Krule Tidings

It was a weird, cold feeling, unlike anything he felt before and it made him wary and disgusted at the same time. Killaboss Korslug Jawslitta knew of it, though he never imagined that he would ever experience it himself. He knew it from the eyes of his prey, when he closed in on them, their inevitable demise at hand. It was always a joyful moment. Now he dared not to look into his own reflection in the murky waters of the swamps he called his home. It sickened him, it made him angry, yet he could not do anything with it. Still, he dared not to name it.

It was the skavens doing. They marched into his home, the home of his whole clan, and they won. By Mork they won! His boyz were butchered left and right, no dirty trick working on the enemy. Waves of ratmen so innumerable, that the fightin was no longer fun. It wasn’t fighting really; it was a slaughter. His warband was once great, his gutrippaz scouring the southern lands and bringing spoils. Now there was ten of them. Suddenly, his trail of thought was interrupted by a scream in the distance, loud, yet quick, followed by the sound of splashing water. Nine.

“Bosss, what now?” hissed his murknob.

“We carry on, fast and quick” hissed Korslug back, looking around for the signs of skaven. He continued forward through the swamp now glowing with sick chaos energies. A far cry from its raw destructive beauty. 

“We goin south boss? Away from the fightin? We runnin away?”

“No, ya git!” Korslug expected this question as he felt his once indomitable aura of leadership perish with each loss. “We going south, to regroup! It’s called tactics. Then we come back and by Mork we smash them rats!”

Before he could reply, murknob’s head exploded, his body falling into the despoiled water of the swamp. Suddenly, the skaven were on top of them. Korslug dropped down to duck away from other projectiles, for a moment catching glimpse of his own eyes in the water and he recognized the look. Then arrived the first clanrat. He smashed it with his giant cleava and roared his hatred out loud. Another and another came. He slew them all, yet with each rat slain his strength waned. He heard first of his boyz start dying. He tried to assess the situation, but before being able to get the overview of the battlefield, huge rat silhouettes filled his vision, rat ogors. Korslug charged, his attacks fast and fierce, but the monstrosity did not flinch, did not even seem to register the hits. Then it struck back, the strength of his blow throwing the killaboss back into the dark and cold waters, now mixed with blood of rats and orruks alike. Ogor’s feet stomped his neck. He was trapped and drowning. 

Dread. It was dread. He could not hold back that thought longer. And that thought has diminished him, now in the moment when he needed strength. And he knew, death was coming. And he would not face it as an orruk should. 

_____

The pressure disappeared suddenly, the feet holding him under water disappearing. He rose above the water. The scenery has changed. Now there were other kruleboyz, all baring the red shields with black slashes across them. The rat ogor lay dead beside him, pierced by belcha-banna. Beside stood huge murknob effortlessly fighting off another one with his cleava. Other skaven were being mowed down by the storm of arrows. And on the other side of the clearing stood a huge troggoth with a breaka-boss on its top. Though smaller one than usual, his one eye spoke of vicious intellect, cruelty and ambition. 

The fighting ended quickly. From around the swamp, more kruleboyz appeared, heads of skaven and their monsters in their hands. Quickly, the group piled their heads onto a small mound and then one orruk, who appeared as the nob leading the monsta killaz, brought a severed limb from some unidentifiable monster to the breaka boss. He drew his knife and skilfully removed the meat, leaving only the bone, then he cracked it open and gave it to the boss, who licked the marrow. Then he turned toward Korslug.  

“Ya a killaboss I see, killaboss without a warband. Killaboss with dread in his eye. The skaven broke ya, broke ya all. Ya can’t even fight. Ya can’t even die well. What good are ya to me?” Korslug growled, hatred rising in him, though he knew he didn’t stand a chance. Still, he picked up his weapon and prepared to charge, before he could make a step though, a huge murknob’s cleava landed on his neck, stopping just on his skin. The breakaboss started laughing. 

“Good, so there is some fight left in ya, Korslug Jawslitta!” 

“Howdya know me?”

“I’ve heard of the legend that is Korslug, his pillaging of humies. Unlike the dogs from Gnashmaw, ya could fight yer own battles. I like it. Mork likes it. But yer might is spent, armies depleted. Ya have no future alone, none of ye gits has it. Not unless you join my clan.” Korslug looked around, his boyz, he stopped for a second, no not his boyz, they were his already. The boss was right and there was a promise in his words. To rise with a new clan to new hights. He lied before; he was running. This orruk before him though, he had a plan. And a strength. 

“I join you, but tell me, who am I joinin?”

“First, ya need to carve out the dread from yer eye. Show me yer determination. Reignite the spark of Mork in ya. Pluck out the traitorous vessel,” boss said and threw him a spoon. Clever. Korslug was impressed by the young boss. He raised the spoon and plunged it onto his right eye, ripping it out. Then he moved it to the second, but was stopped by the murknob. Then he looked up and saw the boss smiling.

“Yer now a Marrowcravea, Korslug,” said the murknob with a voice full of indomitable strength, dullness and, surprisingly, loyalty. “And yer boss is Břřok Bonechewa. Serve im and help reclaim the swamp. Earn the respect of Mork again and with it, yer former station. Betray, and rot in dread and despair.”

It was a silent march through the swamp Brolgor called home for so long. Once, it was a pleasant experience for him, to leave the confines of Gnashmaw and wander of into the wild and untamed far reaches of the swamp. Sometimes, it was a simple stroll disturbed by occasional struggle with the beasts that called the swamp home, but time to time it turned out to have greater importance then he could anticipate, like that one time he met a young orruk, small and squirmy who seemed hellbent on defying fate. Now, all these years later, this orruk lead them through the now desolate place that was the swamp. Vile chaos energies were present even here, at the outskirts of the swamps, and the occasional bands of ratmen could still be encountered, together with mutated monstrosities unworthy of Mork’s paradise that was the swamp. 

There were no kruleboyz to be found though, live ones anyway, and as such, the clan remained still rather small. They had to leave the swamps to recruit them for the cause. Sooner than the upstart Larkkliz. Of his existence, Brolgor knew, it was the insufferable swampcalla who was in the inner circle of Kargak Fear. How he hated him, his lies and squirming and lack of power and vision. How he survived, he did not know. But survive he did, Břřok learned that through a vision, one imparted on him by and old ally of his, swampcalla Zoghag Gloamlurka, an elder, venerable being. A being now in danger from the chaos warriors dedicated to Khorne. And so they went to aid him. Those were Břřok’s orders and those needed to be followed. 

They went a long time, through land which actively opposed them. Even worse, the scouts led by the newly recruited Korslug informed them of a titanic struggle between gargants and seraphon to the south, so Břřok had them to repress their instincts and the sneaked past the fighting as the prospect of facing these two armies was not favourable to them now. Yet another thing that Brolgor had learned from Břřok and that had saved them number of times already, such as when they snuck out of the army led to face the skaven, poising them to become the new rulers of the swamp.

Now, finally, the cave they sought was in sight, one leading them under the towering mountains straight to the Gloamwater Summit, where they would defend the shaman from chaos and recruit his help for the glory of Marrowcraveaz. Thus Břřok willed and thus would Brolgor make others do, just as he did in the past, as of all the orruks he ever met, this was the one he didn’t despise, this was the one, he could follow into any battle...

____

Cinderweald—that’s what they called it, the land of fiery beasts. Home to splintered orruk warbands ripe for subjugation. That was the boss’s plan. There’d be plenty of fighting for sure. But the thought didn’t resonate with Korslug  as strongly as it once had. His mind was elsewhere.

He should have died. The Khornedrunk humans had him. It should’ve been the end. And if he wasn’t strong enough, that’s how it should’ve gone. But Brolgor  saved him. Saved him and got blade buried in his guts for it. Not the orruk way.

His thoughts returned to that moment again and again as the clan moved south. First, they traversed the mountains, then crossed the Pyrestone River and headed west. They met little resistance along the way—the occasional skirmish with vermin and human cultists, but nothing worthy of being called a true battle. Some orruks crossed their path, too. They joined the flock, speaking of an upstart warboss somewhere to the west fighting walking trees. Warboss, eh? That wouldn’t last. Not when Břřok was coming.

The burden of his thoughts finally drove Korslug to approach the ancient swampcalla. But in the shaman’s presence, he hesitated. He’d heard the stories: Zoghag, the swampcalla who defied Kargak long ago, hated by his own kind for daring to practice rituals they believed defied Mork himself. And yet, Zoghag survived when the rest of the clan fell. His power had bought the swamp precious time. Korslug wondered who was truly defying Mork.

“Jawslitta, they call ya. Ain’t that true?” Zoghag’s ancient voice broke the silence, filled with power—and contempt. “Once a lapdog of Kargak, now a lost Killaboss in a clan ya don’t understand. Still, young Bonechewa gave you a chance. So I’ll tolerate yer presence. What is it that ya can’t comprehend?”

Korslug pondered for a moment before answering. “Who is he?” He pointed at Břřok. “Who is he really? And what’s he doing to us? To Brolgor. That fool would die for me?! Why? That ain’t the Morkish way.”

“Careful who you’re callin’ fool, Neckslitta,” Zoghag warned. “Not Mork’s way, ya say? Ya reek of Kargak’s foolery. So used to the brutish ways of Gnashmaw, ya forgot what Mork really likes. Gorkamorka too. So confused, and yet ya follow. Ain’t that cunnin’, oh great Killaboss? To chain yer will in such a way? Would ya save Brolgor now in return? Perhaps ya should. Perhaps that’s how yer new clan wins—by not dying stoopid. Kargak made ya all into skaven: worthless, stoopid, and dying dumb for ‘im. Brutal? Maybe. But cunnin'? No. Foul. Břřok’ll make ya die smart. And that, Mork likes, I reckon.”

Korslug went silent, measuring the old shaman, then the young boss standing before the mob. What an answer. He wanted to rip the shaman apart, but he knew he wouldn’t. He’d march on. Not dyin’ stupid. He understood now. He’d save Brolgor.

“That what ya told him? Ya made him?” Korslug asked.

“He told me,” Zoghag said, as his sick laughter echoed into the night. 

____

The sound of cruel laughter echoed around the campfires, a stark contrast to the merciless slaughter that had taken place just hours before. Amidst the revelry of overjoyed orruks, Korslug could still hear the cries and screams of the surviving humies—and even the tree-things, which burned so nicely.

Through the noise, he watched as his boss finished interrogating one of the weakling survivors. Or rather, the humie had just died, his body unable to withstand the boiling water he’d been dumped into. Before the end, he had screamed of cities in Ghur, expeditions, and other matters that Korslug found utterly uninteresting. His attention was instead drawn to the large Killaboss standing behind Břřok and Brolgor. 

Filigrug Bustermaka, Killaboss of a ragged warband—though he fancied it a proper clan—the Growlsomething. Korslug had no patience for such delusions. They were Marrowcraveaz  now. And Filigrug needed to learn that.

He stepped closer.

“That humie lasted longer than I thought,” Brolgor mused, almost as if admiring the now-still corpse. “Tougher than he looked.”

“He was weak, and we crushed ‘em all,” Filigrug grumbled, clearly displeased with the situation.

“Wrong again, ya git,” Břřok spat, his voice full of contempt. “They weren’t weak. They were strong—strong enough to carve through yer sorry lot. If not for us, ya’d all be in da green. They got so used to yer weakness, they weren’t ready for us. Still, even then, they fought well.” True, thought Korslug after short consideration, good thing their tricks worked and that he and his Boyz managed to bring down the artillery. He measured Filigrug again, now seeing himself in him, before he met the boss. It was a chilling thought as Korslug was really not one for introspection. Cant underestimate em again.

“And they’ll come again, boss,” Korslug added. “There’s more of ‘em than us, now that the skaven brought us low.”

Břřok just laughed. “Yah, yah,” he grinned, his gaze shifting to the caged survivors. “Let ‘em go. All of ‘em.”

Filigrug rose in anger fearing his spoils diminished, but before he could react, Brolgor struck him down with a single brutal swing of his cleava. Břřok wasted no time, tearing his head clean off and hurling it before the now-silent crowd. Then, Brolgor kicked open the cages, sending the terrified humies fleeing into the night.

“Do ya smell that, ya gits?” Břřok asked, his voice turning cold and menacing. “Tell me—what is it?”

“Fear,” some muttered.

“Yeeees… Fear,” Břřok sneered. “It’s a disease, and they’ll spread it to the rest. Cinderweald is ours now. They won’t dare return. We are Kruleboyz. We are Mork’s children. We fink. We’re cunnin’. And those who ain’t—” he glanced at Filigrug’s severed head, “—they’re useless."

“Now, I want spoils. And I wanna see that ya gits are stronger and smarter than yer old boss. My Monstakillaz tell me there’s beasts in these lands, beasts filled with weird shiny red magic stuff. I want ‘em. I want their bones. Seven of ‘em. Bring ‘em to me, and I’ll let ya join me clan. And the champion whose band brings ‘em first?” He grinned. “He’ll be the new boss.”

____

As the would-be challengers scattered, Zoghag approached Břřok, still weary from summoning the very foot of Gork during the battle.

“What that humie said, young Břřok… we can’t take it lightly. Death is close. The minions of the sickling god.”

“Ah, yes—the bone-man who can't think straight as ya told me.” Břřok’s grin widened. “Normally, they ain’t much fun to fight. But these ones? These ones be different. I’ve heard of ‘em. Ossiarchs. They be made of powerful bones, me thinks.”

He licked his lips. “I wonder what their boss tastes like. I gotta try. I’ll have me some Ossiarch for breakfast…”

Torrent of emotions was sweeping Snug and he was hopeless to stop it. He couldn't even name most of the emotions he felt. As such, he just stood over the half scorched body of Bug, shaking. All around him there was chaos, orruks running around and yelling, without the usual laughter that followed a hard won battle. What a battle. They came into this townlet expecting weak humies ripe for the taking. Yet only silence greeted them, empty streets full of charred rocks and craters. Even the swampcalla seemed unnerved. Then out of ground they appeared, gingerhaired balls of muscles with fire in their eyes. Snug and Bug were laughing then, as they unleashed first volley, fully expecting the mob of duardin carrying weird staffs to be decimated. Yet that did not happen, golden runes shined bright, warded off the damage and their staffs unleashed torrents of fire back, decimating Bug's whole squad. Snug remembered that moment of astonished fury he felt. His vision grew reder then normal as he unleashed volley after volley with no apparent effect. It was only when the midgets charged Knarl's battleline that the fate began to change. As the very Foot of Gork stomped on the charging gingers, Břřok's troggoth hewed them down with his clubs. 

Then came the explosions. All around them, fire appeared and huge swaths of attacking duardin disappeared, chief among them their priest and other heroes. Rest started withdrawing, yet Snug kept on unleashing bolt after bolt. Just like that, the battle was over, they ran. Now he stood over his dead brother, shaking.

"Boss, we got told to leg it. We are not to stay ere," a somewhat distant voice of one of his Boyz got to him. He charged immediately, grabbing an arrow and aiming for the gitz head. His hand was suddenly stopped though, by someone much stronger then he. Stoop stood beside him, holding him so strong Snug couldn't move. 

"Idiot, what are ya playing at. Bug aint dead, but ya will be, if ya dont start finking straight," he said and Snug froze. Then came Zoghag, visibly displeased for being dragged here by Brolgor, but he did kneel to Bug and started chanting some words Snug did not know, his face started to heal. Bug then opened his eyes. 

"We are leavin, get yer boyz and follow Knarl," said Brolgor.

"Why, we should enjoy the spoils no?"

"There is no spoil ere that would be worth stayin' for, ya saw how the midgets disappeared, some foul play I reckon. As they appeared, they dissapeard, not worth staying, especially with all the wild fire magic in here. We be leavin. Take your friend ere and go, before I start regrettin healin him," said the swampcalla.

"Aye, understood." Snug picked Bug up and started walking with the leaving morruks, now thinking, about the duardin lurking in the fires bellow. Basterds with their dirty tricks.

____

"Get up! Get up. Don't tell me fall from the sky is enough to take ya down," voice of Břřok brought Brolgor back to his senses. All around him a scene of ruination with no orruk laughing as is usual after a good fightin. And next to him lay the body of Zoghag, bleeding from dozens of wounds, only his magics keeping him alive.

"He'll live, Mork rather likes him me thinks. But we gotta move and fast, cant stay ere no more, else more of those bearded meatballs come," said his boss with unusual sense of urgency. He was bleeding too, Brolgor noticed, as he remembered the chaotic melee Břřok was having, while he was assailing the flything.

"Ye, and we need a good fight for the Boyz. This wasn't it."

As he moved to get the orruks up and moving, he saw the remains and his mind was filled with fury once again, as he remembered a moment not so long ago, when the army was returning from a, weird, battle with another of the duardin...

_____

Rage filled Brolgor's heart when he saw yet another duardin threat looming, now directly at their own encampment. Huge airship high above the ground blocked out the sun and on the ground lines of dwarves were ransacking the camp, despoiling the places of magic that Zoghag set up and thieving the glowy rock his boss liked to gather as they travelled the land. Even worse, they did not have time to prepare and thus the disparate warbands were disjointed, Bug's boltboyz missing altogether, still wounded from the previous fight. Břřok yelled commands, trying to set up the forces, yet his words were cut of by the hail of bolts that battered the orruks. Brolgor could see Korlsug's warriors falling in droves.

Furious, he sprung forth, shouting his prays to Mork, but he was quickly stoped by the boltfire and he used all his might to ward off the incoming damage, yet some orruks still fell. Then came another volley. And another. Out of nowhere, Foot of Mork broke the lines of the baloonlike duardin and Knarl’s mob charged forth, but in the chaos of the battle, they didn't manage to all get into the melee and failed to bring down the dwarves. Stoopid gitz. To the west, battered remnants of Korslug's forces started to rout and Snug's crossbows failed to penetrate the frigate. Even through rage, Brolgor knew back then that the fight was not the one he would enjoy. 

The ship moved transporting the midgets towards Zoghag who did not manage to hide in time and a massive volley sent the shaman to the ground bleeding from dozens of wounds.

Břřok and Brolgor roared with primitive fury and they closed the distance. As the hulking troggoth tore through the duardin who opened themselves to charge through their quest to slay the shaman, he crawled up the monument of power and jumped towards the flyship, still too low after disembarking its troops. Then came a volley of bolts. Bug's boltboyz finally arrived, sneaking behind the duardin, their shots shredded the midgets, crippling the crew of the ship. His fury was swift and with mortal precision he managed to slaughter the duardin on board until they sounded retreat, finally starting to laugh with the carnage of the fight. As the foot soldiers got back to the ship, he was at last overwhelmed and bushed of the ship. Before darkness took him, he saw the retreating ship flowing to the west.

Jawrukk crouched low in the twisted underbrush, still as a corpse in a bog. His one good eye squinted through the ferns, tracking the land ahead with the cold patience of a seasoned beast-hunta. He’d left camp hours ago—couldn't stand all them Kruleboyz lumped together like squigs in a cage. It reminded him too much of Gnashmaw... of the rot that set in when orruks stopped bein’ orruks and started playin’ at bein’ something else. He hadn’t liked that then, and he sure didn’t like it now.

To him, life was teeth and nails, the swamps, the kill. It was fightin’ monsters what made Mork smile—Troggoths with breath like old corpse-juice, sludgereakers that snapped bones like twigs, and them scaled beasties from the western ruins, what looked like the statues walkin’. That was a proper fight, not stabbin’ duardin and braggin’ over their stunted skulls. Somethin‘ the old clan did, praisin‘ weekness and cowardice to please da fat boss. And in da weakness, civilization was born. Orruk civilization. Sickening rot.

Still... maybe things were changin’. The backstabbin’ had died down a bit. And though Břřok's lot were growin' fat with numbers, there was some cunnin‘ strength there. Especially with Břřok. Enough that Jawrukk, for once, didn’t feel like leavin’. Not yet. Not with Brolgor’s carnage on that duardin skyship. That was proper. Maybe proper enough to fell da new enemy he learned about today.

Then the wind shifted, and with it came a stink. One he knew, one he did not like. Hobgrotz, the thievin’, backstabbin’ chaos dealin’ weaklings. There they were, a group of them, coming towards the encampment, not even tryin’ to sneak. Jawrukk watched as Břřok and Brolgor came to meet 'em. He slithered closer, keepin’ to the shadows like a good lurka, obscured by the shadows. 

“Aaaah great Boss of da Marowwcraveaz, you who they call Bonechewa, we present you a gift from your fans, the great followers of Hashut. Us! To aid you in your struggles,” said the champion with a squeaky voice. 

“Hashut ya say? The chaos gitz? What do them want with us?” asked the oneeyed orruk with commanding voice full of contempt, a duardin bone in his mouth as a toothpick. 

“Oh, mighty boss, they were impressed by how skilfully you have vanquished their enemies, both the flying and the naked ones. They were very pleased. So much so, that they have reached out to us and paid us to help you! They said, that if you come to their forge in the mountains, they could also do something with the shining rocks you have gathered. A strong weapon.”

Břřok looked at 'em long and hard, Brolgor already reaching for his cleava, when finally, the young boss spoke. “I accept yar offer, ya gitz. But listen real close, ya stays by me side at all times. Understood?” his mouth stretching to a wide grin. They nodded and were led by Brologr away. 

Jawrukk’s lip curled in disgust. The idea of marchin’ beside those scuttlin’ rats made his blood boil. He almost growled aloud, when he heard a voice interrupted his hatered.

“Ya can stand up now old hunta,” said Břřok. Jawrukk stood up, half-impressed and half-worried that the young boss had seen him. “Ya disagree, yar rage could be heard many Gork’s feet away.”

“Ya really mean to fight alongside those runts? Who serve da chaos? This aint the deal we made. This aint the way I taught you! Ya trying to recreate the filth of Kargak? The mockery of Mork and Gork?” his rage spilled out unchecked, he wanted a fight, but Břřok only laughed.

“Ally ya say, well, maybe there is somethin’ about da weapon. And maybe not. What me wants is a shield and now Ive got a supply of em now, and they be comin’ and comin’, bringin’ stuff from the smiths for us to take, after they take the arrow meant for me. Good trade, eh? Do not worry, I remember all we said. But ya gotta start to understand that prowlin’ around the swamps thinkin’ yer the only one who gets Mork aint da way. We can’t live the way ya want. We gotta change yes, we, ya too. Else go back to yer swamps and keep hunting lizards, while me and the boyz continue to walk the path of Mork.”

Jawruk stood for a while, rage slowly dimming in him, until finally he nodded. “Fine, but remember what we said. Now, ya should know somethin’ ive found out today. There be another warboss, in these parts, wannin to gather da boyz under his banna. I tracked ‘is spy sniffin‘ bout our camp. Says da boss serves the Mouth of Mork hisself.”

Břřok’s grin faded. “Who is this boss?”

Jawrukk’s eye gleamed. “Name’s Dorgukk.”