Here's a snippet of a Warhammer 40,000 short story I've been working on. It's written from an Ork's perspective, which is odd even for Warhammer.
"In the corner of the room, Sahjent Buzzhruk lounged atop a mound of broken furniture and took a swill of torrid fungus beer from his flask. As part of the progressive and unorthodox warband known as Grimskragaz WAAAGH’oundz, Buzzhruk took the title of “Sahjent” to represent his superiority over the other boyz in his mob. The majority of Ork kultur would have called Buzzhruk a nob, but life in Da ‘Oundz was different. The word was just one of many things the warband had stolen from the humies, along with their concepts of discipline, tactics, and camouflage. Despite what the other orks thought, it had made them stronger. Da Kernal always said, “youze gots ta know yer enermie ta beat ‘im,” and, in Buzzhruk’s experience, Da Kernal was right about most things.
His boyz clustered in raucous knots around his makeshift throne. Most of the lot were cooking, eating, belching, or otherwise engrossed in other food related tasks. Ordinarily the domain of scullery gretchin, the menial task of preparing food had fallen to the boyz this far from the muster point. Normal orks would have went hungry or gnawed down something raw rather than stoop to grot work, but life in Da ‘Oundz was different. They had built a roaring fire in the middle of the wrecked hab, and had found an intact tank hatch to use a cook pot. Bloody chops of local fauna went into the pot along with bucketfuls of water and a few moldy hunks of dehydrated fungusloaf the orks had brought with them. The stench was sudden and overpowering; Buzzhruk began to salivate.
Just outside the light of the fire, a standoff between two of boyz in the mob drew Buzzhruk’s attention. It was a knack that all nobz worth their skarz had. The two contenders had yet to start fighting, and hadn’t even begun arguing in earnest before Buzzhruk sensed it, but he knew a scrap was coming. He was loath to leave his perch, but discipline in the mob took precedence over lounging about and looking impressive. At least that’s what he told himself. He wouldn’t have been a proper ork if the prospect of a fight didn’t get his blood flowing."
If you like what you read, there is more. Follow the link below to reach my blog, which contains the full story.
'The power of a psyker is darkness, fire and death, given life and purpose to rend souls and break minds'
- First line of the Litany of Lies and Truths