To the Orks, war is not tragedy but joy, and no ork ever dreamed a grander joy than the warlord who set his eye upon Vigilus. The War of Dakka was his masterpiece of noise and speed, a Speedwaaagh of such ferocity that the wastelands of the sentinel-world became a single deafening roar of engines and gunfire, the greenskin tide pouring across the plains in a storm of scrap and mad ambition.
The Astra Militarum and the Space Marines who defended Vigilus found their carefully ordered lines swept aside by sheer velocity, the orks hurtling past strongpoints, overrunning artillery, and drowning disciplined firepower beneath an avalanche of buggies, bikes and bellowing warriors. The very earth shook with the passage of the horde, and the sky was black with the smoke of a hundred thousand engines burning promethium and worse.
The frenzy was checked at last, but never truly beaten, for orks are not defeated so much as spent, their momentum broken and their warlord's dream deferred rather than denied. The wastes of Vigilus were left littered with the wreckage of the Speedwaaagh, a scrapyard the survivors could scarcely comprehend having lived through. The greenskins would gather again, as they always do, and the roar of Dakka would rise once more, hungrier for the interruption.
The chronicle continues
