Gloomspite Gitz – Warscrolls

Loonbosses are the warlords of the Moonclan skraps. Clad in crude armour pilfered from the surface races, their faces protected by grinning helms intended to make them look like ‘proppa loons’, they cut imposing figures amongst their fellow grots. Loonbosses relish a fight, and weapons they wield are laden with so many spiteful enchantments that they can carve clean through steel plate. However, they never fight fair. Ducking and weaving around their enemies, they hurl mobs of cackling grots at them to wear them down before finishing them off with a slice to the throat or a blow between the shoulder blades. The best fights, after all, are the ones conducted from behind a green wall of underlings doing most of the dirty work. Many Loonbosses take squigs as mounts or pets and have their choice of prime specimens, among them the Giant Cave Squigs. Such bossgrots are often found at the head of a Squigalanche, and while it might be an exaggeration to say that they intentionally ‘lead’ their fellows anywhere, their force of personality is enough to draw squig-mounted greenskins to their side from miles around.

Swaggering bullies whose twisted anatomies are part arachnid, Scuttlebosses charge into battle upon the backs of Gigantic Spiders, exhorting nearby skittermobs to follow their violent example and ride the foe into the ground.

Visionaries, instigators and soothsayers, Fungoid Cave-Shamans speak with an otherworldly authority concerning future events they claim to have witnessed in the dream-realm of the ‘Great Green’. Their screeched commands are considered as good a basis for a battle plan as any by most Gitz, especially given that these prophecies have a nasty habit of coming true. Fungoid Cave Shamans are the closest thing the grots have to strategists, able to plot wars that span continents or even multiple realms. They do this not through learning and guile but by consuming quantities of toxic fungi that would kill humans thrice over and then jabbering incessantly about the resulting visions they experience. Cave-Shamans fuel their magic with the Deffcap, a highly hallucinogenic mushroom that grows inside the shaman until it bursts out of their cranium. Cave-Shamans sporting such a fungus are capable of casting far more potent spells, for the mushroom appears to draw power from the Bad Moon itself. Any who seek an audience with a Cave-Shaman must tolerate the various squiggly beasts and other critters that nestle within their robes or writhe upon the grot’s gnarled flesh, such as the vicious Spore Squig, a common companion.

Loonbosses are the warlords of the Moonclan skraps. Clad in crude armour pilfered from the surface races, their faces protected by grinning helms intended to make them look like ‘proppa loons’, they cut imposing figures amongst their fellow grots. Loonbosses relish a fight, and weapons they wield are laden with so many spiteful enchantments that they can carve clean through steel plate. However, they never fight fair. Ducking and weaving around their enemies, they hurl mobs of cackling grots at them to wear them down before finishing them off with a slice to the throat or a blow between the shoulder blades. The best fights, after all, are the ones conducted from behind a green wall of underlings doing most of the dirty work. To become a Loonboss, a grot must climb the rungs of power by any means. Consequently, many become masters of unorthodox and opportunistic tactics, from feigning injury to pelting their enemies with exploding mushrooms that release flesh-eating spores. Loonbosses are infamously self possessed and eager to lavish themselves with grandiose titles such as Grand Under Emperor or Great Grotlord of the ’Umie-skinnas, but for all their preening, their cunning makes them as dangerous as any orruk boss.

Like all of Gorkamorka’s creatures, grots love a good scrap. The Rabble-Rowzas take it upon themselves to see this desire fulfilled. Their shrieking voices are not just enhanced but magically weaponised. Through a mixture of gleeful threats and cutting insults, the Rabble-Rowzas direct the wave of destructive madness that is a Gloomspite army onwards, ensuring that it crashes upon the enemy and tramples them to paste. Grots usually fight only when the odds are stacked in their favour. Troggoths are difficult to coax forth as well, preferring to sleep away the decades, and getting Mangler Squigs to go in one consistent direction is a life’s work for their handler. Rabble-Rowzas, however, have no trouble gathering the hordes. When one of these figures passes through a lurklair, clanging their weapons and bellowing at the top of their magically boosted lungs, even the most surly Troggboss may shrug off their lethargy and feel new-found gumption seize them. By the time a Rabble-Rowza emerges from the deepest depths, it is with a veritable parade of subterranean horrors in tow. This is usually enough to convince any nearby grots that a truly spectacular punch-up is imminent, and violent urges temporarily outmatch their natural cowardice.

Skragrott carved his way into history when he defeated the orruks of Ayadah at the head of hundreds of thousands of grots. He attributes his success to the Bad Moon, which he claims once spoke to him directly. Its jabbering came to him as he slept, filling his mind with tidings of its approach. When Skragrott awoke, a fungal crown was deeply rooted upon his brow, its tendrils touching his brain. This Badloon Bossfungus was seen as proof by all the Moonclans of his right to rule and a conduit through which he could channel their sinister god’s power. When the Loonking’s assault on Ayadah coincided with the rising of the Bad Moon just as he said it would, Skragrott’s infamy was assured. That said, Skragrott recognised that one successful prediction could be discredited. He bade his minions capture mages and prognosticators and drag them back to his fortress of Skrappa Spill. By sieving through their deranged prophecies, Skragrott can extract information that accurately points to the coming of the Bad Moon. Equipped with this knowledge, he leads his great horde into battle with swaggering confidence, empowering them with the lunar entity’s light. Once the fighting is well underway, he uses his magical might to call down loonstone meteors to crush packed groups of foes.

It’s a tough life herding squigs, and handlers who survive more than a week are treated as haggard veterans. Yet occasionally there are those who defy death at every opportunity, eventually becoming known as Squigbosses. Some grots claim these shuffling figures are utterly inured to pain, and this may be true – mostly due to having been bitten so often that only the sharpest agonies now register. Squigbosses have few mates amongst the Moonclans, who find anyone that even a squig refuses to eat highly suspect. Going to battle alongside their faithful Gnasha-squigs, whose company they vastly prefer to that of other grots, they drive the bouncing throngs forwards with jabs and blows from their squig‑krooks. Squigbosses possess a deep knowledge of rare fungi and its effects on their squiggly flock. They know just how much Crimson Deffcap will get the creatures bouncing at optimal speed, the blends of Yellow Lurka that grant their spittle toxic qualities, and the strains of Sproutin’ Moon that see rows of extra, swordlike fangs push up through their gums. By feeding the beasts fungal clusters produced from folds within their filthy robes, a Squigboss can inspire an unstoppable bestial onslaught.

Webspinner Shamans are the high viziers of the Spider God. These wise-grots rule the stalktribes and their word is law – though this is not always for the best. Their zealous adulation of all things eight-legged, coupled with the arachnoid energies flowing through them and visions induced by bites from the creepy crawlies that infest their web cloaks, ensure that they are often utterly demented. Still, the mutative blessings granted unto these shamans – usually in the form of extra eyes or limbs – mark them as their god’s favoured. Should a Webspinner command his ladz to let spiders lay eggs in their ears or attempt to weave new cloaks from Arachnarok silk, it will be done with only a modicum of grumbling. Webspinner Shamans are driven by their fervent desire to please the Spider God. They believe that their deity wishes the Everdank to cover the lands, so that all of its arachnid children can spill forth and hunt forever amidst the twilight shadows. This belief, coupled with the constant need to appease the hungry Arachnaroks that dwell in their nests, makes Webspinner Shamans warlike leaders. Their spellcraft also reflects their faith; with ululating incantations, they can conjure sheets of webbing and summon tides of sorcerous spiders to swarm over foes.

Mollog, the ancient Dankhold Troggoth, really just wants to find somewhere dark and damp to go back to sleep, but people keep disturbing him and getting in his way. Suffice it to say, this never ends well for them…

Some particularly forceful and bullying Loonbosses are able to tame – in the loosest sense of the word – Giant Cave Squigs and bring them into battle as terrifying pets that are more than capable of biting a man in two.

Black-clad Madcap Shamans caper into battle, chanting and jabbering madly. They stuff Madcap Mushrooms into their gobs, eyes crackling with power as they channel the Gloomspite into deadly magical attacks.

Troggbosses are the masters of the dankholds. They are one with the gloomy depths, their flesh covered in clusters of Puffshrooms and other potent fungi. Many are impossibly ancient, sustained by their pronounced regenerative abilities. It is rare indeed for a Troggboss to rouse itself from slumber and trudge up to the surface. This is fortunate, for to witness one on the rampage is a fearsome sight indeed. Nothing seems to trouble them as they lumber forwards, while each thunderous swing of their clubs can stave in the skull of a Draconith or shatter a shieldwall. In a Troggboss’s wake skitter Spiteshrooms and Stalagsquigs, Git-grabbers and Nightskulkers – all manner of denizens from the Deep and Dark come to savage their loathsome lord’s enemies. The most fearsome aspect of a Troggboss is the effect it has on its fellows. An aura of primal authority penetrates the layers of stupidity that cloud the troggoths’ minds and sees them lumber along in their boss’s wake. A meaningful grunt from a Troggboss can compel its mates to act with something dangerously close to focus, redoubling their destructive efforts at a choice moment.

One of the most destructive races to have ever lived, the Drogrukh were centauroid warriors who built a great nation in the Realm of Beasts. From their number rose a champion so powerful that he ascended to godhood: Kragnos, the End of Empires. Having led his people in warfare against a draconic empire that left the Drogrukh all but extinct, Kragnos was sealed away for the protection of the realms – only to be freed centuries later. Though he currently wages a protracted war in the Realm of Life, Kragnos can still be drawn to battle by the most ferocious fighting, his arrival announced by the smashing of enemy lines and the crushing of foes under his thunderous hooves. Already a natural disaster made manifest, Kragnos’s rampages are further augmented by his legendary armaments. The shield Tuskbreaker is said to have been cast aside by Gorkamorka himself, deity of the orruks and other brutish beings. The spells of enemy mages break instantly upon its surface, supposedly due to the residual divine essence that suffuses it. The Dread Mace, Kragnos’s massive studded club, is powerful enough to shatter walls of solid rock. Legends say that Kragnos retrieved the weapon’s head from an ancient geomantic nexus, and that it is infused with Ghur’s own destructive animus.

Loonbosses are the warlords of the Moonclan skraps. Clad in crude armour pilfered from the surface races, their faces protected by grinning helms intended to make them look like ‘proppa loons’, they cut imposing figures amongst their fellow grots. Loonbosses relish a fight, and weapons they wield are laden with so many spiteful enchantments that they can carve clean through steel plate. However, they never fight fair. Ducking and weaving around their enemies, they hurl mobs of cackling grots at them to wear them down before finishing them off with a slice to the throat or a blow between the shoulder blades. The best fights, after all, are the ones conducted from behind a green wall of underlings doing most of the dirty work. It takes a particularly deranged loon to lead the charge whilst clinging on to a pair of giant squigs, but some Loonbosses – along with their most bonkers cronies – are only too eager to do so. Mangler Squigs are living wrecking balls, and though only the most tenacious grots could hope to survive the ride, those who succeed revel in the spectacular violence they inflict as they crash into the melee, cackling in wicked glee as severed body parts, arcs of gore and screaming victims fly through the air all around them.

Ancient even by the standards of his long-lived kind, Trugg spent thousands of years slumbering below Ghyran before awakening prematurely with a massive headache. The most powerful of all troggkind, he can take a hit from a cannonball without flinching, and even the sharpest war-pick struggles to penetrate his hide. He wields a club big enough to cave in the hull of a Steam Tank, its head fashioned from the fossilised carapace of an ironshell snail. Deadlier even than Trugg’s terrifying strength is the arcane structure atop his back. When the Troggoth King stomps into battle, the runes on the leystone glow white-hot and arcane energies spill from its aperture. Depending upon which realm the leystone is attuned to, a different phenomenon will manifest. When the Ghyran sigil flares, Trugg’s powers of regeneration are sent into overdrive, allowing his wounded flesh to regrow in moments. When attuned to Aqshy, the Troggoth King is wreathed in flames to which he and his minions are impervious but that hungrily devour his foes. Trugg is too dimwitted to control the leystone’s powers beyond bashing it with his club, but his thick skull safeguards him from the worst effects of being in close proximity to such a potent source of magic.

The gargantuan terrors known as Arachnarok Spiders prowl underground labyrinths and the darkest recesses of forests, establishing web strewn lairs amidst ancient ruins or gnarled and crooked trees. Their chitinous limbs can punch through the hull of a Steam Tank, their fangs drip with potent venom, and their webbing is so strong that even an ogor would struggle to tear free of it. What makes the Arachnaroks truly unsettling, however, is the malign intellect within their eight eyes. The only grots that seem truly respected by the Arachnaroks are the Webspinner Shamans, high viziers of the Spider God. The arachnids favour the most mutated and lunatic of these rulers, for in imbibing copious amounts of venom, a crude kinship may develop between them. Webspinner Shamans are driven by their fervent desire to please the Spider God. They believe that their deity wishes the Everdank to cover the lands, so that all of its arachnid children can spill forth and hunt forever amidst the twilight shadows. This belief, coupled with the constant need to appease the hungry Arachnaroks that dwell in their nests, makes Webspinner Shamans warlike leaders.

It takes a special kind of grot to perform the near-suicidal job of squig herding. The creatures are easily agitated and liable to go berserk at the slightest provocation. The clamour of battle, jabbering of the grots and crashing of crude cymbals used by their armoured handlers to try to direct the orbicular beasts only serves to make them angrier and more unpredictable. Despite this, most Loonbosses consider the damage that Squig Herds can inflict to be worthwhile enough to factor them into their schemes. Just as importantly, the havoc they wreak is always hilarious – provided it doesn’t affect the bossgrots themselves, of course. The life of a Squig Herder once their horde goes on the march is measured in days – sometimes even minutes. Not only do their sharp Prodders antagonise their unpredictable charges, the grots are also a tempting snack for a hungry squig in the thick of battle. Such a sacrifice is often considered justifiable by the Herder’s mates, for the prospect of dinner can lure in other wild squigs. Due to the squigs’ incredible speed and bouncing prowess, as well as their strong fangs, even just one extra beast to herd is valued much more highly than another misguided minder to prod them forth.

Should a squig rider actually survive a battle or two, it will immediately go to their head. Cladding themselves in crude armour complete with crescent-shaped helms, these swaggering show-offs form into elite mobs who refer to themselves as Boingrot Bounderz. Their relative experience in hanging onto their ornery steeds means that they are actually able to contribute somewhat to the battle, jabbing out with wonky lances while their squigs – no doubt doubly riled because of the extra weight they have to carry – crash into the enemy like fungal meteors. The lances of these wild-eyed warriors transform them into bouncing knightly parodies. In a crude echo of jousters and their ostentatious finery, these braggadocious elites craft their ornamentation from fancy pieces of scrap metal scavenged from their foes. They are at their most powerful on the charge, for their unhinged bravado is at its peak before the enemy has had a chance to hit back, and their lances, shoddy as they are, can inflict surprising damage at full tilt. Should a Boingrot Bounder slay a foe and survive the battle, their inflated confidence renders them so insufferable that they are likely to come to an ignoble end, shanked in some dingy nook by their jealous peers and left for the squigs.

Snarlfang Riders gravitate to the open plains. They do not fear Hysh’s light, unlike their Moonclan cousins. They covet above all the power of the sun, whose blazing eye they believe can kill with a look. Most other grots fear the sun’s immense power, spreading cautionary tales that personify it as the evil ‘Glareface Frazzlegit’ that burns with decimating light. Not so these wolf-riding grots, who will chase distant Hysh from horizon to horizon each day. To this end, they have forged an alliance of convenience with the Snarlfangs, a breed of especially large and cruel lupine whose saliva is toxic in the extreme. These wolves see Hysh as the one enemy they cannot stare down, for it sears their eyesight. Thus, the ancestors of these wolves pledged to help the grots in their quest gain power over the sun. When this deadly combination of grot and wolf catches the scent of prey, they strike with merciless glee. If the crude arrows of the grots – fired from the saddle even at high speed – do not make the kill, their crooked spears and the jaws of their mounts will when they pounce on a vulnerable foe and tear them to shreds.

Covered in painted glyphs, bright feathers and many-legged gribbly beasts, Spider Riders scuttle into battle with whoops of cruel glee. These cavalry-grots – the malicious heart of the stalktribes – are highly manoeuvrable, for the eight nimble limbs of their mounts allow them to clamber over ruins or even up the sheer cliff-faces. They fight as swift skirmishers, peppering the enemy with arrows before charging in to pick off isolated survivors with jagged blades and their mounts’ venom-coated fangs. Any not slain outright are paralysed by debilitating spider bites and dragged back to the Spiderfang’s nests, there to meet a terrible fate at the jaws of the grots’ demigods. The breed of spider ridden by these grots depends on where they make their lair, but all are dangerous. From the Blistermere Skullback to the Blue Cliffleaper, the Chamonite Ironweb to the sinister Dusk Creeper only seen in the deepest abysses of the Realm of Shadow, all possess wicked fangs and cruelty to match that of their greenskin allies. Many grots will raise their arachnid mount from infancy, as the bond between grot and spider goes a long way towards protecting the riders from being injected with venom and eaten themselves.

No one knows which enterprising grot first tried to ride a squig, though the result can be readily guessed at. Still, this failure clearly did not prevent thousands of intrepid greenskins from following in this pioneer’s footsteps. Most are devoured, but a rare few can grab onto a squig’s back long enough to form an approximation of cavalry. Squig Hoppers are figures of awe to fellow grots, who cluster around them to hear their tales of derring-do. Though such stories are wildly exaggerated, should enough Squig Hoppers mass together, the anarchy and devastation they cause is awe-inspiring. They can reach speeds that are alarming to enemy and rider alike, usually resulting in cataclysmic collisions deep in enemy lines. Thanks to their rubbery flesh and strong legs, Cave Squigs are natural jumpers, but to properly bound through the air and carry a grot to war, they must be made much more springy. To facilitate this, shamans will feed them all manner of brews designed to bloat the creatures up with gastric gases. At this point, the squigs can bounce high enough to cross even an advancing line of ogors. Of course, a squig bulging with excess gas is likely to be even more surly than normal, which doesn’t improve the prospects of any grot riding the creature.

Racing forth on fleet-pawed Snarlfang mounts come Rippa Narkbad and his ladz, whooping and hollering as they seek out fleeing prey to stick with spears and cruel, barbed arrows.

Few creatures are more vile than the Fellwater Troggoths. They make their lairs within turgid riverbanks, deep marshes and city sewers, quite content to linger amidst congealed muck until instinct compels them to head off in search of grosser pastures. Their hides ooze with noxious slime, and the scent they emit is enough to turn even a hardened Ironjaw’s guts. Of course, each one is also a powerhouse in its own right, its prodigious size and fearsome regenerative capabilities allowing it to take on several foes at once. These troggoths favour weapons such as big spiked clubs inset with stones or the bones of their prey. A Fellwater’s most distinctive quirk, however, is its ability to heave up a stream of highly caustic vomit against which even steel plate offers little protection. It is said that there is no environment too rank for a Fellwater, not even the malignant lairs of the Kruleboyz. This fact has not escaped grotkind, many of whom derive great entertainment from prodding packs of the beasts towards bog-orruk hideouts before standing back to watch the carnage, all while hoping that the troggoths do not decide they are hungry for grot-meat instead and turn around to waddle after them in a hungry furore.

Any bossgrot of sufficient power and renown is sure to have at least one Gobbapalooza roaming around their lurklair. This cackling gang of loon-priests and petty shamans employs various forms of trickery and lunatic magic to drive their fellow grots into a violent mania. One might expect the unpredictable antics of a Gobbapalooza to be nothing but a hindrance on the battlefield, yet many of these wise-grots are capable of contributing in their own distinctively destructive fashion. The Boggleyes hypnotise enemies with their moon-blessed gaze, reducing them to drooling puppets waiting to be shivved. Brewgits are alchemists whose mind-warping brews can render their allies all but immune to pain. Spikers are grots with all manner of arachnoid blessings, including a bewildering array of poisons. Scaremongers dress as Glareface Frazzlegit, their avatar of the hated light of Hysh, which spurs their mates forward with adrenalising, primal fear. Oddest of all are the Fungamancers, for these grots possess the ability to bring nearby mushrooms to animated life – accompanied by swarms of snapping fungi, they ride spore-belching Bloatstools into battle.

The idea behind a Fanatic is simple enough. First, a grot ‘volunteer’ is force-fed potions containing deadly Madcap Mushrooms. Though these fungi will almost certainly result in the grot’s untimely death, in the meantime, it vastly enhances their strength whilst subjecting them to wild hallucinations. The newly created Fanatic is then dosed with temporarily immobilising concoctions, so they may be carried into the fray without harming their peers, before being let loose, forcing enemies and allies alike to dive for cover. Gripping heavy chains ending in huge iron balls that would normally take several grots to lift, Loonsmasha Fanatics revolve with escalating swiftness, transforming into cyclones of death. The life of a Fanatic is measured in minutes at best, but what glorious minutes they are. In the brief time before they inevitably bash in their own skulls, crash into a wall, sail off a cliff cackling insanely or careen back into their screaming mates, they are – in their own fungus-addled minds, at least – gods of annihilation.

To the sound of clanging gongs and high-pitched squealing, the Moonclan grots emerge to cause havoc. These stunted creatures, clad in dark and grimy robes, are the vindictive heart of grot armies. When the rabid mania of the Gloomspite seizes them, they attack in a vicious tide. A grot horde pitched to the heights of frenzy will happily spend hundreds of lives to overwhelm an enemy; after all, there are always more where they came from. Shootas wield crude shortbows and honour the Gloomspite tradition of targeting an enemy that can’t reach you. This is considered somewhat of a luxury amongst the mobs. However, only those capable of making or scavenging a bow can remain within the safety of the rearguard. Arguments often break out if one grot thinks they deserve to be shooting on the back lines more than another, and those with the crafting know-wotz have to ensure they don’t find a shiv in their back from an enterprising rival looking to start their archery career. However, bows provide little in the way of close combat protection, and should the enemy break through to the Shootas’ lines, these grots can do little but clobber them with their bows.

To the sound of clanging gongs and high-pitched squealing, the Moonclan grots emerge to cause havoc. These stunted creatures, clad in dark and grimy robes, are the vindictive heart of grot armies. When the rabid mania of the Gloomspite seizes them, they attack in a vicious tide. A grot horde pitched to the heights of frenzy will happily spend hundreds of lives to overwhelm an enemy; after all, there are always more where they came from. The grots that make up the greater mass of the Moonclan mobs are known as Stabbas, and they are aptly named, for it is their job to repeatedly shank the foe with their crooked spears and rusty blades. Though usually cowardly creatures, grots will strike out madly should they think they have the advantage. Numbers are their greatest weapon, for they feel safer and stronger when surrounded by a press of their bickering kin. They also employ devious tricks to swing the odds in their favour, unafraid of fighting dirty and eschewing such hindrances as pride and honour. Weighted nets are a favourite, flung over enemies to leave them struggling and helpless while the grots jab them full of holes.

At first glance, Rockgut Troggoths look more like crude and ugly statues come to life than living beings. They emerge from the deep chasms – and prefer to remain there where possible, subsisting on a diet of rock until they have carved out entire cave networks because of their appetites. Like all troggoths, these behemoths can live for hundreds of years thanks to their natural ability to regenerate, and the strongest and eldest of their kind will boast the most sprawling cave systems within their territory. The Rockgut Troggoths’ fixation on eating stone, coupled with the adaptability of their race, has granted them two remarkable abilities. The first is a craggy exterior that is almost impervious to magical and mundane assault. Sleeping Rockguts have been mistaken for part of the landscape, until they wake up and start swinging their clubs. The second ability is a proficiency in manipulating rock that is nothing short of astounding, for in their lumpen hands the substance flows like water. There is no limit to the wonders of craft more enlightened races could achieve with this power. The Rockguts employ it for more direct purposes: scooping up chunks of earth to form massive boulders and hurling them at anything they take a disliking to.

The Bad Moon’s arrival is heralded by the flourishing of freakish fungal clusters, which the grots have learnt to harness in various bubbling broths and ill-advised rituals. Most prized are the Looncaps. These lurid growths range from the size of a filthy fingernail to a mighty oak and are considered an omen of the Bad Moon’s favour by the grots. It is the job of the Sneaky Snufflers to collect Looncaps and return them to the shamans, who use them as ingredients for magical potions or to inspire sudden manic rages. Sneaky Snufflers are aided by the weird cave-creatures known as Snufflesquigs, whose pronounced olfactory organs are highly attuned to different fungal strains. As battle rages, the grot handlers follow the beasts around, harvesting choice Looncaps with their trusty sickles. Sneaky Snufflers are not stingy in hurling bundles of Looncaps over to their mates, who upon eating the spongy morsels are overcome by a frothing battle-madness. The Snufflers watch what follows with wicked amusement, especially when it is discovered that certain instantly lethal mushrooms ‘accidentally’ made their way into the mix.

The idea behind a Fanatic is simple enough. First, a grot ‘volunteer’ is force-fed potions containing deadly Madcap Mushrooms. Though these fungi will almost certainly result in the grot’s untimely death, in the meantime, it vastly enhances their strength whilst subjecting them to wild hallucinations. The newly created Fanatic is then dosed with temporarily immobilising concoctions, so they may be carried into the fray without harming their peers, before being let loose, forcing enemies and allies alike to dive for cover. Some Fanatics eschew iron balls in favour of Thwackwheezer Puffshrooms. When agitated, this spongy fungus emits clouds of lung-clogging spores, and being spun around at high velocity causes them to release their toxic payloads in billowing clouds that linger and drift around the battlefield. Those who wield Thwackwheezers are known as Sporesplattas, and their fumes see the mania of any nearby Gitz deepen while foes violently cough up their dissolving lungs – at least until the surprisingly weighty Puffshroom clobbers them in the face with a wet thrrrp sound.

A denizen of the Gnarlwood, Grinkrak holds court around the ‘Great Stinkhorn’ – a particularly colossal mushroom. His latest scheme is to ‘knight’ his grot minions using his bossin’ stikk, filling them with a sort of bravery. The motley band of grots that make up the Looncourt have entirely bought into Grinkrak’s claims of knighthood, believing themselves to be holy guardians of the Stinkhorn. The madcap quests they embark on never end well for those in their way.

Zarbag the shaman has wandered the twisted halls of the Nightvault for as long as he can remember. His sniffer spite helps him root out the best magical fungi, and he can transform his facial features into a warped vision of horror almost at will. Zarbag is accompanied by grottish hooligans who have followed him into countless dangerous and often ludicrous situations and have demonstrated a talent for emerging more or less in one piece with heaps of glinting shinies to show for it.

The gargantuan terrors known as Arachnarok Spiders prowl underground labyrinths and the darkest recesses of forests, establishing web strewn lairs amidst ancient ruins or gnarled and crooked trees. Their chitinous limbs can punch through the hull of a Steam Tank, their fangs drip with potent venom, and their webbing is so strong that even an ogor would struggle to tear free of it. What makes the Arachnaroks truly unsettling, however, is the malign intellect within their eight eyes. Though they once fed indiscriminately upon the Spiderfang grots, and will still do so should the fancy strike them, most Arachnaroks are amused enough by the greenskins’ worship and satiated by their offered sacrifices to serve as warmounts. As they age, their malevolent patience deepens and their exoskeletons grow thicker. Given their cooler temperaments, they can be entrusted with more valuable gubbinz of the Spiderfang tribes. Most common of these are strange web-flinging contraptions that fire clusters of corrosive silk. Once stuck fast and encircled by the gooey ropes, foes are helpless to fight back as the acid within burns through their armour to melt their flesh. This is considered great entertainment by the grot riders operating the flinger from above.

The gargantuan terrors known as Arachnarok Spiders prowl underground labyrinths and the darkest recesses of forests, establishing web strewn lairs amidst ancient ruins or gnarled and crooked trees. Their chitinous limbs can punch through the hull of a Steam Tank, their fangs drip with potent venom, and their webbing is so strong that even an ogor would struggle to tear free of it. What makes the Arachnaroks truly unsettling, however, is the malign intellect within their eight eyes. Though they once fed indiscriminately upon the Spiderfang grots, and will still do so should the fancy strike them, most Arachnaroks are amused enough by the greenskins’ worship and satiated by their offered sacrifices to serve as war-mounts. The youngest and most aggressive mega-spiders lead the charge, carrying howdahs filled with shrieking grot warriors. Arachnaroks care little for the sneaky plans and kunnin’ tricks of Spiderfang warleaders, instead prioritising their own desires. Given that to question these would be to go against the will of their gods, the grots must simply adapt on the fly. Usually, this involves raining hell down on the enemy wherever they may end up going with crude spears and envenomed arrows.

Deep beneath the earth lie the semi-mythical dankholds. These are caverns permeated by an elemental gloom whose bedrock harbours a hungry sentience. Here can be found beasts of terrifying reputation, stories of whom have reached the surface world: the Dankhold Troggoths. Even for their typically antisocial kind, these creatures are loners. They shun contact with other beings, seeking the comforting foulness of their lairs in which to sleep away the centuries. As they snooze, some strange quirk of biology sees them grow or shrink to fit their dankhold; some troggoths doze off within preposterously cramped caverns and awaken half their original size, or else they wake up from a nap after twenty years to find they have become several times larger than when they went to sleep. Should Dankhold Troggoths be drawn up to a battlefield by the Bad Moon, they are a force to be reckoned with. They are able to regenerate even the greatest wounds with a slow but steady inevitability, and their diet of fungi that grow around realmstone grants them natural resistance to sorcery. In turn, the beasts’ huge clubs and fiendishly strong hands can batter the life out of anything. Grots draw immense confidence from anything big, scary and on their side, and Dankhold Troggoths certainly fit the bill.

The most bossy and impressive grots are the ones that rise to the top of the pile, and it is for this reason that some seek out the biggest squigs to cause carnage with. For particularly brave and idiotic grots, there is always the prospect of lashing two huge Cave Squigs together to form the living wrecking balls known as Manglers. Pushing and pulling against one another constantly as their riders desperately try to point them in the right direction, these conjoined titans can lay waste to entire sections of a battleline – though whether it belongs to the enemy or their own forces hardly concerns the squigs. Fortress gates, gleaming phalanxes and monolithic engines of war have all been smashed asunder by the fury of Mangler Squigs or else chewed up beyond recognition by their outsize, drooling maws. Even in their death throes, Manglers enter a pea-brained frenzy, bouncing around in a last explosion of horrific brutality before finally rolling to a stop amidst the broken remains of their slayers. The chains that hold them together are also weapons in their own right, shredding through warriors unlucky enough to get tangled up in them.