Mork's Will

Chapter 3

   "I'm about dun waiting fer ma teef, punk!" Gutchoppa stopped his mug mid-raise and tilted his head in the direction of the antagonistic nob that entered the tavern. The other tavern patrons lowered their heads, making sure to not make eye-contact.
   "Ah yes, Gitsmash." the painboy responded. "As I did say, yer teef will arrive shortly. Yee need to wait tho. Ma projekkts need sum time, but they'll sell and you'll get yer cut."
   "PAY UP YA GIT!" Gitsmash roared, producing his big choppa.
   "Yes, yes. In fact, I'll pay ya roight now..."
   Gutchoppa turned in his seat to face the nob, lifted his right hand and pointed his index finger.

KACHUNK

All the bar patrons stopped moving, chief among them Gitsmash. They saw the scything talon they associated with the larger tyranid creatures, now jutting from Gitsmash's maw and out the back of his head. They traced the talon from its insect-like limb across the room until it disappeared behind Gutchoppa's back. The dok retracted his index finger, and the alien limb did the same. He downed the rest of his fungus rum and brandished the special glove on his hand.
   "Take a good look ladz." he bragged. "Da froot of ma good work."

...

  'Nid extermination was always a good time. You'd gear up, get the boyz together, and get ready for a bit of the old 'ultra bug-krumpin.' Several boyz might die, but to be an ork was to slaughter or be slaughtered. Snikklaw was seated in his own personal battlewagon. He heard the blare of burnas being ignited and fired, followed by the pleasing scream of dying xenos.
   "That's it! Burn all the zoggers!" obeying his orky bloodlust, Snikklaw was giddy with excitement at the slaughtering of Tyranids. He had claimed this rok as his, and nothing bothered him like 'unwanted freeloadin' buggers.' Wrenchgit's new wide-spray burna design had marvelous effects. The way the flames napalmed across the cracked ground of the rok delighted him. He heard the crunch of gravel, his power klaw shot forward and stopped the gibbering, snarling ripper that had leapt naively at him. He studied the creature, with its toothy maw and tiny, taloned limbs as it writhed. He allowed one more rude snap from the creature before he bared his own fangs and clamped his own maw around the ripper's head with a nice squishy crunch. The taste was nowhere near as delectable as squigs. He tossed the ripper corpse off the battlewagon in disappointment. "Maybe Da Grublord would make dem a bit tasty..."

...

  In ork hierarchy, some orks are born with certain talents that establish their place in greenskin culture. Some orks specialise in making tek, from battlewagons to weapons, while others are skilled in manipulating and mending the tenacious ork physique. In Snikklaw's tribe there was one ork with a unique occupation, one steeped in orky cuisine. They called him Da Grublord, and his skill was making 'da best zoggin' grub ya can quaff.'
   "Gimme a hand here, Grog!" Da Grublord shouted, his green paunch wobbling with each useless wack of his hammer as it banged flimsily on the tyranid carapace.
So long as their enemy was organic in some sense, they could be eaten and now, he was struggling to crack the hardened shell of a tyranid carnifex. He had to argue extensively and loudly with Gutchoppa about the carnifex body, reasoning that the bigger tyranid would make for an excellent roast instead of 'dat same ol' squig stew', while the painboy argued that he needed the corpse for 'da snazziest an' most fightiest dakka machine evah.' Before the two could escalate to further violence, Snikklaw stepped right between them and said "Grublord gets dis one. Ya have enuff nid gitz ta play wiff, dok."
   Grog, his personal assistant grot, came bounding forward, dragging a rokkit hammer behind him.
   "This'll do it, boss!" he said, handing the weapon to the chef.
   Grublord got a firm grip on the rokkit hammer, aimed it right at a chink in the carnifex's carapace, and brought it down.

...

He had seen it once and he had seen it again. Mork had shown him the way in which the ork race would rule the stars. Zogdalf the weirdboy sat in his designated 'weirdhut' away from the rest of his tribe. As a weirdboy, his role in Ork society was that of a psyker; one who is capable of extraordinary, supernatural feats beyond understanding.
   "Oi, Zogdalf!" the flap to his tent was pushed open rudely and in stomped an ork boy. "We've been waitin' on them squig herds ya promised and da ladz been real impatient so___"
   Zogdalf cracked his neck and then his tent was cascaded in a green glow. The pained squawking of the intruding boy rang out. When the green light faded, all that was standing before Zogdalf was a confused squig. The weirdboy set the creature aside, strapped a counter to its head, and placed his fungus liquor onto his now-mobile drink server.
   "No intarruptin'." he growled, readjusting his posture to continue meditation.
He closed his eyes and focused. The darkness was then punctuated with green stars. A pathway of brilliant emerald stretched out before him. His visions, skewed as they were, helped steer his tribe towards the 'fightiest' campaigns they had embarked on, and he would continue to do so. He trod along the emerald road, observing each green star, peering at the possible futures within them. An even brighter star, more brilliant and bigger than the others appeared at the end of the emerald road. He approached this new star, getting closer to it and feeling the raw WAAAGH energy emitting from it. He reached out his hand___