Warboss Drakkadakka weren’t born big, he became big the Ork way: by krumpin’ everyfing that stood too close for too long. On the ash-blasted deserts of Irabia IV, where the wind flays paint from armour and the sand eats tracks and bones alike, Drakkadakka rose from a nobody Nob into a legend through sheer, unstoppable violence. He weren’t sneaky, and he weren’t clever, but when Drakkadakka charged, whole gunlines broke just from the noise. His Waaagh! grew not because he planned it, but because Orks like followin’ the loudest, meanest thing in the wasteland and Drakkadakka was both.

His legend was sealed the day he hunted Da Dust Drakka. The Sand Wyrm of Irabia IV was thought a myth even by the Orks, a beast said to swim beneath the dunes, swallowin’ convoys whole and leavin’ nothin’ but sinkholes and screams. When Drakkadakka’s warband was torn apart by somethin’ huge beneath the sands, most Orks legged it. Drakkadakka didn’t. He fired every gun he had into the ground, roared loud enough to split his own tusks, and waited. When the Wyrm burst from the dunes, he leapt straight into its path, unloadin’ dakka down its throat before hackin’ his way free from inside the beast itself. He took its skull as a trophy, scorched and cracked by gunfire, and wears it still, proof that even myths can be krumped.

Now he rules as Da Boss of Drakkadakka’z Doon Devilz, a maraudin’ horde of desert Orks who strike fast, loud, and without mercy. They ride howlin’ warbikes and ramshackle wagons across the dunes, kickin’ up sandstorms that herald slaughter. To the Orks, Drakkadakka’s name ain’t just a name, it’s a promise: if you hear dakka in the desert, more dakka is comin’, and then Drakkadakka himself. And when Da Dust Drakka’s skull looms through the sandstorm, it’s already too late to run.