Catachan Devil (Warhammer 40,000) by Justin Woolley

Author:Justin Woolley [Woolley, Justin]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2022-03-25T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eighteen

NOGROK

As an ork, Nogrok did not have much awareness of his own psychology and probably didn’t realise that happiness was not an emotional state greenskins could achieve. They came close to some equivalent during the heat of battle, a state of rapturous delight brought about by fulfilling their fundamental evolutionary purpose, but they were never truly happy.

Though they felt driven to kill, and felt satisfaction in the moment of the kill, the thing they were fighting was suddenly dead after that and they immediately felt the urge to kill again. There were always more things that needed killing. This inbuilt instinctual desire made fighting and killing for the ork species more like a blissful drug they were constantly suffering withdrawal from than an actual conscious choice or reasoned pursuit. This state of constantly seeking their next dose of the closest they could come to satisfaction was what drove the greenskins’ constant expansion through the galaxy on the hunt for more things to fight. This was why, despite waging epic wars on a galactic scale, they never seemed to have any strategic goal. For the orks, the act of fighting was the goal.

So, when Nogrok considered himself quite happy sitting on the rampart of Outpost Four examining the sharpened edge of his recently reclaimed Catachan cutta, it was more accurate to say that he was momentarily content. Even for orks like Nogrok who, for whatever genetic reason, weren’t quite so beholden to the addiction, there was still the constant gnawing draw to be satisfied. Nogrok had been occupying himself with good taktikal thinking about the next kunnin’ step in his plan to get rid of Nob Jaggedteef, when his thoughts were interrupted by the raging shouts of Warboss Kazkorg Gutstompa somewhere in the building below.

His booming voice was so loud that it carried outside, clearly understandable over the almost constant noise and shouting of the population of orks who were still holed up here waiting impatiently to be given their next opportunity to fight something. Nogrok knew those Deathskulls gitz were ready to burst. They had taken to even more constant and prolific infighting than usual, part of the reason Nogrok and the other Blood Axe kommandos spent most of their time on the roof.

Whenever the urge to fight got too overwhelming for one of the Deathskulls, if they happened to spot one of the Blood Axes it would be them they directed their frustrations at. They’d fight one of their own klan if they had to, but it was better to seek out some git from another klan. It wasn’t cowardice that drove Nogrok and his mob to the roof, it was simple maffs about self-preservation. Almost the entire warband were Deathskulls and it didn’t take a mekboy genius to figure that meant bad odds for living.

‘Why do I keep missin’ the krumpin’?!’ Warboss Gutstompa was shouting, his anger obvious from his volume and tone. Nogrok had heard the rumours, of course; rumours spread through an ork warband faster than a squig escaped from a milkin’ pit.

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