At that very moment, every group descended into chaos.
The city guards stopped maintaining order, and the "daemons" outside surged madly toward the city.
With Orks in front of them, faction no longer mattered. Everyone had to band together and kill them first.
Evan was shoved into the city by the crowd, repeatedly looking back.
Something felt wrong.
Wait!
Those things back there were... Killa Kans and Gork Dreadnoughts!
Evan looked at the Orks' advanced technology, then at the powerful ballistae atop the walls. A terrible feeling shot straight through his skull.
That technological gap was enormous!
Although he had dealt with the Forces of Nurgle plenty of times, they usually either hurled sticky skulls around or sprayed everything with Cesspit Nozzles. They hardly looked high-tech, but surely they weren't...
Uh.
Evan was dumbfounded.
He entered the city with the other "daemon farmers." Behind the walls was not an arsenal of rolling logs and defensive stones, but... a huge collection of heavy mortars.
What he had seen was the Barbican's wall. On the taller wall behind it, covers were pulled off enormous artillery pieces. The thick Urban Camouflage Netting barely had any dust on it, suggesting frequent use.
Holy shit!
Your Grandfather was the steel kind of father!
Evan finally realized what was wrong. The Orks were still Orks, but the Dark God seemed to have veered off course.
Where was the rusted steel? The rotting swamps? Was this Grandfather not that Grandfather?
Fortunately, one thing remained similar.
Grandfather's armies were renowned for their unity. These "daemons" came in every conceivable variety; Grandfather accepted them all. In this gathering that might as well have been a convention of Warp species, Evan did not stand out at all.
Draped in a filthy "Farmer Outfit" that covered him completely, he attracted little