War. War never changes. From rocks, to swords, to guns, to bombs that could level a city. They all relied on the same thing. Power. The strength to wield the weapons of war was a skill he had perfected long ago. Bred into his blood and perfected by his ancestors. The fire in him called for more blood to be spilt, more war to be waged, and more followers to be gained. In short, he needed a WAAAGH! Since his “landing” on this world, he could feel his muscles rippling, his brain beginning to formulating strategies. The lone Gretchen was no longer a weak little git to be pushed around. He was a Nob. But to start this WAAAGH!, this Nob needed a Warboss.
“Well. I is deh Biggest. I is deh Strongest. And… I is deh only Ork here… Den I is deh Warboss!” The lone Ork roared into the forest. During his flight, the Ork saw many a chance for Lootin’, but the world had different plans for him. His flight was controlled by the air currents above the large forest he now resided in. The forest contained many an animal to fight, and then presumably devour, but nothing compared to the Imperial men he had fought in the last WAAAGH! he was in.
He needed to find the Space Marine. He would soon be calling for help from his Puny friends, ensuring that there was MUCH to fight and stomp. Just like how the Ork liked it.
First things first, he needed some Boyz. And to do that, he needed to release some spores.
Now… How did the big ones during his time as a Gretchin release those spores? By dying of course! But he couldn’t die, he was the Warboss! He needed to be alive! So how else could he make some new Boyz…?
Mork and Gork must have looked down upon this lone Nob and seen great things, perhaps greater that Grazghkull Thraka, for at that time something came bounding out of the forest straight towards the lone, weaponless Ork.
The beast was around a story tall and seemed very strange to the Ork. It had a muscular body of some sort of feline. The wings on its back seemed very reminiscent of wings the Ork had seen on certain Dark Eldar before, leathery and spiny. What finished the set was a large tail surrounded by carapace and tipped with a large dagger like barb.
Fear is something most races and species feel, especially when confronted by a predatory creature at least twice their size. Death is one thing that no creature wishes to face, so a fight or flight feature was added by the Old Ones. The Orkz however, never got the Flight feature.
With a grin and a yell of “WAAAGH!” the lone Ork charged the manticore, determined on picking up a broken branch on the way. Club in hand and enemy in sight, a battle of nature began.
The manticore looked surprised, never before had something determined to attack it, being the largest predator and toxic as well. But here was a creature clad in rags at least half its size charging it with a stick. If Manticore’s were capable of laughter, this would be a hilarious moment indeed. The beast reared its paw in preparation to casually swipe at the little green thing, even though he was sure his den-mother had told him to not play with his food on multiple occasions.
Surprise when the branch in the Ork’s arms crashed against the paw being risen and shattered bones underneath. A pained yelp arose from the Manticore, never used to being injured on the hunt. The lone Ork however, did not let up his assault, determined to beat this beast and release at least some spores. He swung his branch with the fury only another Ork his size could match, catching the Manticore in places it could not protect. Everywhere the branch connected, the sound of bones cracking under the immense stress could be heard over the cries of pain that arose from the manticore.
Now on the retreat, the manticore was afraid. Not even the ponies he harassed from time to time ever HURT him! They usually just scared him away! This… Thing was different than anything this Kit had ever seen. One of his paws was already useless due to the first attack, and now he could feel other bones beginning to crack under the onslaught.
The manticore raised his injured paw in an attempt to block at least some of the blows, but this only allowed for more of a beating to it from the Ork. That was the final straw on the Camel’s back. The Manticore simply dropped the paw it had been raising up, and tried to cover its body. The paw made connection with something however, as the kit could feel his claws rake through something.
The Ork looked on to the new change in the battle of nature. The manticore had just taken his left arm off. The Commissar Fuklaw Meter of Angry© in his head now went from KINDA ANGRY to FUCKING PISSED. “THAT WUZ MY SHOOTA ARM YU STOOPID GIT!”, he yelled towards the now surprised Manticore. He charged once more prepared to continue the relentless beating.
Blow for blow rained down upon the poor manticore, most now being aimed at the large head of the beast. Snap went the bones of the arms covering the head as the Ork continued his onslaught. The branch breaks but the beatings do not. What was once the bone breaking force of a club was now the sharp fingernails and blunt fist of the frenzied Ork.
So much blood spilled from the Manticore’s head, too much to allow it to still be alive. But the Ork continued. He was enraged, hungry, and the first Ork to feel this in centuries; in pain. The beast lay at his feet limp and lifeless, blood pooling and eyes open.
The Ork stood above the corpse of his first foe. His muscles rippled from the intense battle, the WAAAGH surged through his mind, the feel of power at his fingers. He needed a name. Every great Warboss had a Great name. What should his be…
A twitch from the body initiated his response to that. Without even a second glance, he stamped out the remaining life with a single stomp of his mighty feet. “Dat’s it… I am… WARBOSS SKULSMASHA!” His screams scared birds for miles as he lifted his arms to the heav-
Snap. Skullsmasha slowly turned his head towards the sound. Who would dare interrupt a Warboss from his victory cheer? There standing at the opposite end of the clearing was a small pastel colored… Horse? It stood looking at him in a look of complete fear and could not seem to break his gaze.
Skullsmasha grinned. Another play thing. He slowly walked towards the thing, intent sprawled across his face. “Oi! You dere! Im gonna krump yah good ‘less you start tellin’ ME what I wantz to know!” He picked up the small thing by its- her as he found out- mane and lifted it straight to his face. “Good ol’ Brainz is tellin me youz can talk. So Spill it! First… Wots your name?”
A barely audible murmur arose from behind the hair. “Speak Louda!” a barely louder reply. “I said… LOUDA!” He pressed his ear right next to her muzzle to hear her speak.
“My name… Is… Fluttershy…”