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Discussion Starter #1 (Edited)
Salutations brothers of the quill! It has been too long since I posted something here, being distracted by new university life amongst other things. I do not despair though as Summer is upon us and I can bring some of my focus back to prose.

Having just completed my first year in a Screenwriting degree, I suddenly find myself rusty at writing this prose though. The fact of the matter is I need to retrain my mind to think in that way again. And so my good friend has offered to help me carry out an excercise which I have decided would be good to share with you faithful Heretics. Hopefully some of you will find the time to join in, hopefully helping us all get those creative juices flowing, like an orcs blood in rutting season. Here's the plan.

Everyday, my friend gives me a random word. Just one word. I share with you that word. From this singularity, you must come up with a short piece of writing, whether it be based in the 40k, Fantasy or any other kind of universe, the sky is the limit. Now these pieces do not have to be long, epic tales (although they're fine) and can be as short as you like. It can be the start of a story, an extract, whatever. The only requirement is that it clearly relates to the word of the day.

So without further ado, I'll post my yesterday story, and today to give you examples and then hand you guys the word for tomorrow. The new word will be given as close to midnight as I can post

Good luck and good writing. It's good to be back.

The Inquisitor
 

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Discussion Starter #2
Day 1 - Word = Breakthrough

+++

After several hours of standing alone in the cell, Gray Peters noticed only one thing. The walls were sweating. It wasn’t hot; if anything it was uncomfortably cold. So why were the walls sweating? How were the walls sweating!? Beads of liquid trickled down the metallic surfaces, forming small puddles at the base. Before long, the small puddles covered the entire floor, the sweat showing no signs of relenting. As the lapping waves of salty liquid reached the feet of the room’s sole occupant, reality itself began to warp. In a blink, the walls dissolved into the fabric of nothingness. The concrete floor morphed into the hot, gritty sand of a tropical island. Gone were the confines of the holding cell and gone was Gray’s sense of impending doom. The sea waves lapped up and around his feet, seeping through his Italian leather shoes. Above him, a fiery sun occupied the sky, an orb of light set against the bluest of blues. Indeed, the only thing that hadn’t changed was the thing he had hated the most. He stood alone on the beach.

If anyone had been there, they would have looked upon a balding, middle-aged man, stood in an expensive business suit, staring out at the horizon. Removing his suit jacket, Gray looked up and down the seemingly endless beach. No signs of civilization, occupation or exploration. The sun continued to beat down, replacing the uncomfortable cold of the cell with a sweltering heat. As dusk fell on the paradise prison, the lone figure sat on the beach had seemingly given up hope, accepting his fate of an eternal loneliness. A hermit-crab scuttled past, carrying its home on its back. Gray watched the creature, strangely reminded of how he lived his life. For the past twenty years he had carried his home with him in his wallet; a credit card spent on hotels, motels and everything in between. The crashing waves eventually engulfed the crab, carrying it to depths of the ocean. The dark of night fell on the beach. Not one star lit the night sky, an absent moon failing to cast its pearly light. Pitch black ensued.

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The cleaner had found him collapsed in the bedroom. No sign of an intruder or any sort of struggle. By the time the ambulance had arrived, Mr Gray Peters was in a vegetative state. This is what the official report had told Dr Zeuterman and he had no reason to doubt it. It wasn’t his job to investigate what had happened. It was the doctor’s job to determine why. The quacks at the hospital had taken a week to conclude that there was nothing physically wrong with the patient, and so a specialist had been called in. Dr John Zeuterman was one of the best there was.
Psychology was an aspect of science still very much in its youth. Theories came and went as frequently as the seasons. The true secrets of the human psyche were still very much steeped in mystery.

TBC
 

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Discussion Starter #3
Day 2 - Word = Rise


As a child, his father had once told him that Empires were like the Sun. If they rise, then it is but a matter of time before they fall. These words had stayed with the boy throughout his youth, echoing in the darkest recesses of his mind, subtly but surely manipulating, not only his choices, but his very ideals. Fast forward thirty years and the small boy, now a tall, muscular, striking figure, looked out across the Empire he had created. Cerebra. A weary smile crept onto his weathered face.

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The son of a General, Ramses Darlock was born into a militant existence dictated by discipline, honour and loyalty. As soon as he could walk, he was encouraged to run. As soon as he could talk, he was given orders. By the age of ten, he could wield a blade with enough proficiency to combat a professional soldier. His father made sure that, not only he knew how to fight, but how to be the best. However, it was not his skill with a blade that saw Ramses become one of the most celebrated military leaders in history. This accolade belonged to his mind. A scalpel sharp wit and tactical genius had seen the young man rise through ranks in an unprecedented period of time. By the time he was twenty-five, Ramses had already matched his father’s commission. It seemed destiny had smiled upon him.

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The Spire that Ramses stood atop resembled a spear-tip. Over six hundred feet of sculpted limestone and granite, imported from the Southern Badlands, threw a shadow over the surrounding lands. Locals often boasted to outsiders about how they could tell the time of day, merely by where the shadows fell. Now high noon, the sun hung in the sky, baking the earth below it. The Spire had been constructed to commemorate Darlock’s third successful campaign against the Kingdom of Filentia. Memories of the victory celebrations washed over the battle-hardened Ramses, the rustic smell of the edifice conjuring ghost images from years ago.

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The masses had travelled from leagues away that day, for one purpose and one purpose alone; to lay eyes on the conquering hero, the victorious leader. The Cerebran Empire had expanded considerably in a relatively short period of time. This influx of citizens meant that there were now pilgrims numbering in the millions descending upon the capital. Never in the course of human history, had such a gathering been witnessed. Ramses had known from that day forth, after watching the assembled crowd gathered on the fields below pay their respects, that he had confirmed his place in history. Ramses recalled with crystal clarity the words his advisors had given him that day. “Ramses, you have done it. The world bows to you alone.” The words had resonated with the young man for months, haunting his dreams. Although he had achieved the unthinkable, there still stood one aspect of his life that was incomplete. The world bowed to him alone.

+++

As the sun slowly began to sink in the sky, the chill of the night reared its head. As surely as the sun rises, it falls. The conqueror left the Spire balcony. Darkness fell.
 

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Discussion Starter #5
Day 3 - Word = Tyranny

The scope had been dulled with ash, preventing any of the three suns glinting on its metallic surface. Long, reedy grass enveloped the entire rifle, from the darkwood stock to the elongated barrel. Multiple chips and deep gouges in the metalwork revealed the true venerability of the weapon, a veteran of wars come and gone. Wars now merely faded memories, confined to the history books of Imperial scholars. The rifle was a true antique, passed down through generations of hunters and warriors. In skilled hands, it was a lethal tool, combining both accuracy and power.

The weapons current possessor was an antique in his own right. With one eye concealed beneath a crudely constructed patch and the other staring down the scope lens, the hunter was a phantom. Leathery skin, acquired from enduring a life-time of hostile environments, was caked in camo-paint. Applied several days before, the paint had dried up, forming a crusty layer of greens and browns on the hunters face. Clothed head to foot in a camouflage suit created from local foliage, he was a chameleon, indistinguishable from the milieu concealing him. Onesimus Kir breathed slowly, his heart slowed to a rate befitting a hibernating bear. His lungs and heart had been finely tuned over the decades to sustain these dangerous levels for extended periods. It was a necessity. The shot could present itself at any time, day or night. And Kir couldn’t afford to miss this shot. Too much depended on it, too many lives at stake. The hunter continued to scan the kill-zone. Too many lives.

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When Damien Ramoth had seized control of Falencis, they had all rejoiced. A military coup had seen the corrupt government usurped from their throne of power, in a revolution greeted with open arms. For centuries, the hierarchical government had stepped on the people of Falencis, ignoring famine, strife and recession. So it didn’t take much for a plucky young General to stoke the fires of revolution in their hearts. With the support of the People, it was just a matter of time before General Ramoth led a coup, aided by his allies in the forces. In the fracas of change, it was convenient that no-one contested Ramoths self-appointment as Head of State. What followed were some of the darkest years seen in the planets recorded history.

As a dictator, Damien Ramoth was ruthless. The charismatic visage displayed before the revolution melted away, revealing a harsh and violent man, intent on nothing but repression and personal gain. By prohibiting off-planet travel, the General tightened the noose that now hung around the neck of the People. With an iron-fist, Ramoth crushed the people who once celebrated his rise to power, fertilizing the soil of Falencis with their blood. It was rumoured his private residence, the Palace of Dreams, held enough gold to plate a battle-titan, whilst on the streets, the masses starved to death. Betrayed and desperate, underground movements spawned across the planet, each individually plotting and planning how to rid the universe of Damien Ramoth. Several poorly executed assassination attempts alerted the General to the danger the People posed to him. He, more than anyone, knew the power the masses held. The Tyrant fled the capital, leaving his advisors to continue his rule. While he lived, so did his regime.

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A lightening blue eye, magnified exponentially by the scope, blinked. Months of cross-country tracking had led Onesimus Kir to his current location. The Tyrant Ramoth was due to arrive in the coming days, believing it a safe-house, unreachable by those who wished him dead. How wrong he was. One way or another, the universe got you. It was just a matter of time. An armoured convoy rolled into sight on the horizon. Clicking the safety off, Kir slowly brought his cross-hair to bear.

Just a matter of time.
 

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(poor grammar intentional, to show the extent to which the character is unhinged and touched by the warp. This is the prelude to my larger work Plaything. The character, Sheka Scouras, is a Primaris Psyker who is lead around in bondage and psi-suppressors by her ex-fiance, a commissar. When they come across enemies, she is...unleashed. In truth, the whole 75,000 word story really is around the theme of "Love", but I'll let this whet you lot's interest...)

LOVE

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the voices had gone away, and she was alone.

she preferred it when it was that way. when all the voices were quieted down to a dull mosquito buzz. when all the light of the world that shone in through her third sight—not the eyes of course, the other sight—was dimmed to a nothingness.

it let her be alone.

but when she was out, let out to be free, though, she could see Him. He never spoke to her softly because of what she was but she remembered—

she remembered

it was only when she was hidden away from the light and the voices that He spoke softly to her. even then, enough of the voices crept through the suppressant collar that told her it was just out pity that He did this. she didn’t care, and she couldn’t respond when He did do this, but it made her so happy. she wanted to cry out, to laugh and jump whenever His hand briefly brushed her—but she could not.

the only way she could please Him was to hurt the others, the dim-souls and dirty-change-fleshed that tried to harm Him and His fellow clean-flesh whenever He let her out. even then it wasn’t Him she was pleasing but His sense of duty, but it made Him more content and so it was reason enough.

she hurt Him, she knew. she made Him cry at night when she was kenneled and He was in bed, alone. It hurt her so badly to hurt Him—it cut her so deep—but she couldn’t stop. she couldn’t stop without going away, and she couldn’t have gone away if she had wanted, because of the Bright chains that bound her up. however, she knew that she would never want to leave Him. never ever ever, because she loved him, and He loved—

and He loved

but He never even liked her when the collar and blindfold were off. so she was happy that the voices had gone away, and besides, the voices always hurt her. however, the only time she had control of her body was when the voices were there with her.

but she could never tell Him that she she loved Him, not even when the voices were there and the collar was off. so it was better when she was alone. she liked being alone.

but she knew that it was a lie, that she lied to herself, that the voices lied to her, and that He lied to her and to Himself.

because she remembered when He spoke softly to her and she laughed, and she spoke softly back. because she loved Him, and she knew in her heart and mind and anima and soul and spirit and body, she Knew that He loved her still.

and she was so tired of being alone.

+++
 

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Discussion Starter #8
Nicely handled as per usual MT :so_happy:

Here's mine.

Love

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Imperial Mail article 7.A/32

“My beloved Andromeda,

If you are reading this, then my time has come, and I am now sitting beside the God-Emperor’s throne. You may be wondering why I have decided to write to you; after all you haven’t seen or heard from me for the better part of a decade. Truth is you are the only person in the universe that I have left. I remember the night I left Trebiar for the cold depths of space. The sun set late over the Indigo Hills, burning the sky the most beautiful orange I’d ever seen. We watched it from the meadow behind Ridley’s Farm, talking till nearly midnight. Signing up to the Guard was one the hardest things I ever had to do, but I didn’t have a choice. That was the biggest difference between you and me ‘Drom, you was always smart, I weren’t. But hey, they say opposites attract right? Guess it doesn’t make much different now either way. I can’t tell you where I am right now. Sarge says we ain’t supposed to, something about classified information. But we drop into a hot-zone tomorrow and you never know what’s gonna happen. Most of us have written heaps of these letters, praying to the heavens that they never get sent to their intended recipients. It’s therapeutic to vent your emotions like this sometimes, puts your mind at ease if you know what I mean. Inner-peace his hard to come by in a war so we take any chance we get. It’s not a bad life with the Guard, new places, new people, new experiences. The only reason I regretted leaving home, believe it or not, was you ‘Drom. I know now that I should’ve told you before I left but I didn’t have the heart to tell you and then abandon you. The thing is, ever since I first laid eyes on you, I loved you. Your green eyes pierced my very soul, intoxicating me ever since that Winter day. I contemplated deserting a few years back, foolishly hoping I somehow find my way back to you. I guess if you’re finding this out, it’s too late to show you in person my deepest affection for you, but I will die a happy man knowing I was able to finally share my feelings with you. Please don’t mourn for me, I died in the service of the Emperor. No devout man could ask for anything more. Just remember me and live a happy life, something I’m sure you’re doing already. Goodbye my love.

Eternally yours,

Pvt. Jaled DeLavasse.

3rd Trebiar Battalion”
 
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