A small Wretched tale

Kamosh

New Member
#1
Brief tale written leading up to us starting a Shattered chronicle. Any errors are mine as a none-native English speaker.

For the eight day, he continued poring his attention into the long, alien component.
He grunted, one of the many grunts that were to follow his frustration with the elongated, chromed artillery piece.
Or what he believed was an artillery piece, based on the mangled explanation given to him by the messenger of the Guld Drukarks – the item sent forth a cone of destruction and blasted open a thick boulder. It was found on a hardened bunker which was a survivor, apparently, of the Reckoning.
Kamoshar had no idea as to how the piece worked, where it drew power from or what it was used to destroy.
He only knew it was old, worked and had a beautifully rendered cover.
He grunted. He was not pleased with his advance, or his evidently absurdly unfit knowledge.
None of those he would share with the Guld. They financed part of his work and made sure that his interests went unmolested.
However, he had the strong feeling that he’d fall short of his promise to have an idea two spans from the delivery of the item.
Yet again, all he could do was grunt and continue perusing his schematics and the smooth surface of the item.
It had seams, fine as razors. It had a trigger system, which was not mechanical.
It had an oversized stock, fitting his own wretched shoulder. There was a stubby handhold but it was too forward on the cannon. Maybe it was a support pylon for a vehicular weapon. It weighted almost 23 kilos. 22.867 grams, actually. Too heavy for a man to carry for long.
Anything might be possible, and this lack of understanding drove him to grunt in anger.
He felt the loud clank outside that indicated a visitor to the hidden workshop. Three clanks in quick succession.
He raised an eyebrow – it was the signal accorded with the Guld. But the Guld were due in almost half a span.
- Kamoshar! I’m here with something from G’rak’klakar.
It was the runner’s voice. He didn’t remember his name, only that he was a young, strutting wretched with long legs and thick arms.
Frowning, he approached the heavy counterbalanced gate and brought it down to open, holding a large blunderbuss in his left – you could never know.
The blistering sunlight revealed a ghastly spectacle.
The runner had shouted from the shoulders of an enormous wretched, covered head to toe in darkened metal. A long rocket hammer was set on his left hand.
And of course, the runner, alleviated of his limbs, the stumps burned down to prevent him bleeding to death, strapped to his shoulders.
Everyone broke down under duress and torture and the runner had probably endured more than most could.
Which left Kamoshar in an exceedingly vulnerable spot, given the fourteen other tribals around the entrance.

- Kamoshar, we’ve come for your service and the weapon.
The enormous wretched voice had a strange, metallic tone and then he figured it: it spoke through a voice box. Probably some mutation or wound had taken his larynx or something.

- I have no weapon and I serve the Guld Drukarks.

The creature’s voice crackled and fizzled. He figured it was malfunctioning.
Then, when the tribals started chuckling he understood.
It was the way it laughed.

- Kamoshaaaaaar…. You do not have a saying here. There are no Drukarks anymore. We have wiped them out. There’s only Balkonus Skav now, and you belong to Balkonus Skav.

He clenched his teeth and grunted. The Guld were gone.
In a more forgiving world, he’d be saddened to see the demise of the tribe. They were strong, fast and dependable. The helped set up his workshop. They never forced or imposed their will and their rulings were fair.
In Feneryss, they were weak and hence, they had died.

- I did not belong to the Drukarks and hence I am not indentured to anyone but myself. I would be glad to discuss terms of exchange for work.

The crackling and the fizzing resumed, louder and whiny.
- Kamoshar, you make me laugh. You will serve us or die. Now.

He gestured and the tribals charged.
He grunted and kicked to the left, hitting the plate set on the wall. He turned and ran.
The first shouts reached him. Pained and cursing to everything. The base plate of bone spikes, hidden below the sand and raised by the plate must had hit the more eager tribesmen.
He kept running, reached the middle boulder, jumped quickly and kept on running as bangs sounded on the mouth and bullets and knives went whizzing by.
He reached his workbench and quickly surveyed their contents. If he wanted to survive, he’d have to leave everything behind.
He grunted and clenched his teeth in frustration. He had a good thing here and it’d be gone within moments unless he knelt.
He grunted again and picked up his notes and his log.
A subsonic whomp filled the tunnel and a blast of dust came in flying. They had stepped over the mine and he could hear the anguished screams of those tore to pieces by the shrapnel.
He had ran out of time.
He picked the weapon and felt the caress of the smooth chrome.
The first wretched came in, oversized revolvers in their hands.
He pulled the trigger.
The weapon screamed loudly, shone and delivering a withering flash of white fire over the tunnel, washing over the wretched and instantly turning them into ash.
He pressed the trigger for a second time, but nothing happened.
He grunted. Luck was not his now.
He grabbed one of the long defensive nail bombs, pulled the string and tossed it over the maw of the tunnel, filling it with flying death.
He ought to be sad about losing the place. He had devoted four years to setting it up, filling it with tools and serving the Guld in a profitable exchange.
But this was Feneryss, and there was no place for such.
He kicked the chest and grabbed his heavy knapsack and shot the blunderbuss over to the maw, where the tribesmen were shouting and deciding who would risk another trap.
Just enough time. He dropped the beautiful weapon and ran. It’d delay them. It was too much of a valuable prize to not pick up.
Grunting, he went down the trapdoor and held out to grab the long plunger. He ran through the narrow tunnel, scratching himself on the dark length.
He counted the paces. When he reached fifty five, he stretched the cable and pressed the alligator plunger twice.
This time, the change of pressure was sudden, strong and impossible to deny. The tunnel shook and he feared for a moment that it would collapse, burying him with the invaders.
It’d be poetic, in a way.
He kept going. The tunnel had one mile length and he had a long way to go.
He grunted as he did.
It was all he had left before he reached the surface and started the long hike to the Crush.
In a different world, it’d be a challenging, sorrow-filled day.
In Feneryss, it the fourth day of the third span.
And he had a long way to go yet.
 
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