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post #1 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-24-10, 07:01 AM Thread Starter
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Okay, in my never-ending quest to write 40K FanFic, I present to you the short stories that I've either completed or still have on the drawing block. Any comments regarding structure, content, etc. would be greatly appreciated and welcome (even if you're a dick!).

Enjoy, suckas.

*** Most recent change/addition ***
It is Better
Added 13 September 11



Imperial Guard

Nothing Left - An Imperial Guard Short, Completed 1 June - Winner of the June 2010 "Read in a Rush" Competition on the Black Library Holthole (1100 words)

Sons of Larilla - An Imperial Guard Novel, Updated 9 July 2010 (Currently 2000 words)
Book I
Prologue and Part I
Part II

Innocence Lost - A Commissariat Short, Updated 18 May 2010

The Emperor Protects - Part I - Part II - A Larillan Armoured Short, Sequel to Sons of Larilla, Complete

The Plains of Herdias Prime - An Imperial Guard Short, HOES #6 Contagion

Space Marines

Awakening - A Space Marine Short, Completed 20 May 2010 - Winner of the May 2010 "Read in a Rush" Competition on the Black Library Bolthole (1000 words)

Lumen Imperatis - A Rainbow Warriors Short, Completed 3 July 2010 (1600 words)

Betrayal - A Horus Heresy Short, Completed 8 August 2010 (1100 words)


Chaos Space Marines

Submersion - An Alpha Legion Short, Prequel to Skull Reaper, Completed 22 March 2010 (2500 words)

Skull Reaper - A Venom Guard Novelette

The Birth of Decay - A Venom Guard Plague Marine Short, Completed 26 May 2010 (2400 words)

Are You Ready, Brother? - An Alpha Legion Short, HOES #3 Betrayal(1000 words)

Grey - A Venom Guard Short, HOES #2 Thirst (1000 words)

It is Better - An Alpha Legion Short, HOES #8 Mercy (1000 words)


The Inquisition

Fall from Grace - An Inquisitor's Journey, Interactive Storytelling - Check it out on the Heresy News Network and let me know what you want to happen! (Currently 800 words)


Chaos Daemons
Vraks - The Unholy Book of Blood, on the Summoning of An'ggrath in the Vraks Campaign, Completed 8 July 2010 (1100 words)


Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories Challenge 13-06: "Serenity" has started, get your stories in by July 11th!

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3. Nothing Boc said should ever be taken seriously. Unless he's talking about being behind you. Then you run like fuck.

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post #2 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-24-10, 07:02 AM Thread Starter
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Submersion



Late in M38
Somewhere in the Eye of Terror



Insanity. Pure, boundless insanity. His eyes were unfocused, staring blankly against the far wall. His mouth was open, tongue lolling inanely from it, thick strings of spittle running down his chin. Zanthon was a far from perfect example of a member of the Adeptus Astartes. A murderous thug, a thoughtless berserker.

Bravvick’s battle helm, a grotesque rendition of an emerald skull, intricately engraved with emblems of the hydra and jade droplets of venom, hid his contemptuous sneer. His disdain for the new-blood was well-known throughout his squad. Although recently elevated from the ranks of the Rancorous Scouts to replenish the loss of Faremis fifty years before, his instability and corruption were hardly a substitute for the self-control and calm efficiency of his predecessor and seed-father. He is no Astartes.

Vibrations shook the drop pod. Atmospheric entry.

“Two minutes to contact.”

A statement, not an exclamation, a sign of composure. Self-discipline. These were the tenets of a true warrior, a true son of Alpharius. Not the insane abandon of self, the submersion to the Ruinous Powers. That was the path of the fool, the insane, the weak. Bloodlust had its place, but it had to be tempered, controlled, and unleashed during combat to the greatest effect against the enemy. Mercilessness and violence of action were the standard amongst the Venom Guard, but only after careful manipulation and precise placement of assets. Maximum planning yields minimal errors. The tremors intensified as the drop pod passed from the thin upper atmosphere into the denser lower altitudes.

A warning rune illuminated inside of Bravvick’s visor.

“One minute. Prepare yourselves, brothers,” he said.

Confirmations flooded the squad’s vox channel, but the champion paid them little heed. With the exception of Zanthon, every member was a veteran of centuries of conflict and millennia of bloodshed. They knew precisely what was to be done, what powers were to be appeased, what mental preparations and rituals to conduct. They would be ready for the coming battle. If Zanthon was not, then he would die, his gene-seed would be extracted, and Bravvick would lose no sleep over the matter. Such was the fate of all weak-minded enough to prostrate themselves and whore themselves to the Chaos gods. They were to respected, yes, but never worshiped.

He quickly underwent his own pre-battle ritual. Prime bolt pistol, sliding the action slightly back to ensure a round was chambered, clamping it to his thigh and drawing his chainsword, clutching it between his thighs. Trigger personal locator beacon, checking that his squad’s indicators were all operational. Sub-vocalize activation for power fist, feeling the intense hum of the weapon as its energy field crackled into existence. The power fist ionized the air around him, lightning flashed between his clawed fingertips and danced up his forearms, sparking with barely contained ferocity. He felt the anticipation of the coming slaughter rising within him, of the enemies to be put down like animals in the Wrathful’s name, in the name of the Primarch.

“My brothers,” he began. “For thousands of years we have travelled across the stars, in the name of the Legion, in the name of the Long War.” The squad remained immobile, expressionless masks worn by all, even those who wore no helmets. Zanthon. The…Chaos Marine was rocking back and forth, mumbling to himself. Foolish bastard.

He began again, glancing at each of his brothers and, though they gave no outward sign of acknowledgment, he knew every Marine was attentively listening to his every word, “Give no quarter, for you shall receive none. When you see the enemy, crush them utterly. As I do, so must you. I swear upon this,” he gestured his gauntleted hand to the emblem of the hydra, emblazoned upon his left pauldon, “and on this!” Raising his chainsword, he slammed it point down at the deck. “For the Wrathful, for Alpharius!

“Hydra Dominatus!” The drop pod smashed into the ground.

*********

A scene of unrelenting chaos surrounded the drop pod. Thousands of bodies pressed together in melee; humans, mutants, and Space Marines alike struggled in futility to move, let alone kill. The drop pod had plummeted into their midst, shattering bodies, casting a spray of gore and limbs over the toiling mass of flesh. The Wrathful’s instructions had been clear: Get in, get what we came for, and get the hell out.

In this mess, Bravvick was more than happy to follow his lord’s instructions to the letter. His chainsword was at his thigh, his pistol and fist prepared to commit atrocities in the Wrathful’s name.

A quick left jab burst the chest cavity of a man, bright red jets of blood erupting from the destroyed heart. A crimson streak landed across Bravvick’s visor, obscuring his vision of the battlefield.

“Graff! Get me a bearing on the shrine!” his voice echoed in the confines of his helmet. Ideally, they would have impacted only five hundred meters from their objective, but any good commander knew that the plan only lasted as far as the launch bay. “That was not a suggestion.”

He glimpsed in his auspex operator’s direction, seeing him rip through a three armed mutant, its intestines spilling through the gaping stomach wound. It tried in vain to clutch them in, collapsing to the ground, twitching.

“Four hundred sixty three meters, north by northwest of here,” Graff replied.

Not bad. The machine spirits powering the directional boosters were only capable of performing slight course corrections on planet fall trajectories, but they had done the job well enough. They were close, but the swirl of combat between them would make reaching the shrine difficult at best.

Time was of the essence. For each minute they remained locked in conflict surrounding the drop pods, more and more mutants would fill the void and eventually overwhelm the Chaos marines by sheer mass. It was time to move.

“Jib, Charritt, clear a path,” Bravvick ordered, his voice dropping to a growl, “Burn them all.

Howling crowds advanced into the clearing blasted out by the drop pod. The two Marines advanced, shoulder to shoulder, flamers held level before them. Burning promethium dripped from the primer torches, erupting into a wave of liquid fire. A hundred figures were swathed in flames; screaming marionettes, strings being pulled and twitched by an unseen, cruel god. Jib and Charritt pressed their advantage, their armoured feet crushing those still feebly clinging to life.

Absence, silence. Momentary calm in the eye of the storm, in the bedlam of slaughter. This planet was the key, the fulcrum upon which the future balanced. Ezekial had seen this, and the sorcerer had, as far as Bravvick knew, never been wrong. The parted masses began to close again, screaming incoherently, gurgling from slashed throats and savage tongues. Even in the madness of the clash, over the din of combat, something could be heard in the wind. Booming, reverberating laughter. It chilled the soul and pressured the mind. Bravvick could feel the presence of the warp spilling over into reality, the great powers of Chaos vying for domination. It twisted his stomach and brought bile into his throat. Fighting down the rising nausea, he swallowed it. The air itself was thick with aetheric energies, the smell of blood, fear, and sweat penetrated his rebreather's filters and burned his nostrils.

None of this mattered to him, impartiality towards the four terrible gods of Chaos was a tenet of the Venom Guard, not honoring any over the others. He could care less whose blood was spilled as long as it was in the best interest of his brethren, in the furthering of the Long War in the name of the Alpha Legion.

It was for the promotion of the Wrathful’s grand vision that he found himself battling through a swarm of insane heretics on a nameless world in the Eye of Terror, in search of an artifact of untold power. No description was given, only a location, and that the Space Marines would know when they found it. His squad was one of two dispatched to the surface, Brother-Sergeant Paelleoth having landed a scant hundred meters to their south. The race was on, for the glory of the company would be bestowed upon whichever squad made claim upon the relic. To the north lay the vestige, through the teeming crowd maddened by slaughter, incensed with murder.

Thousands of beings separated Bravvick from his prize. With a furious swipe of his power fist, the crowd momentarily parted before him in a shower of blood.

“Brothers, draw your swords and push forwards. Slaughter everything you must, but time is of the essence. The Wrathful will not honour the empty-handed,” he bellowed. His vision still blocked by the streak of blood marring his visor, he tore his helmet off, magnetically clamping it to his belt. The air was thick with blood; he could breathe it, he could taste it.

Implacably, he pushed into the throng. All form was lost, all finesse forgotten. He blindly clubbed anything in his way. A human exploded in a cloud of viscera, showering his emerald breastplate with a scarlet mist of blood and gore. A screaming mutant, hunch-backed and bounding on four legs, shrieked at him from the right. Without a thought, he shot the beast in its head. Another burst of brains and bone scattering the ground, his armor. It was mindless, effortless, the flow of the kill, the dance of the butcher.

And still the laughter reverberated, carried by the wind, echoed by the roiling masses.

Bravvick found himself letting go of his carefully maintained control, pressing ever onward, endlessly hacking. The seconds stretched into years, the swings of his power fist and boom of his bolt pistol taking eons. Time stood still and sped by in an instant, all of the galaxy, the whole of the Eye of Terror, revolving around him. Bravvick was the focal point, the endless fury of the Gods. Not the Gods, the God.

Intoxicating.


He collapsed a skull with a downward crash of his pistol. An eye burst from its socket, slowly flying in free fall. He watched it in its plunge, wheeling end over end trailing nerves. After an eternity, it hit the ground and bounced once…twice. It came to a rest against his right boot. A voice said something, but he could not concentrate enough to decipher its meaning. He could only advance and kill, strike and murder.

Another mutant charged at him, loping forwards lazily. Take aim, fire. Click. Empty. He was surprised, this never happened. He was a Champion, a near-peerless warrior whose focus was unwavering…unfaltering. Disgusted with himself, he threw the pistol to the ground. Bravvick answered the beast with a roar of his own, a cry of rage that tore through the flesh in his throat. He grabbed the charging beast and lifted it over his head.

The Champion ripped the beast in two, showering himself as it organs burst in a fountain of blood. He opened his mouth, drinking in the blood, taking the intestines in his teeth. He shook the body over him, splattering his face and armor. His shining emerald armor was plastered with gore, stained deep crimson. Slowly, reluctantly, he lowered the severed halves of the mutant to the ground.

Clarity, for a moment. A fleeting moment. Situational awareness returned, the focus of the operation. He stood scantly meters from the location of his prize, and he knew what he beheld was his to win. The rage rose within him overwhelmingly, a screaming beast begging for release, a pressure in his skull as though it was about to burst apart. And still, the laughter echoed. The name carried on the wind, soft yet thunderous with the extortion to annihilate. Again, he plunged under, overwhelmed by the desire, the need, the craving to exterminate. Submerged under the endless waves of anger and wrath, overwhelmed.

The Champion was not alone. Before him stood another, a contender to what was rightfully his. A challenger, mindless as he, adorned as he. Helmless, eyes awash with crimson, shot through with scarlet, prepared to claim what was not his. A word struggled to the forefront of the Champion’s mind: Brother? No, not a brother, a target, a skull awaiting addition to the Great Throne, the Pedestal of the Damned. His chainsword was in his hand, adamantite teeth whirling. His power fist crackled with power, the machine spirit within yearning, pleading.

Without a thought he charged forward, a powerful downward sweep of his sword angling towards his foe’s neck. The other deftly sidestepped, bringing his own chainaxe to bear, the two weapons meeting in a burst of sparks. Teeth ground together, breaking under the pressure of the deadlock. The two stared at one another, seeing nothing.

A snap of his boot slammed into his opponent’s knee, bringing him to the ground, unable to support his own weight with his shattered leg. The Champion seized the moment, wildly swinging his sword to be met once again by his vulnerable nemesis. His power fist, alive with energy, punched from the left. Slamming into the challenger, biting into armor, cleaving through bone. A fountain of blood, spilling forth, staining the ground. A scream of pain, of rage and hate echoed clearly. No other sounds tainted this moment, a tranquility only for them, an eddy in the swirl of chaos. This moment, the pivotal moment of which the Champion had been told.

The contender lay on his back, leaking blood and unable to stand. The victory was the Champion’s, could only be his and his alone. He would not share. His gauntlet raised, the chainsword ready. Falling down, severing the head, covered in blood. Arterial spray, the bright red of Astartes blood, erupted from the neck of the fallen. The head spiraled away, stopping almost serenely against it…against the prize.

The Champion clamped his deactivated sword to his hip as he stepped forward. Kneeling down, he retrieved the head, a look of hatred and madness frozen on its features, tears of blood staining its cheeks. The features were familiar, not those of one who he had fought by for thousands of years, but young, lost. Recognition struck him, sending a hollow pang through to his core. Consciousness, clarity. Bravvick struggled to the surface of his own mind, regaining control.

Zanthon. The face staring up at him, the severed skull glaring at him accusingly, vehemently. The eyes, petrified in hatred. He had done this, he had murdered his own. BLOOD AND SKULLS. It did not matter, Zanthon was a monster, without restraint and without composure. But he had done this, he had gone mad with blood lust, his thirst for RIVERS OF GORE AND BONES BLEACHING IN THE SUN overcoming his self-discipline. The laughter boomed in his head, the familiar but new voice reverberating, demanding…

Bravvick stood and turned to face the battlefield. His squad was visible, a head above the horde, hacking and slashing with ferocious glee, thousands of butchered corpses surrounding them. Beyond were Paelleoth’s Marines, howling to the sky, faces dripping blood, eyes screaming madness, their sanity forfeited to gain favor in the eyes of KHORNE. The horizon was an endless landscape of destruction, a never-ending orgy of genocide in the name of the Brazen God.

The champion turned, kneeling at the altar of skulls upon a dais of bone. Their objective reached, he reverently placed the skull he had taken from one who, in the end, was truly his brother. With a scream to the Lord of Rage, he sunk down, deeper into his madness and leaped back into the carnage. “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!”

And always, the laughter echoed.


Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories Challenge 13-06: "Serenity" has started, get your stories in by July 11th!

Quote:
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3. Nothing Boc said should ever be taken seriously. Unless he's talking about being behind you. Then you run like fuck.

Last edited by Boc; 07-02-10 at 09:59 PM.
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The Birth of Decay

A pustule burst, rank ichor leaking out, leaving an ugly smear of pus in its wake. Flegmus grunted, rubbing a swollen finger over it. Immediately, a new infestation evolved in the open sore, bubbling outwards. The smell was horrendous, glorious. He allowed himself a rare pleasure, wafting the rotten aroma in, savoring it.

Overcoming his momentary self-indulgence, he acknowledged the other being occupying the small chamber, “You requested my presence, Blighted One?” He bowed as much as his corpulent frame would allow, his trim and muscular build long since replaced by a maggot infested mass of decay.

Horgal nodded lazily, as though noticing the plague marine for the first time. “Yes, I suppose I did.” His voice was a barely comprehensible gurgle, viscous fluids bubbling from his distended jowls with every word. “It has been brought to my attention that you want to conduct a mission into the realm of the Corpse God. Is this true?”

Flegmus nodded emphatically, droplets of ooze casting about with each movement. “Aye, Lord, this is true. The Lord of Decay has spoken to me.”

The champion of the warband regarded him, jaundiced eyes seeing into his soul. “If the Grandfather demands, so we must provide.” He leaned forward in his throne, pops from his putrefied flesh separating itself from the rotten dais echoing throughout the chamber. “Tell me, what do you require?”

Flegmus smiled, “Time, my Lord. All I need is time.”

*****

The boy ran through the forlorn streets, abandoned of any signs of life. A fungus had taken hold, rancid green tendrils seemed to reach for him as he passed. It drooped from vacant balconies, climbed once resplendent pillars. Those same pillars were now rotten, crumbling. Rubble littered the alleys and thoroughfares alike; the very foundations of the hive were decaying.

Crunch. The boy had stepped on a dead bird, cracking the brittle bones beneath his feet. The crushed body clung on, the fetid seepage from the plague ridden avian sticking eagerly to the bare skin. Tears streamed down his face, streaking grime caked on his cheeks.

He scanned hollow eyes down a darkened alley, saw no indication of activity, and turned down it. The lumiglobes had gone out, days?, before. The boy could not tell for certain; the hive city had always been shrouded by perpetual smog, and the star hardly ever cast its light this far down. Time had no meaning, just an endless journey to nowhere.

A hanging vine brushed against his shoulder, polyps rupturing and spraying him with fetid ooze. There was nothing left, he had not been able to cry in almost as long as he could recall. He imagined that he had cried himself dry, and it had done him no good before. He remembered crying, but none of what he had once wept about seemed important. Nothing was important, just surviving.

He had to grow up, be like Papa, be a man. Frustration rose up within him, threatening to overwhelm him. He knew he was no man, just a small boy, lost and alone in the big city.

Papa. Leaping over a rancid, frothing stream, the boy thought back to his father. It had been a lifetime ago since he had seen the man, kneeling over his bed with his mother. He had been smiling, then, down at his son. It was morning, the boy remembered, and his parents had woken him as was their custom to prepare him for his day in the schola.

It had been morning, but the sun had not shined in through the windows. The morning had been dark, the sky had been sick. His father was smiling and his mother was beaming, lighting the dull morning with her love. Then it had all gone…wrong.

He paused to catch his breath. Although he was thin and wiry, quite in shape for a boy of his age, he could not run forever in this polluted air. It hung heavy around him, weighed him down. He could feel the moisture in the air, something that he had not felt, before. Before the morning without light, the last morning with his parents.

His lungs gulped greedily at the putrid air, filling themselves with airborne toxins that saturated the very atmosphere. He could feel them, fighting to get in, find an opening. He would not let them get in.

Mama. He remembered her face, crowned by her chestnut hair. It was a tainted memory, as the only thing he could remember was that day, the Last Day. The window in his room had been open, a warm sickly breeze penetrated it and permeated the house, filling it with a sweet, nauseating smell. His mother had looked towards the window, the dim green air tossing her hair gently in a breeze, as his father sometimes did with his fingers and they were getting all…kissy.

Her face…he remembered her face with horrifying clarity. Just as the wind, the unholy and tainted gust, touched her soft skin, it transformed her. Her pale complexion darkened, dark veins pulsing along her skin, pumping some unseen contagion into her. She had broken out into sores, expanding like bubbles and finally rupturing. She had turned back to him, her eyes wide with horror.

The boy remembered crying, then. Tears had streamed down his face, back when he could still cry, at seeing his mother like that. Her face began pulsating as it… transformed

She had reached up, running her hand along her horrified features, only to have her fingers rot and fall off at the touch, leaving only brown nubs of decayed bones protruding from rapidly festering nubs. Her eyes widened as the orbs collapsed on themselves, oozing out of the sockets as a fungus spread, covering the undulating layer of skin.

He had torn his eyes from his mother, rotting from within, to his father. His back was arched at an unnatural angle, facing the ceiling and his mouth agape in a silent scream. Mold spewed from his lips, pumping gouts of spores into the air, an impossible amount… covering the room…

Leaning forward, the boy vomited. He hated thinking of that day, it had been hell. No, it had been worse. He had sworn to himself then to survive, at all costs. He had cast his thoughts to the heavens and beyond, swearing to anything that would just let him live, sparing him from the horrific fate of his parents.

The boy ran on, the phantoms of his own thoughts chasing him, gaining ground.

*****

Flegmus strode at the fore of his retinue, glorious warriors of the Grandfather. The street sucked at his every step, glorious decay and the corpses of the rotten dead littered the roadways. His pestilence had struck this world without mercy or limitation. Not a single human, animal, or microbe had escaped its insatiable wrath.

“Blathius,” he instructed one of his henchmen, “gather the Fleshbearers, have them scour the streets. They know what to search for.” At this, one of his personal guard peeled off, marching to the mob of ghouls behind them.

Inhaling deeply, tasting the corruption in the air, Flegmus could not help but be pleased. The contagion had ripped this world to its very core, no living thing was untouched by the holy caress of Nurgle. His God was satisfied in his works, of this he was sure. Jellion Prime was a monument to the implacable and inevitable conquest by the forces of the Lord of All.

If he were human, or even Astartes, he might have felt hope then. Hope that his machinations had come to full fruition, and that this journey had not been for naught. This world served a purpose, for him, for the Death Guard, and for the Grandfather.

Now if only he could find it…

*****

Sleep was a rarity. It was not for lack of fatigue, his every muscle was sore, his bones weary. It was not for need of shelter; in a deserted city there was no shortage of refuge.

The nightmares were what kept him awake at night, or during what he thought was night.

Images of his parents, morbidly coming apart before him as he lay in bed, haunted his every moment. During his waking hours, he was able to fend off the memories, to distract and distance himself from them.

They caught him while he slept.

Sleep was not an event he looked forward to, not anymore. Before, he had been tucked into bed by his parents, been given a kiss on his forehead by his mother before they turned off the lumiglobes. Now, he closed his eyes and he saw her, her flesh erupting in ruin.

Despite his apprehension, he hid now beneath a ground-car, its bulky form crashed into a wall even as its driver exploded in a burst of pus and fungi. A hand lay nearby, attached to a moss in the shape of a fallen person. A big person, by the looks of it.

He was hungry. A proper meal was impossible to come by, everything was tainted. Corruption covered everything; maggot infestations thrived in the food supplies and the grain stores. Nothing was left…nothing but…

No. He would not do that. It was unthinkable, a low that, even in his debased state, he would not sink to.

A growl rumbled through him as his stomach twisted.

So hungry.

Thinking of food had been a mistake. The knotting in his gut intensified, he knew starvation was close. He would die, and soon, if he did not eat. His eyes wandered again…to the hand.

Slowly, reluctantly, he reached out to it, grabbing a hold to the outstretched fingers. He pulled lightly but the hand would not budge. Another tug, harder this time, separated it from the sucking ooze it rested upon. Threads of rotting algae trailed below it, tendrils of decay grasping, seeking.

He whimpered, softly, as he brought the hand to his face. The smell of it was beyond nauseating, it was foul past any description. Fighting back the urge to vomit, he opened his mouth, bringing the hand closer… closer…

He sunk his teeth into it, the soft flesh easily giving way to his incisors. Again, his stomach tried to rebel against him, but he set his will against it and began chewing, feeling the wet popping of the growths as they burst in his mouth.

For the first time in…weeks? …the boy cried. But he kept eating, kept feasting upon the remains of the dead, because he had to live.

He was still immobile, curled in a ball, sobbing, when he heard it. A distinctive crunch, the sound of something heavy moving across the sea of corpses, echoed in the man-made canyon. Something was coming.

*****

“Lord, the auspex is detecting a single life-form in fifty meters,” one of his coterie gurgled, “underneath the wrecked ground-car.”

Flegmus pointed a bloated finger at the vehicle, “Move the car, time to retrieve the prize below.” Anticipation would have filled him, were he a human. As a servant of Nurgle, he merely smiled in what some may have interpreted as a jovial manner.

His two cohorts moved swiftly to the wreckage, hoisting it easily overhead and tossing it aside. Below it laid a boy, a human child, no more than ten years of age. He was filthy, curled in a foetal position, and untouched by the plague that had so thoroughly ravished his world.

The Death Guard’s sickly smile widened as he approached the boy, revealing rows of jaundiced teeth, dripping with a rancid drool. The boy refused to look at the hulking Chaos Marine, tightening into his human ball. Flegmus laughed, a horrid bubbling rumble, and knelt at the boy’s side. “You,” he said, a slight whistle emitting from his fractured teeth, “how are you alive? How has my pestilence not smitten you like the rest of this pathetic world?”

The child still did not move, refusing to meet the pestilent gaze of the Traitor. Undeterred in his curiosity, in his hope, Flegmus poked a swollen digit into the boy’s shoulder, “I am talking to you, boy. How is it you have come to survive, when the very world around you decays into nothingness, into chaos?”

Finally, grudgingly the boy lifted his head, “I will not die.” Having broken his silence, the boy continued, his voice gaining strength, “My mama and papa died, they got sick and fell apart.”

Yes, the strength is in this one. A self satisfied shutter ran through Flegmus’s body, splattering effluence around him. “Tell me more, boy. Why are you alive?

“Because I made a promise!” Stronger even now, the boy’s voice shouted out, resonating through the abandoned streets, echoing hollowly. “I heard the voice, and it said it would keep me alive! I told him I would do anything!” Tears began flowing freely now down the boy’s face, the realisation of his own heinous acts coming to the fore.

Flegmus felt the flutter of excitement building in his chest, I have found one. “Who was it? Who was this voice that came to you? What was his name?”

The boy halted a moment, as though he was unsure as to how to answer. “He called himself the Grandfather.”

Yessssss. He had succeeded, at least once. That meant there would be more. Flegmus stretched his hand forward, taking the boy’s, “Come with me, young one. I serve your Grandfather as well. I shall grant you the opportunity to repay his generosity.”

*****

Staring into the twisted beauty of the Warp, Flegmus’s self-satisfaction did not fade. The world of Jellion Prime had died, and with it billions of people. All had fallen to his plague, his beautiful creation, his virus of utter perfection.

All but fifteen.

A world of over ten billion human beings, reduced to fifteen worthy souls. All fifteen had pledged themselves, either wittingly or otherwise, to the Grandfather, to the Lord of Decay. They sat now in the holding chamber, awaiting the beginning of their training, of their induction.

The Death Guard had its newest recruits.


Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories Challenge 13-06: "Serenity" has started, get your stories in by July 11th!

Quote:
Originally Posted by spanner94ezekiel View Post
3. Nothing Boc said should ever be taken seriously. Unless he's talking about being behind you. Then you run like fuck.

Last edited by Boc; 05-26-10 at 09:14 PM.
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post #4 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-24-10, 07:08 AM Thread Starter
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SF,SH removed, send me a PM if you want to read/critique it.


Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories Challenge 13-06: "Serenity" has started, get your stories in by July 11th!

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Originally Posted by spanner94ezekiel View Post
3. Nothing Boc said should ever be taken seriously. Unless he's talking about being behind you. Then you run like fuck.

Last edited by Boc; 05-20-10 at 08:37 AM.
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post #5 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-26-10, 04:40 AM
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Incredible original work, almost inspires me to start an alpha legion army.

Plus rep!

Please check out my painted and converted Dark Eldar Razorwing Fighter

https://www.heresy-online.net/forums/gallery
/showphoto.php/photo/7961/limit/recent

And the accompanying tactica
https://www.heresy-online.net/forums/...ad.php?t=89326

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post #6 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-27-10, 10:55 AM Thread Starter
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Innocence Lost

“You smell like a grox’s arse.” That, of course, was a lie. Rather, the target of his disgust was more reminiscent of an especially pungent mixture of stale urine and ammonia. The effect was, well, nauseating.

Nervously, the private shifted back and forth on his feet, clearly not having expected this to be the first words the man had said. “Sir, Colonel Peslan would like to see you in his quarters. He sent me here as an escort.” Still locked in a too-loose approximation of the position of attention, the newcomer continued his implacable glare. “…sir,” he feebly finished.

Shroud in a black greatcoat and eclipsed in shadows, the figure remained silent. The moment stretched on, awkwardly, as the pair stood at the foot of the shuttle's ramp.


Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories Challenge 13-06: "Serenity" has started, get your stories in by July 11th!

Quote:
Originally Posted by spanner94ezekiel View Post
3. Nothing Boc said should ever be taken seriously. Unless he's talking about being behind you. Then you run like fuck.

Last edited by Boc; 05-17-10 at 11:31 PM.
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post #7 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-27-10, 01:21 PM
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Quote:
the tracks along the vehicle finding purchase in the loose sound outside.
Should this be "loose sand outside?" Only thing that stood out grammar-wise.

Incidentally, is the IG bit the above quote comes from new? I haven't read it before, and it's (as always) great work. Thanks for putting this back up on Heresy, and for starting some new writing!

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Originally Posted by Lucio View Post
Camo is the color of cowardice but if the only ones to call you a coward are now a puddle of plasma there isnt a problem.
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post #8 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-27-10, 02:40 PM Thread Starter
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Aye, the IG piece is something I've started in the past week or so, probably with the intent on making a SS for submission to BL.

I posted the structure of the Larillan Battle Groups last week once I'd weeded out how to make it work the way I wanted it, and am trying the unit out to determine how I want to characters to feel. Future works will likely have much more interaction between infantry and armoured soldiers, with the artillerymen just hanging out as a necessary addition.


Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories Challenge 13-06: "Serenity" has started, get your stories in by July 11th!

Quote:
Originally Posted by spanner94ezekiel View Post
3. Nothing Boc said should ever be taken seriously. Unless he's talking about being behind you. Then you run like fuck.

Last edited by Boc; 04-27-10 at 11:27 PM.
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post #9 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-30-10, 12:41 AM Thread Starter
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Another update to SF,SH.


Heresy-Online's Expeditious Stories Challenge 13-06: "Serenity" has started, get your stories in by July 11th!

Quote:
Originally Posted by spanner94ezekiel View Post
3. Nothing Boc said should ever be taken seriously. Unless he's talking about being behind you. Then you run like fuck.
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post #10 of 53 (permalink) Old 04-30-10, 01:10 AM
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Quote:
While the Colonel certainly did not seem to value the individual Guardsmen, he still did not seem to
...to what?

I don't really know what else I can add. I'm happy to read this, but there isn't much I can contribute. Please keep the adventure coming!

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Originally Posted by Lucio View Post
Camo is the color of cowardice but if the only ones to call you a coward are now a puddle of plasma there isnt a problem.
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