Just as Yagg was about to answer him, a group of Gretchins appeared ahead of them.
Yagg's expression shifted instantly. He quickly grabbed a piece of filthy burlap from the side and draped it over Raynor's head. The movement was fluid and practiced, the mark of a seasoned veteran.
"What are you doing?" Raynor asked, confused.
"Shut it! Just follow me!" Yagg hissed, his voice tighter than Raynor had ever heard it.
Raynor had never seen the little creature like this. Usually full of chatter and laughs, Yagg was now like a cat that had spotted a predator, every hair on his body standing on end.
The group consisted of seven or eight Grots, led by a pot-bellied fellow. His gear was significantly better than his lackeys', sporting leather armor reinforced with iron plates and a polished choppa tucked into his belt. Around his neck hung a necklace of genuine Ork teeth—not the stone imitations Yagg wore.
Upon seeing Yagg, the leader's eyes lit up, and he strode over. Then, he performed a gesture that caught Raynor completely off guard: he cupped his fists in a traditional salute.
"Ah, Master Ya! Blessings upon you! Long time no see. What've you been busy with lately?"
The tone and posture were eerily reminiscent of the underworld figures Raynor had seen in his previous life. For a moment, he almost thought he had transmigrated back to his old world.
Yagg returned the salute, a sycophantic smile instantly plastering over his face. The speed of the transformation was breathtaking. One moment he was a ball of nerves; the next, he was a smiling businessman greeting an old associate.
"Master Pi, you flatter me. I wouldn't dare accept such a title," Yagg replied. "I'm just keeping busy with the usual rot. Unlike you—I bet you've been raking it in lately, eh?"
The Grot called Master Pi waved a hand dismissively. "Not much, not much. Just scraping by." His gaze drifted toward Raynor. "Who's this? A newcomer?"
Yagg immediately stepped in front of Raynor, his movement natural. "A distant cousin of mine. Just arrived from the outside. He's hideously ugly, didn't want him scaring you, so I covered him up with a bit of cloth."
Even though Raynor's physique was far more robust than Yagg's, Master Pi didn't give it a second thought. In his eyes, anyone hanging out with Yagg couldn't possibly be a figure of any importance.
Master Pi laughed. "Hahaha! Well, Master Ya, you'd better keep a close eye on your little brother. Don't let him break the rules. Right then, I won't keep you from your work."
He cupped his fists again and led his subordinates away. After a few steps, Raynor heard him speak to his lackeys, his voice just loud enough to carry back to them:
"That git Yagg... reduced to this state and still putting on airs. The one under that cloth is probably a brain-dead moron. He's likely just too embarrassed to let us see him."
The lackeys erupted into a chorus of jeers, the laughter sounding particularly grating in Yagg's ears.
Only when they were far away did Yagg drop his mask. He gnashed his teeth, his face flushing red, a deep-seated hatred practically seeping from his throat.
"That Pico! He used to play with me back in the day—he was nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He grew angrier as he spoke, his fists clenched tight. "Then he started sucking up to the Grot Boss of this district and got himself transferred to the Squig-Hopper pens!"
"Now that he's a minor headman, he doesn't even look at me! He came here just to show off. Did you see that tooth-chain? He got that by being a sycophant, nothing more!"
In the eyes of this scrawny Grot, there was only jealousy and resentment.
This is a true Gretchin, Raynor thought. Orks fought for the thrill, for the Waaagh!, to prove they were the "killiest." But Grots were different; they felt envy and they schemed. They possessed the very traits humans despised most in themselves, yet lacked the virtues humans used to mask them. However, Yagg felt different to him—almost a bit simple.
Raynor pulled back the burlap and asked, "Why the cover-up?"
Yagg remembered the situation and relaxed his fists. "Orks aren't allowed to appear here openly. If the overseer finds out, you'll be forcibly sent to the bottom levels of Karl-2 as a slave laborer."
He looked at Raynor earnestly. "The other Orks all believe that any Boy who grows up among Grots is the weakest of the lot. They think you aren't fit for the battlefield, only fit for the filthiest, most exhausting work. So you can't let anyone know you're an Ork—at least not until you're strong enough."
Raynor nodded. The logic was quintessentially Orkish. If you were raised among Grots, you were surely as weak as a Grot.
"But there actually are quite a few Orks here," Yagg continued. "They work as muscle for the various Grot gang bosses. They get to stay because the bosses pay a tribute to the overseer. That's the rule. If you have 'teef,' you stay. If you don't, you're out. Doesn't matter if you're a Grot or an Ork."
Raynor found this assessment quite grounded. He asked, "Then how do I get to the headquarters as a warrior officially?"
Yagg's answer was blunt and simple: "Make a name for yourself! Get some 'flash' gear! Make everyone afraid of you! Let them know you're a git not to be messed with!"
"Only then will the Nobs on patrol look at you properly. Only then do you get a chance to go to the head-quarters as a real warrior."
Raynor nodded. Reputation, gear, and strength—the three pillars of Ork society. He began to calculate. Reputation could be built through brawls, gear required teeth to buy, and this body still needed breaking in—it was far too stiff. But all of that required money. He asked Yagg if there was a way to earn some.
Yagg said he could take Raynor to work to earn some pay.
"What kind of work?" Raynor asked.
Yagg took a deep breath and rattled off an absurdly long title in one go: "Primary Food Source Post-Consumption Generated Material Non-Hazardous Processing Specialist!"
Raynor was intimidated. "And what does that involve?"
When they reached the worksite, Raynor understood.
Shoveling dung.
Before him was a massive Squig pen, welded together from thick scraps of metal piping. Inside were over a dozen Muscle Squigs. The muscle-bound beasts paced within the enclosure, occasionally ramming into one another with dull, heavy thuds. Their muscles rippled beneath their skin, and every breath released clouds of thick white steam. The ground was covered in enormous piles of droppings, giving off that familiar, pungent stench.
Yagg handed him a shovel made from a scrap of iron plate. The tool was crooked, its handle covered in rust.
"Get to it! Finish this pen, and that's today's work done!"
Raynor took the shovel and took a deep breath, nearly choking on the air. This wasn't just shoveling dung; it was shoveling dung for Muscle Squigs. Those violent brutes could charge at any moment, ramming you with their heads or kicking you aside. They had no love for the Grots who cleaned their pens, viewing them as pests disturbing their rest. Sometimes, they did it out of pure boredom.
Of course, they weren't always in a rage. Muscle Squigs were typically only restless and aggressive during the day. Unfortunately, they had no concept of day or night.