[b]Arragoz Plizgin - 'Ome Base[/b]

Climbing out of the wreckage, the Greenskin looked none the worse for wear, much unlike the totalled Krooza. "Ridley prolly x'ploded long wiff da humie muthership, so 'e won't be com'planin' bout' 'iz ship. It wuz a nice Krooza, doh, proppa fast, jus' needed sum more dakka, a coat uv red paint, 'n' sum purple to make it gud 'n' sneaky.  Maybe I'z can get a Shadoo Foreva Mek to fix'er'up?" As the Kommando was going over his plans for the ship that he now believed to be his, another 'survivor' emerged from the crashed vessel. An absolutely puny creature, light green and small compared to even a Gretchin, it could be nothing other than a Snotling: the lowest of the low in Orkoid society. Having only just emerged from a spore produced by the much larger Greenskin, it was understandably confused in regards to just about everything. This, combined with its animal-like intelligence, made it very difficult to discern what was going on in that minuscule brain of theirs.

Whatever it managed to think would remain a mystery forever, unfortunately, as it quickly caught the attention of the Ork. It barely had time to screech before vanishing into the Kommando's gullet. After loosing a mighty belch, Arragoz realized that he hadn't eaten in quite some time. "I culd go fer a Squig Pie 'n' Fungus Beer, right abowt now. Time ta find da Brewboy." Thus began the Ork's latest misshun, finding enough food to satiate an appetite arguably greater in size than himself. The first part was easy, as it simply consisted of entering the bunker. The Kommando knew the layout of the base like the notches on his choppas, allowing him to quickly make his way to the kit'chun. Upon arrival, he was treated to an amusing sight.

The kitchen had been divided into two parts, with the chef and his assistants going about their usual business on the right side, whilst trying very hard to ignore the new residents to the left of them. These squatters were none other than a trio of Gretchin, having arisen from the spores left behind by Arragoz. Under the leadership of one particular Grot, easily identified by his comically oversized Chef's Toque, they'd overrun this section of the cooking area, and set about making it proppa Orky. While there were a few bitz left untouched, most of it had been thoroughly transmogrified into something resembling a cross between a factory and a grill house. Their reaction to the larger greenskin's arrival was mixed, with one freezing in terror, another ignoring him to continue poking a roast Squig with a pointy stick, and the last running off to fetch something. The latter Gretchin swiftly returned, holding aloft a plate that could probably double as an improvised weapon, what with all the spiky gubbinz sticking out all over the place.

That was of far less concern to the Kommando, however, than its contents. A frothing mug of Fungus Beer, and a steaming Squig Pie, which also contained a few Grot bits, judging by the smell. "We lost a few roundin' up all da Squigs, din't want to waste any'ting." The Gretchin squeaked, hoping the Ork wouldn't decide to add him to the menu.

"Yer a cleva wun, you'z iz. Fanks fer da grub, ya Grot." Taking the plate, Arragoz plodded off to a nearby table. As for the Gretchin, he sighed, relieved that the first encounter with their Boss had been a non-violent one. Thus, all was well in the world, and everyone was happy. Except for the Grot in the pie, he wasn't very happy. He also wasn't very unhappy, because he was far too busy being very, very dead.