Graglug, chief of the Skull Cleaver Orcs, looked down at the mass of timber, rope and metal before him, and shook his head sadly.
"Been worried about you, Bruglodd," he said, "you're goin' stunty." The other looked up sharply.
"Wotcher mean?" he demanded, "I'm as tall as you any day!"
"Nah," persisted Graglug, "Not stunty, I mean stunty! All this makin' stuff. Ain't right. Not what Orcs do. Bet you don"t even know where your sword is in all that junk."
"I can find it quick enough if you want to make something of it," retorted Bruglodd, "Even if you are the chief."
"But all this stuff," said Graglug, "I mean, what's it for?"
"It's a weapon." said Bruglodd proudly.
"A weapon?" gasped Graglug incredulously, "A weapon? Have you any idea how many clubs and cleavers and skull crumpers and bone snappers you could make with that lot? And you're going to make one weapon out of the whole lot? Daft, you are. You'll never be able to pick it up, let alone swing it."
"Not that sort of weapon," Bruglodd assured him, "A special one. Give us a hand and I'll show you. 'Ere, grab this." A heavy wooden beam was thrust into Graglug's hands, and before he had a chance to protest that manual labour was beneath his dignity as a chief, he found himself lashing it to the framework that Bruglodd had built.
"That's the way," Bruglodd encouraged him, "Now we can put the wheels on."
"Wheels?" echoed Graglug, "You're not thinking, are you? I mean if you need to build a cart to move it about on, how are you going to swing it?"
"You'll see," Bruglodd chuckled, "Just wait." By now a small crowd of Orcs had gathered round, watching the strange spectacle of their chief helping Bruglodd the Fruitcake build the strange construction. Next, Brugiodd bolted a huge and ugly carved face to the front of the structure.
"Looks just like you, chief," he chuckled.
Graglug clapped his hand over his eyes as Bruglodd dragged from his cave a huge, twisted piece of thornwood, strung with a thick rope
"A bow," he said, as much to himself as to the crowd, "A bowl What the gutsucking good is a bow you need to carry around on a cart? We're Orcs, you know - Orcs not pansy Elves forty foot tall! You'll never get arrows big enough, for a start."
"Not using arrows," Bruglodd explained, lashing the gigantic bow to the framework, "Using rocks."
"ROCKS?" Graglug almost screamed, "Whoever heard of shooting rocks from a bow? Have you been drinking the lamp-oil again?"
"You'll see;" muttered Bruglodd, dragging out the final piece of the structure. It was a beam of wood, almost fifteen feet long, with a huge metal hand at one end. He fitted it to the structure, then tied the hand end to a winch at the other end of the frame.
"Give us a hand, chief." he said, and the hand slowly descended as the two Orcs worked the winch against the pull of the bowstring. Next, Bruglodd staggered out of his cave with a large rock, which he put in the hand.
"Watch this," he said, winking at Graglug *
He cut the rope holding the arm to the winch, and the pull of the bowstring snapped the arm up. The rock flew through the air, landing some distance away with a crash.
The assembled Orcs murmured in awe. Graglug scratched his head, speechless.
"Saw some humans using one once. Mangle-something-or-other, they called it. Wotcher reckon?"
"Could be handy," conceded Graglug, "If you can get some boys to work it. Still reckon it's stunty stuff, though."
"Look at Notlob," argued Bruglodd, "Having those spearchuckers didn't do 'im no harm."
"'Spose so," agreed Graglug, "So what's it called again? Man-mangler?"
"That"s near enough," said Bruglodd. "That"s what it"ll do, anyway."
"Yer," said Graglug, slowly warming to the idea, "Nice one. Got another job for you now, too."
"What?" asked Bruglodd eagerly.
"You can get that rock out of my 'ut and rebuild it - NOW!"
The mangonel is a stone thrower, and follows all the normal rules (See Warhammer, Book 1).
Bruglodd is an Orc Minor Hero, with the following profile:
The crew are normal Orcs, with the following profile: