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post #1 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 02:20 AM Thread Starter
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Default Desolace

Following the announcement by BL that they have gone through the story submissions they've received and contacted the authors they're interested in getting the next stage of stories from, I am left with the shells of several stories that I like very much. Here is the start of the first; the one that burns within me most brightly to be written. Expect to see more installments soon.

+

Desolace

+

"Duty is the altar upon which men bleed."
- Anonymous


+

The Adeptus Arbites Rhinos rolled across the yard and slewed to a halt, spraying gravel. Marshal D'Albeqaas glanced through the view slit again, surveying the deserted minehead. Nobody in the watch post. No work crews being shepherded from the living quarters to the mineshafts or back by his men.

So it wasn't a technical fault that had caused the mine to go silent. It wasn't some irritated machine spirit that refused to cooperate or a broken transmitter. Something stranger was at work here, and he'd be damned if he knew what.

Nothing to it, then. “We disembark,” he said into his helmet vox. “Keep your eyes open for any sign of movement. Be prepared for hostiles. Until proved otherwise, we assume the worst—that the convicts overwhelmed the garrison and are lying in ambush.”

His Rhino's doors slid open and the squad moved out with crisp discipline, covering angles with their shotguns and keeping a wary eye on the buildings and three cavernous shaft-mouths. D'Albeqaas followed. The heat, he knew, would have felt like a palpable wave were it not for his environ-sealed suit of carapace armor. The armor was a variant of Arbites gear not usually issued, but considered a necessity for the operation of these equatorial penal mines. Without proper protection, Myria's blazing sun would cook a man within minutes.

It was too quiet. The only noise was the clatter of his soldiers; the subdued rumble of the idling Rhinos, and the faint whistling of the wind as it cut itself across the jagged ridgeline. No machinery thrummed beneath the earth; no regular station reports crackled across the vox network.

“Proctor Gaur,” D'Albeqaas said, “Take Squads Beta and Epsilon and check the installation. The rest of you with me—we secure the mineshafts, one squad each.” His boots crunched on the gravel as he started to lead his men forward. The mine was still disconcertingly still. D'Albeqaas checked his shotgun, making sure it was ready for anything. If the mine was occupied by hostiles, now would be the time that they made their move, so he had to be-

Wild shrieks shattered the sweltering silence. Workers burst from the mine's gaping shaft-mouths, their bare flesh exposed to the blistering heat. They sounded utterly unhinged: not crying out in of pain, but howling with insane, boundless rage.

'Address!' barked D'Albeqaas. His teams of arbitrators drew into tight lines and raised their riot shotguns. His own squad was farthest forward, so would bear the brunt of the wave. What was this madness? The heat would char the miners' skin in minutes; every breath would sear their lungs. 'Respond!'

Shotguns roared, spraying the oncoming mob with buckshot. Penal miners staggered, but none fell. The front rank had been bloodied, but their charge continued unfazed. The arbitrators fired again. Several miners collapsed, but the press of bodies carried most of the injured forward. As the enemy closed the last few meters, D'Albeqaas's men let their third and final volley fly to devastating effect.

The five arbitrators in front locked their riot shields en echelon and braced themselves as the mob crashed into them. The thunderous impact nearly swept them off their feet. Shotgun blasts from D'Albeqaas and the rear rank blew miners back, relieving the pressure on the front and freeing them up to swing their power mauls.

Miners died, their flesh roasted by electrostatic discharges; holes blasted in their torsos; their bones broken; and their limbs severed. Those slain were swiftly replaced by more of the crazed criminals, whose charge spilled around the edges of the small arbitrator formation. They clawed at the arbitrator' unguarded sides as the squad shifted to meet the foe. One arbitrator, then a second, was torn down, dragged out of line and into the voracious, grasping mob, before the squad could reform around D'Albeqaas into a bristling, deadly ring.

Crazed penal miners piled over the broken corpses of their compatriots and each others' flailing bodies to get at the squad. They tore at the arbitrators with their already heat-scorched hands, their crude weapons, and even their jaws.

The arbitrators fought back, pumping shell after shell into the writhing mob and lashing out with their power mauls. D'Albeqaas saw the other arbitrator squads approaching the melee, weapons readied. The Rhinos' pintle-mounted storm bolters stitched bloody furrows through the mob.

D'Albeqaas blew the face off another lunging attacker and his shotgun clicked empty. He clubbed the next miner, a scrawny woman, back and fumbled for his holstered bolt pistol. An armored face jerked into sight, a man wearing a standard arbitrator half-helm and armor—not one of D'Albeqaas's enforcers, who all wore sealed masks and rebreathers. A throne-damned looter; it had to be. The man lashed out with a flaring power maul and shattered the neck of the arbitrator beside D'Albeqaas.

D'Albeqaas cursed and lunged forward, grabbing the man's arm and attempting to disarm him. His opponent batted his grip aside with a standard Arbites counter, and D'Albeqaas jerked away.

This was no miner in stolen gear. Here stood one of the mine's original, conditioned arbitrators, fallen as far into madness as his penal charges. The traitor laughed madly at D'Albeqaas.

Blind, unreasoning fury surged through D'Albeqaas, and he leapt from the relative safety of his squad's formation to lash out with his shotgun. He swung his gun by the grip, as if it were a child's bat, and knocked the arbitrator back.

The power maul came around to parry his second blow, but D'Albeqaas had expected that. He grabbed the enforcer's wrist, yanking his opponent close, and rammed his armored forehead into the man's bare chin.

The man staggered back again, spitting blood and teeth. His lips were already blackened and splitting from the deadly heat, but his face was still locked in a crazed grimace.

D'Albeqaas didn't let him recover his balance. He swung the shotgun again, slamming its full weight into the enforcer's face. The man dropped, and D'Albeqaas followed him to the ground. The marshal rammed the shotgun butt repeatedly into the enforcer's mouth and nose.

The man was surely dead, but that didn't matter to D'Albeqaas. He kept pounding at the corpse. This scum had attacked him, killed one of his men, and broken his holy oath of service! Rage coursed through D'Albeqaas's veins as he smashed the enforcer's face into a pulp.

Another miner crashed into D'Albeqaas from behind, knocking him off the fallen man and to the ground. The miner landed atop him, scrabbling at his helmet. D'Albeqaas pistoned his fist up, knocking the wind out of the man, rolled aside, and grabbed the dead traitor's discarded power maul. He scrambled back to his feet and slammed the maul down, dispatching the miner. Another tried to tackle D'Albeqaas from behind, tearing at his helmet again with reaching, grabbing hands. He roared with frustration, shouldered back into the assailant, and whirled to crush the wretch.

A shotgun blast removed the back of his new-found challenger's head. Black-armored forms, D'Albeqaas's men, marched past, their guns barking.

He pushed away his bloodlust and looked around, taking stock of the battlefield. Corpses of more than a hundred miners littered the ground, interspersed by the occasional carapace-armored figure. Some of the latter were his men, but more...could no longer be counted such.

As the last of the miners were dispatched, vox reports of casualties filtered in. Five dead, three of which from his squad. Three arbitrators had lost their helmets and were being rushed into the environ-sealed Rhinos. A handful more had been incapacitated. Several minor injuries.

The enemy welcoming party had decimated his five squads. There were far more than this hundred penal workers stationed here, he knew, too. Closer to six times that, plus forty arbitrators. If they had all turned to this inexplicable madness, considered D'Albeqaas with horror...

The necessary cleansing would be bloody.

Bloody.

Blood. The word resonated in his mind and dragged his gaze downward. The red, iron-rich soil was greedily drinking in the blood bloodblood of the fallen and running into depressions in the plaza's flat, dusty ground.

Depressions shaped almost like...sigils.

Throne of Terra, no.

'Get back!' D'Albeqaas howled into his voxbead. 'Fall back to the Rhinos!'

The sigils flared with unholy light and convulsed, sending a shudder through the ground and through his gut. The blood bloodbloodblood was a ritual, a God-Emperor damned summoning-

Reality shrieked and the gore-soaked earth, unnaturally rich and dark, swam upward into shapes.

Terrible, terrible shapes.

+

CSM Plog, Tactica

What sphinx of plascrete and adamantium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Imperator! Imperator!

Last edited by Mossy Toes; 04-17-12 at 06:30 AM.
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post #2 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 09:30 AM
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An excellent beginning.

Sorry to hear BL didn't take it, but their loss is our gain it seems.


Nonsense is our Salvation

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post #3 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 09:50 AM Thread Starter
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Definitely. I've been writing up a storm on this--3k words just today, which is something I don't do very often. Here, I'll post up the next wee segment for you. Juuust for you.

(I'll be honest--I should proofread this before I post it. So instead I'll post it and proofread it tomorrow morning, it being rather late here. Sorry if there are some clumsy phrasings/repetition/faulty sentences in here that won't be come 12 hours. I think that the rest of the update makes up for it, though )

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What sphinx of plascrete and adamantium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Imperator! Imperator!

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post #4 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 09:53 AM Thread Starter
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+

Blood and blood-soaked earth coalesced into pillars that coagulated into hulking crimson figures. Bulging muscles flowed fluidly into place, distorting flesh. Jagged black blades and horns sprouted in instants. Gaping, fang-toothed maws split the faces of these daemons, from which unraveled slavering tongues. Their skin was slick with the ichor of their birth, and their eyes and mouths burned with an infernal internal fire. Their faces and forms were those of the predator incarnate, spilled from the Archenemy's deepest hells and mankind's oldest nightmares. Nearly thirty of these beasts rose, scattered across the length and breadth of the yard.

This happened in a mere handful of seconds. The nearest creature leapt into D'Albeqaas's fleeing squad with a fluid grace, it's blade licking out to decapitate Proctor Zyphes then ram home into the gut of another arbitrator. The hellblade pierced through the carapace armor as if it were a sheet of foil. D'Albeqaas screamed in horror and rage and lunged toward it with his power maul. He had no illusions about survival. All that he could do was buy his men, his squad, time to escape.

The blood-soaked beast flowed around his swing with grace and ease. It tore its blade from the stomach of the already-dead arbitrator and lashed out with shocking, blurred speed. D'Albeqaas parried desperately, flailing out in defensive. The force of the sword hitting his parry threw him backward. His carapace armor groaned. The shock maul in his hand shattered, its internal workings spraying in an arc of small mechanical pieces and lubricant. Sweat stung D'Albeqaas's eyes, blinding him. He fired his bolt pistol wildly at the beast, attempting to ward away the follow-up blow he knew was already on its way.

The shots bought him the time he needed to stagger into a guard position and gather his bearings. The daemon hissed at him, its long tongue flickering. Mocking amusement danced in its eyes. The marshal knew he couldn't survive another such brief exchange of flurry of blows.

A trio of shotgun blasts tore into the beast, ripping holes in its unnatural flesh. It shrieked and turned its attentions back to D'Albeqaas's squad, lunging past him in a blur to open one of the gunners, Arbitrator Harbess, from waist to collar with a slash of its sword. Harbess toppled back, flailing.

D'Albeqaas leveled his pistol and rapid-fired into the beast's back, blowing fist-sized craters with his bolts. It shrieked, stumbling, and lurched toward another of D'Albeqaas's squad. That arbitrator back-stepped, barely avoiding the flickering blade, and pumped a shotgun round into the daemon's face. It fell, gushing torrents of blood back into the earth.

Screams over the vox-net—screams D'Albeqaas had been unable to notice while fighting for his life. Squad Delta was surrounded, being hacked to bits by half a dozen of the beasts. Proctor Bouwde and Squad Gamma were similarly beset. The proctor himself had, incredibly, slain two of the creatures before a third cleaved his legs from his body. It threw his flailing torso into the air and he was tossed from monster to monster in a horrific game of sport. Proctor Gaur, meanwhile, had marshaled Squads Beta and Epsilon with commendable speed and gunned down those beasts closest to them. He was leading his squads back to the Rhinos at a full march, laying down covering fire to support Gamma.

More blood-soaked daemons were forming even as the battle raged, sloughing from liquid up off the ground into their obscene, unnatural forms. More, certainly, than were being slain.

Another quintet of the daemons loped rapidly toward D'Albeqaas and Squad Alpha. The arbitrators leveled arms, blasting away at the creatures with shotguns and killing one through sheer weight of fire, but D'Albeqaas knew it wouldn't be enough. These things were too tough, too agile, and too numerous.

Engines roared. A Rhino smashed into the creatures, crushing one and forcing the others to scramble aside. D'Albeqaas seized the opportunity to pick off another with a pair of well-aimed bolt shells, blowing apart its skull.

Another Rhino pulled to a halt behind him and his men, slewing to the side to give them access to the side door. “Get in!” shouted the driver, revving the engine. D'Albeqaas and his survivors were quick to do so, dragging the badly-injured Harbess into the vehicle.

“Gamma!” D'Albeqaas shouted, and the driver gunned the vehicle toward the beleaguered squad, not pausing to close its doors. Another member of his squad, Arbitrator Mycot, scrambled up the hatch to the pintle-mounted bolter.

D'Albeqaas assessed the field again. Two of the Rhinos were picking up Squads Beta and Epsilon, but the fifth vehicles had been carved apart by massed hellblades—detracked, its doors chopped open, and its driver butchered. As D'Albeqaas watched, the last standing member of Squad Delta was cleaved in two by one of the daemons. Another grabbed one of the four standing members of Squad Gamma and tore into him, tearing through carapace armor and into flesh with long, powerful talons.

A sustained burst of bolt fire from Mycot tore the daemon to shreds. The Rhino drove the others back with its bulk as it slid to a halt by the three surviving members of Squad Gamma. They staggered into the vehicle and it was rolling again, spinning around to get out. Mycot blazed away above the hatch, pounding more daemons to a pulp through weight of bolter fire.

The Rhino's doors began to shudder shut, but a last sight stuck in D'Albeqaas's horrified mind: Proctor Bouwde, his legs lost, his armor shredded, his exposed flesh deeply scored by claw-marks and roasting in the heat—but still alive. He reached beseechingly toward the receding Rhino as still more daemons approached him from every side.

Blood sprayed from above, trickling down into the troop compartment. Mycot slumped, slipping down the turret well—missing his head and right arm. A daemon peered down through the open hatch, hissing from its perch atop the careening Rhino. D'Albeqaas cursed, firing up through the hole.

The daemon screeched and lurched back. The Rhino's driver swerved hard and the daemon toppled off its perch. D'Albeqaas clambered forward through the Rhino's hold to the ladder, pushed Mycot's body aside, and climbed up himself.

The mine was receding. The four surviving Rhinos were driving away as fast as their machine spirits allowed, easily outdistancing the daemons that were loping after them. As D'Albeqaas watched, the beasts gave up, staring hatefully after the receding arbitrators.

D'Albeqaas slumped, exhausted and aching, as the Rhinos wound their way down the hillside. They had done it. At a grievous cost, to be certain—he had lost more than half of his command—but they had survived. They had escaped Hell, and lived to tell the tale.

+

CSM Plog, Tactica

What sphinx of plascrete and adamantium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Imperator! Imperator!

Last edited by Mossy Toes; 04-17-12 at 06:31 AM.
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post #5 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 10:23 AM
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Nice. A very close call there.

One thing though, I was under the impression that a bloodletter was physically unable to relinquish its blade? Or did it simply use its off hand?


Nonsense is our Salvation

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post #6 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 04:18 PM Thread Starter
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Now that you mention it, I think I've heard that too. So, it, ah, used its hand. And that's one of the things I'll be tweaking slightly.

Thanks for reading!

CSM Plog, Tactica

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+

The Rhinos juddered across the roasted rocky terrain, carrying the surviving arbitrators in their iron bellies. The setting crimson sun glared harshly down, as if in admonition of the arbitrators' failure.

Marshal D'Albeqaas sat alone at the front end of the hold, his armor coated in a film of gore. The heat, in the brief time before they had sealed the Rhino to protect the injured arbitrators, had boiled away the wetness, leaving a residue of flaking blood and caked viscera. When he shifted, he shed a fine rain of dried blood. The blood of his own men. Vomit rose in his craw at the recollection, and he choked it back. O Emperor, that such things could exist in this galaxy-

His hands were shaking and he couldn't still them. He stared at them for several blank seconds, then pressed them to the bench on his either side and looked around at the arbitrators in this Rhino. Those few that had survived the massacre, the butchery. All six of them. Six survivors out of twenty, and one of them slowly dying. Perhaps Beta and Epsilon had gotten off more lightly. What he had seen in the yard indicated as much—but he didn't dare get his hopes high.

Harbess was a mess. D'Albeqaas didn't know if he would manage to make it back to Aquinas Base. Arbitrator Sheria, from Squad Gamma, was doing what she could to make Harbess comfortable—insofar as such a thing was possible wearing full carapace and being in the stifled interior of the Rhino.

He ought to comfort them, his survivors. They needed him now more than ever. He ought to at least speak to them, to assure them that their fallen comrades would be avenged. To tell them that the Emperor was with them even now. But what could he say that wouldn't ring patently false. The Emperor here in this pit of despair, this ragged flight? Vengeance against that, so recent in memory? D'Albeqaas had to clamp back a convulsive shudder.

He felt sick. Sick to the stomach; sick to the soul. A blurred dullness filled the hollow left by the hateful, bloodthirsty rage and adrenaline that had welled up in him earlier.

The miners' madness and their one-sided deaths—as one-sided as the reciprocal slaughter—that had been the Archenemy's catalyst. The death, the blood, and the arbitrators' righteous hatred: all of these had been tapped by that summoning. They, the arbitrators, had helped conjure those daemons.

The thought set the marshal's stomach roiling even worse. He clamped down his gut, focusing on breathing steadily. Think what the arbitrators would think if he vomited. He ought to comfort them, perhaps—but failing that, he would remain aloof. He couldn't afford to let them see weakness. Let them think him to be a pillar on which they could lean, no matter how fragile his interior. Nothing would be worse for morale than showing weakness now.

The worst part wasn't the deaths, though. It wasn't the humiliation, or failure of duty. He had done as much as he could against the greatest horror the galaxy could throw at him: the vaunted Archenemy, the mythical Daemon. He had done all he could do: survive.

The worst part was the recognition of how outclassed he was; the awe. The daemons had been revolting and horrifying... but they had also been consummate killers. They had been predators, expert warriors, avatars of warfare. They had been skill and slaughter enfleshed. No mere man could match that. He was pathetic compared to those entities; a cringing scrap of flesh in which to sheath a blade. He was nothing, and humbled for it. How could the Imperium, mankind, face such a foe and win? To that, the simplest of answers: it couldn't.

He needed—he needed to take council from Chastener Ripula, Aquinas Base's spiritual guide. Where was he now, if not in a crisis of faith? He needed to contact Judge Kuoras and high command. He needed to alert authorities higher than himself about the Moral Threat that had erupted beneath his command—and to suffer the consequences for having allowed it to be birthed.

He shifted, shedding a dusting of human viscera, and looked out the Rhino's frontal view slot. The sun was setting on the barren vista. Soon temperatures would plummet to below freezing. Already the winds, the cold gusts from beyond the terminator that shrieked in to replace the rising heat, were rising. The bitter elements, in their stark extremes, were the greatest sculptors this planet could ask for.

The desolace so sculpted stretched out before him: an endless sea of baking sands stretching from the mountains from which they descended to the far horizon, broken by chaotic jumbles of jutting rock, haphazard pillars, and similar edifices of nature. Web-like scatterings of deep ravines were the only remnants of waterways boiled away millions of years ago. Red stone mesas and buttes rose in the distance like jagged fingers, thrown into sharp contrast by the setting sun.

The hollow emptiness of that rugged landscape touched something in D'Albeqaas, some hidden vein of pathos to match the losses of the day. He let himself get lost in the wilderness, discarding the bruised trappings of his flesh, the uncomfortable confines of his carapace armor, in favor of the oblivion of letting his eyes choose their own path.

He didn't know how long he stayed there, staring. It was entirely dark, though, by the time that the shuddering of the Rhino shook him from his reverie. Harbess had quietly died. Had D'Albeqaas fallen asleep? No, he had not. He did not think that he would be able to sleep without nightmares for some time to come, in any case.

The vox was crackling. It had been asking for him for some time, he realized. Aquinas Base had come into contact range. Had the other Rhinos voxed ahead the news? Throne, but he didn't want to have to explain to the arbitrators under his command what had occurred today. There was no way—no way at all—that they could understand what he had seen. They would think him a coward, or worse, broken. But there was no avoiding it. He had put off his responsibilities long enough. He crossed the hold and crouched beside the voxcaster, picking up the receiver.

“Coming in, Aquinas Base,” he said. “Marshal D'Albeqaas speaking.”

+Finally,+ came a gravel-voiced response—not one of the usual vox-officers, and with a curtness wholly unsuited to an arbitrator speaking to a superior officer. +About time you reported back. I'm sure that you have a great deal to report. We regret not having arrived before you departed, Marshal, and are glad that you are still alive.+

“I-” D'Albeqaas began, caught off guard by the presence of a stranger. Who could possibly be visiting this desolate equatorial Adeptus Arbites penal base? And how could they possibly know that he had been venturing into danger? “Who is this? What is your authorization level?”

+My clearance is Alpha Phi Iota, Marshal. Far above the scale of your usual interactions, I am sure—though perhaps no longer. I am Brother-Captain Samnite of the Adeptus Astartes, and I hear tell that you have something of a daemon problem.+

+

CSM Plog, Tactica

What sphinx of plascrete and adamantium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Imperator! Imperator!

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post #8 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 06:05 PM
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Serpion5 View Post
...I was under the impression that a bloodletter was physically unable to relinquish its blade....
It beleive it depends on context: I remember reading somewhere that Champions of Khorne can obtain a Bloodletter's blade by wrestling it from them, so they are not fused to it.
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post #9 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 06:41 PM
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Oh yes, another story from Mr. Toes. With Marines and "ordinary people"



Have You Hugged Your Dread Today ?
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post #10 of 22 (permalink) Old 02-14-12, 07:20 PM Thread Starter
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The most interesting interaction, in my eyes. Exploring that cusp between the human and the posthuman.

CSM Plog, Tactica

What sphinx of plascrete and adamantium bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination? Imperator! Imperator!
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