Sprat - a short story

This was a short 500-word story that I wrote for the Black Library Open Submissions in 2021. They were after something for the Age of Sigmar setting, to accompany the Dawnbringer Crusade narrative, just a 500-word excerpt to show what the story might look like. I wanted to write something from the perspective of greenskins (surprisingly), and wanted to try and make a whole story fit into the 500 words that could be expanded later. My intention was to expand on the view of this orc warband from different perspectives, should they take it forward... unfortunately, it wasn't what they were looking for, so they rejected it. But some of my friends liked it so I might see about expanding it myself in the future. Hope you enjoy it!  

Sprat poked the squiglet with his pokin’ stikk. Sharp yellow fangs poked out of his mouth as he grinned at the little beast’s pained squeaking. The grot would never have had the temerity to poke one of those big squigs that the Gloomspite Gitz bred. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have poked the tiny squiglet if it wasn’t locked in a rusty cage, awaiting the stewing pot. But he could be a right brave little greenskin when bullying a creature smaller than himself, long as it was caged.

Anyway, he reflected to himself, he had to poke the runts to check they was gonna be nice and tender for da boss and ‘is ladz when they came back from scrapping. Sprat had a very important job, he thought to himself as he puffed out his chest and jabbed the stick through the bars again. He was da boss’s favourite grot, allowed to stand in the great orruk’s presence and pour his grog; polish his boots; serve his squigstew. It may not have seemed like much but, compared to the lives of his fellow grots, Sprat had it made!  

 

Megaboss Mogfang Urzag stomped into the camp, blood dripping from his enormous axe. The stamping of iron shod boots and bellowing of victory chants behind him heralded the rest of the Ironjawz orruks returning from battle.

 

The big boss was coming, Sprat heard his heavy steps approaching the tent. He stood just inside the door flap, back as straight as he could make it, looking attentive and holding a huge horn of grog with both hands. Everything was ready for the boss; Sprat was sure that he was going to be pleased.

Mogfang swept the flap of the tent back and stamped into the dim interior, throwing the huge axe down as he looked around for something to drink. Where was that zoggin’ grot? Useless little blighter. Looking down, the orruk saw his favourite drinking horn slowly spinning on the earthen floor next to his axe, the contents spilling out. He growled in anger and snatched up the drinking vessel.

“SPRAT!” he roared, “get yer useless hide in ‘ere and get me sum grog!”

Two beady red eyes had been watching from behind a pole at the other side of the tent and a crooked grin of pointy yellow teeth had briefly shone when Mogfang had walked in and dropped his axe right on Sprat’s head. The owner of the eyes sidled out from its hiding place and spoke in a high, squeaking voice.

“Yes boss, right away boss.”

“Oh, dere you are Sprat,” rumbled the huge orruk as he sat heavily in his throne.

The grot bowed low and took the drinking horn to refill it. As he walked to the grog barrel, he peered out the back of the tent. A crowd of grots were gathered out there, clamouring for a look inside. He knew they were waiting for something to happen to him, too. There was always another Sprat.