The Jaws of Mork are the grots who looked upon the squig (that bounding ball of teeth, appetite, and barely-leashed murder) and saw not a beast of burden but a revelation. To this horde the squig is the Bad Moon's own get, a living punchline in the endless joke Mork tells at everyone else's expense, and to be devoured by one is very nearly a blessing.
They herd the creatures by the thousand, mount the maddest, and trust the rest to the physics of hunger pointed downhill. Where subtler Gitz creep and scheme, the Jaws attack as weather: Boingrot Bounderz vaulting the battle-line on armoured squigs, cave squigs surging behind in a chittering red flood that neither side controls. Fortress walls have fallen to nothing cleverer than squigs eating the defenders off the parapet.
Leadership is a brutally simple affair: whoever has ridden the biggest squig the longest without being swallowed is in charge, until the day his mount grows peckish. This produces short careers and boundless confidence. A Jaws boss does not plan a battle so much as aim it, certain that if the squig beneath him turns mid-charge, it is only the god's joke landing where it always meant to.
Order of battle
The Jaws of Mork field the units of the Gloomspite Gitz, a detachment from the roster:
Other Gloomspite Gitz formations
Moonclan GrotsThe hooded heart of the Gloomspite: fungus-farming cave grots beyond counting, armed with pokin' spears, moon-faced shields and a bottomless supply of spite. Individually they are cowards of legendary calibre; together, drunk on fungus-brew and prophecy, they are a tide that has drowned whole cities. Every Moonclan warren is certain the Bad Moon watches it especially.
Spiderfang GrotsGrots who crawled into the webs and came back changed, the Spiderfang worship the Spider God and ride its skittering children to war. Their shamans drink venoms that would drop a gargant and call the resulting visions scripture. Where an Arachnarok walks, the Spiderfang follow in its shadow, chittering prayers.
TroggherdsLumbering congregations of troggoths (stony Rockguts, reeking Fellwaters and cavernous Dankholds) that drift after the Bad Moon's gloom by pure instinct. A troggherd fears nothing, remembers nothing, and regrows anything cut off it. The grots trailing behind consider themselves its clergy; the troggoths have not noticed them.
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