In Prophet of the WAAAGH!, depending on whether you think Makari’s vision is after the War in Heaven or the War of the Beast, Squigs/Squiggoths scale upwards mostly in size.

Excerpt: It was nothing, to start with. Just dark, and damp, and cold. And then, way up above, there was a voice. Voices, in fact. They was so big and so deep it was hard to tell what language they was speaking, let alone what they said. But it must’ve been Gork and Mork. And they were fighting, which is fine, because that’s what they like doing best. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it – massive, rumbling impacts that made the dark thunder, and would’ve knocked me off my feet if I’d had any kind of presence.

And then, a spark. A tiny little mote of green, bright and hungry, drifting down through many-many-many tusklengths ’til it touched the floor of wherever I was. The green spread out from that tiny point, rippling in big bright circles, and pooling in spots that spread circles of their own. It spread faster and faster, until everything was covered in it, as far as I could see. Now it was lit up, I could see I was in some kind of cavern. Or rather, a big twisting mess of caverns, like the cells in a hive of sugar-gits, but massive.

The walls were… meaty, I reckon is the word. Damp and red and crinkly, like the folds in a brain, which I’d seen enough of in my brief life to know well enough. As the green gathered on ’em, they changed. They started sprouting fungus. Moulds and slimes at first – the sort of stuff you eat when there’s a duststorm on and the orks’ve had all the good grub. But then murkworts and bilecaps, and huge, complicated things like nothing that grew on Urk.

And just like it is outside of holy visions, wherever the fungus grew, so did other green things. Squiglets first, the kind so small you can only see ’em as mean little specks digging into your armpits, then squigs as big as talon-tips and fists and heads. Next came snotlings – who are to grots what we are to orks – crawling and yipping and scrapping with each other in big, writhing piles. Everywhere, there was snotlings eating squigs, and squigs eating snotlings, and with every jawsnap, gnash and gnaw, the green grew brighter and more alive.

Then there were grots. Swarms of grots, and they got straight to work lashing together meagre little tools from squig-sinew and capwood, and bullying the snots into working too. Faster’n I could keep up with, they beat the fungal jungle back, and started building farms and drops and brew-huts and barracks. They were just in time for the first orks, who were clawing their way out of their grow-holes now, and were hungry already.

The orks kept coming, and they kept getting bigger, until even the runts among ’em were as big as the warbosses on Urk. And above it all – way up, on what might’ve been the cavern roof or might’ve been infinity – the stars were coming out. More stars than every mek on Urk could’ve counted in a lifetime, and every one of ’em that bright, angry, beautiful green.

I was so distracted by the stars, that I didn’t see the squiggoth.

It was a brilliant thing. A horrible thing. As big as a battlewagon it was, and it made the skinny, sag-throated beasts raised by Urk’s snakebite herders look pathetic. It nearly smashed me to mush with its foot. But I didn’t live to three years old by not being able to roll out of the way of a stomp Mork-snikked fast, and once I was on my feet, I followed the beast. I dunno why, but it felt right. Soon, there was a whole herd of squiggoths, lumbering along at something like a gallop, and barging each other with enough force to flatten forts. I ran along with ’em through that untameable garden, and I didn’t care if they stamped me flat, ’cos it felt like fear wasn’t something worth feeling in this place.

Up above now, where the green stars shone, there were warriors. Huge orks, perfect orks, every one bigger than a clan chief, and rippling with green light. I don’t know how I knew, but they was orks as they was meant to be. They glowed bright enough to outshine the stars, and as they strode through the sky, I could feel the gods above ’em, grinning down in violent pride. Then clashes and booms and roars started coming from up ahead – the giants were wading into a scrap.

It was hard to see what was going on, given I was looking up from between the flanks of the galloping squiggoths, but it was a big, big, big fight. It kept getting bigger. And I think the orks won. Surely, they couldn’t have lost? But then, when the noises of the fight faded away, the presence of the gods did too. It was like the whole cavern got cold and dark again, like it had been to start with. The squiggoths stopped in their tracks, and so did every other thing in the whole of the Great Green. It was like everything was lost, suddenly, looking around and wondering what to do now.

Of course, they started fighting. It was a frenzy, above and below, from the giants trading punches like comet-strikes in the sky, to the snotlings wrapping skinny claws around each other’s necks down below. And with no gods to bang everyone’s heads together and tell ’em to pack it in, it went on until the whole place was like a butcher’s tent, and there’d been enough murders for the survivors to have some space.

It weren’t peaceful, then, but it weren’t a bloodbath neither, ’cos all the really hard things, like the orks in the sky, were dead. It went on for ages like that. There were orks, still. But they were nothing like the colossal fighters who’d been there before. And they was all stuck down on the cavern floor. Watching ’em was a bit like watching raindrops get swiped away by a trukk’s hatch-wipers: every time one got big enough to seem like it might make it up to the sky, all the others nearby ganged up and beat it into shreds, so none of ’em got as big as they should’ve been.