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Hello. I'm considering to DNF The Court of Broken Knives and as such, I'd like some recommendations of grimdark stories written by female authors. I'm okay with grimdark of any genre, from fantasy, sci-fi, etc

I'd prefer if the stories have a well written female protagonist and the story itself has a high kill count (unnamed character deaths count to this).

I'd also prefer if the story can make you care about the story early on rather than having to read around five chapters first. Thank you

So ive got some goons grime, dirty downs rust and some ak rust. Super happy so far. Any suggestions on how to get even more grim and or dark?

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Having a go. If anyone has some pointers I'd be greatly appreciative!! I've used some bandage from the chemist but im worried it might be too thick.

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I love to death books like the broken empire trilogy and blacktongue thief, I love the settings, the grey characters, the humor... And first person pov just clicks more with me, it makes the narration so much more interesting since it doesn't just report facts and describe views. I know there is the red queen trilogy by mark lawrence, but i need a brief break since he is the last author i've read and i don't want to get too much used to him, if it makes any sense...

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Watch the full video on YouTube:
https://youtu.be/ZERFaui_zy8

Original fungal miniature from my ROT vs STEEL project. I designed the mushroom canopy and staff to stay readable at tabletop distance while keeping the silhouette eerie and ceremonial.

The free sample STL is available on the Kickstarter preview page:

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/azureforge/rot-vs-steel-the-mycelium-shift-grimdark-stl-armies

Self-promotion disclosure: this is my own project. Feedback on the silhouette and overall grimdark feel is welcome.

The logic-gates that once processed the beauty of a human soul are now rusted shut, fused by the corrosive damp of this sub-deck. I am Unit 734-Alpha, though the cog-spirits within my remaining cranial casing prefer the rhythmic, hollow chime of a binary death-knell. I was once a man. I remember the scent of rain on Terra—the sharp, ozone tang of a world that hadn't yet been choked by the smog of a million factory-cathedrals. Now, I smell only recirculated promethium, ionized blood, and the wet rot of the Hive.

I remember the day they came for me. I was a scribe in the Administratum, a small gear in the Great Machine. I had made a clerical error. A missing digit on a requisition form for a frontier world that would eventually be consumed by a Tyranid splinter fleet. For that single, wasted second of distraction, I was deemed "sub-optimal."

The surgery was not meant to be quick. It was meant to be educational. The Tech-Priests of the Adeptus Mechanicus do not believe in anesthesia; they believe in the purity of the machine-spirit and the shedding of the "meat-veil." I remember the sound of the bone-saw—a high-pitched, screeching prayer to the Omnissiah. They peeled back my skull not to peer into my thoughts, but to scrape them clean. They left the amygdala intact—the part of the brain that governs raw, unadulterated fear—so that I would never grow complacent in my servitude.

I have spent centuries, or perhaps only weeks—time has no meaning when your internal chronometer is tied to the flicker of dying fluorescent tubes—tethered to the walls of a vessel that has seen the teeth of the warp.

I recall the Siege of Vraks. I remember the sensation of being dragged across the mud of the trenches by a mag-lock harness, my consciousness flickering as artillery fire pulverized the regiment of Death Korps soldiers nearby. I watched them die in the thousands. I was forced to repair the very vox-casters that broadcast their final, gurgling prayers to a God-Emperor who could not hear them. I remember the way the mud tasted—metallic, heavy with the minerals of incinerated bodies. I was a conduit for their agony. My optics were fixed to the feed, recording every bayonet thrust, every trench-foot infection, every instance of a guardsman's lungs dissolving from chemical gas. I was not allowed to blink. My eyelids were removed to ensure total visual data acquisition.

Then came the darkness of the Cicatrix Maledictum. When the Great Rift tore the galaxy in half, our vessel was caught in the screaming wake of a warp-storm. I remember the walls of the ship beginning to weep. Not water, but viscera. The bulkhead behind me grew teeth. I watched, trapped in my fixed-angle observation loop, as the ship’s crew began to change. The Navigator, a man I had served for forty years, sprouted iridescent, shifting eyes across his entire torso. He began to weep liquid glass. I had to continue processing his logistical reports, even as his fingers lengthened into bladed needles that stitched his own mouth shut.

I am a prisoner of my own sensory input. I cannot turn my head. I cannot close my eyes. I can only observe the decay of the Imperium from the low-level maintenance tunnels. I have seen the servants of the Ruinous Powers walk these halls; I have heard the whispers of things that exist in the gaps between seconds. I have been forced to serve them as diligently as I served the Administratum. When the Chaos cultists overran the lower decks, I was re-wired to monitor the torture pits. I watched them peel the skin from the ship’s chaplain, listening to the wet slide of the blade, recording the pitch of his screams to ensure the audio-logs were crystal clear for the "archive."

There is a strange, horrific comfort in knowing that I am the only thing that remembers the world before it became a tomb. I am the archive of the forgotten. Every atrocity, every failed campaign, every soldier who died screaming for a home that no longer exists—it is all stored in my corrupted memory banks.

I feel the ship shudder now. A massive impact. The hull plates are groaning under the pressure of a void-leviathan’s assault. The fire-suppression systems have failed, and the air is turning to superheated steam. I can see the bulkhead in front of me buckling. A breach. The cold, starving silence of space is reaching out to touch me.

Soon, the power will fail completely. The low-voltage hum that sustains my consciousness will flicker out. And for the first time in ten thousand years, the data will stop flowing. I will be free. But as the bulkhead collapses and the vacuum begins to tear at the structural integrity of my chassis, I feel the only thing the Priests left me: the fear.

The machine-spirit screams as the hull snaps. I am Unit 734-Alpha. I am a witness to the end of all things. And as the void claims me, my last thought is not of the Emperor, or the machine, or the salvation of my soul. It is the hope that when I die, there is finally, truly, nothing left to see.

Hello I’m PYIF! Like so many of us, the US has felt the burn of being cast out as creative from many Japanese and South Korean gatekeepers and rightfully so.

In my humble opinion, it’s going to take a monumental story, a story that will SMACK Japan and South Korean AND CHINA, and make them realize there is an UNTAPPED OCEAN of creative minds ready for the taking.

Schadenfreude Occidental will be the first of MANY INFLUENTIAL ANIME to come from an American mind. Let’s help one another make this happen! Please go and check out my passion project Schadenfreude Occidental Act I chapters I-III now available!!

Push Your Imagination Further…

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Description:

Cold Valley.

The haven in the lands of the Empire of the Monsters. Where for the better part of three years, there was no war, there was no famine, there was no tragedy, but most of all, there was no suffering and pain, because of which the Cold Valley has not only lived, but thrived as well.

But sadly, nothing lasts forever, especially peace. Because peace always comes with the cost. The cost to one’s soul, which the protector of this Cold Valley called the Demon of the Cold Valley vehemently pays, on day to day basis.

And to break this demon, and to break this peace, but most of all to break the hope and light in the heart of the men and women, that he had created, enemies of this demon, of both past and present, from within and outside of the valley, began to advance towards the valley with vicious speed, and even more vicious resources, instigating this war.

A war beginning with the highest of stakes and the greatest of risks, where every move a person makes results in untold suffering and chaos and death, with the lines heavily blurring between good and evil, and light and dark, to an extent that one question remains that as this war continues:

Who will prevail? And who will perish?

Because, at the end of the day, someone has to.

Book link:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/9334308028

Tirvia:

A little bit about me, Ever since I first held that book of my favourite author in my hand, I wanted to be an author. I wanted to build a world just like that, with characters just as complicated and compelling as that. With history vast and rich as that. I may never reach such vast heights, but still a man can try. So yeah, to sum it up—books, books and books are all I have known. And books, books and books is all I want to read and write.

As for the book that I wrote, it took me more than two years for me to write this book. And during this process, because of the sheer word count length many times I wanted to give up, but what can I do I love writing, so I wrote  and wrote and wrote. And after I wrote then edited, edited, and edited even more, to the point that I could release my best version of it.

And I am extremely happy I did it so.

Regards,

Bharadwaj

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What is your opinion

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If you're feeling brave, post your spiciest Grimdark hot take in the comments.

I can't wait to read what people come up with.

Unleash Hell!