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  Topic Review (Newest First)
03-27-13 02:19 PM
son of azurman hmmm not convinced. its amazingly written its just very different. so ye it was "caffeine" that you have been drinking
03-27-13 01:12 PM
Dave T Hobbit
Originally Posted by son of azurman View Post
errr dave one question, what was that in your drink cause whatever it was i want some.
Thank you... I think.

I write sober so it is probably caffeine.
03-25-13 06:00 PM
Boc Entry window is now closed, I'll have the voting thread up shortly.

Lots of fresh meat...
03-24-13 10:13 PM
son of azurman errr dave one question, what was that in your drink cause whatever it was i want some. one other words great stories everyone and ive just confirmed that i wont make this month again like almost every month but hey ho will try again next month.
03-23-13 06:27 PM
Dave T Hobbit
Pig Boy

The sunlight glanced off the magpie's feathers as it hopped across the mud, sending flickers of green and blue. It paused, black eye shining straight at him. For a moment they shared the joy of freedom before it hopped again, passing into shadow. Pig Boy crept carefully through the irregular spaces between the slurry huts into the dead end.

The painstakingly crafted cages were all intact. He didn't like keeping his friends in cages but it was the only way to stop the monsters from getting them. He pulled his lunch from his tunic and carefully separated the handful of scraps into equal piles. Content his friends were safe he walked back to his bucket.

* * *

Pig Boy felt a sharp pain in his shoulder followed by numbness. Something oozed down his back.

"Look 'ere lads. Pig Fumbler's skiving off. Oi Piggy Fiddler, why ain't you doing what you suppose to?"

He looked around. Three boys blocked the gap out onto the track. They had sticks in their hands.

"Hey Pig Boy, asked you a question didn't I."

"Don't waste your breath Karl. Everyone knows e's too thick to talk. Thicker than pig shit."

"Well maybe 'e needs some to make I'm smarter. You want that Pig Lover? Let's give 'im some shit to help 'im talk."


"'E's thicker than pig shit, so pig shit is smarter. So we dump some on 'is head he gets cleverer."

"Oh... right... yeah, that's good that is."

"But first 'e needs to learn 'is place." The first few blows sent pain spiking through his body and left him lying on the ground. But after a while he just became numb.

Shit landed on his head. The warmth actually made the pain feel less, and he never noticed the smell. He lay there for a moment before he remembered he would get in trouble if he did not clear it up. It seemed easier to lie there though.

"Ere look, there's a bunch of stuff back 'ere"

"What's e got?"

"Dunno... fuck me, there's a rat in here. It's in a fucking cage."

Pig Boy tried to move. He needed to do something, to stop them scaring his friends. Just as he got his arms under him he felt another stinging blow on his back.

"Keeping rats... that’s not just sick it's wrong." Someone's foot pressed him back down into the mud. "Bring it out here lads. We gotta show him what happens to rats."

"Fucker bit me."

"Well bring it in the cage then... your dumber than Piggo sometimes!"

Mud splashed across his face as they dropped the cage in front of him. "Nuuuu," he gasped, desperately dragging in air against the weight on his back.

"You say something?" The pressure increased. "Didn't think so. Someone grab his head. Doesn't wanna miss this does he."

Pig Boy twisted his head enough to see Deiter's legs crouch beside him, and tensed for more pain.

"Es covered in shit. I ain't touching im."

"Sorry Diet... weren't thinking. Course you don't have to -"


He tensed instinctively but there was no pain. Dieter's legs slowly toppled out of sight.

"Christ, you sat right in it Deit... so don't matter now that he's covered... now grab his head... unless you got another problem?"

He felt fingers wrap through his hair and yank until it felt as if it was tearing out. He tried to force his head back further and further but they kept pulling further still.

"Right, one of his eyes is looking in the right direction. Now smash it good."

He watched as a boot slowly lowered onto the cage then slowly rose up again. He closed his eyes but that just made the waiting worse. Maybe they were just messing? They wouldn't actually kill his friend in cold blood. He opened his eyes again.

The cage was still in one piece.


The cage shattered into pieces launching a splinter into his eye.

"What were you waiting for?"

"E closed his eyes. Didn't want him to miss it."

Was his friend hurt? He desperately blinked but the combination of the splinter and the shit running down his face stopped him seeing anything clearly. A boot shaped blur smashed down and something squeaked.

"Let him go, Deit."

The pain in his scalp stopped and, lacking the will to resist, he let his face fall into the mud. He felt Karl's boot rise off his back. Was it over now?

Something hard slammed into the back of his head and it went dark.

* * *

Pig Boy dragged himself across the mud and looked at the broken body. He tried to smooth the fur, but it was covered in mud. His mouth hurt as he spat into his hand. Gently running his fingers along the body he teased out the mud until it was sleek again. He tried to clean its snout but his blood kept mixing with the spit and he couldn't get it clean.

Turning the body over he looked at the mess of guts. That wasn't right. They shouldn't be showing. He fumbled at them for several minutes until they all seemed hidden. Now the fur was dirty again. He spat in his palm again. It hurt less now and there was no blood. He slowly groomed the rat. Now it looked right again.

He kissed it on the nose to let it know everything was all right and placed it on the ground. He watched it scurry into the shadows before trying to pick up his bucket. The pain in his arms fought with the ravening hole in his belly. His share of lunch would have been less than enough to save his friend without the beating, but if he didn't empty the rest of the pigsties he would get another one and then all his friends would be alone.

- 977 words
03-23-13 10:09 AM
Jacobite There you go Boc dam you. Nasty thing it is.

"With Allies Like This..."

Like all soldiers there are many things I saw I could forget; the ravaged bodies of friend hit by mines, the foul xenos scum we fought, the body’s of rape victims left by the road side to be used again and again and a thousand others but this is the foremost. I was with 487th Storm Trooper Regiment at this stage, an 8 year combat vet with the Sergeants strips on my arm for 2 of those years. With the Black Rats I’d fought against greenskinned Orks, pirate bands and the cruel dark kin of the alien Eldar. I knew how to fight, I knew how to kill, I knew how to stay alive when the bullets started to fly and yet to this day I don’t know how I survived Badab…

The darkness of the boarding torpedo engulfs me like a blanket and despite my spinning head I know something is wrong. The lights should be bathing the interior with their sickly green glow not still flashing yellow for imminent impact. Men are beginning to come round, their cries and moans cutting through the sounds of distant and muffled gunfire playing through the internal speakers. My restraints are tight, cutting into my shoulders and preventing me from moving, a good thing in the transit from troop ship to target but now it’s a death sentence. The 100 of us are still locked in the restraint couches, unable to move from the GeForce reducing chairs that are supposed to keep us alive. We hit the target some 30 seconds ago, a massive impact that feels like your insides are being pulped and your brain blown apart but the explosive bolts on the hatches must have malfunctioned and without them firing there is no way to leave this metal coffin. The hundred meter long craft; long and square like a ration bar with stubby engines at one end and tapered point at the other is a sitting duck for the enemy guns and fighters that would be checking the hull.

Down the line of grim faced men in black uniforms is the emergency release lever and the only man in reach of it; Captain Beuls, is sagged forward, his neck evidently snapped in the impact. I scream in rage, straining against my bonds, pushing them to the limit but there is no give at all.

There is a clunking on the outside of the hull, audible thanks to the speakers and the faintest dull thud that reverberates through the steel. Melta bombs. I recognize the sound instantly; somebody is going to crack us open like a shellfish, except rather than using a knife to cut the lip they are smashing it with the pommel. I can’t tell where they have placed it, if they are smart they will have positioned it above an oxygen line or other vital system, spare them the bother of killing us by hand. I strain again and I’m not alone in my panic, the men of the Black Rats have made enough space assaults to know we are in trouble.

“Brace brace brace” roars the Platoon Sergeant Hafry. Time slows in these final moments: the seconds taking minutes as the internal pressure constricts around us. Beads of sweat on Hafry’s face judder ever so slightly with his movements, illuminated by the slow turning of the impact lights.

The black blanket descends again.

My eyelids flicker open, stinging with the smoke that now fills the torpedo. Bare seconds have past and I can taste blood over the fumes of burning electrics, I’ve bitten clean through my lip but that’s nothing compared to the Platoon Sergeant. The sweat beads have been replaced by a trickle of blood running from a shrapnel shard behind and above his left temple. The 2 men next to him are half shredded and the 5 beside them, the wall and door simply do not exist, instead replaced by a jagged hole through to the corridor of the enemy ship.

The internal pressure equalizes with that of the target and like a bag of rice , I sag forward onto my knees as the restraints release. All around me dazed men are trying to clamber to their feet, the two concussive blasts in close succession too much for our unmodified bodies to handle. We all hear it, the clunking as a figure appears in the hole in the wall. Astartes. Taller than any of us and twice as broad he stays silhouetted against the gap, presenting a perfect target. Not knowing if its friend or foe I scramble for my hellgun locked beneath my seat . Red haired Private Styles, missing his helmet is about 4 meters from the breach, is already making for cover his weapon powering up. Diving behind one of the restraint benches he peaks around the corner and let’s loose a bolt of blue death towards the figure. Born of a primordial fear Style’s scream cuts above the wailing alarms. Red eyes pierce the darkness and turns slowly. The scream is cut short by the roar of a chainsword and the figure is moving. Styles rises to address the foe but is too late, the wiring blade of death as tall as a man rips through his stomach and out his back in a whirlwind of gore. With barely a pause the figure turns into the flicking beam of an overhead light hanging by it’s cord and in a rasping metallic voice it speaks.

“I should kill you all for that slight but the Emperor and the High Lords will is otherwise. Move and engage the enemy. Now”

Clad in weathered bronze armor, beaten and tarnished by countless battles with a red bulls head on his shoulder he turns and vanishes through the gap.

The bronze bulls we called them: The Minotaurs, Attack Dogs of the High Lords. To fight against the Astartes was terrifying but in the end they became just another target a well-armored and deadly target but a target nonetheless. It was to stand alongside them that nearly broke me. I’m not ashamed to say that seeing my men butchered in front of my eyes is something I will never shake, no matter how hard I try and to see it done by an ally who is supposed to be on your side… They cared nothing for us, feeding us into the enemy guns the same as the Tyrant with his auxiliaries. We were ant’s in the service of contemptuous gods and they would sacrifice a thousand, ten thousand of us before one of them would fall.

1100 words not including title.
03-21-13 07:06 AM
Bloody Mary Lesson

“What is this?” Apothecary Caius Iras asked, his tone glacial. Terran-born, he was pale and grey-eyed—he did not bear as uncanny a resemblance to Horus as some other Luna Wolves, but he was still recognizably one of them. Clad in a simple robe, he nevertheless was an imposing figure. His thunderous expression was only enhanced by the fact that the left side of his face was marred by scars apparently left by something that considered a Space Marine to be a tasty snack.

The object of his wrath was a crude depiction of a phallus, painted with stolen pigment on the wall next to the Apothecarion. And just in case it was not clear, Iras thumped his bionic hand against it, the metal clanging in response like a bell.

The two other objects of Iras’s fury—two youths in the simple robes of Initiates—stood ramrod-straight in front of the angry legionnaire. One was tall, and whip-cord thin, a gang tattoo coiling around his left eye. The other, shorter, stouter, sported a Mohawk. Both looked out of their depth, being forced to brave the wrath of a Luna Wolf.

Another angry thump followed, making the youths jump nervously. It also seemed to coax at least one of them to try and offer some sort of an explanation.

“A dick, sir,” offered the taller Initiate, and the quiver in his voice wasn’t just caused by the fact that his voice was still breaking. He seemed quite aware just how inadequate his answer was, but nevertheless flinched when the Luna Wolf’s glare turned towards him.

“Really?” Iras’s voice oozed sarcasm as he turned to study the offending graffiti with mock-thoroughness. “And here I thought it was a deformed dog choking on a nutrient bar.”

“Um…” the shorter Initiate swallowed nervously. Like his friend, he turned his eyes away when his gaze met the fierce stare of the Apothecary.

“Yes, um,” Iras snorted. “The fact that you two consider this even close to a depiction of penis makes me question the judgment of my brother Apothecaries, because it means that either both of you are hideously deformed or suffer from some terrible sight-impediment.”

“That’s how everyone draws ‘em, sir,” the taller Initiate offered uncertainly.

“Everyone?” Iras repeated coldly. “I will have to consult my reference materials then. Perhaps everyone is developing malignant tumors.”

The two youths shuffled their feet nervously, their uncertainty fuelled mostly by the fact that the inevitable punishment had not arrived yet. Adjusting to the life of a Space Marine was not as easy and seamless for Cthonian gangers. The unwritten rules by which they lived did not apply any longer. Marking one’s territory did not end in a gang-war. It ended in an angry post-human giant snarking at you, and somehow the prospect was far more terrifying.

“Now that we have determined that you have no artistic talent and cannot be trusted to make a depiction of male genitals,” Iras continued, “let’s get to the point. I am well aware that your miniscule brains have yet to grasp the fact that you are no longer members of your little gang. This,” he thumped the wolf’s head embroidered on his robe, “is the only sign you need. Wherever you see it, you are on your ground. You are no longer members of a gang. You are Luna Wolves.”

There was more shuffling, but neither Initiate seemed to want to interrupt the Apothecary.

“As Luna Wolves, you are the protectors of Mankind,” the Apothecary growled. “You are supposed to be the best Mankind has to offer. You are to carry the torch of enlightenment to the darkest corners of the Galaxy. How exactly do you intend to do any of this if you are incapable of depicting something you see every day?” Then, after an ominous moment of silence, he added, “For now.”

Both Initiates, predictably, swallowed and instinctively covered their crotches.

“W-we could learn?” squeaked the shorter one.

“Learn?” Iras repeated, arching his eyebrows. “What a novel and intriguing idea.”

The taller Initiate gave the shorter one an accusing look, having apparently figured out that they were not supposed to interrupt and that his friend just gave the irate Marine more fuel to rant.

“And what, pray tell, have you been doing so far?” the Apothecary hissed. “Playing regicide? Enjoying a life of leisure?” Iras glared at the two, before roaring at the top of his voice, “You should know all of it by now!”

The Initiates flinched. The change of volume had been startling, not to mention a Space Marine yelling at close quarters could be almost deafening.

“If you do not…” the Apothecary said, trailing off to glare at the Initiates again.

“W-we’re terribly sorry, sir!” the taller one whimpered. “We didn’t think-“

“Indeed, you did not,” Iras snorted. “Now, since obviously you have nothing to do and I doubt you can learn a lesson unless it’s reinforced, you will clean your little artistic venture. And by clean, I mean you will lick it off.”

Both Initiates looked at him with wide, terrified eyes. Neither moved an inch, frozen rigid in shock. The Apothecary crossed his arms over his massive chest and started to tap his foot impatiently.

“Well?” he drawled.

“B-but it’s paint,” the shorter Initiate stammered out.

“That’s what the preomnor is for,” Iras snorted. “Once the wall is clean, each of you will write an essay on territorial markings in gangs in the form of genitals. Three thousand words.”

915 words without title
03-16-13 08:21 PM
Liliedhe The Splinter in my Brother's Eye

Deathwatch training is hard. It is not just about learning to combat unfamiliar threats in unfamiliar ways with unfamiliar weapons. Ways to wage war are what Space Marines have been created to master. No matter how new, no matter how badly the deck is stacked against them, they will deal.

The problem is far more mundane, and far more insidious. Ego. Ego and prejudice. Space Marines are geneforged demigods of war - but that does not explain all of their effectiveness. It all comes down to Brotherhood. In exchange for giving up a human life, with all those things humans consider important, Space Marines gain something else: a family that will support them unconditionally.

Like all families, battle-brothers will bicker, bait each other or quarrel. When push comes to shove, though, when lives are on the line, battle-brothers stand together. Grown from one geneseed, raised through the same nightmare of hypnoconditioning and battle, a Chapter stands by its own. Battle-Brothers die for each other.

In the Deathwatch, this natural advantage does not exist. Here, Space Marines do not share geneseed or upbringing. All brotherhood they have, they must develop from scratch. This is often difficult, as there rarely is a clean slate between Chapters, and differences in style, in tradition, even in beliefs lead to clashes.

And then there are the cases of genuine bad blood…

“The Ophidium Gulf. The Veiled Region. Where are my brothers? What did you do to them?” The rough, scorched voice of Navarre, the Black Templar, reverberated from the grey marble tiles of the ablutorium. The Veteran stood at an angle, feet planted solidly on the ground, leaning slightly forward and bracing his massive hands against the wall, while cold water rained on his shaven head, wide shoulders and scarred and branded back. Without leaving this position, he turned his head to the side, glaring over the impressive bulk of his biceps in the direction of the Space Marine who had just entered.

Asphodel, the Dark Angel Apothecary, much younger and less heavily built, showed no sign of having heard the question. He calmly strode into the room, a towel over his shoulder which he placed on a hook, before picking another sprinkler and turning it on. He turned his head up and allowed the water to fall on his face and broad chest, still completely ignoring the glare of the Black Templar, who now turned from his meditative position so he could watch his maligned brother.

Still the water rained down, cold and slightly salty, forming streaks over his broad face, beading on his jutting brow and dropping onto scarred cheeks. Some of it pooled in the grooves formed by the bulky muscles on his shoulders, before overflowing and splattering on the stone tiles. Several drops carried a faint red tinge they had picked up while travelling the geography of old and new wounds scattered over the canvas of the veteran’s body.

“The Ophidium Gulf. The Veiled Region. Where are my brothers?” He repeated, his tone stone cold, the grinding of gears broken centuries ago.

The Dark Angel lowered his head and turned around, before rubbing water into his short dark hair. His body, slighter yet than the older Space Marine’s, offered much less structure to the falling drops, allowing them to swiftly flow over swarthy skin and pale scars, although they were just as pinkish in colour when they fell onto the grey marble and made their way towards the drains.

“They helped your brothers. They won that war for you, and you threatened them. You stole their victory from them. You killed them when their backs were turned.”

This was the moment when the other Space Marines in the Ablutorium began to take notice. A dozen eyes, light and dark, in human colours and much more exotic hues, turned towards the Black Templar veteran and the younger Dark Angel. Bad blood between Chapters, prejudices, baiting and arguments were nothing new. This, this straight accusation was.

And still the Lion’s son showed no reaction. He had taken one of the scrub brushes and was working the bristles over the exposed parts of the black carapace, turning his back towards his accuser as well as the spectators.

“I will not turn my back to you, Dark Angel. I have sworn an Oath to fight here, and if that Oath demands I fight with a member of a rotten Chapter like yours, I will. But I will not trust you, nor allow you to watch my back. In Dorn’s name, be glad my Oath protects you, you scion of traitorous curs.”

Now, the drops raining from the Black Templar’s fists were a deep red, congealing on the tiles as he ground his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The massive muscles in his arms, shoulders and neck bunched, the tendons standing out like white ropes. His voice had dropped ever lower, and yet, everybody in the ablutorium had heard his speech.

Finally, the Dark Angel stepped out of the water, picked up his towel from the hook where he had hung it and wiped himself dry. Then he turned and walked towards the door, still giving no notice, no sign, however miniscule, he had heard any of the insults and accusations.

Only when he stood under the doorframe connecting the ablutorium to the dimly lit antechamber, he turned and looked at the tense, seething figure of the veteran, and addressed him. His voice was deep and smooth, calm, without emotion or judgement and his eyes were cold and quiet. “Consider this, brother. When we are in the field, I will hold your life in my hands.” He paused, and suddenly smiled, a thin expression, twisted downwards by the duelling scars on his cheeks.

“If I was the debased, traitorous cur you insist I am, consider this, too.” The Apothecary placed a hand on his chest, right where the progenoid lay craddled underneath skin and muscle and bone. “I will hold your legacy in my hands.”

Words: 998
03-07-13 08:00 PM
Romero's Own Apologies but i fear i may not be able to participate in this months HOES de to being tied up over on the RP section with Darkness.

Good luck to all entrants, some really great stories so far.
03-06-13 05:40 PM
"What Hatred Burns Beneath"

“At times I wonder which is the greater enmity… that which we harbor for the enemies of man or that which those of the same blood harbor for their own kin. I have seen such enmity first hand and I wonder if my own hatred is redundant…”

-Excerpt from Inquisitor Andiron’s private journal

“I do not like this, Inquisitor…” the ever dower Sergeant Silinus of the Raven Guard Chapter complained as the small retinue cautiously penetrated the interior of a recently discovered lost Eldar Craftworld.

“Is there anything you do like, Sergeant?” Inquisitor Lucian Andiron countered the statement with something of a smirk.

“Putting a bolter round between some Ork’s eyes rates fairly high on my list,” the Sergeant responded with a shrug of his massive shoulders, “But unless they have found this place first, I doubt I’ll have the chance.”

The entire seven person group knew for a fact that such a thing would likely not happen. They had found the crumbling Craftworld through the guidance of the Book of Lost Glories, though it had only given them a general location rather than a precise place to look. It had taken a fair bit of luck for them to hit upon the correct planet, and thankful it was one devoid of life. Even so, both Lucian and Sergeant Silinus had agreed that caution in such a place was warranted as they had no idea whether soul stones still powered some of the machines of war the Eldar favored.

The Craftworld itself had been partially obliterated upon its fall to the surface of the dead world. Though the central portion of the ship remained somewhat intact, much of the rest of the once mighty and impressive craft had been destroyed either by atmospheric temperatures or the impact upon the rocks it now sat scattered upon.

“What does the book claim was on this Craftworld?” Brother Falkeris asked, ever curious about the various aspects of their missions with the Inquisitor.

“It wasn’t as clear as if often is,” Lucian admitted, “But then, I didn’t read the book. Ask Aeliel if you are truly interested.”

Upon hearing her name, Aeliel looked back at Lucian and the Astartes that he had been talking to. The puzzled look on her face was proof enough that she hadn’t been paying them much mind as she walked along the corridors of the shambled hulk trying to find the place where the most sacred of artifacts would have been kept.

“Did you need something, Luc… my lord?” Aeliel quickly corrected herself. Though she had spent many months in the presence of the Raven Guard that accompanied the pair, she still wasn’t sure just where she stood in their eyes. She knew Silinus held nothing but contempt for her but the rest of the squad still seemed to have mixed feelings about her presence among them.

“I was asking if we knew what was lost here,” Brother Falkeris repeated his inquiry.

“Not specifically,” Aeliel admitted, “But according to the book, it was an artifact of great importance to this Craftworld. It would be foolish to make any grand assumptions simply from that.”

“We are all fools for following the words of an alien…” Sergeant Silinus muttered just loud enough to be heard.

“And yet we have always prospered because of it,” Lucian countered bluntly.

Such a truth did not sit well with the Astartes but he had no retort that seemed relevant. The Eldar girl was useful, of that he could not argue. But she was still an alien and that still made her a potential threat. The exchange between them had stifled any further conversation and the group continued forth silently for a long while. It wasn’t until they reached the vault they had come for that anyone bothered to speak. Those exchanges, however, were that of orders given out and tasks being completed. The Raven Guard had been retained to breach the doors and deal with what might lurk in the massive ruined vessel, and that is exactly what they did.

The interior of the vault was nearly empty. Most of the boxes and pedestals were devoid of contents. Whether because of some previous expeditions or in anticipation for the Craftworld’s demise many centuries before it was unclear. One artifact did remain within the compartment, though it was not immediately apparent just how important it was. The object was little more than an unadorned sword. It lacked much that might even link it to the Eldar at all. Lucian could have easily mistaken the thing for a sword of human construction had he not found it in the vault of an Eldar Craftworld.

As the group made ready to leave, Lucian could feel the air begin to crackle with a strange energy. At first he thought it might have been from the artifact and so he looked behind him toward Aeliel. When the sword sat in her grip as inert as it had been in the box, he knew better of what it was.

“Someone is using a webway relay nearby!” Lucian informed the Astartes, “We have been found!”

The Raven Guard took up positions just outside the vault and made ready for the assault. They waited scarce seconds before the sound of teleportation devices could be heard.

“Warp Spiders…” Silinus growled, raising his bolter to scan the halls. Such was often a useless endeavor as the foul aliens could often outflank them with such profane devices. Several of the Warp Spiders appeared just in front of the group and the fire that the Raven Guard laid down upon them was both merciless and lethal. Unfortunately, they had missed one that disappeared just before the rain of fire caught it.

Silinus heard the thing reappear behind him and knew that he would not be able to turn in time. He waited several heartbeats and heard something he hadn’t been expecting. A sickening crack issued from somewhere behind him but he felt no pain. Silinus turned and watched as the ancient blade slide back inside the gaping wound it had carved into the Warp Spider’s body. When the alien sank to his knees, Silinus watched as Aeliel hefted the blade and cleaved the Spider’s head from his neck. With a final sickening thud, the alien fell to the ground. What was more shocking to Silinus was the look of utter hatred in Aeliel’s eyes. What shook the Astartes most of all was what issued forth from her lips after she’d slain the Spider.

“Slaanesh take you,” Aeliel hissed before shattering the soul stone on his chest.

(1099 words without title)
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