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I didn't know if we were allowed to post non-warhammer fiction, if not please remove with great haste, fair mod.
This a peice of fiction I've been working on for a while ( I seem to be able to write two pages in 15 minutes tneh have to take a break for four weeks) I hope its not to cliche, as I've tried to steer so far from regular cliches I've probably circled round to some of my own. Be warned some parts are a little expletive. Ive written more but ill only post the first part. (Oh and i hope you can be bothered to read it all.)
Orwen sat at a table at the Last Retreat. The cool oak beneath his hands was entwined with an intricate grain. He traced his digits across the veins in the wood, his fingers dancing along them as smoke dances within a warm summer’s air. The tavern was bright and warmer than was found to comfort by most of its patrons, the whole place seemed to emanate an orange glow. Even the cool blue flames burning in their brass lamps gave the room an even more heated demeanour. The smells that accompanied all taverns, a mix of alcohol and unwashed bodies, lingered on the air along with a gentle mix of smoke, both opium and smoke leaf, drifting from the back rooms and the private quarters. Then towards Orwen’s right sat a large group of men sat around a table cheering, swearing, drinking and laughing. Every now an then becoming silent after which some cheered and some shouted in anguish. During these periods of silence a small tap-tap-tap of wood on wood could be heard. Orwen knew this sound very well and it set his knuckles twitching. Dice. Orwen knew that sound very well.
Orwen rose to join them when the door of the tavern flew backwards shrieking on its brass hinges. A-half dozen so, or as Orwen could count, men in armour entered the establishment, each wore a leather tunic of the City guard, dyed a deep red by the blood of the wild bulls that roamed the lumber fields upon the outside edges of the city, they each also wore shirt of gleaming chain mail and a kettle helmet made of a much duller metal and banded with bronze.
The sergeant looked over to one of the serving girls, a hint of prick in his eyes “Get me a damn drink!” he walked over to the barkeep talking to him in hushed tones. He walked off into one of the back rooms, the serving girl soon followed after him. The other guards moved over to the table closest to them, the same one with the dozen-and-a-half men playing dice. “We’re here now” said one of them, snatching the drink out off the nearest mans hand. “Go find somewhere else to sit! Yer crust sacks” One of the men stood up he wore a leather vest with out any sleaves, though he was short his arms rippled with muscles and he had the stance of a man with determination and an air of confidence as though he were used to giving orders. “I’m Kale, damn second in command of the town militia, dunno where you dwarf lovers rank but I ain’t taken no orders from you!” he said stepping forward the guardsman drained his drink, throwing the cup down he drew a stout wooden cudgel from his belt. It was black, ebony and with a steel cap at the larger end. Testing the weight in his hand he muttered to the other guards “Lads, show him some judicial negotiations” the other guards drew their clubs smirking. The man yelped as he was thrown into a corner, the strongmen beating him as he went. Then as he cowered against the wall he received many kicks. The guards’ shoes making a thudding noise as they crowded around him, hammering at his flesh. “Right boys, that’s enough. Leave the bastard be.” They walked away, the man bloodied and twitching whimpered and sobbed before he slipt into unconsciousness. The other men stood up in anguish. “Come on, m’boys there’s only five of them. We’ll take ‘em!” The man picked up a bottle, wielding it like a club. Patrons ran for the door, the barkeep and his serving girls fled for the kitchen door. Calmly but swiftly Orwen headed for the stairs, a keen vantage point should anything go wrong. He drew one of his throwing knives under his cloak, the leather bound hilt warm from his body. Then just as the fighting was beginning to turn into an all out brawl, the door flew back on its hinges, an icy blast entering the room. The blue candles began to flutter and send long shadows dancing rapidly upon the wall. In walked a ragged bunch, men all armed. They each were dressed differently some in chain mail, some in leather. They had each one thing in common, a badge clasping onto their clothes of a white fist, indicating them as mercenaries. There were two people with them, one a man and the other a boy who could have been no more than of his fifteenth year. The boy was unconscious and as the mercenaries entered the room they threw him down, drawing their weapons. Orwen recognised the man, and with a start sent a knife hurtling end over end at the mercenary holding him. At the same time he leapt over the banister dashing towards his life long friend Thrust, who, as the knife hit his captor, dove wildly to the ground, both his feet slamming into the back of the mercenary in front of him in an amazing drop kick. “That’s great,” thought Orwen “Damn unorthodox, bastard.” As he ran Orwen drew his combat knife; Callum, shoving brawling guardsmen and thugs out of his path. He weaved through the scrum, ducking and dodging past limbs, clubs and bottles. As he neared Thrust, a man lunged at Orwen, with a cry and a knife in hand. Orwen tried to step to the side, but was caught in a grapple with a hulking brute. Falling to the ground with the man upon him, he put his feet up. Always keep something between you and someone who wants to hurt you. The man was too heavy for Orwen to push off with his feet, and he attempted to draw his second combat knife; Tinge, being unable to reach the knife he felt around for anything else, parrying blows from the brutes knife with a luckily found bottle. Finding his handgrip around something solid he drew it from his belt, surprising the man and bring the blow across the side of his head. The object shattered and Orwen winced, realising it was his Opium pipe. None the less it knocked his opponent out cold. Orwen shoved him off, taking his moneybag and a few rings off his fingers in a quick thief’s “once over”. Rather than standing Orwen scrambled along the ground, weaselling his way under table and chair legs, his spine bending and flexing in more and less comfortable positions. He crawled over to where the boy that had been with Thrust was. He took the few coins the boy had then dragged him under the safety of the table. He peered out under the forest of legs and feet, searching for Thrusts odd shoes. A pointed buckled boot and a leather sandal with silver buckles. Orwen took a pre-rolled smokestick from his its case at his breast, he reached around on top of the table for a candle, and lit it taking a long drag and looking for Thrust once more. Whilst not seeing his friend he did however notice a nice looking bottle of Karakov Spirit rolling toward him. Reaching out with one hand he looked at the fading letters, some Karakov glyphs. Underneath written in spidery Holmish read “To Barkeep Stenn, yours always Miska.” Orwen plucked the cork from the bottle with his teeth and slight grin, knowing the barkeeps wife was not named Miska. Sitting there under the table Orwen was quite content. Smoke and grog he thought If only I had some dice or cards and maybe a nice girl. With that thought his peace was disturbed by the now intensifying melee. Some bastard had over turned his table, and was glaring at Orwen, the man's yellowing teeth and wide white eyes. In surprise Orwen coughed the clear spirit from his lips, I sprayed past his smokestick and ignited, gout of flame leaping from his lips. Both Orwen and the man leapt back in strides. A few of the brawlers had noticed and were giving him a wide berth, but the rest continued as though he had not just mimicked a dragon. Orwen looked at the bottle, took one more mouth full and threw it away, the glass shattering in contact with the floorboards. Orwen once again looked for both a vantage point and noticed a sandaled foot sticking out from behind the bar; he began to head towards it, and then remembered the boy. He looked backwards and forwards between safety of himself and the boy, deciding himself would be better, he dashed for the bar, diving over it. A startled Thrust greeted him by rasing his katana in defence. He noticed a spark in his friend’s eyes, almost thinking for a moment it was a lost emotion he then noticed the metallic black orb in his friend’s hand, a glowing wick not properly lit. “Thrust” Orwen grabbed for the bomb “not now, we could get hurt if this place caves in.” Thrust put the wick into his mouth, snuffing it out. “Not to mention Tarramock” Thrust small pointy beard bobbed as he spoke, distracted by it Orwen also noticed it was slightly singed at the end. “Who?” Orwen raised his eyebrows quizzically. “My son” Tarramock said, now a glint in his eye that wasn’t the fault of any wick. Orwen chuckled “I didn’t know you were married” “I’m not” replied Thrust, a sly grin spreading across his features. Nothing more need saying, Orwen remembering the amount of whore houses he had visited in the last week alone, let alone the other damsels he had wooed in his life. I’ve probably got sons everywhere he thought just so long as none of them catch up to me. Breaking his train of thought came a crash as the door swung upon on its hinges, followed by a crack like thunder, which Orwen believed it was at first. A cry of pain and then the slum was quiet. Not a soul stirred, nor a sole stepped. Orwen and Thrust peered over the bar, a tall siluetted figure at the door. Arm extended, pistol in hand, and barrel smoking. His military coat fully buttoned and hugged his form, whilst reviling a slim, lithe figure only accentuated the presence of fear about him. Seeming to broaden both his shoulders and presence. He wore the coats high collar buttoned, all except at the very top, letting one of the corners hang out showing a purple lining. Like the green moon and its twin, a pair of what Orwen first thought were twin combat monocles, only to realise they were actually brass rimmed spectacles with some kind of green lens, glowed as though their only reason for existence was to break the field of black between his collar and his black hat. The hat being the most common of Holmish design, broad rimmed, felt and with a belt for tightening and loosening around the band. Orwen, as usual being attracted to shiny objects, noticed his gleaming brass silver buttons, shaped as skulls. A second pistol was holstered on the man’s right, being held in a hard brown leather case, matching his belt. The figure quickly slammed the pistol back into its holster, drawing the other. They all flinched but no one ran, and with silence and pistol held high he introduced himself. “I am Yvenon, Third Purple Cudgel of the Holmish Throne.” There was no need for this introduction, other than the name, every one in the room, neigh, the country knew who this man was merely by his presence let alone his dress. “I want not a move, nor a whisper.” He turned the built in spanner until the entire room was split with the click of the wheel lock turning into place. Orwen knew he was not the only one in the room with piss dripping down his leg. “I want two people, I only know of them as Tarramock and Thrust.” Orwen and Thrust both slid, hiding down behind the bar. “Time to go” muttered Orwen urgently, “Tarramock” muttered Thrust emotionally. Orwen bit his own fist, his voice an inaudible stream of curses and other black words. The kindest of which Thrust could make out as “…damn…kid…” They could hear Yvenon pacing back and forth, his leather boots creaking on the floorboards. He spoke again “No one has beheld these men? Forsooth?” the last word was cold with sarcasm. He began to talk again but trailed off almost as soon as he began, then started, he cried out “Aha! I see the boy and unconscious too, but no father? Where could Papa be?” Thrust’s hand did not go to his sword like a normal father’s would but went to his belt, plucking a very intricately decorated bomb. It was blue with images of dragons and fireballs carved into it; painted delicately and had blockish, square writing around the top. The unusual thing about it other that it ornamental seeming decoration, was that where the fuse would be on a normal bomb was instead a pertusion out from which stuck what looked like the end of a delicate metal key. Orwen felt puzzled, this was different than any bomb he had seen, and being around Thrust he had seen many, Thrust having put his finger through the loop in n the end of the key and drew it out its resting place, there was a grating sound of steel on rock and a thousand tiny sparks could be seen dancing alive inside the mechanism, when the key was removed there was a splutter then as though the bomb was wheezing a small burst of air then if came to life. Sparks and smoke grew from it like any other bomb. With a cry, Orwen realised what was going on and made a grab for it, but Thrust moved his hand away and tossed the glowing package out over his head and let out the shout “Bomb out!” It was like slow motion, Orwen ducked down behind the bar in a huddled mass, hands clasped over his ears heavily. Yvenon knew the cry “Bomb out!” As a warning, he grabbed Tarramock over one shoulder and leapt for the door.
All Mac Users Go To Hell.