was sure there was some hidden reason for it. The company was noisier than he had expected, but he was more concerned about the fact that all of them had seen right through him, even Uzgrod…

“Where have the other 3 got to?” muttered Thuzu.
“I wudn’t wurry abowt dem.” Thuzu snorted, rising from his seat: “Bowt tym we got sum rest ladz, we set off ta Waaagh at dawn.”
“Dawn of Waaagh!” chortled Uzgrod.
“Dey told uz wear we’z goin’ yet?” enquired Gargob
“Dere’z wispaz dat we’re headin’ for Cadia…” muttered Kevin
“Oh no,” replied Tuflug, “We’z headin’ furda dan dat…”

“…we’z goin’ into da Eye uv Terror!”

Kevin? Genius! Good backstory for the characters and with the right amount of humour too. Great stuff so far, really enjoying it.

It gets me that, Waargh the Orks and the other background books for Orks (the situation has changed somewhat with some of the publications GW have brought out but reasonably we can say the orks are unique in having those background books, not to mention GorkaMorka) and yet, as you quite rightly say, and I have said almost the exact same thing myself several times, the orks have been, hmm, well, if not 'reduced' then condensed into something that for me, strips all of that wonderful orkiness from them. I know some people would say that the orks have been refined in their current incarnation but, as I say, the way they are now makes the orks seem like Tyranids to me, mindless beasts that are more often than not, completely inarticulate. It seems that the Orks got far more love and attention than most of the other factions and, even for Imperial forces, they don't quite have the detail of background that the orks got, they just have lots and lots of background if that makes sense (what I mean is, the ork background material really delved into their personal world, beyond just the fighting), and yet GW seem to have pushed the orks to the very boundary.

If you don't read much Black Library then you may well have missed Imperial Glory which has some superb ork characterisation in it, definitely worth a look.

Kevin and Uzgrod are characters I've used before back on the Waaagh forum, so there is one reference to a community story (about a lucky Ork called Grimskraga) that you lot wont get, but I decided not to edit it, as it still sort of works (Skabsnik is surprisingly rude, even for an Ork) I decided to carry them through to this because I loved the characters.

On the Orks in fluff issue, PM me if you'd like to discuss it further (so I can confine future posts to the story) but there is one important saving grace that is related to how I write Ork fluff. For me, all of it pretty much works. Waaargh! fills in most of the gaps and questions, most can be logically figured out, and viewed together, there are few adjustments. Only their origins and reproduction are really an issue of serious change. The rest pretty much works in any incarnation. The Waaargh! fluff about Splinter Clans emerging in extremely isolated Ork Tribes explains the Clanless situation on Angelis (Gorkamorka), and even the sporing fluff is in Rogue Trader, first mentioned in Ere We Go! and merely expanded from Snotlings and Squigs to the whole Orkoid race.

So I see no problem using the old stuff as a fertile resource for fluff. Plus, Waaargh! covers a lot of Orks away from War, so largely the focus of 40k has shifted, meaning some of the non-war content should be introduced in Black Library, if they bothered to take their job seriously. They can do it though. Khorne Followers for instance, suffered from being "Kharnityped", losing some of that eloquence that many Traitors had in the RT/2nd Ed era in favour of BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD etc. Recently though, the Horus Heresy series has given Kharne some actual characterisation. Sadly GW are doing as much as possible to bury both Forge World and Black Library in endless piles of Power Armour.

Anyway, hopefully I can at least satisfy the Ork tooth a bit with a few stories (if the reader can tolerate a bit of "fanon"). Production of my fluff and fluff articles has slowed in anticipation of the new Codex that I am somewhat dreading (Kelly got the balance with the new book close to perfect) that I fear that Orks will turn into a LOLMEME of themselves if Ward's set loose on them. Okay Ward, I get it, you think 40k sucks. Well keep ruining WHFB then. At least they wont notice.

Anyway... I'll hopefully pop up two more instalments tomorrow so long as I get some decent progress with the next chapter.