Great stories so far...impressive writing here indeed.
As ever, this is a set of thoughts and conversations which came to me from the ether (for want of knowing what else to call it). The theme, characters and inspiration are from there, the words are just my limited brain trying to make sense of them.
As always, the tales could be -or are- part of something bigger, but (because I can't predict the visions and I never get a look at 'the full picture' anyway) please don't hold this against them.
Please let me know if there's any glaring spelling mistakes/paragraph errors/etc...my hope is to improve, but moreso to make this an enjoyable read for you guys.
[I think this is 1096 words, not including title...if it's over, please let me know and I'll amend].
E’en in the broken traitor's breast, hatred’s fires still burn deep and bright
“When you pass, who shall mourn, alien?”
Its bestial speech grates harshly upon the ears of the tormentors before the translation programs come into effect, language transformed into High Gothic:
++expletive, expletive, feral animals fit only for expletive slaughter++
“Ah, it seems it has not yet learnt after all...increase the voltage.”
Screams of pain yet again resound through the speakers, emitting childish whimpers and sighs when the agony is eventually lifted.
“We know your ship is on a mission from your debased masters. We know you are a renegade amongst even your own kind...the lowest of the low.”
A gasp of surprise from the captive -something the gaolers never thought they might hear- and they share a victorious glance: one of the galaxy’s most aloof and elusive predators, now shackled and broken, heeding their every beck and call.
“You may cease your incredulity. The sigils upon your craft are known to us...they mark you out as a traitor to your whole race...discernible even before you were inside our weapons’ ranges.”
A time before, long past, yet memories as fresh as yesterday:
“Your time is over, Lord Anshlar. Your warriors are brought to heel or destroyed. There is nothing for you now.”
The prisoner tries to approach his captor, yearning to rend him limb from limb, yet is unable to take more than three steps before his body freezes; rendered immobile by some unseen power.
Although his teeth grit in exertion, he can make no progress towards his foe.
“Ah yes...that would be the poison in your veins: A neat little venom, happened upon by accident after eradicating some mon-keigh priests.
"Psychically charged, it makes you incapable of any hostile actions against me, but your thoughts remain intact and imprisoned within your puppet-host body...no doubt you are eager to see my wishes fulfilled, yes?”
Knowing there is no escape, yet railing against how his Kabal could have been brought so low in less than three years by this upstart, Anshlar still has enough energy left to hate with all of his soul. Whilst attack is prevented, his voice is not:
“I shall do your bidding...for now. But Psykers are banned within the Dark City! Their talents would open a rift for She Who Waits Beyond to devour all of our kind!”
The other’s reply drips with the full level of arrogance and supreme disdain for which their species is rightly feared:
“Did you think yourself still in Commorragh? You have been tortured for months!
"In your pathetic weakness, you divulged all of your innermost secrets, allowing me to take over your remaining slave-factories and to sample the juiciest morsels amongst your wives and followers.
“The poison’s psychic components were rendered down upon this ship, too far away to imperil our beloved domain, but I was...assisted:”
A spotlight of harsh cyan rays bathes not only the pair, but a former captive.
With it’s sundered ribcage and unnaturally angled limbs, the torn and rent body is only just discernible as female.
Both garrotted and chained to a wall through the remains of it’s wrists, it’s helmeted head sags low...death did not easily claim her.
Gory tattered green rags which only just mask it’s nudity mark her as a former Warlock of Biel-Tan.
“No doubt you recognise our cousin’s form. Your lover, I understand?
"We actually only needed Lafariella’s spleen and three powdered rib-bones to activate the toxin, but I always harboured suspicion that some of your...sorry, my...Wracks were over-zealous.”
The smile speaks of a certain amount of pleasurable personal involvement in the Warlock’s demise.
“Your top tooth contains a vial of red liquid: purest matter, extracted from the glands of a thousand species.
"The blue liquid contained in your bottom tooth is something...other.
"Relatively stable and inert, but potent when mixed with the former.”
Leaving the captive sobbing upon his knees as his mind finally shears and splinters at the atrocities visited upon him, the new master of the Jaded Claw Kabal spares not a thought for the former General.
“When the time comes, we shall see whether you have any of our race’s righteous vehemence left in you, or whether you continue to choose the way of the traitor and once again save your miserable skin.
“There is nothing for you now, save what I order; your family were enslaved weeks ago.
"Go, board your ship. One of us shall be watching and -if you are lucky- your end might even claim my own passing interest before She licks and swallows your screaming essence.”
With nothing left to live for and no hope of escape or release, Anshlar's wasted and wounded body finally has no more effort left to give: holding out against the pain was almost more than even his degenerate’s senses could handle.
Gobbets of vitality slip from his mouth and coat the rockcrete with scarlet stain, the results of the hacking cough encompassing his whole body and which speaks of broken ribs and internal bleeding. Not all of these were inflicted here by such foolish beasts.
Propping himself up on his left hand, he at least has enough hatred and strength to turn to his torturers and make one last enquiry (this time, there is no need for a translator, for he knew their blunt and brutal lanugage all along):
“When you pass, who shall mourn, alien?” his shattered mouth smiles at his tormentors, before he grinds his remaining teeth against one another.
The Techno-priests in the observation room laugh at his last futile gesture, then turn to regard one another with a feeling long ago removed in favour of cogitation-engines, machinery and gears; something others might have called dread.
There is no warning; no alarm; no time to run...
No time to feel the icy grip of death’s hand, nor think of loved ones, nor life’s labours...
There is not even a clamour to herald the cataclysm, nor a roaring inferno, nor a bright light encompassing all...
For the new-born chemical abomination negates everything, absorbing even sound and fires and light.
The mass of mixed fluids devours the corpse, expanding in all directions faster than the speed of sound, and the molecules of the planet collapse inwards upon themselves, voraciously eaten by the maelstrom unleashed at the Forge World’s core.
Decades later, an astrologus deep within the bowels of Mars dispassionately acknowledges the loss of the astronomical signal from Dirall Secundus.
Orders are issued for an Explorator Fleet to divert to it’s location, little realising that -by the time they arrive- the planet will have been annihilated centuries before.
Urgently trying to trace any living relatives of Private Sam/Samuel "Jock" Wilson (Black Watch, No. 6 Commando, UK Army Service ID 2764432, died 10.06.44). Any info/suggestions gratefully received.
"Mockles! Pent on silpen tree, blockards three a-feening. Mockles! What silps came to thee, in thy pantry, dreaming?"
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More feedback = better stories for everyone.
Last edited by andygorn; 04-07-12 at 06:58 PM.