As twilight crept over the wooden palisade of the mushroom garden, the Blackrock Clan's celebratory feast erupted into chaos.
Twenty whole sheep sizzled on the grills, their golden skins radiating a charred aroma.
Mutton fat dropped onto the charcoal, mixing the "Crackle" with the greenskins' booming laughter, carrying far into the forest.
Greenskins packed the long tables—Orc Boyz were shirtless, their solid green muscles bulging; hobgoblins stood on benches, craning their necks to eye the roast sheep; goblins huddled around small tables in the corner, stuffing themselves with roasted mushrooms until grease coated their snouts.
"Drain this jar!" An orc violently slammed down a jar of Black Mushroom Strong Brew, the liquor spilling down his chin and splashing onto the meat-strewn table.
The orc next to him immediately raised his own jar, clashing them together with a "CLANG!"
Both tilted back, chugging the brew as it slid down their throats, drawing roars of approval from the surrounding greenskins .
Suddenly, someone started a rough, hoarse song:
(BANG BANG BANG on da pots an' pans!)
Beast blood drippin' off me choppa blade!
Tusk-face gitz get krumped in da raid!
(WAAAAGH!)
Broken 'ornz stuck in me armor plate!
Rottin' meat for da scavenger's plate!
War banna torn but still we fly it 'igh!
Stick it on da corpse-pile reachin' for da sky!
(WAAAAGH!)
Beastboyz bawlin' for their mums an' paps!
Greenskin bootz stomp 'em into scraps!
Grog sloshin' in da big iron kegs!
Chug chug chug 'til we can't feel our legs!
(WAAAAGH!)
Tomorrow we find anuvver fight!
Smash it all—that's a propa sight!
(ALL ROAR)
WE IZ DA GREENSKINZ! WE IZ DA BEST!
KRUMP THEIR 'EADS! DRINK ALL DA REST!
AS LONG AS WAAAAGH IZ IN OUR CHEST!
IF DA SKY FALLS DOWN—WE PUNCH IT FIRST!
This was the greenskins' favorite war chant—it had no tune, relying entirely on roaring.
Soon, the entire mushroom garden was submerged in the song—Orc Boyz slammed the tables and roared, hobgoblins stood on their toes and shouted, and even the goblins hummed along, their voices filled with that uniquely greenskin fanaticism.
Some orcs, caught up in the excitement, stood up, waving gnawed sheep bones and mimicking the motion of chopping down Wasaga, drawing loud laughter from the surrounding greenskins .
"I chopped down three of those hairy beasts last time!" A scar-faced orc pounded his chest, showing off the scars on his arm.
"I cleaved that Inferior Horn beast's horn clean off with one swing!"
"Bullocks!" the orc next to him immediately retorted, raising his iron axe, the blade still bearing the teeth marks of a beastman.
"I chopped down five! And I stole one of those hairy beast helmets, which is now hanging in my tent!"
As they spoke, their eyes reddened.
They suddenly stood up, rolled up their sleeves, and prepared to fight.
The surrounding greenskins didn't try to stop them; instead, they pounded the tables and cheered: "Fight! Fight! Whoever wins gets a jar of brew from me!"
Just as their fists were about to connect, Gazlowe walked over, leaning on his wooden staff, and slowly said: "If you're gonna fight, wait until you finish the roast sheep—how can you fight without strength? Winning wouldn't be glorious."
The two orcs paused, found the argument sensible, and sat back down, grabbing sheep legs to continue gnawing, muttering, "I'll settle the score with you after I eat."
This was the greenskin romance—one second they were ready to fight over boasting, the next they were drinking and gnawing meat together.
Once full, they'd have a proper brawl, the loser would submit, the winner would gloat, and the next day they'd still be brothers charging into battle side-by-side.
Kurzadh sat in the main seat, watching the lively scene, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.
He had specifically instructed Gazlowe to ensure every greenskin got fed—orcs had roast sheep, hobgoblins had dried fish and roasted mushrooms, goblins had their own small portions of roasted mushrooms, and even the flatbreads recently traded from Karthusil were distributed per head.
The warehouse was now piled high with supplies "Acquired" from Karthusil.
Bread, dried meat, and cheese formed small mountains, while oil, salt, sugar, and black vinegar were lined up in a row.
There was even a sack of black pepper, worth its weight in gold—Chik had sprinkled some on the roast sheep, making it so fragrant the greenskins nearly swallowed their tongues.
"Boss, this black pepper is properly strong!" Bone Tree leaned over, his mouth full of mutton, saying indistinctly, "It smells even better than the human bread we stole before!"
Kurzadh nodded, smiling, picked up a piece of roast lamb chop sprinkled with black pepper, and took a huge bite.
The juices burst in his mouth, the spiciness of the black pepper making it ten times better than plain roast sheep.
He looked toward the corner—several newly absorbed orc captives sat stiffly, holding sheep legs but not daring to gorge themselves like the veteran greenskins .
One even tried to throw a bone on the ground, only for an old orc next to him to kick it back.
"Pick it up!" the old orc growled.
"Boss said no littering in the hall, and definitely no shitting! Anyone who breaks the rules gets thrown to the squigs!"
The captives quickly picked up the bone and obediently placed it on the wooden plate beside them.
Kurzadh had always adhered to the "Cleanliness Principle"—whether in the camp or at a feast, no one was allowed to litter or defecate wherever they pleased.
Greenskins who violated this rule were assigned to clean the squig pens.
This rule was already deeply ingrained in the tribe, and aside from a few new captives, no one dared to break it.
Gazlowe stood by the main table, watching the order of the hall, his small eyes filled with satisfaction.
He had specifically arranged for several veteran hobgoblins to weave between the long tables with wooden trays, collecting bones and trash.
He had also dug temporary latrines at the edge of the venue and assigned goblins to guard them, ensuring no one messed around in the main area.
After several rounds of drink and with most of the roast sheep consumed, the greenskins ' spirits soared even higher.
The war chant was sung again and again; boasting, laughter, and the clinking of jars merged into a single sound.
Even the fighting mushrooms in the garden seemed infected by the excitement, their caps swaying slightly.
Kurzadh put down his jar, abruptly stood up, and stepped onto his chair.
He held a gnawed sheep leg bone and yelled toward the boisterous greenskins : "All of ya shut up!"
His voice was like a clap of thunder, instantly drowning out all the noise.
The greenskins looked up at Kurzadh in the main seat, their eyes filled with fanaticism—they knew the boss was about to give a speech, and his speeches after every major battle always made their blood boil.
Kurzadh raised the sheep leg bone, his voice booming and full of the fervor of WAAAGH!: "We Blackrock Clan used to have only a few dozen Boyz, not even a proper camp! But now!"
He pointed to the greenskins around him.
"We got three thousand brothers! We got two strongholds, Blackrock Spire and Swtonewatch! We got iron axes that can chop through the hairy beasts' armor! We got squigs that make those hairy beasts run in fear!"
The greenskins roared their approval, raising their jars and shouting "WAAAGH!"
"Whose credit is this?" Kurzadh continued to shout.
"It's our own! It's Bone Tree leading the brothers to chop down Wasaga! It's Keziaz leading the night hobgoblins to sneak attack the hairy beasts' rear! It's Guzana forging us strong iron axes! It's Gazlowe setting up such a great feast! And it's every single brother who grabbed an axe, charged to the front, and chopped down those hairy beasts who tried to bully us!"
He paused, a flicker of excitement in his voice: "We greenskins were born to fight! Born to take stuff! We gotta make everyone who looks down on us know how tough the Blackrock Clan is!
Gork and Mork are watching from the sky! They like greenskins who can fight! They like greenskins who dare to charge! We beat Karthusil this time, next time we'll beat the Black Feather Forest! Win more territory! Steal more gold! Drink more strong brew!"
"WAAAGH!!" The greenskins completely erupted.
Orc Boyz stood up, brandishing their iron axes and howling, "Take territory! Get the gold!"; hobgoblins stood on benches, waving spears and shouting along; even the goblins held up small wooden sticks, jumping and yelling "WAAAGH!"
The entire mushroom garden was like a lit powder keg; the feverish atmosphere nearly burst through the forest canopy.
"Who else should we thank?" Kurzadh yelled again, his eyes sweeping over the crowd.
"Gork and Mork!" the greenskins shouted in unison, the sound shaking leaves from the trees.
"Who else?" Kurzadh pressed, a smile on his lips.
"Kurzadh!!"
It was unclear who shouted first, but immediately afterward, the entire mushroom garden echoed with the cry of "Kurzadh!"—"Kurzadh! Kurzadh! Blackrock Clan! Kurzadh!"
The cries grew louder and more fanatical with each repetition, reverberating through the forest like a tidal wave.
Kurzadh stood on the chair, looking at the greenskins before him—their faces smeared with sweat and meat scraps, their eyes shining, shouting his name, their hands holding jars of brew and iron axes.
In that moment, all fatigue vanished, leaving only the unique pride and fanaticism of a greenskin leader.
He raised the sheep leg bone and yelled toward the sky: "For Gork and Mork! For the Blackrock Clan! For a good fight! Drink!"
"Drink!!" The greenskins all raised their jars and tilted their heads back, chugging the brew.
The strong brew slid down their throats, the burning sensation igniting the passion in every one of them.
Some orcs drank too fast, spraying liquor out of their noses, which made the surrounding greenskins roar with laughter; some hobgoblins got drunk and cried while hugging the orcs next to them, declaring, "It's great following the boss!"; and some goblins, having secretly drunk Green Mushroom Brew, spun dizzily on the table, nearly falling off.
Kurzadh jumped off the chair, grabbed a jar of Black Mushroom Strong Brew, walked over to Bone Tree, and clinked jars with him: "For this hero promotion, I pick you."
Bone Tree froze for a moment, then his eyes lit up.
Too excited to speak, he could only raise his jar and chug more than half of it in one go.
Kurzadh then walked over to Gazlowe and patted the old hobgoblin's shoulder: "You handled the feast well.
From now on, the tribe's supply allocation is your job."
Gazlowe bowed deeply, his small eyes full of gratitude: "I will do a good job, boss, I won't let you down!"
The wind carried the scent of meat and liquor, sweeping past the mushroom garden, past the Blackrock Clan's wooden palisade, and past the distant strongholds of Fangsburg and Iron Fortress.
The greenskins ' singing, laughter, and shouting echoed through the Forest of Gloom late into the night, like a war chant belonging to the Blackrock Clan, proclaiming their rise and foreshadowing more WAAAGH! and fighting in the future.
Kurzadh watched everything before him, raised his jar, and took another huge gulp.
He knew that after this feast, the Blackrock Clan would grow even stronger, and he would lead his three thousand greenskin brothers to continue chopping down enemies, grabbing territory, drinking strong brew, and living exactly as Gork and Mork intended—always fighting, always feasting, and always filled with the fervor of WAAAGH!