The bellowing Warboss roared his triumph as the Golem crumbled underneath his blazing fists, the darkness of their deaths washing over him and his forces like a wave of spilled blood, relishing in the triumph of a glorious battle.
For Orks, rage, violence, exultation in carnage, and bloodshed are integral parts of their very being. The influence the darkness attempted to assert upon the Avatar of Gork and Mork was like throwing a bundle of kindling onto a roaring inferno. The Warboss hardly noticed the difference, and kept plowing his way through his enemies with the same single-minded glee he always did. A few of his boyz may have gotten a bit more rowdy than normal, and a few brawls may have broken out among his forces, but the Nobz, similarly used to being saturated in fury and violence, though perhaps not to the same extent of their Warboss, quickly got the ladz back in line, directing their fury and bloodlust back at the gits they were supposed to be krumpin'.
If anything the effects of the wave may have made the Orks more dangerous to the Shaiton than anything; a green wedge was driving its way into the enemy forces now, the Boyz even more eager to get stuck in than before. With the Seraphim all hiding behind shields or writhing on the ground like they'd already been snikked, the only fight worth having was dead ahead in the Shaiton lines. And the boyz took to it with gusto, bullets, axes, and flung Grots rending the air like a tidal wave as they hurled themselves heedlessly at their designated foes.
A right an' propa WAAAAAAAGH!!!, all things considered.