Well, this group is for 40k (But NOT at all limited to, this is open to all Science Fiction and Fantasy) writers (And Fans!) to help each other in their writings, story lines, and whatever! Since the "40k Fan Group" is the most popular group here on Moddb (besides it being far from biggest), it could be cool to have something like this around for those of us who like to just think up our own stories N whatnot. Everyone is invited! -The Emperor Protects

Forum Thread
by member
  Posts  
Orkmoth (Groups : 40k (Sci-fi and Fantasy) Writers Workshop : Forum : Help with SF, Fantasy, and all in-between writing : Orkmoth) Locked
Thread Options
Oct 4 2011, 11:59am Anchor

My novel Orkmoth. I'll keep updating it for about 2 chapters, then stop, so the rest is a surprise.
So far I've finished 5 chapters. Yay ! :D

World Map [CLICK FOR A ZOOMED IN IMAGE ( SIZE: 6968x4653 )] :

Lore:
Ferridenuniverse.wikia.com

*

Prelude; The Blacksmith

"Now, quickly bring the pot", growled the short bearded man. His hand curled swiftly around the worn tongs, and with a careful grip, poured the molten iron into the furnace, heated by a magma chamber which lie below the city. One of the vents, or tunnels, extending from the magma chamber just happened to reach his blacksmith, and was a fine source of heat to smelt weapons and armour. "Just a few more minutes, and another sword for the army will be complete... lad? Where are you my boy?", he bellowed questionably. Furiously, the hairy, pot-bellied man waddled around his cluttered workshop, to the small staircase in the corner. Beside it was a small hatch. "Horro! Boy! What are you doing in here, there is plenty that needs be done..." The young man shrugged, slowly resting his stout face into his thin, bony hands. "17 years, and still... Horro, your mother would have loved to see you now, you're a hard-working lad. And you wouldn't know it, but your mother was a very hard-working lady, one of the best smith's in the city", the bearded man assured. Horro brought his face out from below his hands. "So your mother would love it if you'd come and help out around here!" signalled the bearded man, as he lifted Horro to his feet. Both of the gnomes quickly stumbled into the workshop.

Grawmar Xeroth was a caring, but fierce gnome of Vinewood City, and his blacksmith was none but the best around, perfect for the soldiers staying in the nearby barracks. His son, Horro was a shy, but extremely ambitious gnome, confident enough to take on anything bigger than himself. Gnomes had been the founding race of the powerful nation of Orkmoth, and were tougher than they'd seemed. Horro squirmed quietly toward his father.
"Father?" he murmured.
"Yes, lad?" Grawmar responded unconvincingly.
Horro rushed to his feet and asked breathlessly, "What's it like to fight in the great war". Grawmar hesitantly placed the tongs onto the table. "You know, the war against Seasalk, for the honour of our country," he continued.
"There is nothing honorary in war!" Grawmar roared. Impatiently he continued, "Thousands of soldiers sign up... Supposedly patriotically... Then lose all emotion through the true feeling of war... And once struck, directly, by the power of a blade, fall... Not thinking about their country, not at all, but simply thinking, why?" He silenced, then slowly calmed himself. "That's why you will never be joining, " he finished hastily. Horro sighed. Grawmar stared as Horro fumbled sluggishly upstairs. “It's always war and fighting with boys around here...” Grawmar muttered.

Horro stumbled up the last of the steps, and entered a dull room, in which was simply a bed and a wardrobe, nothing more. In his wardrobe were weapons he used when practising his combat skills, smelted by his father; and right at the back a small dagger, smelted by his mother, and a treasure to him. His bed was made from light oak, and was worn down, though enough to sleep on. Just as Horro got to bed, he heard a shout coming from just outside. He heard a tapping sound, as a rock lightly hit his window, then fell, feather-like, into a pale-faced boy's hands.
"What do you want, Wrawk?" Horro questioned quietly. Wrawk lengthened his arm to his pocket, and yanked out a piece of paper aggressively.
"A new barracks opened just around the corner, we can sign up there and join the Orkmoth 43rd regiment!" he snapped. Horro hesitated awkwardly.
"But, what if..."
"Oh it's fine! Come on, quick!" Wrawk concluded. Horro half-excitedly jumped out of bed, forcing himself into his clothes. He silently shuffled passed his father's bedroom door, and out to follow his friend.

Horro walked hesitantly toward the barracks, with his confident, sometimes arrogant friend Wrawk; whom walked breathlessly with excitement. Nearing the barracks, some Andrians ruthlessly branched around the corner, blocking their path directly.
"Whot woold yoo be doing at this time of night't," one of them yapped. Wrawk stared at them, and stubbornly held Horro back. Avians, often called Andrians, were the main race of the nation of Andria. They were bird-like creatures, human in height and stature. Commonly known to be rude creatures, and those in Orkmoth were often immigrants, who'd usually become gang members, muggers, or performed other kinds of criminal activity.
"We'd be going to sign up for the 43rd regiment," Wrawk responded over-confidently. Both birds impolitely broke down to uncontrollable laughter.
"Bo'o'th of yoo! Yoo, thin, scra'a'wny... children... Joining the war!?" one squawked. Wrawk momentarily stood, glaring viciously, before seizing one of the Avians by the throat. Horro tried helplessly to calm Wrawk, and make him stop, but he squirmed out of Horro's grasp. Wrawk had, by now, tore one of the birds beaks slightly, and had his blood covered fist clenched on it's left eye. The bird, which went on to let out a powerful screech, fell to the floor. The other ran aimlessly down the mist shrouded road. Wrawk broke to his knees, by the body of the unconscious creature. Carelessly, he managed to get to his feet, still facing the body.
“Come on,” he said fearfully, and continued down the road; Horro following hastily behind.

The road ahead had been gloomy, and cold, though eventually, the barracks had come into sight. Upon reaching the door to the barracks, a slit slid open in the door, and weary eyes peered out. A slight moan drained from his mouth as he viciously unlatched the door. He stood. A man, his nose and mouth covered by his rusted chain helmet, however the rest of his body was gleaming, engulfed by a large suit of plated armour.
“Yes, younglings?” he asked, in a weak, yet bold voice. Wrawk twitched with annoyance, before forcing himself toward the guard.
“Younglings! Why...”
“Stop,” Horro interrupted, “we are here to join the Orkmoth 43rd Regiment.”
“Hahaha,” the guard chuckled, “and why would you want to do that?”
“We...” Horro begun, though Wrawk spoke over him,
“We want to fight for Orkmoth!” The guard crouched, now noticing that they were serious.
“Are you sure you can bare the burden of war?” he whispered woefully. Wrawk tensed himself, whilst Horro stood, hesitant beside him.
“Of course,” Wrawk responded heartily.
“Aye then. My name is Omar, Sir Omar Ravenhall. Come with me,” he finished, leading them to a small room with a desk, in order to discuss their training, and preparation for battle.

Horro and Wrawk were each passed a piece of paper with a red seal.
“Right... I'll see you both here tomorrow at 6:00am sharp” Sir Ravenhall instructed. Wrawk turned to him sturdily to respond, whilst Horro stood nervously beside.
“Of course, sir”, he assured. Sir Ravenhall lead them through the cracked wooden floored hallway toward the door. Brick walls halted beside them, as they walked through the passage, their arms brushing against large plants in decorated pots. Ravenhall slowly twisted the doorknob, gently swinging open the door, allowing them to exit. Wrawk quickly rushed off down the misty road, into the distance, leaving Horro to walk home alone. As he turned the corner, he noticed the same Avian. Horro hesitantly jumped behind a hedge to hide, though the bird had already seen him.
“Kid! Yoo are go'o'ing to'o die”, he squawked, before continuing, “today's the, the, day yoo'll be killed by me'e, Vurr Don Grye.” Vurr swooped towards Horro with a circular weapon, swamped with spikes; missing as Horro jumped up, before climbing some vines up the side of a grey-bricked manor house. Vurr followed behind, as Horro jumped from one house to another, across the tiled, red rooftops. Horro slowly dragged closer, and closer into Vurr's grasp. Vurr reached out with his sharp, razor-like claws to Horro's shirt. Horro dropped his arms down, to wield a brick, which he launched at the versatile roofing below him. Catastrophically, the roof whined, before giving in, and collapsing below them. Vurr fell helplessly, before being incapacited by the rubble falling upon him. Horro, however, jumped stealthily across the falling bricks before halting upon a lush, green hill beside cottages which had lined the misty roads. After breathing; refreshed, he walked silently towards the cottage of which his father slept relentlessly. Horro sneaked heftily through the ancient wooden doors, and up the creaking stairs of the blacksmith, then back toward his room.

Horro let out a sigh of relief as he trod upon the top stair of the blacksmith, where he forced open his bedroom door. There, Grawmar stood, with a questioning l ook upon his face.
“Well then... where have you been?”, he conversed.
“I...” Horro was interrupted by Grawmar, who continued,
“I saw you run off down toward the barracks.” Horro stumbled before revealing himself.
“Yes, father. We signed up for the 43rd regiment,” Horro responded innocently.
“Eh... I...” Grawmar stopped as Horro interrupted,
“I am old enough to make my own decisions father!” Horro was tense, unlike usual, before calming himself.
“I... I tried. Your mother didn't want... Ahem, I'll see you at dawn then,” he finished. Horro fumbled, upset and annoyed, upon his bed, slowly lying his head to a rest.

Chapter 1; Murky Overule

Everywhere had been enshrouded in fire, as ponds of magma run around the Yurl's throne room. The Yurl was the ruler of the land, and the word itself derives from Jarl. This trepid room sat staring out at the swamps on the outskirts of Salkanreach, standing 200 feet above the ground. The floor glass; walls of obsidian, decorated by gems; black and brown. The mighty Yurl of Seasalk lazed in his throne, pondering methods of assault, beside the Orb of Creation. Seasalk is a dark, murky kingdom, hostile to any other, fighting the ever-growing war against Orkmoth. And a pitiful one at that. Orkmothian generals enlist whomever they can to defeat the brutes of Seasalk that call themselves the Khurryax Wraek [Kur-yar-rai] – Beasts of Injustice.
“Their ports, sire, they have been overrun”, noted one of the lizard-like beasts.
“Excellent...” the Yurls words slowly drifted across the room, in a deep, cackling tone. He reached for the Orb, which was just out of grasp. Swiftly, the Orb lifted above the table, and swooped into his grip like magic. His tight, tensing grip. Firmly he stood, turned, and flung himself across the room, his cloak swaying as he moved toward a large, blue, celestial-like body. Upon his touch he disappeared, reappearing at the bottom of the gloomy tower.

As he exit, a sight so dreaded that turmoil could breach your heart. Gnomes worked, as slaves to the Yurl. Each one, with eyelids removed as punishment for war-crimes, working in pain and solitude. The land amongst the tower was pounded, smashed and battered, as if it were a bomb testing ground. The landscape was very different to the common Salkan swamp. The Yurl trod upon the cracked, crippled, crumbling terrain, utterly ignorant to his surroundings, arriving at the barracks of Count Khorrae [Kor-I].
“What is Orkmoth planning! You'd better answer to me!” the Count groaned uncontrollably. A prisoner, now in tears, forced his head backwards, coughing up phlegm from the very back of his throat and propelling it into the Counts face. Bad move. By now, the prisoner could no longer see, as his head sat on the floor, two meters from his body, as blood gush from his neck. A large flesh-like object had all of a sudden been slung across the chairs that lined the edges of the barracks. This was the Gnomes intestine. The Count stood to one side, as the Yurl, untouched by the prisoners death,  wandered in; stumbled over the body, and savoured his heart, in a single bite.

The Salkans were a lizard-like race, with rough rigid bodies. Talons in-turned; spikes, thorn-like, encrusted their backs. With a humane posture, large legs, arms relatively short and stubby. As if they were dragons; reptilian giants, they savaged their victims - nothing is left behind.

*

Edited by: cork279

Reply to Thread
click to sign in and post

Only registered members can share their thoughts. So come on! Join the community today (totally free - or sign in with your social account on the right) and join in the conversation.