ORK HOLLOW SHELLZ KOMMANDOS T2

Six shell-wearin' killers. Six masks nobody asked dem to carve. Dey found each other in da fog. Now dey walk together, still quiet. Each Hollow boy goes Hollow alone. Dat's da way of it. Da spore-fog takes him one mornin,' puts da idea in his skull, and he picks up somethin' dat used to crawl - a beetle-shell off da jungle floor, a chitin-plate, a jawbone off a thing dat died under da mulch - and straps it to his face. He don't tell nobody. Don't announce. Don't shout. Just puts it on. And when he walks outta da fume dat day, he ain't da same Ork. He's Hollow. Da warband finds him later, or he finds dem, but da mask came first. Alone. Six of 'em dis time. Six stories nobody's ever gonna tell. No two Orks. No two shells. Nobody ever picks da same one. Ain't none of 'em carryin' da same kit. Hollow boyz kill deir own way. Even dat's personal. What dey do together is da part what ruins evenings. Dey move through da spore-cloud like it's a room dey know da shape of. Dey split around da ene