Campfire tale

In the cold desert night, the sleeping greenskin camp was almost peaceful- relatively speaking. Even now, only an hour or two before sunrise, gangs of goblins prowled the sprawling network of sandy paths formed only by the primitive tents lining them. Whatever was unlucky enough to end up in their grubby little hands would a rather messy end- if the goblins bothered to kill their prey before eating them, of course.

Several orcs- the biggest still remaining after yesterday's scrap- sat around a large bonfire. Each of them wore full armour, choppaz at their side- the Waaagh! was leaderless now, and a fight for supremacy was bound to break out sooner or later.

'So, Gobstomper's ded. A shame, he had sum good ideas.' The orc who spoke ripped the leg off a squig that wandered too close, eliciting a high-pitched scream from the fungal beast. Noone reacted to the beast while the orc tore a healthy chunk of meat from the leg with his teeth, chewing slowly. Mouth full, he continued. 'Darn shame. Still, da boys got to blow off some steam. Proppa right scrap dat was.' He chuckled to himself, remembering the exhilarating fight.

'It woz,' another spoke. This one wore a dirt-stained feathered headdress, much like the savage shamans of their race- despite not actually being a shaman. 'And we lost a load of boys, too. Hope we still gots enuff when we gets to da Dragonbacks.'

Another, wearing a black leather eyepatch, guffawed. 'Zoggin' loon, ya still fink we is going dat way? We still gots to scrap over who of us gets ta lead what's left of da Waaagh!- and there'll be even less left after that. Not enuff ta kick out all dem gobbo's, at least.' He sat back then, arms crossed, his face covered by the darkness.

'Roight,' legbiter said. 'Like I sed, darn shame.'

Featherhead stared at the fire, pensively. 'But wot if... Wot if we skip dat part?'

Legbiter and One-eye looked at him, confused. 'Wot if we agree, roight 'ere, 'roight now, dat we skip fighting each other, at least fer now.' His voice lowered somewhat, little more than a growled whisper. 'My shaman sez dat Gork or Mork want us ta kick out da gobbos really, really badly. And when dem wants something, ya better not make em wait.'

Legbiter was the first to speak. 'So ya want what? We lead da Waaagh! together?'

'Course not', Featherhead replied venomously. 'Dat's just unnatural. But I sez, we wait to krump each uvver until we've nicked us a few gobbo's from da mountain. Get a few more greenskins ta fight for us, restore today's losses. Den, when we each got a proppa tribe behind us, we have a proppa scrap as usual, and whoever lives is gunna lead a bigger Waaagh! den wot we've got now.'

The other two orcs though on the matter for a while. Then One-eye leaned forward, the campfire's light revealing a wide grin. 'Bigger, you sez?'

Legbiter nodded in agreement, crushing his snack's bone between his teeth, savouring the marrow. 'Maybe we spent a bit too long in da sun today, but what you sez makes sense. Alright, let's do that.'

More orcs agreed with Featherhead's plan, and when the sun rose over the desert plains hours later, the unnamed Waaagh! was on its way...