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· Super Moderator
8,545 Posts
Discussion Starter · #1 ·
Welcome to the year's second

For those of you that are unfamiliar with HOES, here's how it works:

Each month, there will be a thread posted in the Original Works forum for that month's HOES competition. For those of you interested in entering, read the entry requirements, write a story that fits the chosen theme and post it as a reply to the competition thread by the deadline given. Each and every member of Heresy Online is more than welcome to compete, whether your entry is your first post or your thousandth. We welcome everyone to join the family of the Fan Fiction Forum.

Once the deadline has passed, a separate voting thread will be posted, where the readers and writers can post their votes for the top three stories. Points will be awarded (3 points for 1st, 2 for 2nd, and 1 for 3rd) for each vote cast, totalled at the closure of the voting window, and a winner will be announced. The winner will have his/her story added to the Winning HOES thread and be awarded the Lexicanum's Crest award for Fiction excellence!


The idea with the theme is that it should serve as the inspiration for your stories rather than a constraint. While creative thinking is most certainly encouraged, the theme should still be relevant to your finished story. The chosen theme can be applied within the WH40K, WHF, HH, and even your own completely original works (though keep in mind, this IS a Warhammer forum) but there will be no bias as to which setting is used for your story.

As far as the theme goes, please feel free with future competitions to contact me with your ideas/proposals, especially given that my creative juices may flow a bit differently than yours. All I ask is that you PM me your ideas rather than posting them into the official competition entry/voting threads to keep posts there relevant to the current competition.

Word Count

The official word count for this competition will be 1,000 words. There will be a 10% allowance in this limit, essentially giving you a 900-1,100 word range with which to tell your tale. This is non-negotiable. This is an Expeditious Story competition, not an Epic Story nor an Infinitesimal Story competition. If you are going to go over or under the 900-1,100 word limit, you need to rework your story. It is not fair to the other entrants if one does not abide by the rules. If you cannot, feel free to PM me with what you have and I'll give suggestions or ideas as to how to broaden or shorten your story.

Each entry must have a word count posted with it. Expect a reasonably cordial PM from me (and likely some responses in the competition thread) if you fail to adhere to this rule. The word count can be annotated either at the beginning or ending of your story, and does not need to include your title.

Without further ado...

The theme for this month's competition is:


Entries should be posted in this thread, along with any comments that the readers may want to give (and comments on stories are certainly encouraged in both the competition and voting threads!) 40K, 30K, WHF, and original universes are all permitted (please note, this excludes topics such as Halo, Star Wars, Forgotten Realms, or any other non-original and non-Warhammer settings). Keep in mind, comments are more than welcome! If you catch grammar or spelling errors, the writers are all more than free to edit their piece up until the close of the competition, and that final work will be the one considered for voting. Sharing your thoughts with the writers as they come up with their works is a great way to help us, as a FanFiction community, grow as a whole.

The deadline for entries is Midnight GMT, 31 March 2015
(yes, March). Remember, getting your story submitted on 22nd will be just as considered by others as one submitted on 11th! Take as much time as you need to work on your piece! Any entries submitted past the deadline will not be considered in the competition, regardless of whether the voting thread is posted or not.

Additional Incentive
If simply being victorious over your comrades is not enough to possess you to write a story, there will be rep rewards granted to those that participate in the HOES Challenge.

Participation - 1 reputation points, everyone will receive this
3rd place - 2 reputation points
2nd place - 3 reputation points
1st place - 4 reputation points and Lexicanum's Crest

If you have any questions, feel free to ask in this thread.

Without further nonsense from me, let the writing begin!


· Registered
430 Posts
It's been too long. So here, have a kinda-fusion that's also an alternate timeline of an alternate timeline! Because why not?

Heresy Online Expeditious Stories 15-02: Memory
Abyss of Epochs (a Renegades short)
1044 words​

Sanguinius saw the future. It was one of his core abilities, his fundamental self. So it had been, for two hundred years.

It was still so now; but in a different way. With his growing closeness to the energies of the Second Order, he could still see what would be – but also what would never be. Fates that had been recently avoided.

Most were bleak, warnings to steer clear of. But some were merely strange. And now, in the core of his sanctum, Sanguinius looked once more, trying to cast his mind into a future that would never occur.

Into the furthest future he had ever known.


Roboute Guilliman was not the being he had been created as, and had been for so long. By now, he was not even close. Though – it could never have been any other way, after two million years.

His icy armor, telekinetically assembled, glimmered in Macragge’s cold air, lit only by distant stars’ pinpoint light. The system’s own star had been destroyed in Angron’s last offensive, when the Khorneate daemon-Primarch had literally raised a cosmic tide of blood. Only the Novatyranids had been sufficient defense then, and Magnus had almost lost control of the swarm at that.

But Magnus was gone now, just like Russ and Horus and all the others. Only him, Vulkan, and Emperor Sanguinius remained. Not a bad attrition rate, objectively speaking.

Though they were all both more and less than before – before, in those brief years after Prospero when they had thought the universe had gone mad, unknowing that it had always been thus. In those years that, now, two thousand millennia had passed since.

And so, in honor of the anniversary, it was their duty to remember – to remember not the victories, defeats, sacrifices and stalemates of the Long War, but the several years of hope and terror that followed the greatest shock of their lives.

He looked out into the distance, spotting his brothers. Vulkan, the living sun, was sitting cross-legged upon a peak fifty-one kilometers away, meditating. Magma spun around him, dancing to a tune Guilliman would never quite be able to comprehend, heating the dark world as well as cooling his mind. He had been corrupted and then daemon-possessed, in those years; he had not considered himself redeemed until his rebirth, within Sol’s heart. Even now, Guilliman would not have any of his mind left after such an ordeal, burning alive and regenerating trillions of times; but Vulkan had preserved enough for Magnus to heal him. Barely. Yet ultimately, Vulkan had won, and Sol had lost.

Sanguinius – the Emperor, who had cleansed that title with blood and light – was hovering above, in the stratosphere, midway between the other Primarchs. Sanguinius lived for these anniversaries, in truth, due to his weakness. After the Great Game against Curze, the Great Angel could not normally sense the present, only sufficiently distant futures and personal pasts. But at points like this, he could reorient himself in time, take a few steps away from the insanity of omniscience.

And then there was Guilliman himself. Some called him a cryomancer, for his domains were order and water. He had a weakness to the Enemy, he knew, a blind spot far bigger than Vulkan’s or Sanguinius’s. His eyes had been damaged so many times that he actually had to wear glasses. All things told, he was (at least in his own view) the weakest of the surviving Primarchs, at least without accounting for intellect. But in those first years, it had been him and Horus who had reorganized an Imperium Secundus from the ashes of the first, while Sanguinius played regicide on the horizon of eternity. They had built an empire that had a decent chance of actually lasting forever, though forever came with its own risks, many linked to the infinitely-cursed Warp. They had protected so many lives, saved so many souls! Even when the Emperor asserted his mental domination of the Primarchs, Ultramar and the rest of Secundus had been inspired to fight against them, and for long enough that Horus succeeded in throwing off the Emperor’s power, and in the end breaking his gambit.

If only that had been enough to stop the Mark.

“Brothers,” Sanguinius sent by telepathy, his wings like lightning. “Remember Perturabo.”

And then Guilliman did. The Comrade, the Lord of Iron, the one who drew lines for himself and wept to cross them. Not a purely good man, perhaps, but the most lawful of them all. An engineer and an administrator. A subdued hero in the early years, then the Grandmaster of the White Order. It had been Perturabo who had escalated the war, up to a universal scale. He had died in a distant galaxy, to keep alive the last of the Eldar, in a time when Sanguinius needed the prophetic help.

“What of him?” Vulkan asked by the same telepathic channel.

“He will be reincarnated,” Sanguinius said. “A certainty now. A scrap of him survived in the Fourth Order, and it has been guided back to realspace, returned in full. The world is New Athalion.”

And Guilliman’s head spun, for a nanosecond. That he had not expected. Perhaps this would be enough to break the latest stalemate? Though even that prospect paled, in truth, to seeing his brother again, when –

They were being observed.

Sanguinius was silent for a second when Guilliman transmitted that. “Myself,” he said eventually. “In a past that did not exist.”

And then the seven-winged Emperor was, impossibly, facing the Sanguinius that was watching eternity, and smiled. “Your world will never become this,” he flatly stated. “When Horus split from Guilliman, the Wolftime became unavoidable.”

And then he said something else, something that Sanguinius –


Could not remember.

With a sigh, the Ninth Primarch descended from his meditation. He saw the same vision whenever he tried to find this fate, and he suspected it was being drawn from his own memory and not from the strings of time. And those last words his not-future self told him were somehow blocked.

Yes, this was turning into an obsession. He would stop this – he knew he had will aplenty for that. It was not immediately relevant. And in the long run, time –

Time would know its own.

(To clarify, in case it wasn't clear - the middle segment is NOT supposed to be Renegades canon, or even a possible outcome of Renegades.)

· The Curmudgeon
646 Posts
It's been a little while since I did one of these, but I was in the mood so...

Catastrophic Loss

Memories… small fragments of the self that linger in the recesses of the mind, each one a small glimpse at the larger picture they draw. For each fragment that goes missing, so too does a small portion of the self that it helped to create. Lose them all and you are left with nothing but an empty shell. Then, let’s say, the empty shell suddenly regains what once was lost… What happens then? I’m betting on something akin to pure anarchy…
- From the personal journal of Inquisitor Lucian Andiron​

“What do you hope to learn, child?” the inhuman voice droned in the echoing room. Unnerving as the voice was without the acoustic assistance of the chamber, it was made even more alien with the unintentional assistance of the thing’s surroundings.

“Weaknesses… strengths… anything really,” Lucian admitted without much thought to the question. His agents had spotted the strange being wondering the hive complex, unnoticed by most. Indeed, in the Imperium it wasn’t all that strange to see someone that had given themselves so completely to the Omnissiah that one could not find a stitch of flesh upon them. What had drawn the attention of the agents of the Inquisitor was the manner in which it would stop from time to time and marvel at things that usually wouldn’t warrant a second look from someone truly born of the Imperium.

“I can teach you things,” the voice offered, “Though I sincerely doubt you would be able to fathom their depth very easily.”

“Perhaps not,” Lucian shrugged the comment off as he reached for one of dozens of implements that had been brought for the interrogation, “But then again, I don’t really care to know anything you want to tell me. I want to know the secrets you keep locked in that skull of yours. From what I’ve been able to gather about you and your kind, you’ve had a considerable span of time in which to collect secrets. And I do enjoy learning new things…”

The Inquisitor rolled the implement in his fingers gingerly as he gazed at his prisoner. The creature had put up a decent fight when his men had descended upon him. But something about the number of casualties gave the man pause… mainly that there weren’t any. The pragmatist that had begun to develop within him had reasoned that the thing wanted to be captured for some reason…

“I assume you wish to use that crude thing to pry my head open,” the metallic abomination surmised.

“That is the general idea,” Lucian nodded, “I take it you’ve endured similar.”

“No,” the machine remarked in monotone, “Though your kind’s methods always did strike us as barbaric in nature. I merely made a presumption based on previous encounters with your species.”

“I see,” the Inquisitor murmured somewhat distractedly. For a few more seconds he rolled the tool between his fingers before setting it back on the table abruptly. The machine’s head cocked to the left slightly, the first real sign that it had been caught off-guard.

“Tell me something,” Lucian walked away from the table and approached the creature, “Where do you fit in your hierarchy. I know your kind have one. Are you somewhat near the top? In the middle perhaps?”

“I was a peasant…” the machine seemed almost unhappy at the notion, though Lucian had to admit that it was likely the thing couldn’t actually feel any emotions at all.

“A peasant? So… you’re one of the fodder drones your kind spreads across a battlefield?” the Inquisitor asked, slightly perplexed at such an idea.

“Were I from some other Dynasty… then you would be correct,” the machine remarked. Again Lucian had to censure himself for seeing emotion where there hadn’t actually been any. He wondered somewhat casually if his work with the Eldar girl Aeliel had somehow given him an unhealthy sympathy for creatures not of Imperium origins.

“How is your… Dynasty was it? How is that different from all the rest?” the Inquisitor folded his arms across his chest as he spoke.

“We remember…”

“That’s it?” Lucian almost scoffed at the simplicity of it.

“Ours was a slave race to ancient and deceitful gods,” the machine intoned, “We once possessed flesh and blood just as you do now. We were once a people no less ambitious and cruel as your own. But the cursed world we lived upon made our ambitions for not against a backdrop of less than half a century. When given the choice between that flesh and bodies of metal that would not fail… our ancient leaders chose for us… all of us… on thousands of worlds. And for most Dynasties, those who had been transformed against their wills were blessed with the loss of their memories. They knew nothing of the flesh they once had, the lives they had lost, and the things that had made them Necrontyr. Even their lords and masters lost bits of themselves in the exchange, though they still remember what we once were…”

Lucian frowned in confusion, “I fail to see how any of what you’ve just told me holds value…”

“Because you do not know the value of the memories,” the machine remarked.

“Then enlighten me…” the Inquisitor prodded.

“You see those like me as simple fodder, yes?” the creature paused until Lucian nodded in agreement with the statement, “And that is true enough. But if the mindless fodder were suddenly made to remember…”

At first the machine’s musings were lost on Lucian, but slowly he began to put the pieces together. An unstoppable wave of mindless troops depended on that mindlessness to conserve order. The endless phalanx that he had seen on various pict-frames that had survived Necron attack would be useless if they all at once began to relive their lives of flesh and bone. The chaos such a thing had the potential to create within the ranks of an otherwise nigh-invincible foe could be the very thing that could tip the scales in the Imperium’s favor.

“Can you show me how to use those memories?” Lucian asked.

“I cannot… but I know of one that can…” the machine seemed to almost taunt the Inquisitor.

“It looks as if you’ve earned yourself a temporary stay of execution…” Lucian said as he motioned the guards to release his captive.

“I am confident you will not be disappointed with your choice… Lord Inquisitor,” the creature bowed slightly.

The gesture gave Lucian the resolve he needed to endure the thing’s existence… for a time…

The word count is 1088 words, not counting the title.

· Registered
1,557 Posts


Inspired by The Priests of Mars novel

1093 words

Sentience is the ability to feel, perceive, or experience subjectively.

The Ark Mechanicus Speranza had been badly wounded.

When Titans clashed in confined spaces, the damage was always going to be, using ancient Terran terminology… of biblical proportions.

To Irniq Delta-47, today was just another day. The near destruction of the largest vessel in the Mechanicum meant nothing to it as it received its latest in-load, phasing from Inactive to Active.


The Type-11 repair servitor moved to its work station and plugged a long tendril from its left hand into a relay box attached to the wall.

It replaced the power cell on its welding arm, adjusted the fixings, and then left by one of the numerous tunnels that lead from the main servitor stations on this deck.
The whole process had taken 4.2 seconds.

DECK 56/8A looked like a scene from your worst nightmares. Although it was six thousand meters from the main plasma breach, a wave of super-heated liquid had still managed to burn its way through from the core. The central cooling vats were still serviceable but many of them had been damaged beyond repair. The whole chamber looked like a scene from the mythical Hell described in data from ancient Terra. Five hundred and twenty crew worked this area. Five hundred and twenty had been vapourised.

Vidrik Levandi, Adeptus Mechanicus Overseer (third Class), ran his fingers over his bald pate and then glanced down at the dataslate in his hand.
“Only the Omnissiah can perform miracles, Magos Tanasal,” he said in a dull monotone voice to the tall Rune Priest standing before him, “I fear even your skills will not help with the current batch. They are well below standard. The last press produced very inferior stock.”
The Rune Priest looked at the Overseer with barely disguised distain.
“We have rounded up crew from the mess halls, and I know they are dispatching more repair crews to this location.” He then leant forward with his face a few centimetres from the Overseer’s pale and slightly oily face.
“You have your ‘batch’” he continued, “ so get the task done. It comes from Archmagos Kotov himself so make do with what you have. The whole expedition is relying on you to get these plasma jets back up and working.”
“I shall make them work double shifts” said the Overseer “and will be liberal with the whip.”
The Rune Priest made a noise that almost sounded like laughter.
“Do not be overzealous Overseer. There have been reports of… upheavals on some of the decks. There is talk of a leader amongst the workers stirring up trouble. We do not know how it started, but I often find that you get more out of the workers if you treat them… humanely.”
The Overseer raised an eyebrow.
“I shall bare that in mind.”

Irniq Delta-47 presented his credentials.
“Good, a plasma welder.” said the Overseer. He waved a small wand over the servitors information hub, a small plate on the side of its head, and then turned back to his dataslate.

Irniq Delta-47 immediately turned to a panel next to the Overseers shoulder, and began to quickly remove bundles of wires and wafers of circuitry.
When the small welding device began to spark and glow and small balls of superheated metal began to patter his uniform, the Overseer moved to another station and observed the servitors work.

A crowd of the dispossessed, frantic and browbeaten, was herded into the chamber and the Overseer immediately straightened up.
A tall Skitarii with a power axe ordered them to halt and handed him another dataslate.
“Goods dispatched” it hissed through a brass gate-like mouthpiece.
“Goods received” replied the Overseer. “You will remain here on station until your orders change.”
“Affirmative” said the Skitarii, turning to the rear and taking up position near the entrance. Dressed in a crimson cloak and equipped with brass armour and a grotesque animal-like helmet, the guard looked formidable. The Overseer relaxed.
He turned to the new arrivals.

“I am your Overseer. You will repair this station. You will work until the work is done. You will do as you are told.” He nodded confidently to the Skitarii.
“We are authorised to use lethal force.”

A tall, skeleton pushed his way to the front. His uniform was a mixture of rags held together by wire.
The Overseer smiled.
“We are not animals,” he began, nodding at the rest of the wraiths around him. “We have been treated like filth ever since we got here. We are not Mechanicum, we were all pressed…”

The Overseer held up a hand.
“You will do as you are told.” He glared at the spokesman and then tipped his head towards Irniq Delta-47. “The alternative is him.”

The leader was not finished.
“You there” he shouted at Irniq Delta-47. “Why do you put up with this?”

The Overseer grinned.
“It is a servitor. It has no function except to serve the Omnissiah. Did you not have them on your planet?”

The leader seemed irritated.
“We lead simple lives, we did not believe in servitude,” he looked at Irniq Delta-47 and smiled. “Friend. You are not a slave. Do not let them treat you this way.”
The group began raising their voices. The Skitarii immediately moved into defence mode, bringing its axe up to high port.
“I am Irniq Delta-47” stuttered the servitor. “Repair servitor. Current task: ACCESS AND REPAIR”.
The leader moved slowly forward. His voice was calm.
“Inside you are a man like us. Think who you were before these abominations altered you.”

“I am Irniq Delta-47. I was…”
“Go on” said the leader.
“I was Sai Phuoc. I was a soldier.” He held up his right arm and noticed the welding unit. His eyes widened. He looked at the leader. “I had a family… I was taken.”

“Enough!” shouted the Overseer.
Sai Phuoc suddenly smiled.
“I was betrayed.” He turned towards the Skitarii and plunged his left arm, a multi-tool of blades and saws, and opened up the soldiers chest, pushing it back against the bulkhead.

“I remember it all.”
The Overseer lifted his whip but Sai Phuoc was faster. The welder flicked into life and super-heated flame burned into the Overseers forehead killing him instantly. The portly Adept fell heavily to the deck.
“I am a man,” smiled Sai Phuoc “I feel.”

· Registered
1,557 Posts
My Votes!

Hummmm, very tricky one this! :laugh:

1st place: jonileth, 3 pts
2nd place: VulkanNodosaurus, 2 pts
3rd place: Now that is a tricky one????:crazy:
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