You… think too much. It's always been your issue. You've had twelve miserable years in the world, an existence wracked with headaches, horrible, coma-like states known as your "deep dreams", and horrible, scratching and never-ceasing voices that knaw at your sanity. You've been left frail, pale and very skinny from your condition as you spend most of your life sleeping, wrapped up and coddled in a tent of animal hides. If there was any justice, you would've been left on a hill to die when your tribe realized how weak you were, but through your condition you've made yourself useful. You have premonitions, messages that you can make out from the depth of your dreams that make you the most valuable member of the tribe. Whether it be seeing the green flames of anger running through the eastern fringes of the forests that signal an upcoming Greenkskin attack, the sweet smells drifting from the lake that indicate a herd of Braxen or a flock of buzzards that can easily be haunted down by some of your hunters. That's not even to mention some of your other abilities. You can unnerve, even frighten strong warriors with a glance, cause mass confusion with a few words, easily convince some of the dumber members of the tribe to do your bidding, and with a lot of effort you're able to "drag" items towards you without touching them. Still, due to the fact you can barely walk, it's hardly a fair trade off.


"Karth!" a voice cries. 


You look up, pulling your skinny body slightly above the blankets that are wrapped around you to look at Duggin as he walks inside, carrying a spear, a bow and sheath, wearing the hide of one of the many beasts of the jungle.


"What thoughts have you for us today?" Duggin asks.


You love your tribe. Your tribe is a group of strong, brave and loyal men who only want the best for each other. Better men don't exist. Unfortunately, they're idiots. Half your job here is relaying the many dreams, omens and messages you have in your sleep. The other half is keeping them from killing themselves. There are men here who have lived twenty, thirty, forty, even fifty years, but in your twelve years on this world you've learned infinitely more. You introduced them to the concept of stealing the hides from slain beasts and wearing it as your own, the concept of hiding like a predator with camouflage and strength, and new battlefield strategies beyond "attack!".


"None. It was a peaceful night," you say.


"We're having a hunt with the Azajaja tribe. We're heading to meet up with them soon."


You nod, raising your bony arms as Duggin lifts you up. You wrap your frail body around him as he walks outside. A large boar-like creature, a puk, sits there with a double-saddle tied to it. Duggin sits in the front saddle and places you in the back one, wrapping blankets tightly around you. You need the blankets for multiple reasons: to keep warm, to give yourself some sort of cushion to protect your fragile body, and most importantly it stops from having to feel the rough puk hair. Many textures, just like puk hair, just sends you into a tantrum for some strange reason. You can't rationalize it, but it still effects you. The puk begins striding forward in a half-gallop, as the other hunters of your tribe hop astride the puk, heading out toward the nearby lake. Suddenly, you watch as dozens of lizard-like creatures burst out of the trees, scuttling away from the jungles.


"Ah! Look what we have here, boys! Fresh prey, sent to us by the great God-Emperor!" Duggin yells, raising his bow.


You watch as the lizards charge out with reckless abandon, straight into your arrow fire. You pull yourself up the saddle into more of a sitting position, thinking. These are simple beasts, but even beasts have a level of cunning that stops them from acting as such. They aren't this stupid, are they?

You warn your allies

These beasts would never simply charge into the path of a fierce predator… unless a fiercer predator was chasing them.


"Wait! Wait! Attack!" you shout.


"What?" Duggin asks, annoyed as your outburst causes him to miss a shot.


"There's something chasing the beasts!"


Duggin raises an eyebrow, before barking out an order. The hunters quickly rearrange formation, just as a horde of Greenskins charge out of the trees with a fierce roar. A burst of spears and arrows flies out from your allies, but the orks take them in their stride. Arrows imbed themselves into their chest and arms, but they don't go down. Spears jab forward, metal points finding the softest parts of the thick green skin, sinking deep with a spurt of blood. There's about two dozen, as many as you, but they can take more punishment. You're outnumbered, but thanks to your forethought and your tiny amount of preparation, you have a chance. You still find yourself useless in the upcoming battle, but it lasts only a few minutes. You watch as blood is shed, limbs are hacked off and puk are struck down. You use what little might you have to cling onto the puk, only barely stopping yourself from falling off. You close your eyes, and wait. Eventually, Duggin calls you.


"Karth! It's over!" he says.


You open your eyes, and survey the carnage. Bodies litter the earth, green and tan, lean and muscled, big and small. You've lost half your hunters in a single attack, but the rest of you have survived with few wounds. When orks strikes land, they kill, not wound. 


"Men, we need to check on the Azajaja boys!" Duggin yells. 


He rides forward, towards the Azajaja camp, deep in the trees. You cling to the puk, looking through the trees as you approach their camp. It's in ruins. Tents have been torn apart, set alight and entirely wiped out. Bodies cover the ground, and you see the last few remnants of the Azajaja struggling to fight off the approaching Orks. Most are naked, still refusing to pick up your tactic of not going into battle with their dicks flapping in the breeze or their breasts hanging, as well as being one of the more idiotic tribes not to take on clothing at all, unlike yours.


"Idiots," you mutter to yourself.


Duggin raises his spear and charges forward, the puk bursting forward as you struggle to hold on. Why couldn't the idiot have left you at home?! Your allies attack with rage and speed, smashing into the orks from behind. There's a short, brutal fight, before you see an ork charging towards you, swinging his axe.


"Duggin!" you yell, pointing at the ork. 


Duggin turns, but he's not fast enough. The ork's weapon smashes into your puk, cutting through flesh and beheading him in a single blow. You're sent flying as the puk collapses suddenly, smashing into the cold earth. You let out a pained yell, before opening your hazy eyes, only to find yourself in the centre of the remaining Azajaja survivors, which only consist of half a dozen warriors, a number that's constantly dropping as the Orks charge once more, as well as two dozen civilians hastily armed with weapons. Suddenly, a small, goblin-like creature, a Gretchen, scampers through the warriors' line, carrying a small knife fashioned from a large stone, who lets out a chuckle as he spots you and lets out a terrifying grin. You need to do something, fast.

You crawl away

You scamper backward, before the creature charges toward you with its blade. You grab the earth, your frail strength still managing to pull your light body away, but the Gretchen it eager. It leaps onto you with a yell, jamming its blade into your throat. You let out a yell, as blood stains the ground.