RobOrk Warz!

+++No indiginous life forms+++
+++Pollution 100%+++
+++Ork world+++
+++Home of Snagrod the Arch-Arsonist+++

The atmosphere is heavy, clogged and grainy with soot and spores; fumes from the volcanic regions of the planet, as well as the extensive and numerous factories built on the more stable ground, form thick black clouds that darken the skies and leak constant corrosive drizzle. What little fertile soil there is on the planet is carpeted in tough fungal growths, the ground beneath them heaving with the kicks, spasms and fits of developing orkoids. Herds of primitive beasts chase one another and fight around the stalks of the taller mushrooms.

Built on basalt cliffs overlooking one of the larger lava flows on Charadon is the Kollossium. This ugly black iron bastion is part fortress, part stadium. In it's forecourt a number of ramshackle trucks, buggies, half-tracks and wagons are parked. They are decked in the liveries of a hundred different tribes and warbands and display the iconography of each of the major Ork clans. Bored Grot riggers guard their masters' vehicles from potential looters, looking whistfully towards the entrance of the Kollossium from which an excitied hubbub can be heard. An event is plainly about to take place within.

Inside there is a great clamour from the numerous spectators in attendance. The audience is varied. Heavy set, green skinned Kroot mercenries rub shoulders with Human renegades, desperados and scum. Stunted and beaten Gretchin servants scurry about the legs of their superiors, offering baked edible squigs, boiled mushrooms and fermented fungus brew; but by far the greatest part of the crowd is made up of Orks.

The bellowing gutteral cries of the Orks drown out all other noises. They argue with one another about the outcome of the event, place bets on their favourite contestants, they discuss the armour piercing merits of different designs of axe, they fight about small differences of opinion over Ork culture, they yell for service from the Grot attendants and they show off battle scars and trophies. They jostle one another for good standing spaces, looking to find a spot with a good veiw of the arena floor. All Ork life is here, massive veteran warriors from the depths of Ork space, small sharp-eyed Orks from backwater planets, hulking leaders of Ork armies with their Nob cronies, Slavers organising the efforts of the Gretchin servants, Ork medics and their orderlies applying first aid to those who have come out worse in one of the frequent brawls.

Only one part of the Kollossium is silent, a pit on the edge of the arena floor. Here sit a score of Ork technicians, the Mekaniaks whose creations will soon fight. They avoid each other's gaze, study the arena floor and fidgit in a nervous manner almost unbecoming of Orks.

To the rear of the arena's most prominant balcony a weighty iron door slams open allowing a bevy of huge Ork warriors to stride out. They are Snagrod's favoured Warlords, the commanders of the armies that guard the borders of the empire of Charadon. They have been brought here to oversee the event, and protect the Arch-Arsonist from any unwise assassination attempts. They leer over the rim of the balcony to bellow, yelling into the audience great bass demands for silence and, when this doesn't work, they each heft a heavy, large bore automatic weapon and fire into the air.


The report of the guns and the attendant rain of hot lead alerts the assembly to the Warlords' presence. The clamour dies down.

Through the iron door strides a gargantuan Ork, dwarfing even the huge Warlords that preceded him. He wears a vast helm of black iron, decorated with a human skull and the horns of some great beast. His bestial face and powerful arms are covered in tattoos of the correct glyphs, set out in the precise patterns and proper shade of blue to bring greatest fortune to their wearer. Round his waist hangs a belt of unspent Big Shoota shells, buckled within the golden helm of a Blood Angel Honor Guard. His clothes are of the finest scaled squig leather, coloured the shade of human blood; fatigues taken from an Ogryn Trooper killed in the last Imperial incursion; and round his shoulders is draped a cape of dense, black Fenrisian Wolf fur, matted with filth.

Snagrod, Arch-Arsonist of Charadon, takes his seat. His favoured Warlords saunter into line behind him, weapons held across their chests, beady eyes scanning the arena for any potential source of insurrection.

The crowd roars.