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A little story I wrote for the Eternal Crusade, to put some more daily life into the 40k setting.

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A Chaotic Mind.

"Are our holy Apostle really accepting such rabble amongst our ranks now?", asked Eargos.

Two Astartes, clad in dark red Power Armour with silver trim walked through the smoke trail left from the marching legions of Battle-Brothers upon Battle-Brothers armed with weapons of war and adorned with trophies to attract the notice of the Gods. However, Brother Eargos and Gorval's armour was clean, and their armarments light.

In front of the two Brothers of the Word Bearers shuffled a host of red and bronze-armoured warriors, their chained weapons of war singing in dissonnance, as they scraped the ground or bashed towards their shins and backpacks. Their eyes burned with a fierce and spiteful glow remiscent of the furnaces of the Dark Forges of the Castellan XII Forge World, and their Power Armours were damaged, chipped and rusty, revealing a bright grey and faint blue colour shining through the coats of blood that made out their red uniform. Their march were no less rigid than a pack of Orks pressing for a fight; their battlelust was clear to any who stood near.

"Why would you say that, Brother? You know as well as I that the Scions of War are among the greatest worshippers of the King of Skulls; to not invite them to the coming campaign would be an afront to the Dark Pantheon itself!" said Brother Gorval in an impressed and jovial manner, stroking his stubby beard with his armoured fist.

Eargos had known Gorval since their initiation into the ranks of the Bearers of the True Word, and he knew him well enough to know that Gorval agreed with him deep down. But Eargos needed no confirmation. He knew he was right.

The two Astartes stood watch left of the marching host of their Legionnarie brethren with Bolt Pistols bared and Chainswords ready, should a mortal of the city think of distrupting the holy call to war. No mortal could hold back the horrors that could assail their brothers; only an Astartes had the strength.

"You cannot think of this flock as anything but madmen and divergents! Their equipment is in poor shape, their holy armour in disrepair... And even worse; they are Monotheans." said Eargos with spite towards the band of warriors. Gorval remained silent, pretending to watch the city roofs. Eargos knew Gorval agreed.

Eargos had seen the rise and decline of his Host, from the most feared force of Chaos in the Segmentum Obscurus, to a mere raiding party. Born and raised on the twisted street of Greatspire, the largest Hive of the world of Incullius, the Host of the Burning Lore had been a factor of his life every day. The masters of this world and dozens more, the Word Bearers legion used Incullius as their base of operations, and for their main source of new Initiates into their Host. The Greatspire was a harsh, but fair place, where the strongest fought for domination constantly, while the weaker scraped the leftovers for survival; but no matter how powerful any Hive Lord would become, no one could ever dream of challenging the might of the Mortal Daemons, the Word Bearers.

"Have you heard of the destination of this Host, Brother?" Gorval asked his Brother in a casually manner.

"I have not." Eargos said with a slither; his tongue was peaked and tasted the air. "But it must surely be important for the Legion. The numbers of Militiae raised is beyond what I have seen in years.".

As they spoke, a great regiment of mortal warriors passed, Unlike their Brothers of the Host, these faithful servants wore little in the way of protective clothing, and their weapons was regular Autoguns and Frag Grenades. Many bore a sigil of their family or gang in the form of eight-pointed stars, burning books and the screaming heads of Daemons, worn around their necks and stuffed in belts. The regiment was composed of mortals from all levels of the Spires of Incullius. Some were clad in grotesque and frightening apparel, with drug-inducing machinery pumping strange liquids into their bloodstreams, jittering to fight for the cause. Others were nought but civilians dressed in mildly intimidating clothing, some adults, some younglings.

"By the Gods. They will not stand a chance." Gorval said.

"They won't have to. Their sacrifice will call upon the favour of Dark Pantheon.". Eargos knew that the blood of the lamb was an essential part of any slaughter. Without the loss of innocence, the Gods would not bare their gaze, yet alone grant favours.

"I know.", Gorval said in a tone, which could almost be considered sad.

Eargos paid it no mind. Gorval had never had Eargos understanding of the Burning Lore, and had, as the Apostle of the Host itself, an sentimental take on the life of the servants of the Gods. Eargos knew better. Their lives mattered little in the end. Their work was what was important; work, that could forever pledge humanity to their rightful rulers. He understood how Gorval would have issues seeing this truth, but it was the truth none the less. The only truth there was.

Eargos had always wanted to fight the False Imperium. Preachers on the sidewalks told of the tragedy of the Horus Heresy, and of the injustice the Imperium of Mankind forced upon humanity. The Rotting Empire sheltered every soul; destined them to forever be nothing, without drive, completely lacking all that made Mankind destined to take the galaxy in the first place. Eargos knew this out of experience; to survive in Greatspire, one should be able to use all aspects of their humanity to survive; unsavoury as they might be. No rules existed, past the only natural one: the rule of Chaos.

Now, Eargos did not fight for survival. Now, he thought for the Truth of the Word, and to lay low the greatest lie ever told.

"Such a waste." Gorval said solemnly.

Eargos would cut his sentimental nonsense off, but he had to agree. The Host had had trying times as of late. Their numbers had now dwindled below the two-thousands, and so had to inquire the help of anyone but the faithful mortals, to renegades like the Scions of War. Eargos was disgusted, and frustrated. Not only had his Host, his family and brotherhood in arms, become weak and found assistance in brutes and plebians, who had no understanding of their holy work. They didn't understand what their lives held, what worth it had to the Dark Gods.

Worse yet, he had also been stationed on the Spire. He assumed his Coteres Champion deemed him worthless in battle; but that was nought but lies. In his Squad, no one mastered the Bolter like Eargos. He had felled many lapdogs of the Imperium, and laid low Ork beasts and Eldar denizens alike. They had caught scent of his understanding of the Lore, he presumed, and wished him away. Gorval was off the assumption that they simply wanted competent and indpendent sentries in the city, to further guide the remaining mortals. Eargos wasn't sure of what was more likely.

The Militia had marched by, now followed by the lumbering war machines of the Legion; Rhinoes, Vindicators, Predators and the creations of the Dark Mechanicum: brutes of metal and Daemonic flesh, revered by the masses as vessels of the God's will. The air was filled with bellowing smoke and the screaming of the damned.

"A pity, rather. These souls can do little difference on the battlefield, faithful or not." Eargos stated coldly.

Gorval turned to Eargos with the hint of nervousness in his eyes. "Do you believe yourself to be in a position to state such things?! Our holy Apostle, chosen of the Master of the Faith himself decides upon this, and you doubt him?".

"Do not be blind, Brother. Apostle Darrir is a hallowed hero; no one would argue against that. But his empathy for the people has become too great. He has forgotten the Lore he should be administering and fulfilling without question. If anyone here upsets the natural order in this Host; he is. The Order of Chaos." Eargos said unfazed

An unheard, unhelt wind blew through the streets, as the two Astartes stood silently.

"How... Can you say such blasphemies!" Gorval sneered, visibly frustrated with his Brother's insolence.

"Listen, Brother. Do not forget what we are to accomplish. The teachings of the Urizen are infangible: We cannot allow outsiders to try and understand the workings of Chaos, or to corrupt the Hosts of the Bearers. To do so would be to steep as low as the False Imperium! Should we deevovle to our basest instincts of slaughter and fearmonging, like the Night Lords? Are we to fight an aimless war for thousands of years, accomplishing nothing and degrading into mere rabble in the process? Should we lose ourselves to the whims of the Gods as the Death Guard or Emperors Children, with no understanding of the intricate workings of Chaos? No, I will not allow it, and neither should you. We are the Bearers of the Word. We are the heralds of truth. If we do not stay true to our role in the game of the Gods, who will? No one. And Mankind will be lost, forever. You don't wish for that, do you?"

The Host had long passed, and they watched the Crusiers lift from the ground with a mighty roar. The two Astartes stood still, one watching the other with an indescernable expression. They were as estranged from one another, suddenly not Battle-Brothers, but preacher and listener.

At last, Gorval turned his head. "Let us go back to the Keep." he said, not looking at the Astartes standing on the ramparts.

The unaware would see the end of a friendship. But Eargos knew that he had found his first follower.

If you like that sort of stuff, with less bangdabang and more nothing happening, please do write it; if you like it, I'll write more stories like this one, with more daily happenings.

I like it. I like it a lot. It's nice to see the universe of 40k outside of the gunfire or explosions, even if it involves filthy heretics

Oh my so much heretical goodness! Well done sir

Good stuff - You captured the mood and personality just right in this little story. I hope to see more from you

Thanks ya'all, makes me happy to see you like it! Next story gonna be some Orky stuff, I think

More of this please!!

Wow, this is really good. Would love to see more

Fantastic, definitely want to read more

Hey ya'all, I'm moving this post to this thread, so you can follow my stories on this thread

But yeah, I work fast Here's a story about Orks, drinking, relaxing, cheating, but most importantly, friendship.

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A Game of Bossgob.

Somewhere on the central plains of the Arkhona Mainlands lies a small rickidy settlement. It has no barracks made of repurposed Imperial metal and rockrete, no flying fields with Flyboyz constantly buzzing to leave the binding earth behind, and no Mek workshops, constantly toiling to build the next big monster of metal. No, this little settlement had one particular attraction: Da Fhirsty Grot.

Da Fhirsty Grot was an acclaimed saloon owned by the grizzled but passionate Skar-Brewah Gazzagog. Having fought in WAAAGH Skarblitz since its inception, Gazzagog grew old, rich and acclaimed, and at last decided to retire as a Brewer. Upon arrival in the Arkhona system, and with support from the wealth of the Bad Moon Warlord, Gazzagog build a saloon in the middle of nowhere, in unclaimed lands with nothing but a small running freshwater fountain.

Soon, as the forward troops truly began establishing control, Da Fhirsty Grot became the main "watering hole" for the many Orks fighting in the Mainland, or traveling in vast caravans of Trukks and Battlewagons, eager for a mug of Fungus Beer before going into battle with the armoured Astartes, the skittering Tyranid hordes or maybe even the lithe Eldar. It became the place to rewind, to relax, and to prepare for new, brutal campaigns into the forts of the Arkhona Mainland.

Today, howver, the saloon, and the surrounding buildings - Grot settlements, protected by Gazzagog's bodyguard in exchange for workforce, barracks for traveling Warbands and the occasional lue - were quiet, baking in the sun. It wasn't a day for staying inside the metal cabinets; even Ork skin would take harm from the triplet suns of the Arkhona system in broad daylight.

But all in all, it was a beautiful day that day. The resident Kultists where storming around the plains for jollies and the saloon itself was quiet - The servant grots used the opportunity to get a bit of cleaning done. Once in a while, one could hear a scream, or the sound of a gunshot, and occasionally, a fight would break out to beat the monotomy. Had a human witnessed this spectacle, they would've have turned around, no matter how much they needed shelter and water. To an Ork, it was tuesday, and a relaxed one at that.

It was an early afternoon. Outside Da Fhirsty Grot Saluun sat two Orks engaged in a brutal duel. For some Orks, such a battle involve sharp fangs, clunky weapons and intense ferocity, but this pair struggled not with brawn, but with their minds.

"And I'z drawin' up a... Nob. Hmmm..." said the largest of the two, as he took a metal piece from their rusty table. His name was simply Krooza, and his title was 'Ead Stompa, but to those who served under him, he was the Krooza Nob.

Clad in blue and iron armour, a fluffy and torn leather jacket stolen from an Imperial ace pilot he had taken from his cockpit in mid-air, and with a pair of flyer googles hanging around his wide neck, Krooza was easy to recognize; and better that way too, for Krooza didn't accept subordinates to act carelessly around him - Not that any would want to; his bulk was close to that of a Warboss in size, and with armour, he could rival even Dreadnoughts outright. He was a Boss Stormnob, and to serve in his 'Urrikane Smashas Storm Mob was a great honour for any young Stormboy.

"I already know'z what'd I'd do wiff dat." the other said, more wellspoken than the first. He was noticably smaller than his opponent, but no less darker toned, showing his scarred status. Nazzruk Morkboss was his name, and he was the Boss Nob of the Darkstabbas Kommandos.

Occasionally called "Da Facepuncha" by excitable Yoofs, Nazzruk's climb to the rank of Boss Nob was by no means typical. Some murmour about Nazzruk owning an old servitor and dozens of human litteratur pieces, which he apparently learned Gothic from, and other believe him to have his own agenda in the Lead Belcha Klan; but no one disputes where his title came from. In an unarmoured, unarmed duel against his prior Boss Nob, Nazzruk beat his opponnent with a single punch to the jaw after having lost several times. Imperial analytics believe Nazzruk to be a rare Ork able to learn from his mistakes and develop his skills by study; to the Boyz, he's blessed by Mork himself.

Beside their table was a large machine with straps upon it; a Techpriest would've called it a suicide missile, but Krooza called it his 'Urrikane Blasta, and it was the best jump pack in the Klan. Leaning on it was a Choppa, lean and jagged. Unlike the Choppas of other Nobs, who can bend ceramite and destroy rockrete, "Da Shiv", as Nazzruk called it, was no bigger than a Boy's Choppa. It was a precicion weapon, just like it's owner.

"Oh yeah?! So what'd ya do wiff it, ya squeeshy grot?" Krooza yelled at his friend, but Nazzruk didn't mind it.

"Well, why'd I tell ya? That'd be no fun. But if you'se really dat dense, I can get un' o' da Meks; dey at least know 'ow ta play..." Nazzruk said with a smirk.

"Why ya lil'... FINE. I's forcin' Ya Squig ta eat da Nob." the Krooza said and placed another jagged piece of metal on Nazzruk's table half, on top of a pile of metal like it.

"... Dat was not a gud idea, let me tell ya..." Morkboss teased. He looked like he enjoyed the Stormnob's rage immensely.

The two Orks were playing the game of Bossgob; a favourite of Orks everywhere. The rules were simple; both players had a "Gob", a pile of seven metal cards in the shape of the fangs adorning the armour of the Wolves of Fenris. On each of the cards, a symbol was inscribed: three Grots, two Boyz, one Nob and one Boss mark. The players, as many as there were, would put all of them on the table in front of them, face down, and then remove one Boss card. From here on, the participants would wager, throwing in Ork teeth on their chance of winning.

Nazzruk drew up a card and flipped it; on the rusty, bluish piece of metal was ingraven the symbol "Boy". Now, he had the option to place the card on any Ork's own "Gob". "Gob", the Orkish glyph for "maw", represented a Face Eater Squig, the most ferocious of the small critters following the Ork eco-system everywhere they went, and the cards represented what the Squig would eat. The goal was to have cards in an ascending manner in his pile, going from Grot, to Boy and to Nob and Boss, and so, to grow their "Squig" into a monster, capable of toppling castles.

The winner was the owner of the Gob who had the longest stream of eaten Orks. If a Gob got a card too big for it, it would automatically lose. To place a larger card on a Gob pile without losing, the Gob pile had to have at least two of the smaller size; so a Boy would only be eaten when the Gob had two Grots, and a Nob would only be eaten when there was two Boyz and so one. A Gob that managed to eat a Boss was called a Bossgob, and if an Ork held a Bossgob at the end of the game, he would win by default.

Every turn, a player would either draw a card and place it in whatever Gob they wanted, or remove a card from their bowl at random and place it back into the pile. The game ended when both Orks had decided to pass on both drawing, removing or throwing extra teef into the pot.

"I's placin' dis 'ere card in wiff ya." Nazzruk said, placing the metal card on the top of Krooza's Gob, without showing the card. Hiding information was not illegal in Bossgob.

The Krooza looked at Nazzruk with slight annoyence; he knew his partner would cheat if given the option to. It was an expected part of the game; if a player wasn't seen cheating, it was considered legal. If it was seen, it was legal if the cheating Ork in question wasn't in clobbering size. As such, Bossgob had a fair share of meta-game based on the size of the Ork players as well.

"I's raisin'," Krooza said in a deep, monotone voice, indicating near victory for the Morkboss. Krooza had not been good at keep track of his Gob since the third card, and Nazzruk had exploited it to greatest ability. He had already cheated five times, and Krooza hadn't noticed once.

Krooza placed a gold-plated tooth in the pot; clearly a withhold piece of wealth he was not entirely happy with parting. With a sigh of defeat, he drew a card from the pile; his expression didn't improve the least. He took a swig of his triple strength Fungus Beer and placed it with the force of a Thunder Hammer.

"Are ya gettin' enuff soon? You's loosin', ya know." Morkboss reminded him. Nazzruk loved winning, but he also loved not being smashed by the physically superior Stormnob, and so would at least like to keep a friendly tone with Krooza. Besides, the Krooza was perhaps one of the only Nobs he had ever been able to talk properly to; the others just blabbered about battle, battle, battle; not how to wage it. But the Krooza a Stormnob, and Stormers had some sense of strategy. It was refreshing for the Boss Nob.

"ARE YA ACCUSIN' ME O' GIVEN UP?!" Krooza yelled, the trinkets hanging from the clothing above them rattling by the sheer power of his voice. This gruff voice pierced the sky over the citadels of the puny humans in their tin armour to let them know that the hurricane had come for them, and Nazzruk knew the same fate would fall upon him, was he not savvy with his words from now on.

Not that he'd ever clobber Nazzruk. Krooza would perhaps be the brawn of the two Orks, but he hadn't come to his position of power through sheer murder and destruction. Even his bouts of rage and aggression at his position in the game wasn't heartfelt; it was his way of getting some fun out of the game. While he always liked a good game of Bossgob, he played it mainly for Nazzruk's sake; if it stood to him, they'd go infiltrate some fortress and scalp some stupid Eldar. But then again, it was hot outside, and Gazzagog's Fungus Beer was fantastic, so it wasn't all bad.

"Ya certainly look like it, ya pansy." Nazzruk said casually while drawing a card; but his expression froze. It was the Boss card. Nazzruk hid his surprise and tried to look like he was worried.

"Hehah, who's a pansy NOW?!", Krooza said, putting his huge fist to the table. "Are ya really out o' option, Nazz?".

"O' course I ain't. Watta ya takin' me for." Nazzruk said contemplatingly, faking his excitement over his luck. He himself could not use the Boss card, but he was sure Krooza hadn't got all it took to make a Bossgob. Slowly, as if conflicted about his decicion, Nazzruk picked up the card and placed it on Krooza's Gob - Victory was near.

Krooza didn't respond right away. Leaning back, as if surrendering, the Stormboss declared "I's callin'.".

"Callin'?! Already? I thought ya wanted ta fight 'til da bitta end?". Nazzruk was, for the first time that afternoon, confused.

"Ih see wen I's bein' beaten, an' i don' need to lose no more teef, so I's callin'.".

"... Alright. I's callin' too, den." Nazzruk said, putting the bowl of teeth on its head, to ensure no one would steal from the pot. The two Orks revealed their Gobs at the same time, placing the bottom card to the left, the next right after and so on. Soon, all cards where on the table, in two, barely neat lines.

Nazzruk looked up at his opponent, truly stunned. "... You'se got ya'self a Bossgob, Krooz.".

"I 'ave? Well, dat means I've won, ain't dat right?" the Krooza Nob said with pretend surprise in his voice.

The two Bosses exchanged a long, intense look. The Grots around them stopped their work, fearful that they'd have to clean up after the enevitable mess, and Boyz saw the two massive Orks and waited to see who'd throw the first punch. The saloon was quiet, and the wind seemed to only increase the ensuing drama. Everyone held their breath to see what of the saloon would be left standing.

But suddenly, in total unison, the two Orks burst into a hearty laugh, jabbing at each other and clapping each other on the back. All the remaining greenskins resumed their day, more or less happy for the outcome.

"I 'ad ya for real, didn't I?" Krooza said with a booming, excited voice.

"Yeah, ya 'ad me. Ya pile o' Grox dung." Nazzruk replied, still slightly stunned by his loss.

"HEHA! Grox dung, is dat it? Well alroight denn; dis 'ere pile o' dung's gonna buy ya sum' Ale, 'ow about dat?" Krooza said, putting his hand on the smaller Nazzruk's back.

"On ya?" Nazzruk said, surprised at the sudden bout of generosity from the Death Skull.

Krooza looked at his friend with a smile.

"... Yeah. On me.".

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More on the way

Here's another Ork short story about what happens when an Ork realizes that humans don't just come in two sizes.

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Da Lil' 'Umie


"'Ow's da lootin' over dere?"

The Kommandos of the Darkstabbas Kompany was rumaging through the remains of human soldiers and artillery equipment laying around Outpost Pilum 304#; a proud bastion of Imperial military might now overrun and reduced to scraps and empty, bloodied halls.

"Erh, ain't all great, 'onestly. I mean, wha' selfrespiktin' Ork wud eva loot dese poor flashlights? I mean, oo's deys finkin' deys gonna kill wiff dese fings?!" Graglok murmured while brushing aside military equipment with his huge hands. His bayonet-equipped Shoota hung across his back, dripping with red blood.

The mission, "Operashiun 'Idden Fist", was as succesful as it could be. The company stationed at the outpost was swept with no major fighting done, and all sentries slit open with syncronized brutality. It bothered Snikstik a bit; he was used to working towards effeciency with the Darkstabbas, but this operation wasn't very strategically important, and was just to vent a bit. Unfortunately, the fight had been over so fast, he barely felt it. He was uneasy, and wished he could get to fight something. Perhaps he should slit some git's throat during lunch.

"Wha' was even da point!". Snikstik kicked a body a few meters. "Dere's nuffin' 'ere, an' dese 'umies were pure pushovas! We wud 'ave 'ad more fun fightin' grots!"

"Orders from above, apparently. Sumfin' about Thrakka not wantin' any Outposts ta feel safe." Graklok only payed half attention to Snikstik's tantrum. "Just try an' find sum loot ta bring to da Meks. Maybe day's got demselves a 'Eavy Bolta sumwhere.".

With a grumble, Snikstik went over to a pile of bodies. Some was damaged badly, having lost limbs and carved open, their miniature guts spilling out. Others had wellplaced slitted throats and bellies. They were always the first to fall to the Kommandoes of the Darkstabbas.

Snikstik threw away a few mutilated bodies and began digging into the pile to perhaps find something valuable. Green, flimsy armor plates was of no use, and they couldn't get bogged down when sneaking up upon an unaware foe. Their Lasguns could perhaps work as laser sights, but that would be so... Impersonal. No precise shot could bear a good stabbing. Their helmets were cleaved, and altogether too small to be of any use, and their ammunition batteries - None of it was of any use.

But then he saw something, that caught his red eye. A red-tinted piece of paper stuck out of a pair of trousers. With unusually fine handling, Snikstik took it with two fingers, and pulled it out, careful not to rip it apart with his powerful arm. He didn't even know why he was so delicate with it. Something about it seemed important.

It was an image of a creature. It wore no armor or weapons, and simply sat on a metal floor Snikstik didn't recognize as a part of any military complex. In its hand was an imitation of a soldier, clad in their green armor and wearing their useless firearms. The doll was smiling; completely unrealistically, Snikstik thought to himself. But worse yet, the creature itself beared its pitiful, flat teeth in a similar grin, and squinted its eyes in an impression that might perhaps have been the least intimidating sight the Kommando had ever seen.

For reasons Snikstik would never be able to understand, he couldn't take his eyes from the creature. It was so... Small. It was small the same way a Grot was to an Ork, but it looked similar still; some features were different, but otherwise, it looked like a tiny, unthreathening human.

Snikstik had many questions, but he wasn't sure if he should search for the answer.

"'Ey Graglok?" he finally said to the other Kommando in the room.

"Wat?"

"Wer-" Snikstik just realized how stupid his question was, but he was already curious. He had to. "Were does 'umies come from?"

Graglok stopped for a second, standing still, as if he was momentarily in deep thought. Then he resumed rumaging the piles of bodies as if nothing had happened.

"I dunno. Dey probs just jump out o' dem Katfedrals o' deirs wiff a "Fer da Emprah!"." Graglok giggled at his own joke.

Snikstik waited a moment before asking his next question.

"But... 'Aven't ya seen dem small 'umies dey 'ave in deir cities? Ya know, the ones da Yoofs go krump wenn dey get bored?"

"Yeah? Wat 'bout dem?"

"Dis 'ere 'umie 'as a pictja o' un'."

Graglok halted his quest for worthy loot and walked over to Snikstik to see the picture. He looked at it for a few seconds with fured brow.

"Maybe it was 'is favurite slave? Like Goglo, Blakkklaw's Grot? 'E's an ol', sentimental sod, maybe dis 'umie was too an' dis was 'is Grot?"

Snikstik wasn't convinced. "But look at it, it's not like Grots; i's exactly like a 'umie, just smaller! 'Sides, i's completely useless! Look at it, it ain't even got fangs!"

The two Orks spend a moment in concentrated thought. Snikstik knew what he was thinking, and Graglok had propably had the same thought as well.

Graglok took his gaze away and began exitting the room. "Arh, wha'eva, 'ow does it matter? You shud be findin' guns an' scrap, not gawk ova 'umies!" Graglok said in a casual manner.

Snikstik looked after Graglok, as the Ork walked away with his face firmly turned away from him and the picture in his hand. Snikstik looked back at the picture, grabbing the paper with both hands, delicately holding it up to his face. For a short while, he felt something he didn't know he could feel. He didn't know what it was, but he had a clue.

The Darkstabbas left the outpost emptyhanded and in a bad mood, leaving the outpost yet another example of greenskin brutality; but in the main hall, among mutilated corpes and broken machinery layed a single body alone in the middle of the carnage. It had no head, had lost both its legs and an arm, but under the broken breastplate was a single piece of glossed paper with a picture of a little human on it. The only arm left was bend over the breastplate with a closed fist.

Two years later, the outpost, and the last few survivors, was ordered immolated and executed, respectively, by the Xenos Order of the Inquisition.

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As always, if you want more slice-of-life 40k stories, just say it and I'll see what I can do Hope you like it!

Nicely done. I love it.