It was a Gretchin—a Grot—standing barely one point two meters tall, skin and bones wrapped in tattered rags. Its face was filthy, but its eyes were bright, reflecting the peculiar shrewdness unique to its kind. Most prominent was the "tooth necklace" hanging around its neck. Upon closer inspection, one would realize they were imitation Ork teeth, carved from some sort of yellow stone.
The Grot let go of his arm and began to scold Raynor.
"Is ya thick?!"
Its accent was strange, speaking a garbled version of Gothic, but Raynor could just barely understand. "Dat's Muscle Squig turf! Wot wuz ya doin' wanderin' in dere?!"
As it spoke, it gesticulated wildly, attempting to use body language to convey the gravity of the situation. "Dose gits are cranky! Dey ram anyfing wot moves!"
Halfway through, it swallowed hard. "But dey taste real good. I ate some once. Proper tasty, dat wuz!"
Raynor looked down at the little creature, which was barely half his height, and scratched the back of his head. Then he spoke: "Thank you."
Yagg froze. In all its life, it had never been thanked by a "Big 'Un." In Greenskin society, Grots were punching bags, cannon fodder, and disposable consumables to be sacrificed at a moment's notice. No Ork thanked a Grot. They were only cursed, beaten, and thrown out as living shells or bait.
Yet, this big fellow in front of him had actually said thank you?
"Hehe..." A look of being overwhelmed by favor appeared on Yagg's face. It puffed out its scrawny chest and began to introduce itself. "I'm Yagg!"
In Greenskin society, teeth—"teef"—were hard currency. It pointed at the string of fake teeth around its neck, dancing about excitedly. "Look at me necklace! Dese are me trophies! Every one of 'em represents a foe I beat!"
It brandished its claws and teeth, striking various combat poses. Though, those poses looked more like a clown performing a comedy skit.
Raynor looked seriously at the fake teeth and remained silent. The "teef" were clearly ground from stone; they were identical in size and shape, obviously mass-produced "decorations." They were much like the thick gold chains worn by fake tough guys in his previous life.
But Yagg spoke with total sincerity, pride shining in its eyes. "Me dream!" it continued, straightening its back to try and look taller. "Is to be da richest Grot ever!"
"When I gots loads an' loads of teef, I'm gonna buy heaps of Squig meat! Three meals a day! An' I'm gonna drive da flashiest war-buggy!" It looked at Raynor, its eyes full of longing. "Ya fink I can make me dream come true?"
Raynor looked at the spindly Grot and gave a casual nod. "Yeah. I think it's possible."
He suddenly felt that this infiltration mission might be more interesting than he had imagined.
"Wot's yer name?" Yagg asked happily.
Raynor paused; he hadn't thought about that yet. He looked at his hands, thought about the positioning of his newly created clan, and the things he intended to do next. A name came to mind.
"Itachi," he said. "My name is Itachi." After a moment's thought, he added, almost as if possessed: "My dream is to create an entirely new clan and become the strongest Warboss!"
Yagg listened to Raynor's grand ambition, finding it hard to believe. This weird-looking fellow actually had such aspirations? But then, it nodded earnestly.
"Yeah! Yer got spirit!"
It actually believed him. Raynor hadn't expected the Grot to take his casual boasting seriously. But Yagg's expression was dead serious. In its mind, if a guy was brave enough to wander into Muscle Squig territory, why couldn't he want to be a Warboss? I can want to be the richest Grot, can't I?
"Den ya follow me!" It slapped its scrawny chest. "I'll look out fer ya!"
Raynor stared in silence at the Grot who was only half his height. Eventually, he nodded. "Alright."
Perhaps not expecting Raynor to actually agree, Yagg looked thrilled. Through the system, Raynor saw Yagg's favorability rating jump from 2 to 8 points. This was the source of Raynor's confidence. Even without binding a target as a "pursuit objective," he could still see the favorability of weak targets. He believed that if enough Greenskins reached the required favorability threshold, he could truly "become" a real Ork.
Thus, Raynor began living a "Greenskin" life with Yagg. To be precise, a Grot's life. No battles, no grand schemes—just pure loitering. Like a newborn Grot, he emptied his mind, observed, learned, and adapted.
It was much harder than he had anticipated. In his previous life, he was a Warhammer nerd whose knowledge of Greenskins came mostly from books and data-slates. He knew they loved to fight, loved to "Waaagh!", and loved painting everything different colors because it gave them various effects.
But being physically among them, he realized that theory was forever shallow. The Greenskin world had a complete set of logic; it was just entirely different from a human's. They didn't care for efficiency or rules, nor anything humans considered "normal." Yet, their logic was self-consistent. The one with the biggest fist spoke the loudest; the one "Waaagh!" enough was the Boss; whoever could fight best was right.
Raynor needed to understand this world before he could change it. So, he dutifully followed Yagg as a Grot lackey. Yagg, putting on airs, took his new subordinate to familiarize him with the environment.
From Yagg, Raynor learned the basic situation of the ranch. Inside this facility, there were essentially only Grots and Squigs. The top leadership was an Ork Nob overseer who had retired due to being crippled, plus a small number of Ork Boyz. The overseer rarely showed his face; it was said he only came out once a week to collect "teef" before heading back.
Daily operations were managed entirely by the Grots themselves, forming a strange, self-sufficient ecosystem. Like most Greenskin societies, it was factional. Various Grot gangs fought over the easiest and most profitable jobs or the enclosures with the fattest Squigs. Wherever there were "people," there was a "society," except this one followed Ork rules. Whoever had the hardest fists and the most lackeys occupied the best territory.
The enclosure where Raynor and Yagg were stationed was specifically for breeding Muscle Squigs. They were the most violent, dangerous, and difficult breed to handle. Those muscle-bound creatures would ram anything they saw; raising them required constant vigilance against attacks. According to Yagg, it had personally seen no fewer than ten Grots trampled to death by Muscle Squigs. Grots from other enclosures would take a long detour just to avoid being spotted by them.
From this, Raynor deduced that Yagg's social status must be very low.
"I'm tellin' ya," Yagg lectured Raynor as they walked, its tone carrying the pride of a "veteran." "Da Boss here is 'Old Cripple-Leg.' Use'ta be a Nob."
"Den 'is leg got blown off fightin' da humies, so 'ey dumped 'im here to be da overseer." It lowered its voice, acting mysterious. "Heard 'e wuz proper killy back den. Could beat ten humies on 'is own."
"Even wiv a bum leg, 'e can still kick a Grot apart wiv 'is good one. Don't ya go provokin' 'im."
Raynor nodded. In the world of the Greenskins, reputation was just as important as raw strength.
" 'E don't really do much, but 'e comes once a month to collect da teef. Dose wot don't pay enough get frowed into da Shark-Mouf Squig pen."
Yagg shuddered, seemingly recalling a bad memory.
Raynor asked, "So, how does one get out of here?"