Home current Explore. Words: 70, Pages: All Rights Reserved. This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. British Cataloguing-in-Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Pictures used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain Citadel products may be dangerous if used incorrectly and Games Workshop does not recommend them for use by children under the age of 16 without adult supervision. Whatever your age, be careful when using glues, bladed equipment and sprays and make sure that you read and follow the instructions on the packaging. Every greenskin worth his teef knows that books are best used for bashing people over the head.
That fact notwithstanding, you will find that this squig-gnawed tome contains all the information you need to learn about the anarchic Ork race and gather your miniatures into a fearsome warband. The Orks are the most savage and warlike species in the galaxy, and — also being one of the most numerous — can be found infesting its every corner.
Far removed from the enigmatic and scheming nature of many other races, greenskins are simple beings who live for battle. They thrive on violence, and rarely think beyond their next punch-up, breakneck race or deafening gunfight. Yet when massed in sufficient numbers and led by a suitably mighty Warlord, Ork warbands sweep across the stars in frenzied crusades known as Waaaghs!
Hailing from a number of different clans, such as the speed-crazed Evil Sunz, the brutish Goffs or the super-flashy Bad Moons — each of which have their own weird predilections and ways of war — Ork forces are very easy to personalise, both in terms of their look and their playing style on the tabletop. Within this book you will find all the information you need to collect an Ork army and field it upon the tabletop.
It also explains how Ork tribes assemble for war, and the ways in which clan kulturs permeate their warbands. To play games with your army, you will need a copy of the Warhammer 40, rules. To find out more about Warhammer 40, or download the free core rules, visit warhammer Yet Nazdreg was huge and powerful, filled with low cunning and — above all — possessed of astronomical wealth.
Numerous beyond belief and driven always to fight and conquer, the Orks and their ilk threaten to overwhelm every single galactic empire, stronghold and race. Amid constant, seething tides of war and bloodshed, burgeoning greenskin empires rise and fall. Most are mercifully short-lived, soon destroying themselves in a maelstrom of violence, but should the Orks ever truly unify, they would crush all opposition. On occasion, an Ork leader will emerge who is mighty enough to defeat his rivals and unite the warring tribes.
His success draws other tribes to him, and soon a great Waaagh! When the Orks are on the rampage, the galaxy trembles, and in these dark days there are more Waaaghs!
Over the countless millennia in which the greenskins have waged their wars, not one of their number has doubted this for a single moment. This unshakeable self-belief is perhaps the most dangerous quality of the Orks, for they will never cease in their efforts to plunge the entire galaxy into eternal war. The Orks rule their barbaric civilisation with an iron fist. Ugly and violent creatures, they are the dominant life forms of a race that includes the smaller Gretchin and Snotling sub-species.
To prove their point, the Orks are more than willing to fight and kill everything that crosses their path. Orkoid physique itself is so robust that it can withstand tremendous punishment. They feel remarkably little pain, enabling them to fight on whilst horrifically injured — and even for a short time after being technically dead.
As pain and fear mean little to them, they are highly curious and amused by the reactions of their weaker foes as they hack them apart, the screams of terror contrasting with the deep, throaty rumbling of the Orks and the cruel snickering of their smaller brethren. The greenskin regenerative process itself is so powerful that an Ork who has been hacked to bits can simply be stitched back together, bewildered but ready to fight once more. Nothing but the most grievous of wounds will put them down for long, and burning them to ash is reputed to be the only way to make absolutely sure that they are gone for good.
A typical Ork stands around the same height as a man — though he would be much taller were he to stand up straight instead of being hunched over, as is his normal stance — and his frame is extremely muscular and solid.
The skin of an Ork is green and as tough as leather, and his body is dotted with scars, scabs, pockmarks and parasites. His skull is extremely thick, able to absorb impacts that would cave in a human head. His heavy brow protrudes over blood-red eyes that are afire with the need to kill. Jagged fangs jut from a rugged jaw that would not look out of place upon a far larger predator, and when an Ork speaks, it is in a slow, gruff tone thick with saliva and guttural curses. His words are sparse, brutal and straight to the point.
For them, the universe is an incredibly straightforward place, free of the angst and worry that plagues most other races. Orks typically do not try to influence their own destiny, only to get frustrated when their plans do not work out as expected. They do not look for something to blame — except perhaps the nearest Gretchin or a hated rival tribe — and certainly do not reflect on weaknesses in their own way of doing things.
They just try again a different way usually because they have forgotten how they did it the last time. Thus the Orks make remarkable progress by trial and error, without counting the cost. Meanwhile, other races steeped in high-flown philosophy and cleaving to their millennia-old practices fall into the same traps time and again, doomed to stagnate and decline — unless, of course, they are first conquered by the Orks. So long as the average Ork has someone to fight, someone bigger than him to tell him who to kill next, and someone smaller than him to beat up, he knows contentment.
Orks do not tend to go hungry, as they can eat virtually anything, even Gretchin, Snotlings or one another at a pinch. Indeed, Greenskins feel none of the moral outrage towards cannibalism that the practice inspires amongst many other races, as it is only natural that the bigger Orks should live at the cost of those weaker than themselves. With war and killing as their only real motivators, most Orks have little interest in gathering material wealth or luxuries. The one exception to this is a desire to possess increasingly more ostentatious and deadly weapons and vehicles.
An Ork will go to almost any lengths to get his hands on a louder, quicker-firing shoota or faster buggy, obsessing over its acquisition until the exact moment he has it — at which point his eye will stray to something even bigger and showier. In greenskin society, teeth are used as currency and form the entire basis of the economy.
Orks shed and replace their teeth every few years, meaning that the number of teef in circulation never diminishes enough to create a shortage, and that no individual Ork can be reduced to dire poverty for too long. This simple approach to an issue most civilisations agonise about has been in place since time immemorial, and is typical of the pragmatic attitude of the greenskin race. Orks of the Evil Sunz Clan storm into battle upon the dust plains of Asmasoria II, their attack supported by a mountainous war effigy known as a Gargant.
This catastrophe was the work of Abaddon the Despoiler, greatest of all mortal Chaos champions. Yet the vast majority of the greenskin race knew nothing of the events leading up to the Great Rift, or its true cause. All they saw was an almighty rent tearing across the vastness of space and consuming everything it touched.
To the greenskins, it was obvious that the Great Rift was in fact the leering gob of Gork, opening wide to swallow the stars. Admittedly, a prodigious number of renegades, Daemons and other creatures of Chaos were issuing forth from this sprawling astronomical phenomenon, but as the smartest Orks of each tribe were quick to point out, Gork obviously did not want to swallow that sort of unnatural filth.
Instead, he was vomiting up the Chaos worshippers so that the Orks could fight them and win. Equally, those Ork tribes whose worlds were consumed by the spreading of the rift bore their god no ill will. Soon it dawned on many enterprising Warbosses that if Gork could swallow up and spit out Chaos armies, he would gladly do the same for his own ladz. So it was that dozens of greenskin armadas plunged headlong into the Great Rift, vanishing into raging warp storms in the hopes of being catapulted into fresh galactic conquests.
When the greenskins invade a planet or star system, they bring with them a belligerent ecosystem that overwhelms each conquered world as surely as the Orks themselves crush its defenders. Greenskin society and ecology is so robust that it can exist almost anywhere.
The Imperium has encountered Orks and their kind living — even prospering — in such extreme environments as toxic death worlds, newborn planets still heaving with volcanic activity, or the depressurised carcasses of abandoned orbital platforms. Ork tribes have been found inhabiting drifting ice floes, and infesting irradiated asteroid fields perilously close to active stars.
They have been discovered amid corrosive chemical swamps, on lightless nightmare worlds seething with horrific predators, and in the bombed-out remains of planets subjected to Exterminatus. No matter where they are encountered or in what numbers, the greenskins are a deadly threat who will multiply exponentially if left unchecked. In a matter of weeks, a small raiding party can swell — as if some by some arcane alchemy — into an anarchic horde bent upon war and destruction.
These range from spontaneous physical division to the release of windblown spores after death. Those they do not kill are enslaved, and that which they do not destroy is looted. Before long, another world is conquered by the Orks, its cities reduced to ruins and its populace toiling in chains for their brutal greenskin overlords.
Those who have studied Ork settlements first-hand — and somehow survived their ordeal — have detailed a civilisation that is hierarchical in the extreme. The life of a greenskin is determined not by rank or birth, but by size and savagery.
The largest Orks push around their smaller brethren, who in turn bully the diminutive slaverace known as Gretchin into doing their bidding.
Smaller still are Snotlings, tiny and simple-minded creatures with little use beyond fetching, carrying or fungustending. The greenskin sub-species have a symbiotic relationship of sorts, with the smaller creatures performing menial tasks for their Ork overseers in exchange for a measure of protection. Although they possess a similar physiology to their larger brethren, they are not as strong or tough. One enduring myth speaks of a species of greenskin who created the modern Ork race as warriors and protectors, breeding them to be as strong and fierce as possible.
If the Brainboyz ever existed, however, they do not do so now. Whatever the truth, almost all Runtherds agree that the Brainboyz took steps to preserve what they could of their culture before their disappearance by using strange sciences to engineer pure knowledge into the bodies and minds of their slaves. This aspect of the myth has been given surprising credence by many amongst the Magos Biologis of the Imperium, who theorise that the Orks retain such a relatively high level of technology because the skills and information needed to do so are hardwired into their genes.
Whether or not the legends told by the Runtherds or theories posited by the Imperium contain a kernel of truth is largely irrelevant in any case. The Orks — though ignorant and brutish — are born survivors. They scurry around the larger greenskins on scrawny legs, their grasping fingers overtly snatching and covertly stealing from the unwary. Gretchin have large, bulbous heads and wide tattered ears that flatten against their bald pates when they are afraid which is most of the time.
Sharp fangs fill their jaws, ever ready to be sunk into the flesh of the weak or infirm, and malice gleams in their eyes whenever there is an opportunity for violence. Knots of them squirm through air ducts, sabotage or loot vital machine components, and overwhelm triage stations full of helpless, wounded combatants. These traits, combined with an innate talent for self-preservation, mean that Gretchin can not only survive, but thrive in a society dominated by vicious predators.
Some grots have their survival instinct honed to such a degree that they may possess a rudimentary sixth sense, and most improve their chances of survival by exhibiting fawning behaviour to their Ork masters. Though braver Gretchin will pull faces and make rude gestures behind the backs of the bigger greenskins, few are stupid enough to risk doing so openly. Their scrawny limbs are too small to bear weapons larger or more complicated than shards of broken glass or chunks of scrap.
Lacking the violent tendencies of their larger kin, they are predominantly kept as little more than pets for their Ork masters, although they make excellent ammunition for the strange weapon the greenskins call the shokk attack gun.
Grots are fast learners and quick to spot an opportunity, meaning that many wind up as assistants or servants to more important Orks like Mekboyz or Nobz. When the time comes to go to war, the grots are flushed out of these hidey-holes en masse by the gnashing squig hounds of the Runtherds, or a few enthusiastic Burna Boyz.
On his own, a single Gretchin poses little threat to a human-sized adversary. However, if there is one quality the grots have in abundance, it is quantity. On the field of battle, Gretchin advance in great mobs, firing volleys of scavenged ammunition from their poor-quality weapons before diving upon the fallen and tearing them apart in their scrabbling haste to loot the corpses.
Even the most accomplished warriors have found their arrogance punctured when cornered by an entire mob of shrieking grots. It is they who cultivate the great patches of fungi that spring up around Ork settlements.
In this way, Snotlings provide food, drink and medicine for the rest of the greenskin race. Their natural affinity with these life forms is far greater than that of other greenskins. Helpfully, this means that on any given day only a few dozen Snotling attendants will be devoured alive by their ravenous charges. The Snotling populations that spring up around Ork settlements are monitored and cultivated by the Runtherds.
These grizzled and merciless slavers use a variety of methods to bully their charges into a state of anxious obedience, not least of which are the much feared grot-prod and the ferocious squig hound. Much like their approach to everything else, Orks do not waste time pondering why they do things, or how they might do them better. Instead they simply act, instinct and ability driving them on in a never-ending cycle of violence and conquest.
Though likely a corruption of whatever may have come before, by and large it functions very well. Perhaps this is because the fundamental tenet of their society — might makes right — is a simple one that even the most pea-brained snot can understand.
Though some Warbosses rise to prominence through shrewd scheming, most seize power through the application of brute force. His decisions are enforced by a ruling caste of Orks known as Nobz, who are larger, richer and more aggressive than normal Orks, and never miss an opportunity to remind them of it.
The rulers of the Ork tribes are known as Warbosses, and with the exception of the truly mighty inter-tribal leaders known as Warlords, are the most powerful Orks of all. These monstrous killing machines tower over their lackeys, and their sheer muscular bulk makes them wider at the When the Orks of a tribe go to battle, they do so in anarchic groups known as mobs.
These in turn belong to larger hordes known as warbands, each of which is lead by a lesser Warboss and their Nob enforcers. Goff warbands in particular are famous for the sheer number of Boyz that they can field in a conflict, often outnumbering their foes several times over. Greenskin Kultur Orks tend to be lazy and forgetful, and only war and the preparations beforehand really bring out their innate talents.
Though the bigger, meaner Boyz will lord it over the smaller, ganglier ones, even a subservient Ork is of limited use when it comes to practical tasks that do not involve fighting. Most of the day-to-day running of greenskin society is therefore left to the Gretchin, whose duties include preparing food, taking messages, hauling stuff about, general organisation and just being around the place when an Ork wants something to kick.
This gives the Orks plenty of time to swagger about, getting into fights and coming up with new ways to kill things. The Gretchin are happy enough in their role. They bear little resentment towards their superiors, for to them Orks are just a fact of life.
Questioning this usually leads to a clip round the ear, and not much else. Weirdboyz, Mekboyz and Runtherds worked in concert to support the anarchic Ork assault, unleashing psychic blasts of force, searing beams of energy and hordes of manic grots to tear open ragged gaps in the Imperial defences and left the humans ripe for slaughter. In fact, the Gretchin have created an entire enterprise culture of their own within greenskin society, with many operating their own black-market businesses on the side; these range from selling fungus beer or roasted squigs on sticks, to coordinating bets when a fight breaks out and then looting the resulting corpses.
Conflict governs their entire society, their technological advances, and even their individual growth. Prolonged periods of fighting lead to a proportional increase in the size and strength of an Ork, and those who have fought in a war zone for a few years tower over those deprived of such stimulus; in short, longer wars produce ever-larger combatants.
When there are no enemies to fight, the Orks will test their mettle against any native predators they can find, and if that fails they will fight amongst themselves simply for the joy of it. Disputes between Orks become almost hourly occurrences if they are not engaged against a common foe.
Such power struggles are resolved through methods ranging from low cunning to high explosives, but ritual pit-fighting remains a firm favourite.
Pit fights are popular, as they entertain the ladz and establish the victor as Warboss beyond dispute. Either rivals are dispatched by the incumbent Warboss, or he is overthrown and usually killed into the bargain.
Every Ork settlement has a fighting pit for this purpose, which is also used to settle other grudges and disputes. Pit fighting thus serves the Orks as a rough and ready judicial system.
It is generally disapproved of to open fire upon a challenger in such a race, or at least during the first lap. As an Ork matures into adulthood, he will become involved in larger and more violent conflicts, ranging from border skirmishes to all-out war. Orks fixate upon things they enjoy, and the heightened state of excitement they experience during battle can mean that over the course of a particularly epic conflict an Ork will become addicted to one facet of warfare above all others.
Like-minded tribe members who share the same obsessions will often seek each other out, forming loose groups of specialists. An Ork who has experienced the exultation of destroying an enemy tank or walker may join the ranks of the Tankbustas, whereas an Ork who just cannot stop setting things on fire will soon start hanging around with the local Burna Boyz. However, the largest and most popular of all of these subcultures is the Kult of Speed.
There is something about speed that fulfils some deep need in the Orkish temperament, just like the thunder of guns, the clank of tracks or the din of battle. They like to feel the wind whipping into their faces and hear the throaty roar of supercharged engines.
It is hardly surprising that bikes and buggies of all kinds are popular with the Orks. From Shokkjump Dragstas and Boomdakka Snazzwagons, to burly Rukkatrukk Squigbuggies and swarms of hurtling Warbikes, many greenskins will happily leap aboard any vehicle with the capacity to move fast and blow things to bits. These up-gunned vehicles may not be as sturdy as those used by the Imperium, but they can be built easily from readily available battlefield scrap, can pack a massive amount of firepower and, most importantly of all, they can achieve truly suicidal velocities.
These grinning loons roar into battle on exhaust-belching jalopies and crude but effective flying machines, intent on getting into the thick of the fighting before their ground-pounding comrades. Due to the large number of vehicles in each warband, they often have several of the Oddboyz known as Meks amongst their number to keep their contraptions running.
ODDBOYZ If Orks were just single-minded killing machines they would be dangerous enough, but they would be unable to sustain the level of technology required to ply the stars. Gretchin, though obedient if beaten with sufficient regularity, are not inventive enough to maintain the weaponry that the Orks possess, nor to patch up casualties when the going gets tough.
These highly technical demands are met by a caste of Orks known as Oddboyz. There are many types of Oddboy in greenskin society, but the most important are Mekboyz, Painboyz, Runtherds and Weirdboyz. Mekboyz are responsible for the creation and maintenance of Ork technology. Painboyz are medics, though their penchant for bizarre and inappropriate surgery can make their ministrations more hazardous than helpful. Runtherds breed the lesser forms of greenskin, and marshal them on the field of battle.
Weirdboyz are potent psykers who can discharge great blasts of Waaagh! Although it may seem strange to humans, these Oddboyz all possess an innate understanding of their fields of expertise without having to be taught. If asked where this knowledge comes from, an Oddboy might reply that it was in his blood all along. It has been suggested that the abilities of Orks to build machines, practise medicine or even use psychic powers are passed down through the generations on a primordial, biological level, perhaps a legacy left to them by their legendary Brainboyz.
No studies of the greenskins have ever successfully determined how this process works, or indeed if it exists at all. Whatever the source of this latent knowledge, as an Ork matures it will start to make itself apparent, leading him to assume the role in greenskin society for which he is best suited.
Should he lack any specialist knowledge, the Ork will happily join the vast throng of Boyz at the heart of each tribe and content himself with a life of murder and mayhem. What others see as stupidity is in fact a simplicity of focus, an uncomplicated drive to fight and to win, time and time again.
Theories abound that Orks harbour the genetic traits of both animal and fungal life forms, and that it is this unusual biology that gives an Ork his remarkable constitution. Yet for all the questions that hang over the greenskin race, what cannot be disputed is its relentlessly bloodthirsty nature.
Once a world or system has faced attack by the greenskins once, it will be ravaged by them time and again until it finally withers and dies. At the same time, Ork survivors carry word with them through the void, spreading the tale of how good a fight a particular world put up. Keen to have a go themselves, fresh hordes of Orks soon descend upon the locale, often before the damage from the previous incursion has been repaired. Each Ork slain makes way for two of its bellowing brethren, while every attack-wave bloodily repulsed just draws more enthusiastic greenskins.
In this way, some worlds become the unintentional focus of a Waaagh! Eventually the pressure from Ork invaders both within and without becomes unendurable, leaving the defenders only two choices: stand and fight, dying to the last in the process, or flee with whatever they can salvage, abandoning their stricken world to the greenskins.
The Nature of the Beast The advent of the Great Rift has taken even this stark choice from many of those planets invaded by the Orks. The defenders of worlds isolated in the darkness of the Imperium Nihilus have nowhere to run, and precious little chance of reinforcement. Thus they can only stand their ground, trapped behind their own barricades and forced into a war of attrition that they cannot possibly win. With fierce battle raging across the entire galaxy between the servants of Chaos and the forces of the disparate stellar races, a number of hotly contested war zones have been thrown into absolute anarchy by the sudden arrival of an Ork Waaagh!.
In these cases, both sides of the conflict — already stretched to capacity by their efforts to annihilate and resist annihilation — are fallen upon with reckless abandon by the belligerent greenskins. The resultant civil war against the 68th Vostroyan Firstborn benefited only the Ork invaders, who gleefully attacked both of the bitterly divided human factions.
The results are horrific. Grand strategies collapse in a matter of hours as the Orks smash everything in their path. Hard-won supply lines are severed and long-defiant worlds overrun. They do not have priests or raise grandiose temples, but instead honour their deities by hurling down the idols and shrines built by others.
What effigies the Orks build are towering walkers, around whose metal feet the greenskins surge into battle, offering praise only of the most instinctive and gestalt kind. The Orks are a powerful force in the galaxy, their character traits having a reflection in the warp just like the impulses and emotions of Humanity and the Aeldari. These attributes are made manifest in the belligerent Ork gods known as Gork and Mork. Gork and Mork are divine powerhouses, deities so strong that they are never truly defeated.
They simply shrug off the attacks of other gods with a raucous laugh. Mork, always the sneaky one, waits until his foe is not looking before clobbering him with a low blow. An idea of the appearance of the Ork gods can be gained from looking at Gargants and Stompas, towering machines constructed in the image of Gork or possibly Mork. The Mekboyz create these titanic engines of war to capture the essence of Orkiness in mechanical form, and as such they serve as potent religious idols.
To the greenskins, these clanking behemoths behave very much like their gods, lumbering about and leaving a trail of devastation in their wake.
They go where they please, and never shun a fight. The aspects of Gork and Mork are likewise evoked by the Gorkanaut and Morkanaut. These huge armoured war-suits are intended as a tribute to, and imitation of, their chosen god, and their pilots are frequently gripped by visions of Gork or The Ork Gods possibly Mork urging them on during the heat of battle. Visions of battle and carnage flash through the mind of every greenskin. Weirdboyz gibber and bellow with the voices of Gork and Mork, commanding their fellows to surge forth upon Waaagh!
In the warp, the Ork gods lumber ever onwards along their metaphysical warpath, sweeping away tides of Daemons with every gleeful blow. They know that soon the veil will split asunder altogether, and then at last they will burst forth from the immaterium to lead their entire race in an apocalyptic crusade known as the Great Waaagh!.
Gork is a landslide of brutality, a ferocious storm of hammering fists, kicking feet and tusks bared in a bestial and everlasting bellow. When a Mekboy feels the inspiration to build a new contraption, or a Blood Axe gets a sudden strategic inkling, or a Deathskull spots an opportunity to stab an enemy in the back, this is the work of Mork. Although no stranger to brutal violence, Mork is a wily deity. In truth, however, greenskin society is guided by a rugged set of tried and tested traditions.
Central to these tenets is the system of tribes and clans. Orks thrive on conflict. The strongest rise to the top while the weak become subservient and benefit from the superior leadership and head-kicking skills of their conquerors. To an Ork, this state of affairs is perfectly satisfactory; if a greenskin tribe is beaten by another, stronger tribe, the defeated Orks welcome the opportunity to be led into battle by a leader of even greater power.
A tribe is simply all of the greenskins in a given location, regardless of what clan they may belong to, because in the end an Ork is an Ork and they will always put aside their differences if there is an opportunity to attack a common foe.
Each tribe is led by its biggest and most powerful Warboss, whose authority and power holds this loose confederation in check and prevents civil war between the rival elements of the tribe.
Tribes can vary hugely in size, depending on the influence of the war leader at the top of the pile. Each Warboss leads a warband that can comprise all manner of mobs, armoured war-engines, aircraft, artillery and the like, forming a rough and ready army. Many warbands have a hard core of Ork infantry at their heart, but beyond this they vary enormously from one to the next; some may be entirely centred around skwadrons of ramshackle fighter jets, while others may consist solely of lumbering walkers and war effigies.
Like-minded Orks tend to cluster together, leading to warbands crammed with mechanised Speed Freeks or pyromaniac Burna Boyz. Although all Orks belong to a tribe, most also belong to a clan such as the Goffs or Evil Sunz. Tribes are constantly breaking apart and reforming in the crucible of battle, but the clans are constant and enduring. A large tribe usually contains Orks from many different clans, and as each clan has its own distinct character and identity, its members tend to form warbands together whenever possible.
This is not to say that they do not intermingle within a single army, but certainly Orks fight most effectively when not distracted by inter-clan rivalries. There are six clans in particular that have spread from one side of the galaxy to the other: the Goffs, the Snakebites, the Bad Moons, the Blood Axes, the Deathskulls and the Evil Sunz.
FERAL ORKS Though the majority of Orks will never venture far from their tribe, there are those strange few who are driven to explore the remote locales of their world, compelled to do so even in preference to fighting. Such pioneers will seek out the deepest jungles or most arid deserts, where the majority of creatures would struggle to survive at all, and become the founders of new tribes of greenskins. In time, it is common for these tribes to degenerate into savages, sometimes known as Wildboyz.
Should they endure and multiply, some of these groups will come into contact with their parent warband. There they learn about Ork kultur and take their place in the warrior society, exchanging spear and axe for slugga and choppa.
However, should the new tribe emerge on a world where their Ork ancestors have been driven off or slain, the Wildboyz will instead develop into a tribe of Feral Orks. At other times, Ork armies that suffer a sufficiently crushing defeat may be all but eradicated, and their survivors scattered in small pockets to the wildest and most inhospitable parts of a world. Such hidden greenskin enclaves retain little in the way of technology, and rapidly devolve into Feral Orks through force of circumstance.
Greenskins have notoriously short memories, and before long the only record such tribes possess of their more technological origins lies within the oral traditions of the Runtherds. The Orks look with wondering eyes upon the crude glyph paintings of war engines that adorn their cave walls, but only until their attention wanders to catching a tasty squig or punching their mates in the face. What rusting wrecks remain of their Battlewagons and combat walkers are treated as sacred relics, squatted in as huts or smashed up and used to make clubs and arrowheads.
They are uncivilised, even by the low standards of their Ork brethren, and live by the old ways of hunting and exploring. As the tribe increases in size they breed ever-larger varieties of squig, riding around upon great tusked beasts that vary in size from that of a horse to that of a Baneblade. Exploring the stomping grounds of their predecessors, the Feral Orks soon learn to scavenge weapons and equipment, and rejoice in the noise and destruction their new tools allow them to cause.
Shortly after this discovery the tribe will mobilise for war, whooping and howling as they pour out of the mountains, jungles or deserts, charging into the cities and fortifications of the unsuspecting enemy and starting the whole cycle of warfare afresh. As the war drags on and the mighty Squiggoths are slain one by one, they will be replaced by crudely constructed Battlewagons covered in beast fetishes that hark back to the squigs that came before.
Should the Feral Orks survive the fighting long enough, they will inevitably mature into a fully fledged and technologically capable society akin to a typical Ork tribe, only to spawn wandering Wildboyz of their own. A Goff likes nothing more than hearing the hammering of guns and that satisfying wet crunch when his choppa finds its way deep into the throat or chest of an enemy. They seize upon any excuse to start a fight, even with each other. Often all it takes is a grunted insult or a misinterpreted glance in their general direction for the fists to begin flying, the Boyz quickly forgetting the reason for the bust-up and simply enjoying the resulting brawl.
With the Goffs preferring to fight their enemies up close and personal, this tendency towards nearconstant scrapping amongst themselves also serves a practical purpose by keeping their hand-to-hand skills honed between battles.
Goff warbands are notorious for the sheer number of infantry they muster in times of war. All it takes is the hint of a good conflict and the Goffs appear in droves, flocking to any Warboss who can promise them the chance of opening some skulls.
Because of their preference for close combat, Goffs like to fight on foot, though they will happily hitch a lift on a passing Trukk so they can get stuck into the enemy as soon as possible. Enemies often interpret these massed infantry assaults as a deliberate tactic by the greenskins to overwhelm set defences.
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