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The galaxy in the 41st milenia is a grand and magnificent place. From the resurrection of primarchs to the re-emergence of daemons, it is near impossible to document every significant moment that happens within the bounds of even the imperium, despite the munitorum’s best efforts. Xenos empires could rise and fall over a span of centuries, with the only documentation of their existence being a short memo for an Ordo Xenos Inquisitor expensing the use of some Cyclonic Torpedoes directly to the Golden Throne. It is no surprise that the passage of a rock through Segmentum Solar would remain unnoticed, even as it hurtled toward an embattled hive world of the Imperium.
Warboss Kazrag Big Shoota swaggered down the halls of this gargantuan rock, with the confidence of an ork who knew where they were going. As a general rule, orks knew forward was the best way to go, but rarely does an ork know where forward might lead. To a boy, forward was best because they knew there was a fight there. To a nob, forward was best because there was both fighting and winning ahead. It took the titanic intellect of a boss that forward had both fighting, wining, and loot! Kazrag was fortunate to find themself in the last group, bearing an intellect that would make an ogryn envious, and a shoota so snazzy that said ogryn would be found later in tiny little pieces.
This time, Kazrag wasn’t moving forward for fighting, winning, or loot. No, Kazrag had more pressing concerns. Da Boss (different from a boss or even their boss) had summoned him to the command deck of the rokk, appropriately named Da End of da World, to give a report on the readiness of the WAAAGH! As the preeminent Bad Moons warboss in all the segmentum, Kazrag was best known for being a supplier of the loudest weapons in the galaxy. If any boss claimed their weapons were louder, they would promptly be killed and their merchandise made even snazzier by Kazrag’s own hand. Cutthroat and mercantile, Kazrag made a fortune in teef by selling shoots and sluggas (which normally go for 21 teef,) and marking them up to a ludicrous price of 19 teef (9 is bigger than 1 ya dense git!) after all the custom work had been done. With such immense wealth and business acumen, it was little surprise that Da Boss had hand picked them to supply and arm the boyz for his next big plan.
As the Bad Moons warboss stepped into the command deck of the rokk, a pungent wave of machine oil and body odor wafted out, filling Kazrag with a bittersweet nostalgia. The scene before them was a chaotic mess of green flesh, orks and gretchen alike, pressing buttons and messing with dials to keep the massive boulder from hurtling off course. To a human eye, the scene would not be unlike that of an Imperium hive city creche, only with fewer sparking wires and unattended corpses. At the center of the chaos, looming menacingly over even the biggest of the boyz, clad head to toe in sooty black armor, stood Da Boss. Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka. He stared out through the window installed on the command deck, letting in a cooling breeze from the vacuum of space, his one good eye piercing through the darkness into the one direction that mattered. Forward.
Kazrag pushed past the assembled cacophony of orks, rubbing shoulders and elbowing faces of boyz from every clan on his way to see Da Boss. It hadn’t been since the 3rd war of Armageddon, when Kazrag was but a young boy, that they had seen so many orks from different backgrounds and kultures working together instead of just beating each other senseless. When they arrived at Da Boss’ side they took a moment to stare out into the blackness of space, trying to see what the Prophet of Gork (or possibly Mork?) saw out there in the void.
“You're late,” growled Ghazghkull, his voice carrying the bass menace of a predator made of razor sharp scrap metal.
“Apologies boss,” replied Kazrag, giving a noncommittal shrug. “Got ‘eld up by sum muck draggin Blood Axe git lettin me know bout the latest planetside. Don’t worry tho, gave ‘em a right thrashin for making me late, that’s for sure!”
“What is the status of my forces? Will the boyz be ready for a proper scrap when we arrive?” Pressed Ghazghkull, seeming to ignore almost anything the Bad Moons runt had to say.
“Oh no question boss! No question!” they replied. “Made sure every one of them shootas pass propa tuned up for maximum noise! Made a few grots bleed from da ‘ead just from the sound of em! Shooda been there boss, you would have had a right laugh!” Kazrag’s expectant gaze fell upon Da Boss’ look of utter disinterest and disdain. “Anyway,” plowed on Kazrag, looking to end the awkward moment as soon as possible. “Dat’s not all! Got some of me best boyz on a top priority mission! Going to nick some stunty gubbins, give a real big surprise to da humies when we get der!”
“What did the Blood Axe have to say about what was going on the planet?” Asked Ghazghkull, making no acknowledgement of the warbosses pathetic attempts of self aggrandizement.
“Oh dat git?” replied Kazrag, a bit disappointed. “You know how them Blood Axes is, all blathering about plans and ‘inteligiz’ and wot not. Mentioned somefing’ about some spiky boyz hittin the planet hard and some big pissed of daemon git attacking one of the hive cities.”
For the first time in this brief conversation, Ghazghkull turned his full attention to the warboss. It was an experience unlike Kazrag had ever known, as if the gods of metal and war looked down on them with faint interest and apparent disdain. “What did you say?”
“Yeah…” said Kazrag, an uncomfortable grin spreading across their face despite themselves. “Red spiky gits yellin about blood and skulls gave the humies a right walloping! Sure to make for a good fight I reckon! Some daemon bloke named Angry-Eyes smashed right through Hive Volcanus, even killed Old Bale Eye from what I ‘eard.”
There was a loud metal clattering as Makari, who Kazrag had barely registered as standing beside Ghazghkull until that moment, dropped the banner to the floor of the command deck. Da Boss stood stock still, a look of genuine and uncharacteristic shock taking a hold of the twisted mass of scar tissue that passed for his face. “Yarrick…” he croaked, a horse whisper escaping his lips unbidden. It was like watching a speed freak lose his favorite set of wheels, but less funny and more terrifying.
Kazrag tensed up to brace for the blow they knew was coming, flinching involuntarily as the Prophet of the WAAAGH!, the mightiest of orks, the boss of bosses and doom of Armageddon turned away from them to face the vast emptiness of the void. He gazed into it, no longer the look of a boss knowing where he was going, but with the confusion of a boy fresh from the grow holes.
As Kazrag watched Ghazghull stare off into the void, they noticed a small build-up of moisture collecting beneath Da Bosses good eye. As the Bad Moons warboss watched in stunned disbelief the salt water gathered then broke like the tide of a great WAAAGH down the torn up face of the prophet. “It’s a bad day for rain, isn’t it Kazrag?” said Ghazghkull contemplatively.
“Wot boss?” they replied, with no effort made to hide the genuine confusion in their voice.
“Rain!” Roared Ghazghkull, turning his mask of rage to face the baffled Bad Moons boss. “A bad day for it, isn’t it?”
Kazrag looked back into the eyes of the prophet, one glowing red with bionic light, the other leaking in an unsightly way. Their eyes darted quickly into the vast void, where the nearest drop of moisture, let alone rain, would be lightyears away. Finally their gaze fell onto the massive power claw on Da Boss’ left hand, with blades so massive they could tear a tank in half with ease. A feat they had seen the prophet do on more than one occasion. “Yeah boss,” replied Kazrag sheepishly. “A real shame about the rain.”