The basis of Orkhammer stories is that Orks have somehow manage to infiltrate a major faction to such a degree that pretty much everyone believes that they are just really big and green members of their side while a non-ork narrates. Whether or not someone realizes the truth and tries to point it out to no avail depends on the individual story. The naming style typically involves slapping the three letters of Ork into the name of the faction, typically in the front but it all depends on which would be funniest.
The Inquisitor was not pleased.
“Governor, I am, by no means, a strict man. But the reports I have been hearing are shocking, even for a stalwart such as myself. If what they say is true, it will not bode well for your title.”
The two men were seated on either side of the Governor’s desk, drinking tea.
“Why, Sir Inquisitor, I am shocked! What could you mean by such allegations?” The governor was a heavyset man, tall and broad. If he hadn't known better, the Inquisitor would have sworn the man had Ogryn blood in him.
“Unseemly actions of your men. Possibly, the taint of Chaos. Even… that foul xenos have infiltrated your army.”
The Governor stood abruptly, setting his teacup down firmly. ”Are you accusing my men of heresy, sir? My men are clean of Chaos, I can swear on my life! They may not be… the most tidiest or formal of soldiers, but my Planetary Defense Force are true warriors in every sense of the word!”
The inquisitor looked at the other man, unimpressed by his posturing. ”Calm down, man. If I had anything but hearsay, you would already have a laspistol to your head. I am merely here to see if there’s any truth to the rumors.”
“You’ve come at a good time, then. We’re holding the bi-annual training tournament at the moment, the last training before the troops leave for Elkoss VI.” The governor smiled thinly at the Inquisitor. “You can consider having it held in your honor, if you want.”
The training grounds were relatively far from the palace grounds, it seemed. At least, the old guardsman took a long time to drive there in the regimental car.
“ARE YOU SURE THIS IS ONLY THE TRAINING GROUND, GUARDSMAN?!” The guardsman swerved round a crater and jammed his foot on the accelerator. “What? Sorry, sir, I can’t hear you over the Basil-“ Another series of explosions rocked the ground, an almost constant krump-krump-krump. “We’re here, everyone out!” The governor had pulled on a massive power claw out from somewhere in the back of the car, and was already striding towards the concrete barracks.
“Well, then, Inquisitor, come in and feast your eyes on some of the finest of the Imperial Guard!” Green helmets. Green armor. Green boots. Green- well, almost green everything. “Governor.”
“What exactly am I looking at?”
“Why, the PDF being trained here, of course! What else?”
The barracks were full of soldiers, kitting themselves up and getting ready to go. In the maelstrom it looked like no-one had noticed the pair of humans at the door.
“And the green skin…?”
“Ah- we’re trying an experimental procedure of permanent camouflage. I've had an idea to train all of my troops extensively in the Doctrine of Stealth-”
“And the fangs for teeth?”
”Bad dental hygiene, I’m afraid. We’re not the richest of planets, and we can’t afford EVERY bit of cleaning-”
“Governor,” the inquisitor snapped, “These ‘men’ of yours are clearly orks! What the hell is going on here?”
The Governor looked bemused. “Corporal, get over here!” One of the soldiers, hesitating for a second, ran over. “Are you a human or an ork, Corporal?” “Me, boss? I’z definnily a humie, ain’t that right, boyz?” The other muttered various forms of agreement. “Yer right!” “Izza humie fer sure, heh!” ”Look, Inquisitor, we all know that orks are short, squat creatures. These fine humans are nothing of the sort!” It was true; the ‘guardsmen’ were all well muscled troops, above average height and looked menacing. The inquisitor muttered something under his breath and marched out.
“They’re everywhere!” he said, looking out at the battlefield.
“Of course, dear inquisitor. This IS the training grounds for the guard, after all.” The inquisitor looked on in near horror as two sides of the “guard” jumped out of their trenches and charged the other, meeting in the middle with an almighty crash. Limbs flew everywhere. “And what exactly are you training them for here, then? How to die?!” A basilisk shell crashed into the fray, blowing one unfortunate individual to pieces. “And WHY ARE YOU FIRING ARTILLERY INTO YOUR OWN BASE?!”
“Oh, they’re practicing basilisk- rapid-fire. You’ve got to hand it to those boys, even though they’re not the most accurate, they can get off three times as many shells as the other armies! Pretty good, eh?”
One of the soldiers, larger than the others, ran up. “Boss, we’z got the tanks reddy fer inspekshun!” The governor nodded. “Carry on, Sergeant!” “They’re, they’re orks… you can see that, can’t you?” ”I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The two of them were walking past the firing ranges, now, with the sound of las-rifles piercing the air. However, something sounded slightly… off. “For instance, do Orks use las-rifles?” The governor nodded towards one corporal who was charging at his target, firing as he went. “Las-rifles do NOT sound like that!” As the corporal got closer, yelling, the sound of him shooting grew louder – zakkazakkazakkaZakkaZakkaZAKKAZAKKAZAKKA!! “Are you sure? We've got some excellent tech-priests.” “Right, I’m sure…”
“ROIT, BOYZ! FOLLOW ME TA GLORWAAAAAAAAUGH!!” The speakers on the baneblade blared out over the field. As it rumbled forwards, the mob of infantry followed around it. “Those really aren't standard parts for a baneblade! You’re not allowed- YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO TAPE SPIKES!! Techpriest, how could you allow such sacrilege?!” The red-dressed, bionically clawed man span around to face the Inquisitor. ”Techpriest? I am no techpriest, good sir! By the Emperor, I’ll have you flogg- Ah?” The governor chuckled. “Inquisitor, meet Commissar Kleinst.” Kleinst bowed, turning to meet the man properly. “My apologies, my lord. My eyesight was not as well as it once was.” It was not just his eyes – the commissar looked more mechanical than human, with a giant robotic arm and both legs, and both eyes replaced with bionic implants. “No harm done, commissar. Tell me- you have noticed something odd about your men, haven’t you…” The commissar looked surprised. ”How did you know, sir? They’re the fiercest soldiers I've had the chance to serve with. I wish I could go with them, but for these damn implants..!” ”You haven’t seen anything… odd about them?” ”Well… not really. I’m afraid these bionic eyes let me see in black and white. I can’t fault the techpriests, of course. They've tried their hardest, but I guess the machine spirits don’t smile on me.” “Carry on, Commissar.” The crippled man nodded curtly and strode off, shouting at another group of soldiers. “A good man, even if he’s not as well as he used to be. Now, has that set your mind at ease yet?” The inquisitor started shaking his head when another basilisk round exploded nearby. “And that- what- by the Emperor, how does that even-?!” He ran over to the Leman Russ tank that had been hit. Its maintenance cover had been ripped open, and it was obvious that the engine was completely missing.
A hatch flipped open and one of the drivers clambered out. ”Zog it, looks like itz busted.. OI, TECHPRIEST, GET YER LAZY BUTT OVER ‘ERE!”
The techpriest was certainly impressive. With a metal jaw, several metal arms and a ragged red cloak, he ran across the field. “OI HEAR THE MACHINE GUBBIN- no, wot wazzat again, SPIRITZ!” He took out a handbook and looked at it carefully. “Anin-anno-anoin.. put der oilz on it while beesechin the machine’s gubbinz… lessee.. OI, SPIRITZ! WAKE UP ALREADY!” He splashed some… liquid into the empty engine cavity. “Thanks a ton, boss! WAAARR-THA-EMPERRRRAAAAAAAAUGH!!!” The tank roared off, leaving the inquisitor silently in its wake.
He remained silent even after they reached the field headquarters.
“Look, our forces are so dedicated they allow their children to help wherever they can.” And it seemed true; small green-colored folk ran around, carrying all sorts of gadgets. Listening carefully, he overheard a small voice. “Quiet, ya gits, we’z got a good gig going on ‘ere. These boyz are giving us some reel flash dakka, and we’re lootin some good gubbinz, too. Now we wait for the big boss to give the signal, and then we’re off, ok?”
“…Are you all right, Sir Inquisitor? Do you need the help of a psyker? Sanctioned psyker, to me!” The inquisitor spun about, alarm in his eyes. Forward shuffled the psyker, two guards accompanying him and gently leading him forwards. “MY MOIND BEARZ A GREAT PAAIN..” “No. No!” The inquisitor lashed out, knocking back the cowl to reveal a bandaged green face. “OW! IZZA GOOD PAIN!” “No, no, NO!” He shoved the psyker over backwards. “IZZA GOOOOD PAIN-“ ”Shut UP! Governor, follow me!”
The back room was quieter. The inquisitor was breathing hard. “Perhaps you doubt my ability, Inquisitor.” The governor’s voice was silken. “You’re damn right I doubt-“ “But you see, the High Lords trust me to the extent that they've given me control over a Callidus assassin.” The Inquisitor didn't jump as he gently pushed the poison-tipped blade away from his throat. “I… see. Well, I’m not one to doubt the High Lords.” He looked at the assassin, mercifully in the shape of a pretty, pale-skinned young woman. “But they wouldn't have released an assassin to you without a specific mission in mind. Tell me, why were you sent here?” The Callidus answered him. “CAN’T SAY, BOSS. IZZA SEKRIT.”
Back at the palace. The inquisitor and the governor were on opposite sides of the table once more. “Well, inquisitor. Have you satisfied yourself enough?”
“I have, I’m afraid. At first, I didn't believe it. Those ‘men’ out there, are clearly orks, and whether you’re trying to hide it or you really just don’t believe it, the verdict is the same. Even the most radical inquisitor couldn't accept this! Damn filthy xenos infesting the Guard? Give me a break! I have no choice but to sentence this planet to be purged, and you, personally as a heret-“
Sister Catha looked over at Sister Lestrine. ”Have you noticed anything odd about the Inquisitor, lately?” The other sister shook her head. “No, why?” ”I can’t help but feel something’s wrong…” They both quickly turned back to their duties as a voice roared up from Inquisitor’s room. “I’Z CAN HEAR YOU, YA GITZ! GET BACK TA’ WORK!”
It was rather worrying, thought the Necron Lord, to have such a large gap in his memories.
The last raid had been an utter failure, as it recalled. There had been the hated living, swarming on his – HIS planet, crawling over the once-blasted plains and barren soils. Now awakened after so long, he had marshaled his grand forces to strike at the enemy. Even with their powerful guns, the pitiful bovine creatures dressed in beige and tan had perished by the hundreds, their citizens, their troops. By the Star Gods, they were crawling all over the surface! He made a note for his next body to be made several times larger than standard, to make the harvest easier.
He had marched straight into their capital in a slow parade and taken the heads of their blue-skinned leaders with his own warscythe, sending them running in fear of death itself. And then there had been that strange asteroid, crashing down upon the city with brutal precision…
He had not minded, waking once again in a new metal body, as he had done so long ago. He had not minded, finding half his systems still unfinished and his chronological marker showing a half-cycle round the sun had passed – the price to pay for such upgrades to size and raw power. He even almost applauded the fact that monolith monitoring statistics showed almost more blood had been spilled than the whole of last cycle. But the fact that almost his entire force of Necrons had converted themselves into Flayed Ones was rather disturbing.
The Necron Lord, in his new, giant body, stumbled from the Monolith portal back onto the surface. Warscythe in hand, he watched his forces do their deadly work, killing even the animals that roamed the surface. Watched one Necron kill the small being with its mouth, crushing its head with a metal jaw. He mentally nodded to himself, killing being what a Necron’s job is. Very good. He screeched his rallying call, summoning the warriors and servants to do his bidding.
And they came, shambling and tottering. Hundreds of his finest infantry, metal exoskeletons dragging themselves over the ground, swathed in the flesh of his enemies.
Rather a lot of flesh, now he came to think about it.
And he certainly didn't recall seeing any enemies with green skins, either… the lord of death made another note to ask where his troops were getting their decorations from.
“[Brothers!]” he screeched (perhaps it really wasn't a good idea to have swapped out the communications and life-sensing array for the extra extra large pauldrons? Ah, a bit too late now to change his order) “[Heed my call! The enemy of us all are here, on our surface!]” He pointed towards the next city (he’d made a whole annotated to-do list, starting with ‘wipe out all significant pockets of populations’, followed by ‘kill any other sentients nearby’, ‘finish up by gaussing all the wildlife, plant life and microscopics’ ‘check answering machine’ and ‘go back to sleep’) with his warscythe and roared. They answered him in the Necron way – a howling omen of death and despair, sure to tell all who heard their death was imminent.
The Necron Lord tapped the side of his metallic head. They weren't usually that loud.
The harvest in the city had been a bountiful one, and the Necron Lord’s fears had mostly been allayed. Still, there had to be some major flaws in the resurrection tomb system, what with the Flayed ones using non-standard gauss weaponry instead of their claws, and more flayed one torsos being mounted on destroyer bodies. He couldn't doubt their effectiveness. The Tau (as his inbuilt translator told him they were called) had broken and run once more when the metallic green monstrosities started clambering out of the broken streets and tearing into their fire teams with green lightning and claws. Lots of green. It was then he noticed the internal alarm going off – those wretched living had the gall to attack the necron staging grounds! Grabbing a nearby destroyer, he stepped onto its metallic carapace, gesturing back to the Monolith. “[My subjects, we must make haste! Back, back to the monolith! Destroyers, Spyders! Split to two groups and flank the enemy! The rest of you, ready your phase units! My signal will tell you when to strike!]” The destroyer he was on turned to look at him, puzzled. The metal jaw moved, speaking the long-dead necrontyr language. “[Er… You’z want us to go over dere and crump da Tau, boss lord?]” “[…Yes, that is what I spoke. Come hither, my army! Strike, strike them all dow-]”
Nearly falling from his mount as it jerked forward, the Necron Lord grabbed onto the shoulders of the Destroyer. He’d really have to check the Monolith diagnostics for corrupted repair algorithms. This one’s power core was so out of alignment he could feel the heat of it right through the dead flesh.
“[Be ready my subjects! They will know their fate tonig-]” “[QUIT YER YAPPIN, BOSS! WE KNOWS HOW TA GET REEL KILLY ALREADY!]” The Necron Lord almost lost his footing again. How dare- How DARE his subjects talk back to him? Why had- ah yes.. flayed ones. While the immortality process that the necrodermis granted them had dulled most of the necrontyr minds, it was sometimes the case some memories remained.. and the flayed ones were the most erratic. Having been drawn from the ranks of the insane, it wasn't surprising their politeness was lacking.
Calming down, he tried to remember the management courses he had sat through when still one of the hated living. ‘When trying to deal with unfriendly workers, remember to-’ Ah, yes, that was it. A gout of green blaze engulfed the outspoken flayed one, sending its destroyer body crashing to the grass. ‘Remember to assert your authority first.’ ”[WHO ELSE WISHES TO DOUBT ME? YOU WILL KILL! THAT IS YOUR ROLE! WHAT SAY YOU?!]”
A half second of silence. Then- “[WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGGHHHHH!]”
The Lord only tilted his head, this time. It was kind of catchy the more he heard it.
As they crested the hill, his jaw dropped. The Monolith was awash with gauss energy, splaying its deadly arcs of lightning everywhere. Quite literally, everywhere – it looked like someone had been modifying it a great deal, a quick count showed at least 12 more Flux arcs on it, as well as – were those infantry-class flayers mounted there? Who’d been tampering with it?
The Tau, with the loss of their high command, had seemed to lose hope, sending a near-suicidal charge at the Monolith. Thousands of Kroot lay dead already, their bodies stripped of flesh. But the meat had had some effect – smoke came from the black (well, /mostly/ still black, he’d really have to have words with the Necron who’d done this) pyramid, pierced by hypervelocity rounds. Still the Tau came, unaware of the danger he brought.
He crashed into them, taking their lives with wanton lust, tearing through their screaming ranks. His forces followed suit, ripping armor off crisis suits to rend the flesh beneath, beating fire teams to death with their own shielding drones. He laughed as they tried to regroup, walked straight through their (mostly) ineffectual fire. ”The monolith!” cried one T’au. “If we destroy that this will be over!” He made a point of killing that one personally.
It had been a slaughter from that point onwards. As it had always been. As it should always be.
Once again, analyzing the statistics he found himself surprised by the after-battle results. Yes, the added gauss flayers and flux arcs were against building regulations. Yes, the new paint job wasn't authorized. However, results were results. The AI in the building must have been motivated by the effort someone had put into redecorating – it had boosted firing rates and movements almost 300%. And the kill to damage ratio- ! All right, the Lord decided. It wasn't as if red paint jobs were unheard of. Especially if it was the blood of the once-living.
“[Immortal! Was it you who oversaw the modifications to the Monolith?]” “[Yer wot, boss?]” The Lord paused as he worked out how to talk to an obviously mind-damaged Necron. “[You put more guns on the pyramid thing, and painted it red, yes?]” “[Ah, wuz me all right. Heheh, fixed it good.]” The immortal seemed pleased with itself, the large metal exoskeleton heaving with enjoyment. “[Tell me, what was the scheme you had in mind when making it?]” “[Uh… we’z made it Or- I mean, we made it ded killy by adding more flash bitz.]” He nodded sagely. More killing – that was indeed the ultimate aim of all Necrons. “[Good. See that all our monoliths are modified like this. And try to fix the repair protocols while you’re at it – I believe I need a few holes patched up, so make it good.]” The immortal nodded enthusiastically. “[Uh, boss? C’n we add spikes?]” “[…Sure, why not?]”
He awoke again, some time later. It seemed that his head had become much more clearer after that third slumber. And this time, he had resized to become even larger than his last incarnation. Good, good. All the better to kill with.
Towering over his minions, he stalked out of the monolith portal once more, personal gauss generators glowing green in the dark night. All the sentients on this planet had been purged. Yet his urge for death had still to be satisfied. He summoned his troops once more.
“[YOU’Z LOT! WE’Z DONE WELL WIZ OUR EFFORTZ SO FAR!]” The Lord paused for a second, checking his speech pattern. Strange. Oh well, the logs showed that Immortal HAD overhauled the repair facilities, and a good manager did learn the lingo of his company. “[BUT WE’Z GOT A LONG WAY TO GO, ROIT?! DERE’Z A LOT MORE STUFF TA CRUMP OUT DERE!]” The fleet had been summoned, the AIs-controlled ships speeding to transport them across the stars.
“[WE’Z BRING DEFF TO DEM AWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGH!!!]”
They followed in his warcry.
Oh, he’d have some rather interesting ideas to spread at the next Necron board meeting...
[Excerpts from The REAL Life in the Guard: Tales of a Harakoni Warhawk]
…And we had been bogged down for days after the initial grav-drop, leaving us in the middle of an angry Tyranid force with no resupply, no reinforcements. Regimental command had ordered us to hold our ground, and we all know when they tell you to hold ground, they mean for you to die for the Emperor.
We were of course willing (and eager, Commissar [CENSORED BY ORDER OF COMMISSARIAT] made sure of that) to shed blood in his name, but it turns out that day most of us didn't have to. They came without warning, crashing down amongst the xenos scum. Have you ever seen something that reminds you that you’re part of something bigger, something unimaginably big? This was one of those sights, watching the drop-pods burn through the atmosphere. I have fought over a hundred and eighty different worlds, and heard the stories of the Adeptus Astartes, seen for myself the raw ferocity of the Space Wolves, torched Servanus VIII alongside the Salamanders, barely escaped an Exterminatus conducted by the Ultramarines, and even gunned down enemies running in horror when they heard the Grey Knights were coming (They didn't, incidentally). Yet the sight of these Adeptus Astartes, ones that I had never seen or even heard of before, reminds me of how our glorious Imperium is the largest of all that is.
Those brave men, those pinnacles of humanity did not even bother to activate their retro boosters for their drop-pods, letting the ground – and the enemy’s bodies - halt their descent. Then, leaping into battle, they laid waste to the Tyranids around them. I recall one of them landing nearby, crushing Kay and his precious vox-caster. One of them stepped past me, power armor gleaming in yellow. And he fired, a blaze of death raining upon the Imperium's foes, chanting in the Emperor’s glory. "PURGE, PURGE, PURGE, PURGE!" It was answered by his brothers. "CLEANZ CLEANZ CLEANZ CLEANZ!" "KILL KILL KILL KILL!" Glorious. One tyranid, managing to skip past the torrent of bolter rounds, impaled that warrior with one claw – yet without pause, he simply fired directly into the thing’s face (or groin, I don’t know how filthy xenos breed) until it was blown away. "YA THINK YOUZ CAN TAKE ME?! I'Z GOT ME POWA ARMOUR, I'Z GOT THE BEST BITZ OF HUMIES IN ME GUT!" And he carried on fighting, without stopping His holy work.
I have not described our saviors yet. Let me take a moment to rectify this – the Space Marine that rescued us were apparently named after their enormous size. And let me say, the Emperor’s Giants were aptly named. Over fifteen feet tall, they stood, nearly matching our sentinel walkers in height. And they outweighed them, too – I had seen one of their massive veteran Terminators carry a hammer the size of a Baneblade engine, and swing it hard enough to send a hive tyrant’s leg flying over the rest of their forces. They must have been a truly ancient chapter – the amount of repairs and patches to the holy power armor was testament to that. The array of forces made me want to praise the Emperor in my codpiece, if you know what I mean. Their strength seemed to be their firepower, holding larger-than-possible weapons, carrying bolters that seemed more fitting on our armored divisions and hand-held flamers that would put Hellhounds to shame. And their vehicles- ! They must have been the latest advanced designs from Mars, newly approved by the techpriests. Such firepower! Such ferocity of shape! They had mounted extra weaponry on their Land Raider, and opened up the top to allow them to fire out of – fearing not their enemies, and wishing to inflict ever more harm – that was their doctrine. Their melee weapons were not to be found wanting, either, giant chainswords that would bisect whole squads nearby, enormous hammers and power fists. The specialized designs gave them extra reach, no doubt, and they were certainly “lots more choppy dan der uz-ual choppaz”. What wise words of wisdom.
But back to our rescue! Once the Giants had pacified the Tyranids near them, they cheered in the Emperor’s name, a long and heartily felt “FER DE EMPERAAAAAAAAAUGGGGGGHH!” that we all joined in. Then, the same space marine came over to our squad, carnifex claw still hanging out of his chestplate.
“WHY’Z YOU NOT GOT GOIN’ YET? WE GOTTA WHOLE PLANET ‘TA PURGE!” Commissar [CENSORED BY ORDER OF COMMISSARIAT] was about to speak up when the honorable Astartes interrupted him. “YOU’Z A RED ONE, AIN’TCHA? YOU’Z MOVIN TOO SLOW!” And with that, he crushed the Commissar with one blow of his fist. Not even a power fist, I might add.
We all cheered. That commissar was almost certainly a heretic, anyway.
I heard them celebrating as their main forces went past, chanting more devotions to the emperor.
"PURGE DA ‘ERETIC!"
"BURN DA MUTIE!"
"KILL DA UNCLEAN!"
"…Nah, ya got it wrong, ya git! It’s BURN da ‘eretic, KILL da mutie, PURGE da unclean!! NOT ‘DAT ‘ARD TO ‘MEMBER, EH?"
"..PURGE BURN KILL CLEANZ?"
"Eh, good ‘nuff."
It was at that point I made one of the largest errors of my career – given a minute to rest in the Emperor’s name, I leaned against one of the Space Marine drop pods. Immediately, I realized something was wrong when the ground shook and a metallic voice rang out – “I’Z WOKEN UUUP! IZ IT FIGHTAN TIME YET?!” I scrambled away from the pod, for even faithful servants are in awe of the wrath of an awoken dreadnought. And this one looked truly wrathful – someone had painted a giant grimacey face on the front, and its yellow paint was rust-encrusted at the sides. Yet its arms had weapons fit for a Titan, and did I mention this thing was massive yet?! It grabbed Jonas and threw him into the air, smashing his body over the column on the way down.
"EVEN IN DIZ CAN I’Z STILL SERVIN!"
“Aw, no, which git woke up Grakkar da Big-‘Anded?! We only got ‘im ta sleep da last time after dat’ Elfdar raidin’ party!”
“TWINS, DEY WUZ!” boomed Grakkar. He rampaged through the column towards a distant firefight. Serving even after being felled, still purging xenos. Truly an honor to the Imperium.
It was strange, I found, that these soldiers never showed their faces, not even their sergeants, not even in death. I saw one headbutt a Genestealer to submission once, then spin away in a ballet of death to cut down yet another Carnifex.
“Sarge, we’z got a problem!” One of the marines had come up to the front. “It’z a giant wyrm t’ing!” It indeed was a Trygon, as we learned later on.
“TA ME, YA GITZ! TA ME, BRUTHERZ!” The sergeant rallied us with his call.
“D-did you mean us, too, Astartes?” asked Earnest.
“YOU’Z STANDIN NEXT TA ME? YOU’Z MAH BOYZ, THEN! WAAAAAAAAAUUUGGHH!” What could we not do with such comradeship as that? We took up our arms and fought as we had never fought before.
Over eight hundred of the Warhawks died that day, but we did our part – our light infantry holding back the tide of bugs while the Astartes took down the Trygon with only their infantry – several battle brothers fell before it before Grakkar threw the sergeant at it, who flew straight and true into its mouth. It took a very short time to cut its head in two with his chainsword from the inside, and with the death of the big one the Tyranids fell as the Uplifting Primer said they would. With his other hand, the sergeant ripped the massive teeth of the bio-titan out, and held them up for all to see.
“AN OPEN MIND IZ LIKE A FORTREZ – CUZ WE SMASHED IT!”
The Emperor’s Giants departed a week later, after cleansing the eastern continent with holy fire from above. I never saw them again, but whenever I put on my carapace armor and feel the scars from the acid burns, I remember them. Remember those giants among men.
[DIZ TEXT CENSURED BY DA AUTH’ITY O’ DA ORDO ‘ERETICUS AND ORDO MALLYUS – INQUIZITOR **************]
Main article: Deffwotch
Deffwotch is a Rogue Trader campaign in which all players are Orks posing as a Deathwatch Kill Team. And just in case that alone wasn't hilarious enough, gamemaster Shas'o R'myr tosses in some of his own fluff free of charge.