Da Ork Life (Warhammer Ork SI/Witcher/Multicross) (Patreon)

“Okay, we really have to think about this one. Use deductive reason and logic. Symbolism will have its role to play too. It has to make sense,” I stressed, poking a stick into the dirt with an oversized meaty and green appendage. “If red is to go fast, yellow is for booms, and blue is lucky... Then purple should be for stealth,” I decided.

“Inconceivable, Big Boss!” one of my companions uttered, appearing aghast at my suggestion. I looked down at him to see it was Ditz, a grot and Oddboy. His skin was a mottled green, his nose a long hook, and he was missing one of his eyes. Looked to be a recent development based on the fact that the eye in question wasn’t so much as missing as hanging by a thin red strand of muscle with blood weeping down his face. “Black is the color of stealth. A way to blend into the shadows, to go unseen.”

I shook my head, my neck a thick log of muscle and sinew, “No. Black is a deathly color. Dark and foreboding with sinister overtones. Not to mention, black orks are a thing, even if we haven’t seen any. But you know what no one has ever seen?” I began, cocking my head, knowing that I had scored a point as realization dawned upon Ditz’s face. “A purple ork.”

Ditzs sucked in a sharp breath, realizing that he hadn’t, in fact, ever seen a purple ork. Now, that could be because they didn’t exist or, in the far more likely case, they were simply that stealthy. The argument was enough to convince him, but there was some doubt amongst my other fellows.

“What about gray? Gray seems stealthy,” Glut ventured. His name earned by his particularly round belly, even if he hadn’t eaten half as much as he needed to have such a gut. The moss that the Gretchin grew, our servants/slaves, wasn’t that filling. “I’ve never seen a gray ork either.” His face was truly a work of art -- a large pronounced brow, a strong jaw, and teeth that pushed back his lips. All of us came from spores, but Glut looked like our inbred cousin.

Gray could work. I didn’t have any plans for gray. As I mulled it over, Glut reached out over to Ditz and grabbed the eye that hung from his socket -- with a quick yank and a short scream, the eye came free before he popped it into his mouth and chewed. Ditz rolled on the ground, his screaming echoing throughout the trees of the forest that we found ourselves in. The bright blue sky overhead, light peaking through the canopy of leaves, illuminating the small grove that we were in.

“No. Purple. Purple is sneaky,” Boggagrudd stated, and even among orks, he seemed to be a particularly stupid one. Pretty sure his name came from someone hocking a lugie. He was almost as big as I was at seven feet tall, his shoulders broad and his arms thick. I was probably going to have to kill him soon when he mustered up the balls to challenge me for the title of Boss. It was a shame. As of right now, he was only second to me when it came to fighting, making him one of my Nobs, but such was the nature of orks.

I’m not really sure what happened to me. My memories were a jumble and calling them incomplete was being generous. However, that incompleteness ran both ways. I was an ork. A Greenskin. Given that I had come out of the ground like a mushroom, I was the Warhammer variety. Only some wires seemed to have gotten crossed in the process because I recalled being human.

Being an ork came with some general knowledge. I’m guessing it was part of the process the Brainy- the Old Ones embedded into us when they created orks, so we could skip the toddler phase of our development. I still had most of that, as far as I could tell. I just had a little extra because of my human memories, which added some context to some things and proved as inspiration in other areas.

Which led to this little pow-wow.

“It’s official. Purple is the stealthy color,” I concluded. Warhammer orks had bullshit literally baked into their DNA. Or whatever the fuck we had. You paint something red? It goes faster or it’s more explodey as a result. Some hunk of scrap metal that shouldn’t even be able to move, not only managing to do so but acting as a monstrous vehicle of war. It was warp bullshit. I didn’t know exactly how it worked, why it worked, or why it was a thing in the first place -- and, frankly, not only did I not care, I’m pretty sure that worked in my favor.

I was just trying to swing the rest of it in my favor. If red made things go fast, and yellow made explosions better, then purple could be stealthy. Blue, yellow, green, orange, black, gray, and white -- all of them could do something. I already got them convinced red go fast and blue was lucky. Maybe gray could make something work better? Or orange makes you smarter? Or green could act as medicine? The possibilities were literally endless.

All I had to do was make my tribe believe it. If they believed it, then bullshit would happen and it would work.

“Spread the word. Find the color purple and gather it. We’ll be using it for our raid,” I decided, and there was much rejoicing. Even I felt a thrill of anticipation. For orks, violence was a physical need in the same way that humans needed food and water. Standing up to my full height, I was reassured to see that I was still at least a foot taller than Boggagrudd. I hefted my large war hammer, which was more of a small tree with a massive stone wedged inside of it that was secured with some stolen twine. Its surface was stained a muddy red. “Our scouts?”

I looked over the rough encampment that was little more than a cave in front of a bog where we were… born, I suppose. Things had more or less gone according to the plan -- the Gretchin came first and got everything nice and prepared for us. The grew the moss, they took care of the Squigs that came after them, and now things were nice and stable, the orcs began to emerge.

There weren’t many of us. Only a couple of dozen. There used to be more, but I ended up killing about as many as we had now to become the Big Boss, and Boggagrudd killed eight more. All to establish a rough pecking order. The next group would be easier, as ork instincts were to obey the Big Boss, unless you wanted to become the boss, so there would be some fights but nothing that would impact our numbers too badly.

More orks were growing at the moment, but we were at capacity. That capacity being… well… threat level, I suppose you could call it. Right now, the only thing worth fighting was each other, and until that changed, our population wouldn’t boom.

We needed to be outnumbered. We needed to face incredible enemies. We needed to be one wrong move from annihilation. Only then would the spores that were released on a particularly warm winter take root and my warband would grow. How the sporeboys knew when to grow? Beat the shit out of me, and I already knew not to question these things.

A grot stumbled forward, looking like he was still getting used to his legs. “Found something! I found something! Humans,” he announced, clear excitement in his voice.

I knew the prospect of killing humans probably should disgust me. I couldn’t recall that much from my last life. If it was my last life at all, and not the gene memories getting a bit screwy. I became an orc all of eight hours ago, and I’m pretty sure that I was already radically different than my human self because the prospect of a fight got me rock hard. And that was part of the reason why I was inclined to think it was a past life rather than genetic fuckery.

I was the only ork with a dick. And I’m pretty sure the reason why I had one was because I was sure that I was supposed to have one by virtue of being a dude, and being an ork. Or orc. I’m not really sure what the difference was, but orks, in fantasy, were made for fucking as much as they were for fighting. Ergo, penis.

“Lead-” I began before I face palmed, a thought catching me by surprise. One thing that I was certain of was that my brain took a serious downgrade. “Camo! I forgot about camo!” Fuck me. Back to the drawing board.

…

Being a guard was both an easy job to do but an extremely difficult job to do well, Wilbur thought, marching his patrol route with his spear leaning on his shoulder. He was new to it, which was why he was following a veteran -- Alphonse, a man with a mane of gray hair, a face full of wrinkles, and a beat stick that had been in use more years than Wilbur reckoned he was alive for. The patrolling was easy. Breaking the up drunken brawls or settling disputes, mostre often with the threat of violence than actual violence, was also pretty easy.

The hard part of it was the tedium. The boredom. Looking out around the perimeter of his hometown of White Orchard, just in case something decided to visit them in the dead of night. A monster. A Witcher. Some ghastly spirit. Or, worse of all, the Nilfgaardians. It was a task of utmost importance. His diligence could be the difference between a surprise attack and enough forewarning to prepare. Every night, as he stared out into the darkness that was only illuminated by the moon and stars, Wilbur held the lives of everyone in his village in the palms of his hands.

It should be tense. He should be examining every shadow for hints of something lurking within. He should be wide away, taunt like a bowstring, ready to spring into action to sound the alarm.

“This is boring,” Wilbur realized, making Alphonse cackle as they continued their patrol around the perimeter of their village. They kept an eye outside as much as they did within, just in case some no good ne’er-do-well decided to cause some mischief.

“You're damn right that it's boring,” Alphonse replied, his voice rough from a lifetime of shouting orders. His hand went to a flask that was ever present at his hip -- a hand that was missing three fingers. He lost them when he was captured by Cintra, as it was common practice to cut the fingers of talented archers. Or, so the stories say. “It's the best kind of boring, lad. A job like this, you don't want anything to happen. It's not an excuse to be lax, of course, but in an ideal world, we'll walk trenches around the village with nothing to ever show for it.”

It made sense. It did. But boredom was quick to set in as he peered into the darkness, only to see nothing there. Just like he did every time he peered into it. Just some trees, some grass, some shrubbery… it was incredibly difficult to remain alert when nothing ever happened. “Has anything ever happened? With you?” Wilbur half hoped and half feared.

Alphonse snorted into his flask as they reached the end of their patrol point where they promptly pivoted and began walking the same way that they came. Wilbur looked off into the distance, down the river that divided the village -- there were a few fishing houses dotted down the ways. Nothing there, as far as he could see.

“You won't see anything. Not anytime soon. We aren't a small village, so bandits and monsters won't come near us because there are much easier targets to raid,” Alphonse stated with so much confidence that Wilbur believed him with little thought. “In times of war, that might be different. Will be different. We're on the road to Viziema. But, good news there is that we're far from the border, so if we are at war with Cintra we'll know long beforehand. And if we're at war with Redania… well, in that case we're likely rightly fucked.”

That was both reassuring and horrifying.

Alphonse seemed content to talk, barely paying the shadows much mind. For all the good it would do, Wilbur remarked to himself -- Alphones was pushing sixty, and his eyes went cloudy years ago. “Good King Foltest won't fold so easily, even if we are at war with Redania, though. We have a good strong border, and in any case, we're on the other side of Viziema, so we'd only be raided for food and the like for a siege. We-”

Wilbur was content to listen to the old man prattle, simply because it was a welcome distraction. However, his attention caught on something. He slowed to a stop before shifting his torch, trying to peer into the darkness. “Alphonse… do… do those bushes look closer to you?” Wilbur questioned, feeling half mad for even suggesting such a thing. But, he couldn't deny it -- the odd dozen bushes that sprouted from the ground were closer. By a couple dozen feet, at least.

Alphonse gave him a puzzled look. “Lad. What bushes are you talking about?” He asked, peering into the darkness with him as Wilbur pointed them out.

“Them right there,” Wilbur directed him, making a frown pull down on the grizzled man's face.

“There shouldn't be any bushes, lad. We trim down the perimeter so no one can hide behind a tree or something,” Alphonse replied, but Wilbur clearly saw them. They were right there- they just moved! A breeze? Only he hadn't felt anything? What was-

“‘da stealth mission ‘as failed! rage ma brudders! WAAAAHHHHH!” With the war cry, a hulking brute seemingly emerged from thin air. His dark green skin was smudged with soot, and it should have been impossible for him to hide behind some twigs considering that he was easily seven feet tall and two of Wilbur could stand shoulder to shoulder wishing his chest. He hefted a stone warhammer that was the size of Wilbur's torso with ease, raising it over his head as he broke into a dead sprint at them.

Wilbur always thought he would be a hero. That when the time came, when it was a matter of life and death, he would step up to the plate. He would take charge. That he would level his spear and fight whoever needed to be fought, and in the end, he would emerge victorious because… because heroes deserved a happy ending.

Before Wilbur could even process that another dozen of the monsters were racing towards them, all of them at least a head taller than him, he hadWilbur already pivoted and broken into a dead sprint away., fFleeing for his life. He didn't think. His body just moved on its own accord and he only noticed when he looked back just in time to see the hulk mass of a creature with a maw full of teeth take a swing at Alphonse, who seemed rooted to the spot. The green monster swung his warhammer, catching Alphonse in the chest and strikinguck with such force that his torso was ripped off and reduced to gore.

Blood and shattered bone rained on the dirt and the monster barely slowed down.

“Help…” a ragged plea slipped past his lips, a desperate prayer to be heard by anyone. He heard the sounds of chaos behind him, the lumbering steps that seemed to be getting closer the faster that he ran. His heart felt like it was about to burst from his chest. “A-Alarm! ALARM! WE’RE UNDER ATTACK!” Wilbur screamed at the top of his lungs, and it wasn’t any sense of duty that motivated him. It was pure survival.

If there were others out and about in the village, then it meant that he could get away from the monsters that were chasing him.

Wilbur sprinted towards the village square where he saw people getting out of their homes in their night clothes, some holding weapons as they looked around blurry eyed. Following him were the sounds of screaming as other people, people he knew stumbled out only to be met by one of the monsters. Their screams echoed out in the air, waking up the sleepy village as much as his cries did.

It was nothing less than a relief to see that some of the guards were mustering up to fight, joined by menfolk of the village. White Orchard only had around three hundred people living in it, and while not every man would fight, every able-bodied one would be expected to. The man leading them was Sir Duncan -- a landed knight. His hair was a dark brown, his beard bushy and long. He was lacking his plate armor, but he wore a set of chainmail that probably costed more money than Wilbur and his family would ever see in their life times. A halberd was in his hands and his piercing gaze cutting right through Wilbur as he approached breathlessly.

“What happened?! Who is attacking us? Did you see their heraldry?!” Sir Duncan demanded, his tone harsh as his squire, a man named Elric, was shouting at everyone to form up while directing everyone else to head to the tavern. It would be safe enough for most people.

“Monsters! Monsters are attacking us! They’re giants and they’re green!” He exclaimed, and Wilbur was certain that if it wasn’t for the screaming coming from behind him, Sir Duncan would have had him flogged for lying. “It’s the truth! They snuck up on us with magics-”

“Silence!” Sir Duncan barked at him, even though he had asked. But he understood. He really did. Wilbur saw the uncertain expressions on the crowd of people growing behind Sir Duncan, his fear infecting them. “What do they number?”

Wilbur didn’t rightly know. “... twenty, maybe?” It was hard to tell. Everything was a blur, but the image of Alphonse’s death was seared into his mind.

Sir Duncan smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the low light. “We have the numbers! Spearman! Step with me!” Sir Duncan shouted out, and the ragged handful of men with spears stepped forward and… that… he was included in that, wasn’t he? He tried to picture his spear thrusting into the heart of that beast, but he only saw his own death. Wilbur looked up at the spear as if it had betrayed him, giving him a death sentence.

At least until it was taken from his hands and a bow with a quiver was shoved in them. Wilbur was startled to see that it was Elric, his expression severe and judgmental. “You’re better with a bow. Go to the tavern and protect the people there with it,” he demanded, and Wilbur heard the undercurrent to the words. ‘We don’t want to fight beside you, coward.’

Shame flowed through him, and more shame came gushing forth when he only offered a weak nod before he all but fled to the tavern with the women, children, and infirm. He ran when they began to march up the path that he had taken, the tavern letting him in and he seemed to be the last. His cheeks burned as he made his way to the second floor, the room filled with people, and he took a position at a window.

It gave him a perfect view. An all too clear view of the dirt path ahead. He saw the rough formation of an odd sixty to maybe a hundred men marching forward in their night clothes. Just as he saw the same monster that wielded that monstrous warhammer -- he stood in the center of the road, flanked by his ilk. Then, with a battle cry, the monsters surged forward.

And the heroes died.

Fear opened a pit in Wilbur’s gut as he watched the formation shatter like pottery struck with a hammer. An all too fitting comparison. Sir Duncan led the formation, his spear stabbing into the lead monster, only it proved as effective as stabbing a tree to slay it. He was flattened with a mighty swing of the hammer that sprayed gore over the shocked others.

Almost immediately, the few at the back, upon receiving a shower of blood, immediately broke and fled. The others fought on despite being clearly outmatched, and Wilbur waited. He waited for that pivotal moment that the tales always talked about -- when the hour was at it’s bleakest, the heroes would dig in deep and defeat the evil that they battled. The screams of the dying echoed out in the village, and they were only matched by the gruttle laughter of the green monsters.

That moment never came. Wilbur notched an arrow, but his hands trembled so badly that he probably couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. The men were slaughtered or they fled, being chased down by smaller monsters that had the same mottledlty green skin. His breathing was ragged and he could smell the fear as everyone looked out of the tavern, peering through cracks in the boards and windows -- children cried, mothers tried to soothe them to no avail, while everyone else whimpered in terror.

The monstrous leader settled his warhammer on his shoulder as he approached the tavern without anything resembling fear. Wilbur pulled back the arrow, his heart in his throat, and without meaning to, it flung from his trembling hands. It punched into the dirt just before the monster, making him pause as he looked down at the arrow, then up at Wilbur, and he saw that the monster had eyes that were the same color as blood.

“Seems like a bit uv an 'planation iz ‘n orda. I imagine yer lot are mighty konfused at yer kurrent predicament,” the monster began, his tone casual, almost friendly, if not for the low growl in his words that made them almost incomprehensible. “No worriez. I'z more dan happy ta 'plain. Ma name iz Krod, leada ere uv dis band uv orks. We're ere for tree fings: a gud fight. Some scrap an' fancy baubles, an’…” The creature trailed off as he was joined by his fellows.

It was as if the air was sucked from Wilbur’s lungs. Everyone in the tavern held their breath, desperate to know what it would take for the monsters to leave.

“Da elven hunniez. I know dey're 'n 'der,” the monster finished and Wilbur froze, understanding instantly what the implication was. Slowly, almost against his own will, Wilbur looked over at another who was in the room with him. As did everyone else.

Sravi was frozen stiff. An elven woman with dark black hair, bright blue eyes, a slender face. Elves were a queer folk in general, but Wilbur always thought that they were pretty to look at, at least. Wouldn’t ever be caught with his trousers down with one, lest someone found out and the shame would never wash off, but Sravi was pretty nonetheless.

“You can’t,” Sravi whispered, fear filling her gaze as she looked at everyone around her. And she saw the truth. They very much could and they would. Wilbur looked away as Sravi was seized with little hesitation, despite her kicking and screaming as she was being dragged downstairs. He swallowed a lump in his throat as Sravi, and two other elven women, were thrown out of the tavern and the door promptly slammed shut behind them.

Down below, over the elven women shouting to be let back in, a voice he knew belonged to the old blacksmith called out. “We’ve done what you ask! Leave us be!”

“Yer didn't even botha ta haggle. Shameful, 'dat iz. No way ta be do'n business, but I suppose I kan't komplain,” the monster that called itself Krod remarked, sounding faintly amused. His lips twisted into a mockery of a smile. “A deal is'a deal-”

Another monster, the second to largest made a noise at that, “Ya're lett'n' them go?! Wot's good eat'n' 'n there!” The monster protested and the larger of the two looked at the other monster for but a moment, tilting his head. Then, with no warning or lead up, he punched the other monster in the face hard enough that tusk-like teeth flew free in a spray of blood before Krod hefted his hammer once again and brought it down on the other monster’s head. It was like watching a blacksmith strike a tomato, and it made Wilbur ill.

“Mah sincerest apologies fer da interruption,” Krod stated, paying no mind to the corpse that he just made while one of the smaller hook nosed creatures quickly darted forth and began prying teeth from what was left of the head. “As I wuz say'n' -- I'z perfectly happy ta accept wot deal, on two additional conditions,” he continued as the small creatures threw what seemed to be a lasso around the elven women, and started dragging them towards the monsters.

The old blacksmith paused, and Wilbur felt his stomach tying into knots. “What would those conditions be?”

Krog chuckled, “Ya go ta yer k'n' an' ya tell 'im wot ya saw dis fine night. Spare no detail. Tell 'im, an' send da biggest an' baddest warbands ya gots right at us.” Wilbur blanched, the monster wanted knights to be sent after them? What could they possibly have to gain from that?! “An' I want wot wun.”

Wilbur, at first, had no idea what he meant when the monster pointed a finger that was more of a fat sausagesasusage like you’d find at the tavern. Then, slowly, Wilbur realized that the monster was pointing at him. The monster wanted him.

“I-” Wilbur began before he felt a rough push from behind before he could so much as turn around and defend himself. He yelped, his limbs flailing as he found himself in open air before he landed with a grunt. The wind was knocked out of him and as he groaned, pure fear shot down his spine when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He didn’t want to, but he found his gaze lifting up to the monster that now stood overhead.

“It's not fun when ya 'umies flee. We'll be mak'n' an example uv wot we do when we git our hands on cowards. When ya face us, it's a fight ta da death,” Krod declared and Wilbur felt something warm and wet spreading across his trousers.

He didn’t know what Krod meant by that at first but he soon learned. And as the pain racked his body, blotting out every thought as he got his first taste of hell before death… he realized a simple truth.

Alphonse was the lucky one.

...

I've been playing Rogue Trader and it's proven to be a gateway drug to WH 40k. I've always been aware of 40k, but I never had much interest in it, and part of that was there was so much lore that it served as a barrier to entry if you wanted to understand the setting. And while I still don't, the Orks are rapidly becoming my favorite faction because they don't need to understand anything either. They're pure dumb fun in the best of ways.

This story is going to be about orks doing orky things across the multiverse. Witcher would be the hub world, and probably the longest jump. Establish the foundations, so to speak, before launching a WAAAAGGGHHH across the multiverse. I don't really have any concrete plans at the moment, but I'm looking for a less serious story with this one. Some arcs will have more tension than others, but for the most part, I'm looking to embrace the dumb fun of the orks.

Character progression would lean into the warp shenanigans that orks are known for. Self image is pretty important -- when an ork feels powerful and like a winner, he'll physically grow stronger because he feels like he's the biggest and strongest ork around. When he loses, he'll shrink and lose his strength. In this case, the more Krog wins, the stronger he becomes but I'm also going to be dabbling with other methods. Like the Witcher mutations, magic, or going somewhere like Skyrim and the infinite stacking glitches working because Krog believes that it will.

Another avenue of progression is... well... the only way I can describe it is the ork eugenics program. This is going to be a more smutty story since I'm only going to post it to QQ, and one of the main facets of the character is that Krog views himself as a hentai ork. Which means kids. So, to empower the tribe, Krog will be knocking up girls from various settings to breed traits that make the waifus strong -- Aura from RWBY, Quirks from MHA, Magic will be covered by the Witcher, and so on. So, you can look forward to that.

Overall, I don't really have an estimation for how long this story could go on for. I have a few ideas that I would like to write out, but the story is a bit of a departure from my usual structure for stories, so it would mostly depend on what you all would like to see.