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Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

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Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

Postby chilledmonkeybrains » 18 Apr 2014, 21:39

Botchit and Skarpa were twins. Not identical twins, mind you. There were a few noticeable differences.

Firstly, Botchit was of average height for an ork, if a little on the scrawny side. Skarpa, on the other hand, was over seven feet tall and built like a duracrete squighouse.

Botchit was the closest thing an ork could get to a genius. By a remarkable accident in his genetic makeup, he was blessed with the innate abilities of both painboy and mekboy. He took no greater pleasure than that found when working on his brilliant and utterly ludicrous experiments, each one more complex (and often more volatile) than the last. He did this typically whilst listening to very loud rok music, which he picked up from Long Warp radio waves transmitted from an ork station somewhere on the other side of the segmentum. It almost drowned out the screams of his patients. Almost.

Skarpa, in contrast, was a simpleton; even by ork standards. But he more than made up for his general lack of intellect with the one thing that all orks can respect; the singular ability to beat everyone else up. Surprisingly for a really big ork he was not particularly aggressive, nor was he in any way whatsoever ambitious. His brother does however like to keep him away from the feral orks who dwell in the next canyon, for fear that excess Waaagh! energy could stimulate his small mind to such a degree that it would cause him to go berserk. This had happened before a few years back when a raiding party had attempted to steal some generators. It took Botchit several weeks to clean up the mess and he never did find all of the bodies.

In addition to being a potentially lethal lump of corded muscle and sinew, Skarpa was an exceedingly unstable weirdboy. Botchit had mostly fixed that problem by fitting him with a ‘speshul hat’ that helped to keep the majority of the psychic energy out, whilst also containing and controlling the combustible residue that, inevitably, still manages to seep in. This took the form of a shiny metal cap that covered his cranium, complete with the occasional small arc of electrical energy playing across its polished surface. There was also a chunky dial on the front - a necessary addition for regulating Waaagh! energy – and it had two settings: ‘Stop’ and ‘Go’. It was always set to ‘stop’, as this prevented the ingress of too much energy. ‘Go’ quite simply meant that you should run away as fast as you can.

Botchit had also implanted a gak-load of copper wiring under Skarpa’s thick skin, which ran all the way down to his big bare feet where any excess ‘vigour’ could be safely earthed. Nevertheless, Botchit still deemed it wise to put up various signs on the approach to their home warning other orks to keep well away. These signs included: “Beware of da ‘eadbanga!”, “Trespassaz will be brokk up!” and the delightfully terse “Fug off!” Most feral orks can’t actually read, but they gave the twins a wide berth anyway, regarding them with a mixture of fear, awe and superstition.

The brothers lived together out in the canyons of the mesa-strewn backwater world of Badass [Imperial designation: Theta-Basilica IV]; Botchit in a collection of seemingly ramshackle laboratories, and Skarpa in a tower constructed on copper stilts that loomed over his brother’s workshop like some decrepit metal giant waiting to fall over. This tower was covered in solar panels that caught the intense energy from the twin suns, Gork and Mork [Imperial designation: Theta-Basilica Primus & Secundus], that between them ensured that this world burned in near-perpetual daylight for half of every year.

Now, Badass was in actual fact an Imperial world. It had a small population of desperate prospectors, frantically mining for the rare and near-depleted mineral Absurdium, found only in the desert wastelands of this exceedingly inhospitable rock. There were less than ten thousand humans in total, and most of these lived in the one major settlement, ‘Oomie Town [Imperial designation: Last Hope]. Whilst they were aware that they shared this world with several feral ork tribes (which the Imperial Navy dutifully blasted from orbit in annual culls) they had no idea that there were any greenskin on Badass that possessed anything more than the most rudimentary mechanical technology. They were, however, about to get a rather rude wake up call.

You see; Botchit had been messing around with spores. As any neophyte of the Ordo Xenos worth his sodium will tell you, orks are an asexual fungoid species that reproduce through releasing spores. These spores grow inside an exo-womb (usually somewhere nice and dank) and slowly develop into orks, who then ‘hatch’ when they reach term. Botchit had been collecting feral spores for a number of years now, trading with (or stealing from) the nearby tribes, and had been messing around with genetic modifications to produce what he dubbed ‘soopa orks’.

These orks had been grown at an accelerated rate, more than halving their usual period of gestation. They possessed denser bones and musculature, whilst combining this with enhanced coordination and reflexes. They were big, too; some of them almost as big as Skarpa. Put quite simply, they were super orks. And they were very aggressive, even by ork standards.

Botchit now had close to a hundred of them. Fully grown.
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Re: Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

Postby chilledmonkeybrains » 18 Apr 2014, 21:40

The first sun, Gork, had begun rearing its big yellow head on the desert horizon, and its searing rays clawed their way greedily across the parched landscape looking for things to burn. As it made its lazy yet inexorable ascent into the blue sky, its twin brother, Mork, poked its slightly smaller big yellow head up over the edge of the world, ostensibly scanning the ground for anything remotely flammable its brother might have missed.

There was a long, loud and unambiguous fart, followed by a low groan. It came from the small sad-looking outhouse that sat, or rather sagged, in the shade of a giant ferocactus. Botchit was its current occupant, and he was bent double over the dark hole in the ground, feeling very sorry for himself indeed. You see, he had a rather delicate constitution for an ork, and last night Skarpa had cooked his favourite dish: curried squig. Except he’d used the wrong chillies. Right now, they were having their fiery vengeance on his innards.

After what seemed like an age, Botchit eventually made to get up, grumbling about the stiffness in his limbs. He placed his left hand into a wooden box that was hanging at waist height from the wall and withdrew a small, leech-like squig. He wiped himself, tossed the unfortunate squig into the hole (which disappeared squealing into the darkness) and closed the heavy wooden lid.

The door to the outhouse creaked open and Botchit staggered out into the light, holding an arm up against the glare from the suns. It was already hot, but Botchit knew that it would get hotter. A lot hotter. He walked slowly across the open ground towards an amalgamation of distinctly orky buildings. These wood and metal structures all seemed to grow out of each other, like some demented architectural form of melanoma, with dozens of misshapen towers, chimneys, pipes, telescopes and spiky bits jutting out from a central mass that could no longer be recognised under all of the various extensions, lean-tos and bizarrely sprouting growths.

The sight of his laboratory caused a small smile to creep across his abnormally intelligent face. Nothing cheered him up more than the prospect of the experiments and discoveries to come. A barely noticeable spring appeared in his step, as he hobbled a little bit faster towards an opening in the side of the structure, which most sentient beings would refer to as a door.

Just outside the entrance, chained as they were to iron posts either side of the portal, were two vicious-looking guard squigs. Well, they would be vicious-looking if they were awake and not slumped in shallow pools of sweat, dribble, mud and general foulness. Flies buzzed frenetically in the air above them, and one squig lifted its leg to scratch a spot on its bulbous head which would be behind its ear, if it actually had any. Botchit kicked one with his hobnailed boot and it growled gently in its slumber before gradually rolling over, making a squelching sound as the wet mud sucked at its hide. It remained resolutely asleep. Bloody useless things, he thought as he scuttled into the building. He made a mental note to visit Skrofula in the afternoon to demand a refund. Right now, he had important work to attend to.
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Re: Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

Postby chilledmonkeybrains » 18 Apr 2014, 21:40

Skarpa stretched out his huge arms and yawned. He slowly opened his tiny little eyes and blinked a few times in the brightness, rubbing them with giant fists. After a few moments, he slid one muscular leg over the side of his cot, and then the other, before eventually sitting up. He peered through the rusty blinds of the rectangular window and noted that it was morning. Time to get up and make breakfast.

He walked out onto the open platform that extended from the side of his tower and stretched for a second time; the bones in his back cracking like so many gunshots. A warm but gentle breeze caressed his gnarled features, and he closed his eyes in contentment, inhaling deeply through wide nostrils flanked by two upwardly pointing tusks that, in turn, jutted from between thick, rubbery lips. It was a beautiful morning, he thought. Humming a delightfully tuneless tune, Skarpa climbed over the side and began to descend the ladder that would take him to the ground and, ultimately, to his favourite place in the whole world: The kitchen.
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Re: Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

Postby chilledmonkeybrains » 18 Apr 2014, 21:41

Botchit put on his sun goggles, scooped up his parasol and stepped out of the relative cool of his lab and into the scorching midday heat. It was unbearably hot. He walked quickly across the burning ground, feeling the combined wrath of Gork and Mork even through the umbrella held above his sweaty bald head. He was heading for the canyon wall some fifty metres away, soaring as it did high into the cloudless sky. At its base was a huge metal blast door, which looked like it would be more at home onboard some Imperial battleship* than it did set into a wall of brown rock. Botchit reached the side of the door and stuck a finger deep inside one nostril, withdrew it and then wiped the snotty digit on a scanning panel. He then belched and breathed hard into a small hole. There were some bleeps and then a green light appeared. Simultaneously, there was a whirring of servos and a deep hiss of released pneumatic pressure as great internal bolts slid back in their housings and the mighty doors slowly began to yawn apart, revealing the darkness inside. The ork scurried through the gap; a lizard lounging on a nearby rock regarding his passage with disinterested eyes.

“Lites,” he shouted into the air. It remained dark. “Lites!” he shouted again but with more fervour, and was this time rewarded with the blinking of several banks of lights on a ceiling high above. Lumen-strips flickered into life, extending down a long corridor, hewn from rock, which stretched out before him. Botchit closed his parasol and put it by the door, removed the sun goggles from his eyes and began marching purposefully down the passageway.

After some fifty metres he reached another, smaller vault door, although this one was also designed with security in mind. The metal plates were covered in rivets and a large wheel in the centre of the door appeared to be the only means of opening it. A defaced Imperial Aquila was etched into the plasteel, just above a hand-written sign that read “Keep out if ya nose wotz good fer ya!” Botchit grabbed the wheel in both hands and heaved, slowly turning it anti-clockwise; the movement accompanied by the sounds of gears clanking and yet more bolts sliding open. Eventually he pulled the heavy door back on its hinges, tendons popping on his neck with the strain. A cool blast of air from within brought with it the sterile whiff of medical fluids.

Behind the door was what can only be described as an Imperial medicae ward, except one that been completely redesigned by a slightly demented ork. There were crudely-modified machines of all varieties, from oxygen pumps and heart monitors to row upon row of cryogenic cylinders, each one holding the dormant form of a really huge ork, suspended in a viscous-looking liquid. The only sound was the gentle background thrum of life support machinery quietly doing its work.

Botchit approached the nearest containment vessel and placed his hand on the glass to gaze up at his creation. The ork inside was an extremely dark shade of green, almost black. Numerous cables and tubes sprouted from its head, torso and limbs, pumping essential nutrients in whilst other hoses sucked the waste products out. The dark-skinned ork was big; almost as big as Skarpa, and was covered in rippling muscle mass. Although the ork was unconscious in the stasis chamber, it oozed the potential for extreme violence. Botchit bared his yellow teeth in what can only be described as the smile of a distinctly unhinged megalomaniac.

“I got plans fer you, boy,” he whispered, affectionately, as his hand ran down the glass. The small tic in the corner of his eye was barely perceptible.

+++ Master? +++

Botchit turned to face the one who had dared to interrupt his reverie. Stepping out from the shadows behind one of the cryo-tubes, steam hissing from bionic legs, metal feet clanking on the floor, was what looked to have been an ork at some point in its life. It had the face of an ork, at least, but apart from that appeared to be a bipedal machine with several mechanical arms, each one terminating in a different surgical instrument. It wielded clamps, saws, hypodermic needles, drills, scalpels and other, less recognisable and yet extremely disturbing appendages. A mass of wires, cables and pipes extended from its hunched back and trailed across the floor behind it, disappearing into the darkness. It bore the wretched look of a creature that had once tried to balance precariously on the very edge of sanity, but had fallen off. Several times.

“Ah, dere you are, Gurn. Wot’z our status?” Botchit enquired.

Gurn looked pleased with himself as he replied in a mechanical, but distinctly orky, staccato.

+++ We got five more ‘atched dis mornin’, master. I’ve prepped dem fer implantz +++. He stopped for a moment as a small arm in his chest reached up to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth with a damp cloth.

+++ Dere all ready fer ya +++, he finished.

“Dat’s good. Well dun, Gurn. Continue wiv ya dooties.” Botchit waved him away, and his cybork lab assistant lumbered off. Five more, eh? Botchit thought. Excellent. He’d have to go down to the hatchery to commence the next stage in their accelerated development. He began donning his surgical robes before pulling on thick rubber gloves. Finally, he placed a welder’s mask on his head and made to leave for the hatchery.



* In actual fact it was from an Imperial battleship – or the remains of one at least – that lay like some half-eaten metal corpse in a deep gorge several kilometres from Botchit and Skarpa’s home. It was a relic from the Horus Heresy and had lain there for ten thousand years. A few years ago, Botchit had used a couple of his giant and distinctly scaly squiggoths to haul the huge door back to his lab.
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Re: Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

Postby chilledmonkeybrains » 18 Apr 2014, 21:41

“Skarpa. Oi! Skarpa!” Botchit yelled above the high-pitched mechanical squeal of the squig liquefier. Skarpa turned to face his brother before switching the machine off, the whine of its motor slowly decreasing; mysterious chunks visible through the glass as they sloshed around inside the green liquid.

“’Ello, bruv,” said Skarpa in a voice so cavernous and gravely it would make an astartes sound like his balls hadn’t dropped. “I’z cookin’ up sum lunch. You want sum?” He grinned at Botchit as he held up what looked like the remains of a desert rat.

“Laterz, Skarpa. I’ve gotta go to Bleedin’ Gutz to see dat good fer nuffin’ toe rag Skrofula ‘bout sum squigs. Keep mine in da uven an’ I’ll nuke it later.” Skarpa looked crestfallen. Bleedin’ Gutz was the feral ork village over in the next canyon, and he wasn’t allowed to go there, because other orks made his head hurt and sometimes he’d have to vomit bright light and fire at them until they either went away or stopped being alive.

“But I don’t like it wen you leave me,” he said, looking down at the floor whilst moving an imaginary piece of dirt around with his foot.

Botchit rolled his eyes impatiently and heaved a sigh. “Come on, Skarpa. You nose I ‘ave to go an’ see dose stoopid ferals to trade. I gotta get dose bloody useless guard squigs replaced, ‘cos dat dirty fat toe-rag Skrofula sold me a couple of duds.”

Skarpa looked up slowly, his craggy brow furrowed in such a way as to make him look quite pitiful. He gave no reply but nodded slowly instead to show that he understood, but still didn’t like it.

“Dat’s right, bruv. You carry on wiv ya cookin’ an’ I’ll see ya laters.” Botchit was walking to the door, but before he left the kitchen, turned again to face his brother.

“Remember to stay ‘ere. No wanderin’ off.” He looked sternly at Skarpa for a moment, and the bigger ork nodded his head for a second time, still looking terribly glum. Botchit left the room, but not before grabbing a large and brutal-looking boltgun from a rack on the wall.
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Re: Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

Postby chilledmonkeybrains » 18 Apr 2014, 21:42

Upon finishing his lunch, Skarpa washed his plate and cutlery, before tidying up. He was a very tidy ork, and often got upset when things were out of place. This was another facet of the ork’s character that marked him out as being distinctly different from other green skins, who typically enjoyed ‘untidying’ things; usually with blunt objects. Once he had finished cleaning, Skarpa picked up a bucket of slop and headed for the kitchen door. It was time to feed the squigs.

Outside the kitchen was a courtyard where Botchit had his garage. The shutter door was open and the half-dismantled chassis of a heavily-orkified Deimos pattern Rhino sat on a raised platform, surrounded by all sorts of tools and mechanical equipment. Skarpa turned left and, whistling tunelessly to himself, wandered through a gap in the wall towards the squig coop.

Now, as everyone knows, squigs come in all manner of shapes and sizes, and the squigs in Skarpa’s coop came from several different sub-types of the species. The coop itself consisted of a series of different-sized cages, ranging from small hutches containing a handful of hatchlings, to one massive fortified enclosure in which two very large and intimidating squiggoths stood, regarding the approaching Skarpa with hungry eyes.

Skarpa dropped the bucket to the ground next to one of the smaller pens, the foul liquid spilling over onto the cracked sandy earth. The squigs inside were gibbering excitedly as he lifted the lid and peered inside to see a swarm of small green creatures bouncing up and down hungrily, their tiny jaws filled with razor sharp teeth snapping at the air in anticipation. Skarpa smiled tenderly at them before pouring the thick, pungent liquid into their mouths. When he put the empty bucket down, he reached down into the hutch to stroke one of the little critters on its head, but instead it leapt up and clamped its mouth around his thumb.

“Ouch,” said Skarpa, in a manner that suggested it didn’t actually hurt but he felt compelled to say something anyway; standing upright and withdrawing his hand, squig still clamped on to his thumb. He looked at it and it seemed to growl back at him. He shook his hand to get it off, but it remained firmly attached. He shook his hand again, this time more enthusiastically, and the squig finally came free to hurtle several metres through the air, screeching as it did so. It landed inside the squiggoth enclosure.

“Uh-oh,” Skarpa said, and started to bound towards the bars of the cage to rescue the creature before it was consumed by one of the huge beasts. He bumped into the smaller hutch in his haste, knocking it over and unintentionally emancipating two dozen squigs, who shrieked with delight and scurried away in all directions. Skarpa skidded to a halt in the dust, and turned his head to watch the creatures running for their lives. He made to go for the scattering squigs, but was stopped in his tracks yet again, although this time by a terrified squeal, accompanied shortly after by the sound of noisy chomping.

Skarpa was caught in two minds which, considering the size of his, was a very bad place to be. He closed his eyes to think. Eventually he came to the conclusion that the little bugger that had bitten him was now in the stomach of a squiggoth, and that it would make sense to try to collect all of the escapees. Nodding in agreement with himself, he opened his eyes. All the little squigs had gone.

The big ork’s shoulders sagged, and he muttered to himself, “Botchit’s gonna be mad.”

He spent the next half an hour trying in vain to catch the squigs. Right now, he was kneeling in the dirt next to the gate to the squiggoth enclosure, with his arm down the exhaust of a broken truck, straining to reach the squig that was hiding in the pipe. Just a bit further, he thought to himself. Just a little bit further…

“Gotcha!” he shouted in triumph, pulling the wriggling critter out. Grinning in an exceedingly self-congratulatory manner, Skarpa promptly stood up with his prize, cracking his head on the underside of the large metal handle of the gate with enough force to lift it from its latch. Skarpa fell to the ground, flat on his face and feeling more than a little groggy. The squig squirted from between his fingers and ran off, letting out a long, shrill cry. Skarpa slowly got to his knees and put his hands to his head.

“Ouch,” he said, although this time with a little more feeling. His head felt funny and the world appeared to have gone all wobbly. Skarpa tried to get up but was promptly smashed to the ground as two bellowing squiggoths made their own stampede for freedom.

When Skarpa regained consciousness, he got up and blinked several times in an attempt to make the world less wobbly. He rubbed his sore head; his speshul metal cap dented and making a strange buzzing noise. When he pulled his hand away, long, thin electrical arcs followed his fingers, before earthing themselves through his body.

“Dat’s weird,” he said. “It’s not done dat before.”

Then he remembered that several squigs and two squiggoths had escaped, and deduced that his brother would probably not be too happy about this. Skarpa needed to do something before Botchit got back. As he watched a receding cloud of dust some distance further up the canyon, denoting the passage of a stampeding squiggoth, Skarpa made the only decision he could in his situation.

He would have to leave the compound and bring them back. And without further ado, he bounded after the squiggoth.
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Re: Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

Postby chilledmonkeybrains » 18 Apr 2014, 21:42

Later that afternoon, Botchit pulled up outside the garage and switched the motor off. Two dopy-looking squigs sat in cages on the back of his truck; one of which was now urinating onto the backseat. Several crudely-made arrows jutted from the rear chassis. The ork hadn’t noticed; because he was too busy muttering angrily to himself.

Skrofula had refused to exchange the squigs or give him a refund, and Botchit had ended up arguing with the chief of the Bloody Gutz tribe until a fight broke out. Botchit had managed to escape, since he had had the good sense to take his boltgun with him, and spears and arrows were no match for explosive bolts and a kustom deflecta shield. Botchit had been grumbling incessantly about it all the way home.

“Dat cheatin’ piece of gak sold me two duff guard squigs! Nasha and Bita, he called dem. Wot a joke! More like Pissa and Dribbla. And den he sets ‘is boyz on me, da stoopid bugga! Well, I’ll show ‘im…” Skarpa’s tirade to the universe trailed off, as he stomped through the open kitchen door.

“Skarpa!” he shouted, expecting his brother to be either cooking or eating. But he wasn’t there. He called for him again but still no answer. Botchit left the kitchen and went to the bottom of his brother’s tower and, cupping his hands around his mouth, yelled his name again. Still no response. Botchit’s brow furrowed, and then he remembered the farm out back. He quickly made his way around to where the squig enclosures were, expecting Skarpa to be tending to his favourite pets/ingredients, and beheld the mess.

Cages had been toppled over and smaller hutches obliterated. Debris littered the ground. The large gates to the squiggoth enclosure were hanging open, and there was no sign of its erstwhile occupants. Several sticky green stains on the ground indicated the remains of the slowest squigs. Botchit’s jaw gaped open.

“Wot da fu-”, he began as he surveyed the carnage.

“Skarpa! Where you at, bruv? Skarpa!” Botchit shouted and bawled until his throat was hoarse. But his brother was nowhere to be found. All thoughts of retribution pushed from his mind, Botchit ran back towards his lab. If Skarpa hadn’t been eaten, then he’d likely gone after the squiggoths.

When he got to the laboratory, Botchit began rifling through drawers and cabinets, pushing aside mechanical detritus and half finished experiments in his haste, as well as smashing a large vial of mysterious liquid that hissed as it struck the floor. At last he held up a small metal box with a long aerial. He flicked a switch on its side and it bleeped once, a needle spinning on a dial before eventually settling on one position.

“West,” was the only word he uttered as he hurried outside to his truck.
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Re: Botchit & Skarpa - Da Urly Yearz

Postby chilledmonkeybrains » 18 Apr 2014, 21:43

Gork and Mork were well on their way towards the western horizon, although the temperature could still only be described as really fugging hot. The terrain had become twisted and chaotic, consisting of many stony outcrops and jagged ravines. Skarpa had stopped at the top of one such precipice to survey the broken ground ahead, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of one huge hand. Badlands, he thought. There was a faint but telltale roar of a squiggoth in the distance that echoed through the many chasms. The big ork scratched his head. Now, which direction had that come from?

Skarpa’s head was really throbbing now, and he sat down on a boulder to think, kneading his brow with sausage-sized fingers. The pain was getting worse, and Skarpa really wasn’t too sure why. He remembered bumping his head on the gate and considered for a moment the likelihood that a ten tonne squiggoth had trodden on his head in its mad dash for freedom. But his head hadn’t hurt this much since…

“Well, well. Look wot da squig dragged in, boyz,” came a deep and most malicious voice. Skarpa looked up to see a muscular feral ork with a huge axe standing on a nearby boulder. He was naked except for a loincloth and some raptor feathers which were tied around his elbows and knees. His skin was covered in blue war paint and a tall headdress made from a giant reptile’s skull sat upon his head. A dozen boyz stepped out from behind the rocks; the intent to cause grievous harm writ upon their grinning faces.

Skarpa grimaced in pain and clutched at his head with one hand, whilst with the other he tried to wave them away. The feral chieftain leapt down from the boulder and took a few steps forwards, eyes bulging as he leered at him, licking his lips in anticipation. He spat a gobbet of phlegm on the dirt close to Skarpa’s bare feet.

“Wot yer doin’ out ‘ere, boy?” he asked. “You look a long way from home. You lost or sumfink?” He chuckled at his perceived wit and a dozen feral orks cackled with him like a pack of snigger-dogs. He came closer to Skarpa and pushed his chin up with the flat of his axe head.

“I asked yer a kwestyun, dummy. Is yer deff and dumb?” he snorted again and was duly accompanied by his retinue. Skarpa had begun to shake slightly and made to stand up, which caused the chieftain to leap back and raise his axe, poised to strike, as the massive ork rose to his full height.

“Wot da fug’s wrong wit you, dumb ‘ead? You’s all shakin’ n’ stuff. Is you scared?” More laughter, and the circle of orks closed tighter, weapons raised.

Skarpa took his hands away from his face and the ferals all took a step back. His eyes were smouldering and wisps of smoke were rising from both glowing orbs. The chieftain, wide-eyed, looked like he was about to say something, but was cut short as Skarpa belched a wide beam of incandescent psychic vomit that had the effect of vaporising the unfortunate ork from the knees up.

The other feral orks stood there briefly in shock, before one of the brighter members of the group let out a short but suitably descriptive yell:

“’Eadbanga!”

The effect was galvanising, and the orks scattered in all directions, many dropping their weapons in their haste. But Skarpa wasn’t quite finished. He let out another roaring burp and three orks were consumed in green and yellow fire, screaming in unison as their flesh dribbled from their bones. The surviving ferals were desperate in their flight; tripping over themselves and bumping in to each other. Eventually they all disappeared behind the rocks and their footfalls and screams of terror could be heard receding into the distance.

Skarpa slumped back down onto the rock, small arcs of lightning shooting out from his eyes, mouth and fingers. His brain was really hurting now and his ears were ringing tremendously. He swooned slightly and put a big hand down on the rock to steady himself. After what seemed like an age, the electrical sparks withdrew and his head slowed in its spin, although his brain was still pushing against the inside of his skull like a fat grey squig-crab stuck in a shell three sizes too small for it.

“Ouch,” he whimpered.
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