The Warrraggg rolled out of the pass and down the mountain side. A green avalanche of flesh and sharp pointy things. At its head riding in a Boar pulled chariot ReelBadBuga felt something akin to joy. In the recesses of his mind, he thought. “This was how things should be, this was what it meant to be an ork. This was glory, the majesty of the Warragg. The sublime power which is a force of nature, the maelstrom of the greenskins focused with intent to unleash their fury upon the world that denies them. The birthright of his people, the birthright of the horde, the unstoppable force.” Only that not exactly how he phrased it, from his lips it ushered out all combined into one solitary word, howled at the top of his voice. “WARRRAGGGGG!!!!” it was a good day to make other things die.

Somewhere, however, deep within the horde, there was discontent. A lone voice of dissatisfaction, lost within the green tide so intent upon crashing through the world. There would be others in time. This was the way of things, no Warragg lasted forever, a fact which other races could take some solace in. But this was the birthing of the warragg. When squabbles over pillage, infighting between different groups and of course the arguing over who killed the most pink skinned humes in the last big fight had as yet not become a factor. At this time only one memory. voice mumbled in discontent. The voice of Sniffal the squig herder.

It other worlds, in other times, people joke about the complexity, if not the impossibility of herding felines. Cats, as you may be aware, are somewhat singular in their yearnings and a desire to go where they are told is almost certainly never one of them. However, Sniffal, were he aware of the unlikeliness of herding the domestic short hair, would probably declare himself up for the challenge. Not so much because of he would relish said challenge, he would almost certainly not. But more because by their very nature even a particularly large glaring of cats, is unlikely to smell quite as bad a half a dozen squigs as they bounced down a mountain side. Sniffal had a prominent and rather sensitive nose and hated the smell of digested mushrooms, rats and occasional unlucky goblin which lingered in the air after each successive bounce. There was another advantage, which Sniffal would have reflected upon had the herding of moggies been an option. To wit the domestic short hair, though it had needle-like claws the bane of many a carpet corner, and tiny sharp teeth which could nom quite successfully upon your feet in the middle of the night, did not have a mouth big enough to swallow you whole. Cats, as a rule, have better temperaments than your average squig as well. Though this was a truth shared by almost everything.

On the whole, Sniffal mused vaguely, it would probably be easier to herd the squiggs if he had a longer a pointy stick. The stick, however, would struggle to be described as anything other than short. It would have pleased him a great deal, if it was a little bit longer. Not having much of a concept of measurements he would have struggled to say how much longer. At least twice as long as the stick had been originally, before one of the squigs bit it in half. If he had more imagination it may have occurred to him that someone else holding the stick would have been ideal as well. Due to the lack of a longer stick, or helpful victim, he was instead applying an age old method of squig herding, passed down from old squig herder to new. The technique was known as the ‘stay behind them and hope they are too distracted by what’s in fount of them to turn around and eat you.’ Method. This sage advice he had received from an old hand, who had then taken the opportunity of his recruitment to run off in search of new employment. Arguably this was extremely efficient as a training method. It saved a lot of time and anyone who failed to follow the advice then served an equally useful purpose having graduated from squig herder to squig fodder.

Before his promotion to squig herder, promotion by been stood about looking ideal, he had been quite happy as a mushroom picker in the back of the caves. Pick one, put it in the basket, pick one put it in your mouth, pick one put it in the basket, pick one, look at it long and hard while little blue squiggles of light danced across your vision, eat it, contemplate the possibility of perhaps picking another one for the basket. He had been good at it and enjoyed the satisfaction of a job well done when he remembered to take the basket back to the foremen. Good times, fuzzy, occasionally bemusing, and often very confused, but definably good times. Till some idiots started listening to war cries and getting all excited.

And now this, herding sqigs with a stick barely longer than his arm and the possibility of explosions of blue light dancing in his eyes as he East mushrooms a distant, and somewhat vague memory . Sniffal was a little body of discontent among the many. But been a goblin it was a sneaky, vengeful, vicious and just plain nasty little body of discontent. What little imagination he had was been bent rather strongly towards thoughts of unleashing his squigs through sleeping camps the moment he could find some way to blame someone else for the inevitable chaos. Sniffal smiled nastily before issuing out a choking coughing fit as he got a full whiff of a squig bouncing in front of him.