The Badlands

The intensity of the sun made Torgrin Twin-Choppa squint his deep-set, blood red eyes.  On the horizon he could see a cloud of sand forming on the horizon.  From this distance it could be an impeding sandstorm, but his instincts told him it wasn’t.  Soon a dark spot appeared in the sand cloud as Torgrin stared, a vehicle of some kind.  It was likely ork scavengers or mutie raiders, which meant salvation or death had come to him this day.  He scanned his immediate surroundings, looking for any feature of the terrain that might give him some advantage.  Only a rock outcrop a few yards to the northeast looked promising.  Torgrin lumbered toward it, slinging his trademark choppas to his back as he reached the base.

The outcrop was a black obsidian-like rock, its surface burning hot.  The squig-hide gloves on his hands only offered minimal protection since they did not cover his thick, scarred fingers.  Torgrin used his claws and the palms of his gloved-hands to reduce his exposure to the searing rock as he scrambled up.  By the time he reached the top, he could hear the engine of the vehicle, its deep rumble reminded him of the seas of bubbling mud far to the south. 

Torgrin crouched low on his haunches, though he knew he had to stand out on the outcrop if the visitors bothered to looked his way.  He pulled one of the choppas from his back and flexed his grip on the handle so hard his knuckles cracked.  His other hand scrapped at the choppas blade.  He worked at removing the dried blood and corrosion as he waited and the trukk came closer.