The first explosion makes Sean duck.

The second makes him swear.

The third gets a cheer from several thousand Orks.

Below them, the valley is one enormous celebration.

Fungus beer.

Roasting squigs.

Races.

Wrestling.

Gambling.

Drums made from ammunition crates and armour plates.

Orks fight, laugh, boast and sing.

Sean’s fingers begin tapping with the rhythm.

ELJARA:

“Again?”

SEAN:

“I have standards.”

A massive Ork smashes a power wrench against the door of a wrecked Chimera.

The crowd answers.

“OI!”

Again.

“OI!”

Sean’s fingers start tapping again.

SEAN:

“Standards can be flexible.”

More Orks arrive.

Then more.

Every new mob makes the celebration louder.

A Weirdboy shakes beneath the psychic pressure of thousands of Orks gathered together.

Green sparks crawl across his skull.

The crowd loves it.

Then a Warboss climbs onto a wrecked Baneblade.

He drinks.

Thousands drink.

He throws away his cup.

Thousands follow.

SEAN:

“There’s something almost religious about this.”

ELJARA:

“For them, there may be no useful distinction.”

The Warboss tells a story.

The crowd knows parts of it.

They interrupt.

Correct him.

Laugh.

Fight.

Cheer.

Then the story reaches an enemy.

The mood changes.

A crude hologram appears above the Warboss.

A world.

Imperial.

Hive cities.

Shipyards.

Defences.

The Warboss points.

A few hundred Orks roar.

Then thousands.

One word begins moving through the valley.

WAAAGH!

Engines start.

Weapons rise.

Banners that decorated the feast are ripped down and tied to vehicles.

Arguments become boasts about who will reach the enemy first.

The rhythm of the drums becomes the rhythm of engines.

The celebration has found somewhere to go.

Sean watches an Ork asleep beneath a table wake.

He hears the chant.

Looks around.

Grabs his choppa.

Runs after the others.

SEAN:

“He doesn’t even know where they’re going.”

ELJARA:

“Probably not.”

“He doesn’t know who they’re fighting.”

“Possibly not.”

“And he’s going.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Eljara watches the Ork disappear into the mob.

ELJARA:

“Look at him.”

He isn’t frightened.

He isn’t being dragged.

He looks ecstatic.

SEAN:

“He wants this.”

ELJARA:

“Yes.”

That bothers Sean more.

The drinking hasn’t stopped.

Neither has the fighting.

Or the laughter.

Or the music.

Everything has simply acquired the same direction.

SEAN:

“So where’s the boundary?”

ELJARA:

“Between what?”

“The feast and the war.”

An Ork drives past with a mug in one hand and a weapon in the other.

ELJARA:

“Find it.”

Sean watches him disappear.

SEAN:

“Right.”

He thinks about the Aeldari.

Their boundaries moved.

What had once shocked became acceptable.

Then ordinary.

Then insufficient.

But the Orks are different.

ELJARA:

“What if their culture never placed the boundary where yours did?”

Sean looks across the valley.

SEAN:

“So they haven’t crossed the line.”

ELJARA:

“Which line?”

“Ours.”

“Exactly.”

Then Sean sees the Gretchin.

Carrying ammunition.

Food.

Weapons.

One is kicked towards a Trukk.

Another is thrown aboard.

They aren’t celebrating quite as enthusiastically.

Sean’s expression changes.

SEAN:

“There.”

Eljara follows his gaze.

“There’s my line.”

ELJARA:

“Yours.”

“Yes.”

“Not theirs.”

“No.”

Sean watches the Grot disappear.

SEAN:

“And certainly not his.”

The Orks may be having the finest night of their lives.

The people on the world ahead are not.

Sean watches the horde.

SEAN:

“So an ecstatic crowd can be completely sincere.”

“Yes.”

“Completely happy.”

“Yes.”

“Completely itself.”

“Yes.”

“And still become a catastrophe for everyone outside it.”

“Yes.”

Sean shakes his head.

SEAN:

“That’s worse.”

“Why?”

“Because I was hoping losing yourself was the dangerous bit.”

Eljara waits.

Sean understands.

SEAN:

“They haven’t lost themselves.”

ELJARA:

“No.”

“They’ve become more themselves.”

“Yes.”

The Waaagh! begins to leave the valley.

Thousands of voices.

Thousands of feet.

Engines.

Drums.

Weapons striking armour.

For one absurd moment, Sean understands the attraction.

No wondering whether you belong.

No standing at the edge.

You shout.

They shout.

You move.

They move.

The whole world seems to agree that this is where you should be.

SEAN:

“That’s powerful.”

ELJARA:

“Yes.”

“I can see why you’d follow.”

“Yes.”

“You’re supposed to disagree with me.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re Orks.”

Eljara shakes her head.

ELJARA:

“Understanding why something feels powerful isn’t the same as approving what it does.”

The final Ork disappears over the ridge.

Sean looks towards the world waiting ahead of them.

SEAN:

“So maybe the question isn’t only whether ecstasy makes us cross a line.”

Eljara waits.

SEAN:

“Maybe it’s also who gets to draw the line in the first place.”

ELJARA:

“And who discovers that your community never drew one around them.”

The Orks go to war happy.

Together.

Entirely themselves.

The crowd did not have to make them forget who they were.

It made thousands of them feel more completely themselves at the same moment—

and gave that shared self somewhere to go.

SEAN:

“Last week you asked what the crowd made.”

ELJARA:

“Yes.”

“And now?”

Eljara watches the horizon.

ELJARA:

“Now we ask who has to live with it.”

If a crowd makes you feel more completely yourself, more certain that you belong and more alive than you ever feel alone, what could make you question where everyone is going before you follow?

Game: Warhammer 40,000
System: Wrath & Glory / Imperium Maledictum
Campaign: Mythveil Chronicles
Theme: Bacchanalia — Beyond the Last Line

PLAY EPIC. FEEL THE STORY.

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Research, philosophy and the living worlds of Mythveil Chronicles:
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