The Emperor’s Angel of Death

"Let's go, let's go, let's go everywhere—"

"Brothers forever, punch each other!"

"You little grot, if you can't finish eating, it's punishment time!"

The crude, clamorous noise traveled through the winding walls of the corridors and the oval doorways, floated across the smooth spiral ramps and the open crystal forest dome, and swirled around the collapsed and ruined giant spirit-bone statues.

To any Eldar, this place was both alien and extremely familiar.

Because this was a Craftworld, home to all Eldar who claimed to have preserved the old civilization. Since the Great Fall, many Craftworlds had wandered the edge of the galaxy, each preserving an Eldar society. They had the foresight to avoid the incredible disaster that swept away the vast majority of their race during the Fall. For those Eldar who spent their lives on board, these giant ships were nations, fortresses, residences, and temples, each unique, each a pinnacle of psychic engineering.

And for tens of thousands of years, these finite Craftworlds had always been tragically dwindling, for various reasons. Internal conflicts, external enemies, and unknowable accidents had all taken their toll, just like this Craftworld—

The light of the Seer Council Dome, originally intended to be the central hub of the entire Craftworld, had been extinguished. The curved walls were torn open, and the gates were shattered, with huge crystal shards scattered everywhere.

At some point, some force boarded this Craftworld and destroyed it with incredible violence.

But now, it was occupied by equally ancient but extraordinarily savage life.

They piled garbage haphazardly, smeared disgusting graffiti on murals depicting ancient gods, knocked down or transformed those exquisite statues into ugly shapes they thought were cool, and even used priceless works of art and craftsmanship as mattresses or fuel.

Hordes of grots were lighting fires with precious furs and finery, squabbling over trivial matters.

Their voices were shrill, and their speech was rapid. Even the most skilled linguists could not understand what these creatures were chattering to each other.

Some of the little green-skinned slave leaders standing on high were now draped in fragments of venerable Seer robes, wearing gemstone crowns, gesticulating wildly as they directed their subordinates to throw broken furniture into the ever-growing bonfire.

Each grot was relishing in its chores, jumping around the fire, casting scribbled shadows on the ancient dome of the Eldar's sacred hall.

These grots' masters were also busy, but the Ork Boyz were crowded together, or rather, they naturally liked to huddle together. After all, sitting around doing nothing would make any Ork uncomfortable. They preferred to spend their time playing pranks on their peers, such as squatting on the heads of sleeping comrades and defecating into their open mouths—

Of course, there were more fights and brawls, because for Orks, there was almost nothing more entertaining than a good fight. This caused some grots to shrink into the corners of the hall, lest they be accidentally eaten in a fit of rage by an Ork Boy who had lost a fight.

But mere infighting could not truly satisfy the Orks. They needed real battles, real bloodshed. Now their numbers were already large. Although most of the Eldar Craftworld was spirit-bone structure and could not grow Boyz, there was still a considerable area of forests and land, even lakes and oceans, so the number of personnel in the 'Black Hole' pirate band occupying this place had long since increased tenfold.

The vast numbers made this pirate warband more powerful, but also made it more difficult to control, even for the most seasoned pirate boss.

"Pull harder!"

An enraged voice rang out, causing the grots to instinctively bury their heads in their scavenging bags.

Accompanied by heavy breathing, five sweaty Ork Boyz were struggling to pull the chains in their hands. They were all much stronger than other Ork Boyz, their combined strength enough to topple a tank, but the thing at the other end of the chains barely moved at all.

It was an even larger Big Mek, covered in thick armor pieced together from various metals, with a blocky head topped with an ugly helmet made of broken Eldar spears and Striking Scorpion helmet fragments, a circle of glittering Eldar jewelry around his neck, his feet spread slightly apart in a squat, the chains tied around his trunk-like waist.

"Pull harder! Or I'll krump ya good!"

Seeing the small eyes on that scarred face staring fiercely at them, the Big Mekz clenched their teeth again and pulled back hard on the chains.

The Boyz in the entire hall stared expectantly at that guy, waiting for the moment he was pulled down.

When nothing happened, some of the Boyz in the hall began to jeer, saying bluntly that it was a waste of time.

The Ork Boss let out a rumbling sigh.

"Nuffin' 'appened."

The next second, he swung his thick legs, stood up, and roared.

WAAAAGH!!!

The Big Mekz were immediately sent flying comically like thrown beer bottles with the swinging of the chains, smashing through a pile of garbage, crushing several unlucky screaming grots to death, and passing out on the spot.

The Boss, having vented his anger, swayed slightly, saliva dripping from one side of his chin. When he saw another massive figure walking in, his expression changed from annoyance to anger.

It was an Ork Warboss even larger than him, wearing a captain's uniform sewn together from various unknown scraps of cloth, an eyepatch made of exquisite Eldar silver ornamentation slanted across his face, making his green face look a bit comical, and if you looked closely, you would find that the "ornament" made of silver metal thread was likely part of some kind of "fetish clothing".

This Ork pirate captain also wore a cloak of a human naval captain, snatched from somewhere, mixed with some fragments that looked like medals, which looked a bit like gold, and a captain's hat that didn't quite "fit" on his head, with jagged spikes sticking out.

This pirate captain's body was unusually large, and even the Big Mek Stormboyz wielding large axes and practicing on Eldar statues were respectful to him.

But the previous one was not so respectful. He spat on the ground and grunted:

"Captain, the Boyz have been yelling to krump some 'umies for a long time! We can't waste all our time on a broken ship that will never be fixed!"

Saying that, he raised his head and looked through the huge hole in the dome at the behemoth that was gradually taking shape.

It's been a long time since I wrote about Orks, I don't know if the flavor is still right.