Rapid Fire Challenge: Amalgamation - October 2020

[Race Bannon]

Prompt: Amalgamation

Maximum length: 500 words

Deadline: 31 October 2020

Where to post submissions: In this thread

Note - please make sure all submissions adhere to the forum rules. Any entry that breaks one or more rules shall be removed.

[Mazer Rackham]

'Ere we go again.

 

We's got all the boxes come rumbling in, belchin' smoke and clanking down the ramps.  I 'ate this bit, with a capitul 'A'.  We's all been killed so there's only me an' the En-sun left.  She's called an En-sun cos she's got blonde hair and always complaining when it rains. She complains about a lot to be fair.  Dunno why she just can't get on wiv it, like I does.  Anyway, I know what Ogryns is like and I know I's got to bang 'Eads together or dey won't listen to 'Er one bit.  I dun like it.

 

I use me fingers to count, like what the Empra gave us, the Captin said.  I miss Big 'At, but I won't let 'Im down. "Alright you miserable lot!" I bellows, "Get inta line!"

 

The mob tramps about, looks like dey's from any old place.  Some's from a swamp, others got 'ats and 'elmets and guns like mine.  I thinks of home, but I don't think too long.  I points and grunts at 'em and finally they stand still.

 

"Roight!" I shouts, and I see the En-Sun wince, "youse is all replacements.  That means I's got sen-your-ity."  The Kernel told me about that, because I lived longest and got experience - I knows why he's a walnut now.  Withered with worry and age.  I takes a good look at 'em, and a couple of cheeky ones give me the eye.

 

"Where you from?" I asks a tall one, with a jaw like a tank turret.

 

"Bruntuth Reg-lars."

 

"You?"

 

"Saraka Broadswords."

 

I take a step back.  "Well you is all in the Manty Core Seventh now," I wave me arm at the En-Sun and she rolls her eyes and starts spoutin' about how the Regiment is proud of 'em and how we's all part of a big team and the Empra loves us.  She salutes and we salute back, hands crunchin' into 'elmets.  It'll take elbow grease to get them dents out, I tells you.  I wait until she's gone into 'er tent and turns back to the mob.

 

"Remember," I grin the way only a Sar-Gent can, "she's the leader, but I's in charge.  Now!  Let's get rat-shuns together!"

Won't be long afore the first fight comes, but that's part of being new mates.

 

MR.

[Dumah]

Good one Mazer! I thought at first I was reading about orks but you did well to clarify that quickly.

[Bjorn Firewalker]

It was fun to see through the Ogryns' POV for once. (Adding the "for once" due to concerns less competent writers will try to duplicate Mazer Rackham's success, wearing away my interest as a direct consequence- look up the terms "badass decay" and "conservation of ninjutsu" on TV Tropes.)

[Mazer Rackham]

Thank you very much Dumah and Bjorn for your fantastic comments.  I have tried to implement previous feedback to make this latest effort a bit smoother.  Please don't hesitate to offer further advice :)

 

I welcome it all.

 

On the Orky subject, I find the dialect used by my Ogryns very difficult to balance, generally because of the popular exposure of Ork culture, so it's something I try to improve on each time to give them their own voice.  I know as a rule-of-thumb it's not best practice to write in dialect or slang, because it can, as Bjorn rightly says, become old hat very quickly - so it maybe is a blessing the RFC snippets are so short.  Dialect can also be very tiring to read, and that is definitely something to be avoided!

 

The TV Tropes website is very useful to avoiding stereotypes, and how to subvert them.  Worth a read if nothing else! :)

 

I hope to see further submissions from the talented folks here at the BnC!

 

Mazer.

[Urauloth]

I've been trying to think of ways of writing an Ork PoV that doesn't go too hard on the space cockney eye-dialect, but it seems like a difficult balance. I don't think it's bad, but if it can be done differently I'd like to try it to introduce a different flavour. I like your Ogryn writing, Mazer.

[Mazer Rackham]

I've been trying to think of ways of writing an Ork PoV that doesn't go too hard on the space cockney eye-dialect, but it seems like a difficult balance. I don't think it's bad, but if it can be done differently I'd like to try it to introduce a different flavour. I like your Ogryn writing, Mazer.

 

Glad you liked it.

 

I can certainly empathise - but this wouldn't be an RFC if it was easy!

 

Am intrigued by this potential story...gibs!

 

Mazer.

Edited October 8, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[his_light]

My submission. As always, C and C welcome.

 

 

Brother-Captain Diarmad Somerled, of the Sons of Berengar, ambled through the dust of Lomdan. Everywhere he looked, for miles upon miles upon miles, there was nothing but devastation. The harsh, unforgiving landscape that had been the making of him, of his brothers in arms, was no more. Was this their fault? Was this the price of their pride?

 

Behind him stood the Righteous Scythes. During their last encounter, they had been trying to eradicate him and his brothers. Clearly, they had succeeded. It had taken all his willpower, all his devotion to the Emperor and the memory of his fallen brothers, to stop him from throwing himself at them when he had first emerged on Lomdan’s surface. That rage, that desire for vengeance, still burned deep inside him. The tempering fire of contrition burned poorly in comparison.

 

He could see the wreckage of an escape pod in the distance, surrounded as it was by the tell-tale signs of rapid re-entry and a near catastrophic impact. He could feel both his hearts begin to pump faster. He felt alive again.

 

But did he really feel alive? Or was this fear?  He had felt fear, once. The day Chapter Master MacBarra had made his fateful decision, he had felt something he had not known since his transformation. Whether that was fear- well, he had no way of knowing. It was not something he could share, not then. Those brothers who were entrusted with the spiritual care of their fellows were overwhelmed- they did not need one of the Chapter’s leaders to express his own doubts. Would it have made a difference? Could he have been the edge MacSporrain had needed in his battle for the Chapter’s soul?

 

He was close to the pod now. He could feel a tremble in his right hand as he approached it. But it wasn’t fear. It was his constant companion. This was adrenaline. It washed over him, submerging his senses beneath it. He increased his pace, almost breaking into a run. He had to restrain himself from doing so. He didn’t want some trigger-happy Scythe shooting him dead now.

 

He was in the pod now, on his hands and knees, searching. He knew what was here. Something had told him. He searched desperately, frantically. He had to find it if he were to redeem himself. His Chapter. His home. There it was, in front of him, buried in the dirt. An old, broken blade made of Lomdan steel. It was split in two, the hilt snapped from the blade by the force of impact. Somerled pulled both pieces out with reverent care. He could hear some of the Scythes behind him sniggering. They made no attempt to hide it. Let them, he thought. He did not care. He could not wait to bring it back aboard his vessel. He had to do it here. Slowly, like a mother coddling a newborn, he brought the two pieces together. They fitted perfectly. His Chapter would be reborn.

[Urauloth]

This was worse than the others. As the gatehouse fell, it boiled up from the smoke and rubble, hurling the broken iron gates aside. The greasy pallor of its flesh stood stark against the filth and soot of the siege.

Mawr heard it before he saw it. A scream preceded its emergence like a bow wave, ghastly and far too human for such a monster. They all screamed like that. He didn't care to think about why. It was clearer with this one, though. No effort had been made to disguise the source of its great mass of flesh; he saw the mauled shapes of men fused and sutured, limbs dangling and thrashing, mouths open to the sky as if they were the source of that terrible wail. He saw the marks of weapons and the remnants of Imperial Army tattoos. This one had been made from the war dead.

It was hard to say how many heads the creature had. Its upper bulk certainly supported three, and these were like gigantic and half-melted heads of men, in whose waxy flesh other things could be glimpsed. Their eyes, misplaced and uneven in number, were glassy onyx orbs. These, Mawr guessed, had never been human. Neither had the insectile limbs that held part of its bulk aloft, though elsewhere it was slithering and wormlike, and here it was clearly made of dead men. Mawr saw one of those huge limbs strike a battle tank, shattering the hull and flipping it over into the mud.

The Death Guard poured fire at the thing. Bolt-shells did little but pock a necrotic moonscape of craters into its outer bulk. Lascannons flash-cooked dead flesh to vile steam. Grenades and tank rounds sent bloodless limbs tumbling into the mud. The damage was superficial. Mawr could see it wasn't enough.

"Phosphex!"

They had used the crawling fire to kill several of the others. That had still been early in the compliance action, when a conventional war was being fought between troops of the Great Crusade and the soldiery of this miserable world. The call had gone out for Legion intervention once the first psychomantic bio-contruct was unleashed from the donjons by the planet's witch-masters. How typical of psykers, Mawr thought, to make such things. So very like the Pale Kings of old.

Phosphex shells burst against the great beast. Toxic fire devoured dead flesh. The thing perished, still making that awful scream.

Was that right? 

Mawr tries to remember. It was a long time ago. No, even the phosphex didn't kill it. They turned the great siege petards against it next. In the end, a detachment with pikes pinned the great heads down so they could sever them. What had that world been called? He is fairly certain Mortarion's fleet eventually destroyed it.

Mawr, Champion of Nurgle, watches a sorcerer of his Vectorium cross the cruiser's deck, and he feels a shiver of a very old unease deep in his bones. 

He isn't completely certain why.

[Mazer Rackham]

I understand I'm a little late to the party here and this was last month's challenge, but circumstances only permit me so much. 

 

Captain Somerled:

I think you do a good job of capturing the chaos of a Chapter being censured - it sounds like it is by a long time rival as well, which adds more nuance and makes it worse.  The fact the Scythes snigger makes them also sound like a bunch of tools, which helps us empathise with the defeated Sons of Berengar.  I was a little confused between MacBarra and MacSporrain.  Is the latter the Master Chaplain?

 

It's an interesting snippet from the Chapter's history and uncertain future. A good read and a great foundation for further expansion if you wanted.

 

The Blasphemous Centipede:

Very gritty and grisly, this.  I like how you've shown the mind of your protagonist is addled, from the fact he is a Champion of Nurgle, we can guess why.  I like the deep hints of foreboding and the mood of horror you've managed to capture in this tight, effective piece.  Excellent.

 

Bonus points for Halloween timing and the Welsh "Mawr"

 

MR.

Edited November 1, 2020 by Mazer Rackham

[his_light]

I understand I'm a little late to the party here and this was last month's challenge, but circumstances only permit me so much. 

 

Captain Somerled:

I think you do a good job of capturing the chaos of a Chapter being censured - it sounds like it is by a long time rival as well, which adds more nuance and makes it worse.  The fact the Scythes snigger makes them also sound like a bunch of tools, which helps us empathise with the defeated Sons of Berengar.  I was a little confused between MacBarra and MacSporrain.  Is the latter the Master Chaplain?

 

 

You'll have to wait and see  It will all reveal itself.

 

Adam

Edited November 3, 2020 by his_light