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post #10 of (permalink) Old 08-11-12, 08:52 PM
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Hi all, glad to be back here after a short absence and looking forwards to seeing people's thoughts.
As ever, these are not my thoughts, they are the thoughts which came to me. I usually put things down as they come to me, but I think it makes the tales quite a lot stilted and 'bitty'...there's often many different things and I should realise by now that there's not enough space in 1100 words to put them all down satisfactorily.

I haven't read everything published by BL/GW, so I hope you'll give me a bit of ''artistic licence'' if any of this obviously contradicts the published/canon background.
**********1st Draft in case of typo's**********

“Purpose Renewed" (1097 words)

Upon a field of bleached bones, beneath impossibly azure skies, a warrior falls...the last of her tribe. Screaming in agony, the intended death-blow spins her around and her spear impales the head of the man who thought to kill her. He had not been very wrong, but hers is the last body to crumple amongst the ashes of millions of fallen.

Limp fingers try to stem the flow of vitality, holding onto life as it spurts from her ruined side. Yet -like all human emotions here- it is a childish and futile gesture at best.
On her knees amongst the dessicated and the decaying, still her spear does not fall from her grip. She tries to let it go, but her hands are robbed of energy and nerves refuse to respond.

Vision fades and blackness descends as she thinks of the army on the right flank, their cheers resounding as longed-for victory is theirs at last. Their shouts of triumph are the last thing she hears. Almost.
The pressure from years before re-enters her head, trying to crush her brain against the inside of her skull, she feels talons grip the back of her mind, squeezing and forcing her to open her blood-covered eyes in despair.
In response, she hoarsely shouts: “I am tired and weary of this life...leave me alone!”

The familiar growl howls at this disobedience:
“A true warrior would never lie down and beg for death! Was I wrong to raise you so highly in the eyes of others? Do you deem yourself worthy enough to dictate to the Commander of all soldiers?”
The earth shakes beneath her prone form, scattering boulders from the sick and twisted terrain as the Old World feels the incredulity of a Living God.

Battered and broken, she can barely move except to emit a barking laugh. At this, the tumult instantly ceases and silence descends over the dying and the disembowelled, alarming the carrion-animals and the expiring man-beasts upon which they gluttonously feed.

“You are my Favoured, esteemed above almost all your race. Who do you think you are to spurn such Gifts? A true warrior...one who is worthy of the name...knows neither pain nor lethargy, not whilst there are foes to end! Speak. I would hear your pathetic excuse.”
The bellows reverberate not only through her head, but also her entire being, energising it despite her mortal injuries.

Her stilting reply: “You seek to goad me...questioning my skills and spinning tales of my own frailty and also of revenge. Yet your challenges mean nothing to me! I have killed across five dukedoms, innocents and guilty alike fell to my blades. I reaped more than my fair share for you; more than most will ever do in Your name. Let me rest now. I am but a mortal -with all human weaknesses- and lost my pride at the end of that Slaaneshi’s lance years ago.”

“But it did not end you...I kept you safe to wreak vengeance in later battles, slaking your desires in the lifeblood of former victors.”
Thunder roars in the distance and lightning streaks across the plains, turning victor and vanquished alike into dust, leaving barely any remaining.
“Look upon these few faces. I have left your lieutenants alive, ready to accede to your every command. All you have to do is to say the words and be returned.”

Despite many wounds, she strains up to see the bloodied and maimed -yet undefeated- forms of Graangar Lord of a Hundred Beasts, Earl Osric Rathan the Despot from the Northern Wastes and the fallen Elven Princess, Jalerienne, Mistress of The Gore-Cults. Three heads bowed in supplication and obeisance.
“Jussst three ssstrokesss shall remove their heartsss...a mossst fitting offering to Him in thisss place” whispers the spear held tightly in her grasp. Like some feral hunting-beast, it's obsidian blade twists around, trying to taste their leaking blood upon this realm’s ethereal winds.

“I have no need to return...that place holds no more interest for me.”
A shrieking wind envelopes them all, clouding the scene in the choking bone-dust of innumerable slaughtered. When vision returns, only three remain: Jalerienne is missing, swept away by the whirlwind.

“What need have I for further victories when my name is already lamented in a dozen of The Empire’s cities?” the dying woman continues.
A huge sucking sound deafens the survivors, the sonic wave sending them sprawling into the dirt and relics of long ago. As hearing returns, Graangar’s mane -the last trace of him- disappears out of sight beneath metres of sand and ash.

Unbowed, she continues: “All I loved are dead and forgotten. None remain who hold me in any esteem.”
A shout of agony stirs her from selfishness...horrendous ripping sounds as the Earl is sheared vertically, showering her in crimson liquid, his jagged remnants littering the landscape.

“Now it is so.” her Lord’s voice booms out once more, then begins The Twelfth Catechism of Hatred:
“When your body twists and thrashes; as your mind cracks through the strain, who shall be there to ease the pain..?”
“...naught by my comrades’ fury.” she concludes.
From any other mouth, the response would be automatic, but it is just as heartfelt as when she swore the oath that brought her here. On the horizon, a long-disused castle crumbles to final ruin under the shockwave of a God’s victory-smile.

“When heart breaks and last darkness approaches, what guides you to the final test..?
“...naught but the hate of the warriors at my side.” Her faltering voice steadies as their words suffuse her being. Mountains rise in a neighbouring realm, permitting armies to undertake new crusades.

“When loved ones die, mind splinters, voice snaps from wailing and loss. You resist The Gods for one more minute with them. Who calls you to such clarity of purpose..?”
I]“...naught except the brothers and sisters whose lives shield me and whose skulls I shall take during The Endtime.”[/I] she whispers.

“Correct.” The God answers. “Now, three call your name from that side. Take up arms against my foes, reborn anew. Regain your feet and your armies. Become my Champion, greater than before.”

Instantly regaining her newly-clawed feet, she begins to glide upon freshly-formed wings back to the portal which brought her here.
“I do not fight for you. I fight for my comrades-in-arms. I fight for the loyalty of my subjects.”She warns Khorne.

Had His Brother not claimed such emotions, The Blood God might have looked upon his most exalted Champion with fatherly pride as Valkia The Bloody returned to the lands of the living.

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?"

Please check out the HOES (Heresy Online Stories) threads and vote for the tales.
More feedback = better stories for everyone.

Last edited by andygorn; 08-11-12 at 09:08 PM.
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